“Can we see the map again?” the boy asked. As the map of the world reappeared before them, Hans Jr. began to recite a list of countries. “Brazil, Mexico, the Philippines—this is where I must go next,” he said. “There are too many Catholics there.”
Meyer didn’t like the prospect of Hans Jr. dictating the Demanian Church’s conversion strategy in front of the other elders and on the fly, but this request was at the heart of his own interest.
“Fine, Hans,” Meyer said. “You choose the cities where you’ll appear. You said three things. What’s the third?”
“!” the boy responded as he raised his voice in anger.
Hans Jr., as though speaking in tongues, had recited ancient Aramaic many times before. Meyer recognized the sound of the biblical Hebrew-like tongue. He didn’t speak a word of the ancient language. Neither did any of the other elders in the room.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to translate that for us, Hans,” Meyer said. His exasperation with the boy was at its peak.
“I said I want to be the supreme elder,” the boy stated flatly.
Meyer couldn’t help but burst into laughter. The sheer absurdity of the demand to replace him as the supreme elder of the Demanian Church was a childish overreach, and Meyer knew the council would see it that way. But as he looked about him, he saw only solemn faces. Most were not spoiling for a fight.
“Hans,” Meyer said as he tried to keep his temper in check, “there can be only one supreme elder.”
“I know that,” the boy replied.
“Then how do you propose to succeed to the post?” Meyer asked. “I am the supreme elder.” Even from the distance down the long table, Meyer could see the boy clench his jaw in disgust at his words.
“When you’re dead,” Hans Jr. replied. “When you’re dead and the church needs a new leader.”
“I see,” Meyer said as he looked to the group assembled around him for supportive faces. Most averted their eyes. “My son, that could be quite a long time.”
“I can wait,” the boy said as he sat back down in his seat. Meyer watched Hans Jr. look toward his lap. The boy had already turned his attention to a game he had just launched on his smartphone.
“And like you, Hans Jr., I shall live again,” Meyer said as if to reassure himself. Several elders nodded their heads.
Meyer could see the boy was ignoring his words and only looking over toward Yeung.
“Now, if you would, get me the photos of those who will die tonight,” Hans Jr. said.
Meyer watched as the boy preoccupied himself with his game again and began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Meyer asked. Every head turned again toward the boy.
“I was just thinking; those who perish tonight,” Hans Jr. said. “They’ve been promised eternal life through cloning like every other Demanian, correct?”
“Of course,” Meyer said.
“What will we do when they return, grow up, and find their wealth in our hands?” Hans Jr. asked. “Just like all of you, they will someday live again too.”
Chapter 44
Baltimore
Bondurant carefully closed the door behind him so as not to awaken Christopher, who had just fallen back to sleep. He had spent the last twenty minutes with his son at the hospital and was relieved to see him doing so well. When he stepped into the hallway just outside the boy’s private room, he was met by Khan in mid-conversation with Christopher’s physician, Dr. Hepps.
“He fell back to sleep as we talked, and I thought it best to let him rest,” Bondurant said.
“That’s fine,” Hepps said. “The more rest, the better. He’s going to be in and out of deep sleep like that for another day.”
“So you believe the worst is over, Doctor?” Khan asked.
“I do. Between the fluid we were able to drain last night to relieve the pressure on his brain and the IV antibiotics he’s receiving to address the infection we found, we should see him return to normal in the next few days.”
With Hepps’s positive prognosis, Bondurant felt he could finally relax for the first time since he’d heard the news of Christopher’s illness only twelve hours before. What started out as a low-grade fever that had bothered Christopher for a few days had suddenly elevated into the range of 103 to 104. At first, it showed no sign of abating. After running several tests, including an MRI, an infection was discovered that had created excess fluid at the base of Christopher’s skull. In turn, the fluid had caused a dangerous pressure buildup around his brain, a life-threatening condition if not addressed right away.
Bondurant had tried desperately to reach Domenika from his cell phone on the overseas flight to Baltimore but had had no luck. A nurse had told him that Domenika had slept by Chris each night and stayed with him 24-7 since he’d first been admitted. She’d gone home for the first time in three days to shower and freshen up when she heard the same good news from Dr. Hepps. The nurse expected that Domenika would return to the hospital soon.
Bondurant stared out the window across the maze of buildings—old brick structures and new, modern glass ones—that made up the sprawling hospital complex. He was tired, and couldn’t help but wonder what emotion might overtake him next. He’d spent the previous sleepless night worried sick over Chris and guilty that he hadn’t seen him in weeks. More than anything, now that Chris was out of danger, he was concerned about Domenika. It was troubles like this that they’d once faced together as a family. Only now, since Bondurant had walked out, it had been up to Domenika to face them alone. That wasn’t right, and he knew it.
No doubt, she’d betrayed him with her secrets and for the moment destroyed their trust. But now it was impossible for Bondurant to feel anything but a profound sense of selfishness for having left his wife and son alone. He’d supported their every need. He’d watched over them from afar. But their separation was over. It had to come to an end.
A bank of busy elevators was just steps from Chris’s room. The doors of one car opened wide, and Bondurant watched Domenika, whom he hadn’t seen for weeks, step out. Without hesitation, she walked directly toward Khan and held out her hand in an invitation to shake it. Khan gladly did. Bondurant, the very definition of uncomfortable, was certain his entire face either was on fire or had turned beet-red.
“I guess you must be Shakira Khan,” Domenika said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you must be Domenika,” Khan said. “I’m so sorry to be intruding on your family and that we have to meet in circumstances such as this. But I’m thrilled that your son seems to be improving nicely, and I just want to offer any assistance I can.”
“Yes, yes. Thank you so much,” Domenika said. She turned toward Bondurant, embraced him, and held him close. “Jon, I’m so glad you came. He’s been asking for you a lot, and I thought—”
“You thought right,” Bondurant said as he tried to gain some composure. “I’m so glad you reached me. Christopher seems to be doing fine.”
“Oh, Jon,” Domenika said.
It was as though their words and the sound of each other’s voice had instantly melted the fortresses they’d both developed in order to cope. Domenika’s eyes began to well with tears. Khan quietly slipped away from the two to give them privacy and took a seat in a chair down the hall.
“It was such a scary few days,” Domenika said. “And when I couldn’t reach you right away, well, I—I—”
As Bondurant watched Domenika quietly break into tears, he pulled her in close to comfort her. Their embrace was deeply familiar to him, and, with every sense he had, Domenika was instantly recognizable as the soul mate she’d always been. As Bondurant looked over her shoulder, he could see Khan smile.
“Domenika, I feel like a fool. But I’ve been afraid to come home. It’s just that—”
“No, Jon,” Domenika said. She pulled his arm toward her and wiped her tears with his shirtsleeve, as she’d often done before. “I’m the fool. I should have told you about everything I knew ab
out when you were a boy. I should have. But it was none of my business in the first place. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
At her words, Bondurant burst into tears of his own. Then he lost control. It was as though the container that had held his deepest fears and saddest feelings for more than forty years had suddenly cracked open inside him. It spilled forth its ugly contents but had no place to go. He didn’t know what else to do as he searched desperately for a way to keep the feelings inside him but also to hold on tight to Domenika, the one he loved. He buried his head in her shoulder and, for the first time in his life, wept out loud. His breathing was labored. He moaned quietly with every heave of his chest. His entire body shook in Domenika’s arms.
After several minutes of Domenika consoling him, Bondurant had reached a calm but felt he barely had the strength to stand. He felt Domenika crane her head over his shoulder.
“Oh, not again,” she said.
“What? What is it?” Bondurant asked. He was exhausted.
“I need to move my car, and right away,” Domenika said. They peered out the nearby window toward the parking lot below. A tow truck had arrived. “I think I parked in the red zone at the emergency entrance again. I’m losing my mind. The last time this happened, it took half a day to get it back.”
Bondurant reached for the keys in Domenika’s hand. He was ready to move the car himself.
“No,” Khan said. She’d left her seat and approached them. “The two of you need to spend more time alone before Christopher wakes up. Give me the keys. Which is your car?”
“I can’t let you do that,” Bondurant said. “It’ll just take me a minute. I’ll be right back.”
“No, I’ll be right back,” Khan said, and she snatched Domenika’s keys from her hand. “Which one is it?”
“All right, all right,” Domenika said. “Do you see the Land Rover?”
“I’ll be right back,” Khan said.
“I’m glad you brought her along, Jon,” Domenika said. “At first, I thought of how insecure it might make me feel to see her here. But now that I’ve had a chance to meet your ‘girlfriend,’ I’m all right. I haven’t made a fool of myself quite yet, have I?”
“Domenika, first, she’s not my—well, she’s certainly not—”
“Certainly not what, Jon?”
“Certainly not, you know, my whatever,” Bondurant said.
“There’s ‘whatever,’ ” Domenika said as she pointed to Khan, who had made it to the car and spoken to the driver of the tow truck. “Let me say this. She’s certainly charming. And kind too.”
Bondurant waved to Khan, who waved back at them and smiled. She reached for the door handle of the car, released it, and took a step backward. She paused for a moment as though to think twice about the gesture she’d made. She looked up at the couple once more, hesitated, and then smiled and waved again. Then she slowly slipped into the front seat of Domenika’s car. The tow truck went on its way.
“Domenika, I want you to know that—”
Before Bondurant could finish his thought, a thunderous explosion sounded, accompanied by a brilliant flash of light from inside the rear compartment of Domenika’s car. It shot a plume of fire one hundred feet into the air. As the mushroom cloud of smoke from the blast lifted, it revealed a crater in the parking lot the size of a bus. Not a trace of Domenika’s car survived. The explosion set fire to everything within fifty meters. It shattered or damaged scores of windows on the lower floors of every building within a city block.
Shakira Khan was dead.
Chapter 45
I-95, Baltimore
Father Parenti sat with Christopher on the hood of Bondurant’s Audi and gazed out at the vast truck-stop complex on Interstate 95 outside Baltimore. The lampposts stretching toward the horizon lit an empty parking lot that seemed endless under the stars at that early morning hour. The car’s hood was warm to the touch. They were two hundred miles from JFK Airport in New York, and would make it there by daylight. There they would catch an international flight, destination unknown.
Parenti was not overly philosophical about their situation. Once again, they were a united family. But they found themselves in real danger and on the run once more. The little priest’s heart had sunk when they passed from Baltimore through Dickerson a few hours earlier. It was a certainty now that they couldn’t go home again, as there simply was no house to call a home. A small crowd had gathered on the lawn outside Domenika and Bondurant’s residence, accompanied by a swarm of fire trucks from Leesburg and TV satellite vans from nearby Baltimore and Washington, D.C. The chaotic scene that invaded their tiny rural neighborhood had forced them to drive right past the spectacle of their house after they left the hospital, with Christopher now well. An arsonist—likely another of Meyer’s men—had completely burned it to the ground. Within the stone foundation that remained was all that they owned, now ruined; a treasure trove of memories turned to ash.
Bondurant and Domenika, arm in arm, were inside the truck stop in search of supplies for their journey. Parenti, Christopher, and Aldo were left to commiserate on their plight in the parking lot outside. Aldo skittered from one lamppost to the other and marked his outsized new territory as best he could.
Parenti looked at the boy’s face. He knew Christopher had done his best to form a tough resolve over what he’d seen and what he’d been told on the car ride so far. The boy had clenched his tiny fists when they broke the news to him about the need for the family to move again. But the priest could see that Christopher, now six years old, had begun to suffer the sadness of leaving a happy life behind. Parenti could tell the boy was still worried that their plight was somehow his fault. Tears had begun to stream down Christopher’s face, and the priest, heartbroken himself about their inability to go home again, placed his arm around the boy to console him as best he could.
“Why do we have to go?” Christopher asked. “Why are we in trouble again?”
“We’re in trouble because there are people who want to stop your mother and father from . . . well, from ridding the world of a very bad thing,” Parenti said as he gently rubbed the boy’s shoulder. He stopped to ponder what he should say next.
“You mean the Watcher, Father?”
Parenti was stunned that the boy had any real knowledge of their predicament. “How is it you know that, Christopher?” he asked.
“I’ve heard of this Watcher many times, and in my dreams too,” Christopher said.
“My boy, you have a gift possessed by no other,” the priest said. He watched the red taillights of several cars trail off into the lonely stretch of freeway beside them. “It’s a gift that many will want from you but few will understand. Your parents and I will have to help you decide how best to use it until you’re older.”
“If we can’t go home, then I don’t want to use it. I won’t use it anymore.”
Parenti shook his head. He started to tear up himself as he looked at the boy he loved who felt so distraught. He placed Christopher’s hand in his own.
“What you have is a gift from God,” the priest said. “As you get older, you’ll have to decide how best to use it to serve him. You’ll have to choose when and where to use your gift wisely, I’m sure.”
“Only for good,” the boy said.
“Yes, for good people,” Parenti said. “And how did you decide that?”
“I was told by my father,” Christopher said.
“He’s raised you well.”
“I mean my other father,” the boy said. “My father in heaven. The one we pray to at night.”
“I see.”
“ ‘Use your gift for the good,’ he said. And I did,” Christopher said. “And look what happened. I don’t know why.”
Parenti watched the boy wipe his tears and his runny nose with the sleeve of his jacket. The priest reached into his pocket for his handkerchief but by mistake pulled out the plastic bag that carried the Veil of Veronica. He had accidentally discovered it years befor
e in the Vatican’s secret archives and faithfully carried it with him since then. It was sacred. He hadn’t made use of it for several years. He began to push the bag back into his pocket, but, given the day’s events, he thought twice and pulled it out for Christopher to see.
“Christopher, I have something here that I’ve held on to for a very long time,” Parenti said. “I guess you could say I’ve held on to it for you. It’s yours.”
“What is it, Father?”
“Well, it’s a piece of material. A very special cloth,” Parenti said. “And believe it or not, it has proved to have a special power. A gift. Much like the gift you have.” Parenti pulled the Veil from the bag and gently spread it out on Christopher’s lap.
The boy looked down at the cloth. “It’s dirty, I think,” he said.
Parenti smiled. “It is. It’s very old. It’s a long story, but let me just say it once belonged to a wonderful woman who lived a long time ago, and it’s something I’m sure she would feel you should have.”
Christopher picked up the cloth and examined it. He turned toward Parenti and gently dabbed a stray tear from the side of the priest’s face.
“You keep it,” Christopher said. “Then there will be two with the gift. I would like that.” Christopher shoved the Veil back into Parenti’s plastic bag and handed it to him.
“All right, then. For now, I’ll hold on to it for you,” Parenti said. He slid the bag deep into his pocket.
“Does the cloth always work?” Christopher asked.
“I can’t say for sure,” Parenti said. “I’ve used it only twice, and it’s worked both times. It works only as a gift of healing from one to another. Once it saved Aldo’s life.”
Aldo, hearing his name, ran to Parenti’s feet and scuffed his paws against the priest’s trousers, a sign that he wanted to be held. Parenti bent over and picked him up. As he did, Christopher scratched the backs of Aldo’s ears.
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