Chosen (6 page)

Faith. Just concentrate on that word
—
faith.

Mariah forced herself to concentrate on the mundane; drying her body after the hot shower, putting on clean clothes, toweling her hair dry. The doorbell rang just as she was emerging from the kitchen, having just inhaled half a bag of M&M’s and drunk her second glass of water. Tripping over her discarded shoes, she practically fell into the door.

Even though the fisheye peephole was absurdly distorting, it was definitely Manzetti. And she was alone.
Guess she doesn’t need back-up: I’m not on the dangerous interviewee list anymore
, Mariah thought. Frannie refused the offer of a drink, but Mariah needed a refill. When she returned to the living room, she was amused to find that Frannie had moved a chair so it faced her recliner.

This time the questions were more of an informative nature. Mariah could tell that Agent Manzetti genuinely wanted to understand what was happening, her expression now more speculative than skeptical. Her attitude had changed: she never insinuated that Mariah was in cahoots with Joseph’s kidnapper. Even so, she could not provide any more solid facts then before.

“Ms. Carpenter, I guess we can safely assume that this is going to continue. I want your assurance that, if and when you get the next urge, you’ll notify me, day or night. I want to be there when you find the next one.”

Mariah frowned. Before she could say anything, Frannie added, “My superiors agreed to base me in San José so I could be near you if this happened again. Here’s the number of my cell phone.”

Mariah took the paper thrust at her. Fear tasted as bad as rotted fruit. The San José PD had her testimony on record and the FBI had their files on the two
Findings
. Her anonymity was in jeopardy.

A cold chill snaked down her spine as an appalling image formed in her mind. She saw herself held up to public scrutiny as a nut (and a religious one at that) with all kinds of prophecies given a new, and unpleasant, life of their own. It was logical to assume that people would eventually discover who she was if the
Findings
continued; the news media would ferret her out no matter how hard the Feds or the police tried to keep her identity a secret.

On her way back to San Francisco, Frannie couldn’t stop gloating. Her boss, Osterman, had reluctantly agreed to her suggestion of an apartment near the church, especially when she pointed out that the Bureau had what seemed to be the genuine article: a real psychic who was not only two for two, but was not in it for the publicity. She could hardly wait to see the look on his face when she told him the time had come for him to cough up the bucks.

Mariah’s description of the street and house that Joseph had given her was relayed to his folks. Even with the scanty information, they knew immediately where it was ... only five houses down from theirs. What clinched it, and brought the agents to number 2035 Martingale, was the “kitties,” the stone lions at the foot of the stairs leading to the front door.

The FBI didn’t have enough to obtain a search warrant to enter the house, so they needed a ploy to persuade the previously convicted pedophile who lived there to open the front door and invite them in, something realistic and mundane that wouldn’t arouse his suspicions.

The decision was made to cut the telephone line into the old Victorian residence, wait an appropriate length of time, and then send an agent, disguised as a lineman, to “check for a line break in the neighborhood.”

The neighbors immediately around the house were quietly evacuated and a SWAT team with high-powered rifles took up positions in trees and behind bushes with a clear view of the back and side yards. Five agents crept noiselessly onto the verandah that spanned the front and sides of the house, out of sight, to the left of the front door.

The “lineman,” Vince Farrington, rang the doorbell. When Reginald Carter-Smith, the five foot seven, one hundred-pound, emaciated-looking weasel parted the lace curtains that covered the glass insets, Farrington gave him the line break spiel, informing Carter-Smith that he had to test each phone in the house with a meter. He prayed the pervert was a typical phone user who didn’t know squat about telephones, and his prayer was answered. Vince had to get insistent, however, threatening not to restore service if Reginald withheld consent. The weasel was, understandably, disinclined to cooperate, afraid that Joseph would wake up and start screaming again.

After a few tense moments when it looked like the scheme might fail, Carter-Smith reluctantly agreed. The conclusion of the plan was for Farrington to get the pedophile to open the front door so he could gain entry with the team close behind him.

Unknown to the FBI, Billy Armstrong, Joseph’s father, had plans of his own.

Billy hid in the bushes that bordered the verandah on the right. When Carter-Smith opened the door, Billy’s six-foot-six, two hundred and fifty pound, solidly-muscled body did an Olympic-style vault over the porch railing. He reached Carter-Smith in three strides and slammed into him. Reginald’s puny body hit the old door; the hinges snapped with a
craaaack
that sounded like a dried turkey wishbone on Thanksgiving Day. The door crashed onto the porch with Carter-Smith on top of it and Billy Armstrong, howling like a banshee, on top of him.

The kidnapper, released from jail just six months prior for child molestation, whined to his court-appointed attorney that it “...felt like a goddamn fucking freight train hit me! There I was mashed between my front door and this snarling, foaming, fucking black
gorilla
who shrieked till I was deaf! He looked like he was going to bite my face off! It felt like
hours
before the fucking police pulled him off me!”

Publicly, the Feds were furious with Billy. Secretly, they not only understood why he did it, they admired the take-out.

Joseph was found in the basement chained to a leg of the water heater. He screamed for a solid ten minutes on the way to the hospital, eventually quieting down when he realized his mother was not going to let him go. While the pediatrician examined him, he babbled to everyone about “the angel” who talked to him. Latasia Armstrong, tears of gratitude wetting her cheeks, stood in front of the cameras a few days later with Joseph in her arms, telling the viewers that her son “heard the voice of an angel who told the police where to find him.”

The press had accepted Amanda Forrester’s hallucination about an angel’s voice, understanding the need of a child to explain away something inexplicable; however, they were not going to buy this angel stuff again. With the scent of a big story in their nostrils that linked the two rescues, they demanded to know who had helped the FBI rescue both Amanda and Joseph.

Amazingly, no one talked. Because nobody knew except Manzetti, Sapitnaski, and Saunders and Bridger of the San José PD.

Manzetti had the Forrester file at home to keep Mariah’s name confidential. Even Osterman didn’t know the identity of the psychic. She had convinced him that the telepath was adamant about remaining anonymous and would just quit finding kids if exposed, but was willing to work with Frannie exclusively.

Well, that part was a small lie. Big deal: Manzetti was sure Carpenter would feel exactly that way if asked. She ordered the SJPD to seal their file on Amanda Forrester, which they did. It might have been the innuendoes about demotions, suspensions, and prosecutions if information leaked. Few people knew the name of her little treasure, and that was just the way Frannie liked it. She was on top of the greatest find of a lifetime; a real psychic, one that could actually
communicate
with the kids, for chrissakes!

And she’s all mine. I’m winning her over, I can see it in her eyes.
Manzetti pictured herself in a big swanky office with a glass door that read
FBI Bureau Chief
. It was a title she deserved, had worked hard for, and nothing or nobody was going to stand in her way.

Gone was the aroma of freshly tilled soil. In its place, the smell of ripe vegetation filled her nostrils as warm moist air settled on her skin. What instantly came to mind was a vacation she had taken in Montreal at the age of nineteen, and a tour through a series of greenhouses linked together, separated only by canvas walls. Each greenhouse represented a different climate of the world. That’s where she first encountered a tropical forest.

Mariah opened her eyes, finding herself surrounded by trees not nearly as tall as the white ones on her first trip to
Dreamworld
. And the plant life beneath these trees was more abundant. She was still naked, but felt less vulnerable than when she had stood in the wide-open patch of neatly planted whatevers.

A quick glance might give one the impression that one was in an equatorial rain forest in South America. Not that one had ever been in an equatorial rain forest in South America: however,
National Geographic
took care of travel to foreign places for the poor. One tried to make oneself believe this incredible plant life was native to a place on Earth one had never been. But one could not.

Take for example that thing straight ahead. Long, scalpel-sharp, metallic blue leaves sprouted from a cluster of perfectly round and fuzzy purple balls. Mariah didn’t know one exotic plant from another, but she’d be willing to bet a small fortune that it was not native to Earth. If the fern suddenly developed a mouth, had started singing like the Birds of Paradise in the Tiki Room at
Disneyland
, she would not have been shocked. Everywhere she looked, every smell, every sensation told her this definitely wasn’t Gotham City, Batman.

Anxiety aside, all her senses rioted with input, a not too unpleasant feeling. Not even fear prevented her from being fascinated and curious. So it was a dream, so what? Nothing like a healthy, colorful, alien planet dream for a science fiction buff.

She navigated down the only clear path to the left, narrowly avoiding exposed roots of more strange vegetation. It reminded her of a tank of salt-water fish: no rhyme or reason to their color scheme. Plum-colored leaves on forest-green bushes, iridescent pink lilies on stalks of gold, pale green moss growing on maroon trees—a veritable kaleidoscope of tints and hues. When she stepped on a few non-exotic pebbles, she was once again reminded that whoever inhabited this place had sculpted this pathway ... and she was not alone.

The trees and plants became sparse as she headed out of the forest. When the path took a turn and a dip, she saw the last tree, the last plant, and then—sky? It
looked
like sky; however, there was something disturbing...

Did the forest end at the edge of a cliff? Mariah tried to swallow around a sudden lump in her throat. Her fear of heights made her occasional claustrophobia seem nonexistent. She always joked that a thick carpet could give her a nosebleed. Driving across a bridge was a white-knuckle flight, especially if the bridge was one lane in each direction like the ancient overpasses at Cape Cod.

Because she lived alone, she was forced to do mundane things like change light bulbs in ceiling fixtures, but it took her days to get up the courage to get the ladder out. The climb up was not the problem; it was getting down that made her light-headed and nauseated. Mariah sympathized with cats that scrambled up trees then cried until someone came to rescue them. The only thing that got her up the ladder was her drug of choice: a fistful of M&M’s.

Try as she might, she could not find the off switch to this dream. She preceded one small step at a time, praying each one would bring her back to her bedroom.

No such luck.

Mariah stopped ten feet from the last tree, her arms wrapped around her body
. Now what
? She had the greatest urge to plunk herself down in the middle of the path and wait until she woke up, but immediately dismissed the idea. Those pebbles were sharp!

The wind began to sough through the tree branches. She turned as she heard rustling. The bushes behind her seemed to lean forward, obscuring the path she had just travelled, blocking her escape. The yellow ferns on either side of her stirred, their serrated leaves waving malevolently as they tried to touch her. Mariah was rooted to the spot, unable to step forward, unable to step back. The ground began to spin and the sky appeared closer, then farther, then closer, then...

She awoke with her pillow clutched to her body, whimpering. Aware that she was in her bedroom, her heart slid from her throat back into her chest.

Mariah shuddered. This trip to
Planet of the Odd
was definitely not as much fun as the first one, and it had lasted longer. Also there were two unsettling details, the first being that, although she was fully awake, she could still smell (albeit faintly) the pungent aroma of vegetation.

The second issue solved the mystery of the first dream because it happened this time as well, although the resolution did not make her feel better.

It was a sound she remembered when, as a child, her grandfather had taken her to the manufacturing plant where he worked. The sound was monotonous with an almost hypnotic quality.

The thrum of machinery.

The sound of her brother’s voice, so reassuringly normal, made Mariah feel misty.

“This better be good. You’ve interrupted genius at work,” he intoned.

Mariah grinned. She wanted to jump right in and tell him about her odd dreams, but she forced herself to keep the conversation light. If she got serious too soon, he would hound her until she gave him everything before she was ready.

While they yakked, she glanced at her right hand. She gaped in disbelief.

Over a week ago, Mariah had lost control of a sharp knife, slicing a deep gash in the soft pad below her thumb. The blood soaked through several cloths without a sign of clotting. Mad at just another klutzy thing she did, she wrapped it up tight and headed for the emergency room at the local hospital. The on-call resident sutured the wound, reassuring her she had not hit anything vital. She took the prescribed antibiotics and removed the dressing a few days later. No infection as of yesterday, but the area still looked raw and angry.

What she saw before her was skin that was whole and pink. No sign of trauma whatsoever. Not even a scar. She flexed her thumb and blinked, expecting her vision to clear and the nasty cut to reappear.

It didn’t.

First her back, now this. Were these
Healings
some kind of reward from God for a job well done? Did He work that way? Or was she experiencing something outside the realm of religion?

So, a week after
Finding
Joseph Armstrong, her body now had the ability to heal a wound. In an attempt to downplay the anxiety that threatened to suffocate her, she wondered just how many
Findings
it would take before the aging process started to reverse! Mariah shook her head; it was time to get to the point of the call.

“Stephen, I’ve had two really bizarre dreams. Usually my dreams make no sense, but these were so real.
And
they were in color. I never dream in color.”

She perched on the edge of the chair, her free hand waving in descriptive agitation. “I smelled flowers and felt dirt between my toes and heat from the sun on my skin. I stepped on rocks and it hurt the bottom of my feet! I even got vertigo! And if that’s not weird enough,” she said, “I remember both dreams from start to finish. I never remember dreams in detail. And the first one happened weeks ago.”

Unable to sit still any longer, she sprang to her feet and began pacing. “Did I mention these dreams are definitely not on this planet?”

She didn’t tell Stephen about the two
Findings
. She respected his opinion even though he was eccentric, but she was just not ready to tell him everything.

She had told him and Judith about the
Visitation
and her meeting with Michael Jenkins. Reacting as anticipated, they accepted the fact that Mariah’s perceptions were Mariah’s reality, even if they included a newfound belief in a Supreme Being. Judith neither believed nor disbelieved in God; she was mildly interested in the concept, nothing more. Stephen, however, was an avowed atheist. His doctorate in molecular phylogenetics caused his vocabulary to repress such words as “faith” and “miracles.”

So, why the reluctance to share the
Findings
? Because they were irrefutable? Instead of considering her a little off-center, they would finally believe that their little sister was the mutant their mother always hinted she was.

“I usually dream in color, Shrimpboat, but I don’t remember being able to smell things or feel pain.” She heard the smile in his voice. “Are you into a new sci fi book? Maybe you’re subconsciously experiencing it in your dreams. I dunno; you sound upset, but it sounds pretty interesting to me. Why don’t you write down when it happens and what went on that day? Maybe add what you had for dinner that night. Who knows, it could be heartburn! Seriously, try to control the events; try to wake yourself up when they get too grisly. You’ve never tried because you’re too caught up in them, but give it a shot.”

Sound advice
, thought Mariah. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about her role in
Finding
the kidnapped children, and her family was not about to discover, on their own, what she had done. The newspapers alluded to a “psychic working with the FBI,” an event not altogether uncommon these days. Her identity was still a secret: no one would ever suspect her of a talent like this. Hell, no one would suspect
anyone
of being able to do what she did!

“Is there something else?” Stephen’s voice held a faint note of concern.
He’s tuned in
, Mariah thought,
even over the phone. But I just can’t tell him
. Before hanging up, she assured him the dreams were just an excuse to call, and that everything was fine. She felt like she was lying by not revealing her role in the rescue of the children.

Now she knew why she called him. It was not to talk about the dreams; she knew how Stephen would react. She just wanted to hear his voice, something ordinary and familiar in a world that had suddenly fallen off the edge of a cliff into Weirdsville.

That night Mariah had the most terrifying dream of her life. It wasn’t on her alien planet, she was sure; however, it might as well have been for the sensation of otherworldliness it conjured.

Darkness, like a straightjacket, restrained her in an inescapable embrace. It plugged up her nose with the smell of wrongness; filled her mouth, tasting like dried remembrances; and breathed destruction into her ears. Mariah felt pressure in her chest, like the insidious blackness meant to suffocate her. She trembled. This nothingness was malevolent and cold. She could not tell if she was naked or clothed; she was unable to move her extremities—if she still had them.

And then an image formed before her.

Three bands of color, in dissimilar patterns, all gyrating to different rhythms. What made her head ache and her stomach lurch was the surging and receding of the images.

The bottom layer, undulating like a belly dancer, was the color of a swamp. Tiny spots of yellow and maroon zipped and bobbed within the gangrenous green swell. Mariah thought she could detect, although faintly, the foul smell of methane. Her eyes watered, whether from the gas or the visual effects.

The middle layer was filled with dozens of multicolored strings, gyrating frenetically. Dingy white ellipses oscillated on top of the strings. After several seconds of this madness, the elongated circles floated upward and disappeared, only to be replaced by clones.

The top layer was the sickly gray of a junkie’s skin replete with blue flecks like blown veins. Ghost-like shapes roiled, the larger ones slamming into the smaller ones as if trying to obliterate them.

A shadow materialized, superimposed over the multi-layered image as the dark around her began to thicken. She was paralyzed with fear, and could do nothing but stare at the apparition.

Mariah had no idea when the music started. Distracted from the putrid colors and the malignant shadow, she concentrated, if for no other reason than to divert her attention from the vision.

It was
Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head
, from the film
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
. And someone (
something
) was humming it. Just a jaunty, absurd tune, so out of place in this hellish nightmare. Instead of lightening the mood, the song made it more sinister.

Mariah shot up, wide awake, the remnants of the tune echoing in her head. When she realized she was hyperventilating, she forced herself to calm down which then relieved the constriction in her chest. Cold sweat made her shiver and she stank of fear.

Crawling out of bed, she staggered into the bathroom. Without turning on the light, she splashed cold water on her face. It seemed to do the trick; her autonomic nervous system settled everything down.

Back in bed, she prayed she would never experience anything so abhorrent again.

Weeks slipped by with no terrifying or planetoid dreams and no
Findings
. Mariah was not fooled by this lull; she knew that Joseph Armstrong was not her last kidnapped child. There were flyers in her mailbox with pictures of missing children (she even saw another newscast on television) but the anticipated reactions never occurred.

Her thoughts kept jumping between the supernatural happenings in her life: the two dreams on Planet X; the two
Findings
; the two
Healings
of her body; and the
Visitation
. Everything had begun after the
Visitation
. Fear simmered just below the surface as she fought to tamp it down.

She purposely did not include the “Dark Dream” as she now thought of it. She was sure it was only a one-time occurrence.