The Faithful (11 page)

“I’m glad to have you back, my son.” Father Narda was smiling at him.

How many miles had passed beneath their rugged shoes as he and Father Narda walked, side by side, across the barely tamed wilderness of The Ranch? They had spent hours in such fashion, discussing
I Fidele
philosophy, or Sumner’s burgeoning skills, or, during his teen years, the need to control his deepening interest in all things female.

For a time he was consumed with desire for Adelia, a dark-skinned beauty whose shocking blue eyes had captivated his young heart. She was quick-witted and joyful, full of laughter.

Adelia laughing. It was an image he still nurtured within his heart, her fragile glory forever captured in vibrant colors, untarnished by the heartbreak that came after. It was no wonder that he was in love with her, but he wasn’t alone in his desire for her.

She was two years his elder, and though they had never shared more than a few stolen kisses, he was crushed when Father Narda took her as his
Amante
.

The jealousy drove him to the brink of insanity. For months he refused to so much as look in his mentor’s direction, and he even made a formal request to the Priests that Father Cassiel take over his mentorship. That request was denied.

He could remember the torment of seeing her in the red robe, sitting in subservient silence at Father Narda’s side. The first time he noticed her belly rounding out with the evidence of what the Priest was doing to her in private, Sumner went stark raving mad. With the classic stupidity of a fifteen-year-old boy, he hunted her down, certain he could make all things right.

Cornering her in the stables, he kissed her fervently and pushed her up against the paddock door amid the earthy scent of hay and manure. He felt the small swelling of her belly pressing up against him, and placed a possessive hand over it, trying in some desperate way to claim the baby as his own.

She kissed him back, and wept when he swore his undying love for her. He vowed to take her and the child away, promised her a new life on the Outside, far from the prison of
I Fidele
.

But she was older than him, wiser, and knew it was impossible. Just as hopelessly as a rabbit in a snare, she was trapped. She kissed him one last time. He felt the damp warmth of her breath on his cheek. As they parted, she did not say a word; she simply turned her back and walked away. Adelia leaving.

Never again did she speak to him. He watched from a distance as her belly swelled to an alarming size, and he heard quiet speculation about twins. Her skin grew wan, her hair and eyes dull.

On a bitter winter night she gave birth to twin girls. The babies were small, but viable. Adelia hemorrhaged, bleeding out to the sound of her newborns’ first cries.

That night, Sumner awoke from a troubled sleep to find her sitting at his bedside, watching him. She smiled, and bent as though to kiss his lips. He felt her heated whisper on his skin. A moment later she was gone, a wisp of smoke curling toward the ceiling.

Adelia leaving.

“For what it’s worth, I cared for her, too.” Father Narda brought him back to the present. Sumner bowed his head, wounded by the Priest’s words even as he doubted the truth of them. The last person with whom he wanted to share Adelia’s memory was the man he blamed for her death.

Of course, Father Narda read this from him as well. He shrugged his shoulders, and they continued on in silence.

“Her daughters?” Sumner finally managed to ask.

The Priest smiled. “They are well. Beautiful girls. They look just like their mother.”

“Are they—”

“On The Ranch? No. They are Outside,” Father Narda said. Sumner was reminded of their habit of cutting each other off midsentence, already aware of what the other would say.

“Should we visit the stables?” suggested the Priest.

That long-ago moment of stolen passion was at the forefront of his mind, so Sumner shook his head.

“Very well—let’s walk to the cliff.”

“All right.”

They made their way past the stables and riding ring, past the chicken coop, and into the shadows of the trees. Sumner was only half listening to Father Narda’s discussion of the summer crops, what had fared well and what was a disappointment. He nodded in the right places and watched his feet, only coming back to the present when they neared The Hut.

Through a break in the trees, he caught a quick glimpse of the front of the cabin. The red fabric that hung across the small window twitched, and Sumner locked eyes with a boy on the other side.

“My name is Jack Elias Barbetti. I was born May 9, 2004. I live in Seaside—”

With all his force, Sumner sent his thoughts flying back at the boy.
“Oregon. I know you, Jack. Keep your mind shielded, and don’t forget yourself.”

He broke contact and continued past the cabin beside Father Narda. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the red fabric twitch back into place.

“Yes, we are well prepared.” Father Narda nodded, stepping over a tree root that bumped out across the path. His brow was furrowed in thought, and Sumner released a breath. Perhaps the Priest was too distracted by his own thoughts to notice the brief communication between him and the boy.

“Our store of wheat, dried corn, and potatoes is enormous. Oh, you should see it; it’s a thing of beauty! We also have enough dried fruit, meat, and fish to keep us going for decades to come if necessary. I wish I could show you the underground facilities, but they’re off limits.”

In shock, Sumner stumbled and caught himself against a low-hanging branch. “It’s . . .
real
? The Underground?”

Like most children raised on The Ranch, Sumner had dreamed about The Underground. He’d dreamed of a giant shadowy labyrinth. Of row upon row of generators, fueled by the black water of a subterranean river. He had dreamed about plants and flowers and fruit trees happily flourishing under artificial lights, about bee colonies and animal runs and giant fish tanks. And air purifiers. Oh, yes. Hundreds upon hundreds of air purifiers.

Father Narda chuckled. “Of course. We’re walking above it now.”

Holy hell, Sumner thought. He looked down, but there was nothing unusual to see.

The trees gave way and they stopped near the cliff’s edge. Hundreds of feet below them, the farm stretched away in neat rows. They watched the antlike figures harvesting the last crops of the season. Squash, broccoli, and beans were directly below them, and farther away the old green combine was moving along the rows of dried field corn.

“The time is fast approaching, Sumner. We are in the endgame now.” Father Narda turned into the brisk wind and took a deep and satisfied breath.

“We are making our final preparations, and
you
have an important job to do.”

“What is it?” Sumner was shivering. The wind was biting at him through the thin fabric of his fall jacket.

Father Narda turned to face him, and Sumner felt the probing at his mind, like a fingernail digging a trench into his forehead. He resisted as best he could.

“You are struggling with your faith.” It was a statement.

“I’m all right.”

“Are you?” Father Narda tipped his head to the side, studying the younger man thoughtfully. “You seem confused, lost. Am I right?”

Sumner shrugged. “I have my moments.”

“Yes, I can see that. Always best to be honest, hmm? After all,
I Fidele
does not require absolute blind faith. It’s acceptable to question our Doctrine. From time to time.”

“It is?”

“Oh, most certainly! Even I have had occasion to question.” The Priest’s hands on his shoulders were warm, soothing. But his eyes were cold. “But time is too short to waste in such a way. If you hesitate, young ones will die.”

“I . . .”

“The time of gathering is upon us. Our family is being awakened and called home. One by one they are mobilizing. Within the week we expect most of them to return to The Ranch. But the younglings who have not yet been taken, their lives are now in peril. We need to gather them in.”

“All of them?”

“If you wish them to live.”

“What . . . what’s going to happen, Father?”

Father Narda’s jaw tightened. “The details of Day Zero are not your concern,
Disciple
.” The last word hissed through his teeth.

Sumner swallowed hard, knowing he’d crossed a dangerous line. More tentatively, he asked, “What’s the time frame?”

“This must be done immediately; there is no time for delay. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“I do not need to remind you we are watching.”

“No, Father.”

“Good.” He clutched Sumner’s face between his bony hands. Despite the chill, his hands were hot. They seared Sumner’s cheeks, and he tried not to wince.

“Sumner, I love you as my own flesh and blood. Follow the straight path. Don’t force me to end your life.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I was dreaming about horses. Huge, glorious creatures whose legs were as tall as I was. They had softly rounded bellies and thick coats, rich with their musky scent.

Broad hands encircled my waist and lifted me, up and up, as though I were no more substantial than a puff of cloud. My legs kicked out at just the right moment and came down upon the bare back of a pure white mare. A thrill of exhilaration rippled through my stomach. The mare’s flesh was tense beneath my thighs, ready to take flight at my bidding. Tighten my legs against her flanks, and I would become the wind.

Curling my fingers into her coarse white mane, I leaned in. My hands were not my own. They were small, the color of coffee.

Go! Go fast! Fast! I want to fly!

The horse complied, galloping out of the darkness and into the open fields beyond, into glorious sunshine that blinded me with its beauty. Peals of laughter escaped my lips and were sucked back into the wind behind me, like tumbleweeds.

Free!

For those few precious moments, my body became one with the horse.

We were united, flesh upon flesh. And then we weren’t.

The horse shied left, and I took flight, spinning free. But I didn’t fall. Instead I flew. Up and up to the trees and beyond them to the watchful mountains. They were darkly beautiful and full of secrets, and I flew toward them, arms outstretched on the wind. They reached to embrace me with their shadows, but at that moment, ropy arms wrapped around my waist with urgent strength. They were demanding of me and loving me at the same time. My eyes closed over hot tears and I succumbed to the kiss. It was fervent, passionate, and desperate for more.

Although no longer a child, I was barely a woman. He tasted of salt and fear. I could smell hay and horse and sweet oats. His hand was hot against the firm swell of my abdomen, trying to possess what lay within. In response I felt the first butterfly tickle from inside, as though his touch had brought forth life and promise within me.

We were united, flesh upon flesh. And then we weren’t.

He was demanding what could never be. I was weeping, grieving for the death of desire. Mourning for the life that was ending at the beginning.

I pulled away, and then I was floating, small and weightless on the breeze. The boy had sorrowful blue eyes. He was blond and beautiful, like an angel without wings. But I had wings, and it was time to fly. I tried to smile, to reassure him all would be well, but it seemed I could not lie.

So instead I turned to the shadow of the mountains, and let the wind blow me in their direction. The heat of the sun baked my shoulders and the top of my head. I closed my eyes and whispered my good-bye.

“Sumner . . .”

Her voice woke me. It was honeyed, sad, and peaceful at the same time. She touched my cheek in farewell, and was gone.

What had she said? That it was summer?

With bleary eyes, I focused on the ceiling. She had faded back into the ether along with her dream, but had left behind a tidal wave of sorrow that threatened to drown me if not released.

Hot rivers of tears coursed down my cheeks, and my nose clogged. Rolling onto my side, I curled into a ball, trying to protect what was inside me. But my abdomen was flat and empty. I could still feel that butterfly promise, but there was no swelling of life there.

My body shook with sobs and I succumbed, unable to control this grief that was not my own. It had to run its course. Eventually it did, and I lay on the couch, wounded and wiped clean.

On the TV, the morning news anchor was telling the latest tale of tragedy and woe through her plastic smile. The empty tub of rocky road was lying under the coffee table, leaking brown sludge onto the floor. The harsh morning light wedged daggers through the gaps in the blinds.

My head pounded, and my sinuses felt clogged with tears. Groaning, I eased myself upright. My right hip was still throbbing from my fall in the bathroom, and I added that to the list of gripes, along with a stiff neck from sleeping on the couch.

I rose unsteadily and stumbled to the bathroom. The coolness of the damp cloth brought instant relief to my puffy eyes, but I made sure to step away from the mirror before removing it.

While a double-strength pot of coffee brewed, I cleaned up the ice-cream mess in the living room. I filled my MIT mug with coffee and popped two Advil.

There were two new e-mails in my in-box. One was from the Illinois Department of Public Health, confirming that my request for new documents was being processed. The other was from Dan, asking how I was doing. I told him I was feeling better and would see him at work that evening. There was no point in dragging him further into my mess.

It was almost nine in the morning, which was the time I would normally be hitting the pillow. My sleep schedule had been turned on its head, for which I would pay the price later. In the meantime, I would take advantage of being awake during daylight hours, and hope to catch a nap before work.

I showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, tying my wet hair into a ponytail before I grabbed my purse and headed out into the stark daylight. The glare made me squint, and my temples pounded. I hoped the Advil would kick in quickly.

The address corresponded to a small office building near St. Paul’s Methodist Church. It was surrounded by a dusty, half-empty parking lot.

If the directory was up to date, at least half of the offices were vacant. There was a small sign with a phone number to call if I was interested in renting office space. Several doctors were listed, as well as a few dentists and small law firms and a private detective agency.

Kahina Dokubo-Asari had an office on the second floor. I took the stairs, which smelled of someone else’s breakfast. The second floor was dim. Half the fluorescent lights were burned out, leaving the others buzzing in indignation.

I expected a reception area, so instead of knocking, I simply opened the door and walked in.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” I sputtered, retreating from the enormous denim backside protruding from underneath the coffee table. I had practically kicked her in the rear.

She wiggled out, exposing a broad back and then a head of black curls. The woman turned and plopped down with an indelicate grunt.

“Oh! I wasn’t expecting anyone!” She placed her hands on the floor and pushed herself up, then dusted off her meaty thighs. She was almost six feet tall, towering over my five-foot-two frame. She was older than in her website picture, her dark curls laced with gray. “Do we have an appointment?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think to book one. I thought I’d just stop by . . . I can come back later.”

“Oh, not to worry! I’m not doing anything other than searching for my darn glasses. Again!” She fanned herself with one hand. “Getting old is such a bitch!”

“Um, are those your glasses?” I asked, pointing to the top of her head.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She pulled them out of the tangle of hair. “How embarrassing! You must be wondering what kind of psychic I am!”

“Not at all,” I said politely, although that was exactly what I was thinking.

“Well, thankfully one can be a psychic and a complete scatterbrain at the same time. I’m living proof!” She laughed, and I had to smile. She was charming and self-deprecating, and instinctively I liked her.

“I’m Kahina. What’s your name, dear?”

“Rowan Wilson.”

“Rowan, as in witchwood? Interesting. Did you know the wood from a rowan tree was used to ward off witches? Why don’t you have a seat?”

I waited while she cleared a pile of papers from a red vinyl recliner, and then did as she suggested. She pulled the lid off one of the tins on the coffee table and took out a pinch of fragrant tea leaves, which she sprinkled into a pink mug. She poured steaming water on top and handed it to me.

“It’s good for headaches.” She sat across from me in one of those fake-leather desk chairs on wheels, and waved off my look of surprise.

“Anyone with moderate observational skills could see you have a headache. Your eyes are pinched and puffy-looking. You’ve either been crying a lot, or you have a hangover. Or maybe both.”

“Thanks,” I said, and took a sip. It was hot and tasted of mint, ginger, and something bitter I couldn’t place. I set the mug on the coffee table to wait for it to cool.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I saw on your website you work with people to retrieve their repressed memories?”

“That’s right. It’s called recovered memory therapy. It’s controversial, not considered part of mainstream practice. Most of the concern in the medical community is about false memory syndrome. There have been a number of cases where people reported childhood sexual abuse that was later disproved. I’m very careful when using this therapy, of course. It does no good for my clients to come up with memories that are untrue.”

“How do you avoid that?”

“Studies have shown false memories can be implanted by a therapist using a technique called familial informant false narrative procedure. In other words, the therapist enforces a memory by explaining that a family member or some other trusted person has confirmed the false memory is true.

“So it’s pretty simple, really. I don’t overstep my boundaries. While I have a subject under hypnosis, I make sure they take the lead. Any questions I pose will be to help clarify, and I never push a subject in any direction. I let them tell the story.”

“Are you a psychologist?”

She nodded. “I got my degree from Stanford. Most of my colleagues wouldn’t be quite so generous as to call me that, though. They’re more likely to call me a New Age nutbar.” She grinned, and I smiled in return.

“It’s true that most of what I practice is outside the mainstream of psychology, but I went into the field with hopes of answering questions about myself I couldn’t seem to find answers to.”

“Like what?”

“Like why I knew things others didn’t. Why I saw things no one else could see. Why my dreams often predicted future events.

“Unfortunately, a doctorate in psychology didn’t help answer those questions. For a long time, I was very disappointed. Eventually I realized that to truly help people, to practice therapy that would be genuinely effective, I needed to combine my book knowledge with my God-given talents.” She shrugged. “And so here I am.”

“So, do
you
believe false memories can be implanted?”

“Most certainly. I’ve helped numerous patients overcome false memory syndrome and get to the truth.”

“Do you think it’s also possible to erase real memories?”

She pursed her lips in thought. “I’d imagine so. The brain has an amazing capacity to forget. Under the right circumstances and with a patient in a suggestible state, I’d say that would absolutely be possible.”

There was a moment of silence while I digested this information, and then she asked, “So, what does this have to do with you?”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Some strange things have been happening, and I don’t know what it all means.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“It’s hard to put into words. But I think I might have been implanted with false memories of my childhood.”

“Are you talking about abuse? Or traumatic events?”

“No, not like that. I, um, think my whole childhood might have been a false memory.”

“What?” she blinked at me. “Your
whole
childhood?”

I nodded.

“Can you give me an example?”

“Well, I don’t really remember anymore.”

She leaned back in her chair and looked at me. After a long moment of contemplation, she said, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“It’s a long story, and very confusing.”

“I have time.”

“All right.” I took a long swallow of tea. “Until yesterday, I remembered being raised in Chicago by my dad, who died of congestive heart failure when I was eighteen. I had millions of memories of a normal childhood. A couple of nights ago I was at work, which is out on the White Sands Missile Range, and I received a card. It said
‘Ricordare, Ritornare,’
which means ‘Remember, Return’ in Italian. I understood it, even though I’ve never studied Italian.”

“That’s odd,” she said, and I nodded.

“Right. It scared me. I actually passed out, which I’ve never done before . . . I don’t think.” I shook my head. “Anyway, at that moment, it’s like some kind of switch got flipped inside me.”

“What do you mean?”

“My life before college has become a big black hole. I remember that my dad died when I was eighteen. But it’s just a piece of information, like if I told you two plus two was four. I don’t have any real memory of him, or of his death. I don’t have any emotion about it, although I’m sure I once did.”

“Do you remember anything about your childhood?”

I shook my head. “It’s like I was born the day I began college. Everything after that point in my life is clear and normal.”

“Well, how fascinating!” she exclaimed.

“I guess you could say that. There’s more, though.” I hesitated, caught by the same reticence that always took hold of me. But she claimed to have the same ability. And maybe she even did.