by Tim LaHaye
All she sensed in her spirit was the echo of God’s original message: “Resist the devil and he will flee from you.”
But I don’t want to flee! I want what I was promised!
“Resist the devil and he will flee from you.”
Promise me a child! Give me what I want and need.
“Resist the devil and he will flee from you.”
Marilena would not resist. How could a spirit who promised her a child be evil? She might regret it, she told herself, but God had an opportunity here to show Himself head-to-head against the one of whom He seemed so jealous. It was He who considered her a sinner in need of salvation.
The other side offered to fulfill her dream and longing, apparently with no strings attached. Well, there was the matter of allegiance. But might that not grow from sheer gratitude when she carried her own child, delivered him, held him?
“Marilena,” Reiche Planchette said, “you shall receive the desire of your heart.”
She needed no more convincing.
__
Viviana took Marilena and Mr. Planchette to the bistro where she and Marilena first chatted. Planchette insisted Marilena call him Reiche, which she could not bring herself to do. He also continued to stare so pervasively that, had it not been totally against her nature, she would have called him on it.
Marilena did not, however, sit and take it when Planchette attempted to sway her with an academic argument in which he was nowhere near as adept as she. She had asked about his view of the moral nature of Lucifer.
“The name,” he said, assuming a professorial tone, “comes from the Latin lux and ferre, which is one reason he is often referred to as the Morning Star. Lux meaning ‘daylight’ and ferre meaning ‘star.’ ”
“Pardon me, sir,” Marilena said, “but you don’t want to presume to teach me linguistics. Lux indeed means ‘light,’ but the closest you could get to star from ferre is some play on the words show or exhibit. The fact is that the primary meaning of ferre is closer to ‘iron hard,’ and, referring to a person or being, ‘someone without feeling, unyielding, even cruel.’ ”
That made Mr. Planchette sit back. “Excellent,” he said evenly. “Perhaps you are on to a side of our god that manifests itself when someone who has been offered a gift in return for a modicum of gratitude would rather thumb her nose at it.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting that in my commitment to not give a false impression—”
“I believe he knows your heart, madam.”
“I doubt that. But if he does, then he knows that I merely want to remain true to myself. Doesn’t it follow that if I faked some expression of loyalty—?”
“He knows when someone has been courting two suitors.”
That stopped her. Was her life not her own? Could she never again do anything in secret?
Planchette let a smile play at the corners of his mouth. “I am not all-knowing,” he said. “I go only by what is communicated to me.”
“I am a scholar,” Marilena said, trying not to sound defensive. “I study. I compare. I research.”
“You play both ends against the middle, and you could live to regret that.”
“Is your god, then, as jealous as he claims is his adversary?”
Planchette pressed his lips together, then finally broke his gaze and studied the ceiling. “Lucifer is merely just. The fact is, he is willing to concede what he wishes for from you, as long as he does not have to concede the child.”
“Speak plainly.”
The stare was back. “You are but a vessel, Mrs. Carpathia. Whether you ever swear allegiance to the granter of your desires is worth a pittance compared to your agreement to allow your son to be raised in his service. Regardless of where you land in your flitting about from kingdom to kingdom, you agree that Nicolae—and you know why he should bear that name—”
“Because it means ‘victory of the people’ and was thus prophesied,” Marilena said. “In truth, I like it. It has a majestic ring. Nicolae Carpathia.”
“Withhold your allegiance at your peril, if you must, but agree that Nicolae will be raised in the service of our lord.”
NINE
RAY STEELE’S dad had a small den where he liked to retire at the end of the day. While Ray was doing homework and his mother was reading or watching her favorite programs, Mr. Steele would secrete himself in his cozy hideaway, where his golfing and fishing knickknacks covered the walls.
Ray’s view of his father’s sanctuary had been skewed by the nature of his own visits there. He was not allowed in the den when his father wasn’t home, and when he was invited in, it never seemed to be for good news. Ray had never been punished there, but he had certainly endured his share of lectures and dressing-downs. Whenever he had lost significant privileges, been reprimanded, been grounded, it had happened as he sat across the desk from his imposing father.
And so it was that when his dad asked Ray at dinner to meet him in the den when his homework was done, Ray felt a rumbling in his gut. “What’s wrong? What’d I do now?”
His father leveled his eyes at the boy. “If I wanted to discuss it at the table, I wouldn’t invite you to the den, would I?”
“It doesn’t necessarily have to be bad news, Rayford,” his mother said.
Yeah, like she had a clue.
Ray found it difficult to concentrate on his homework, wanting to get this over with, whatever it was. He racked his brain for the memory of any offense. Often he was surprised to discover what a teacher or a coach found offensive. He was a smart and talented kid, and he didn’t intend to brag or put anyone else down. Sometimes he knew more than his teachers, but when he corrected them, he didn’t mean to insult.
Had Ray done that lately? He couldn’t recall. Had he said anything disparaging to friends that would have gotten back to their parents and thus to his parents? He shook his head. He considered marching down to the den to find out, but he was on pace for good grades this semester and didn’t want to shortchange his homework—especially math and science.
An hour later, after putting the finishing touches on his math calculations, Ray found his dad reading a magazine at his desk. He waited as his dad held up a hand and finished reading, then set the periodical aside.
“Have a seat, Ray.”
Great. It’s going to be all formal.
His dad leaned forward and folded his hands. “Ray, I gotta tell ya, I’ve seen a lot of progress in you the last several months.”
“You have?”
“Absolutely. Proud of you. And I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’ll make a deal with you. You keep working hard at your studies and keep getting good grades—”
“Good? Almost straight A’s, Dad.”
“Well, I’d say that’s good. And when you’re thirteen—”
“That’s a lot of years away, Dad.”
“I know. Now hear me out. When you’re thirteen I’ll give you a part-time job at the shop.”
“But what about sports and—?”
“We’ll make it work. I’ll start you just cleaning up, sweeping and handling the trash, that kind of stuff. It won’t keep you from playing sports, and it’ll give you more money.”
“In place of my allowance?”
“In addition to your allowance.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. I’ve watched you, Ray. You don’t waste your money. You set goals, and you achieve them. I could use more employees like you.”
“That’s it?”
“Almost. Get this. When, between your allowance and your part-time pay, you start to get close to having enough money to cover half of the flying lessons, I’ll pay the other half.”
“Dad, are you serious?”
“You bet. But remember, you’ve got to uphold your end of the bargain.”
“Are you kidding? I’ll do anything.”
“Then it’s a deal.”
Ray stood and started to bolt, eager to tell his mother—who, he realized, probably al
ready knew. But he had to tell someone.
“One more thing, Ray,” his father said, pointing at the chair. Ray sat again. “Once you’ve proved yourself with the dirty-work type chores around the tool and die, I want to start teaching you to run some of the machines.”
“Cool.”
“That pays better, and you need to learn the business.”
“The business? Why?”
“I have a dream, Ray. Nothing I’d like better than to leave the business to you. You take it over. Steele and Son. Make me proud. Make yourself a good life.”
Ray slumped. How could he go from so high to so low so fast? “Dad, what if I don’t want to take over the business? You know I want to fly.”
“I wish I could fly, own my own plane, jet myself to my suppliers and customers. You could do that, have yourself a fun life.”
“Are you going to make me do it?”
“What do you mean, Ray?”
“Do I have to promise to take over the business to keep this deal, the work and the flying lessons?”
His dad sighed and shook his head. “I won’t force you, Son, but it’s sure what I want for you.”
“But what if it’s not what I want?”
“How do you know what you want? You’re not even ten yet! Why don’t you just keep an open mind, see the business, learn it, then decide?”
“Because if I decide I still want to be a pilot, or if I grow to seven feet and have a shot at the NBA, you’ll be all insulted.”
His father scowled. “Maybe I will. I’m just offering you an opportunity, Ray. Don’t toss it away.”
“I’ll keep an open mind if you will, Dad.”
“How’s that?”
“If I like the business and want to do it, I’ll tell you. But if I want to leave and go to college and the military and fly for a living, you have to be okay with that too.”
“And what, I’m going to sell my business to someone who’ll probably just resell it for profit to someone who won’t know it and love it like I do? I’ve spent my whole adult life building this thing that puts clothes on your back and—”
“I know, Dad. Maybe I’ll be rich enough to own it and be sure someone runs it right, even if it’s not me.”
“Frankly, I thought you’d be thrilled to have your future set.”
“I’m happy about the work, Dad, and the flying lessons. I really am.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“Sorry. I just thought you’d want me to be honest.”
“I want you to be grateful.”
“I am! This is the best thing you’ve ever given me.”
“Well, remember, it all hinges on how you prove yourself between now and then. And one more thing. Don’t go telling anybody about it.”
“Why?”
“Just don’t.”
“But I don’t see why—”
“It’s nobody’s business, that’s all. I know you’ll want to brag about it to your friends, but just don’t. Part of maturity is knowing what to say and what not to say, and this is nothing to be talking about. They’ll know when you start working.”
“Especially when I start flying lessons,” Ray said, though it seemed ages away.
“Well, there you go.”
Ray hardly slept. The wait for his thirteenth birthday would be the longest of his life.
“Do you have the documents?” Reiche Planchette asked Viviana.
She pulled an envelope from her briefcase and slid from it a folder that she handed to him. As he drew papers from it, Viviana winked at Marilena.
Planchette arranged the documents before him and turned them so Marilena could read them. “Înşelăciune Industrie is the best, most discreet purveyor of human genetic engineering. We inquired as to their ultimate genome product, which they have outlined here.”
Marilena could not calm her trembling hands as she lifted the documents to where she could read them. Science was not her field, but she caught the drift. The “target” (that would be her) would be impregnated at the optimum opportunity during her reproductive cycle by a hybrid sperm containing genes from two males, one with an IQ off the charts, and the other with a higher-than-average IQ as well as a predilection for athletics and what Înşelăciune not so circumspectly referred to as “culturally accepted physically attractive features.”
“Here, look,” Planchette said, producing a computer-generated rendering of a breathtakingly handsome young man.
“My goodness,” Marilena said, studying it. It was not like her to be impressed by looks, but the blond with the square jaw, perfect teeth, and piercing blue eyes was more than gorgeous. There was an air of confidence, of knowledge, a look of wisdom in his eyes. “Who is this?”
“Consider it an electronic guess,” Planchette said, “based on the best input Înşelăciune had available, of what your son is likely to look like at age twenty-one. Nicolae Carpathia will be a brilliant, beautiful human being.”
“If I were to proceed,” Marilena said, unable to look away from the engaging image.
Planchette sat back. “And why would you not?”
Why indeed? It was as if she had gingerly turned the knob on a door that had suddenly swung open and knocked her flat. “Why not you, Viviana?” Marilena said. “You’re a disciple. Would you not be thrilled, honored?”
Viviana laughed. “I’m too old. Anyway, I am a coward. I cannot imagine giving birth. This is your gift, Marilena. You are the one. You long for a child and are eager to be a mother. You may have thought you were coming to my class for diversion, but your psychic energy was so strong, your aura so powerful to the spiritual realm, that your desire alone transported your willingness to those who could make this happen.”
“And what will this cost?” Marilena said.
Planchette pulled one last sheet from the folder. Marilena scanned the list of costs for various stages of the procedure and let her eyes drop to the bottom line. “Three hundred and fifty billion leu?” she said. “You can’t be serious.”
“Approximately ten million American dollars,” Planchette said. “Obviously, none of this would come from your pocket.”
“Really,” Marilena said. “You must know that this is two hundred times my annual salary, which I would give up if I moved to Cluj.”
Planchette leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “You need to hear me, Mrs. Carpathia. I know you have been under considerable stress. I don’t know you; you don’t know me. Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot, didn’t connect; I don’t know. I’d be lying if I said I knew enough about you to admire you. The fact is, you have been chosen. The spirits have made this clear to Ms. Ivinisova and to me, and I presume to you. Frankly, that makes me envy you. I implore you to accept. For as long as you raise your son in the tenets of our faith, you will be cared for.”
“But will he be my son? Or will he belong to you and yours and the spirits?”
“He will be your son until he reaches twenty-one, as long as you do your part—which is not asking much, considering.”
“And what if I decide that it’s all true, that the spirit world is real, that—?”
“If you don’t already know that, you are the wrong choice.”
“Granted. But belief that there is a Lucifer and that he has the right to compete for the throne of God requires that I believe God exists as well.”
“Or one who considers Himself God. Naturally, we believe He is the impostor, the unworthy one, the doomed one.”
“Allow me to speculate, Mr. Planchette. If during the course of my study I come to the opposite conclusion—?”
“Defect, in other words? You would lose your child, your privileges, your patronage.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Înşelăciune is ready at a moment’s notice. You must be evaluated, tested, prepared for the perfect timing.”
“I will let you know.”
“Surely you’re not entertaining thoughts of eschewing this opportunity.”
�
�I have not yet decided, sir. And I will certainly not proceed until I have.”
“That’s fair. But don’t assume you are the only choice.”
“What are you saying?”
“Only that there have to be countless other candidates, and frankly, who knows what they might bring to the table?”
“If I am not worthy, why was I chosen?”
“I have no idea,” Planchette said. “I just know that right now, during this season, the decision is yours. If I were you, I would not risk the impatience of the spirits by delaying.”
“One more thing,” Marilena said. “The association must be bigger than I ever imagined, but surely it’s not of the scope to afford this bill. Where is the money coming from?”
Planchette and Ms. Ivinisova clearly shared a look in a brief but awkward silence.
“A benefactor,” Viv said.
“Benefactors,” Planchette jumped in, louder. “Friends of whom the rank and file are largely unaware.”
__
Marilena could not face the dark, empty apartment that evening. She dumped her bag and checked the answering machine. How thoughtful of her husband to let her know he would not be back tonight. She bundled against the cool air, took only the envelope bearing the computer image, and headed out for a long, slow, lonely walk.
As Marilena passed the bus stop she watched a young mother cradle a sleeping baby. The woman adjusted a thick, pink blanket, cooing, “Home soon. Daddy is waiting.”
Marilena’s childless arms ached. How was one to make a decision like this? The pros? No more lonely nights. No more walks like this one. No more wondering or even caring where her husband might be, what he might be doing. The cons? She would give up much of life as she knew it. Would Viviana Ivinisova—or Viv Ivins, or whatever it was she wanted to be called now—provide enough intellectual stimulation? Would she spell Marilena enough that she would be able to continue to read and study and learn and grow? And what of their friendship? It could die aborning.