Chosen (19 page)

When it was over, Mariah breathed a sigh of relief. She could now look forward to her next interview because she would get to meet one of her idols, Oprah Winfrey. Of the dozens of celebrities who wanted an exclusive interview, Mariah was thrilled when Ms. Winfrey called and left her private callback number.

They chatted on the phone for fifteen minutes. Mariah was delighted that, like Tom Brokaw, the person she saw on the television, and heard so much about through the news media, was as funny, sensitive, and intelligent as she appeared.

She flew out to Chicago. The two women spent an hour in the studio before the camera, and chatted like old friends. Millions of people got a chance to see Mariah as a normal person who’d been thrust into an uncomfortable spotlight, bewildered by the “miracles” she continued to perform. They were charmed by her sincerity and humor, captivated by her expressive face that changed from joy when she talked about the rescue of the children to anger at the legal system that let these repeat offenders loose, and finally fear of the crowds and media sharks that dogged her day and night.

Even though it would have given her the opportunity to explain what happened from her point of view, Mariah was not allowed to discuss the impending Everett Hinckley trial.

She watched the interview on DVD several times. Objectively, she appeared calm and self-assured. However, she still felt like a pariah, now even more than ever with what happened in that motel room.

It was apparent that Mariah Carpenter was developing new “talents” with every child she found. Though the general population knew psychic charlatans abounded, the evidence before them was beyond reproach: she was the genuine article. The
Joinings
were accepted if only as a matter of interpretation. The two ministers and Agent Manzetti’s description of what happened were considered credible based on the similarity of their experiences.

The
Healings
were another matter. Most accepted her ability to heal those who collaborated in the
Findings
just like they accepted everything else. However, to those steeped in the practical sciences, this new dimension smacked of mysticism, spirituality, and hysteria. They were frustrated and dubious, unable to measure with proven technological instrumentation.

General unease permeated the discussions about the transformations to her body. Her exceptional health was evident, as was the reversal of previous conditions, and the added height. They had nothing to compare her to. She was “unique,” a word that made them uncomfortable.

Sensationalistic press would hint that Mariah Carpenter was dangerous, that she would turn her psychic ability against them. Mind control became the topic of many paranoiac discussions. The seed of fear was planted and had begun to germinate, aided by the manure from the tabloid press. If she had “inadvertently” projected her image in front of Everett, had scared him so badly that he had a heart attack and died, then what would happen if someone else made her angry? Fueled by the increased readership, the media vultures continued to speculate.

Did she have control over her emotions? What would happen if she sold out to the highest bidder, got paid to either manipulate people—as she had done with George Malchelosse—or, even worse, kill them? Or was taken against her will and forced to cooperate with threats to her loved ones? Vague and unanswered questions stimulated conjecture.

The decision to move out of her apartment and take up residence in Frannie’s “safe” house became a necessity one night on her way home from choir practice.

She stayed late to rehearse her solo with Peter Martin for Sunday’s services. Walking toward her car, her mind on the music, she never noticed a shadow detach itself from the section of the building where there were no floodlights.

Mariah was nearly to her car when she was shoved from behind. Falling flat on her stomach, her breath was knocked out of her. A high whine escaped from her lips as she gasped in pain, trying to draw oxygen into her deflated lungs. Before she could get a full breath, she felt a prick on the side of her neck, and the sting of fluid entering her body.

Lethargy spread swiftly, numbness rapidly attacking her extremities. Mariah’s head reeled as she tried to focus her thoughts, but her brain seemed to be floundering in molasses while everything swam before her eyes in slow motion. Unable to offer resistance, her arms were yanked behind her back and handcuffs snapped on her wrists. Dizzy, disoriented, she was hauled to her feet by two assailants and dragged, stumbling and nearly collapsing, to a black Mercedes SUV that had suddenly appeared in the parking lot.

The luggage compartment door sprang open. Mariah, pushed again from behind, fell forward. Her legs were lifted, and she tumbled further into the back of the vehicle. When the big door slammed shut, the two attackers dove into the passenger seats and the SUV spun around. Its tires squealed as it headed out of the lot.

She was paralyzed, terrified, and at first unable to concentrate due to the powerful narcotic. As the SUV careened down the darkened streets, she was flung toward the left side, only to be rolled to the right.

With every beat of her heart, she felt herself succumbing to the paralysis. She felt like she was drowning as the edges of her mind closed down into unconsciousness.

But something beat beneath her stupor, A gift that had been given to her the morning of the
Visitation
. It forced itself into her thickening thoughts as if she’d been slapped.

All the changes to her body from the
Findings
,
Healings
, and
Joinings
began to coalesce in her core. She felt every fiber of her essence fighting the drug in a microscopic universe.

Sensation in the form of pinpricks began to return to Mariah’s limbs and her head stopped spinning. A sudden surge of adrenaline raced down her arms, causing her fingers to spasm into fists. Her ears detected the rending sound of metal as the handcuffs twisted apart where they were joined. She felt her lungs expand as oxygen forced its way through her nostrils. Her eyes, previously shut, flew open. Her vision cleared immediately.

As her strength increased, so did her fury.

The two in the front were conversing with the one sitting behind the driver. It sounded like an Asian language. Mariah felt heat engulf her body as a snarl erupted from her throat.

The three men started to gasp as they clutched their throats and clawed at their necks. The SUV began to swerve and buck on the deserted road, finally slamming into the curb on the right side.

Almost before the vehicle came to a complete stop, the luggage compartment door sprang open and Mariah jumped out. Her pupils were dilated extravagantly as she shook her head, all conscious thought obliterated by a never before felt rage, and an even more unfamiliar emotion ... revenge.

She moved around the vehicle until she stood in the middle of the road, a humorless smile tugging on her lips as she stared at the SUV.

The air around her suddenly became animated. Small trees nearby were bent at a forty-five degree angle; loose soil from flower beds erupted twenty feet into the air; and swimming pools geysered water in a sudden tornadic event that became a rain shower in several back yards. Lavender light, wispy and ethereal, swirled around Mariah as electricity in houses lost approximately thirty percent of their output.

All the doors of the black SUV flew open. The would-be kidnappers fell out, writhing on the ground, coughing and vomiting as air abruptly returned to their lungs. Mariah hugged herself, a grim but pleased expression on her face, her eyes wide and staring.

With a
whoooof!
the engine caught fire. Flames licked the inside of the vehicle, under the carriage, and shot straight up into the air, igniting the lower branches of the nearest tree. Lights came on in the houses close to the blazing vehicle as the residents were alerted by the explosion and the smell of burning metal.

Mariah walked toward her prospective abductors, her right foot rearing back as she prepared to kick the driver in the face. However, the unnatural light died in her eyes, the air calmed, and she brought her foot back to rest on the ground.

In the distance, sirens began to wail as Mariah squatted down. Her voice, while low, sounded like crushed gravel. “Listen carefully. Leave
.
Me
.
Alone. Go back to whoever sent you, and tell them that if they try anything like this again, or go near anyone I even
remotely
know, I won’t be so forgiving. I will find you, and destroy you and them, and everyone associated with all of you. Trust me: you don’t want to piss me off a second time. Do you understand?”

Still gasping for air, the driver squeaked, “Yes, I hear, yes.”

She sauntered away from the conflagration as the fire department truck came barreling down the street, followed closely by an ambulance and a squad car. In the ensuing cacophony, a tune popped into her head, a song she had not heard nor thought of in a long time. She began to hum it, the melody uplifting and jaunty:

Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head
......

The High Priest sped down the labyrinth of tunnels, the narrow walls brushing his cloak as it billowed behind him. The only light that kept him from traversing the maze in complete darkness was the glowing orb which maintained an eight-inch distance from his face, precisely as he had positioned it. Its radiance caused the High Priest’s shadow to loom against the cold rock walls, sometimes ahead of the tall figure as if eager to arrive first, sometimes lagging behind in an effort to delay his arrival.

He had created these passageways and others like it, reforming the earth over thousands of years, entrusting its creation and construction to no one but himself to ensure not the slightest disturbance to the structures above. Secrecy was paramount, both the location of the Heart and his identity. Through arduous trial and some timely luck, the Seekers had unearthed the Prophecy, the
Netsor’ah
, hidden from his race by their government for eons.

He had been summoned, a rare occurrence due to the danger of discovery. It could mean only one thing: something of grave import had occurred. His customary stern countenance shifted slightly as he allowed himself the rarest of expressions—satisfaction mingled with hope. Peace, that their interpretation of Netsor’ah was proven correct, and that, come to them finally, the promise of fulfillment ... the one so named Man’asorai.

A slight frown replaced his previous look of expectation. While the Seekers were convinced they had discovered the existence of the Man’asorai, he would not permit them to disavow the other entity also spoken of in the Prophecy, the one bent on annihilation of his race, and mayhap the universe—the Sov’dovaris.

Even given all flagrant ambiguities in Netsor’ah, there were many references in numerous passages that left little doubt in interpretation. There would be a confrontation between the Man’asorai, the one so Chosen by the Great and Glorious Shen’dalah as its Defender, and the Sov’dovaris, the Slayer, a merciless and malevolent mutation. The conflict between the two would be both epic and cataclysmic.

What was not clear was the outcome.

At this juncture, the High Priest demanded caution. It was too soon to be so emphatic that the Man’asorai had come to them. Now was the time to watch. Now was the time to wait. If they had misinterpreted Netsor’ah, if the Sov’dovaris had tricked them into believing it was The Chosen, then all was lost. His race—in fact, no race—could stand against its might.

There yet was another foreshadowing in the Prophecy that mystified the Seekers, nor did he provide any insight. He had gleaned its meaning because, for some unfathomable reason, it pertained to him. It was an ability unknown in his race, an additional filament of psychic power that he somehow possessed and kept undetected, passed through dormant genetic code from ancient predecessors.

If they discovered that who they believed to be the
Man’asorai
was, in actuality, the
Sov’dovaris
, it was this hidden power that might provide him the opportunity to weaken the entity, mayhap before it became too powerful. And give the Seekers a chance to destroy it.

Only a slight chance, if it was caught off guard.

He increased his pace, his prayer to the Great and Glorious Shen’dalah trembling on his lips.

Frannie was angry and more shaken then she cared to admit. What worried her even more was Mariah’s indifference.

“I find your cavalier attitude disturbing, Mariah. You seem to find the whole thing amusing! Aren’t you frightened that a foreign government is willing to take such a risk to snatch you?”

“The two Korean operatives you took into custody haven’t revealed who hired them, so it’s just speculation so far.” She shrugged. “Don’t tell me this whole thing surprises you. But it has made me realize that one more thing in my life has to change.”

“So you’re ready to move to a safe house?” Frannie said, and held her breath.

“Yes, I’m throwing in the towel,” said Mariah.

Within days, a house was secured three miles from the church. “It’s about thirty years old,” Frannie said, “and blends into the same anonymity as the rest of the houses on the street. But it has a strategic advantage: it’s at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, and provides an unobstructed view of the street.”

It would be a longer commute to work. Nevertheless, Frannie knew that, in the not too distant future, Mariah would have to quit work anyway. She and everyone there had become vulnerable to attack by both highly skilled aggressors and potential fanatics.

The trial was a farce from the opening statements to the closing arguments. Attorney Bartholomew Chemosh for the bereaved family (actually it was just Everett’s weeping mother; none of his siblings were interested enough to show up) tried to appeal to the jury’s sense of injustice.

“Yes, Everett was found in the motel room.” Chemosh’s held onto the lapel of his suit jacket like an orator from the Victorian era. “Yes, his fingerprints were all over the pipe smeared with Estella’s blood. Yes, the car in front of the motel room belonged to him, and a man who fit his description had been seen in it heading south on highway 25 at the right time. Yes, Estella told the police that the man on the floor was the one who hurt her and tried to rape her.

“Even with all that,” Chemosh pontificated, “the deceased was entitled to a fair trial. It was
ill
egal and
im
moral for Mariah Carpenter to appoint herself judge and jury! She had
no
right
deciding Everett’s fate and meting out punishment.” Chemosh harangued every witness on the stand, even his own. In a side bar, Judge Deborah Simon warned him that she would not tolerate any more of his overblown theatrics.

The New Mexico detective who had questioned Estella Fuentes while they waited for the ambulance told the court that she only saw a person’s back. Felix Morales, Mariah’s attorney, made the detective admit that the little girl
assumed
it was Mariah Carpenter because of the story her father read to her.

“Furthermore,” said the detective, “Estella admitted she only saw the person’s arms stretched out. She didn’t actually see Everett get pushed.” The only witness for the prosecution that Felix questioned (the only one Chemosh found who would not tell the jury that Hinckley was a sick son-of-a-bitch that deserved to die) was Everett’s mother, and she was pathetic. The jury learned that she had no idea where her son had lived. In fact, hadn’t seen him in over three years, and had heard from him only four times when he needed money.

In his closing argument Felix, cool and professional, played up Mariah’s contribution to society, recounted the number of children she had saved, her conversion to Christianity, and her participation in church and community activities. Morales smiled to the jury when he mentioned that the money which poured into the church in Mariah’s name went to worthwhile charities per her instructions. They smiled back. By the time he was through, he had them convinced she was Mother Theresa, Pollyanna, and Glenda, the Good Witch from the
Wizard of Oz
, all rolled into one.

When it was Chemosh’s turn, he sermonized and lectured for ten minutes about the evil inherent in humans with unrestrained power, and how the law did not sufficiently protect people from “uncontrolled psychics.” He expelled a lot of hot air and irritated everyone, especially Judge Simon who tried to hide her scowl.

Nevertheless, Bartholomew Chemosh struck a nerve when he shook his finger in the face of every person on the jury and said, “Mark my words, ladies and gentlemen. Even though Mariah Adele Carpenter may not have physically
touched
Everett Hinckley,
she
was the cause of his death, regardless of the coroner’s report. Let my words sink in:
Mariah Carpenter is capable of causing someone to die
! Since no one has ever argued a case like this before, a precedent
must
be set here, today. A precedent that protects people from this woman and others who may be like her! She cannot
murder
a person even if she’s protecting someone else! She
cannot
and
must not
be allowed to be a one-man vigilante squad!”

The jury deliberated for four hour, long enough to make Mariah nervous. While they disliked Chemosh, his words were sobering and required consideration. But even with his rhetoric ringing in their ears, Mariah was found “Not Guilty” on all charges.

The general unease that had begun before the Hinckley trial increased. Most people believed she was innocent, but issues brought to light at the trial needed to be considered, issues like her ability to cause someone to die even though she wasn’t physically there. Issues like, what would happen if Mariah Carpenter decided to join with the criminal element? Issues like, what would happen if a foreign government forced her to betray her country by holding her family as hostages? The unqualified love and adoration aimed at Mariah dimmed, some of it replaced by apprehension.

It was further exacerbated by the fanatics who proclaimed her to be the Antichrist; that she was sent by old Split-Foot himself to lull them into a false sense of security before he turned her loose on them.

After much thought about the whole ordeal, Mariah laughed it off. “I know who I am. I know that I’d never give in to someone that would use me like a tool.” Her reason was simple: She knew her powers would continue to grow. And that no one would ever be able to force Mariah Carpenter into do anything she didn’t want to do.

Clutched in her right fist, Mariah shook a crumpled page from the
San Francisco Chronicle
in the faces of the three before her.

“That’s
it
! I’ve had it! Who the
hell
do they think they are?” Her face was flushed from the combined emotions of anger and indignation. “Well, they won’t get away with it. I’ll ... I’ll
sue
! At the very least, this has got to be an invasion of my privacy!

“How
dare
they check into my lineage? The Catholic Church is
not
above the law even if it
thinks
it is.” The curtains which covered the living room windows began to sway. Several news articles previously wadded up and thrown against the wall quivered in the unnatural breeze that had sprung up.

She raised her left hand, more newsprint scrunched in it. “And this other piece of crap: are they
deranged
? There must be some way to stop this idiocy. As if my life isn’t complicated enough.” Her voice was gruff with anxiety. “What are they trying to do, make me a martyr?

“
HAS THIS WHOLE FUCKING WORLD GONE CRAZY
?!?!”

Michael Jenkins sat at the end of the couch, his legs crossed, his hands folded in his lap. He made a gallant effort to keep his face at the proper level of sympathy during Mariah’s tirade, but he was fast losing the battle. There she stood, legs braced apart, arms straight out from her body, the pulverized news articles fluttering in her hands. With her head thrown back, she raged at the ceiling—or, he presumed, beyond.

Covering his mouth with his hand, he cleared his throat in an attempt to quell the laughter that threatened to erupt. He did not want her to think he trivialized her anguish; however, when she balled up the articles and hurled them against the wall, then stomped after them to try and flatten them out, and shook them like pompoms ... well, the melodramatic effect was hilarious.

At the opposite end of the couch, Frannie was in the same predicament. She, too, sympathized with Mariah; she would feel just as outraged. But watching her friend flap her arms as she strangled those newspaper stories ... it reminded Frannie of a penguin trying to fly. She hid a grin behind her hand, and tried to keep the gleam in her eyes from the “bird.”

Sitting between Michael and Frannie, Thomas didn’t even try to suppress a smile. As her tantrum ended, he burst out laughing. She looked so cute! The word that came to mind was “hopping” mad. A couple of times he swore she was ready to launch into an Indian war dance using the newspaper articles as fetishes.

Mariah’s eyes narrowed. The breeze in the room intensified as the hairs on everyone’s heads shivered.

She threw both pieces of newsprint at him, and with a “
You bastard
!” she pounced on him. He caught her wrists as she tried to pummel him—
man, she’s getting strong
, he thought—then pulled her down onto his lap. He let her wrists go and wrapped his arms around her to keep her from flailing.

After a half-hearted attempt to wriggle free, she gave up and sagged against him. When her body began to shake he loosened his hold and grabbed her shoulders to set her back from him, afraid he had made her cry. Sighing with relief, he realized she was laughing! It wasn’t with her usual joyful abandonment, but it was sure better than what went before it.

When they saw her dramatically altered mood, Michael and Frannie joined in.