The Firstborn (13 page)
“I don’t get it.”
Her grandfather nodded his head understandingly. “When people are gifted with very different forms of knowledge, they begin to see the world very differently—and if there is one thing that people can’t abide, it’s people who see the world differently from them.”
“And people stop talking about those differences?”
“People will kill over those differences.”
She thought about all the things she wanted for her life. A house. A husband. Children. But an ancient order of prophets? This was not what she had ever dreamed of.
“I don’t want to be one of the Firstborn,” she said in a small voice. “This was never what I wanted.”
His look was gentle as he laid a hand on her shoulder. “But this is your life now.”
She pulled away from him, standing. “This isn’t the life I want.” She left the barn and her grandfather behind.
C
LAY WAS MEETING WITH
his people when his cell rang. He lifted his index finger to request a moment from the others.
“This is Clay.”
“Have you seen the news?”
“No.”
He stood, walked toward the television, and pressed the button on the remote control.
“It’s the Al Nassar thing.”
“What about it?”
“There’s been a copycat shooting in Florida, and it looks like a couple of retaliatory attacks—a guy got on a bus this morning and knifed the driver to avenge Al Nassar. There was nearly a riot at Al Nassar’s funeral.”
Clay turned up the volume on the television, watching the broadcast intently.
“Clay—this is all getting out of hand.”
“Yes,” Clay said, mind focused on the television, “it is.”
“It’s time to do something about this.”
“Yes, it is.”
The phone sat in the middle of Clay’s office on a coffee table. A half dozen other members of the Ora gathered around as the speakerphone dialed.
There was a clicking sound on the other end.
“Yes?”
“Henry Rice,” Clay said, taking a seat on his leather couch as he leaned close to the phone, “we need to talk.”
There was a long break.
Clay looked around the room at the others. Several eyebrows raised.
“What would you like to discuss?”
Clay nodded to himself. “I’d like to talk about a man named Basam Al Nassar.”
“Yes?”
“I felt the murder as it happened—I know who did it.”
“Good. Who?”
Clay pursed his lips. Not the reaction he was hoping for. “I think you know who it was.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Subtlety was getting him nowhere. Clay squeezed his hands together, working them into red knots. He’d been losing his temper more and more lately, and his doctor said it was bad for his heart.
Clay took a deep breath. “Then I suggest keeping a handle on your people, or”—he paused, clicking his tongue—“we might have to do it for you.”
Dead air.
“Are you suggesting it was one of the Prima who killed that man?”
Clay stood and looked around the room smugly as he prepared for his big finish. “I don’t know, Henry. You tell me.”
“I’m sorry,” he came back, sounding defensive, “but if you want to discuss this matter, you’ll have to take it up with me in San Antonio.”
They said their good-byes and ended the conversation.
The room sat in consideration for a moment.
Clay nodded to himself. “Let’s see if that ruffles some feathers.”
“And then?” Vincent Sobel asked, arching a brow.
He shrugged. “Let’s get Overseer established. It’s the only way to stop people like this.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?”
“Get me a flight to San Antonio. I’m blowing this thing open—in front of everybody.”
It was midmorning, and Hannah was still in bed. She lay on her side, facing the wall, studying the wallpaper border. She heard her grandfather’s steps near the door—there was no mistaking them with anyone else.
“Hannah?” he said softly. “Are you awake?”
She didn’t reply.
“Things are getting bad among the Firstborn.”
She remained quiet. If other people wanted to waste their lives fighting over their petty differences and chasing after visions, that was fine, but she wanted no part of it.
“We’re having a meeting in San Antonio,” he said calmly, “and I need someone there whom I can trust.”
She felt like telling him to go away, but it wasn’t good to be rude to your elders.
“I need you there, Hannah. I need your help.”
Hannah didn’t want to reply. She knew what she would do for her grandfather, and she knew that no matter how hard she fought, there was only one choice she would come to.
Henry Rice sighed. “Think about it,” he said, “and let me know.”
Then his footsteps moved away.
Hannah curled into a ball. She was going to San Antonio, and there was no questioning it now.
Devin Bathurst moved through the airport to the car rental desk. He filled out the paperwork and handed over his credit card, signing with a crisp snap of his wrist, then went to the garage.
A midsize, silver, luxury sedan—manual transmission, just the way he liked. He placed his bags in the trunk and then took his place in the driver’s seat.
Devin turned on the radio, twisting the knobs—talk radio. They were discussing universal health care and the effects of a flat tax. He removed a pair of sunglasses from his suit jacket, placing them on his face. Then he started the engine.
He wanted to get to the hotel a few hours before the meetings began.
“I think we’re lost,” Hannah said as she fought with the map, its edges rustling as she tried to shake it further open.
Her grandfather laughed. “No,” he said, pointing, “we’re right where we need to be.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” he said, indicating with his finger, “there’s the Tower Life building.”
John Temple sat in a taxicab, listening to music on his MP3 player, scribbling in the margins of his Bible with a pencil as he read. The driver pointed to the right, saying something. John removed his headphones. “What did you say?”
The driver repeated himself. “That’s the Tower Life building.” He pointed to a tall art-deco-style building.
John shrugged, uncertain of the significance.
“That’s where Eisenhower was stationed when he received the news about the bombing at Pearl Harbor.”
John nodded, unmoved, and returned to his Bible.
Architecture really wasn’t his thing, but it was the kind of thing that tedious Devin Bathurst was probably interested in.
Devin liked the Tower Life building.
He leaned against the window of his hotel room, staring out across the afternoon skyline of San Antonio. The city was an odd combination of cathedrals and art deco, all boiling with a kind of cutting-edge modernity—a place where the old and the new seemed to clash in a strange kind of beauty.
Somewhere down below it all, near the San Antonio River, was the Alamo, a building that was built as a Catholic mission, only to be used as a woefully inadequate fortress.
Religion and war, he thought. They always seemed like such strange but fitting bedfellows to him.
He held his breath for a moment.
Somehow he felt the two coming together again—here in this very city.