Al closed his eyes, and reminded himself that not even an elven warrior and magician could take on an entire army of humans single-handedly. He was not a movie hero, or a superman, who could charge through waves of men with machine guns. If his captors had planned to keep the boy protected against elven meddling, they could not have chosen better. He was walled away from the outside by Cold Iron; to get at him, Al would have to go inside one of the steel-sided bunkers and past several iron-reinforced walls. His magic couldn't hold up under that; iron pulled Sidhe spells awry.
And he had no real-world proof that the boy was there, nothing he could bring to Deputy Casey to invoke the human authorities. They needed evidence in order to act; a change in human legal process that now turned out to be a hindrance. Used to be, we could stir up a population to do just about anything, just by convincing them that what we said was the truth. Damn nuisance, this need of hard evidence for due process, sometimes. Still, it means there is no room for doubt—guilty is guilty this way.
In point of fact, there was very little he could do, either with his own powers, or with the humans'. First of all, there was the Salamander; his powers were not equal to taking it on. He had never been one of the greater warriors of the Folk; he'd never been one of the more powerful mages. His success these days lay in his adaptability to the humans' world.
There was nothing he had learned in all of the centuries since he had first encountered such a creature that could be used to counter it. Nothing. In fact, all he had learned was that he didn't want to meet it on its own ground. And this, without a doubt, was the creature's own ground. The last time he'd seen a Salamander, he'd turned tail and had run away. The second time, he'd headed for the nearest walled fortress. But this time he couldn't run.
He ground his teeth together in frustration. Up until now, whenever he'd had to pull a rescue, it had been a fairly simple operation. He would find the child in question, spirit it away from its parents, take it Underhill, and one of the others would cover his tracks.
Quick. Easy. Painless.
So all right, what can I do? he asked himself, angry at his impotence. How can I at least give the poor little lad a respite? Give them something else to think about?
First, he had to calm himself; find the quiet place deep inside himself where his power lay.
He took two long, slow breaths. By the time he exhaled the second, he had achieved the calm he needed. He called up his mage-sight, and opened his inner eyes on the world.
Everywhere he looked, Cold Iron thwarted him, standing like dull, barbed barriers against his Sight. This was the Death Metal at its worst; if his power touched it, the metal would drain energy from him, spinning his spell-traces away into shreds too fine for him to collect back. It would be very difficult to insinuate his powers into this stronghold in anything other than a passive manner. Cold Iron protected their machineries, their storage places, themselves—even their weapons were of Death Metal. And here was an unpleasant surprise. Even some of the bullets were sheathed in it. Now he not only had to fear a direct hit, but a grazing hit might poison him.
But wait—he extended his senses a little further, frowning with concentration. A headache began just at each temple, but he would not let it distract him, reaching a little further into the maze of threatening metal and humanity.
Everywhere there was Cold Iron, there was also something else that might provide an insidious pathway for Al's power to penetrate Brother Joseph's citadel; a network of copper tendrils weaving through the complex in an elaborate network of support. The electrical wiring system, of course; it hummed with the power coursing through it, and was as obedient to Al's touch as the Cold Iron was hostile.
A frail enough pathway, and one that had severe limitations, but it was better than nothing.
Perhaps Al didn't know a great deal about ordinary, day-to-day living for humans—but he knew electrical systems and knew them very well. He'd amused himself long ago with his "playing with lightning," but tonight there was nothing funny about it. He sent a little tendril of power questing curiously along the network, testing it, seeing where it went, how it was constructed. This system was mostly new, and all of it was less than five years old. Humans tended to distrust the very new, or the very old; this network of wiring was neither. They wouldn't be expecting any troubles out of it. And they depended on the electricity it carried so completely that he found himself smiling grimly.
He explored further. There weren't any voltage regulators except on the main circuit breaker; even the computers had only the simplest of surge protectors on them. Those would protect against sudden surges; they wouldn't protect against something a little more—subtle.
Al opened his mind and his magic to encompass the entire system, holding it in his metaphorical "hands" like a cat's cradle. Then, slowly, he began decreasing the resistance of the wiring across the entire network.
This was the sort of thing that happened naturally with age and generally never caused any harm. But then, few people ever had the voltage regulators that maintained the level of power in their systems fail on them.
Soon the system was running "hot"; capable of carrying voltage of around 140 instead of 110. Which didn't matter, since 110 was all it was getting. Of course, that was about to change.
Al carefully skirted the iron clips and bolts around the aluminum main breaker box, and adjusted voltages at it. Slowly, so no surge protectors would trip. Eventually he brought the voltage all the way up to what the system would carry—and there were few pieces of equipment here meant to operate on 140 volts.
Now motors would run faster, burning themselves out. Electrical circuits would overload and blow. Computer equipment would be fried. But none of this would happen all at once; a lot would depend on how delicate the equipment was. Whatever; they would have to replace everything that burned out—then the replacements would fail—again and again, until they thought to check voltages. They would have to replace every bit of wiring before he was through, from the breaker boxes outward. They wouldn't discover this until they had lost several more machines and had replaced everything else. This meddling was going to cost the cult a lot of money. And time, and trouble; unfortunately, it would not be as difficult to pull the wiring as it was in a normal building, but it would be troublesome enough, and they would have to do without power in the entire circuit while they replaced the wires.
If something happened that forced them to use their emergency generator, it would all happen that much faster. Al took out the voltage regulator entirely on it. Power levels would fluctuate wildly as pumps and air-conditioners came on- and off-line.
He contemplated his work with satisfaction. Already, all of the electric motors in the complex were running a little faster. Pressure was building in some equipment, several water-pumps, for instance.
Hmm. They are using common white plastic pipe. There is no more resistance to my magic than wood or leather would give. A little weakening of the pipes at the joints . . .
There. In a few moments, the joints would burst, at least in those portions of pipe that were under pressure. There was some kind of elaborate arrangement in one corner, for instance, that was going to go up like a water festival before too long.
Using his magic—finally doing something—had cooled his temper enough that he could think again. With luck, the fanatics would be so hard-pressed for money by his sabotage that they would act hastily, perhaps get caught by the police. It occurred to him that the more havoc he could wreak that Brother Joseph himself would have to attend to, the more likely it would be that the bastard would believe some outside supernatural force was opposing him.
Of course, it is. And for once in his life, he will be right.
When that happened, Brother Joseph would be kept so busy trying to find the source of the interference that he would have little time for anything else.
He might leave the boy unguarded, or relatively unguarded. At the least he would leave the child alone, give him a chance to recover. If Al could not get in, perhaps the boy could escape on his own.
So, it was up to Al to make Brother Joseph's life as miserable as possible. This, of course, would make Al's life infinitely more pleasurable. A man has to have a hobby he enjoys.
He only wished he could tell the boy's mother about this—that he could tell her he knew for certain that Jamie was here. But if he did, not only would he betray that there was something supernatural about himself, he might inadvertently tempt her into going into danger to save her child.
No. No, for all that it would comfort her, he could not tell her Jamie was here. Not until he had something more concrete to offer her than that information alone.
So, back to work. How about a bit of blockage in some of the pipes that are not under pressure? That should be amusing. He knew those pipes that were attached to pumps, but the rest—only that they carried water. The Cold Iron interfered with his perceptions too much to be more specific than that. Right now Al could not tell whether the pipes took fresh water into the complex, or waste-water away, but in either case, there would be problems if he blocked the pipes—say, by reaching out, just so, and touching the pipes to make them malleable, then—pinching them, and letting them harden.
There. That should do it. Not all at once—but like the electrical failures, these should cascade.
He withdrew his senses—carefully. He couldn't detect the Salamander, but that didn't mean it didn't have ways of watching the world from wherever it was hiding. More than Cold Iron, he feared it.
I couldn't defeat it back then; I don't think I can do so now. The best way to deal with it for the moment is to avoid it. It can do nothing without human help and a human to work through.
He considered what he had accomplished, as he molded himself to the trunk of the tree he had chosen and scanned the area for more guards.
Another pair of them passed about twenty feet away from his tree, peering from time to time through something attached to the top of their rifles. It wasn't until after they had passed that he realized what those instruments must have been.
Nightscopes.
He belatedly recognized them from the action-adventure movies he'd watched over the years, in city after city, racetrack after racetrack, late at night when the humans slept and there was little for him to do.
Nightscopes: instruments that gave humans the ability to see like an owl or one of the Sidhe at night. He wasn't exactly certain how they worked—but he shivered, realizing that the only reason the men had missed sighting him was that they simply hadn't been looking through the nightscopes when they passed him.
And what would they have done if they'd seen him?
The answer to that question didn't take a lot of reasoning. They'd empty those clips into him without a second thought.
No illusion he knew of would fool nightscopes—
But he could reproduce—on purpose—what had occurred by accident.
He closed his eyes again and took a deep, deep breath, and as he exhaled, he pushed the outermost layer of his shields, expanding it outwards, slowly, until it reached about thirty feet from where he sat. Then, within that shell, he set a compulsion: don't look at me.
It was just that simple. Once guards reached the perimeter of his defenses, they simply would not be able to look in his direction. Any further away, and the trees would hide him, even from the sophisticated scope. He wasn't worried about Andur; if the guards saw the elvensteed, they'd simply assume he was a stray horse. They could try to catch him, of course, but the operative word was try. Andur would happily lead them a merry chase over half of the county before vanishing to return to Alinor.
Feeling a little more secure, he turned his attention back to the Chosen Ones' compound. There was still plenty of night left; surely he could do more than he had.
The problem is, everything I've done to them can be fixed. It'll cost time and money, but it can be fixed. I need something that can't be undone.
Well, the one thing that mankind still hadn't completely conquered was—nature. What was there about this area that Al could meddle with?
There was a spring running under the property; it was the source of the cult's water, and came to the surface to form a pond and a stream leading from it at the far end. But that wasn't the only place where it could surface, if the conditions were right.
There was a crack in the bedrock just under one of the cult's buried buildings; the building itself rested a few inches above the surface of the bedrock, on a cushion of sandy soil. If Al widened it just a bit and extended it down to the channel of the spring, the water would gradually, over the course of the next few days, work its way to the surface and emerge at the rear of the building.
This was a storage building of some kind; not one for guns or ammunition, but full of heavy wooden crates piled atop each other. The crew that had built this place hadn't known what it was going to hold, evidently, for the concrete floor wasn't strong enough to support what was resting on it. The concrete had already cracked under the weight in several places. When the spring water worked its way up through the crack in the bedrock, it would soon seep into the building through the cracks in the floor, soaking, and hopefully ruining, everything on the bottom layer. By the time they found the damage, the entire floor of the building would be under a six-inch-deep sheet of water that no pump would ever cure.
That was something they could neither replace nor repair. They would have to abandon the building. He contemplated other possibilities, but there weren't many at the moment. He could induce mice to invade, of course; plagues of bugs—
But that would mean a certain amount of hazard for the rest of the children. Mice could get into their things; would bite if cornered or caught. Insects could bring disease . . . some of the insects native to here were scorpions, whose sting was poisonous and painful, and could be fatal to a small child.
And there were snakes aplenty around here; he'd been warned about them when he first arrived. Three kinds of them were poisonous: rattlesnakes, copperheads, and water moccasins. No, he couldn't turn those creatures loose where there might be children.
Well, maybe just that one area where there seems to be a lot of plumbing, of electrical circuits. Where there doesn't seem to be a lot of people. That might be Brother Joseph's quarters, or those of his high-ranking flunkies. If it is, it's about to become unlivable over the next couple of days.
He widened cracks in foundations, opened seams, created hundreds of entrances for insects and other vermin. Then he created another kind of glamorie—one that would attract anything small, anything hungry. From there the insects, mice and reptiles would work their way into the rooms, and there were no children in this bunker. Adults, he reckoned, would get what they deserved.
That should settle the account a little more.
It was scarcely more than an hour or two past midnight. If he and Andur got out now, he'd even have a few hours to sleep before he had to get to the track.
If only he could tell Cindy what he knew. . . .
Well, he couldn't.
He opened his eyes again, on a world still dark and full of night sounds: cicadas, coyote howls, the bark of foxes, the cry of owls—
And, far off, too far for human ears to hear—footsteps, trampling methodically through the grass.
Brother Joseph's perimeter guards were still on duty.
He called Andur with a thought; the elvensteed slipped out of the shadows of the trees like one more cloud shadow, ghosting across the fields of grass, chased by the night breeze.
Al didn't bother to climb back down the tree; he wasn't that far up. As Andur positioned himself under the branch, he simply dropped straight down onto the elvensteed's back, a move copied from late-night cowboy shows.
Then, in a heartbeat, they were away, retracing their path over the fences and out to the road.
Once again, Andur became a sleek, matte-black, Miata lookalike. Once again, Al was cradled in air-conditioned comfort. And yet it provided no real comfort to him.
He was restless and unhappy, and only too glad to leave the driving to Andur. For all that he had done, he had accomplished so little.
So damned little. . . .
He brooded all the way back to the track, by which time Andur had bleached to white and acquired headlights again. When he got out of the elvensteed, with a pat of gratitude, he remembered that Cindy had gone to sleep in Nineve, rather than the RV. In a way, that was something of a relief. It meant he didn't have to hide what he was, and it meant he could convert the RV into something like its usual glory—and comfort.
Ah, well. He sighed philosophically as he entered the door and locked it behind him. Perhaps it's better this way. Bob always tells me that it is a human proverb not to mix business with pleasure—and she is business of a kind.
He held perfectly still for a moment, standing in the narrow aisle between the stove and the propane furnace, and mustered a little more energy. It wasn't going to matter how keyed up he was; when he finished this, he was going to be so exhausted there would be no chance insomnia would hold him wakeful.
He held out his hands in the glow of the tiny overhead lamp and whispered a cantrip.
Power drained from him like water running out of a sink.
And the RV rippled and flexed, like an out-of-focus movie—and changed.
Now there was a full bathroom with a whirlpool tub behind him; he stood beside a counter loaded with the delicacies of Underhill. Beyond him was his silk-draped bed and one of his construct servants, a lovely animated Alphonse Mucha odalisque, to massage his weary shoulders. Beyond that, where a set of curtains waved in a lazy breeze from the silent air-conditioner, was what had been the overhead bunk. Now it was Bob's cubby-bedroom, with a bed as comfortable as Al's own.
Al snatched a handful of grapes and a bottle of wine from the bounty beside him, and shed his uniform and cap by the simple expedient of ordering them elsewhere. With a nod to his servant, he headed for the bathroom and the whirlpool. Between the bath, the wine and the massage, he should sleep very well.
My father, Joe Junior thought, has finally gone wacko.
He stormed down the narrow, steel-covered passageway that only he and a select few knew about, fists clenched. Ready to explode. Motion detectors activated lights and deactivated them in his wake. The illuminations winked on and then off, as if seeing his sour mood and sulking back into the darkness to avoid him. His boots echoed hollowly on the damp, concrete surface, as he dodged the worst of the puddles and splashed angrily through the rest. He wanted to punch a hole in the wall, but to do that down here he would need a jackhammer. He contemplated finding one.
His anger continued to simmer, just below the surface, ready to blow at any moment, as he pushed himself further and further away from the others. And, especially, away from his father.
He recalled that when digging this tunnel they had come across a small water source of some kind, a seep or a spring, and had partially rerouted the tunnel to avoid it. But the attempt hadn't entirely worked. Ahead he heard the steady drip, drip of water that had no obvious source, hidden behind one of the walls. Periodically, workers had to bail the passageway out—from the look of things, they would have to do it again soon. He remembered the fit of rage his father had when they were building the tunnel and couldn't get the drip to go completely away. It's as if he thought he could control nature, he thought, still furious with what he had seen at the Praise Meeting. And it was betraying him by not doing exactly what he wanted.
The boy was putting as much distance as he could between himself and the Praise Meeting, which by now was probably adjourning to smaller, special-interest groups. Like the one dealing drugs, he thought, biting his tongue against the anger. He was afraid to even think these treasonous thoughts around the others, in part because his body language often gave him away. In spite of the fine physique he'd been cultivating since before he could shave, he hadn't quite learned how to control his body, and often it revealed his emotions. A rigid stance, a certain frozen look in his face, had both conspired to betray his thoughts to his father and those close to him. He was hiding his body, at least temporarily, so that it wouldn't reveal what he was feeling now.
Then there was that other liability, the one he had been stifling since he was a little boy. It was something he tried to forget about but couldn't, because it went with him everywhere.
Everywhere, waking or sleeping. He heard what other people were thinking, whether or not he wanted to, especially when he, or they, were emotionally wrought up.
The ability had appeared at puberty, and for a while he was too busy sorting through his newfound raging hormones to properly assess it.
Then his thoughts began to intrude on his mother's; just a little at first, then with greater strength and clarity as he battled with the roller coaster of emotions any thirteen-year-old experiences.
He discovered to his mingled apprehension and delight that he could read his father's mind as well as his mother's. If father was angry, he knew it and could avoid him in time to save himself becoming the target of his father's frustration. That was useful; it made up in part for some of the other things he read. That his father thought about other women besides his wife was a little distressing, especially since he was a preacher, but Joe began to form the opinion that half of what his father said in church was for show anyway.
That would have been enough, but a few weeks later came the next revelation. Not only could he read people's minds, he could decide more or less what their thoughts would be.
At first it was funny, to send thoughts into his father's head, get him stirred up and watch him make a fool of himself. After the first few trials, however, he began to feel a little sick about it. It didn't seem right, actually; as if he was using his physical strength to bully weaker people, and he stopped playing around with other people's heads—on purpose, anyway. And he began to wonder where this power came from, since his father preached that any "ESP" was the work of the devil.
Was he being influenced by Satan, or was his father just being paranoid?
Whatever the cause, Joe had learned through trial and error that whenever he was angry he ran the risk of intruding his own thoughts on the minds of the people around him. These thoughts, especially when they were as treasonous as they were now, could get him into deep trouble. They would sound as if he had said something out loud, since emotion was behind them, rather than guile and stealth.
If anyone is being influenced by Satan, it's my father, he thought angrily as he came to the end of the tunnel. Here stood a tall metal door which looked something like a walk-in safe. Joe inserted a card with embedded chip data, identifying him as Brother Joseph's son. The huge metal door swung open, allowing Joe entrance to the private health club. Here only the elite branch of the Sacred Heart of the Chosen Ones could enter.
It was empty, as usual. His father certainly never came here, and rarely did the officers of the Guard and Junior Guards. The others who came here, the first lieutenants and one of his father's personal body-guards, used the place occasionally, but that was generally before dawn, before his father had risen; while Brother Joseph was awake, they were always on duty. And during a Praise Meeting, and shortly afterwards, he was almost guaranteed solitude here.
Much of the new Universal and Nautilus equipment had been moved from their mansion in Atlanta. Other items had appeared recently, including one puzzling piece of equipment he'd never understood or seen used, which looked like something used to balance tires. The room was decorated with chrome-rimmed mirrors, red and black velvet wallpaper, and black velvet trim, reminding Joe of a funeral home.
Joe stripped out of his uniform. He peeled it off, quickly, handling it like a dirty surgical glove, now a little disgusted with what it represented. His glance fell briefly on the sloppy swastika he'd tattooed on his forearm while inspired by a fifth of Wild Turkey. Wish I'd never done that, he thought regretfully, now noting how the swastika had crept down his arm, almost to his wrist, as he'd grown to maturity.
Wasn't even sure what a swastika was, when I did it. Knew it had something to do with the war. Knew it had something to do with killing Jews. Daddy hated Jews, so I guess I thought it would be cool. Didn't even remember doing it until I saw it the next day. How old was I? Thirteen? No, I think I was twelve. Not a teenager yet.
He threw on some tattered shorts, not bothering with a tank top. He needed dead weight, and lots of it, to vent his anger tonight.
The fifty-pound barbells were shiny chrome, reflecting halogen light in bright arcs as he lifted them high overhead in short, intense repetitions. The wall was one huge mirror, and he stared at his own snarling face, at the veins that bulged from his temples. Muscles swelled. Perspiration broke, beaded, dripped. He repeated the exercise, this time lying back on a bench, shifting weight, working different muscles.
They warned me not to get attached to the little boy, he seethed. Even Father, after he'd managed to kidnap Jamie. He didn't seem to mind before! He wanted me to be friendly while the poor kid had a chance to get away—but now that he's ours—he's just another tool, another toy, another magic-trick for the crowd. I played right into it!
Weights clanked angrily as he brought them together over his head, making a satisfyingly aggressive sound. Though this was normally not good form when doing reps, he clanked them again. The sound felt good, appropriate.
Luke never liked it, the way I favored the boy, Joe thought, remembering the reaction of one of the lieutenants, one of the first followers in the early days of their church. He told me it was going to be a problem. He pretended to be my friend, but I know he went to my father. The first time I objected to the channeling, when Jamie was still new. He winced when he remembered the crack of his father's riding crop, the liquid fire that poured across his naked back. He remembered his own screams exploding from his mouth, and the hoarse voice he spoke with for days afterwards. Some of those welts never seemed completely healed, he thought to himself, painfully aware of the ridges flexing and hurting even as he exercised. Father said they should be a reminder.
What he was thinking now would qualify him for such punishment again, but he guessed that next time, if it came to that, it would be more severe. If such a thing were possible.
They can't do that to Jamie again, he thought, his attention turning from himself to the boy. I'd gladly take another whipping if that would get Jamie away.
Normally at a Praise Meeting he would have been on the stage, guarding the proceedings with the others. But not tonight. Apparently his father, at Luke's urging, had seen what a liability he had become when dealing with Jamie. Tonight he had been given "leave," to observe the channeling if he so desired, but not to participate in any way.
Guess he figured I'd just get in the way. Weights clanked. Joe counted. Seventeen, eighteen. Guess he figured right.
He exhaled explosively, as weights flopped out of his hands onto the padded floor with a muffled thud.
He didn't starve Sarah like this. At least not for this long. The boy had become visibly thinner over the past few days, and weaker, and his eyes had developed a vacant look. Like someone on drugs, he thought. Only, I know he's not on drugs. Jamie didn't smile now, except for a few moments when Joe greeted him. Then the smile faded quickly, like a candle's flame blown out by the wind.
Joe closed his eyes. It's the guilt, isn't it? he thought. I'm not angry at my father. I'm angry at me. Jamie has looked up to me like a little brother, and I haven't done a thing but manipulate him. I'm the one who's lured him into this, told him it was all okay when I knew what was going to happen. And now he's starving to death. And worse, he's being used by that thing that Father thinks is God. I think he's wrong. It's not God, it's not even close.
He crawled into the bicep curl machine, sitting on the short bench and reaching under the bar where the weights connected. No one had used it since he'd been there; no one else could pull eighty pounds. Luke certainly couldn't. But Joe used Luke's image to fuel his strength, using the anger to pull the bar up under his chin.
Luke sure has risen in status in the past few weeks, he observed cynically. Joe had always resented the man, even back when he was very little and Luke was still a newcomer. He had been around their family for as long as Joe could remember, being one of the few followers who remained faithful to his father, even when his ideology shifted from one political spectrum to the other. Not surprisingly, his loyalty had been repaid in high rank within the Chosen Ones hierarchy. Joe was beginning to see how much he really resented that. And how much power Luke's position had.
A year earlier, his father had suggested they form a special security division separate from the Guard, one that would oversee internal threats from within the United States and the Church itself. He had hinted, rather strongly, that Joe would be offered the position of security chief, as he would be eighteen by then and a man. As a member of Brother Joseph's immediate family, he would also presumably be trustworthy, more so than the any rank-and-file Chosen One. But Joe had learned recently that when such a division was formed, Luke would be in charge, not himself. He had yet to confront his father about this, and when he thought about it, he knew that he probably never would.
"He doesn't trust me anymore. If he ever did," he whispered aloud, and looked around in panic, to see if anyone heard. Of course, no one was in the club at the time, but he was still uneasy. Microphones were everywhere, and he wouldn't put it past them to put one here. None of them trust me, he said, this time to himself.
But Joe had something on Luke, something that went way back, when he was only a child and still respected the older man. He had never used it—but the time might be coming when he had to, to save himself and Jamie.
Joe's parents had gone away to some tent revival in Oklahoma and Luke was put in charge of baby-sitting. Luke didn't like being left behind, he had wanted to stand at Brother Joseph's right hand and bask in reflected glory. But, being the faithful follower he was, he accepted the task cheerfully and without complaint. Joe liked it even less, as he'd wanted to get away to see a forbidden movie, The Last Temptation of Christ, with a friend.
Luke's presence, of course, screwed these plans up royally. But when Luke got into Brother Joseph's liquor cabinet and started to drink, putting a serious dent in the whiskey supply, Joe thought he might be able to get away if he drank himself to sleep. He'd seen Luke do that before, and there was a good chance he'd do it that night, too.
But this time was different; Luke became drunk and started talking, saying strange things. Then he started to make advances—sexual advances. At first Joe had no idea what he was doing until the man grabbed him when he stood up to go to the bathroom, groped him, and stumbled forward.
Joe just froze, then, unable to think.
Luke's thoughts poured through the booze and struck Joe's mind at full strength; the images were so strong, it had felt like a flame had just licked his brain. Joe jumped back, squirmed out of his grasp, and found temporary refuge in a corner. But it was only temporary; he knew he was trapped.
Joe hadn't thought about his other ability, that of making people think what he wanted them to, for some time. It had a way of coming and going, and lately it was doing more going than anything else. But Luke's thoughts were so clear they seemed to be super-charged, and the lust that poured over Joe was a slimy thing that made him ill.
When their eyes met, Joe could see exactly what Luke wanted to do to him. The images were clear and well-defined. Joe had reached further into Luke's mind, more in a reflex than a conscious action, and saw that Luke had done this to other boys before.
It would hurt, he had realized. What Luke wanted to do to him would hurt real bad. He could already feel the pain, as if it was already happening; he began to whimper, like a dog, as he froze in fear and shock. Luke had stumbled forward, one hand on Joe's leg, the other on his own belt buckle.
Joe screamed—but not just with his voice.
The old man stumbled back for a moment, as if he'd been slapped, and Joe had screamed again, but only with his mind. Luke had crumpled to the floor.
Joe scrambled away and ran for his bedroom, which had a lock. Luke lay on the floor, yelling at Joe to come back, he wasn't finished yet. Joe locked the door and waited, afraid to even breathe. Soon Luke fell asleep, snoring loudly from a few feet outside the door, and Joe felt safe enough to cry himself to sleep, with a pillow muffling his sobs.
Or at least he had tried to. He didn't sleep much, and when he did he would jolt awake at any little noise from where Luke was. The next morning when they woke up Luke said nothing about the incident and went about nursing a hangover. Joe was too mortified to bring it up and wondered if he would tell his parents when they got back.
That afternoon, Brother Joseph and his wife returned. Joe was watching them drive up the hill to the mansion when Luke had turned to him and said, soberly, "If you tell them about what happened last night, I'm gonna kill you. No questions asked."
Joe believed him. So he didn't tell them about Luke's attack. Then, or any time since.
After that horrible experience he began stifling his ability to see into other people's minds. What he saw coming at him from Luke's drunken brain was something he never wanted to see again. The man hadn't physically raped him, but after seeing the images of what Luke wanted to do—and had done before—Luke might as well have, since he lived through it all, every horror Luke had planned for him. He felt hollow and wooden after that night, and made a vow to himself to leave other people's minds be. He told himself that most thoughts are better left alone.
And, he had to admit then, his special power could have been the work of Satan. It sure felt like it.
Over the years Luke had provided several more reasons to be hated, reasons that went far beyond what happened that night while his parents were away. The way he treated Jamie was one of them.
In fact, Luke was "guarding" Jamie now, he'd overheard at the meeting. Guarding against people who might bring him some food. But then, I have privileges. I could take him somewhere. Fishing, or—
His thoughts stopped there, when he remembered the last time they'd gone to the pond, or at least in its general direction. I could have fed him then, he told himself. He hinted that we could eat fish there, and I ignored him.
He wasn't sure why, but the incident reminded him of Sarah and what his father had done to her. He didn't know I was watching, from a distance, when he did—that. His arms grew a little weak and he paused, forcing the image away from his mind. I wasn't supposed to see that. No one was suppose to see that! He had been hiding and had been unable—or unwilling?—to betray himself by bursting out and coming to the girl's rescue. He recalled with clarity the morbid fascination that had seized him, how he had watched his father grab the girl's thin, delicate neck. The blue color her face turned. The sudden weakness that came over the girl, the absolute limpness of the body. The brief surprise of his father. The lack of remorse. Then, or now.
And remembered Jamie, withering in the isolation room.
Joe saw what he would have to do. Resolutely, he put the weight-bar back down and went back to the lockers. The scar tissue on his back throbbed in a strange sort of sympathy as he thought about whips.
He's not going to do that to Jamie, he thought as he pulled his hated uniform back on. I'll never let him do that to Jamie.
Joe hadn't really considered how he was going to approach this. In his pocket he carried a piece of beef jerky and some dried fruit, which in itself was not very substantial. But it was something, and it was easier to conceal than, say, a sandwich. As he came to the sector where the isolation room was, his lack of planning now added a new, frightening dimension to what he had in mind.
He had, however, thoughtfully left his sidearm in the health club. It was a .44 Magnum and its size was enough to raise the hackles of any gun enthusiast—as any Chosen One was likely to be. Once, that model had been considered the most powerful handgun in the world. That was before .577s with Glaser slugs, and the other toys around here. He'd left his Rambo knife with the gun. He had nothing but his hands and his body—
But that body was hard and lean, in itself a formidable weapon.
Especially when fueled by anger.
The place where they were keeping Jamie was a hodgepodge of interconnecting rooms that originally were to be used as warehouses, but to date had only partially served that purpose. One of those huge rooms was where they kept the drugs, but he was never privy to which one—or the times they were full. He had gathered that the storage was only temporary, usually only overnight, and changed from one room to another. The blueprint of the sector, and what was actually built, never completely jived either. There were formations of rock that were either too hard to chip away, or served as strategic supports for the upper strata, and had been left alone. Where possible the rooms were paneled with sheetmetal and were further divided with chain-link fencing. The entire sector had a cold, metallic atmosphere about it. But then, Joe reflected, so did the rest of the underground complex.
Joe peered around a corner at Luke and another guard, someone whose name he didn't immediately remember, standing in front of a double door with a padlock. This was probably where Jamie was, and he ran through his mental map of what adjoined this particular room.
Back wall is solid rock; room would have been a little larger if they'd had the right equipment. Room itself is large, divided into storage bins with fencing. Jamie must be in one of the bins. Get in through the top? Joe racked his brains for what was in the level above them, and came up with: That's Father's private quarters up there. Well, scratch that. Other rooms beside it had sheetmetal walls, and although cutting through would be possible with a saw, the noise would be prohibitive. Overall, a good, secure place to imprison someone.
Time to deal with Luke and his partner, he thought, and shivered with mingled apprehension and tension.
Luke was reading a Bible; his partner, a man Joe now recalled was known only as Billybob, was reading a weapons manual on the Colt AR-15. The gun itself was lying across his lap as he sat reading. Joe hadn't intended to sneak up on them, but his footsteps simply didn't make any noise. When they finally did see him, they jumped into action and had their weapons drawn on him, cocked and ready. Bible and weapon book fell to the ground, forgotten.
"Oh Lord," Luke said, relaxing some. "It's you. Why you sneaking up on us like that?" He didn't seem at all pleased and continued to aim his gun at Joe.
Joe shrugged, feigning innocence. "Wasn't sneaking up on you." You just weren't paying attention, you lazy puds, he wanted to add, but chose diplomacy by default. "Just walk kinda quiet in these boots."
Now that the immediate crisis was over, Luke relaxed into his accustomed superior attitude. He was about forty years old with an immense potbelly that made him look like a giant lightbulb. Even after the brief excitement of being surprised, he was breathing with difficulty, and his face was flushed from the exercise of getting suddenly to his feet. Not surprised, after seeing what he eats for breakfast. A slab of greasy bacon the size of a brick, fried potatoes, scrambled eggs. Every single day. Gonna have a heart attack before too long. Too bad it's not right now. He didn't seem to notice the bad effects of poor health, or the fact that he was woefully out of shape. Instead, Luke put on his normal, superior sneer, an expression more-or-less permanently carved into his fatty features. Buck teeth protruded prominently from his face, and he looked like a pig doing an Elvis imitation.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Luke asked, slowing his breathing with a visible effort.
"I dunno," Joe replied, intentionally sounding stupid. "Late, I guess."
"It's two a.m." Luke said, arrogantly. "Any idea why your father put me on duty here?"
Joe gazed blankly and shrugged.
"To keep people away from our little treasure in there," Luke said, jerking the barrel towards the room they were guarding. "Who, by the way, is sleeping. What do you want, anyway?"
"I wanted to see Jamie," he replied. "I kind of promised him a bedtime story. I was gonna tell him about Daniel in the lion's den."
"You know what your father said," Luke said, shifting the assault rifle in his arms. "He wants no one near the boy. That includes everybody. That includes you."
"He's real lonely." Joe said, but he knew how helpless that sounded. "You could—"
"No. I couldn't."
Luke advanced menacingly, quickly, as if he was considering shoving Joe away with his own massive weight. Joe stepped back automatically as his body began to go into defense-mode, automatically tensing some muscles while relaxing others, a well-honed response due to years of self-defense training. Training, in part, received from Luke, before he'd put on the weight.
And Luke saw it. "Go ahead. Try it. I have a witness. You don't. You father will believe me, whatever you do."
Billybob made several snuffling noises that approximated laughter. Joe absently toed a rock with his right combat boot.
"That is, if you lived," Luke continued. "Why are you here, Joe? You don't mean to tell me you actually feel something for the little lump of shit we've got stashed away back there?"
"Well, no," he lied. Now he regretted not having a plan. But this will only help me if it makes me look like a fool. Luke is less defensive if he thinks he's dealing with someone more stupid than he is.
"I just wanted, you know, to study him. See what kind of effect food deprivation has on a person. Look, if we're going to be doing this we need to see how far we can push."
"Depri-what?" Luke asked, seriously confused. He always did have trouble understanding words with more than two syllables.
"Means starving," Billybob informed him.
"Oh," he said, with a knowing look. But he frowned anyway while a rough, blistered thumb toyed with the safety. "Still don't like it. Listen, you go get permission from Brother Joseph and I'll let you see him. I mean, how am I supposed to know this isn't a test and all?"
"You don't. But I guess you're right," Joe said, knowing that to push now would only arouse more suspicion. "I'll go talk to my dad now."
Luke nodded. Billybob made more snuffling noises, this time sounding like a hog rooting for food, sounds that had no clear meaning.
"Where is he, then?" Joe asked, with a touch of anger.
Luke shrugged. "Back in his quarters, I guess."
Joe saw an opening. "You mean you don't know?"
The superior sneer faltered; Luke knew the rule as well as anyone else; the first lieutenant must always know where the leader is, for security reasons. Not knowing was a punishable offense. Luke stammered. "I—I—he must be in his quarters now. He is. Yes, he is. I know it."
"That's better," Joe replied, privately delighted at the tiny victory. He turned to leave, effectively terminating the conversation.
He's a fool, if you know what buttons to push. No wonder he followed Father for so long. He glanced back, catching Luke as he stood there, mouth hanging open, apparently still trying to piece together what just transpired. You'd need a brain like a sponge to stay on with Brother Joseph all these years.
Joe smiled—but only to himself.
Luke qualifies.
Out of range of the two idiots guarding Jamie, Joe's thoughts turned dark. He was, after all, no closer to getting food to the boy. The giant piece of beef jerky jabbed him in his pocket, reminding him of his failure.
I failed because I didn't have a plan, he reminded himself. I can try again, but this time I'd better be smart.
In the Guard, one was taught to use one's assets to their fullest advantage. Being the son of the founder of the movement, he had barely scratched the surface of those assets. For example, he could go places where very few, even within the Guard, were permitted. He went to one of those places now.
Using the card again, he entered one of several remote security stations, small rooms paneled with heavy-gauge metal and stuffed to the rafters with high tech surveillance gear. Against one wall was a pickax, a firehose, and a set of bolt cutters behind a glass pane. Along the opposite wall, ten tiny black and white screens blinked back at him. This particular station, he knew, was redundant. These same feeds were going to the main security station, which had a wall of screens that dwarfed this rig. This station served only this sector of the underground, whereas the main station had camera feeds to everything. The Guard monitored the main station, and at least one member would be there now. Eventually, when they had more manpower—women didn't count—all stations would be manned, giving redundant security everywhere. The small screens here had various views of the hallways and tunnels. Some angles, he saw to his surprise, were new. Looks like they've put new cameras up. Gotta watch that. Must assume I'm being watched at all times.
Which prompted him to look up. Good. No cameras here. Every time he used his card, a record of where and when it was used was stored in the cult's computer, also located in the main station. They'll know I was here. And they might want to know why. He knew, however, that it would be at least a week before they ran the reports that showed security card usage. For the time being, anyway, he was off the hook. In a week, surely, he'd be able to come up with a plausible excuse.
He studied one screen, which gave the view right outside Jamie's isolation room. Luke and Billybob sat reading their respective books. The other nine screens didn't show anything particularly interesting: empty hallways and views of the storage rooms, and other things that weren't important. One screen was turned off. When Joe turned it on, a camera view from within the isolation room came to life.
Jamie was lying on a mattress, sleeping fitfully, having what appeared to be nightmares. Joe was stunned at first; he hadn't expected to find a camera inside the child's room, but when he thought about it, it made sense. Jamie was important. Jamie had to be watched. On the little black and white screen the boy seemed thinner than he'd been at the Praise Meeting. Joe remembered when, as a little boy, he'd found a kitten swimming frantically down a stream. He had plucked the animal from the water, and for several fascinated moments watched it stretch out and go to sleep in his palm. Wet, it had looked like a dying rat, its tiny lungs heaving against a frail rib cage. That was what Jamie looked like, lying on the mattress.
As pitiful as the boy looked, the sight only cemented Joe's resolve. The question is, when am I going to be able to get in there without Luke knowing? He debated over whether or not to wait until their shift changed over. They might even put Junior Guards down there, though this was unlikely. At any rate he might have more leverage with their replacements, being the son of the leader. Some members of the Chosen Ones held him in awe, prompting some enthusiastic followers to speculate out loud that Joe was the grandson of God.
He had never taken full advantage of these attentions, this being one of the assets he couldn't fully exploit while keeping a clear conscience. Not that my conscience has been too clear lately anyway, he thought, remorsefully. Taking advantage of those people who think I'm divine might be tempting. But that wouldn't make me no better than my father. God, what a prick he is! He manipulates them so well, especially when he uses Jamie to invoke that thing. If I start doing the same crap, what's to stop me from becoming just like him? Do I really believe in what he's doing?
Which prompted another distinct stab of doubt. Do I really have faith?
As if on cue, the power failed briefly, then returned. Lights in the security room blinked. As one the ten screens went to static, as if switched to a dead channel. In the distance, Joe heard an alarm that he couldn't immediately identify. Water gurgled nearby, as if a pipe had ruptured behind one of the walls.
Down the hallway, someone shouted. Running footsteps followed the shout, came near, then retreated into the distance.
Wide-eyed, Joe stood perfectly still, keenly aware of every sound around him. His faith in God, now, was completely restored.
Four of the screens flickered to life. One of them displayed the view of the hallway outside Jamie's isolation room. Luke and Billybob had abandoned their positions, it seemed; their books lay idle on the empty chairs. The two guards were nowhere in sight. Frantically, Joe banged on the screen that had the interior view, getting no results. The screen continued to display snow, with an occasional horizontal line.
He must still be in that room, he thought. They just ran off to see what the commotion was. Then, There was a reason for this to happen now. Joe eyed the bolt cutters on the wall, saw what a perfect tool it was for dealing with padlocks. Joe found a rag, wrapped it around his hand, and punched out the pane of glass. After removing the major shards from the frame, he took down the pair of bolt cutters and made for the door.
The alarm was a little louder now and seemed to originate at the end of a long corridor. The shouts became more numerous and confused, and it sounded like whatever happened would keep the two guards, along with many others, busy for some time. It never really occurred to him that whatever the emergency was could be a danger to himself or Jamie. His only impulse was to move, and move now.
Abruptly, the power went off altogether. For several moments he stood in total darkness, unable then to see his hand in front of his face. In the security room behind him, muffled by the thick steel door, several electronic gadgets whirred to a halt. The alarm cut off completely.
Good Lord, Joe thought, taking a tentative step forward. What a time for this to happen. During the early days of living in the underground, when all of the bugs in the electrical system hadn't yet been worked out, he had carried around a flashlight on his belt just for such emergencies. But it had been months since the last blackout, and since then everyone had become complacent about the power system, taking it for granted.
Then, further down the passageway, a light winked on. From the ceiling a thin finger of light touched the concrete floor below. Emergency backup, he remembered. This is going to work even better.
Somewhere in the underground, he heard someone shout "Fire!" followed by a scream and the blast of a fire extinguisher. Again, he felt strangely calm, although it occurred to him that maybe he should feel a little more alarmed. Since there wasn't much that was burnable in the underground caverns, not much attention had been paid to drills should a fire occur—
It didn't matter. What was important was to get a piece of beef jerky and dried fruit to a starving boy.
He knew the passageways from memory and was able to navigate back to where Jamie was being held. Emergency lights periodically illuminated the way. Still, there were sections of darkness that most people, unfamiliar with the floorplan, would have balked at. Presently he found himself in front of the unguarded double doors. Inside, Jamie whimpered.
"Jamie?" Joe said, careful to watch his volume. "It's Joe. Sit tight, I'll be inside in a minute."
In seconds he had clipped through the padlock with the bolt cutters and opened the twin doors.
Joe immediately saw by the light creeping in from behind why the boy was crying; there was no emergency lighting inside, and he had been lying in total darkness. Before doing anything else, he reached up and turned off the security camera. The power wasn't on yet, but when it did come on he figured this would be one of the first rooms security would be most interested in investigating.
"Here, partner," Joe said, holding out the jerky. "Eat this. If you see them coming, hide it. Don't let them know you have it."
But Jamie was too busy hanging onto Joe's knee to eat. "Where have you been?" the boy managed to blurt out.
The effort of sitting up and talking seemed to exhaust him. Jamie flopped back down on the mattress, sitting up on one elbow. Slowly, he took the jerky, regarded it for a moment, then started stuffing his face with it.
"Whoa!" Joe said, nearly grabbing the boy's arm to keep him from wolfing down the gift. "Slow down. You'll make yourself sick eating fast like that."
"I'm already sick," Jamie pointed out. "When did they decide to start feedin' me?"
Joe stared at the boy until finally their eyes met. "They haven't. I'm doing this on my own."
Jamie gazed at him severely. "You're gonna get your ass whipped for this."
"Probably. But I don't care. It ain't right to be starving you like this. And then making you talk to that thing. . . ." Joe froze then, wondering if he should have mentioned it. Instead of the fear he expected to see in the boy's face, he only saw blank incomprehension. He either doesn't remember, or he's too tired to think straight now, Joe speculated.
Jamie was paying attention to other things. "Is that fire?" he inquired innocently as he gnawed on the stick of jerky.
"It's . . ." Joe said, momentarily confused. That was a fire back there, and I wasn't even paying attention. I was concentrating too damned hard on finding Jamie. If the place is on fire, then maybe I should get him out of here, he thought stupidly.
Joe looked up and saw the thin film of smoke licking across the ceiling. He sniffed and smelled the smoke for the first time. But it wasn't like any smoke he'd smelled before; this stench was laden with plastic and synthetic smells, sort of like when an alternator on a car is about to go out, or when a fuse box overloads.
That's easy. It's an electrical fire, he thought, frowning. This didn't make the situation easier to handle.
This room is no longer safe, he declared. I'm taking him out now and to hell with the consequences! After all, this was what he wanted to do all along.
"Come on, buckaroo," Joe said, scooping him up in his arms. He felt the difference in the boy's weight immediately; ten, maybe twenty pounds. "We're getting out of here."
"Okay," the boy replied calmly. "Got any more jerky?"
"Not with me," Joe said. "Too much food will make you sick right now. Hang loose for a while." He remembered reading about concentration camps in Nazi Germany, and the prisoners who, once liberated by the Allies, ate themselves to death. He wondered about this when he saw Jamie, but didn't think he was that far gone. A little food. No more. At least until I figure out what kind of condition he's in.
And what I'm doing here, and how I'm going to get him out, and what I do then.
Joe carried him out of the isolation room with a distinct feeling that he was being watched. Paranoia, he decided. The power is off. The cameras are out. There's not enough light in here to see by if they weren't.
The commotion at the end of the hall was still in progress, but now seemed farther away. From the melee he was able to pick Luke's voice out, an insistent, frantic wail trying in vain to seize control of the situation.
What is going on up there? Joe wondered, becoming a little more interested in the emergency Luke and Billybob ran off to tend to. Soon I may just find out. Those two, they'll be back soon. I need to make this look innocent if they find me. No, when they find me. There's no way out of this place, even if I did try to make a run for it. This last thought disturbed—and intrigued—him more than he thought it should. Have I completely lost my mind?
He took Jamie to another wing of storage units, where the lighting was still next to nonexistent. He found tall stacks of boxes piled on pallets, their contents unknown. Probably food, Joe thought. But no more for Jamie. It could kill him. They were well hidden here, and in the darkness he felt like it would be a less likely place for Luke to find them. Luke is afraid of the dark. I remember that. Could be why he left Jamie and ran for the fire. The fire has light. Had they gone further they would have walked into a highly traveled area; somewhere around here Joe remembered an access tunnel that would take them to the garage, where he could take a truck and maybe even crash the gate. . . .
There I go again. Thinking crazy thoughts. They'd shoot me and Jamie both, if I tried to get away. We'd be so shot full of holes there wouldn't be anything left.
"Try to stand up," Joe said, setting the child down on his feet. "How do you feel?"
"Sleepy," Jamie said, yawning. "But I don't wanna go to sleep." He looked up at Joe with brown, questioning eyes. "What's going on, Joe?" he asked. "Why won't they let me eat?"
Joe sat down on a bare pallet, which rocked a little as his weight settled down on it. Now they were on eye level, making it more difficult for Joe to talk to the boy. He wanted to shrink into a little ball now, the responsibility for this predicament pressing a little more firmly on his shoulders.
"I'm a little confused right now," Joe admitted. Jamie's look became puzzled. "I don't know what they're trying to prove back there, making you talk to that thing like that, but it ain't right and it's not good for you. There are some things that just aren't meant to be messed with, and that thing that took control of you tonight is one of them." Jesus, Joe thought. Where are these words coming from? He listened to his mouth rattle on, uncertain if it was him who was talking, or someone, or something, else.
"But I can tell you this," Joe continued. "It's not right what they're doing. And I'm partway to blame for it. I don't know if I can get you out of here now, but I will someday. I promise you that."
Jamie gazed at him solemnly, his lower lip curling out into a pout. Then the expression changed to anger. Eyebrows arched, his forehead wrinkled.
"Joe, where is my momma?"
Joe tried to gaze directly into his eyes, but his look wavered and glanced away. He doesn't know what's up and what's down anymore. Everyone in authority has been feeding him lies, and now he knows it. He's looking to me for the answers. I've got to tell him the truth, or he'll never trust me again. And if he doesn't trust me, he doesn't have a chance in this place.
"I don't know where your mother is," Joe said slowly. After saying it, it was a little easier to look up. "I never did. Look. The grownups around here, they haven't been telling you the truth."
Joe had expected tears; he got a dull resignation. "I guess that means she's not coming here. To the vacation place."
He uttered the sentence with such a total lack of emotion that Joe shivered a little. It's almost like that thing was talking through him again. Like maybe a little bit of it stayed behind or managed to burn out some of his emotions. Or else that he's so used to disappointment that he doesn't care anymore.
"That's right, Jamie," he said with effort. "She probably doesn't even know where you are." He looked up. "You stay here a second." Joe got up and peered out of the storage room, down the corridor. The sounds that echoed through the corridor indicated that the fire was gone, but that other things were keeping the guards busy. We're safe for a little while longer, he decided. Better make the best use of this time I can. After this it will be impossible to get close to Jamie again. When he returned, he continued. "Your mother didn't know you were being brought here. Your daddy, you see, he took you away from your school so she wouldn't know, and brought you here so that you could be with him."
Jamie looked confused. Why shouldn't he be? Joe thought, resisting an urge to pull his own hair out. God, I hope I'm going about this right. This had better not be causing more damage than good.
"But why?" was the logical response.
A simple question with a damned difficult answer. It's too late to back out now, I'm already ass deep in this one.
"Your ma and pa stopped getting along together. You're smart, even you could see that." Meekly, Jamie nodded. "And well, he heard about the Chosen Ones and started to come to meetings. And before long he was a believer, and a follower, of Brother Joseph."
"Your daddy."
Joe winced. You could have gone all night without saying that, he thought, cringing inwardly. That's one thing I would really like to forget right now.
"Yeah. My daddy," Joe said. It felt like he was admitting to a crime against humanity. "He needed someone who could talk to the Holy Fire. Someone young, and smart, like you. Do you remember the Holy Fire?"
"I remember," he said. If the memory was frightening, the boy concealed it well. "But it was okay. I had a friend to help me out."
"Good, that's good," Joe said condescendingly. I had an imaginary friend, too, a funny fox. Sometimes, he was the only one I had to talk to, when one of Dad's flunkies wasn't around. "When you're hungry, you can talk to the Holy Fire better. That's why Brother Joseph is doing this. He wants to know things from the Holy Fire, things that will help the Chosen Ones."
He had nearly said, "help us out," but that didn't feel right. He didn't really feel like a Chosen One anymore. If I'm not a Chosen One, then who am I? came the thought, but he shelved it for later consideration.
"You don't understand, do you?" he sighed, when Jamie didn't react with anything but acceptance.
But Jamie shook his head. "Oh, I understand," he said matter-of-factly. "Sarah explained everything to me."
Joe felt the room get fifteen degrees colder. Did he say—Sarah?
He stared at the little boy, unsure what he should say, or what he could say; it didn't help to ask him again. He heard the name right the first time. He said Sarah. But it can't be.
"She's dead," Jamie supplied, with his head cocked to one side as if he was listening to two conversations at once. "She says not to worry, she doesn't blame you for what happened. But she would like to know why you didn't do anything to stop him. She says you were standing right there. When he did it."
"I—" Joe said, but the sound came out a weak gurgle, the kind of sound someone would make when strangling. Like the sound she made. Oh God, this can't be happening! Is he talking to spirits? Spirits that can read my mind? Is this Satan's work?
He felt the walls of his father's religion closing around him, warding off the fear of the unknown that this conversation was invoking. I can't go back to those beliefs, he wanted to scream. It's all nonsense, I've already decided that, or why else would I go against him, take Jamie out of his prison and feed him. But this, with Sarah, this is what the demons do. It's what the devil does! What else do I have to protect myself with, besides the Church?
But—once again, his father had lied.
He told me she went to heaven!
She couldn't have, not if she was talking to Jamie—
Or was she an angel, some kind of sword-wielding, avenging angel, cutting down anyone who had anything to do with her death?
Jamie continued the conversation, like he was on one end of a spiritual telephone. "Sarah says that the forces of darkness are what your daddy attracts, not what she is. She also says you aren't in danger. At first she was mad at me for telling you about her, but now she says it will help all of us, letting you know she's still around. You can help me, she says." For the first time, Jamie showed some spark of interest. "How can you help me?" he demanded.
Joe had fallen off the pallet and was now on his knees, praying. He wasn't even certain what he was saying, but he hoped the emotion of what he was feeling would convey his message.
Jamie peered down at him. "Joe, whatcha doin' down there? You gettin' sick?"
"He's going to be a lot worse off than that," a loud, booming voice shouted from somewhere behind him. Joe jumped up and turned around suddenly, habitually reaching for his sidearm, a .44 that wasn't there.
Luke. Oh good God.
From the darkness came the snick, snick of a shell being pumped into a shotgun. Another, softer snick betrayed the presence of a pistol.
"I suggest that if you've rearmed yourself to drop it. But I don't think you have. You're not that smart."
The large man's weight shifted the pallet as he stepped on one of the bare wooden platforms. The pallet creaked, protesting loudly. More footsteps; one set no doubt belonging to Billybob. A third person shined a bright spot in Joe's face, panned back and forth between him and Jamie.
"Yep. That's them. They're both here," Billybob said. It was the first coherent sentence Joe had heard the man utter.
"What the hell did you think you were trying to do?" Luke said, taking a few steps forward. The spotlight continued to shine, silhouetting the huge man. "How far did you think you were going to go with him?"
Joe glanced over at Jamie, who had—thank God—eaten everything he had given him. If I play my cards right, I can get out of this one untouched. If.
"Not sure what you mean, Luke," Joe replied. "I was just getting the boy clear of the fire. That is what you abandoned your post to go tend to, isn't it?"
Luke's expression wavered slightly. A flicker of concession passed over his face and then was gone.
"Guess that's what it was," Billybob said. "Wasn't sure."
"Shut up!" Luke screamed. His intensity startled Joe. "What I want to know is what you were planning to do with this kid?"
Joe assumed an expression of surprise. "I wasn't planning anything. What I did was take him to safety. It was pretty clear to me that he was in danger, and that you left him in danger."
"Enough of this crap," Luke said, cutting him off. "Billybob, you and Jimmy take the kid back to his room. I'll deal with Joe."
"But Luke—"
"But nothing. No arguments," he replied, a little softer.
Joe didn't like this one bit. It began to feel like a setup, and when he looked around at his surroundings, he had a creepy feeling he might not walk out of there alive. This is the kind of place where people die, he thought, trying hard not to let his fear show through.
Billybob hesitated, something Joe had never seen him do in Luke's presence. Luke's eyebrow raised in response.
"I said now," he said, quietly.
"You're not going to, are you?" Billybob asked, somewhat fearfully.
Joe could tell he was getting impatient. "Just take the kid back to the room now," Luke ordered. "I'll see about you later."
That last statement had an ominous feel to it, and Billybob took the boy by the hand and led him away out of the darkness of the storage room. Joe couldn't see Luke's expression very well, as the light from the hallway emergency light came in behind him. Jimmy followed Billybob out, casting a glance behind him that turned his blood to ice.
He's going to kill me, Joe thought. The realization left him feeling vaguely calm, in a detached sort of way. The fear he would have normally expected just wasn't there. He's going to kill me, and it's not going to make any difference. He'll make up some story about how I tried to take the gun away from him.
"You've gotten awfully uppity lately. Who do you think you are, anyway? Seems like you think you're better than me these days." Luke shifted his immense weight, cradling the shotgun carefully. The barrel never wavered.
"I know I'm not better than you," Joe pleaded, trying hard not to grovel. "Its just, things are happening so fast around here. The drugs and all, seems like something's going on there all the time."
"Why don't we just talk about that," Luke said. "Why don't you help with the deliveries? Distribution? You think you're a prince or somethin'?"
"I'm just busy with the Junior Guard," Joe lied. "You know that's what Brother Joseph wants me in. There's no time for nothing else." If I keep him talking, maybe I can get out of this.
Luke sneered. "I've been waiting for you to screw up for a long time. I knew you were trouble a long time ago. Knew you would never follow orders from your superiors. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"
He knew all too well. "I think so," he replied, not wanting to get specific. What is he leading up to?
"The Chosen Ones will be purified by this," Luke said, raising the shotgun to shoulder level, and taking careful aim at Joe's midsection. "You just sit still, it'll be over with before you . . ."
At that moment the power returned, at least partially, to the sector. Fluorescent lights flickered on overhead as something went wuuummmmph in the distance.
"Shit," Luke whispered, looking around him furtively.
Above, located behind Luke, a remote camera whirred back to life. It panned back and forth, its red LED light blinking. Luke spotted it at the same time Joe did and dropped the shotgun to his side.
"There's someone watching us," Joe said. "If you killed me now there'd be witnesses."
"I wasn't going to kill nobody," he said, forcing a smile. "Where'd you get that idea anyway, son?"
"Sure looked that way to me," Joe said.
"What's going to happen now," Luke said, starting for the entrance of the storeroom, "is this. I'm going to report to your father, see, about how you tried to kidnap Jamie and take him out of our little sanctuary here, into Pawnee. The whole story. I'll just let you worry about that."
Joe shrugged. "That's fine with me," he said, not sure where his cockiness was coming from. "But I'll tell you one thing. And I'll let you worry about this: my father is going to find out about what you tried to do to me when I was a kid. Do you remember? Or should I refresh your memory?"
Luke froze in his tracks. "What are you talking about, boy?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about. He might understand you fooling around with little girls, but little boys? And his son?"
Luke actually looked white. "He won't believe you."
Joe kept his eyes locked on the older man's. "Are you real sure about that?"
Indecision tortured his face. Joe could almost see the gears turning, however slowly, behind the man's eyes. Brother Joseph might not believe his own son on something like that, but then he might, Joe imagined him thinking. Can I take that chance? As hot as things are around here? Brother Joseph, he likes to kill things when he's under a lot of pressure. Like now.
"I got a better idea," Luke said, after long moments of consideration. "Why don't we just forget this whole thing ever happened and pitch in and help with the mess we got going back there?"
Joe exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding in.
"Yeah, Luke. Sure. Let's go."
Prick.
Al couldn't decide if it was the massage, the bath, or the wine that put him out, but whatever it was he slept like the dead. He barely woke as Bob got up and passed his couch, chuckling over something known only to the human; he thought he said something, but then went right back to sleep. He woke a little after that, with the realization that he had only an hour to track-time.
No matter. The rest had done him a world of good, completely restoring his energies.
After helping himself to bread and fruit from the sideboard, he ducked into the bathroom for a quick shower. Then, with a sigh of regret, he tapped into one of the local energy-foci, and transformed the interior of the RV back to its usual mundane appearance.
Pity. But I can't have someone walking in on this.
He left his favorite servant, the Phaeton mascot, in animated form, however. He had his hands full with breakfast and a brush, and he needed one extra hand to hold the blow-dryer. The mascot provided that, readily enough. She never tired and never got bored; she would hold the hair-dryer for him until the Trump of Doom if he asked it of her.
A quick peek out of the curtains showed the van was quiet and the Miata was gone; that meant that in all probability, Bob had taken Cindy somewhere before track-time. With her out of the way, it was safe enough to let this little evidence of his power remain active long enough to give him a little help.
But just as he thought that, the door opened.
Cindy had gotten up early, but even so, one of the racers had beaten her. The Miata was gone—although there was evidence by the slight motion of the RV that there was someone still inside.
She was glad now that she'd talked Bob into taking back his bed last night. Al was an attractive man; too darned attractive. It would be easy to fall right into bed with him. And she didn't want that—or rather, she did, but not right now. If she were to indulge herself—and that was the only phrase that described it—with Al right now, she would be betraying Jamie by taking away time and energy that could be used to search for him. The fantasy also had a slight edge of fear with the desire, which fluttered madly in her stomach; her ex-husband Jim had been her first and only bed partner. Just leaping into bed with someone she had recently met, who she wasn't even in love with, grated against her upbringing. She could almost hear her mother lecturing her for even considering it.
But she wasn't a virgin, wasn't at home, and her mother was dead. Al seemed to be a very nice man, and he was definitely a hunk. She wasn't even married anymore—and she'd kept taking the Pill even after the divorce, as a kind of reflex. There was no reason not to—
No. No, that would only make her feel more guilt, and she had plenty of that right now; she didn't need any more.
The van had a kind of friendly feeling about it; a sheltering quality. Cozy, that was what it was, and welcoming. As if she'd spent the night in the arms of some kind of nurturing earth-mother. She hadn't slept so well or so dreamlessly since Jamie had been stolen.
But her stomach woke her, soon after dawn, reminding her that she hadn't had much lunch and only a salad for supper. Maybe Al had come back last night with a little more food. She'd even cook it for him, or rather, for them both.
I wonder what he usually survives on: Gatorade and concession-stand hot dogs? I'd hate to see his cholesterol count.
She pulled on her old jeans and another t-shirt, slid out of the van, opened the RV door, and stepped up.
She poked her head around a corner—and froze.
Al was stark naked, combing his wet hair with one hand, and eating with the other, while blow-drying his hair. Holding the blow-dryer was a little silver statue of a woman; an odd sort of prop, but if it worked—
Dear God, he's a hunk, she thought in one analytical corner of her mind. Al still hadn't noticed her; the noise of the blow-dryer must have covered the sound of her entering. She felt like a peeping Tom—
She'd seen professional body-builders with better bodies—but not many. Did racing build muscles like that?
If that was what Gatorade and concession-stand hot dogs did, maybe she ought to change her diet.
Caught between embarrassment and an undeniable attraction, she started to back out and ran into the corner of the cabinet instead. "Excuse me!" she blurted, as Al suddenly looked up into the mirror and met her eyes.
She froze like a deer pinned in a car's headlights. The little silver statue was alive and moving. It turned to look calmly at her, still holding the blow-dryer. The dryer cord dangled straight down, and though the dryer was running, it wasn't plugged in.
The startled eyes that met hers in the mirror were emerald green and slitted like a cat's. And the ears, standing up through the wet hair, were pointed.
At first, as she took in the sight of Al's reflection, she felt calm. The strangeness of what she was seeing took several moments to sink in, as there was nothing in her experience, beyond cheap horror sci-fi movies, that she could relate this to. Her mind became a total blank and unable to assign this anywhere to the reality she knew.
Then it suddenly dawned on her: Al wasn't human.
She yelped and backpedaled into the Winnebago's interior as Al swung around, grabbing wildly for—not his privates—but his ears, confirming her suspicion that he wasn't human. His elbow hit the blow-dryer and knocked it out of the little statue's hands as he lunged for Cindy; she found herself trapped against the sink, and she acted instinctively. She kneed him, right where it counted, then froze again.
He might not be human, but the salient parts of male anatomy were in the same place. He gasped and folded, giving her a clear view of his ears. They were pointed.
In the bathroom, the tiny silver lady had picked up the blow-dryer and was calmly turning it off. Cindy's mouth was dry and her hands were shaking—and she was sure, now, that she had somehow gotten into some place that wasn't on earth. That, and she was finally losing her mind. Or—was this RV some kind of disguised flying saucer?
Al still had her blocked in, and the moment she broke her paralysis to shove past him, he moved like lightning, recovering much faster than any human could have.
He grabbed her arms and held her, this time pinning her legs as well, his strange eyes glaring at her with an anger that made them burn like twin green flames. He was angrier than anyone she had ever seen in her life. Even Brother Joseph hadn't frightened her this way.
She shrank back, so terrified she couldn't speak, her teeth chattering like castanets, wondering when, and how, he was going to kill her—
An expression of disgust passed over his face, and the glare of rage in his eyes dimmed. Suddenly, he pushed away from her, stalked into the bathroom, and pulled the vinyl curtain shut violently.
Before she could move, he jerked the curtain back again; now he was wearing pants, at least, and was pulling on a shirt. "You try my patience and my temper more than you know, human," he snarled, his hair standing out like a lion's mane. "If there were not a child involved—"
"Human?" she blurted. "What are you, a Vulcan?"
He stared at her a moment, shirt half on and half off—and began laughing. First it was a chuckle, then a full laugh, then loud roaring howls of laughter that reverberated in the RV.
Now Cindy was confused. Hell, if he was laughing, he couldn't be a Vulcan. So much for Star Trek. She stared at him as he tried to collect himself. Was she being overly sensitive, or did the laughter have a strange hollow sound that just wasn't human? At some point his eyes went back to being "normal," but the ears remained the same. Al managed to get the shirt buttoned on, and when he looked down, it was one button off. He seemed to find this even funnier and began laughing more.
I guess he isn't going to kill me yet. He rebuttoned his shirt, still chuckling, and she amended that. Maybe he isn't going to kill me at all.
As some of the initial shock wore off, Cindy began to relax. But it seemed as if Al now found the situation—and her terror—quite amusing.
Cindy had been afraid, but that was shifting to anger. She didn't think this was anything to laugh at.
"And what is so damned funny?" she finally said, fuming. Then something else occurred to her—and her anger faded as it occurred to her what she had sounded like.
There was a long silence as Cindy sat down at the table, and Al remained standing. The silence thickened, and neither of them could find a way to reach across it. He sounds different now, she thought. He's not coming across as the techie racing mechanic anymore. I can't place his accent, but it's not from North Carolina—he sounds like he was from that Robin Hood movie. What is he?
"Well," Cindy finally said, after she couldn't bear the lengthy pause anymore. "What are you then?"
"It would take a long time to explain," Al said, then stopped. She had the feeling now that he really didn't want to reveal anything to her, but that he didn't have much choice.
"I've got all the time you need," she said, and crossed her arms over her chest. This should be very interesting, she thought. "Go right ahead. Nothing you say is going to surprise me more than what I've already seen."
"Perhaps. But an explanation has become necessary. I would have preferred to keep it a secret," Al said, and shrugged. It appeared, at that moment, to be a very human shrug. "But, as you say, the cat is out of the bag."
Cindy waited for him to speak, patient as only the mother of a young boy could be in waiting for an explanation.
Al sighed and poured himself a Gatorade. "We go back many thousands of years, our folk. Your people call mine elves now." He waited, as if assuming she'd laugh at the word. She only blinked.
I suppose that makes as much sense as space aliens.
"We have . . ."
"You don't bake cookies, do you?"
Alinor glared. "No. We have known about your people from the beginning, and have always known we were a minority, and were in many ways physically inferior to humans. We have—weaknesses, vulnerabilities, that you do not have. But we have magic. We have always had magic. For a while that was a protection, and even made us superior."
"And it isn't anymore?" she asked, matter-of-factly.
He shook his head. "No, and now we are even more in the minority. As your human civilization grew, we isolated ourselves even more. Some of us were careless, were discovered. The humans quickly put them to death. We were never tolerated. We have learned the fine art of being invisible."
Al gestured to the orange jug of Gatorade, offering. Cindy shook her head. The mechanic—or whatever—took a seat opposite her, his motions careful and precise, as if he was trying not to arouse any more fear. The act was reassuring. The tale he was telling, however, was not.
"We appear in mythology, folklore, fairy tales. Some of these we planted ourselves. Some, though these are few, are true accounts that have been distorted with time. We call ourselves elves because in your language there is no other suitable alternative. 'Sidhe' sounds just like 'she,' after all."
As Cindy listened, she realized her mouth was hanging open.
"Are you sure you don't want anything to drink?" Al asked, starting to sound concerned.
Again, she shook her head. "You mean all this time you and—? What about Bob? Is he one, too?" The prospect added another uncomfortable dimension to the situation.
"No, Cindy. He is as human as you are," Al replied. "Which takes me to another aspect of our existence. The children."
Cindy suppressed a shudder and tried to make her expression as bland as possible.
Al seemed to read her mind, which did nothing to put her at ease. "No, no. Nothing sinister. We have a low birth-rate, and we treasure little ones—perhaps more so than you humans do. We often step in to save them from a variety of fates, from drowning, from fires, from falling. We always have." His expression darkened. "Sometimes we save them from their blood-parents. Sometimes we save them from other things, like Brother Joseph."
Cindy relaxed a little. For some reason, she believed him. Well, why not? There was certainly no other reason for him to have come to her aid.
"Children are most precious to us," Al explained, his compassion reaching her through her fog of confusion. "For reasons that extend beyond survival of the human race. Despite some ways we have been received, we need you." He chuckled a little. "Children. You could say that it is the way we are hardwired. No one really knows why. The children we save do grow up, of course—and if it is their parents that we save them from, it is often to other parents, loving ones, that they are given. It is true, we have human helpers, like Bob, who help us fit into society and also help keep us concealed—and some of those were human children who were so badly hurt that we were the only folk fit to raise them."
"Hurt, how?" she asked. Fear began again. Would this creature save Jamie only to take him away again?
"Abuse—profound abuse. Physical, emotional—" He gave her a hard look. "Sexual. You might not believe some of the stories. You would not want to. For some children, there is no way that they will find healing in your world. For them, there is ours—a world from their fairy-tale books, a world where no harm from 'the real world' can intrude to touch them. A place where they can learn that there is such a thing as love and caring, and where they can learn to defend themselves so that the real world can never hurt them again."
Cindy thought about one of the women who had shared the shelter with her—a woman with three young girls, and all four of them testing positive for syphilis. Only when the doctor had confirmed the fact—and confirmed that the children had been brutally, repeatedly, molested—did the woman believe what they had been trying to tell her about their father.
Their father. She had wanted to throw up. But—wasn't that the same thing that Jim had allowed Brother Joseph to do to Jamie's mind?
She swallowed. "All right," she said, "But what about other kids? The ones who've got at least one good parent?"
"Like Jamie?" He looked at her solemnly. "We would have helped as soon as we realized there was a problem. Your husband: classic case of abusive alcoholism. That alone would have qualified your son for our help, if you are in any doubt. But this Brother Joseph thing, that goes well beyond what we would consider acceptable. I can only hope that when we retrieve Jamie, he will be able to forget what has happened to him. If he cannot forget, then we can help him deal with it intelligently. A child must never be underestimated."
They regarded each other in silence for several moments, and the refrigerator started making sounds she hadn't noticed before.
"You must believe me when I say that we only want to help your son, and to return him to you." There was a distinct emphasis on that last that comforted her. "It is only a matter of time before I think we can accomplish this."
Cindy slumped against the backrest. There it was. Things hadn't changed that much. At least Al wasn't something from another planet, or from hell. She still didn't know how to handle the elf thing, though. . . .
Never mind. The important thing was Jamie.
As incredible as the story sounded, she knew, somehow, that it was all true. She'd seen the eyes, the ears—
The little silver lady sashayed across the floor towards Al and tapped his knee. He looked down and handed the creature a plastic cup filled with Gatorade. She took it, then hip-waggled her way to Cindy's knee and offered it.
Trying not to drop her jaw, she accepted the cup, and the silver lady sauntered back into the bathroom, hips swaying gently from side to side.
Well, there's nothing wrong with his hormones, if that's what he keeps around instead of pinups. . . .
"Is that—" She faltered.
He raised an eyebrow. "Magic? Yes. It is."
She swallowed a large gulp of Gatorade.
It could have been worse, she thought. He could have been a giant bug in a man-suit, or something. . . .
She saw then that his eyes had gone back to the slit-pupiled green they had been when she barged in and sensed that Al was presenting himself now as exactly what he was, and that he was no longer holding back anything that would distort the true image of himself. She noted, idly, that his ears continued to protrude through his hair even as it dried straight, and remembered that she had interrupted his grooming.
"I should let you get back to what you were doing when I came in." Her eyes fell on his right ear. It was hard to resist. "You don't mind if I—?"
Al's eyes shifted momentarily, as if he was about to object. Then he smiled warmly.
"Go ahead. But don't pull on it. It's very sensitive."
Gently, she touched the tip of the pointed ear, relieved for some odd reason that it was, indeed, real. It sprang back, as soft and as warm as any human's. This simple act of touching the feature reassured her that she wasn't going mad after all.
"This is going to take some getting used to," she said. "I mean, it's not every day that I meet an elf."
He chuckled. "It's not every day that I get to acquaint a human with our species."
Cindy frowned. "You make it sound like you're from another planet or something. Really, now, you don't look that much different than a human." She blushed, seeing that she was flirting, although indirectly. What is it about him, even with the pointed ears, that is so compelling? Christ, if we ever had children they would probably all look like little pink Yodas. But then, you know what they say about men with long, pointed ears . . . or was that noses?
"You're being kind," Al said, and Cindy looked at him askance. Is he reading my mind, too? No, that was to something I said earlier. But what if he can read minds? "But there is a great deal of difference between our two races. It wouldn't be wise to introduce you to all of these things now, especially the things we can do. It has already been quite a shock, whether or not you realize it."
"Of course I realize it," she objected, but she knew her words were falling on deaf, if pointed, ears. Cindy couldn't help but notice her sudden calmness and the distinct feeling of somehow being manipulated into losing her fear.
But then her thoughts returned to Jamie, and the darkness came again, swooping over her like a raven that had been waiting in the shadows to rouse her depression. And for all of Al's self-assured words, his magic, she couldn't see how she was going to find him, much less get him back.
Are we really any closer to saving him from those crazies? Can little magic statues do anything besides hold blow-dryers? All that talk about saving children, and holding them in such esteem—that's nice, but if Jamie's in there, there's an army between us and him! How can this elf really help us when the county sheriff can't get inside that compound?
"Well. Now that we've got that out of the way," Al said, though Cindy was not entirely certain what that was, "there are some things you could tell me that would help me locate your son. Unusual things. The things someone else might not believe."
"Like?" she asked.
Al waved a hand in the air. "Psychic experiences. Sleep walking. Talking in his sleep, especially if it seemed as if he was having a lucid conversation with someone. Anything at all?"
"You're talking about the Praise Meeting," she said in an accusatory tone she was trying not to use. "The weird stuff that happened there."
He shrugged. "That and, well, other things. Similar experiences that may have happened at home. But if you like, you can start with the Praise Meeting."
She sighed and straightened up, looking down at her hands while she gathered her thoughts. Though her first impulse was to reject the notion, she knew that, in a way that only Al would know, this was important. He mentioned other abilities. Could that be why that monster wanted Jamie in the first place? "Like I'd told you, I didn't want to go to that church thing at all."
Al shook his head. "No, not the first meeting you went to. I mean the time Brother Joseph did the channeling. You told me about it, but I don't know if you were there or not."
"I wasn't. That was the time—he—just took off with my son." She had difficulty mentioning her ex-husband by name, so she didn't. "When they got back, Jamie was terrified—"
Something suddenly occurred to her, a connection she might never have made if Al hadn't mentioned psychic phenomena and Jamie in the same breath. "That's really strange. Now that I think of it, that reminds me of a time a few months earlier, when Jamie had a high fever. He was having hallucinations, or something close to it, when his fever spiked. The doctor only recommended Tylenol and bed rest, so that's what we did. He was sick for a week, but during all that time there were a few—I don't know—incidents. And after that, after he got well, he kept having these experiences. In his sleep."
Al's interest sharpened visibly. "Could you tell me a little more about these?"
Cindy paused, suddenly realizing how much she had tried to forget what had happened, as if by forgetting them she could make them unhappen. If it hadn't been for the channeling and the whole sick mess with the Chosen Ones, she suspected she would have managed to dismiss them from her mind already.
She shrugged, unpleasantly aware that her hands were shaking. "His father wasn't—interested. He kept saying Jamie would grow out of it. But I would hear him at night, sometimes crying, sometimes singing to himself, or even talking to some imaginary person in the room. At least, I thought it was imaginary. Sometimes I could rouse him awake, but on most others, I just couldn't wake him. He would go on, crying or singing or talking. This was after the fever, you see, so I was a little worried that there might have been brain damage or something, but the doctor said it would pass, it was just a part of growing up. And Jim said the doctor knew what he was doing and that I was being overprotective."
"What was he saying?" Al said, leaning closer.
She shook her head, helplessly. "It was in a different language. French, sometimes. I think it was French. I don't speak French, so I don't know. Sometimes he sang things that sounded like hymns in some other language. Most of the time it just didn't make any sense at all. When I asked him about it the next day, about the things he was dreaming, he would tell me the most frightening stories about dragons or lizards, and about castles and these huge mobs of people, women, children, knights, all marching endlessly across a wilderness. Going somewhere, except they never got there. I never understood the details. But then, dreams are like that, aren't they? Just sort of vague and flowing, like someone is pulling what you want just out of reach."
Al's expression had changed, but she couldn't put her finger on what it had changed to. It was a little creepy, seeing him staring like that, with those strange eyes—brilliant emerald green eyes.
"Anything else?" he asked, after a bit.
Cindy thought about it. The memory popped out of nowhere with the force of a blow, nearly hitting her between the eyes.
"How could I have forgotten?" she cried out, with an intensity that made Al visibly start. "The day the school called me! Jim was at work, I guess, and so I had to go to the school. Jamie had gotten sick or something, they wouldn't tell me exactly what had happened over the phone." She shook her head and put the cup of Gatorade on the table; her hands were shaking too hard to hold it. "When I got to the nurse's office, he was just sitting in a chair, staring straight ahead, not even noticing me, it looked like. The principal, he was there, and first thing he said was he thought Jamie was on drugs or something. I told him that was ridiculous, that Jamie would never have done something like that. I told him we never had anything in the house stronger than aspirin—the principal just gave me this look, but he gave up, since he didn't have any proof anyway. But the way Jamie acted, I could see why he would think that. He was just staring off into the distance, like one of those little kids I'd seen on TV that was in one of the houses that got hit by SCUDs in Israel, like he'd seen something and was too afraid to talk about it."
As she babbled on, Cindy wondered why in the world she had forgotten that. The incident had scared the life out of her, and she'd taken Jamie straight to the doctor. The doctor hadn't been able to find anything, either—he'd said something about "juvenile epilepsy" and that Jamie would probably never have a fit like that again. . . .
It was almost as if something had come in and taken the memory away, and it was only just now returning, bit by bit. Was it was coming back only because Al had asked her for details?
Was I trying to hide it from myself, and trying not to remember it? Or is it that something else didn't want me to? She wasn't being paranoid—not after elves and magic statues, and God only knew what was being done to Jamie. This wasn't the Twilight Zone. Or even if it was, she was in it, and she'd better start handling it.
"How long ago was that?" Al asked, piercing the silence that had fallen between them.
"Last year," Cindy said automatically, though on a conscious level she wasn't sure when it was. "I can't remember if it was before or after he got sick. Do you think it's important?"
"Any information is important," the elf replied. "It sounds like he went into a sort of trance." He began to say something, but visibly held back. Realizing he was probably withholding information about her son, she felt a little prickle of anger rise up her spine.
The more Cindy talked, the more concerned Al became about the whole situation. Her recollections of what Jamie had said and done were too similar to his own experiences—hundreds of years ago—to write off to coincidence.
The boy is a medium. Has been, probably all his life. Perhaps Brother Joseph, who has no real ability of his own, didn't actually select him. Maybe he was only a middleman. Perhaps something selected him, as a pipeline to a medium.
And those dreams about what could have been the Crusades . . . what must have been the Peasant's Crusade. . . .