The Firstborn (16 page)
Morris stood and shouted at the top of his lungs, face red as a dozen others barked back.
Henry Rice grabbed his granddaughter and began pulling her toward the door, getting her away from the argument, with his bodyguard, Blake, forcing a path through the assembly.
Blake shoved John Temple, and the missionary came back swinging.
The arguments were turning into a brawl.
Devin stood, moving to the door with a half dozen others who had the good sense to leave.
He looked at his watch. Whatever Henry Rice had to say had interested him—but now it meant everything.
“What was that about?” Hannah asked, horrified, as her grandfather shoved his keycard into the hotel door lock.
“Stay here,” he said, his voice fast and obviously agitated. The door came open, and he nearly pushed her into the room. “And don’t let anyone in.”
She stared back at him. “Where are you going?”
“I have to meet with someone,” he said, looking around nervously. “It’s urgent.”
John was the last to leave the meeting room.
What had that been about? Screaming? Yelling? Fighting?
He held his aching jaw and groaned. It was time to get some fresh air.
H
ENRY
R
ICE STOOD IN
the darkened backways of the almost labyrinthine Riverwalk, stone walls lining the river. Moss and lichen clung to the edges of the sidewalk before dropping off into the twinkling water.
He heard footsteps come down a set of nearby stairs. Henry turned.
Oh no, he thought.
Devin moved down the Riverwalk, feet stepping quickly.
The walk was simply rows of outdoor cafés, restaurants, nightclubs, and hotels crowded around the San Antonio River. Lined with lights, buildings, and palm trees, it was like a cross between Venice and Las Vegas.
Every few hundred feet another vintage-looking bridge arched over the water, which glistened with a thousand sparkling lights. Portions of the walk weaved through the river itself, putting water on either side as the street passed overhead on iron-girded bridges.
The walk seemed to stretch on and on, with a raucous night-life boiling out of its innumerable venues. Rows and rows of tables stretched the length of the walk as people talked loudly and ate.
Devin moved through it all, hardly taking note of the things around him, navigating through the swell of human traffic. Henry Rice wanted to talk to him—in secret, and that was going to be interesting if nothing else.
John Temple held his jaw.
Things had always been tense among the Firstborn. Politics, bluster, threats, pretense—but violence? Whatever was happening, the First-born were disintegrating.
He stood in the Rivercenter at the foot of the hotel. At the end of the Riverwalk, a shopping mall surrounded the brightly lit water, a small artificial lake. At the center of the water was a platform where a jazz band played, its rumbling rhythm pulsing through the air.
John listened for several minutes, then heard something else.
It was like a heartbeat, thundering in his ears. It was—
Henry Rice standing in the dark. Someone approaching.
Confrontation.
Anger. Intimidation. The person shoving Henry into a stone wall. The old man—
Concerned. Appalled. Angry.
Afraid for his life.
John Temple looked around. It was happening. It was all happening right now.
Devin walked at a brisk pace. He needed to get there soon.
Then he felt it in his stomach, a sinking. Something horrible was about to happen. Even without a vision, he knew it in his gut.
He increased his pace. There wasn’t much time.
A horn blared as John ran through the intersection, a car slamming on its brakes to keep from hitting him. Tires screeched. His feet hit the sidewalk at the other end of the intersection near a tall modern-art sculpture—the Torch of Friendship, as it was called, red and twisting.
He kept running, shoving through people.
Henry Rice was afraid for his life.
Not soon—
now
.
John hammered at the sidewalk with his feet, driving his legs like a taskmaster. The world dissolved into a rushing blur around him.
“Hey!” somebody shouted as he shoved past rudely.
He could feel where Henry was, not with precision, but a kind of proximity. Close enough to reach him, far enough to be too late.
John surged forward with all his might, spinning around a corner where a set of stairs led down to the Riverwalk below. Down the steps he went, nearly leaping into the thicket of tables and chairs.
Something twisted and tangled in his stomach. He felt sick, like he was in the presence of—
Evil.
Suddenly, the world was gone.
Pain. Fury. Shoving. Struggle. Yelling.
Stone steps—
—fleeing.
Grappling.
Slipping.
The old man’s body falling backward.
John grabbed the back of a chair, and its occupant turned, bewildered and disgusted. John clutched his stomach—he could feel it all happening—
Right now.
“Sir, are you all right?” a waiter asked.
John tried to speak, but he could hardly breathe. He stood upright, trying to walk forward. His body tilted, the world swam. It was overwhelming—the knowledge of—
Pain. Fear. Betrayal.
The steps slamming into his back.
His body sliding down.
The sensation of bones—
Cracking.
Breaking.
Body tumbling.
Anguish. Gasping for life.
He looked up.
“Sir?”
His jaw set, his world righted. He plunged into the night.
Devin took calculated steps, clipping along as fast as his feet would take him.
He moved up a set of stairs and down another.
He stopped.
He stared—incredulous.
On the cement at the bottom of the steps lying on his back was Henry Rice, body twisted and broken. Devin rushed to the bottom of the stairs and checked the old man’s pulse.
—nothing—
He stood, staring in disbelief, then removed his cell phone from his jacket, dialed, and waited.