by Bill Myers
But when? And how?
God had spared no effort in making it clear they were to be participants, but when it came to the details, He remained aloof, completely silent. With no course to follow but their own, they put their heads together and came up with the clinic. It seemed the best way of combining their talents … his gifts of faith and healing and her background in science and medicine.
Granted, this didn’t exactly make them the fire-breathing, turning-water-to-blood prophets spoken of in Revelation. But, as Sarah had always argued, there were other interpretations of this Scripture than just the literal. Those who believed Revelation to be a book covering the entire span of the church age looked upon the witnesses as symbols of devout Christians who, throughout the centuries, had turned the waters red with their martyred blood. Those who believed Revelation applied strictly to the times of Roman persecution immediately following the writing of the book and that the number 666 was a secret code for Nero, believed the two witnesses to be historical individuals such as Peter and James. And those who believed it was completely spiritual and symbolic, believed the two witnesses represented the old and new covenants, or Jews and Christians, or the civil and religious law. There seemed to be endless possibilities in interpreting who they were and what they would be doing. And, although Brandon still leaned toward the literal approach, Sarah’s arguments certainly made more and more sense.
Yet they had to do something. The world was unraveling at an alarming pace. Crashing stock markets, worldwide famine, spreading disease — all within the past twelve months. If anyone needed proof we’d entered the end times, all they had to do was read a newspaper. Things were rapidly coming to a head, and the sooner the two of them were ready the better.
But ready to do what? And how? If only God would stop being so mysterious.
There was a gentle rap on the hallway door and a voice calling, “Room service.”
Brandon looked up. Room service? They hadn’t ordered room service. They couldn’t afford it even if they had. Unless … maybe this was more of Frank’s doing.
“Mr. Martus?”
Brandon rose. Although the voice was muffled, there was something about it. Something nervous. He grabbed his shirt, threw it on, and crossed to the door. When he opened it he saw a young girl, probably high school age. She stood beside a silver cart that was draped in white cloth and held a sweating silver ice bucket. Inside the bucket was a bottle wrapped in more white linen.
“I’m sorry,” Brandon said. “We didn’t order any, uh …”
“Champagne,” she said, just a trace too cheerily. “Compliments of the hotel.”
“Oh, um …” He opened the door for her to enter. She rolled the cart into the room.
“Are you finding everything satisfactory?”
Instantly, he knew. The girl had lied. He wasn’t sure how he knew. He was never sure how he knew these things. Some called it clairvoyance, others insisted it was God’s gift of discernment. Brandon wasn’t sure. All he knew was that as he grew less self-absorbed and freer of himself, he could listen to others more deeply and hear them more clearly. It was the little signs that spoke the loudest … a self-conscious glance, a nervous swallow, the slightest increase of pitch in the voice. The signs had always been there, but before, Brandon had been so full of himself that he hadn’t noticed.
He leveled his gaze toward the girl and quietly asked, “What would you like from me?”
She glanced up, a little surprised. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Why did you come here? What do you want from me?”
She tried holding his look, but her eyes wavered then glanced away.
Brandon continued, gentle but firm. “Why are you here?”
But she could not answer.
He tried an easier question. “The champagne wasn’t the hotel’s idea, was it?”
Her eyes dropped to the floor. Her breathing grew more labored. He waited patiently. Finally, she shook her head. As she did, tears fell from her lashes. She reached up to wipe them, and that’s when Brandon saw it. Her hand. It was crippled. It twisted inward, turning upon her like a self-accusing claw. It might have been an accident, a birth defect, even polio. Brandon didn’t know and it really didn’t matter.
The tears came faster. He took her arm and helped her to a chair. “Here.” He grabbed a tissue from the counter. Several tissues. By now tiny rivulets streamed down her cheeks. But that was okay. Crying was good. In the beginning, he used to try and stop it, but not anymore. Sometimes the tears cleaned and washed parts of the soul that he could never see.
He handed her the tissues and kneeled down in front of her. “Have you had that all of your life?”
She nodded.
He waited for more.
She gave a loud sniff and continued. “Since I was a baby.”
He looked back at the hand and saw two, maybe three, sets of scars running from the knuckles to her wrist. “How many operations?” he asked.
“Three.” She sniffed again. “We’ve been to specialists and surgeons and tons of healing services.” She wiped her nose. “But nothin’ ever happens. It never gets better.”
Brandon nodded. Again, the details really weren’t important. They were only a way of helping her relax, of getting her used to her surroundings before he asked the hard question. But she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
“What’s your name?”
“Latisha. Latisha Cooper.”
“Hello, Latisha. My name’s Brandon.”
She nodded at the obvious and didn’t look up.
“You go to school around here?”
She shook her head. “Used to. But then I —” She caught herself and started again. “But not anymore.”
“Not since you had the baby.”
Her eyes shot up to him.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “It’s all right.”
A new wave of tears streamed down her cheeks. And for one brief moment Brandon thought his own heart would break. He understood now. The hand had ruled her entire life. It was the reason behind her pretended indifference to school. It was the reason she hung out with gang members and why she slept around. It was also the reason that she’d finally gotten herself pregnant.
He cleared his throat, trying to hide the emotion in his own voice. “How old is your child now, Latisha?”
“She’ll be eighteen months next Thursday.”
“Is she as pretty as you?”
She gave a little shrug and pulled her claw in closer. Before she could withdraw it any further he asked, “May I hold your hand?” There was a moment’s hesitation. He started reaching for it. “Is that okay? May I hold your hand?”
She watched as he took it. When they first touched he felt the tiniest flinch. But it wasn’t fear. It was deeper than that. It was guilt. And shame. And anger. The poor child was consumed by them. They were the real sickness, her real disease. And they were the reason she’d come to him. Of course she didn’t know it, probably never would. But he did.
At last, the time had come. He had to ask the question. “Latisha, tell me … do you really want to be healed?”
Her eyes widened in surprise then narrowed in anger. Was he mocking her?
Brandon held her gaze, waiting for an answer. It was an absurd question, he knew. But on more than one occasion he discovered people really didn’t want to be healed. Oh sure, they said they wanted help, but those were merely words. In reality, their crippledness had become their identity, the trademark of who they were. And for those afraid of losing their identity, who in their heart of hearts really didn’t want to be changed, the infirmity would not leave. Sometimes, even more tragically, if it left it would return.
Suddenly, he heard the bathroom door open behind him, and he saw Latisha look up.
“What on earth …” It was Sarah’s voice. She no doubt looked more lovely than he’d ever seen her. And probably more surprised.
“Sarah.” He cleared his throat. “This is, uh,
Latisha. Latisha … Sarah.” He’d been in more awkward situations, but at the moment he couldn’t remember when.
The girl started to rise and pull her hand away.
Brandon’s grip tightened. “No, please, it’s okay.”
She looked at him doubtfully.
“No, really.” Then, over his shoulder, he called, “She wanted me to take a look at her hand, to see if there was something we can do for her.”
He knew Sarah had been caught off guard and was definitely miffed. He also knew she would see the girl’s desperation and would understand. After all, they encountered this type of need a dozen times a week at the clinic … although, not exactly in these circumstances.
Once again, Latisha started to pull back her hand and rise, but this time Sarah spoke. “No, please, sit. It’s okay, please.” Brandon heard the strain in her voice, but he also heard the compassion.
Still unable to see her, he called over his shoulder. “Would you like to join us?” He knew she would refuse. She was aware of the procedure and the need to create a bond of trust. If she were to barge in now, they’d have to start over, and that would slow things down.
“No, I’ve got some work to do over at the desk. You two go ahead.”
He nodded and watched Latisha’s eyes follow Sarah back into the bathroom. He winced slightly, realizing she’d probably gone back to grab a robe. Yes sir, things couldn’t have been any more awkward. When he heard Sarah re-enter he asked again, “Are you sure you don’t want to join us?”
“No, that’s okay,” she said as she crossed to the desk behind him. “You two go ahead.” She still didn’t sound convincing, but she was trying. A moment later he heard the familiar sound of her laptop opening and the faint whir of a hard disk starting up. He almost smiled. It had been nearly ten hours since she’d checked her e-mail. No doubt some kind of record for his bride, the information junkie.
He turned back to Latisha. It was time to re-ask the question: “Do you really want to be healed?”
This time she was able to hold his look. And this time she nodded.
“Good,” he half-whispered. “Good.” He wrapped both of his hands around hers. Then, closing his eyes, he started to pray. With lips barely moving, he silently thanked the Lord, expressing his gratitude for Latisha and his gratitude for the opportunity to help her. Then he began seeking God’s will, making certain this was the time and place, that the Lord didn’t have some greater plan which did not include a healing.
As he continued to pray, he began to feel the heat. It started in his palms, then spread out to his fingertips. Soon, both of his hands were on fire, their warmth encircling hers. He knew it took all of her will not to panic and pull away, but he also knew she was a strong girl.
Nearly a minute passed before he reached for the fingers of the hand. Then, kneading her hand as if it were soft, malleable clay, he began opening the claw. Latisha stifled a gasp, but he kept his eyes closed. From time to time he would release the pressure to feel if the hand would twist back into itself.
It did not.
Another minute passed before it was entirely straight and the healing was complete. At last Brandon opened his eyes and looked up at the girl. Her face was as wet with tears as his own. She held up the hand, astonished. She turned it, staring at it as if it belonged to someone else. Ever so carefully, she closed it. Then opened it. She repeated the process, faster. She grabbed it with her other hand, squeezing it, testing it. Everything worked perfectly.
Suddenly she threw her arms around Brandon — clinging to him tightly, burying her wet face into his shirt. “Thank you,” she whispered fiercely. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Brandon said nothing, holding her for as long as she needed, silently thanking the Lord.
At last they separated. She struggled to her feet and started talking excitedly. They were the usual promises — she’d live a better life, go back to church, get right with God. Brandon listened and smiled. He knew she meant well. They always did.
Finally, she gathered herself and started toward the door, practically skipping. “Thank you, Mrs. Martus,” she called over to the desk. “Thanks so much!”
“You’re welcome” was all Sarah said.
Her response surprised Brandon. Normally Sarah would be excited, sharing in the patient’s joy and offering plenty of hugs of her own. But this time, though she smiled and was pleasant, she remained in front of the computer, very much preoccupied.
After a few more thank-yous and more promises to live better, Latisha finally stepped out into the hallway. Not, of course, without giving Brandon one more hug. He returned it, wished her the best, and after another set of good-byes, was finally able to close the door. He leaned against it silently. Some healings were harder than others, depending upon the emotional baggage attached. This one had been exhausting.
At last, he turned to Sarah. She was still staring at the computer. Even in the screen’s blue-green glow she was beautiful … her graceful neck rising from the top of the white cotton robe, that rich auburn hair grazing her delicate shoulders. There were times, like now, that he found her presence absolutely intoxicating. It took a moment before he could find his voice. “Sarah?”
She gave no response.
“Sarah?” Still nothing. “Is everything all right?”
She finally turned to him, her face a mixture of concern and confusion.
He started toward her. “What’s wrong?
“We have some very strange e-mail.”
He arrived at her side and looked at the screen. “From who? What’s it say?”
“It’s from … Gerty Morrison.”
“Gerty Morrison? No way.”
She motioned toward the screen. “See for yourself.”
He leaned in beside her for a better look. “That’s impossible. Gerty’s been dead for over a year.”
Sarah looked up at him and slowly nodded. “I know.”
CHAPTER 2
“HELP ME! SOMEBOD —” THE cry was interrupted by an unearthly scream. Part animal, part little boy. “Help me!”
Katherine exploded into the room. She pushed her way past the Cartel members who hovered over her son. Those who didn’t have the foresight to step back were shoved aside. “Excuse me! Excuse me, please!”
She’d been milling around the hallway all afternoon and into the evening, just in case this sort of thing happened. It didn’t happen often, but it happened enough — whenever Eric wanted to regain control of his body before Heylel was done using it.
“Help … me!”
She pushed aside the last Cartel member and saw her son convulsing on the floor. To the untrained it looked like a seizure, but she could see his eyes were opened, and although they were wild, she could tell he knew exactly what was going on. More importantly, she knew he would continue to fight until he got his way. He always did.
Of course Lucas was already at his side, Lucas was always at his side. He was trying to hold the boy’s head, trying to comfort him and convince him to relax. “Take it easy, sport. Take it —”
“Stop it!” Eric shrieked. “Let go of me! Let go!” But he wasn’t screaming at Lucas, he was screaming at Heylel. “Let go!”
Katherine arrived at his side. She took his hand and reached over to his sweaty face. “Shh …”
“Mom …”
“It’s okay, sweetheart, I’m here. It’ll be over in a minute.”
“He won’t … let …”
“It’s okay, darling …”
“Let go of me! Let —”
“It’s okay —”
“… gooo!” The last word was a wrenching cry from the boy’s gut. As it faded the writhing stopped. Eric had resurfaced. Heylel was gone. The room grew quiet, its silence broken only by the boy’s heavy panting.
“Sweetheart, are you okay? Sweetheart?”
He didn’t answer.
Katherine tried to move closer, but Lucas was in the way.
“Sweetheart, here.” She reached in to
ward him. “Let Mom —”
But Lucas was already helping him sit up. Katherine watched with resentment as the boy clung to him and the man began stroking his hair. “You all right, sport?”
Eric may have given the slightest nod, she wasn’t sure. But it was enough. That was her son and she was going to hold him. “Excuse me,” she said, reaching past Lucas. “Excuse me …”
And then Eric did something that broke her heart. Something that made her all the more resolved to end these sessions. As she reached toward her son, Eric turned to Lucas as if asking for permission.
Her son! Asking for permission? Outrageous!
“It’s okay.” Lucas nodded encouragingly. “Go ahead.”
Incensed, Katherine moved in and pulled him away from the man. Eric didn’t resist. “It’s okay, baby,” she said as she began stroking his damp hair. “It’s over. It’s okay, it’s all over.”
“You said the seizures would stop! You gave me your word!”
Katherine and Lucas were alone in his office. A year ago she’d been intimidated by his fame and popularity. Like droves of other women, she was physically drawn to his good looks and emotionally moved by his charm and sensitivity. Add to that the sympathy factor of losing his wife to cancer the last year he was in office, and you pretty much had every woman’s dream. But Katherine soon learned that when it came to sex, Lucas Ponte’s feet were made of the same clay as the next man’s. And after he made several smooth but failed attempts to bed her, it was safe to say her first blush of reverence and timidity toward him were gone. Long gone.
Lucas shook his head. “I said Heylel promised they would stop.”
“Well, Heylel is a liar!”
Lucas remained silent, letting her words reverberate against the rich mahogany walls. He was known for his compassion and for being calm under pressure. Calm and compassionate. She had never seen him otherwise. Another reason she disliked him.