by Glenn Kleier
Indeed. Scotty was long past ready to end this madness.
Ivy disappeared into the bedroom, and there came another knock at the door. Scotty stole back to the peephole, surprised to see the same cop. He opened, and the cop removed his cap.
“Sorry to bother you again, sir,” the man said. “Could I have a moment, please?”
Scotty invited him in, and Ivy entered from the bedroom brushing her hair. The man nodded to her, cleared his throat, and said to them both, “I, uh, I have a favor to ask. It’s my nephew, Teddy. Smart, wonderful boy. Six years old. He’s very sick, and no one knows why. We’ve taken him to specialists, and nothing. He’s getting worse, we’re losing him.” His eyes teared. “Please, you gotta help us.”
Taken off guard, Scotty looked to Ivy, saw her tearing, and swallowed to say, “I don’t know what I can do. Everyone thinks I’m some sort of miracle worker. I’m just a messenger.”
“But you speak to God.” Pulling a paper from his pocket, the man thrust it into Scotty’s hand. The nephew’s name, address, and medical particulars.
Ivy said, “Scotty speaks to God through an angel. A lady angel.”
Scotty flashed Ivy a frown, and the cop said, “Please, I beg you, ask her for us. Your angel is our last hope.” And blinking back tears, he thanked them, turned, and left.
Scotty stared at the paper, and Ivy snatched it from his hand, reading, eyes glistening.
“We gotta ask, at least,” she said.
“You realize what will happen if we do? You think that mob’s crazy now?”
She went to finish dressing while Scotty paced. As the clock neared 10:00, Ivy returned to join him at his computer, face flushed. Or was that rouge? Soon came the noises, and when all was finally quiet, the computer screen went black and the icon of God from the Sistine Chapel appeared.
“Noooo,” Ivy cried, “not an epistle. I want to see the angel!”
Scotty was disappointed, too. He opened the email to read:
wait for further instructions
Scotty typed back:
what do I call you? herald? paraclete?
A long pause, and the angel responded,
my name is ariel
The Angel Ariel.
Scotty typed:
we’re trapped in my apartment by a mob, cops holding them off. you said the lord has a plan, please tell us what it is.
Another long pause, and:
what do you mean we
Scotty:
my sister ivy and me.
Ivy said, “Wouldn’t she know that already?”
Scotty shrugged. Angels weren’t omnipotent, only the Lord.
Ariel replied:
you were told not to involve anyone else
Scotty:
ivy was visiting when the cops busted me. they got her too, she’s living here now.
Another long pause, then:
do nothing till you hear back from me
Scotty:
face to face from now on.
He felt a punch to the shoulder, and Ivy stuck the slip of paper in his hand. He typed,
one more thing…
Copying the details about the cop, little Teddy and his condition, Scotty finished and hit “send.”
No response.
Ivy asked, “Did she get it?”
“I don’t know, but the link’s still live.”
Not for long. The bizarre noises returned, and the link died.
“So,” Ivy said, “we wait here till the mob breaks down our door?”
Scotty shook his head, forlorn. His eyes wandered to another icon on the screen, the R U God disembodied eye inside a triangle. He sat up and clicked on it to tell Ivy, “How about you fix us lunch while I do a little cyber maintenance?”
She threw up her hands and went to the kitchen muttering, “You and your stupid videogame!”
He was already off, Homer joining him in his lap as he dropped in on Times Square to check out the news ticker.
Homer shook his head. Dude, you’ve been away too long.
Scotty moaned to read:
Anti-immigrant riots spread…PanEuro parliament in turmoil…Rhomboids force early elections…Threat of civil war…
The cat frowned up at him. We’re in deep shit, aren’t we?
On Scottworld, virtual time moved at a faster clip than real time, and situations could rapidly spin out of control. But never had Scotty let things get this bad. To fix so many problems would take more show of godly force than he’d ever used before, if a fix were even possible now.
He rushed to stamp out the riots, uncertain how to quash the other fires.
Chapter 67
October 21, 11:00 am, Talawanda
Having done her angelic part to restore Butterfield’s belief in “the Lord,” Ariel had skipped the collider’s first run today. She’d instead spent most of the morning in her room on her laptop, combing the City of God newspaper for articles on Penbrook Thornton. The team’s hope to flip the election hinged on the reverend believing Butterfield was a messenger of God, and to that end, they were searching for a crisis event in Thornton’s past that Butterfield might thwart with a prophecy. They’d found nothing helpful so far, but had good news on another front.
Last night at 8:30, the team again watched history rewritten—a “new” four-year-old TV special showing an F3 tornado sucking apart the town of Jasper, Georgia. And like the original tornado, not a single life lost. The broadcast attracted a huge audience, which hopefully included the reverend Thornton.
Also important, the team seemed to have escaped their latest time-tampering unscathed. After the tornado, they’d spent anxious moments awaiting a Timequake/Timewave. Yet, they saw no evidence of it. Their biggest intrusion on the past to date, and no apparent consequences, physical or mental. It prompted Max to declare the Butterfly Effect overblown.
Ariel had slept poorly last night regardless, fearing she and her friends would awake different persons. At breakfast, however, no one had been able to detect any changes in themselves, or each other. All the same, they intended to proceed with planting a time capsule in the wormhole, a precaution to catch butterflies that might otherwise fly in their faces. Ariel had returned to her room afterward to continue her search of City archives.
She sat on her bed hunched over her laptop, clicking open another newspaper article. Seven years since she’d left the City of God, and reacquainting herself now brought back a flood of memories, mostly painful. Little seemed to have changed in the town other than the population. Same old fare of church propaganda, civic puffery, and local minutia.
Until her eyes happened across a book review and a headline that caused her to tense.
The Science of Theology, by Dr. Philip K. Neuhoffer, PhD
Her stepfather. This was the first she’d heard of her family since leaving home. The article featured a photo, Phil in a plaid blazer and bowtie, sporting a gray goatee. A different look for him. Face fuller, combover thinner, chin uptilted in a wise and confident pose.
Dr. Neuhoffer, indeed. He was a product of Liberty University, his PhD in fundamentalist theology with a concentration in fire and brimstone. His science was of the Creationist ilk. Ariel felt her stomach knot as the years peeled away…
She was twelve the first time Phil laid hands on her. The memory played clear as a video. Mom fixing supper, Ariel at the kitchen table in an ankle-length skirt, hair braided and wound atop her head, writing a chemistry report on refractories. Phil on the phone, arguing with an underling at his Institute.
Abruptly, he covered the mouthpiece to bark, “Ariel, stop and set the table.”
He resumed his dispute, and Ariel hurried to get an important point down before she forgot. No defiance to it, she was a dutiful child—though she despised Phil. If he wasn’t lecturing or nagging or puffing himself up, he was invading her privacy. Entering her bedroom unannounced, intruding on her morning shower to shave at her sink. Complaints to Mom went nowhere.
And then
that night in the kitchen, things took a nasty turn.
“Now,” Phil snapped.
Apparently, Ariel was a beat too slow. Phil banged the phone in the cradle and stormed over, sweeping her from her chair like the wisp she was. He sat and threw her across his lap, dress up, drawers down, paddling her bare buttocks till they burned.
Never had she experienced corporal punishment before. Stunned, horrified, mortified, she jumped up and covered herself, gaping at Mom. Mom simply gaped back, lips quivering. Ariel burst into tears and bounded upstairs to her room, slammed the door and leaped in bed, bawling.
She listened for footsteps outside. For her door to open. For the soft, halting voice mom used when talking unpleasantries. Drugs and periods and such. But nothing. Muffled voices drifted up. Still shaking and smarting, Ariel wiped her eyes and crept to the door, cracking it.
“…no spoiled brat in my house,” Phil snapped. “You coddle her, you tolerate her. Proverbs, 29:15: The rod and reproof giveth wisdom; but a child left to itself bringeth the mother shame.”
“She means no disrespect, dear. Imagine having no friends, never invited anywhere. The poor thing lives in a world of her own.”
Phil didn’t soften, Mom resumed her subservience, and no one spoke of that evening again, or of the incidents that followed—
Ariel was startled by a knock at her door.
Tia called out, “Got a minute?”
Hastily Ariel composed herself. Inviting Tia in, she patted the bed, and Tia joined her.
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Tia began. “While searching the City’s medical records, I stumbled across something, uh…disturbing.” Ariel puzzled, and Tia continued, “Your stepfather runs a psychiatric clinic down there, yes? Dr. Philip Neuhoffer?”
There he was again. Ariel clenched again. “Yes.”
“He’s an associate of Thornton’s, so I fished his files, too. Encrypted, and I hacked them to find nothing on Thornton, but are you aware of the problems the City has with its teens?”
Ariel had heard things, rumors.
Tia said, “Suicides, self-mutilations, and the like.”
“No more than most cities that size, I suspect.”
“Waaaay more. Four times higher, and then some.”
Upset, Ariel asked, “What’s that got to do with my stepfather?”
“According to his files, Thornton brought him in to fix the problems. Treat disturbed kids.” Her eyes flashed. “And oh how he treated them. The number of suicides increased.”
Ariel couldn’t believe Reverend Thornton would stand idly by, and said so.
Tia shrugged. “He and Neuhoffer met regularly, but Neuhoffer knew how to manipulate him. Thornton bought into his psycho-babble. Fundamentalists excel at rationalizing, don’t they?”
Ariel felt nauseous. Phil had never much talked about his work, but his Institute had a murky reputation, at least in her school. She’d heard tales of teens plucked from the community to vanish forever behind the Institute’s doors. Urban legends, she’d assumed. Though she was aware of one girl who’d disappeared without explanation or trace. Another outcast. Goth. Gay. Ariel had only a passing acquaintance with her, but recalled her name.
Nicole LeClair.
The discomfort must have shown in Ariel’s face. Tia drew back to say, “Maybe you should see for yourself. I’ll send you the files, we’ll discuss them later.”
Ariel wasn’t sure she wanted the files. Or to discuss them.
“Anyway,” Tia said, “I found zilch to help us with Thornton. You?”
“Nothing so far.”
Clapping hands to knees, Tia stood. “Okay then, let’s go see what the guys came up with.”
Ariel joined her, grabbing her rabbit’s foot flashdrive, now containing both the Times archives and her journal.
They found the men in the tent experimenting with a hand-operated pole claw Stan had improvised. A mechanism for hanging the memory stick on the plant inside the hole. Mounted on the pole above the claw was a small camera and transmitter/receiver. A cable trailed from it down the pole and to a laptop on the table.
As the women entered, Max asked, “Were either of you in the tent after the morning run?”
“No,” they answered.
“Strange,” Stan said. “When we got here, stuff was scattered across the floor like someone was rooting around. Wasn’t a squirrel or mice, the door was zipped tight, no holes or openings.”
Max said, “From here on, let’s keep a closer eye on things. We can’t risk anyone snooping.”
The others agreed, and Tia asked, “What’s our plan for Butterfield today?”
“Unless you and Ariel fared better than us,” Max said, “we’re still on hold.”
Stan said, “Twelve days till Thornton releases the tape. Still time to pick the right bait. Surely somewhere four years ago is an event we can use to draw Thornton to Butterfield.”
Max held out a palm to Ariel. In it was a short length of hooked wire. He wiggled his fingers and said, “Rabbit’s foot, please.”
She surrendered it, he attached the wire, and she snatched it back to await the vortex.
Chapter 68
Tuesday, October 21, 10:40 am
Atlanta, Georgia
Penbrook Thornton was only half-listening as Roger Filby and a Shackleton stand-in sparred from lecterns in the front of a conference room. Thornton sat at a table in the back with fellow Council member, Tobias Melcher, and the chairperson of the Republican National Committee. All here to mark Filby’s progress before the second presidential debate tomorrow night.
The importance of this rehearsal aside, Thornton’s mind kept returning to last night’s tornado, and more specifically, to the odd young man who’d forecast it.
How was such divination possible? Yet Thornton had witnessed the very storm from his berth in the skies, a God’s-Eye view. It had shaken him, disturbed his dreams. Then on this morning’s news, he’d learned that the prediction wasn’t the first miraculous prophecy the boy had made. Exactly who was this Scott Butterfield?
Thornton forced his attention back to more pressing matters. Filby stood before a panel of debate coaches as he fielded an accusation from his mock opponent. He declared forcefully, “I favor open-carry anywhere folks are at risk, but the floor of Congress isn’t one of ‘em. Hard ‘nough gettin’ bills passed in the heat of an argument without people floutin’ firearms.”
His opponent pounced. “So you admit the presence of guns is intimidating and inappropriate? You agree with gun-control advocates who say—”
One of the coaches broke in, “Roger, if I may… As we were saying, watch getting drawn into a defensive posture. Stay on offense. Remember, you hold the moral high ground. Don’t fall into the trap, turn it around, put your adversary on the dime. Attack her record. She’s soft on the Second Amendment, soft on crime.”
Another coach said, “And that’s ‘flaunt’ firearms, not ‘flout.’ Also, your hands.”
Filby looked sheepish. Nodding, he pulled his hands from his pockets. His opponent raised a question about the budget deficit, and again Thornton’s thoughts drifted to last night’s newscast.
The Prophet of Queens, the media called the boy. A true Prophet? Thornton had his doubts. Hardy a commanding figure. Not the stuff of Biblical lore. Meek, soft-spoken, awkward.
And yet, how to explain his astounding predictions? Thornton knew better than to second-guess the Lord. Was David not a humble young shepherd when he slew Goliath? Transformed by God into a mighty warrior king? Could it be that after an absence of two-thousand years, God had chosen this pivotal election to re-enter the human fray? A staggering thought. Thornton could almost feel Almighty Fingers flitting.
“No, Roger,” one of the coaches interrupted Filby again. “Fiscal responsibility, not physical. Common mistake. Please continue.”
Thornton’s throat tightened. The topic tomorrow night was domestic policy, ostensibly Filby’s forte. But even well-armed with pa
t answers, the man still struggled. And God-forbid the final debate, a townhall/open-question format where Filby would have to survive off-the-cuff.
The RNC chair leaned into Thornton and murmured, “We need a miracle.”
The man had no idea that just such a miracle sat in Thornton’s briefcase between them. A miracle that Thornton felt morally resolved to keep forever under wraps.
Nevertheless, at tomorrow’s meeting, the Council would demand to know how this rehearsal went.
Chapter 69
Tuesday October 21, 1:59 pm, Queens
Ivy sat at Scotty’s computer picking at her nails, in makeup and her favorite blouse.
“Come on,” she called to him in the bathroom, “it’s nearly 2:00.” Then softer to herself, “Assuming she graces us with her presence this time.”
Ivy was still upset from this morning when Scotty got one of those stupid epistles. She so wanted to meet Ariel in person. Gaze into those incredible, mesmerizing, supernatural eyes.
Scotty slipped into the chair beside her as the noises began, and Ivy saw he’d attempted to comb his hair. Apparently, he’d been captivated by the angel, too.
The whine finally faded into silence, and Ivy’s heart raced to see materializing on screen, not the God icon of the Sistine Chapel, but the angel, herself.
Again, Ariel was visible from the torso up, ghostly gorgeous in a white tunic, shoulders bare, skin glowing. So radiant, it was difficult to distinguish her pale features, save for those eyes, like twin lighthouses. Her silver-gold hair was woven into ornate braids atop her head as before, ringlets spiraling past her ears. And again, she looked uncomfortable in the presence of mere mortals.
“Hello, Ivy,” she said in her silky voice.
“H-hello,” Ivy gasped, awed to hear her name spoken by celestial lips. “An honor to meet you, your, your Godliness.”
“Please, I’m simply ‘Ariel’.” She turned to Scotty. “I’m sorry to tell you, Scott, but the Lord is not happy you’ve brought another into His confidence. From here on, no one else.” She refocused on Ivy. “And Ivy, you must pledge your fealty to the Lord and reveal nothing of what you see and hear. Do I have your word?”