The moment they reached the trailhead and burst from the leafy forest into brilliant sunlight, she asked her stallion for speed when they hit the grass, and she got it. Her horse welcomed the challenge. He breathed deeply as they broke into a full gallop, and Khan urged him on. She could see their destination—a pristine beach—out in the distance ahead. She slapped her crop twice across her ride’s right hindquarter and settled in. Her horse was running all out.
She had no interest in looking behind her to determine how long it might take for Bondurant to catch up. But when she could clearly see the white water of the breaking waves on the beach ahead, she turned briefly to steal a glimpse of him behind her. When she did, she felt an amazing rush beside her. Bondurant, who leaned into his horse’s stride, blew past her in a blur so quickly that Khan was stunned. She couldn’t believe it. Her heart raced at the sight. She laughed as she tried to catch him, but it was no use. He’d taken up the challenge and surprised her, again.
Did Bondurant remind her of her father? Not exactly. In fact, not at all. But he was every bit the “man’s world” her father had warned her about. Successful. Handsome. Smart. Even sensitive. And talented in just about every way. She seemed to have lived her life to prove she could dominate his kind of manly prowess. Indeed, defeat it. But to her great dismay, Bondurant was ignorant of the contest. He seemed to pay her and her struggle no mind.
They tied up their horses beneath a few leafy palms at the beach’s edge and settled down in front of a small sand dune. They’d spent three days in hiding, tucked deep in the Caribbean. It was as far as they could quickly get from the trouble and danger that had found them in D.C.
She’d marveled at the number of times he’d unexpectedly and unknowingly proved himself to her. His broad shoulders and long, lean body lent themselves to natural physical talents. He was a world-class swimmer in open water. On most days, only the best could make it out past the danger of the reef at Lorient Beach, where the famous waves rolled in. Some had died there. But he’d managed the surf with ease. And when they dove from the rocky cliffs near their secluded hut on the north side of the island, it was Bondurant who’d tested the highest points above the emerald-green waters below.
But there was something else about the man she’d escaped with that separated him from the many others she had known before. She was grateful to him, of course. She owed him dearly. The world owed him dearly. But now they shared something else, something tragic, in common as well.
Juliet’s death was hideous, to be sure. It was a terrible mistake. But to Khan, it was, above all, tragically unnecessary. And for this, she harbored anger at herself for not sensing trouble and resentment toward Bondurant for not warning her of the danger being in his orbit could possibly invite. An innocent, a promising young girl, had lost her life because Khan had involved her in a stunt to sexually thank someone she barely knew.
“I want to finish what we started last night,” Khan said.
The beach was French and topless, so she removed her white bikini top as casually as she would kick off her sandals. She slid beside Bondurant and put on her sunglasses. She stared into the distance and could see a boat that shimmered like a speck on the bright horizon where the ocean met the cloudless sky.
“We have just one more day on this island, so you might as well spill it,” she said.
After Juliet’s headless body had been found at the Four Seasons, they’d left a gruesome murder investigation and a lot of unanswered questions behind. “Don’t leave town,” they’d been told by the D.C. police, but within hours, Khan and Bondurant were on their way to the rugged island for safety from Meyer’s thugs and a temporary getaway to sort things through.
“I haven’t wanted to talk about it for two reasons,” Bondurant said. “The first is because I’m sure you won’t believe me.” He cupped a hand around his match and cigarette to ensure that the slight breeze that blew off the ocean wouldn’t stop him from lighting up. “Like everything else in my life, it seems, it involves the Shroud.”
“So I figured,” Khan said. She reached over and took the cigarette from Bondurant, enjoyed a short but satisfying drag, and handed it back. “I think you’re going to tell me a vial of blood is somehow involved.”
“That blood came from a newborn baby cloned from DNA found on the Shroud. There have actually been two children cloned to life from the Shroud. And they come from two different sources of DNA,” Bondurant said. “One child was the source of the plague. The other was the source of the cure.”
The boat Khan had first seen when they settled on the beach, about the size of a large yacht, had begun to turn and make headway toward them on shore. She admired the sleek white lines of the craft that towered at least five decks high and was now about a mile away.
“Domenika brought both cloned children to life through in vitro fertilization, the first time involuntarily, where the child stemmed from the DNA of a Watcher, the presumed source of the plague. The other child, cloned from—”
“What’s a Watcher?”
“I was afraid you would ask that.”
“It’s getting interesting,” Khan said.
“A Watcher is a fallen angel,” Bondurant said. “Believe in angels?”
“I do. On earth? I don’t know.”
The yacht that held Khan’s interest continued on its course toward them, only now at a faster clip. Bondurant seemed oblivious to it, his back turned halfway toward the water.
“You’ve called it an ‘unearthly plague.’ I’m convinced the Watcher brought us the Devil’s Sweat. The plague’s been put to rest, yes. But who knows what’s next? At the moment, the Watcher is in the form of a young boy and is the ward of a very bad man.”
“How bad?”
“Bad enough to want Domenika and me dead for what we know. Bad enough to chase us all over the world these past few years to quiet us forever.”
“I think I see where this is going,” Khan said. “What does your Domenika look like?”
“In the plain light of day? Like Juliet,” Bondurant said. “And in the dark . . .”
“Like Juliet. I see,” Khan said. “Speaking of chasing you all over the world, I’d ask you to put an eye on that yacht behind you. I don’t know; maybe I’m imagining it, but I think it’s had an eye on us since we rode in.”
Khan watched as Bondurant turned and sat upright to get a good look at the boat, which now sat about a quarter mile offshore, no longer heading toward the beach. The boat’s massive engines idled slowly as it drifted parallel to the shore. Bondurant appeared to be relaxed about the magnificent craft and its proximity, which set Khan at ease.
Khan hadn’t been able to shake from her mind Juliet’s last, horrifying moments of life. Juliet hadn’t been her only love interest, but they’d grown close, and Khan had relished their companionship. They’d made some plans to spend more time with each other. Then, in an instant, she was gone. For Khan, the entire incident was surreal.
She had seen a lot of suffering in her career and dealt with death as an everyday occurrence, but the grotesque image of a lover she’d known for almost a year found dismembered at the neck was as sad and gruesome as anything she could imagine. Khan had tried hard not to reveal the slightest emotion to Bondurant over Juliet. But when she’d found herself alone on the beach for a few hours the previous day, she’d wept.
“I’m sure you were close,” Bondurant said as he stared into the sand.
She couldn’t help but watch the yacht again. This time, it had swung around to show its stern. From what Khan could tell, several crewmen looked to be frantically working away on a contraption on the rear deck. Khan stood up, reached for her beach bag, and quickly began to pack away their lunch.
“So what’s the other reason?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” Bondurant said. “And where in the heck are you going?
“You said there were two reasons you didn’t want to share the whole story with me,” Khan said. The boat, now in re
verse and closing on them fast, had sprouted a large tripod, which Khan was certain resembled a mount for a gun.
“The second reason? It’s too late for that now,” Bondurant said.
The colossal yacht was now close enough so that its engines sounded like thunder echoing off the sea. Khan watched as Bondurant turned toward the boat again, this time with his eyes wide. She reached down to grab him by the hand so they could try to make it quickly to the safety of the trees, where their swift horses stood ready.
“I think I have a good idea what the second reason might be,” Khan said.
“I guess that’s obvious by now,” Bondurant said. He leaped up from the sand and made ready to run.
“Yes, it is,” Khan said as she glanced at the menacing yacht one last time before they started their dash toward the palm trees beyond. “Now I know too much.”
Chapter 38
Dickerson, Maryland
When Domenika slowly swung open the front door of her home and saw that it was Father De Santis who’d woken her from a deep sleep, she was completely surprised.
“You?” Domenika said. She held the door open only several inches, wide enough for her to see his face and no more.
“Yes, me,” De Santis said. “May I please come in?”
“I have no doubt you’ve come a long way, Father, but I have no interest in talking to you now. Actually, not ever.”
With her pronouncement, Domenika pushed the door shut and twisted the knob of the dead bolt to ensure that it remained locked.
De Santis was not deterred. He knocked on the door and resumed his plea. “Domenika, please,” he said. “A moment. Just a moment of your time to seek forgiveness. That’s all I’m asking for.”
Domenika folded her arms and shook her head. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Bondurant in weeks because of what De Santis had done. “If you want to apologize, you can do it through the door.”
“Domenika, please! I told you I was wrong.”
She watched as he tried to twist the doorknob several times to gain entry but had no luck.
“Domenika, I’ve done a lot of thinking,” De Santis said. “I don’t know what it was. Maybe jealousy. Can you believe that? Jealousy. I don’t know what else to say.”
Domenika was struck that De Santis had started to open up his heart to her from the other side of the door. And she knew she wasn’t entirely guilt-free. She had never explicitly told De Santis not to raise the topic of Bondurant’s boyhood troubles in front of him. But he should have known better than to spill it forth so clumsily. She unlocked the door and pulled it open several inches so that she could see De Santis again.
“I should never have taken you into my confidence,” Domenika said. “That was my fault, I suppose. Never again, Father.”
“I understand, Domenika. I do,” De Santis said. “Please, may I come in? I have so much to say.”
Domenika opened the door wide and gave De Santis a perfunctory hug. She turned toward the kitchen behind her. “I assume you’d like some coffee,” she said.
“That would be wonderful,” the priest replied.
De Santis carried with him only a small leather kit bag and no suitcase. She was pleased he hadn’t come with any expectation of staying for long. He took a seat at the head of the kitchen table.
“It’s not like you to surprise me, Giancarlo,” she said as she reached into an upper cabinet for a coffee filter. “This must be important.”
“I’m in the U.S. for just a few days this time, but we haven’t talked in so long. A phone call didn’t feel right. And the way we left things, I have to confess, I was worried that if I called ahead, you might just hang up,” he said.
Domenika was sure he couldn’t be more right. “I think it’s best to put that behind us,” she said. As the coffee began its slow drip into the glass pot, she set two cups on the table.
“How are you getting on, Domenika?” he asked.
She didn’t want to revisit old ground. And in the event that De Santis was being the least bit disingenuous, she didn’t want to give him the slightest satisfaction that his words that night had so badly rearranged their lives. She hadn’t heard from Bondurant except for envelopes of cash since he’d left, but it was none of the priest’s business.
“Jon is fine,” Domenika said. She left it at that.
“Well, that’s good to hear. And Christopher?”
“A gift, Giancarlo,” Domenika said. Her eyes lit up. “I’ve told you before. I can honestly say I don’t believe I’ve ever been more fulfilled.”
De Santis looked about him with a curious expression on his face. “It’s so quiet,” he said. “He must be napping.”
Domenika took her time responding as she slowly poured coffee into their cups. “Napping? Oh, yes,” she said. She didn’t have a clue why she’d lied and not simply told De Santis the truth, that Parenti had taken Christopher for a walk. It was such an inconsequential fact, but her instincts told her something was wrong. Suddenly, she felt a certain unease about the two of them being together in the house alone but didn’t understand the reason for the feeling. She didn’t know how long De Santis planned to visit over coffee, but she began to hope it wouldn’t last longer than the cup before him.
“There is nothing more beautiful than the sight of a child at peace. Nothing,” the priest said. “You must let me peek in to see him before he wakes.”
Domenika panicked slightly at his insistence on seeing the boy and the prospect of being caught in a lie. She decided to quickly change the subject. “And you? How have you been?” she asked. Domenika thought De Santis looked frailer than she had ever seen him before. His face was drawn, and his skin had taken on a light yellowish pallor.
“I have to say I’ve been a bit out of sorts lately with all this travel, but it’s nothing to be concerned about,” De Santis said. She watched the priest gulp down his coffee as if he were in a hurry. He was already almost to the bottom of his cup.
“More?” she asked.
“No, thank you, I’m fine,” he said. “So, is Jon off on an errand? I didn’t see a car outside.”
“Yes, he’ll be back any minute.”
“I see. And Father Parenti? Still nearby? Why have I not yet had the pleasure of seeing him? Don’t tell me he’s off on another of his adventures.”
Domenika shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I’m sure he’ll be along shortly as well,” she said. She grew more anxious by the second.
As they looked at each other across the table, there was a long, uncomfortable silence between them.
Then De Santis reached down for the leather kit bag he’d brought along. “Domenika, I don’t have much time, and I’d really like to see the child,” he declared.
Domenika caught her breath. The abrupt change in the priest’s tone came out of thin air and felt like the stab of a knife. De Santis steadied his eyes on hers as he nervously unzipped the bag he’d brought and removed from it a small paper pouch.
“I told you, he’s sound asleep, Giancarlo,” Domenika insisted. She was suddenly frightened to be alone with a man she would once have trusted with her life. “I really don’t want to wake him.”
“The last time I was here, before we had our troubles, you passed along some very helpful information. It was about the child’s blood. Do you remember that?” De Santis finished the last sip of his coffee and stared down into the cup.
“Yes, I told you that in confidence,” Domenika replied. “Just like the information I shared with you about Jon.” She hadn’t a clue where De Santis was headed with his questions, but she’d grown as angry as she was frightened with his strange behavior.
“You said, if I recall correctly,” the priest said, “that you believed it was the child’s blood that had provided the antidote to end the terrible scourge, the Devil’s Sweat; do you recall that?”
Domenika rose from the kitchen table, careful not to turn her back on her guest. She began to regret telling De Santis a lot of things. “Yes, I
remember that,” she said in a near whisper.
“As you know, our commission studied this issue at great length and found nothing. But you are the one in the best position to know. Has the child displayed any marvels, any wonders to speak of, since his birth? Anything at all in the way of special abilities that we haven’t been aware of?”
“What do you mean? Like changing water into wine?” Domenika shot back. Her sarcasm was clear. She was certain De Santis knew more about Christopher’s healing powers than he’d let on. All the media attention given to the “miracle boy” at Portland’s children’s hospital previously ignored by the Church ensured that. She was sure the priest was now just acting coy. “He’s just a child, Giancarlo. You know full well that you and, for that matter, the whole Vatican have already reached the conclusion that Christopher is nothing but a normal boy. The answer’s no.”
De Santis got up from his chair and looked toward the door that led to the stairs to the second floor. Domenika was certain the priest knew where Christopher’s room was from his brief previous visits. She began to edge toward the stairs as though prepared to block his path.
He held the paper pouch in both hands and tore the top from it. Then he poured the contents of the bag onto the table. A few packets of sterile alcohol wipes, a hypodermic needle affixed to a small tube, and a tiny glass vial for collecting fluids lay before him.
“I’m going to need a very small sample of the child’s blood, Domenika,” De Santis said. “I won’t harm him, I promise you. He will feel just a prick as he sleeps. But I’m going to need a very small amount.”
Domenika looked at De Santis as though he were the devil incarnate. Suddenly, she saw Parenti’s head pop into view through the kitchen’s side door. He had arrived home from his walk to the playground with Christopher. It was clear to Domenika that from Parenti’s vantage point on the stairs, the tiny priest couldn’t see De Santis, who stood, needle in hand, just a few feet away. As Parenti opened the door and entered the room, Christopher gleefully ran into Domenika’s arms. Aldo was close behind. It was only then Parenti turned to see De Santis, who towered beside him.
The Second Coming Page 21