Gather the Sentient (26 page)

CHAPTER

46

LILLIAN

Tuesday, October 11

Saint Tropez

Lillian felt her skin cooking.  Her shoulders, her calves, baking into a deep, golden brown.  She recognized the distinction between the sensation of a tan and a burn and wanted to avoid the latter, which is why she chose this exact moment to nimbly slip her bikini straps over her arms and turn over on the chaise.  She’d been enjoying her uninterrupted time in the French Riviera, sunning and sipping mimosas without the constant annoyance of having to be at Patrick’s beck and call.  She tolerated him, of course, and in some ways even liked him, but his obsession with the prophecy in recent months had grown out of hand, and she’d been relieved when the others persuaded him to give them all some breathing room.  The others didn’t realize the toll biolocating took on her – placing stress on her mind as it struggled to focus on two places at once.  Although, she thought now as she smoothed tanning oil on her thighs, they probably had no idea she seldom left her home in Saint Tropez, choosing instead to biolocate when she met with them.

The days had been growing cooler over the last several weeks, and Lillian was enjoying an unseasonably warm morning on the beach.  The air was slightly brisk, causing gooseflesh to rise on her skin when it blew, but the sun was still warm, reminding her of the many years she spent basking under the hazy skies of Texas.  She tried not to think of Texas, the first place in the world she felt truly vulnerable.  The only place in the world she would never voluntarily return to.

She had no idea how much time had passed when her phone began to chime from the bag beneath her chaise, startling her from her repose. 

“Hold your horses,” she said as she fumbled to find her phone amongst the bottled waters, sunglasses, and various lotions strewn throughout her bag.

“Hello,” she said breathlessly once she found it.

“Well, there you are,” Javier said curtly in his thick Spanish accent.  “I’ve been calling you for days.”

“Oh, Darling,” she replied.  “I had no idea.  Did you leave me a message?”

“That’s hard to do when your mailbox is full.”

Lillian remembered the numerous phone calls from her mother she’d failed to respond to.  She tried to recall just how many there’d been.  Enough to fill her voicemail?

“Well, you have me now,” she said to Javier.  “What’s so pressing.  I thought we weren’t supposed to be in contact with one another.  We’re supposed to be taking a break, remember?  Or is it that you just can’t stand to be away from me any longer?”

He ignored her innuendo.  “We may have found Number Seven.”

Lillian bolted upright in her chair.  “How?  Does Patrick know?”

“No.  Not yet.  I decided not to call him until we’re certain this man’s a match. And right now Wesley’s still searching for his exact location.”

“Where?”

“In Pakistan.”

“So Eshanti’s drawings were right after all.”

“Yes.  We’re lucky Patrick had the foresight to send a memo to the research team asking them to run the drawings against known locations using image matching software before he left.  Even after Wesley wrote them off when he was unable to glean any useful information from them, Patrick didn’t give up.”

“And they’re of Pakistan,” Lillian interrupted.

“It appears so.  Once the team had that information, they began to search exclusively for birthday matches within the Pakistani database.  They called me two days ago with a hit.”

Lillian’s heart leapt.  It was happening.  She was finally going to live in a world where the revenge she sought would be not only justified but celebrated.

“Should I come to London?” she asked.

“Not yet.  Just stay where you are for now.  I’ll be in touch with any news but it might not be a bad idea to have a bag packed.  And Lillian?”

“Yes?”

“When the time comes, you’re actually going to have to be here, physically here.  You can’t just biolocate.  You know that, right?”

Lillian realized immediately he knew about her mild agoraphobia.  And why wouldn’t he?  He would’ve been a fool not to have suspected there were many times she chose not to leave Saint Tropez in favor of biolocating to the others instead.  She doubted, however, that he knew why.

“I understand,” she told him, just before the line disconnected.

She sat there, the tanning oil beading on the unblemished surface of her thighs, reflecting on the plan she’d been concocting in her own mind for many, many years.  Preparing for the day when there would be no punishment for the retribution she planned to undertake against her father.  A day when she could reclaim the power he’d taken from her so many years before.

She’d been eleven years old the first time he’d come to her, alone in her bedroom in the middle of the night.  She’d thought he was coming in to soothe her, to assuage her fears that despite the latest round of teasing she’d endured about her expanding bust line, everything was going to be okay.

But comforting her had been the last thing on his mind.

Her mother referred to her as their ‘budding rose,’ and as the juvenile boys in her sixth grade class where fond of pointing out, even the blossoms were bigger in Texas.  The girls were no kinder, and she heard them making fun of her, calling her a whore and a slut as she hid from them, crouched in an empty bathroom stall.  Seemingly overnight, her body had metamorphosed from a little girl everyone adored into a sideshow exhibit to be gawked at and insulted.  In an effort to conceal the volume of her breasts, she secured them with ace bandages during the day under oversized t-shirts from her father’s closet.  But it was no use.  The other kids saw them.  Her teachers saw them.  She saw them.

Her father saw them.

During that first night, as he groped and fondled her under the silky fabric of her Spice Girls nightgown, she’d instinctively imagined herself somewhere else – Saint Tropez.  Earlier in the week, she’d come across one of her mother’s many travel brochures, potential locales for her next getaway with her old sorority sisters.  She’d mindlessly flipped through the one on top, of exotic Saint Tropez in the south of France, and imagined what it would be like to escape there, away from her classmates’ judgment and scorn.  As she lay beneath her father’s heavy frame, her mind recalled the images of the city – terra cotta roofs, expansive white sand beaches, marinas with yachts the size of houses.  And in an instant, she was there.

For a moment, she’d thought she was dreaming.  That her father, as well as the warmth of the sun she now felt on her cheeks, were merely the products of her overactive imagination.  But she was not asleep.  She was wide awake and perfectly aware of what was happening in both places.  She heard her father moaning softly above her as clearly as the cry of a seagull overhead.  In an attempt to block out the horror of what was taking place in Texas, she began to focus solely on Saint Tropez, on the extended line at which the horizon met the sea.  Her bedroom fell away as she began to walk, testing out her legs as she felt the heat of the sand between her toes.

That beach became a place of refuge for her in the years that followed.  On the nights of her father’s visits she would biolocate to Saint Tropez the moment she heard the tell-tale click of the doorknob.  Sadly, she was never completely unaware of what was happening to her back in Texas, and those memories drove her close to madness.

Until the day Patrick and the prophecy rescued her, providing her with an alternative to insanity.

Clouds began moving in.  It was October, after all.  The rainy season.  Lillian packed up her belongings and started for her house, a two-story contemporary just beyond the closest dune.  As she strolled through the sand, it occurred to her that she should delete some of the messages from her voice mailbox in the event Javier was unable to reach her.  She was surprised to find eleven recordings from her mother and wasted no time deleting them, indifferent to whatever the woman had to say.  She hesitated, however, her finger hovering over the delete button of the last message.  Curiosity got the better of her, and as she reached the top of the dune, she pressed ‘listen’.

“Lillian?  This is your mother.  Again.  This is the last time I’m going to contact you about this.  There’s a man named Thomas Pritchett who’s been calling and emailing the house nonstop for over a week.  He’s looking for you.  He’s interested in speaking with you about your abilities.  I’m just letting you know because I’m tired of being harassed by one of your lunatic admirers.  I expect you to take care of this problem immediately.”

Lillian saved the message.  And then she called Patrick. 

CHAPTER

47

PATRICK

Tuesday, October 11

South Africa

Patrick maneuvered along the rocky coast of his native South Africa, stepping carefully from one weathered rock to another, checking to be sure each stone was secured to the surface below before trusting his weight upon it.  Over two weeks had passed since the dark psychics had parted ways from his estate in London, when they agreed to limited contact with one another until such time that he felt the sixth psychic join the light side’s growing ranks.

“Take some time to relax and refocus,” Javier had counseled him.  “Your abilities might be stronger if you give yourself a break.”

Now, as he checked and rechecked his footing before venturing further along his path, he felt as if the last thing he needed was a break.  There was no room in his life for leisure, not when there was so much at stake.  But the others could not be assuaged.  In the end, it was him who was forced to succumb to their wishes and not the other way around.

For Patrick, though, agreeing to their arrangement wasn’t the worst part of the ordeal.  Eshanti’s tirade over his lack of abilities ground at his confidence more intensely than he was initially willing to admit.  That night, he’d spent hours poring over his finances and corporate holdings, consoling himself with the knowledge that his abilities were responsible for the majority of his wealth and power.  In the end, however, he finally admitted to himself that no matter how hard he tried, he had never been able to glean any valuable information about the prophetic psychics using his gift.

He came to a sandy stretch of beach and sat upon the cool, packed shore.  Toward the horizon, sailboats swept along the jagged surface of the water and for an instant, Patrick longed to be as carefree as the ships’ inhabitants.  He had spent so many years chasing the idea of utopia – a world in which he would be free to do as he pleased without the unwarranted reproach of others.  Now, although he was as close as he’d ever come to fulfilling the dream, he felt, for the first time in his life, as though the utopian ideal was undeniably beyond his grasp.

Patrick watched the boats for the better part of an hour, imagining what his life might have been like if he had never been chosen as part of the prophecy.  If instead, he had just lived as any other man, unsuspecting of the world to come.  Could he have been happy, sailing from port to port, without a care for what came next?

No, he decided.  His life demanded purpose.  A purpose the prophecy had given him long ago.  A purpose he could not now abandon.  He was done feeling sorry for himself, and as he listened to the steady pulse of the waves crashing upon the rocks, felt a renewed sense of certainty that the world would end up as the utopian society he always imagined it could be, devoid of the pompous sanctimony responsible for the moral code.   He knew the principles of civilized society were a joke, often cast aside when adhering to them proved impossible to the masses.  In times of war, famine, plague – the rules changed.  Good and bad.  Right and wrong.   They were all very fluid.  Which is why he knew he was no monster, simply an evolution of the species chosen to usher in the new order.

He was still watching the boats when his phone began chiming in his pocket.  He stood up, fishing it out by the third ring.

“This is Patrick,” he said, unaccustomed to answering his own calls.

“It’s Lillian,” said a familiar voice.  “You were right all along.  We need to get back to London right away.  All of us.”

CHAPTER

48

SALOMON

Wednesday, October 12

Democratic Republic of Congo

The trip to the city of Kamina was long and hot.  Petia and Merveille clung to Salomon in the back of Marceau’s truck, wrapping their sticky arms and legs around him as they bumped along the narrow, dirt road, away from Buganga and on toward new beginnings.  They wept as if he were their own flesh and bone when he delivered them into the welcoming arms of a neighboring village, and it was all he could do not to remain with them.  Certainly, they could use his planting expertise and harvesting techniques, but no.  He knew now that staying would be like placing a dressing over a festering wound.  Just covering such an injury wouldn’t prevent it from causing death.  His purpose was greater now.  He needed to cure the infection at the source.

He left the girls, along with the others, and he and Marceau continued toward Kamina.  The roar of the engine and rumble of the gravel under the heavily-treaded tires kept their conversation to a minimum, which suited Salomon and apparently Marceau as well.  With nothing left to discuss but the tragic demise of his village, it was far easier saying nothing at all.

Upon their arrival to the city, their first stop was the University.  Outside the stark, white, two-story cement building with contrasting green trim and bar covered windows, the head of the Agricultural Sciences department, Dr. Nyembo Musoya, waited.

“Salomon, my son, it’s so good to see your face,” the man gushed, hurrying to greet Salomon as he clambered out of the truck.  “But under such unfortunate circumstances, I’m afraid.  I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Salomon welcomed his mentor’s embrace, acknowledging his kindness.  It wasn’t going to be easy leaving him behind.  “Thank you, Professor.  I wish I could say I was shocked by what occurred, but how can I be when we live in a society such as this?”

Musoya nodded thoughtfully and beckoned Salomon and Marceau to follow him into the building where he led them through the narrow halls to his rudimentary office space.

After taking a seat with the others at the professor’s desk and accepting a slice of coconut pie, Salomon wasted no time broaching the reason for his visit.  “Professor, I’ve come because I need your help.”

Worry lines crinkled the aging man’s forehead as he swallowed the first bite of his pie.  “Marceau warned me you have plans to leave the country, even when there is so much work left to be done.  Please don’t let this recent tragedy cause such a drastic change of heart.  We need you here.”

Salomon had no intention of telling either man about the prophecy, as he feared their scorn would bring about more resistance to his cause.  Instead, he asked for their assistance in obtaining a student visa, with the promise to return to his homeland with the skills necessary to affect greater change.

“In order to obtain a student visa to the United States, you must first be accepted into a university.  You haven’t been accepted anywhere at this time, I assume?”

Salomon shook his head.  He knew getting out of the country was going to be difficult, he just hadn’t anticipated hitting an immediate brick wall.  “No. I haven’t.  But you must understand that time is of the essence for me.  My spirit is broken.  There must be another way.”

  His aging professor rocked back on his chair and pulled at his greying beard.  Although it was obvious he wanted Salomon to stay, he could see the man warming to the idea.  “You would only need a class B-2 visitor visa if you want to take classes but aren’t officially enrolled in a program.  You’ll need to schedule an interview at the US embassy in Kinshasa, and it usually takes about seven days to receive an appointment date.”

If he applied the next day, he could have his interview in a week.  “How much does it cost?”

“If I remember correctly there’s a $160 nonrefundable visa application fee, as well as a $150 fee for the visa itself and another $250 for the DRC fee.”

He quickly calculated the total in his head.  “$560 altogether.”

“Plus airfare, tuition, and room and board when you get there.”

Salomon bowed his head, unable to face the improbability of what he wanted to accomplish staring back at him through Musoya’s eyes.  How naïve and idealistic he’d been to think it was possible to fulfill this destiny, lying alone in the charred remains of his village the week before.

“‘Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.’”

He looked up at his professor.  “Sir?”

“Oliver Wendell Holmes, a famous American poet said that, about leaving home.”  He took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leaned across the desk toward Salomon.  “I can understand wanting to leave.  It’s a difficult thing, being an educated man, living in an uneducated world.  It’ll break your heart.  So I won’t try to stop you from leaving if you think distance and perspective might do you some good.”  He turned his attention to Marceau.  “Do you wish to tell him or shall I?”

Marceau cut his eyes to Salomon.  His friend’s sadness was unmistakable.  “You can tell him,” he told the professor.

Salomon was confused.  Tell him what?  What had these two men been conspiring about behind his back?

“When the university scouts brought you here, all those years ago, I knew immediately there was something special about you, Salomon.  To be fair, there’s something special about all the men who attend this university, which is why they’re brought here and not left like so many others to bear the burden of a life without hope.  Because truly, that is what we teach here, in so much as anything else.  More than law and biology, we teach young men to hope.”

He took the last bite of his pie and chewed it slowly.  Deliberately.  Until he was ready to begin again.  “Unfortunately, the problem which arises when we send you boys away from this place back into the world is that you carry that hope like a shield, as if it can protect you from all the ugliness.  And when you discover the ugliness has a way of finding you, regardless of that hope, it can destroy even the purest of souls.”  Musoya locked eyes with him and Salomon could not look away.  “Promise me hope will not leave your heart.  Promise you will return to us.  And promise you won’t let what has happened to you destroy your soul.”

He wasn’t sure whether Musoya’s words were meant as a blessing or farewell, but regardless, he was certainly no closer to fulfilling the prophecy than he’d been at his arrival.  “I promise,” he told his professor, because it seemed the only appropriate thing to say.

Musoya nodded his approval and reached inside his desk drawer, producing a sealed envelope.  He slid it across the desk to Salomon.  “Inside the envelope you will find two checks.  One is already made out to the US Department of State in the amount of $560, enough to secure your travel documentation.  The other check is made out to you for $1500.  It should be more than enough to cover your flight.  You can thank Marceau for the checks.”

His friend was smiling at him for the first time since before the rebel attack.  “You’re probably not going to believe this, but I received an email from a Chinese woman yesterday completely out of the blue.  At first I was certain it was a scam, but I swear that she knew you.  Knew everything about your situation and insisted on wiring the money necessary for both your travel documentation and the airfare to the United States.  Believe me when I tell you she was adamant that I procure these checks for you.”  Marceau sighed heavily as he shook his head.  “I must be honest though when I say, I don’t want you to go.  I’m going to miss you.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing – that Lanying had somehow obtained the funding for his trip and that his friends were encouraging him to go despite their personal inclination for him to stay.  He looked between them, from the professor to Marceau and back again, blinking back tears of joy.  “I don’t know how to thank you both,” he said at last.

“No man should have to witness the brutality you’ve seen.  You deserve this opportunity to become the man you were born to be.  I just pray when you’ve found yourself out there, you’ll be strong enough to come back here.”

He saw the anguish in his mentor’s eyes and wanted desperately to tell him that yes, things were going to be better for all the hard-working, defenseless villagers throughout the Congo and throughout Africa.  Because the end was coming and he was going to be there for it, alongside the six other light psychics who would usher in the new world.

And when the dark was overcome, he would return.