Chosen (20 page)

She nestled in Thomas’s arms. “What is a genealogy going to accomplish? They can’t possibly believe my heritage can be traced back to King David. They’re on the wrong track if they think they’ll find a common ancestry between Jesus Christ and me.

“I could save them a lot of trouble,” she said as the breeze died. “My relatives were from Russia, confined to Jewish settlements by the government. Many of them were killed in
pogroms
when the Bolshevik attempted to eliminate the Jewish population. Records of births and deaths were destroyed in fires, or ferreted away. I bet they don’t get any further than my great-grandparents.”

Exchanging a warm look with Thomas, Mariah slid off his lap and headed for her recliner. She sat down carefully like she might shatter. All traces of humor were gone.

Mariah held up her left hand, fingers splayed, palm facing toward them. Rotating it so they could see the backside, her eyes moved from one face to another. “To the casual observer, there appears to be nothing different about my hand. However”—she stopped and held it still—“take a good look.”

Michael was the first to notice the anomaly. He cleared his throat and said, “It appears as if your thumb ... is a bit longer?” Mariah nodded, her hand remaining in the same position. “And, if I’m not mistaken, your little finger is, ah ... somewhat shorter.” He spoke the last two words barely above a whisper as he looked into her eyes.

“Give the man a Kewpie doll,” she intoned like a midway carnie in a circus. “Now, my friends, on to the next attraction.

“Notice the nails. For those of you who didn’t know, I’ve worn acrylic nails for years because my own are soft and always break.” She never took her eyes off them. “I took the acrylic off a couple of weeks ago at the advice of my manicurist because she noticed that, for the past three or four visits, my nails underneath seemed to be a lot harder.” They all heard the
tap, tap, tap
as her thumbnail hit the glass-topped end table next to her chair.

“My own nails are now as hard as the acrylic. And my hair has lightened up about half a shade. Probably not noticeable to anyone but me. And the hair on my legs is thicker. Not darker, just thicker. And I’m sure by this time, you two—looking at Michael and Frannie—“have noticed that I’m taller.” They nodded in unison, their eyes fixed and unblinking.

“If I was sure God had nothing to do with this before, I’m positive now. No offense, Michael,” (he smiled, letting her know that none was taken)” but I don’t believe God would physically change me.

“The changes to my body and mind are accelerating. I can’t stop this, I don’t know why it’s happening, but I’m through fighting it. For now. Sooner or later, something’s going to happen and I will have answers.”

No one said anything and she shifted back to her previous concerns. “The second article in the
Chronicle
was even more frightening. I thought you had to be a martyr before the Catholic Church would consider you for sainthood. Don’t tell me they’re going to cave in to the masses. They’ve never done that in the past. Why would they break their own rules?”

Michael shook his head and replied, “Not to worry, my dear. Canonization is an extremely lengthy procedure and most difficult to obtain. There are judicial processes to be followed, proof of heroic virtues, witnesses to miracles, writings attributed to the person in question—and stages of veneration and beatification that must be passed through the cardinals of the Congregation of Rites. It boils down to this: is there evidence that the servant of God presented for canonization practiced virtues both theological and cardinal, and to a heroic degree?

“Also, a living person cannot be canonized,” he continued. “Understand that only God can perform miracles. One of the ways mankind reaches Him is through a holy person believed to be in heaven who may intercede with God on their behalf. The miracle must occur immediately or it’s considered coincidence. It can take ten, twenty years before it’s even brought before a pope who then grants permission for public veneration to take place. Three meetings of the Congregation of Rites, miracles confirmed—and the Pope issues a “Bull of Canonization” in which he not only permits but commands the public veneration of the saint.”

Mariah sighed with relief. “So this is all impossible because I’m alive. And isn’t it a number of miracles, two or three at least, and not all the same thing?”

“Not true,” Frannie said as she rose from the couch and stretched. “Nowhere does it say three different miracles. I hate to get your hopes up, but the Pope can bend the rules if he wants to. It’s the
proof
of the miracles that’s critical, and they believe they have that. Sorry, you can’t stop them. After all, your only argument would be that you’re not Catholic or that it torques you off!” She grinned at her friend, but did not receive a like response.

“As to your ‘invasion of privacy’ lawsuit; your birth records are public domain. Anyone can find out who you’re related to and take it from there.”

Frannie dropped to her knees before Mariah whose face had gone still. “Mariah, your days of privacy are over. You couldn’t be more in the public eye then if you grew wings and flew. I’m not going to soft-soap this, kiddo: if you think your life is hell now, you ain’t seen nuttin’ yet.”

Mariah closed her eyes and bowed her head in defeat. The notoriety was the antithesis of everything she held dear. Constant changes—and the shock of otherworldly happenings beyond her control—had caused her to think and act out of character. Concern for her mental health was evident in their faces. They knew the mind could handle just so much before it sought refuge in insanity.

More public relations firms had approached Mariah with offers to manage her unqualified popularity. What they offered, in effect, was to isolate her completely from everyone until they could help her decide who she could trust. They would construct and deliver her image, her message. The premise was that non-PR types (herself, her friends) would make verbal blunders and, should they do something controversial, the firm would conduct damage control.

What they suggested was abhorrent. She rejected the idea that strangers would tell her what to do and what to say. Mariah would listen to those who had been with her from the start, and to hell with blunders. Every human being made them, and she was just like everyone else. Sort of.

It was a dichotomy: she appeared healthy and fragile at the same time, vulnerable to the public that had always made her feel safe in her anonymity.

Her head came up and she stared into Frannie’s sympathetic eyes. “You’re telling me that I have to stop working, aren’t you. That I can’t go out in public any longer. And I have to give up socializing with my friends—go underground, like a mole.” Mariah’s voice was flat, emotionless. Frannie eyes silently pled for Mariah to understand and accept the untenable position into which she had been thrust.

Mariah’s eyes softened in resignation. “Not your fault, Manzetti,” she murmured. “I know you’re just trying to keep me safe.” She looked from Michael to Thomas: they appeared to shimmer through the tears that filled her eyes.

“You’re all just trying to protect me, and I haven’t been too cooperative. More like a stubborn kid who wants her own way. I just can’t seem to accept what’s happening to me graciously. And I feel so guilty for the people closest to me who suffer now, and will suffer in the future, just because they know me. I feel helpless, and mad, and blessed, and cursed, and...”

The words died, the fight gone with them. With a wail born of helplessness and misery, she curled into a ball, her forehead now pressed against the armrest.

All the emotions she had tried so hard to control finally broke through her carefully constructed barrier. Hot tears of frustration and despair, of panic and fear, of grief and worry and sorrow coursed down her cheeks, soaking both the armrest and her shirt.

Frannie scrambled to her feet and ran into the bathroom, emerging with a box of tissues. Plucking several out, she tucked them into Mariah’s hand, grateful she had something to do as tears slid down her own cheeks. Mumbled words of frustration mixed with entreaties to Mariah to “Please, stop,” came through gritted teeth as she rubbed Mariah’s arm. Experiencing a new and powerful emotion, Frannie Manzetti felt the physical and emotional distress of another.

Thomas knelt down close to Mariah’s head. Stroking her hair, he kissed her while mumbling words like, “It’s gonna be all right” and “Please stop crying, baby. I can’t stand this” over and over again. Tears of rage and impotence filled his eyes and throat as her sobs pierced his heart. Angry at not being able to soothe and protect her, he wanted to tear something apart.

Michael’s tears tracked down his cheeks as he stood behind Mariah’s chair, his hand kneading her shoulder. He was a man who helped bear the sorrow of others; still, he found himself overwhelmed by his inability to comfort this woman who had come to mean as much to him as any member of his family. His supplication to God to protect this child, this woman who needed His love, was said with all the reverence and sincerity he possessed.

She felt and heard them through the crushing grief. Mariah had never allowed herself this luxury, this release, always scolding herself when she felt depressed, convinced that crying was not the answer.

But she was wrong: the tears were a catharsis. She was glad they had come when those closest to her were nearby. These people would never know how grateful she felt at this moment, that they were not revolted, would still lay their hands on her. She had truly feared that no one would ever want to come near her, let alone touch her.

Exhausted but at peace for the first time in many months, her tears finally subsided. Frannie scooped up all the discarded tissues then stuffed them into the empty box which she put on the coffee table. Catching Michael’s eye, she nodded toward the front door. He nodded back, and they left. What Mariah needed most right now was the affirmation from a man who accepted her for what she was—and what she was becoming.

Michael opened the door, and Frannie looked back at Mariah. Through tear-swollen eyes, she could see Thomas’ face wreathed in anxiety—and possibly love? Mariah’s smile deepened and his eyes lost their desolation as he took her head in his hands and kissed her lips gently.

The conference room was moderately cool, helped by the heavy velvet drapes that banished the heat of the late afternoon sun. Even in the artificial light, the polished mahogany table, surrounded by black leather swivel armchairs, spoke to class and power, a far cry from a police interrogation room.

Not counting him, there were four others present; three men and one woman, all dressed in the uniform of traditional somber suits.

Gabriel Winters—Technical Operations Officer, Central Intelligence Agency, currently undercover as a special agent with the FBI—was aware of every sound in the room. First was the muted hiss of the air-conditioner. The second was the whisper a Mont Blanc pen wielded by the bald man to his left, sitting hunched over a leather-bound legal notepad.

The third sound was the creak of a chair rocking back and forth in a measured cadence. It was the woman on Gabriel’s right, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes cast downward.

To the woman’s right sat a man drumming the fingers of his right hand on the table, glancing several times at the dark drapes as if he wished to see through them to the world outside.

The white-haired man between the drummer and the scribe sat with his hands folded on the table. It was not necessary to guess his thoughts or any of the others, because Gabriel Winters knew precisely what they were.

“Your preliminary proposal has merit,” said the woman, her cultured tones low and neutral. If she was excited it wasn’t obvious by her voice or face. She had been with “The Company” long enough to conceal outward signs of emotion from the average person. Nonetheless, her coworkers had no trouble discerning the slight tremor in her voice.

“It definitely seems like an opportunity that may never come again.” The drummer took his eyes off the drapes long enough to make the inane statement.

The white-haired man, the Chief, unfolded his hands and placed them flat on the table then shifted in his seat. The movement was possibly a sign of irritation, maybe at the drummer’s banal remark. He said, “I believe we’re prepared to go forward with this. Good work, Winters. I must say the possibilities are mind-boggling.”

Then he smiled. It held acknowledgement and praise, and he used it sparingly. Everyone knew Gabriel Winters was his protégé, possibly his heir apparent, but they accepted, if begrudgingly, that Gabriel’s strategies were usually brilliant, his methods of accomplishment unique.

“So we’re all in agreement?” Never taking his eyes off Winters to check for their anticipated nods, the Chief said, “Continue.”

“The premise is simple,” Winters began. “In order to develop her talents for our needs, we have to get her out from under the FBI.” The law forbade the CIA from domestic operations; however, this was an unprecedented case with no rules that applied.

He had their attention. The drummer had ceased. Only the scratch of the Mont Blanc and the soft sigh of the air-conditioner broke the silence.

“There’s a bond between Mariah Carpenter and Agent Manzetti that goes beyond a mere assignment. Manzetti guards Carpenter like a Hell’s Angel guards his Hog. We have to discredit Manzetti and, at the same time, get me assigned to her vacated position. I’ve already insinuated myself into Osterman’s good graces by flattering his childish ego and making myself indispensable by completing the ridiculous assignments he gives me.”

He paused to allow for comments. When he received none, he continued, his smooth baritone confident, precise. “I’ve also spoken with several in-house psychiatrists to get their concurrence as to Ms. Carpenter’s usefulness. They practically drooled with excitement. Having seen the DVD, they’re eager to chart the progression of her psychic ability to see how far it goes without interference. Then they’ll know how to manipulate and control it.

“The murder trial just confirmed my belief in her increasing skills. We must put her under our protection immediately, especially after the incident with the Koreans. At this point, I doubt anyone could overcome her, but they won’t be averse to killing her if they can’t have her. Better she be dead than used against them.”

Again he stopped. Again he was met with silence. His voice was low, nearly hypnotic. “I’ve located a new safe house for Ms. Carpenter on a street near her church. It’s the last one on a hill. It has a back yard that butts up against more of the hill which levels off to a service road used rarely by city utilities. The house will be wired with surveillance equipment, and the RV with the monitoring equipment will be parked on the service road. We’ll use the trees to camouflage it even though it’s an eighth of a mile from the house. I’ll have men stationed at either end of the road to make sure no one stumbles on it.”

Gabriel’s mentor beamed. Previously briefed, he knew what came next. The agency had used psychic spies since 1974; however, Mariah Carpenter’s potential went beyond anything in their arsenal.

“Now: how to discredit Agent Manzetti. We’ll infiltrate a cult known as TAOC—The Army of Christ—whose only reason for existence is to expose and eliminate the Antichrist. We’ll target one of the fanatics and convince him that Mariah Carpenter is the one they’re looking for. We won’t even have to reward him: TAOC believes that, by performing this service to the Lord, they’ll be granted a place at his side on judgment day. Our infiltrator will plant a few suggestions and allow the target to think it’s
his
plan to kill her when she’s on stage singing in the choir. We’ll slip him a gun, probably a .22 or a .26, loaded with blanks.

“By that time I’ll have voiced my concerns to Osterman regarding the too few agents guarding Ms. Carpenter, being careful to make no derogatory remarks about Manzetti’s capabilities. But Osterman is a closet chauvinist. It won’t take much for him to believe that Manzetti doesn’t have what it takes to handle a job of this magnitude. When I tell him that ‘my sources’ have heard about an attempt on Ms. Carpenter’s life being planned for Sunday services, Osterman will see the wisdom in my suggestion, which is to plant additional agents in the church, fully armed, just in case.”

Winters steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair while he swept the others with hooded eyes. “I’ll hand-pick the agents, and scatter them throughout the congregation at strategic locations since we won’t know which entrance the fanatic will choose. When he gets close enough to Ms. Carpenter, one of the agents will take him out with, hopefully, no more than a couple of shots. Panic in the church will be kept to a minimum by the additional agents in the congregation who will calm everyone down.

“It’ll look like Manzetti isn’t able to guard Carpenter. I’ll get Osterman to remove her from the case and slide me into her place.”

The smile on his lips never reached his eyes. They all knew Gabriel Winters, and were secretly glad he was on their side. In the same low, conversational tone, he said, “After the excitement dies down, I’ll insist on a new safe house where we can better protect her. The rest is up to the surveillance team and the shrinks who’ll convince Mariah Carpenter that her psychic powers are needed to help her country maintain its standing as the most powerful nation in the world community.”