Blessed Child (37 page)

Banks stood in the shadows behind the last row of cheap seats and gazed past his hood to the auditorium below. Several thousand people waited eagerly on the main floor, but the upper tiers were nearly empty. Starks and his gang stood exactly where they always stood on the opposite side of the auditorium, dressed in black robes just like his own, staring like maniacal religious fools at the stage. It had taken a few weeks, but Starks had delivered as promised. His mug was on the tube nearly as often as the kid's, spewing his nonsense about how the Antichrist had come. His group had grown to over a hundred unsuspecting souls, but tonight they'd come only with the original dozen. At a thousand bucks a pop, Banks wasn't about to pay for the whole load.

Of those twelve standing at the rail with their antichrist signs, only Starks knew the true purpose here, and he'd been paid handsomely for his part. Ten others were rabble-rousers who would do anything to get some airtime. And one—the one who stood nearest the exit now—was a true believer. Some junior who'd joined the group of black-robed avengers because he really believed this trash about the kid being the Antichrist.

Well, tonight Junior would get his due. On cue he would be sent out the back and over to where a black-robed Banks stood in the far bleachers. Purpose? To deliver a note. By the time he got here, Banks would be gone, and the kid would be dead, and Junior would be left holding the bag. They even had his fingerprints on the gun, compliments of the kid's curiosity at a party a week earlier. And the note in his hands would seal the case.

Good enough.

Banks ran his hand along the rifle under his robe and fingered the safety. The minute this went down, he was out of here. He would take the two hundred K and spend some time in the East. Bangkok. They went for skinny rednecks like him in places like that. They even went ape over the red hair. And two hundred thousand would go a few rounds in Bangkok. Not as far as three million, which is what he figured the Reverend Greek running this show would pull down tonight. Now, there was some quick thinking. But then the Reverend Greek had a little surprise coming tonight. It would be his last three million. And maybe he oughta pop the Greek while he was . . .

The lights suddenly dimmed. Organ music began to throb.

That was the cue; the kid was coming out. Banks pulled farther into the shadows and glanced around quickly. Not a soul sat in his section. The exit to the main hall waited ten feet to his left. He rehearsed his escape one last time, eased the rifle to his right side, and looked at Starks and his flock. As soon as Junior left to deliver his note . . .

His cell phone suddenly vibrated. He snatched it off his belt, saw that it was Roberts, and flipped the phone open. What was the fool doing calling him now?

“Yes?”

“Is it done?”

“No.”

“New plan. We have reason to believe he's dying. We would rather let him die than kill him,” Roberts said.

“The poison? It's been two weeks—”

“And now it's working. You take him only if he begins to talk about anything that sounds even remotely threatening. Follow?”

Banks glanced down at the antichrist flock. Junior still hadn't left. “That's complicated,” he said.

“So is covering up an assassination. If we can help it, we let the poison work, you got that?”

He would have to risk Junior getting to him early. Banks closed the phone without answering. It was a scrambled signal, but he didn't like talk much anyway.

The curtains suddenly parted below, and a faint gasp ran through the crowd. Three thousand people fortunate enough to get their hands on the pricey tickets, many of them in wheelchairs or hospital beds, waited in breathless anticipation for the prospect that they would leave tonight forever changed. And Banks held the instrument under his robe that would dash their hopes.

It was almost enough to evoke pity. Almost. But when you'd spent fifteen years in his profession, slicing a couple dozen throats, the pity was hard in coming. He knew that and he didn't care.

Junior still hadn't left his post by Starks.

The wonder kid stepped from the side stage entrance. Banks's pulse quickened. He'd been here that first night when they had all been knocked over, and it had taken him a day to get over the feeling. Just went to show how powerful the human mind could be. He'd always thought his own mind was stronger than most; it allowed him to take life without weak knees. But knocking someone over with your mind . . .

The boy walked out onto the stage. Correction: the boy dragged himself out onto the stage. Something was wrong. Maybe Roberts was right.

The kid's shoulders drooped and his chin hung low, like a vulture. He took four slow steps and then stopped. Then he made what looked to Banks like a death march out to the microphone. All around him palm trees stood tall and stately, but the kid wavered on his feet, thin and weak. The whole auditorium seemed to sense that something wasn't right with their wonder boy.

Caleb stood for a full minute without moving. A man to the right of the stage suddenly wheeled a blue chair forward, hoisted a boy about Caleb's size out of it, and set the child on the edge of the stage. Both of the boy's legs were in braces.

“This is Peter,” the man said. “He watches you whenever he can.” The man backed up. “Please, I'm asking you to heal him.”

The child was struggling to sit—maybe his balance was off. He suddenly rolled to his side and lay down. He coughed and the sound echoed through the arena.

“It's okay, Peter.” It was a woman, stepping out from the seat next to where the child's father had come. The boy's mother. “Peter, it's okay, honey. Just remember, he's going to help you.” She tried to sound reassuring, but her voice cracked.

Caleb looked at the small boy, his hands loose by his sides. He was undecided, Banks thought. Something was definitely wrong. He glanced across the room: Junior still hadn't left. The scene had stalled them all.

Caleb walked to the boy. He stood over him and reached a hand out. This would be it, then. The boy would stand and the place would go nuts.

But the boy didn't stand. He tried to sit again, but his arms must not have been strong enough. He lay on his back, helpless on the stage.

Caleb brought a limp hand to his forehead.

None of this was totally out of the ordinary; the boy had done stranger things in the theatrics of the preceding weeks. It wasn't even so strange when he began to cry.

But the two words Caleb said next were out of the ordinary, and they cut across the auditorium like the Grim Reaper's sickle.

“I . . . I . . . can't.”

He wavered on his feet for a few endless seconds. Then he turned around, took one step away from the terrified child, and collapsed in a heap.

For two seconds nobody seemed willing to accept what had just happened. They just left the two boys onstage as if it must surely all be part of some elaborate show. A wind would begin to blow or an earthquake would hit. But they didn't.

Instead the small child with leg braces began to moan, panicked. Then everyone was moving at once. The child's mother flew to the stage, crying out frantically, “Peter? Peter?” The father crashed into the CBS camera in his rush, toppling it to the ground with a great crash.

The wonder boy's blond-haired protector, Jason, rushed out, scooped him into his arms, and ran from the stage.

The lights dimmed and cries of protest filled the building.

Banks humphed and slipped out the exit. It was over, he thought. Roberts was right; the kid was dying. Maybe he was dead.

Both Jason and Leiah demanded they rush Caleb to the hospital, but Nikolous insisted on the visiting physician. The boy had revived backstage, but his face was covered in a cold sweat, and he only wanted to curl into a ball and hold his stomach.

The physician, who looked as though he could easily be Nikolous's brother, was waiting for them when they pulled up to the dorm. He inspected Caleb, decreed that it was nothing more than a stomach flu, fed him a strong sedative, and left him sleeping on the couch.

“You're killing him,” Leiah said, stroking Caleb's cheek.

“How can I kill someone who raises the dead?” Nikolous asked, standing over them.

“I don't know. But he's obviously sick, isn't he?”

“And I wonder
why
he's sick. I told you that taking him out into the world was a bad idea.”

Jason sat in the chair opposite them. “Come on, you can't honestly think our taking him to church had anything to do with this.”

“No? And why can't he heal himself? Because he's had too much exposure to the world, that is why! Dr. Caldwell warned us about this. His mind is becoming confused with all this madness”—he flung his hand about—“and it's messing with his power.” The Greek was red in the face.

“If anything's messing with his head, it's the way you have him caged up like an animal,” Leiah snapped. “And now you're so concerned with your big stage show that you're denying him the medical attention he needs.”

“The world's hopes rest on this
stage
show of mine! And you heard the doctor—he has a stomach flu. If there is a problem here, it's that he's seen too much of the world.”

“Wake up, Nikolous,” Jason said. “He's a child. You can't keep him in your cage forever. And for the record, his power doesn't come from his mind. It comes from the Spirit of God.”

Nikolous looked at him with a raised brow. “You have decided this, have you? Our Dr. Thompson's pathetic little talk has persuaded you? Fine. But I know of God as well, and I can assure you that this boy's psychic abilities have nothing to do with a ghost floating through the earth. They have to do with the fact that he's accessed the power of his mind, and his isolation has allowed him to sharpen those powers. He's nothing more than a noble savage, and the minute you put him into circulation he loses that nobility!”

“And either way that's his choice,” Jason returned, hot now.

“Not as long as he's under my care it isn't. In two days we have our first exclusive engagement. A hundred upper-class citizens will be there seeking the boy's power. We're asking for donations of fifty thousand dollars per party. And I'll tell you what”—he jabbed a finger at Caleb—“he'd better perform.”

“Or what? You're threatening now?!”

Nikolous ignored him. He turned his head and yelled toward the kitchen. “Martha!”

Martha hustled over to them.

“Put the boy in the boiler room under the church. No one will disturb him. That includes you. He must be isolated at all costs. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Of course. I will bring his food to him there.”

“No. I will have the physician prepare a special diet and monitor him. Take him.”

Martha looked at the boy uneasily. “He . . . he's sleeping, sir.”

“Then carry him! Take him!”

A look of horror crossed her face. She poked him lightly and he stirred. She poked him again and Caleb pushed himself up.

“Up, boy!” she said. “Come with me.”

Leiah reached for him, but Nikolous put his hand out and stopped her arm. “No. You two may not see him until the meeting.”

“What do you mean we can't see him? We have an agreement!”

“He's to see no one! No one!” He said it with such force that even Jason blinked.

The boy followed Martha through a side door, sagging on his feet.

Nikolous snorted like a bull, turned from them, and marched toward the main entrance. He stopped at the door. “Do
not
try my patience on this one,” he said and shut the door firmly.

Silence surrounded Jason and Leiah.

“Jason . . .”

“It's not the end of the world, Leiah. In fact it may be the beginning. Nikolous is starting to unravel.”

She lifted her head and her blue eyes flashed with concern. “And so is Caleb.”

She was right. They might have argued with Nikolous, but they couldn't dispute the fact that Caleb had been unable to heal the child on the stage. His power was slipping. Or had slipped.

“I won't let him hurt Caleb again, Leiah. That's a promise. I don't care what the Immigration Service has to say about it; I'll take him away from this mess myself.” He had an inkling to chase Martha down right now and take the boy.

“Whatever it takes?” Leiah said.

He stood and reached for her hand. She gave it to him, and he rubbed the back with his thumb. The scars were faint there, but they were still visible.

“Whatever it takes.”

28

T
HE WITCH LED
C
ALEB THROUGH THE BACK
of the church and down a dark staircase that ended in a big room full of pipes and a large metal box that sounded like a car. She opened a pale blue door and pointed in. He shuffled past her into a small room with one bare cot and a folded gray blanket. She glared at him, and he thought she was going to yell, but she slammed the door and walked off.

The room was black. He felt for the bed and collapsed onto a thin mattress. His stomach felt like someone was in there twisting it into knots. But the pills the doctor had given him helped a little. Mostly they made his eyes heavy. Tonight had been a very bad night. The light had disappeared from his world and he felt like maybe he was dying. He curled into a ball and drifted into sleep.

It was still dark when Caleb awoke. He lay on his back, wet with sweat, and he stared hard at the ceiling. But he saw only black. Where was he?

Oh yes. The small room.

The terrible meeting.

Desperation hit him like a hammer. What was happening to him? Images of that small child with metal braces on his legs skipped through his mind. The Father had his hands out begging, and the child was crying.

He did not heal the boy because he could not heal the boy. There was no light. Not even a small glimmer.