The Eye of God (50 page)

Only now Vigor lay crumpled on the floor, his head resting against the relic of St. Thomas.

Gray rushed to his side and rolled him over.

His chest didn’t move.

Fingers at his throat found no heartbeat.

Oh
,
God
,
no . . .

Tears welled up.

He stared at his friend’s face, noting the look of peace, of calm release.

“Did he know?” Gray said, not looking away. “About Rachel.”

“He did,” Duncan said hoarsely.

Gray closed his eyes, praying they were together again, finding a note of comfort in that thought, wanting it to be true, needing it to be so.

Be happy
,
my friends.

He kept bowed over Vigor for a long breath.

To the side, Duncan stepped to the boxes. He passed his hands over the sphere, picked it up, and examined the cross. He finally shook his head and passed his verdict.

“The energy is gone.”

Did that mean they had succeeded?

Gray had a more important question. “Were we in time?”

Jada checked her watch. “I don’t know. It all happened right at the cusp. It could go either way.”

33

November 21, 1:08
A
.
M
. EST

Washington, D.C.

Painter waited with the others on the National Mall. The president and key members of the government had been evacuated. Coastal areas had been sandbagged and cleared. Even Monk and Kat had taken the girls for a short “vacation” in the Amish country of Pennsylvania, away from the potential blast zone.

Though that
potential
was not high, no one was taking chances.

Even his fiancée, Lisa, had suggested returning early from New Mexico to join him, but he discouraged her.

Washington, D.C., was under a voluntary evacuation order. But like Painter, not everyone had abandoned the nation’s capital. A vast number of people crowded the Mall. Across the swaths of grass, tents had been pitched, candles lit, and much alcohol was drunk. Songs echoed to him, along with a few prayers and angry shouting matches.

From the steps outside the Smithsonian Castle, Painter stared across that great mass of humanity, with their faces raised to the skies—a few in fear, most with wonder. He never appreciated his fellow man more than at this moment. Here were curiosity, awe, and reverence, all the best traits of humankind squeezed down to this one moment, making each soul smaller against the grandeur of what was about to happen and far, far larger for being a part of it.

A scuffle of feet drew his attention behind him. Jada and Duncan came running across the street from the doors of the Castle. He noted their hands clasped together—though they broke apart once they drew closer.

He didn’t say anything about that.

Painter faced Jada. “Don’t tell me that the estimates from the SMC have suddenly changed?”

Jada smiled, carrying a cell phone in her other hand. “I keep checking in. So far it looks like Apophis is on track to hit the earth, but only a glancing blow at best. Still, it should be spectacular.”

Good.

Painter pictured the destruction shown on the satellite image. By severing the quantum entanglement that was drawing Comet IKON’s corona of dark energy toward the earth, they had stopped the potential warping of space-time around the planet, preventing a catastrophic bombardment of asteroids from pummeling a swath across the globe.

He remembered Antarctica, a sneak peek of what might have happened globally. That event had led to the death of eight navy men, and that number would have been much higher, if not for the brave efforts and ingenuity of Lieutenant Josh Leblang, who had heroically rallied his men to safety. Painter was considering recruiting the kid into Sigma. He had great potential.

Still, they were not entirely out of danger—what had already been set in motion by the comet’s passing could not be stopped. A few meteors struck in the remote outback of Australia, more in the Pacific. A large rock hit outside of Johannesburg, but the impact did little more than frighten the animals in a nearby safari park.

The biggest danger was still posed by the asteroid Apophis. It had already been shifted from its regular path, and nothing could be done about that. While Sigma had succeeded in severing that quantum connection, it had done so too close to the point of no return. In the end, it proved too late to stop Apophis from striking the earth, but it was at least in time to keep the comet from pulling the asteroid into a direct path toward the Eastern Seaboard. Instead, the asteroid was destined to hit elsewhere.

Its current trajectory was now along a glancing course through the upper atmosphere, where that longer path should wear away much of its kinetic energy. There also remained a high probability it would explode, but rather than casting its stellar debris across the Eastern Seaboard, it would rain down upon the Atlantic Ocean.

Or so they all hoped.

Painter searched Jada’s face for any sign of misgiving, any doubt in her calculations and projections, but all he read there was joy.

Then Jada turned away from the skies.

Another figure came running down the street, waving to them. She was a tall black woman in tennis shoes, jeans, and a heavy jacket, unzipped and flapping in her haste to join them.

Painter smiled, recognizing the appropriateness of this latecomer to the party. She truly should be here.

1:11
A
.
M
.

“Momma!” Jada said, hugging her mother. “You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it!” she said, huffing heavily, clearly having run most of the length of the Mall to make it in time.

Jada took her mother’s hand, leaning against her.

They both stared up at the night sky, as they had so many times in the past, sprawled on a blanket watching the Perseid or Leonid meteor showers. It was those moments that had made her want to explore those stars, to be a part of them. Jada wouldn’t be who she was without her mother’s inspiration.

Fingers squeezed lovingly upon hers, full of pride and joy.

“Here it comes,” Jada whispered.

Mother and daughter held tight.

From the east, a roar rose and a massive fireball streaked into view, burning across the world, trailing streams of light and energy, shedding the very forces of the universe. It ripped past overhead, hushing the crowd with its fiery course—then came the sonic boom of its passage, sounding like the earth cracking. People fell to the ground, windows shattered throughout the city, car alarms wailed.

Jada kept to her feet next to her mother, both smiling, watching the flaming star rush to the east—where at the horizon, it exploded in a blinding flash, casting fiery rockets farther out, vanishing into the distance.

A second boom echoed back to them.

Then the night returned to darkness, leaving the comet blazing in the skies. As they watched, a scatter of a hundred falling stars winked and zipped, the last hurrah from the heavens.

The crowed cheered and applauded.

Jada found herself doing the same, her mother cheering just as loudly, tears shining in her eyes at the wonder of it all.

A line from Carl Sagan struck Jada then.

We are star-stuff. We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.

It never felt truer than this moment.

34

November 25, 11:28
A
.
M
. EST

Washington, D.C.

Duncan sat on the stool with his shirt on his lap.

The tattoo needle blazed fire across the back of his arm, where his triceps formed a hard horseshoe. The fiery pain was appropriate considering the subject matter being inked upon his flesh.

It was a tiny comet, ablaze with fire and trailing a long curved tail. The design had a slightly Asian flare to it, not unlike what was sculpted in gold back at Lake Baikal, hanging above the Chinese king as he offered St. Thomas his cross.

A bevy of archaeologists and religious scholars were scouring that cave on Olkhon Island. Word was still being kept under wraps from the general public due to the sheer volume of gold inside, not to mention the twelve bejeweled crowns from Genghis Khan’s conquests. Duncan expected the site would eventually become a new mecca for St. Thomas Christians—for all Christians, and likely those of Mongol descent, too.

Vigor would be proud,
Duncan thought.

More than saving the world with his sacrifice, Vigor had likely renewed the faith and wonder of millions.

Clyde straightened from his work, wiping a bloody cloth across his latest addition to the tapestry that was Duncan’s body. “Looks good.”

Twisting to check in the mirror, Duncan examined the angry, colorful welting and passed his own judgment. “Looks
fantastic
!”

Clyde shrugged, humble. “I had practice with the first.”

His friend waved to a neighboring stool, where Jada sat.

She shifted to bring her bare arm next to his, comparing her artwork to the fresh one on his arm. They looked an exact match, a shared mark of their adventure together.

Only this was her
first
tattoo, the first strokes on a blank canvas.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She smiled up at him. “I love it.”

And from the look in her eye, maybe it wasn’t just the tattoo.

Adorned with their new art, the two headed out of the warehouse and back into the midday sunshine. Out in the parking lot, his black Mustang Cobra R shone like a polished piece of shadow. His muscle car remained a symbol of his past, haunted by the memories of his younger brother, Billy, a blurry mix of sorrow and joy—and also of responsibility.

I lived
,
and he died.

Duncan had always felt he needed to live for the both of them, for all his friends whose lives had been cut short.

After opening the passenger door for Jada, Duncan slipped behind the wheel. He touched the knob of the gearshift—only to have soft fingers land lightly on the back of his hand. He glanced over to see Jada’s eyes shining at him, full of unspoken possibilities.

He remembered her story in the mountains, of entangled fates, of the prospect that death is just the collapsing of a life’s potential in this one time stream, and that another door could open, allowing consciousness to flow forward in a new direction.

If so
,
maybe I don’t have to live all those lives . . .

He leaned over and kissed her, recognizing in the heat of that moment that by attempting to live so many lives, he was failing to live his own.

“How fast can this car go?” she mumbled as their lips parted. A mischievous eyebrow lifted.

He matched it with a smile, curved just as devilishly.

He shifted into gear, punched the accelerator, and rocketed away. The car roared down the bright streets, no longer chased by the ghosts of the past but drawn forward by the promise of the future.

For in this world, one life was enough for any man.

4:44
P
.
M
.

“Thanks for the lift,” Gray said, shouldering his overnight bag as he climbed out of the SUV.

Kowalski lifted an arm in acknowledgment. Puffing on a cigar, he leaned over. “She was a great gal,” he said, unusually serious and sincere. “She won’t be forgotten. Or her uncle.”

“Thanks,” Gray said and pushed the door closed.

Kowalski tapped his horn good-bye and jammed back into traffic, coming close to sideswiping a bus.

Gray crossed to his apartment complex and headed across its grounds, frosted with new snow, making everything look pristine, untouched, hiding the messiness of life beneath that white blanket.

He had flown back an hour ago from the funeral services in Italy, where Vigor’s body had been given full honors at a ceremony in St. Peter’s. Likewise, Rachel’s services were attended by the uniformed and marshaled forces of the Carabinieri. Her casket had been covered in the flag of Italy. Blasts of rifles had saluted at her graveside.

Still, Gray found no joy, no peace.

They were his friends—and he would miss them dearly.

He climbed the steps up to his empty apartment. Seichan was still in Hong Kong, slowly building some kind of relationship with her mother. They had found Ju-long’s pregnant wife imprisoned on an island off Hong Kong, safe and unharmed. They had freed her, and according to Seichan, the woman had returned to Portugal.

On Macau, Guan-yin had filled with brutal efficiency the power vacuum left behind by Ju-long’s passing. She was well on her way to becoming the new Boss of Macau. Using that position, she and Seichan were already taking steps to better the lives of women on the peninsula and across Southeast Asia, starting with the prostitution rings, holding them to stricter, more humane standards.

He suspected these early efforts were a small means of repairing the fence between mother and daughter. By lifting the burdens of other women who shared their same hard plight, they were helping themselves, as if repairing the present could dull the pain of their brutal pasts, to allow room for them to find each other again.

But it wasn’t the only way.

Seichan had taken it upon herself to help the lost children of Mongolia, those homeless boys and girls who had fallen through the steamy cracks of a city struggling into the new world. He knew by rescuing them, she was rescuing that child of the past who had no one.

While in Mongolia, she had also checked on Khaidu. The young Mongolian girl was out of the hospital, her belly healing from the arrow wound. Seichan found her at her family’s yurt, training with a young falcon—a high-spirited bird with gold feathers and black eyes.

Khaidu had named the bird Sanjar.

We each mourn and honor in our own way,
he thought.