The Faithful (8 page)

Under the same circumstances, Josh would have preferred to die, and he suspected Todd felt the same. Nevertheless, Frieda Sutcliffe was eternally grateful to Josh for saving her only child’s life.

“All right, Josh. I know you didn’t come here for a social visit. What can I do for you?”

“Know anything about the PSST?”

“We fund the test, although it’s not my department. Why?”

“What can you tell me about it?”

She shrugged her meaty shoulders. “It’s run by NCES. Testing is done in all public schools from kindergarten through seventh grade. We’ve been funding it since sometime in the sixties, I think.”

“Do you know what kind of questions are on the test?”

“I don’t. Why?”

Josh hesitated. “I need to keep things confidential, Frieda.”

She eyed him carefully. “Of course.”

“Do you know anyone in NCES I could talk to? Is there anyone you trust?”

Frieda leaned back in her chair, mulling it over. “I know a couple of data-entry clerks, but I doubt they’ll be much help. I think you want to talk to Connie Fisher. She’s an acquaintance, but I’ve known her for fifteen years. We go for lunch every few months. She’s in the Post-Secondary Division, so not quite what you’re looking for, but perhaps she’ll be able to guide you in the right direction. Let me give her a call.” She picked up the handset and started pressing numbers.

“Thanks. And Frieda . . .”

She waved a hand full of gold rings at him. “Yeah, yeah. Top secret, I know. Connie! It’s Frieda. How are you, darling?”

Josh waited while Frieda exchanged the necessary pleasantries before getting down to business.

“Do you remember the FBI agent who saved Todd’s life? Can I send him over to you? He’s got some questions . . . No, nothing to do with you, it’s about the PSST. Right. I know. But listen.” She held up a hand as Josh opened his mouth. “This needs to be kept quiet. Great, that’s perfect. When? Okay. I’ll tell him. Thanks Connie, I owe you one.” She laughed at something Connie said. “Right, you got it. See you next week, then.” Frieda hung up and scribbled on a pink Post-it note. She peeled it off the pad and handed it across the desk.

“You’re taking her for dinner tonight at Filomena’s. Don’t look at me like that; you can afford it after that nice promotion.”

Swallowing hard, he nodded. What he really feared was canceling another dinner with his mother. He’d never hear the end of it.

“Thanks, Frieda, I really appreciate it.” He stood and shoved the pink note into the breast pocket of his suit. “How will I know her?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Just look for the classiest woman at the bar. And then find her polar opposite. That will be Connie.”

“Right. Well, thanks again.”

“Oh, and Josh? Watch out. She gets a bit flirty when she’s had a few martinis.” She laughed at him. “Don’t look so worried. I’m sure you can handle it.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

When I awoke, the dream-woman was standing in the corner of my bedroom, by the dresser. I closed and opened my eyes several times, but there she stood.

She was watching me with those sad brown eyes, her red hair like embers against the white wall behind her. There was a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her skin was creamy, like expensive silk, and became rosy as it approached the plunging neckline of her blouse.

I closed my eyes again, trying to shake the dream that was not a dream, and when I opened them this time she was gone. Shuddering, I rolled over, only to come face to face with her lying next to me, smiling. Her teeth were white and straight, save for one in the front that was enchantingly crooked. She reached out to touch my cheek.

The screaming woke Dan and he charged into my bedroom wielding a frying pan. He had passed out on my couch in the afternoon, and I had left him there.

“What the hell, Rowan?” Some of Dan’s hair was standing up, while other parts were mashed flat to his head. His clothes were wrinkled and twisted around, as though he’d spent the last few hours in the middle of a tornado.

His eyes were red and wild as he scanned the room. He held the frying pan above his head, ready to bash in somebody’s skull. It was part of a set from Le Creuset, so heavy I needed both hands to lift it, and could have done some serious damage if the intruder were flesh and bone. In this case, I doubted it would do much good.

“Stop screaming!” Dan yelled.

I hadn’t realized I still was, and closed my mouth. The silence that followed was abrupt.

“What the hell happened? I thought you were being
murdered
in here or something!”

“Sorry. Just a bad dream, I guess.” Without looking, I knew the woman was gone. Not that Dan would have been able to see her, anyway.

“What’s that smell?” he asked.

“Violets.”

He dropped the pan to the floor and rubbed his temples, moaning.

“Do you have any Advil?”

Dan insisted on taking the shift at work by himself, leaving me alone in the pooling shadows. I moved through the house, turning on lights and tightening the slats of the blinds against the darkness.

As a balm for the solitude, I found a comedy on HBO and turned up the volume. A frozen pizza went in the oven, and I opened a can of Coke and poured it over ice.

I ate the pizza off a napkin on my lap, focusing on the TV in an attempt to dam up the river of questions threatening to drown me in fear and confusion.

When every last crumb was devoured, I turned to the task at hand. Starting in the office, I systematically tore the place apart. Although I found every textbook and notebook from every course I had ever taken, there was nothing from my childhood. It was like I hadn’t existed before nineteen. There were no photo albums, no old greeting cards, nothing.

A large manila envelope in the bottom desk drawer contained all my vital documents, such as they were. My university degrees got tossed on top of the desk, along with my passport, while I focused on the remaining two documents: my birth certificate and high school diploma.

The birth certificate looked legit to me, but what did I know? It had an embossed seal that said “State of Illinois, Certificate of Live Birth.” Underneath were the particulars, including my name, Rowan Jane Wilson, and my date of birth, May 24, 1981, at 3:18 a.m. The place of birth was listed as Saint Anthony Hospital, Chicago, Illinois. My father was listed as Thomas John Wilson; his date of birth was September 28, 1949. My mother was listed as Jillian Mavis Wilson. Her maiden name was O’Connor, and her date of birth was July 12, 1953.

My high school diploma was less informative. It was from Jones College Prep in Chicago, and said I had graduated with honors in June of 1999. Closing my eyes, I tried to picture anything about my high school years, about graduation, anything.

It reminded me of having a word on the tip of my tongue, but being unable to pull it forward. My early life was shrouded in darkness. The first thing I could clearly remember was moving into my dorm room at MIT that fall.

I carried both documents back to the living room and opened my laptop. Jones College Prep’s website was full of pictures of happy and well-adjusted-looking teens, all engaged in wholesome school activities. The building and grounds in the background didn’t spark any memories. I had no recollection of spending four years of my life there.

There was a transcript request form on the Student Record Services page, so I filled it out. Not surprisingly, there were no Google hits for either of my parents. All the links for myself were university- or job-related.

On the Illinois Department of Public Health and Illinois Vital Records websites, I filled out requests for another birth certificate for myself, as well as my parents’ marriage and death certificates. Since I had no idea where either of them was born, I didn’t bother requesting their birth certificates. I paid extra for the documents to be shipped by UPS next-day delivery, although it would still take over a week to process.

Once that was done, I grabbed another Coke out of the fridge, poured it over fresh ice, and stood at the counter taking big gulps and debating what else to do.

It was beyond disconcerting to have my solid foundation ripped away. I wondered if this was how people with head injuries felt, like something that had always been in their grasp had turned to vapor. No matter how hard I tried to grab at them, the memories were dissipating before my eyes, leaving nothing but a gaping black hole.

Even worse than the loss was the suspicion that new memories were waiting just beyond my view, ready to fill the empty space with something far different from what had been removed. It was terrifying, and more than anything I wanted to bury my head in the sand.

But wasn’t that what I always did? How many years of my life had I believed in a childhood for which I apparently had no documentation, no photos, and no proof? And before now, it had never even occurred to me to look.

I had created blinders with which to shield myself, focusing on the narrow path directly in front of me, and pretending what I glimpsed out of the corners of my eyes didn’t exist.

My avoidance of mirrors was a perfect example, but there were many others. How often did I turn on the TV or radio to drown out the voices that wanted my attention? How often did I turn on every light in the house so there would be no shadowy corners in which someone might hide? How often did I walk past people I knew no one else could see, and pretend I couldn’t see them, either? And when they reached out for me, I quickened my pace just the way city folk did when passing a homeless person begging on a street corner.

And though I knew it was time,
long past time
, to take off the blinders and see what I had been ignoring, the idea was terrifying. I dumped the Coke into the sink, ice and all, and popped the tab on one of Dan’s beers.

“Bottoms up!”

It went down in five disgusting swallows, and I belched like a frat boy. Down went a second beer, and then a third. I stood by the sink, belching and willing it all to stay down.

Within minutes, there was a warm rush of booze-induced relaxation. I headed for the bathroom, staggering a little and bumping into the doorframe as I passed.

Taking a deep breath, I positioned myself in front of the mirror. Ignoring the thunder of my heart against my rib cage, I forced my gaze up to the mirror.

The dream-woman wasn’t peering over my shoulder, as I had expected. All I saw was my own pale face. My eyes were wide and bright with fear, my mouth drawn into a pinched line. There were faint lines crinkling the corners of my eyes, and a dusting of freckles dancing across my nose and along my cheekbones. My red hair, pulled back from my face in a messy ponytail, had yet to show any signs of gray.

The contours of my face were fascinating, as were my green eyes. How strange were a human’s eyes, with their black pinpoints in the center, a pathway that could be followed inward to the very beginning, to the creation spark, an eye corridor right to the center of I.

As I watched, the small wrinkles around my eyes smoothed away, and my face rounded out. My nose grew rounder, too, and freckles disappeared from my cheeks. My lips plumped up, rosy and fresh with youth.

Younger and younger.

To the graceful perfection of the early twenties, and then younger, to eighteen, and younger still, into my early teens with the buds of womanhood beginning to blossom, and then that roundness disappeared into twelve, eleven, and I was full of awkward bony angles, and younger still, nine, eight, seven.

The child in the mirror looked back at me with awe. Her green eyes overpowered her pale face. Her red hair,
my
hair, flamed in soft clouds around a face that still held the last traces of babyhood.

She was full of fledgling promise. I felt an overwhelming desire, a
mother need
, to reach out and wrap her in my arms. The girl in the mirror. The me/not me.

“Find him. You need to find him.” Her voice was a clear ringing bell, so sweet and so familiar.

“Find who?” I managed to croak.

“The truth-seeker.”

“Who? What do you mean?”

“Find the one who searches for you. You need his help, if you’re going to stop them.”

“Stop who? I don’t understand.”

For a moment I thought she would say more. But then she looked over my shoulder and her eyes widened in horror. She screamed, and her voice rose octave after octave until the scream became silent. She was frozen in a rictus of terror.

I wanted to turn, to see what had caused her fright, but I, too, was frozen. I stared helplessly into her open mouth, her enormous green eyes. A fireball streaked across her eye-sky, trailing a tail of blue-white light. I fell back, landing hard against the tile floor.

“Find him!” she screamed, and then the world exploded.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“My name is Jack Elias Barbetti. I was born May 9, 2004. I live in Seaside, Oregon. My parents are Emma and Keaton Barbetti. My dad works at a sawmill. My mom died because—”

No, don’t go there!

“I’m in fourth grade at Seaside Heights Elementary. My teacher is Mrs. Sutherland. My favorite subjects are math and science. My best friends are David McGregor and Mikey Parsons.”

Jack’s head was splitting open. The shots they injected every morning not only made him feel slow and far away, but the headache lingered until dark, when the sleepy-time injection took away all pain and consciousness.

He began the mantra again. “My name is Jack Elias Barbetti . . .”

It had been repeated so many times the words had lost their meaning. They were the strings that tethered him to a bunch of balloon-memories. But they kept trying to float off into the ether, while he clung desperately to the strings, knowing that to let go was to lose the Jack that was.

He didn’t know where they had taken him, or how long he’d been there. His old life ended when the bee stung the back of his neck. He’d had just enough time to lift his hand to swat the bee away, hot dogs dropping unnoticed to the dirt, and then the whole world went black.

Some time later, he’d been swaddled in blankets in the backseat of a moving car. There was the sensation of speed, and he understood they were on a freeway.

The next time he regained consciousness, he was in a soft bed, covered with quilts that were scratchy against his cheek. When he rolled over, searing pain ripped through his skull, making him want to vomit. His eyes closed as he fought the wave of nausea. Eventually, he was able to crack open an eyelid and inspect his surroundings.

The walls were made of logs, rough and splintery. There was a wicker dresser in the corner. Slowly, he sat up. The room around him throbbed in time with the pounding in his temples, and he moaned and closed his eyes, swaying.

That first morning of his new life, a man in dark robes entered the small bedroom. Jack had learned about predators, about what men like this wanted to do with boys like him, and he gritted his teeth and vowed he wouldn’t cry.

“Remember, Jack. Remember everything you see, and look for your chance to escape. When he does those things to you, you must go to the White.”

Was that his voice, or his mom’s? It didn’t matter. He would obey.

Flattening his hands against his thighs, he pressed until the tips of his fingers were white. It took all his willpower, but he looked the man straight in the eye, taking a mental tally of his features and committing them to memory. Old and skinny, with narrow shoulders. Gray beard and bushy eyebrows. Soft brown eyes, with lots of wrinkles around the edges. Red cheekbones and nose, like he needed to use sunscreen.

He was dressed like a priest, and Jack found this very unnerving. The last priest he had met thought Jack was infested with demons.

But Jack knew where the demons lived, and it wasn’t inside him. What a ridiculous idea! Father Santos hadn’t understood Jack was of the White; no demons could enter his soul. They were all around him though, oh yes, they were. Jack knew them well, as they knew him.

“Are you going to molest me?”

The man seemed startled by the abruptness of Jack’s question, and then somewhat horrified.

“No!” He sat on the edge of the bed, as far away from Jack as he could manage. “I am Father Gabriel, of the Holy Order of
I Fidele
. I am not here to violate you, or to harm you in any way. I am here to be your guide, your advisor, as you begin your new life here among your brethren.”

“I want to go home.”

“Of course you do. This time of transition is difficult, full of pain as one sheds the skin of the past. But like a snake, one must shed that skin to become new again. A wonderful life awaits you, my child—”

“I am
not
your child,” Jack cut in.

“Nevertheless, in time you will, I hope, look to me as a father of sorts. Today—”

“My father is Keaton Barbetti, and I want to
go home
to
him
!” Jack stood on the bed and screamed directly into the man’s face.

Father Gabriel wiped spittle off his cheek with the sleeve of his robe. “I’m sorry to tell you Keaton Barbetti is no longer your father. Soon, you will forget he ever existed, as you immerse yourself in your new life.”

“I
won’t
forget him, and I
won’t
stay here!” And then Jack did the only thing he could think of to do. He filled his lungs and screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

Eventually Father Gabriel got mad. He leapt across the bed and clamped a large paw over Jack’s mouth and nose, sealing his airway and stifling the scream, which lodged in his throat.

Up close, his eyes were pinwheeled with orange. His mask fell away, and Jack saw the demon that lurked behind it. He saw the forked tongue and the leathered gray face. He knew the demon for who it was. Jack’s angels sprung to life, swarming around him with buzzing alarm.

“Shut up! Your father will soon be
dead
, along with the rest of the cockroaches who walk this earth. So shut . . . the hell . . .
up
!”

His hand tasted like roast beef. Jack bit down.

After biting Father Gabriel’s hand, he was left alone for the better part of the day. The buzz of his angels swelled and receded as he lay, wide-eyed, on the scratchy quilt. Eventually, hunger and the need to use the toilet forced him to emerge from the bedroom. He found the tiny bathroom off the combined living room and kitchen area.

He peed, washed his hands in the bitingly cold water that emerged from the tap, and dried them on a purple towel.

He was alone in the small log cabin. The kitchen held a sink, a small ice chest, and a propane stove. Beside the kitchen was a scratched wood table with two mismatched chairs. A couch sat in the main living space, covered in a fraying red plaid quilt. Across from the couch was a dull gray chair with yellowed lace doilies covering the arms.

The floor was made of rough wooden planks, sanded but unstained. Jack pulled at the door, but it was locked from the outside. He wasn’t surprised.

A red pillowcase covered the one small window. He pulled it to the side and stood on his tiptoes to look out. The window was only two feet across by one foot high, and it provided a view of trees, trees, and more trees. They were different from the ones he was used to, with thinner trunks and lots of needles.

In the ice chest he found bread, cheese, and milk. There were also apples, the Red Delicious kind. Jack made himself a meal and sat at the table, munching. His headache eased with the food and drink.

By the time Father Gabriel returned, right hand in a bandage, Jack was clearheaded enough to feel the full extent of his fear. He sat at the table, watching as Father Gabriel took the seat across from him.

“Well, then,” he said. “Perhaps we should start again?” He waited a moment, but Jack remained still and watchful.

“As I said before, I am Father Gabriel. I will be your spiritual advisor here at
I Fidele
. This is a large place, with many children I’m sure you will befriend.” He smiled, as though he expected Jack to get excited. Jack gave no response.

“In the beginning, we keep new children separated from the group, but it’s only temporary. Think of it as a sort of cocooning; you come in here as a caterpillar and will emerge, in time, as a beautiful butterfly. But that will only be the beginning of your life here. You will join the
I Fidele
family, and your life will be given a purpose beyond your wildest imaginings.”

He smiled again at Jack, and the smile was so sweet, so gentle, Jack could almost forget the demon he had seen lurking in the underworld of his soul. Almost.

“In fact, what we do here is very much like superhero training. Do you like superheroes, Jack?”

Despite himself, Jack nodded. Encouraged, Father Gabriel continued.

“Of course you do! Have you ever wished to be a superhero? I know I did when I was a boy, way back in the dark ages.” He laughed, and Jack felt his lips curl up into the beginning of a smile.

“Well, I have a secret for you. Do you want to know what it is?” Father Gabriel leaned across the table, whispering. “The secret, Jack, is you actually
are
a superhero. But you already know that, don’t you?”

Jack watched him, eyes wide.

“Of course you do! You’ve always been different than the rest of your friends, right? You’ve had secret powers no one else could understand, powers you’ve had to hide from
everybody
, even your
dad
. Isn’t that right?”

Jack found himself nodding.

“Have you ever wondered
why
? Why you have these special powers no one else has? What their purpose is?”

Jack did wonder. He wondered all the time.

“Well, I have the answers to all those questions. Right here, at
I Fidele
, you are finally where you
belong
. Because we are all special here. We are all superheroes, and you are going to be joining an elite team of
superheroes in training
.”

“There’s no such thing as a superhero.”

“Oh, but there is, Jack, there
is
!” Father Gabriel smiled. “Of course, you’re right. Superman doesn’t exist. Or Batman, or Spider-Man, or any of those other silly made-up superheroes. Their stories are fictional. But the
idea
of them? That had to come from somewhere real, don’t you think?”

Jack shrugged.

“Let me ask you this. Are demons real?”

He stared at Father Gabriel, waiting for the mask to disappear again. When it didn’t, he gave a small nod.

“And the White? Is that real?”

Jack was stunned. “You know about that?”

Father Gabriel laughed. “Of course! Who do you think we serve? The
I Fidele
family
serves
the White!”

“But you . . .” Jack stopped, confused. His angels had quieted to a low hiss. What did that mean?

“I know it’s a lot to take in. Don’t worry. For now, all you need to understand is we’re your friends. You’re
safe
here, Jack. Safe to be yourself, for the first time in your life.”

There was a quiet knock, and then the door to the cabin opened. A woman in a red robe entered, smiling at him. Jack was stunned into stillness at the sight of her. He had never seen a woman so beautiful in all his life. She was like a golden princess. Her hair was long and silky, and it floated around a face so perfect it reminded him of the angels who had visited that time he ran a fever of 105.

“Hi, Jack.” Her voice was like the tinkling of a wind chime, sweet and enticing. “I’m Maya. I’m here to give you some vitamins.”