The Firstborn (15 page)

Devin tried not to roll his eyes.

“Please join me,” John said, raising a hand and bowing his head.

What a show, Devin thought, glaring, and John began his very long, meandering prayer.

The meetings were never well organized.

They always opened the same way—the state of the orders. Each order would have a member stand and deliver a theoretically brief presentation about what their order’s mission statement for the year was and how they had achieved last year’s goals.

Devin hated it. It was all politics. Show everyone else what you’d done and what you plan to do and continue to hope that the others would stay out of your way. Justify your turf and hope that the others would see it your way.

One small group of the Ora had done a pretty good job of helping out in a neighborhood in New York once—their presentation was to request continued access to what was theoretically Domani turf for the sake of their mercy mission.

In all truth it was an attempt to keep an eye on the Domani and to keep them from trying to hurt any members of the Ora.

That simple.

A thousand years of mistrust heaped upon mistrust.

The first presentation ended and the lights came up. What should have been a half-hour presentation had taken nearly two full hours. Devin rubbed his eyes.

Someone suggested a break, and a consensus was reached.

Devin didn’t care. These meetings were pointless, just a show of power.

Then he felt a tapping on his shoulder.

“Mr. Bathurst,” Henry Rice said into his ear, “do you have a moment?”

Devin nodded. The true purpose behind the annual meetings was not to meet in conference rooms and discuss goals and negotiate boundaries—the real purpose was to provide individuals the chance to meet secretly. That was where the real business was done.

After a few moments, Devin followed Henry to a balcony overlooking the river below. The lights of the Riverwalk glowed through the thick vegetation that surrounded the river itself.

“It’s a beautiful city,” Henry said with a nod.

“Agreed,” Devin replied, wondering what they were doing here.

“Mr. Bathurst,” Henry began, “please tell me again how you found my granddaughter.”

“I was given the moment,” he said flatly.

“More specifically?”

“I had a vision of her being killed. I saw the house and was, through time-consuming research, able to piece together the location.”

“Did you know it was my granddaughter?”

“No.”

“Would you have come for her if you’d known she was related to me?”

Devin stood for a moment. “The doctrine of isolation—”

“Forget that. Would you have come for her—simply because she was a person in need?”

Devin didn’t speak for several moments, then nodded. “Yes, sir. I would have helped your granddaughter, simply because it was the right thing to do.”

Henry leaned against the railing, heaving a sigh as his body relaxed. “She still has a chance,” he said with a nod.

“A chance for what?”

“A normal life.”

“Sir?”

Henry shook his head. “Look at us. What do you see, Mr. Bathurst?”

“I’m afraid that I don’t follow.”

“Are you happy, Mr. Bathurst?”

“I’m not sure…”

“It’s a simple question: are you or are you not happy?”

Devin straightened his tie. “It isn’t about being happy, and you know that.”

“But she still has a chance at it.” Henry stood upright, crossing his arms. “When I look at her I see life before all of this—before all the pain and mistrust. You know how painful this life is. And if I can do anything to save her from the pain we’ve had to experience, then I’ll do everything in my power.”

Devin shook his head. “But that’s not what we are. We weren’t called to live simple or cheery lives—the world needs people like us. God called us to do what was right—to make the world a better place—even if it hurts. Even if that means we have to look past our differences.”

“You’re right,” Henry agreed, nodding. “That’s why the Firstborn need more like you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The older man turned to him. “Do you know what we are, Mr. Bathurst?”

Devin nodded. “We are the descendants of those resurrected at the death of Christ, charged with using our gifts for the betterment of humanity.”

Henry shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “After thirty years of walking with the Firstborn I’ve learned one very important thing—we are not special. We are not better, and we will not necessarily make the world a better place.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Bathurst, we are people—scared, hurt, and unwilling to look past our differences. We talk about the orders of the Firstborn, but there is no order. We’re nothing more than individuals with some gifts, trying desperately to bring some meaning to a nearly incoherent rabble.”

Devin stood for a moment. “I’m not certain I follow.”

“Mr. Bathurst,” Henry said, placing a paternal hand on Devin’s shoulder, “we are small creatures with tremendous gifts—but none of that means a thing if we forget where we come from and why we have these gifts.”

“Is everything all right?” Devin asked, suddenly concerned.

“I’m afraid that the Firstborn will tear themselves apart, unless a few good men take a stand.”

Devin examined the older man’s face, trying to read the expression of concern. “What are you talking about?”

“Corruption,” Henry said without blinking. “Horrible things are about to happen—members of the Firstborn are about to do horrible things.”

“You don’t see the future,” Devin pointed out.

There was a twinkle in Henry’s eye. “When you get to be my age you find out that there are more ways to know what’s coming than to be told the future.”

“You’ve heard that someone is planning something?”

“Excuse me,” Blake said, approaching from beyond, “the meeting is about to resume.”

“Thank you, Blake,” Henry said, and his bodyguard moved away.

The older man stuffed a piece of paper in Devin’s hand. “Meet me,” he said, “tonight.” Then he walked away.

Devin looked down at the slip of paper.
Meet me tonight
, it said in sloppy pen script, probably a combination of haste and shaky old hands,
The Riverwalk
. There was a specific location and a time—

Midnight. Tell no one.

Devin folded the slip three times, then tucked it away in his jacket pocket. Whatever had Henry Rice scared involved his granddaughter’s kidnapping, which meant it was serious. And if there was one thing that Devin had come to learn about Henry Rice, it was that if
he
was scared, there was good reason to be.

John sat at the table and leafed through a pocket Bible as he waited for the meeting to resume, when he heard Clay Goldstein’s voice. He looked up and saw him—bearded and thin, striding in like a celebrity, even signing an autograph for one of the doormen.

John stood and approached Clay. “Clay.”

The producer turned around. Dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt with a sport coat and tennis shoes, he still managed to ooze charisma.

“I thought you weren’t coming. What changed?”

Clay smiled. “It’s time for a lot of things to change,” he said with a cool, nearly sinister smile. He patted John on the shoulder and headed for the podium. Three bodyguards followed.

John shook his head. Something didn’t feel right. Nevertheless, the meetings must go on.

He sighed and returned to his seat.

“Good evening,” Clay Goldstein said, clapping his hands together at the front of the room and waiting for a few moments as the group reassembled. The projector flared to life on the table, pouring into Clay’s eyes. “Tonight I was going to present the Ora’s stance on a subject of serious debate—Overseer.”

Clay still wasn’t used to the presentation software, and it gave him trouble sometimes. He checked the screen as he tapped the spacebar on the computer, making sure his presentation’s first slide came up as it was supposed to.

“But instead of talking about Overseer directly, I need to discuss something more urgent. Not just if or when the Firstborn should start pooling their resources, but why.”

The slide changed.

The room gasped.

An image: the imam Basam Al Nassar in his car, riddled with bullets.

“This,” Clay began, “is why we need Overseer.”

Trista Brightling raised her hand from across the room. “I’m confused. What does Overseer have to do with this?”

“Everything,” Clay began. “We all see the world differently. The Prima look to the past, the Domani to the future, while the Ora live in the now. What arrives are more than just differences in perspectives but also in motives and methods.

“And that,” he said, thrusting a finger in the air, “is exactly why we need Overseer.”

A series of images played across the screen.

A copycat killing. Retaliatory attacks. The unrest at Al Nassar’s funeral. Civil unrest.

“How many more acts of violence will we sit back and watch before we do something about it?”

There was chatter.

Morris Childs spoke. “What are you getting at?”

Clay leaned forward. “If the Prima can’t keep a handle on their people, then we’re going to have to do it for them.”

The room went quiet with shock.

“That’s right. Imam Basam Al Nassar was murdered—shot to death in his own car—by one of the Prima.” Clay felt the blood boil in his face. He was angry now—furious.

Henry looked up sharply. “That’s not true.”

“Do you want me to tell them who?”

“Stop it,” Morris Childs insisted, coming to his feet, “both of you!”

“It’s not true,” Henry said again, face pale.

“He was murdered in cold blood, and the Prima did it!”

Henry Rice stood. “Stop saying that,” he demanded, voice agonized.

“Or what?” Clay snarled, bracing himself against the head of the conference table. “You’ll have me murdered too? Like my sons?”

The room burst into argument. People stood, voices rising. The meeting had disintegrated into a shouting match.

Devin sat calmly as the table around him boiled over with conflict. He saw Clay Goldstein as his bodyguards grabbed him and pulled him out a side door, the man’s face nearly smiling at the havoc.