Chosen (11 page)

Four days after Thomas set up his lights in their taping room, Mariah had a surreal vision unlike any of her former ones.

It was daylight. She stood inside a barn, light spilling in from the weathered cracks that split the deteriorated wooden door.

The floor was smeared with rat droppings, moldy chicken feathers, and dried fragments of mud-covered hay. There were eight wooden stalls along the right wall, none occupied by horse or cow. On the left, tools hung from hooks inserted into a corkboard bolted to the wall above a long work bench. The stench of something dead wafted down from the loft.

In the stall nearest the barn door, a six- or seven-year-old girl lay on her side. Her yellow dress with multi-colored flowers embroidered on the bodice was ripped and soiled.

Mariah whimpered. The little girl was bleeding from the corner of her mouth and her nose. More blood seeped from a multitude of superficial wounds on her arms and abdomen, thighs and feet, face and chest.

She reached out psychically ... and her head snapped back like she’d been punched. This had never happened in any other
Finding
. Mariah reached out hesitantly, and encountered something dark and impenetrable, a barrier that felt bleak and paralyzing. Inexperienced with this impediment she, nevertheless, recognized it: imminent death.

Pain caused Mariah’s heart to cramp. Fear that she was too late held her momentarily immobile. But, no: Sophie Celeste Duval was in deep shock but alive—barely. Almost unnoticed, her narrow little chest rose and fell, her harsh breaths hitching in her throat like she had the hiccups.

The image lasted a long ten seconds. She tried again to communicate, but the massive pain in the blockage prevented it.

Her heart racing, Mariah bolted upright. The clock’s illuminated face pulsed indifferently: 4:05
.
The image of Sophie’s body and her familiar response galvanized her. The monster who had done this to Sophie would surely come back to finish what he started. Though she hated to wake Michael at this hour, she called him without hesitation.

She was relieved to hear his voice, groggy with sleep, and the familiar “Jenkins residence.”

“Sorry to wake you up, Michael.” Her voice was high-pitched and breathless. “But there’s a little girl and I think she’s been raped and beaten and she’s in shock and...”

Wide awake, Michael cut off her rising hysteria with a crisp, “I’ll meet you at the church in twenty minutes.” The decisiveness in his voice was a calming tonic.

Mariah broke the connection and speed-dialed Frannie’s cell phone. As it rang, she ran into the bathroom to relieve herself and splash cold water on her face.

Frannie’s phone rang four times. Just when Mariah thought it would roll over to messaging, she heard a sleepy “Wha’.”

“It’s Mariah. We’re on, Manzetti.”

When she received a curt “Got it,” she disconnected.

Frannie came out of her sleep-induced stupor the instant she heard Mariah’s voice. Bounding out of bed, she called Thomas Raphael. As his phone began to ring, she ripped off the Oakland Raiders T-shirt she was sleeping in and was tugging on underwear with one hand when he answered with a cheery, “Raphael here!”

“Manzetti,” she said, her voice still thick with sleep. “How the hell can you be so cheerful at”—she squinted at the clock—“four fifteen in the morning?”

She could hear the grin in his voice. “I was deep into a Boris Karlov flick. I’m a night person. Don’t get up much before noon most days.”

She hated his obnoxiously cheerful mood. She did not feel guilty knowing he’d be shocked out of it when he reached the church. She snapped, “OK, Bela Lugosi, get your butt over to the church. Time to earn your pay.”

Frannie heard an “I’m on my way” as she terminated the call. Flinging the phone on the bed, she completed her outfit by yanking on jeans and a sweatshirt and sliding her bare feet into loafers. Stuffing the phone into her purse, she locked the door to the furnished apartment the Bureau had rented for her and sprinted toward her car, shaking her head like a bear waking from hibernation.

Frannie arrived in time to spot Mariah trotting toward their taping room. Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she tried to concentrate on the music coming from the radio. The four minutes she waited for Raphael felt like an eternity.

Just as she was about to leap out of her car and follow Mariah, the headlights of Thomas’ truck lit her BMW. Launching herself out of the car, Frannie shifted from one foot to the other as he brought the truck to a stop. Once out, they both dashed in the direction Mariah had taken.

The door to the taping room was open. The light from within, their only guide in the moonless night, illuminated the walkway. The first thing they saw was Michael sitting in a chair at the end of the room, facing them. He smiled a quick “hello” as he breathed deeply and steadily. The conference table was pushed against the wall to the right. Seven chairs lined the opposite wall.

With her arms locked across her chest, Mariah’s head hung down as she paced back and forth behind him.
How the hell can he be so relaxed with her prowling around behind him like a caged tiger
? Frannie thought with a grimace.

When the door close behind her and Thomas, Mariah stopped and faced them, acknowledging their presence with a quick nod. She stared into Thomas’ eyes and, in a voice that rumbled between clenched teeth, she said, “Hurry up.”

Thomas was stunned. It was not the perspiration that made her tee shirt cling to her body, or her face to glisten, or her hair to mat against her skull. It was not the anger and impatience that vibrated throughout her body, or the dilated pupils that nearly obliterated the color of her irises. None of those things shocked him as much as did her voice.

It sounded nothing like her. He remembered her voice; articulate, expressive, feminine, and easy on the ears, but this was not it. What just erupted from deep in her throat was a man’s voice. The words—“hurry up”—sounded like “hoory oop.” It sounded like a foreign accent, but Thomas was too surprised to try and figure out from which country.

No wonder Manzetti didn’t tell me what I was going to shoot
, he thought, a frisson of fear making his scalp crawl.
I might not have agreed to tape a séance with the devil
.

But Thomas James Raphael was a consummate professional. Though confused and shaken, he automatically made final adjustments to the umbrella reflectors that would eliminate shadows either directly on the subjects or against the wall behind her.
Wouldn’t want her to look like an evil apparition now, would we,
he thought.

Thomas had worked with film, tape and now digital mediums for fourteen of his thirty-four years and was considered a crackerjack by his peers. While it was sometimes difficult to get the most out of his subjects under adverse conditions, he always remained in tight control, and his finished products proved it. Thus he was able to finish the light alignment and position the Sony HVR-Z5U HDV camera on his shoulder even though Mariah’s eyes were riveted on his every move.

Slowly his apprehension changed to excitement. If something dangerous was about to happen, Manzetti and the minister would not be so calm.

He adjusted the focus, his hands steady while his heart thrummed. The physical transformation from the good-looking woman he met a few days ago to this scary figure (had her eyes blinked yet?) was unnerving. Except for her first comment she said nothing, not even a verbal prod to speed him up. Nevertheless the tension radiating from her came at him in waves.

When he was sure he was ready, he nodded to her and said, “Begin.”

She immediately laid her hands on Michael’s shoulders. Thomas saw the minister suck in his breath and stiffen, his eyes staring at a point over Thomas’ head. Several seconds later, Michael’s body slumped and his chin dropped onto his chest.

When Michael stiffened, Mariah’s head lowered, and she bent slightly at the waist, a grunt of air expelled from her throat. It looked like she had taken a gut punch. Then she straightened to her original position, her hands still on the minister’s shoulders.

A peaceful smile transfigured Mariah’s face. Michael’s head rose and Thomas saw a similar expression on his face. Unknowingly, Thomas was witness to the
Joining
of their spirits and the peace that accompanied it.

Then Mariah began to speak. The microphone recorded the vibrant masculine tone that resonated with earnest passion, inflections varying as the emotions dictated. No actor in Hollywood could have done a soliloquy more heartfelt.

Even though he didn’t understand the language, Thomas wondered if she was praying. To whom was the question: she could have been invoking Satan for all he knew, but he doubted it.

The digital camera set up on the tripod five feet in front of Mariah and Michael continued to record as Thomas moved to the side with the Sony on his shoulder. His detached other self began to analyze the situation.

Mariah Carpenter had jolted Michael Jenkins into a trance in a matter of seconds. Off to his left, just visible out of the corner of his eye, Agent Manzetti beamed with excitement. So, okay: there was a ninety-nine percent chance that Mariah Carpenter was not summoning a demon. The more he heard, the more he felt sure her accent was Middle Eastern.

He caught the sparkle from a gold chain around her neck and zoomed in. The religious symbol that hung from it was something he had never seen before: a simple gold cross superimposed over the Star of David. In conclusion Dr. Watson, she was probably speaking Hebrew, and unless he missed the whole symbolism of her necklace, she was a Christian Jew. He’d heard about them and found the concept confusing, but had never met one.

And then she was no longer speaking the same language. Her delivery was still intense, the combination of sounds unusual, to say the least.

Perspiration trickled from her forehead. She swayed and clutched Michael’s shoulders for support, her eyes unfocused as she stared ahead. Anguish mixed with helplessness played across her face.

With her head cocked and lips slightly parted, the glazed look was replaced with a narrow, pinpointed stare. She sagged as her tension lessened, and her eyes shone with triumph and joy, accompanied by a blissful smile that momentarily took Thomas’ breath away.
Elated
was the word that popped into his mind, full of love and tenderness.

Her victory was short-lived. Mariah’s expression of accomplishment was replaced by despair ... and then she started to speak again. He didn’t think it possible for her to surprise him anymore this night, but he was wrong.

“Sophie Céleste, je suis ton amie. Parle-moi. Je peut entendre même si tu ne parles pas. Il faut que tu me dise où...oui, c’est ça que je veux, ma petite. La paille ça pique? Désolé.

“Sophie, ouvre tes yeux pour que je puisse...oui, une très grosse grange. Oh, c’est rien, un petit mulot c’est tout...oiseaux? Où? Oui, les anges ont des ailes aussi.

“Où demeures-tu, Sophie? Oui, je sais tu veut être avec ta maman... calmé toi, aide-moi à te trouver...la cloche à dîner de ta grand-mère? Où?

“Combien de temps as tu été dans son camion...quel horreur. As-tu regardé par la fenêtre? Non, non, je parts pas. Combien de temps as tu été dans son...Sophie!
SOPHIE
!

“Je sais ça fait mal, chérie, as-tu vus...Un silot? ...penchent...proche de la grange...merveilleux. Sophie, reste debout... Oui, je suis un ange.

“Combien de cheveaux? ...Bonne fille, dit moi plus...beaucoup de cheveaux...Le silot est vert? Fantastique, je me dépêche, chérie, il faut que tu me...

“
Sophie!
Tombe pas endormie, ma petite...Je sais, le messieur t’as fait mal. Je vais te trouver...Oh, mon Dieu, je commence a la perdre!”

It was three years since Thomas had heard French spoken like that. He was part of a film crew on location in Quebec, and one of the actresses was a cute little native with a sexy French accent that went along with her French
joie de vivre
. For the six months it took to complete the film, they had enjoyed a torrid affair. She spoke enough English for them to communicate and, by the time he headed back to the states, he spoke pretty fair Quebecois
.

Thomas understood that Mariah was talking to a little girl named Sophie Celeste who was in a barn lying on—straw? And something about a mouse, probably a noise that Mariah explained away. There were birds and angels, her grandmother’s dinner bell, and horses. The child seemed to be hallucinating, her thoughts disjointed.

It was evident by Mariah’s face that Sophie suffered intense pain. Her soothing voice had the desired effect as she tried to pull landmarks from Sophie’s incoherent thoughts.

Through the camera lens, Thomas watched as desperation suffused Mariah’s face. He would find out later that Sophie was near death. The loss of blood and shock had taken an exorbitant toll on her little body.

Mariah stiffened: her jaw muscles bulged as she ground her teeth. He assumed her body trembled from anger, not fear.

The air stirred, as if an errant breeze had found an open window and decided to caper around the room. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck shivered.

Thomas caught a movement to his left. Frannie had stepped forward a few paces, her face drained of color. Judging by her stunned expression and her gasp, he guessed that this had never happened before.

His attention swung back to his subject—and his heart skipped a beat.

Lavender light began to shimmer around Mariah. As the aura intensified, the floodlights dimmed, their power cut by twenty-five percent. He knew the electronics in both cameras were sensitive enough to pick up the color of this haze in the weakened light.

Mariah’s head rose. She lifted her hands off Michael’s shoulders in the position of supplication. In a voice not loud yet reverberating with such passion that the room felt like it shook, Mariah cried,

“
NO! IT’S NOT HER TIME!
”

In the instant that followed, the swirling air stilled like it was shocked by her audacity. Then the static energy disappeared and the lights returned to their normal strength. Mariah stood, eyes closed, breathe shallow, still bathed in that exquisite lilac glow.

A smile tugged at her lips. Her eyes opened to no more than slits as they began to scan up, down then side to side. Thomas was grateful that smile was not directed at him. It was smug, filled with contempt, maybe hate. It was the face of victory—a predator’s triumph right before it kills its prey.

George René Malchelosse ambled down a rutted dirt road which led from his house to the street. Ahead, his destination: an ancient metal mailbox stationed like a tipsy sentinel at the junction of his driveway and Chemin Martel, the main road. Its faded red flag leaned at a forty-five degree angle, announcing the arrival of the mail. As he came aside it, his arthritic fingers reached around to the front to tug open the door from its fastener, and to retrieve the contents
.

Her body vibrated with the force of concentration. Mariah forced George to take those few extra steps until he stood directly in front of the mailbox. Then she lowered his head so his eyes would see the still-closed mailbox door.

George frowned. Why did he stand here, staring at the place where his stenciled name was nearly obliterated by years of dust and grime? He shook his head and opened the box with a tug on the metal flap, scooped out what few items were inside then closed the door with a snap. As he headed back up the road to the house, he hummed softly to himself
.

Mariah’s lips skinned back, her white teeth gleaming against the red of her face.

When he was within twenty feet of the barn, George jerked to a stop. Eyes wide in fear, he looked down at his feet, bewildered as to why they had stopped ... and why he couldn’t get them to move again.

His head shot up, swiveling in the direction of the barn. After a brief glance, his eyes wrenched left and locked onto the silo aside the barn. His head tipped back, his eyes scanning upward. When they reached the top, they stopped. His last name
—
MALCHELOSSE
—
painted in black letters was faded but still readable.

And then the strange malaise departed. His feet obeyed his command once more. Panic caused him to break into an unsteady trot as he ran for the safety of his home
.

Flecks of gold appeared in Mariah’s eyes like embers cast from the flames of a fire. Frannie’s breath caught in her throat at the look of malicious glee on her friend’s face, a look so foreign to the Mariah she knew.

Just as George clambered up the stairs and reached for the front door, it hit him again. Lurching, he spun completely around, his torso arriving slightly ahead of his feet as he faced the way he had come. His head moved in jerky motions like he had Tourette syndrome. George’s eyes panned left to right, examining everything from the wheat fields to the porch on which he stood, staring at every object like he hadn’t owned them for over fifteen years.

Released once more George turned, grabbed for the doorknob, and yanked on it. Stumbling inside, he dropped the mail on the kitchen table and fell heavily into a chair. His fingers shook as he reached for the newspaper and unfolded it, his eyes fixed on the banner that read “Rougemont Star.”

With a scream, George’s hands (did they still belong to him?) dropped the newspaper and grabbed the sides of his head. Excruciating pain lanced through his brain. Then as swiftly as it came, the pain left and took the strange ailment with it. George René Malchelosse whimpered in terror
.