The Overseer (15 page)

Vincent let the room mull it over for a moment as more than twenty people sat in total silence.

Trista watched Vince, waiting for what he was going to say next—fearing it yet needing to hear it.

“Make no mistake; the Thresher will be unleashed if Devin Bathurst and his accomplice, Hannah Rice, proceed with their intentions,” he said with a sober nod. “Alessandro D’Angelo warned the Firstborn about it in the fourteenth century. He knew the danger—and the destruction it would cause. He tried to warn us then—and if we don’t take that warning seriously today, in the moment, then we’re all dead men. Every last one of us is going to be hunted down by this
thing
and ended.”

Silence.

Vince stood tall. “I don’t think anyone in this room truly believes it’s a coincidence that Angelo shares the name of our founder who died hundreds of years ago. I don’t think any of us doubt the existence of the Thresher, or the destruction he’ll cause us—and eventually the world—when we’re out of the way.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Why does John?”

The room resumed its quiet.

“It’s time for all of us to say what we’ve all been thinking but none of us has actually had the initiative to say. It’s time for me to take over the role of Overseer.”

Hannah stood on the sidewalk under an overcast sky, watching the remains of the house smolder. Yellow caution tape surrounded the scene. Black arms of wood protruded from the pile. Brick and metal formed the charred foundation that the smoky wreckage sat upon.

She stared at it all, wondering if bulldozers would come to take away the debris and why they hadn’t come yet. She closed her eyes and cleared her mind. She reached out with her heart and mind—toward the center of it all, the source of her gift—to God Himself.

It was like dipping a cup into a well and coming up dry.

Her eyes opened. She had prayed and reached and focused for what now seemed like hours, but she couldn’t find the past.

A car stopped behind her and someone got out. “Miss Rice?”

She turned. “Mr. Bathurst,” she said with a nod. “Thank you for coming.”

Devin wore a gray suit with a tan trench coat. He closed the vehicle door, stepping around the front of the car as he approached her. “John Temple sent me.” He looked at the smoldering wreckage of what used to be a house. “Let’s get to work.”

Trista stared at the slip of paper in front of her as she caught the box out of the corner of her eye, moving toward her from the left as it was passed along.

Yes or no. It was that simple. All she had to do was write a word. Yes, John should be removed as Overseer, or no, he should not. She stared at the ballot in front of her, pen in her hand. The urge to fidget filled her, but she resisted.

Trista tried to weigh the evidence—thoughtfully and scientifically—but there were emotions, ridiculous emotions, that kept creeping into her thinking. She tried to banish it from her thinking—the anger she felt toward John, the way he treated her like she somehow belonged to him, the way he followed her like a puppy, the way he criticized her at the thought that she had met someone else. So much anger. It was deep and visceral and…

…and there was another feeling. One that felt like something else. Just as deep and visceral but not anger. More like…

No.
No more feelings.

She tried to think her way through the emotions that muddied the waters, around the pathetic feelings that tried to pull her away from the true question of John’s capabilities to lead. The evidence tried to take its place in her mind, easing into an ordered pattern that she could analyze and—

“Ms. Brightling,” someone said over her shoulder, the small cardboard box hanging in front of her.

She breathed slowly, trying to make up her mind.

The hand holding the box shook it slightly, indicating the need to hurry.

Decision time.

She held her breath, wrote her answer, and put it in the box.

Hannah sat in Devin’s car, watching him through the passengerside window.

He walked up to the blackened ruins of the house, removed his trench coat, and laid it out over the ground. Then he knelt and clasped his hands, bowing his head—like he always did.

It would be the Lord’s Prayer. Exact. Precise. Covering all angles of exhortation and supplication. A perfect blueprint for prayer of all kinds—devoid of the mystery that meant so much to Hannah, but spiritually correct, dictated by their Savior Himself.

He prayed for several minutes, then lifted his head and stood. He picked up his coat, dusted it off with exact motions, then replaced it on his shoulders, arms slipping through the sleeves. Hannah watched him approach the car. He opened the driver’s door and took his place at the wheel. “I know where they’re going to be,” he said, turning the key in the ignition. “We have to hurry.”

Vincent Sobel leaned over as a colleague named Drew handed him a scrap of paper. He looked it over, reading it several times to be certain, then looked up at the conference room filled with concerned parties. “We have a verdict,” he said with a resolved nod. He folded the paper and set it on the conference table. “Including both the secret ballots collected here in Manhattan, in the main office, and e-mailed responses we have from those of you who are joining us from across the nation via conference call—the numbers are as follows.”

The room watched in a kind of morbid anticipation. Vincent let them watch for a moment out of an equally morbid fascination.

“With a combined total of thirty-two voting parties, we have thirty-one votes of ‘Yes,’ indicating that John Temple should be removed from his position as Overseer of the Firstborn and myself put in place as Overseer. The yes vote has it.”

Vince nearly smiled to himself, feeling vindicated to have John Temple ejected from a position he never should have occupied. It was a kind of glee. There was a word for it. German, if he wasn’t mistaken, which meant to take joy in the pain of another. What was that word? Shodden-something—

—schadenfreude.

That was right. He had enough experience in the film industry to know the idea—the unadulterated glee of watching someone else ground into dust.

But this, of course, was different. John truly had a problem. Maybe he felt relief, even happiness, at the thought that the Firstborn could finally get back on track—but nothing malicious. Vince closed his eyes, escaping the chatter of the crowded room for a moment. A silent prayer, thanking God for the strength to do the hard thing and the grace to take care of John in the light of this difficult news—to be John’s friend in the trial that he soon would face.

He opened his eyes and nodded to himself. This was truly the right thing to do. They were all in obvious consensus about it.

Vince spoke to the room. “I’ll break the news to John personally. It’ll be better coming from a friend.” There were nods as the room quieted. “Someone get Devin Bathurst on the line—it’s time for someone to officially recall him.” More nods as people resumed their chatter, many standing to leave.

Drew approached, extending a congratulatory hand. “That was a difficult thing to do,” he said with an affirming nod. “Are you OK?”

Vince gave a pained smile. “I’ll be OK. Telling John won’t be easy, but”—Vince took a courageous breath and nodded—“I’ll be OK.”

Drew put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here if you need to talk afterward.”

“Thank you. I—”

“Mr. Sobel?” someone said from behind him.

“Yes,” he said, turning.

A woman in her late twenties reached out, handing him a cellular phone. “I have Devin Bathurst on the line.”

Vincent nodded, appropriately somber, and took the phone. “Devin?”

The response was crisp and efficient. “This is Bathurst.”

“Vince Sobel here. Listen, we were just meeting here at the main office—”

“Did I miss the memo?” Devin asked unflappably. “Anything pressingly important?”

“Actually”—Vince cleared his throat awkwardly—“you weren’t invited to the meeting.”

A momentary pause.

“I see.”

Vince felt cold inside. “You see, we took a vote, and it was decided by an overwhelming majority to replace John Temple as Overseer and—”

“You’re establishing yourself as the new Overseer,” Devin continued logically, voice free of shock or concern.

“Well, we’ve yet to decide who is going to—”

“You’re the logical choice,” Devin said. “You want the position, you have a good reputation, and the only remaining patriarch is Clay Goldstein. But he won’t be able to take the position because he has Parkinson’s.”

Vince was silent, stunned, looking around the room at the myriad people swarming around him. “How did you know that?” Vince whispered. “Clay has been very private about his medical condition and—”

“You’re dealing with people who see things,” Devin said, free of emotion. “I saw his illness coming six months ago.”

“You did?” Vince stammered, turning away from the room, cupping his hand over the phone mouthpiece. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t tell people they’re dying. I see it all the time, but I make a policy of keeping it to myself. I assumed that if he hadn’t told anyone, there was a reason.”

Vince breathed deliberately for several moments, trying not to lose his calm. “Where are you?”

“I’m driving to an appointment,” Devin replied.

“Does it have to do with the assassination?”

“No.”

Vince felt it—Devin was telling the truth, if only in part. “Does it have to do with the kidnappings?”

“I’m doing a favor for a friend.”

That meant yes. Devin was helping Hannah find the girls— then she would help him with the senator. Vince could feel it in the pit of his stomach. “Devin Bathurst,” he said with resolve, “by majority vote you are forbidden from pursuing this issue any further. Do you understand?”

A moment’s hesitation. “I understand.”

Vince tried to feel him out, attempting to gauge Devin’s motives. There was a loud noise from the conference room, and Vince put a finger in his ear, blocking out the sound as best he could. “Devin, can I count on you to do the right thing?”

Silence.

“Devin? Can I count on you to do the right thing?”

“Yes,” Devin replied from the other end of the line. “You can count on me to do the right thing.”