by Glenn Kleier
Chapter 17
Friday, October 17, 7:01 am, Queens
Scotty boarded the bus for work with a little more spring in his step, dispensing with the shepherd’s staff today, ankle and back on the mend once more. With his problems at home improved, he’d again given Homer run of the apartment, and sat back to enjoy the ride.
Until he heard sirens.
A fire engine whizzed by his window, lights flashing. More sirens, and the bus lurched to an inner lane, overtaken by a screaming hook-and-ladder. As the truck drew alongside, a car ahead jumped out of an alley into its path. The truck swerved into the bus, the bus screeched to a halt and threw Scotty and everyone else from their seats.
In the dust, screams, and panic, Scotty was badly shaken. And from more than the crash. Last night’s cryptic email echoed in his head: take not the bus tomorrow.
Police and ambulances arrived, and while no injuries appeared serious, Scotty had wrenched his back and ankle once more. Medics whisked everyone to the hospital on standing orders of the Metro Transit Authority.
Scotty loathed hospitals. Mom’s ordeal had deeply imprinted him. Though in agony, he refused treatment, signed a release, was issued pain pills, a bus voucher, and sent home in a taxi with orders to rest. He called Margo on the way, foolishly expecting sympathy.
“If you don’t make it in today,” she told him, “you’re coming in tomorrow. I don’t care how sore you are, we’ve got inventory to finish. Noon, and not a second later.”
Tomorrow was Saturday, but Scotty swore he’d be there, and Margo left him with a dial tone. He popped two pills. Margo was the least of his worries. Whoever sent him those warnings about the restaurant and bus was either responsible for the disasters or at least failed to prevent them. But how was it possible to stage such things?
The explosion at the Rising Moon—people died. Not an act of terrorism, according to the news. A buried gas line. Rusted, rupturing. An apparent accident. And the bus crash. Scotty had watched it unfold in real time; a chain of events seemingly too complex to be orchestrated. Not that Scotty knew a thing about staging terrorism.
On the other hand, how on earth could anyone foresee these events? And why involve Scotty? He felt he was going mad.
Dropped off at his building, he popped two more pills and hobbled upstairs in the throes of confusion. His apartment was quiet, no odd scent, the plant in its place. Homer greeted him at the door.
You’re home early. Christ! You look like a train wreck.
Scotty limped inside and shut the door. “That epistle last night? Dead on. My bus crashed!” Noting the clock close to 10:00, he added, “And unless I miss my guess, I’m due another email.”
He shuffled to his computer and sat with a groan, waking his desktop, restoring the two emails he’d dumped last night. He unblocked their source, too: [email protected].
Hardly had he finished than the air rocked with thunder, and Homer tore for the bedroom. The roar changed to whine, the whine trailed off, and the chat window appeared with the icon of God’s stern face and the flashing epistle alert. Steeling himself, Scotty opened a new riddle:
in the legend of a diamond
tomorrow at the strike of two
a foul deed shall claim a life
—[email protected]
Another ominous prediction. But what the hell did it mean? Distraught, Scotty happened to notice on his browser’s status bar a green dot next to the email link. [email protected] was still live. Hurriedly he typed a response:
who are you? what do you want?
—[email protected]
Long minutes, then:
behold
i am the paraclete of the lord
hearken to his word
Scotty called up an online dictionary:
Paraclete [pare-uh-kleet] noun
(archaic) a biblical term for one who intercedes between God and man.
No more enlightened, he fired back:
why are you doing this? what do you want from me?
Again the answer was a while in coming.
you are the chosen one
ordained to carry forth the lords will
Scotty blinked. What the hell did that mean? Was Herald recruiting an accomplice? Then again, what if this was the work of an evil spirit sent to punish him? Hands quaking, he pecked:
why tell me terrible things i can do nothing about? i want no part. leave me alone.
A lapse, and a reply:
by the lord are you empowered
to change what will be
Scotty begged:
for godsakes how?
He waited. And waited. Finally, the shrill whine returned, causing him to jump. It gave way to thunder, then faded, and the link went dead. By his computer clock, ten minutes had elapsed from first thunder to last.
Still shaking, Scotty stood and paced, favoring his ankle. What did Herald mean, ordained to carry forth the lords will? And what was Scotty to carry forth? He didn’t want to be chosen, or ordained, or carry forth anything. All he wanted was to be left alone!
Chapter 18
Friday, October 17, 8:55 am, City of God
Reverend Penbrook Thornton exited the backseat of the car with his briefcase, telling his driver, “Thanks, Mark, I’ll call when I finish. Could be awhile.”
“Very good, Reverend. I’ll run by the jewelers and get your lapel pin fixed.”
Thornton thanked him, and Mark tipped his cap, and drove off.
A driver was one of the few privileges Thornton allowed himself. A necessity, actually. He hadn’t driven a car since the night of the accident that took his family. Irrespective, he wasn’t a man of pomp and show, like his “prosperity gospel” colleagues. A driver was efficient, enabling Thornton to apply travel time to work. The same reason the Church kept a small jet and pilot on call for him. Beyond that, he lived modestly. His home was no different than most in the City, other than the convenience of its location on Tabernacle grounds, a housekeeper, and cook.
Inhaling the scent of autumn leaves, Thornton strode the walkway to the Christian Family Research Institute, air fresh in the morning sun. The center sat removed on a manicured lawn amid mature spruce, oak, and elm. Three stories of white-marble towers, turrets, and spires. A sedate, soothing environment in which to heal the aggrieved mind and soul.
Or so one would think. Sadly, that hadn’t been the case for many patients. After two decades of operation and more-than-generous funding, the CFRI had a spotty record.
A guard in smart blue uniform met him at the entrance, smiling.
“Welcome, Reverend,” he said, opening the door.
Thornton clapped the man’s shoulder. “Morning, Sam. How’s Sally and little Sammy?”
“Everybody’s good, sir, thanks.”
“And how are things at the Institute these days?”
“Also good, Reverend.”
Thornton always made a point to ask the guards about conditions. He wanted to make clear his concerns that patients be treated with compassion. Smiling, he quoted James 5:14: “Is anyone among you sick? Call for the elders of the church and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the Lord’s name.”
The guard grinned. “Amen.”
Thornton continued into the atrium, past statues and artwork featuring idyllic themes. The sound of his shoes on the terrazzo carried him back many years to a very different place a hundred miles to the west. Whiteville Correctional Facility, in Hardeman County. A young prison guard at the time, Thornton had walked The Walk—as the prison’s perimeter circuit was known. A desolate beat where he’d acquired his faith listening to bible tapes. And where, ultimately, his faith had saved his life.
At the far end of the atrium stood a reception center where another bright face greeted him. He waved, and bypassing elevators for the grand staircase, he took a right down a hall decorated with murals of Eden. Inside windowed rooms, he saw clinicians in blue attire supervising youth activities—arts, cr
afts, bible classes. The hall ended at an office with a brass nameplate on the door: Dr. Philip K. Neuhoffer, PhD, Director of Psychological Services.
Thornton entered, and a woman rose from her desk to offer a cheery, “Morning, Reverend, the doctor’s expecting you.”
She showed him through a second door into an impressive suite unchanged since Thornton’s last visit. Tall windows wrapped a large corner octagon with a desk facing the center of the room. The walls bore awards and certificates of merit. The bookcases held reference materials and Neuhoffer’s own published works.
“Welcome, Brooks,” Neuhoffer greeted him from the desk, beaming. “Good to see you.”
“Hello, Phil,” Thornton replied, shoes sinking into thick carpet. “Please, don’t get up.”
Too late. Neuhoffer stretched across the desk to offer a hand, gesturing Thornton to a chair. He waited until Thornton settled before retaking his seat, then said, “You’re looking well.”
Thornton knew otherwise. He’d seen the fatigue in his mirror this morning. The election. His concerns about the Institute. “I could use a vacation,” he admitted, unable to recall his last.
“My professional advice? Two weeks in the Caribbean. A celebration cruise, post-election.”
An appealing idea. Only eighteen days more. It felt an eternity.
“How’s the family?” Thornton asked.
The doctor nodded proudly. “Joan was just elected secretary of the Tabernacle Outreach Program. She’s thrilled.”
“Quite an honor. Please convey my congratulations, I know how hard she’s worked hard. And didn’t I hear your daughter received a scholarship to an Ivy college?”
Thornton had met the young woman on occasion at church services and functions with her parents, but couldn’t recall her name. Likely because he’d never been able to engage her in conversation. Very unusual-looking child, and exceedingly shy. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her in years.
“Stepdaughter,” Neuhoffer corrected. “She’s doing well, thanks.”
Thornton preferred to see high school graduates continue their education in town. The City boasted a top-notch University. “I trust she took along her bible. Important to keep one’s moorings against the tides of temptation.”
Neuhoffer assured him she had. “I’m eager to get to our discussion,” he said. “I’ve news I think you’ll find encouraging.”
Withdrawing two blue binders from a drawer, he handed one over. Thornton sighed inwardly. Another report. More numbers.
The doctor seemed to read him. “I won’t take your time parsing figures. Peruse them at your leisure—on your cruise. But let me highlight a few points before I get to my recommendations. I believe we have the solution we’ve been searching for.”
Thornton noted the cover. 15-Year Statistical Analysis/CFRI Case Histories. Had it truly been that long?
“What I have for you,” Neuhoffer said, opening his binder, “is a comprehensive analysis of all adolescents admitted to the Institute since we opened.”
A clinical scrapbook of the enduring nightmare that had begun during the City’s big growth spurt. Thornton flipped through. The report began with accounts of smoking, foul language, prurient clothing, tattoos, piercings, et al. Which led to drug and alcohol abuse, promiscuity, homosexuality, and on. It reminded Thornton of a sermon he’d given on the situation at the time, warning that a venial sin corrected is a mortal sin averted. Prophetic.
The promiscuity spawned out-of-wedlock pregnancies, out-of-town abortions, and disastrous attempts at self-abortion, some costing the lives of the mothers. The homosexuality, drugs, and alcohol led to a host of other maladies and misfortunes. And then, the ultimate failing.
Suicides.
The Institute was Thornton’s desperate attempt to solve the emergency. He’d lured Neuhoffer away from a tenured professorship at Peabody Divinity College, Ohio, to set up the CFRI. But to his frustration, it hadn’t proven the solution he’d prayed for.
Neuhoffer said, “I direct you to page 241. A breakdown by age and psychological disorder of every patient who engaged in self-terminating activities, successful or otherwise.”
Thornton skimmed, noting, “The majority of cases are classified as ‘sexually disordered.’”
“Correct. Not a new finding. Victims of sexual disorders are eight times more likely to attempt self-termination than victims of other disorders. Understandable. Sexual confusion results in greater emotional stress and instability. Self-loathing, depression, impulsiveness. Suicidal triggers. Note page 254. Here you’ll find the ages of all sexually disordered patients at time of first admittance, followed by case result. Notice anything?”
Thornton squinted at the page, and Neuhoffer had to point out, “The younger the age at admittance, the more likely the subject to complete our program.”
“Complete? As in cured?” Thornton knew better.
“Admittedly, cures are rare. But younger patients appear more amenable to our methods, demonstrating improved survival rates over older subjects.”
Scanning, Thornton couldn’t see how Neuhoffer reached this conclusion, and said so.
Neuhoffer replied, “The correlation isn’t readily apparent. We treated so few young children. But viewed over time, the data is compelling.”
Thornton was neither psychologist nor statistician, an autodidact via Christian-based correspondence courses. As ever, he had to take Neuhoffer at his word.
“The upshot is,” Neuhoffer said, “we’ve identified a new course of action. Knowing sexual disorders lead to self-destructive behavior, I believe we have a mechanism to improve survival rates. As you’re aware, our approach has always been to have our schools identify problem teens and refer them here for treatment. But my data suggests we’re reaching subjects too late. The answer is to recognize their disorders at an earlier age, and intervene sooner.”
Intriguing. “At what age are sexual disorders detectable?”
“Symptoms can appear as early as three or four. The idea is to begin therapy before the affliction takes root. Not only can we hope to save more lives, we may finally be able to cure victims of their disorders altogether.”
Thornton’s heart leaped. This time Neuhoffer had spared him the highbrow psychology to lay out a seemingly practicable course of action. Dare he hope, the miracle he’d prayed for. “But how do we go about identifying these youngsters? We can’t screen every child in the City.”
“No. The answer is to involve the community. Educate the public about what to look for. The signs are rather evident once pointed out. We can prepare pamphlets, announce the program during Sunday services. Conduct adult training sessions. Enlist the help of our children in the schools.”
“Use children?”
“Certainly. Children must be taught to recognize these threats, too, for their own protection. They’re our first line of defense. Who better to notify parents and teachers of questionable behavior in playmates?”
Thornton pressed a hand to his heart. “Turn our children into spies and informants?”
“No. Lifeguards. To keep an eye out for others wading into dangerous waters.”
The reverend leaned forward. “I need you to be very clear on this, Phil. You’re telling me, these troubled lives can truly be saved.”
Neuhoffer took a breath and sat back. “Let me share a personal experience,” he said. “One very close to my heart.” He turned to gaze out the window. “I never told you, but my stepdaughter was once headed in, shall we say, the wrong direction. I saw signs at age six. A reluctance to engage with the opposite sex. A preoccupation with masculine interests. I took it on myself to work with her, applying some persistent tough love, and I’m pleased to say she’s now leading a godly life. Given the data I just showed you, I firmly believe if I’d waited to intervene, the outcome would have been very different. God knows if she’d have even survived.”
Indeed, Thornton had never met anyone as unusual as Neuhoffer’s stepdaughter.
; The doctor turned to him. “Yes,” he said with conviction. “I can save these children…”
Thornton was so taken by the good news, he didn’t realize until on his way home, he’d forgotten to mention the Hawk News interview. He called back to make arrangements.
Chapter 19
Friday, October 17, 1:47 pm, Queens
As he recuperated at home, Scotty was online, frantically researching deiknumi.kyrios.
deiknumi [dike-noo-me] verb. (Greek) A term commonly found in ancient manuscripts of the bible, meaning “to point out,” “to show.”
kyrios [kee-ree-ose] noun. (Greek) A term for master, lord, or god.
But a thorough search of email domains turned up no trace of deiknumi.kyrios. Which made no sense. To function as an email core protocol, the address had to be registered with the Internet Assigned Numbers Authority. This address wasn’t. Hours of effort, and Scotty still had no better idea who—or what—the mysterious Herald was.
A rumble of thunder jolted Scotty in his chair. 2:00 PM.
His chest tightened as the sequence of sounds played out, and then a new epistle alert flashed in the black window of his screen. He hesitated, and clicked:
that you may know the lords will and obey
this night a crane shall descend on the wind
to strike frogs neck
Grimacing, Scotty replied:
i don’t understand
He waited. One minute. Two. He sent another message:
hello?
Nothing.
At length, the whine returned, nearly costing him his seat again. The thunder rose and ebbed, and the link went dead.
Scotty jumped on craigslist to spend the rest of the afternoon combing for a new apartment. He soon found, however, his finances limited him to Bronx apartments and multiple roommates. Firing off inquiries regardless, also mentioning his cat, he popped more pain pills and retired to the couch and the local news, fearful of what he’d learn tonight. And his eyelids grew heavy…
St. Thomas Aquinas Elementary, seventh-grade history class. Today’s lesson: The Revolutionary War as Experienced in the Bronx.