The Firstborn (7 page)

Henry Rice ripped the phone from the hook mid-ring, hand trembling.

“Yes?” he said into the receiver.

“Mr. Rice?”

“This is he.”

“This is Devin Bathurst.”

Henry paused, heart skipping. “How can I help you, Mr. Bathurst?”

“You have a granddaughter named Hannah, correct?”

The old man gripped the phone with all his arthritic might. “What’s this about?” he said, trying not to shout in anger. “What do you want?”

“I’m taking her to the hospital to be examined.”

“She’s safe?”

“Yes.”

Henry sat, relief washing over him. “Where are you?”

“Colorado.”

“Colorado?” Henry asked, eye lifted. “She’s here in Colorado?” “Yes,” Devin announced. “Once she’s given her statement I’ll bring her to you.”

“No,” Henry insisted. “Tell me what hospital you’re taking her to, and I’ll come pick her up.”

“Good,” Devin said in his typical flat, heartless tone. “Because we need to talk.”

The carpet in the hospital’s chapel was cranberry red and soft to the touch.

Devin lowered to his knees, hand steadying himself against the floor. Back straight, hands clasped—the way his grandmother had taught him to pray. Head bowed, eyes closed. He took in air and held it, releasing it slowly—then let his mind begin to work.

The Lord’s Prayer.

Nothing fancy, but it was like fresh air for his soul. Behind him he heard the door creak open softly. Someone stepped in. He raised a finger gently, indicating his desire for a moment.

He finished then stood.

“Devin?”

Henry Rice stood just in the door, a worn old rancher—white hair, stocky build.

Devin took a place at one of the pews, gesturing. “Have a seat.” Henry sat down. “What’s going on, Devin? Who took my granddaughter?”

“I don’t know,” Devin said, reaching into his sport coat. “I was called to her; I can’t help that, you know that. But I found this…” He revealed the lapel pin.

Henry looked the artifact over. “Where’d you get that?”

“It was in the house where they were keeping her.”

Henry went quiet.

“Is there any reason one of the Firstborn would want to abduct your granddaughter?”

A sigh escaped from the old man’s heaving body. “Overseer,” he said, shaking his head.

“The leadership proposal?”

“Yes. I’ve been opposed to any kind of central leadership since the beginning. I’m hardly comfortable with it within the orders…”

“And you’re opposed to a governing body between the orders?”

Henry shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m just not ready for that kind of change, but to go so far as to kidnap my granddaughter?”

“You think someone is trying to coerce you into changing your mind?”

He nodded. “I received a message the other day explaining that I would receive assistance in finding my granddaughter if I would agree to change my stance on Overseer.”

“Were you going to change your stance?” Devin asked bluntly.

The old man bowed his head. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you did.”

“They had my granddaughter; I’d have done anything.”

Devin considered for a moment. “Do you have any idea who did this?”

“No.”

“Do you have any hunches?”

“No.”

Devin stood. “Contact me if you come across any leads.”

Henry’s head lifted. “You know it’s forbidden for us to talk. I shouldn’t be talking to you now.” The old man groaned. “Who knows what our own people might do to us if they found out we were talking.”

“Well…” Devin opened the chapel door and paused. “You said it yourself: you’d have done anything for your granddaughter.” He paused a moment longer, then pushed through the door.

Outside the chapel, he scanned the corridor for a bathroom. He felt grimy. He’d been in his suit all day, a day that had included a flight, a long drive, two major physical altercations, travel through snow, being shut in a car trunk, and shooting a man in the chest. Sweat had soaked his undershirt, and now faint dampness clung to his body with every step.

He loosened his tie and headed down the hospital corridor. “Devin,” a voice said from behind.

Devin stopped. He knew that voice. “Blake,” he said without turning, “how can I help you?”

“We need to talk.”

Devin turned around and tightened his tie again. “OK.”

Blake Jackson looked as competent as Devin knew him to be. Blue jeans, work boots, down jacket, strong body. He was Henry Rice’s right-hand man, and he took the job seriously.

“Look,” Blake said, tone already dropping a register, “I really appreciate what you did, coming to his granddaughter’s rescue—”

“But?” Devin interjected, knowing the statement was conditional.

“But you have to be more careful. Got it?”

Devin nodded slowly.

“It’s against the rules for you two to be talking,” he continued. “You know that.”

“I do.”

A male nurse walked their direction and the two of them stopped talking for a moment, staring into one another. A moment later the nurse was gone.

“Normal contact between the orders will get you both into trouble. What you’ve done today will earn the Domani some respect, but people aren’t going to put up with you being around for very long.”

They stood for a moment, neither saying anything. Devin looked both directions, scanning for anyone who might be watching them.

“We shouldn’t be talking in the open,” Devin said. “We could be seen.”

Blake nodded. “We’ll talk in San Antonio,” he said with a casual nod.

Devin watched Blake turn around. “Just one thing.”

Blake stopped, looking back. “Yeah?”

“What have you heard about that murdered imam in Ohio?”

“The Muslim guy?” Blake shrugged. “Not much, why?”

“Some people think all Muslims are terrorists. I just wondered what your thoughts were.”

Blake didn’t respond for a moment, studying Devin’s face. “I guess they can’t all be terrorists. But if this one was, then somebody did the world a service.” Blake looked at his watch. “Any other questions?”

Devin shook his head. “That’s all.”

Blake dipped his head and walked away. Devin watched until Blake was gone, then did the same, pretending their conversation had never taken place.

Henry pushed Hannah in a wheelchair out of the front door of the hospital. She had a clean bill of health, a few bumps and bruises, some dehydration, but mostly she was unscathed.

Hannah stared forward, unspeaking, unmoving. They’d said that she would need counseling. Henry believed them. They’d explained that victims of kidnap and abduction frequently had serious changes in personality and demeanor, but she’d always been so quiet it was hard to tell.

Henry squeezed the handles tightly as his blood pressure began to increase. They had abducted his granddaughter—that was heinous. But the thought that they had robbed who she was—that was despicable.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, probing for some sign of her old self.

No reply.

“The doctors said that you were going to be just fine.”

She remained silent.

The glass doors parted in front of them and he stopped, helping her out of the wheelchair.

“Who was he?” she asked.

“Do you mean Mr. Bathurst?”

“Yes. He said he knew you. How?”

Henry offered his granddaughter his arm as they moved down the steps. Blake waited in the car, engine running. “He and I belong to different branches of the same organization.”

“What kind of organization?”

He thought for a moment, trying to skirt any details regarding the Firstborn. “It’s a religious organization. We deal with needs that God brings to us.”

“What kinds of needs?”

“Whatever needs to be done,” he said, “past, present, or future.” She was quiet for a minute. “Are those the people who come to the house for meetings sometimes?”

His heart skipped and his hands felt numb. “You knew about that?”

“I’ve always known,” she said softly. “I just assumed it was business.”

“Well,” he said, trying to be diplomatic, “it might be for the best if you didn’t mention Mr. Bathurst to any of those people.”

“Why?” she asked without a moment’s hesitation. They stopped at the car and held for a moment.

“Sometimes people in this world are different, and when people are different, other people don’t like them very much.”

“Is this because he’s an African American?”

“No,” he said with a smile, “nothing that simple. It’s just a matter of seeing different things.”

He opened the car door for her. “Now let’s take you home.”

Chapter 3

H
OLY
M
AN
M
URDERED
O
UTSIDE
of Ohio Mosque—Imam Basam Al Nassar Shot to Death in Car.

Clay Goldstein threw the newspaper down with a heavy smack. He stood, seething.

The roomful of people stared back at him. He knew full well that he was being dramatic—a career in the film industry gave him that edge—but this moment deserved it.

“The Prima did this,” he said with a snarl, voice echoing through the office of his sunny Napa Valley mansion. It was way too early for this garbage. He’d only been out of his bathrobe for twenty minutes and had barely had a chance to pull on one of his trademark Hawaiian shirts and blue jeans before everything had come crashing down. At this rate he was lucky he’d gotten his glasses on before the universe had imploded.

“Do you know for sure?” Vincent Sobel asked, trying to be tactful. “I mean, you could be mistaken.”

He stared at Vince, sitting on the couch in his smarmy Italian suit and sculpted hair. “I felt it as it happened,” Clay sneered. “It was one of Henry Rice’s people. I know it.”

“Well,” Vincent continued, “you’ve been pretty skeptical about the other orders for a while and—”

“Don’t patronize me. I know I’ve made speculations before, but now we have a smoking gun.”

The room remained silent.

Clay put a pensive hand to his beard, thinking as he spoke. “Nobody likes the Ora—never have. We see people where they are—nobody likes to be that vulnerable. We’re the least respected of the three orders, and now we’re sitting on evidence that the Prima are killers. That’s only going to make us less popular.”

A woman spoke. “You don’t have to share with the other orders what you think you saw—”

“I know what I saw!” he shouted. “I saw it, plain as day—as it happened.”

The room went quiet again. He looked them over.

“This is why Overseer is so important. If we unite the orders, then lone gunmen could be stopped. And since they’ve already started killing others, how long will it be before they start killing us again too?”

“Do we contact Henry Rice?” someone asked. “We could use this to put pressure on him—to force unification.”

Clay nodded. “But if we do, then we’d have to stay out of San Antonio.”

“Why?”

“Because if his cronies have killed before, they’ll kill us too—especially if they find out what we know.”

Vincent spoke up. “This strikes me as a very dangerous game.”

“It is.”

“We still need people to represent us at the meeting.”