The Caleb Collection

by Ted Dekker

  The mini-14 felt good in his hands. The perfect kid killer.

  The curtain began to rise and Banks knelt behind the last row of seats. It would take Junior four minutes to get up here, assuming he didn’t stop at the john. But he’d been instructed not to. No running, no stopping off even to take a leak. Just walk calmly up to section 63 and give the note to a brother in black robes. The same walk had taken Banks between three minutes, forty seconds and four minutes, two seconds on his three trials.

  Banks would take the kid out at three minutes, thirty seconds.

  Applause filled the auditorium and he smiled. The kid was there, under the white glare of a bright spotlight. Banks lifted the rifle to the back of the chair. He snugged his cheek on its butt and peered through the scope. The boy’s face filled the glass, then moved out. Banks adjusted the rifle, but the kid had moved again. He was wavering back and forth on his feet.

  He let the face wander around his scope. Beads of sweat stood out on the boy’s forehead. His eyes were round; blue-green, like the ocean. Pop goes the weasel, kid. Pop!

  Except for the music, which droned on in eerie tones, the arena grew quiet. The silencer would kill most of the shell’s report, and what was left would be swallowed by the music. The suppressed muzzle flash presented the only real risk of detection. But then all eyes were on the kid, weren’t they? By the time they realized what had happened, Banks would be long gone.

  He glanced at his watch. Three minutes, fifteen seconds. The kid hadn’t done squat yet. Banks moved the cross hairs over his forehead. Right between the eyebrows. The movement was annoying, and he thought about going for the heart.

  The kid still hadn’t done anything. He just stood there looking as if he were about to drop.

  And then he did drop.

  Banks watched dumbfounded through the round glass as the kid’s eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped out of his scope.

  He jerked his head back, saw the kid in a lump down on the floor, and quickly reacquired him. He was gonna finish this. He found the body in his glass, looked for a good shot, and finally decided to go for the body.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The rifle jerked in his arms. Whap!

  His breathing came faster now. He lingered on the body for a second. It didn’t move. Yeah, he got him.

  Banks slid the gun under the seat and ran through the exit just in time to see Junior rounding the corner. Then he was gone.

  Jason had bolted for Caleb before the boy’s body hit the ground.

  He was halfway across the stage when the small flash lit the corner of his eye. Someone’s taking a picture of me, he thought.

  Shouts of outrage rose from the crowd, but he ignored them. He ran up to Caleb, scooped him in both arms, and lifted his frail body. He had the limp body close to his chest before he saw the blood.

  He froze. All around him cries rang, but his ears had shut them out. Caleb’s white shirt was red with blood nine inches from Jason’s face. A ragged little hole had been torn in the boy’s shirt.

  He’d been shot!

  Jason gulped and spun around, panicked. Someone had shot Caleb!

  He stumbled across the stage toward Leiah, but he glanced up to the red seats as he ran. That’s where the flash had come from. He was certain of it now.

  Jason crashed right past a stunned Leiah.

  “Follow me!”

  “Is he okay? What’s—”

  “Just follow me to the car. Quickly!”

  He ran for the rear stage entrance.

  “Stop! Stop it!” Nikolous had rounded the corner and was yelling at them. Jason ran on.

  “Where are you taking him?” Suddenly the Greek seemed to sense what Jason intended.

  “Stop them! Stop them now! They’re stealing him!”

  Two stagehands near the rear door stared at Jason with wide eyes. He ran right up to them before they broke out of their stupor and grabbed at him. He shoved a boot into the first man’s midsection and was rewarded with a grunt. Caleb’s body flopped in his arms.

  “Get the door! Get the door, Leiah!”

  The second man had grabbed the boy’s foot and was tugging. Leiah swerved, slapped the man’s face hard with an open palm and then shoved him. He released the foot and back-pedaled into the wall.

  She shoved the door open and Jason ran past her into the night. Then she was running beside him, tearing for the parking lot with as much speed as he could gather with the boy in his arms.

  The door crashed open behind them and shouts cut through the night. “Stop! You’re breaking a court order. You’re kidnapping!”

  It was Nikolous and he was right. Feet pounded the pavement to their rear. They had to hurry. The Bronco loomed and Jason spun to Leiah.

  “Here, take him. Quick!”

  She slid her arms under Caleb and Jason grabbed for the keys in his pocket. He yanked them out and shoved them into the door lock.

  “He’s bleeding!” Leiah said.

  Jason opened the door and punched the electronic locks. “Get in the back!”

  She clambered into the back seat with the boy and he slammed the door shut. Jason had just jumped into the driver’s seat and locked his door when the first thug slammed into the side of the Bronco.

  He fired the engine, rammed the stick into gear, and roared forward. An angry cry sounded outside, and he wondered absently if he’d taken the man’s arm off. But then he was past the gate and only one thought strung through his mind.

  Somebody shot Caleb.

  III

  THE UNVEILING

  When [Elisha] got up and went out

  early the next morning, an army with horses and

  chariots had surrounded the city.

  “Oh, my lord, what shall we do?” the servant asked.

  And Elisha prayed,

  “O LORD, open his eyes so he may see.”

  Then the LORD opened the servant’s eyes,

  and he looked and saw the hills full

  of horses and chariots of fire

  all around Elisha.

  2 KINGS 6:15, 17

  31

  THEY SPED UP THE 5 FREEWAY pushing the speed limit, frantic and very low on options.

  Leiah insisted they take him to a hospital immediately.

  “Where’s he bleeding from?” Jason demanded, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Is it critical?”

  “It doesn’t matter if it’s critical—we need to get to a hospital now!”

  “We can’t. That’s the first place they’ll look.”

  “Who cares? He’s dying!”

  “And if they find him, they’ll kill him! So take his shirt off and tell me what you see.”

  She was a nurse from the war zone; surely she would be able to make some sense of Caleb’s condition. She tore his shirt and examined him quickly.

  “It’s in his side. I can’t tell.” She looked up, frightened. “Jason, he really needs some care.”

  “Turn the light on. We don’t have a lot of options here. If whoever shot him discovers that he’s still alive, we’re toast. You hear me? Toast. A hospital is our last option.”

  The light turned on and she examined him closer. “I think if I can stop this bleeding he’ll be okay for a while. Looks like the bullet passed through the muscle on his right side. As long as infection doesn’t . . . You have a first-aid kit?”

  “In the back. What about his illness? I’m not sure it was the bullet that made him faint.”

  “Why not?”

  “I saw a flash of light from the red seats as I was running to him. At the time I thought it was a flashbulb, but I’m not so sure anymore. He was shot; it could have been the gun. And what if he really was poisoned?”

  “There’s nothing I can do for poison here. I don’t like this, Jason.”

  “Okay, if his condition hasn’t improved by morning, we’ll get him to a doctor. But we have to think this through.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To
the hills.”

  She was silent for a few moments. “We should pray for him.”

  “Yes, we should.”

  Jason drove the Bronco north, out of the L.A. basin over the San Fernando Pass toward Gorman, praying softly under his breath most of the way. It was an unusual impulse for him, but the simple prayers felt completely natural now. They reached a small road that cut west from the freeway. Within a mile they passed a lone Texaco station, turned south, and headed out on a dirt road. He’d been back in here a dozen times riding dirt bikes, but it had been some time ago. Headlights glared behind him a couple times and he sped to lose the car. He didn’t need the locals wondering who had driven the white Ford Bronco up the logging road so late at night. Especially once the media got ahold of the fact that Caleb had been kidnapped in a white Ford Bronco.

  Leiah had bandaged the boy to her satisfaction. The first-aid kit was a large box with more than most doctors carried in the Third World. Caleb had stirred, awoken for a few minutes—enough time for Leiah to feed him some aspirin—and then promptly fallen back into a deep sleep.

  They drove down the rough road for ten minutes before Jason turned onto another much rougher road that snaked up a valley. The Bronco bucked over potholes and rocks to objections from Leiah. Jason eased up and picked his way deeper into the valley.

  “It’s pitch black and we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Leiah said. “You’re sure about this place?”

  “No. It was here five years ago. Do you have any better ideas?”

  She didn’t respond.

  He drove over a knoll and the trees gave way to a rolling, sandy meadow. He pulled into the clearing and swung the headlights to his right. The cabin stood in the white glare of the lights, grayed by time but still standing. He breathed a sigh of relief and angled for the structure.

  “There we go. Thank God.”

  Jason parked the car and shut down the engine. The silence brought a ringing to his ears. “Wait here.” He climbed out, walked to the back, found the flashlight from the roadside kit, and walked toward the cabin.

  Stars blinked in the dark sky; it was odd to be in the country again. Depending on how enthusiastic the authorities got, there could be helicopters in those skies tomorrow.

  The shack’s rotting door creaked on its hinges when he pushed it open. He played the light on the interior, saw that it was empty, and returned to the Bronco.

  “It’s not a hotel, but it’ll do. There’s a couple of blankets in the back.”

  She helped him take Caleb from the back seat and followed him with two large blankets. The shack was a one-room affair with a wooden bed along one wall and an old rusted stove along the other. Leiah threw a blanket over the bed and Jason laid Caleb down gently. The boy groaned, rolled over, and lay still.

  They sat on the bed and looked at his small frame. The flashlight cast a large circle on the wall. It struck Jason then for the first time that what they were doing was madness. He had rushed out here on impulse, driven by the urge to get away. To free the boy and clear their heads and remove Nikolous from their lives. To protect the boy from whoever had attempted his killing.

  But the night was silent and the boy was sick and a quiet desperation filtered through his bones. Caleb and Leiah were depending on him now, and his plan did not extend beyond this moment. He didn’t even know where he and Leiah would sleep. On the hard wood floor he supposed. Maybe outside.

  Jason stood and walked to the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to hide the car under the trees. Might as well be safe.”

  “Don’t you need the light?” she asked softly.

  “No. I can see.”

  He left them and it felt very lonely in the night. Dear Father, please help me. Please, I beg you.

  “No, I’m not saying that we confirmed his death. I’m saying Banks shot the kid and he fell. But Jason took him and ran before anyone could react.” Roberts coughed once and cleared his throat, avoiding Crandal’s glare. “He wasn’t taken to the hospital. We don’t have a confirmation.”

  “You’re saying he was shot, collapsed onstage, and then was what? Kidnapped?”

  “That’s about it. Yes, sir.”

  “So as far as we know, he’s alive and holding a press conference as we speak.”

  “That would be highly unlikely. The poison was getting to him again. And he was shot. In all probability he’s dead. We just can’t confirm it.”

  They’d been in here before, three stories underground in Crandal’s study discussing death. But for the first time in Roberts’s memory, it was feeling more like their own death than some remote target’s death. Crandal stood from his desk and walked toward a large raised relief map of the United States. He looked at the picturesque map for an inordinate amount of time, silent in thought.

  “He’s probably dead,” Roberts said again. “Banks isn’t the kind to slip up.”

  The man did not turn. “Roberts, do you know how much power the president of the United States has? The most powerful nation on earth, and he holds the reins. The most powerful person in the world. I used to feel that way about directing the NSA, but in reality I always had to tiptoe around the executive and legislative branches. Now I’m less than two weeks away from owning those branches.”

  He turned around and set his jaw. His voice sounded like a tuba in the enclosed space.

  “The only thing in my way is a ‘probably.’ And in this business probablies might as well be headstones.”

  “We are working to remove the ambiguity from the situation,” Roberts said. “Banks is on their tail. I’ve offered to double his fee if he can confirm his death within three days. Triple if he eliminates all three of them.”

  Crandal frowned. “He knows where they went?”

  “He followed them from the theater but lost them in the foothills.”

  “How does someone like Banks lose a couple civilians?”

  “Simple. They’re in a four-wheel-drive Bronco, he’s in a sedan, and they ended up on rough roads.”

  “And yet you talk as though you’re confident.”

  “Yes, I am. Like you said, Banks is no idiot. Most men wouldn’t have had the sense to follow them in the first place. In addition they’ve removed themselves from protection. They’ve run from the only system that was watching their backs. When he finds them they’ll be easy game.”

  “If he finds them,” Crandal said.

  “He’ll find them.”

  “For your sake, I hope so.” Crandal eased himself into a large armchair and crossed his legs. “There is something we should understand, should this not go well.”

  A small buzz ran through Roberts’s brain. They’d had a talk like this once before, when the fiasco in Colombia nearly blew up in their faces.

  “We’re entering new territory, Roberts. You know that, don’t you?” He gripped his hand to a fist and gently bumped the wooden arm. “We’re on the verge of taking power—real power—for the first time. Nothing can be permitted to stop that.” He paused.

  Roberts sat still.

  “This includes an abstract rumor about what might have happened a lifetime ago in Ethiopia. We may have made some mistakes in our past, but this cannot preclude us from running the board now. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “But if there is blame to lay, someone will have to take it.”

  “I think you’re overreacting,” Roberts said.

  “Maybe. But in the event I’m not. If something were to come out of this nonsense that sounded ugly—something that could snatch this victory from our grasps at the last moment—then I would expect you to step forward.”

  There it was. Roberts blinked. He wasn’t sure how to take the directive. “If I can be candid, sir, I had very little to do with the plan.”

  “With which plan, Roberts? This particular one? Colombia? How about Indonesia in ’87?”

  Roberts knew where Crandal was heading, but he wanted to make his poin
t. “With the plan to pay off Colonel Ambozia’s army to stir up border disputes with Ethiopia on the heels of their liberation from the Mengistu regime in 1991. That plan. The plan to divert over a billion dollars of arms to the EPLF in return for their invasion along the border, all in the name of some cockamamie treasure hunt.”

  Crandal’s face grew red. “And how does this plan differ from any other you were involved in? You break one law; you might as well break them all. And for the record, this second invasion was your plan.”

  “And the first one was yours. The EPLF slaughtered over three thousand men, women, and children on your crusade. You want me to put my name on that?”

  “Don’t be a fool, man! This is no time to find morality. There’s no need for both of us to take the fall. We’ve fought too hard for this moment.”

  Roberts took a deep breath and crossed his legs. None of this changed the matters at hand. It was clearly understood that he would take a fall if anything ugly surfaced. Insulating Crandal might not be possible, but they would all swear to their graves that he had nothing to do with it. Still, Roberts wasn’t the kind who would lay his neck on the guillotine for the big man without a good argument at the least.

  Either way it was all moot.

  “This is premature,” Roberts said. “The kid’s as good as dead. We’re talking abstractions that have no basis in reality.”

  “I hope you’re right. Like I said, for your sake.”

  “I am right.”

  Donna had never seen Father Nikolous as furious as he was in the wake of Jason’s flight. Not that it wasn’t a significant event; the media had swarmed like hornets themselves. But the Greek was presumably a religious man and his actions hardly came off as pontifical. She leaned back and watched him across his desk near midnight, and she wondered if Jason didn’t know some things that she did not.

  Caleb had failed twice before a national television audience now, although, as a dozen talking heads were quick to point out, this second episode could not be clearly seen as a failure, because he hadn’t tried anything. He’d fainted before having the chance to perform.