“Good! I will go and see her.” Dr. Lewis gets up from the table and turns to look at Ralph. “Would you care to accompany me, Ralph?”
He glances at me with a wink and follows her out.
Melanie goes to the coffee pot. “It looks like the good doctor has a thing for your dad.”
I laugh a little. “Is Grace still sleeping?”
“Yeah.” She sits down opposite me and smiles nervously. I can see in her eyes all the questions she’s afraid to ask. “Do you guys do this often? Like what you did yesterday.”
“No. Not often.”
“Well, that’s good. I guess. I mean…I never saw anything like that.” She takes a gulp of her coffee.
“It’s rare, actually—what happened yesterday.”
“Oh?”
“Normally, the spirits don’t manifest like that. This was an extreme case.”
“Wow.”
I listen for noises from upstairs, the sound of breaking furniture, screams. But all is quiet.
“So is Shannon cured now?” Melanie asks.
“Far from it. This is only a first step. There is a lot of healing that needs to be done. Demons are like rats on a pile of garbage. You can get rid of the rats, but if you don’t get rid of the garbage, they’ll come back.”
“Oh, you mean garbage like all that stuff from Shannon’s past.”
“Yeah. That stuff’s festered for a long time.”
Melanie sighs. “I don’t know if I could do this again. I’ll call Harry and resign. This is way out of my league.”
“Do you believe in God, Melanie?”
She looks at me and blinks. “Well, I honestly never thought much about it. But now…I don’t know. Something’s going on, for sure.”
“Something is going on. But you also have to know that God is stronger than any demon, even stronger than all of them put together. If you stay—and I hope you do, because Shannon needs someone on her side—you can rely on His power. It’s all you need.”
“Oh. Well. Thanks. I really should see where Carla is. We need breakfast.” She jumps up from the table and out of the room.
I go for a long walk. When I return, the aroma of frying bacon fills the kitchen. It’s a comforting smell. A normal smell. Carla stands at the stove, wrapped in a robe. She smiles when she sees me.
“All better? Missus is all better?”
“She’s better,” I say.
Carla does the sign of the cross and kisses her fingers. “Gracias a Dios.”
Grace, Melanie, Ralph, and Dr. Lewis are eating pancakes. Grace has a big stack in front of her, which makes me happy. She looks at me and smiles a smile without shadows. I sit beside her and grab her hand under the counter.
“I am quite amazed at the difference,” Dr. Lewis says. “Even when I asked questions to which she would normally react by shutting down, she answered me. There is much work to do, of course. She still has a rather unhealthy memory of her father and doesn’t understand that what he did to her was not love at all.”
“That was the first lie,” Ralph says.
“What do you mean?”
“The day she believed that lie—and she knew it was a lie—that her father did those things because he loved her and cared about her, that was the day that Lilith entered her soul.”
Dr. Lewis’s eyebrows lift slightly. “I would agree that such a trauma would have a lasting effect.”
Ralph nods. “I wish we could stay longer, but we must leave tonight. I know Shannon is in capable hands.” He and the doctor share a smile. Graces glances at me and rolls her eyes, mouthing the words, “Oh, brother.”
***
Ralph books us on the red-eye back to Buffalo. We lounge in the sunroom, playing music, and resting. Shannon stays in her room with Silas. We don’t see either of them all day.
Harry returns in the afternoon. Dr. Lewis fills him in on what transpired. He thanks us for our “great work” and says he is looking forward to having some time off to spend with his wife and daughter before the inauguration.
“We’re going to Belize,” he tells us. “A little vacation. The campaign has been hard on all of us. It’ll be great.”
“Belize is not a good idea,” Ralph says. The color rises up his neck. I can see he’s genuinely irritated with Harry Ravel. “Although I would suggest getting her out of this house. Permanently. Even a hospital, for a short stay. Shannon needs time to heal and to sort through her issues. And she needs counseling in the true faith before she can fully recover.”
“True faith?” Harry’s pleasant facade begins to crack. “My wife is—”
“Very confused,” says Ralph. “She has lived a lie for most of her life. Even her Christian faith has been a lie.”
I’m certain Harry is about take a swing at him. Instead, he smiles and nods indulgently. “Thanks so much for your advice. I’ll take it under consideration. I will have Richard take you to the airport.”
We pack hastily and say our goodbyes. Melanie hugs Grace, clinging to her like she doesn’t want her to leave.
“Call me anytime,” Grace says. “Let me know how she’s doing.”
“I will.”
Carla gives us a container of cookies to take with us. “Bless you, bless you,” she says. Dr. Lewis shakes each of our hands and lingers a little on Ralph’s.
“Are you going to say goodbye to Shannon?” I ask Grace. She shakes her head.
We pile into the car. Grace dozes off with her head on my shoulder. Silas stares out the window. No one speaks.
We get to the airport and check into our gate. Since we have three hours to kill before our flight departs, I go to one of the public computer terminals and look up information about the Ravel house. Surprisingly, there are several posts and even a few news stories. The house had a nickname—The Suicide House. It had been built by a dot-com millionaire for his wife, but the owner died in a freak accident shortly after the house was finished. His wife, overcome with grief, held several séances in the house to raise his spirit and speak to him. In one séance, the spirit of her husband apparently told her to commit suicide so they could be together “on the other side.” The wife complied by throwing herself from the house’s balcony to the rocky hillside below. The house, tainted by this story, was on the market for years until an up-and-coming rock star bought it. He sold the house to Harry Ravel less than two years later and left California altogether.
Who knows if this story is even true. But it does fit the spiritual mayhem I saw in that house. And makes me wonder what happened to the rock star.
“What are you doing?” Grace asks over my shoulder.
“Oh, nothing,” I close the browser and turn to her. “Why didn’t you want to say goodbye to Shannon?”
She shrugs. “I just want to be done with her. I’m tired of her drama. I’m tired of her…inflicting herself on my life.”
“And on Silas?”
Grace looks away as tears well in her eyes.
“I get it,” I say.
“Am I a bad person? For being jealous of my own mother?”
“Maybe a little.” I smile and pull her into my lap. “It was Lily he loved and Lily’s gone. He knows that.”
“It’s sad, though. I felt like Lily might have been someone I would have liked to get to know.”
“Me too.”
Part Three
Simulation Theory
17: Feeling Good
Angel
We move forward several more months to August. The Ark brims with activity.
Two armed guards are stationed at the bottom of the winding pebble drive that leads to the castle. They check the IDs of each car waiting to ascend—there’s a long line of them, mostly black sedans with tinted windows. A small group of humans gather at a distance, held back by more armed guards. They carry mobile phones and cameras and try to get a glimpse of the people inside the cars.
—It is the gathering of the Interlaken Group, Uriel says.
We move into the san
ctuary of what was once the chapel, dominated by huge marble columns. Tall, narrow stained glass windows allow muted shafts of light to pierce the gloomy space. Aged frescoes in sepia tones cover the walls—images of martyrs burned at the stake, crucified upside down, and fed to lions—bizarre adornment for such a place as this.
There are no electric lights. Candelabra line the pews and surround the altar. The air is smoky. There is no table in the altar space, only a raised platform backed by a large screen.
—Why are we here?
—Wait and see.
We wait. We watch. For three days, the attendees of this conference meet in this room and listen to discourses on science and technology, delivered by pragmatic men and women in arrogant, monotonous tones. There are sessions between where topics are open for discussion, and sometimes, the debate is quite lively. The main topics focus on global problems—climate change, population growth, poverty, and pandemic disease. The people in this room are leaders in their fields, scientists, engineers, government bureaucrats, army generals, think-tank intellectuals—the world’s elite. They belong to a small and exclusive society of those who believe they have the knowhow—and the power—to move the world in whatever direction they choose.
There are a few among them who surprise me.
Harry Ravel is one. His wife Shannon Snow is another.
But Darwin Speer is absent.
“Where is he?” I ask Uriel.
“Wait.”
On the third day, the attendees gather as usual, cradling their coffee cups and thick leather-bound folders, and take seats. The billionaire William Hyde, the leader of this gathering, rises to speak. He’s in his eighties, with scant hair covering his mottled pate and small, slitted eyes. His attempt at a smile appears more like a sneer.
“Welcome my friends.” His voice scours like steel wool. “I know this is the day you’ve waited for all week. A close associate of ours has been absent for a while, working on a new project that has consumed all his energy. But he’s back, my friends, and he has something astounding to share. Without further ado, I give you the one, the only, Darwin Speer.”
The hall erupts in applause and then in shocked gasps when Speer emerges from behind the screen. He is markedly changed. His hair is now pure white and abundant, perched like a patch of snow on top of his head. His once gangly limbs are thickly muscled and well-proportioned. Eyes that were a toneless gray, have turned a brilliant, vivid blue. He stands before the crowd, nods to the cheers and applause, and finally raises his arms to silence them.
“It’s great to see you all again.” Speer beams from ear to large, protruding ear. “It’s been a while, right? Do you like my new look?”
He does a little runway spin to ripples of nervous laughter and applause.
“Yep, it’s really me. Really. As you can see, I didn’t have a sex change operation, despite the rumors on social media. But I’m sure you are wondering where I’ve been for the last year, right?” Murmurs of assent. “Well, that’s why I’m here today. I wanted it to be a surprise. Surprise! Are you surprised?”
Titters of laughter follow.
“Cool. I love surprises, don’t you? And I have a doozy today, let me tell you. This last year has been what I can only describe as an Incredible Journey. With capitals. It was a journey of discovery. And what I have discovered will blow. Your. Mind.” He speaks the last three words very slowly and pauses after each one. “I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. To put it plainly, I have discovered the secret to perfect health and eternal life.”
I turn to Uriel. “He has discovered faith in the Risen One?”
He scoffs.
Speer pauses, waiting for the murmurs to die down before he continues. “I see I have your attention now, right? I mean, who doesn’t want to have eternal life? Or perfect health. Some of you are looking at me now and thinking, ‘Okay, he’s finally gone completely crazy.’ I get where you are coming from. But what I am about to tell you is the complete and honest truth, and I have plenty of evidence to back it up.
“Let me start at the beginning. A couple of years ago, I was diagnosed with a rare and fatal congenital disorder called Huntington’s Disease.” The audience gasps. “You already know what that means, I’m sure. I also learned that this disease was the reason my father committed suicide when I was four years old. My mother kept the information from me, hoping, I suppose, that I wouldn’t develop the disease. She finally did tell me about my father, just before she passed away. Needless to say, I was in total shock. I got tested immediately, and I was positive.”
He pauses to let that sink in. The audience is quiet now, on the edge of their seats.
“The disease can manifest anywhere from age twenty to forty. I’m thirty-five. I figured I didn’t have much time to come up with a cure. You and I know there is no cure for Huntington’s, and most treatments have proven ineffective. But I stand before you now, completely cured.”
Excited murmurs sweep through the crowd. People look at each other, mouths dropping open.
“So you’re wondering how? Well, through the wonders of science. There have been incredible advances in gene editing these past few years. We’ve talked about them in this very room on many occasions. I tried all the known therapies but none of them worked for me. Most can only be administered at the embryonic level anyway. I needed to go further. I needed to be able to edit my own genome. With the help of the Hyde Foundation, I was able to find a way to do it. What I needed, though, was a perfect host. Someone with a unique genetic makeup able to correct almost any disease or condition. Such a person doesn’t exist right? Well, he does exist. And I found him.”
More murmurs.
“But before I go into all that, I want to bring out my own personal physician, Dr. Len Wilder, to explain more details of the procedure. Len?”
Another man joins Speer on the platform, a handsome, silver-haired man with an ageless face. He explains, using marvelous moving images on the screen, how Darwin Speer had been cured of his congenital disease.
“We injected Darwin with the DNA of the host using an advanced gene editing technology similar to CRISPR. I won’t go into all the details here, but you can find it in the report you will receive after this session is over. This new DNA did an astonishing thing. It actually repaired the mutated gene in Speer’s body, thereby curing him of his disease.
“We believe,” Dr. Wilder concluded, “that this particular DNA strain has the potential to cure any genetic disorder known to man, as well as many other diseases. To test our theory, we injected Darwin with a well-known and quite deadly virus. Don’t worry, he signed all the necessary forms ahead of time. It was his idea, in fact. Well, an amazing thing happened. His immune system defeated the virus in a matter of hours.”
There are hands in the air and a flurry of commotion in the crowd.
“We have also discovered that Darwin’s healing process has sped up exponentially. We’d like to do a little demonstration to show you what we mean.”
Wilder nods to Speer, who rolls his sleeve up and holds out his arm. The doctor hands him a scalpel, and he proceeds to make a deep cut in his own arm. People gasp as blood pours from the wound, then whisper in amazement as it begins to heal right before their eyes. The man smiles through it all, apparently not even in pain.
“Don’t try this at home, kids,” he says and holds his arm up high so everyone can see. In a few minutes, the wound is completely healed.
The chatter in the crowd becomes so loud, Wilder is forced to raise his voice to be heard.
“We believe this treatment will also slow down the aging process, allowing a person to live on well into their hundreds and perhaps even longer. There are still more tests to be done, but we have seen in Mr. Speer a regeneration of brain cells as well as rapid regeneration of many other cells in his body.”
“I literally feel like I’m twenty years old again,” Speer says.
“So this is a miracle cure?” asks a woman in the audience.
“We don’t like the word miracle. This is a genuine scientific breakthrough. The only side effect I can see is that my hair has turned completely white and I’ve put on a little weight. But I think it’s not a bad trade-off, don’t you?” Laughter ripples through the crowd. “It’s like being a vampire who can enjoy the sunshine and eat a good steak. The best of both worlds!”
A portly, older man rises to speak. “You said the original source of the DNA strand was a perfect host—what do you mean? Who is this perfect host you are talking about? Is it human?”
“I cannot divulge any specifics at this time,” says Speer. “In fact I must insist on absolute secrecy until we are ready to go to market. This is why I have had all the doors of this room blocked. No one can leave here without signing a binding nondisclosure agreement. I know I can count on all of you to comply. You are privileged members of this group, so you understand that confidentiality is paramount. I must warn you that any leaking of the information discussed in this room will not be tolerated.”
His friendly tone now carries a distinctly threatening edge. Alarm sweeps the assembly as people notice male and female guards stationed at every doorway. They wear black jumpsuits with the golden spear logo on the breast and carry assault rifles.
“My assistants are passing out the forms now,” Speer says. “Once you’ve signed, you are free to leave. Only don’t go yet. I’ve barely begun. We haven’t even scratched the surface. There is more, so much more! Stay, my friends, and let me tell you how I will assure you all, every one of you, a kingdom of your own.”
I turn to Uriel. “What does he mean, a kingdom of their own?”
“He means the war has begun.”
18: Clearly
Grace
We celebrate Jared’s 495th birthday at the Hobbit Hole with Emilia’s special beef stroganoff and an enormous birthday cake. 495 is not Jared’s actual age—we pick a random number every year. He’s been as old as 2,578. After he blows the candles out—as many as we can fit on the cake—we quiz him on what growing up was like 495 years ago. He tells us he lived in a little thatched house with three pigs and two cows and that he had a job on the “graveyard shift” listening for the “dead ringers.” Back then, people were buried with strings attached to their arms leading to a bell above ground. If it turned out they weren’t actually dead, they could ring the bell and get dug up. Being buried alive was fairly common apparently.
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