by Ted Dekker
The event was the boy’s sixth nationally televised appearance, not a career by any stretch. But the previous five consecutive events brimmed with stunning power had already made believers out of half the world. They could not agree on exactly what they believed—every religion had their own take on the boy, and within each religion there were a half-dozen major positions on the phenomenon. But for the most part, everybody agreed that Caleb’s power was undeniable. He had become an instant icon for their particular belief system.
During the five events, the boy had not spoken very much, except through Leiah on one occasion, and she refused to comment on camera. It was clear by what he did say that Caleb was a devout follower of Christ, but this didn’t deter the Hindus or the New Agers or even the Muslims. He was a ten-year-old child who had been raised Christian; of course he would sound Christian. That did not mean Jesus Christ was God alone, as most Christians claimed. It only meant that Caleb was exceptionally gifted by God, whoever God was.
In a strange way the boy had brought unity rather than division among the people of faith. Unity and hope. God, whoever he was, did care and was reaching out to humanity.
Of course, you always had your kooks, in this case those who simply didn’t believe—the I’m-an-atheist-despite-the-facts crowd. They still hung on to the absurd notion that it was all somehow a conspiracy to reinvent God, the sham of all shams. And if you looked real close, you would find wires and rubber legs and all sorts of devices that made what they all saw on television possible.
In any event, Caleb’s failure during that sixth meeting on Tuesday night sent ripples throughout the world. It was either See, I told you so, or somber stares of disbelief.
Which was why when Mary Sue Elsworth stood before the cameras on Friday morning and told the world that she’d been healed by young Caleb at a private dinner Thursday night, the media went into a feeding frenzy. Mary Sue was a well-known Hollywood actress who’d broken her leg in a Sunday skiing accident, and she stood free as a bird. She even did a little jig for the cameras. And she wasn’t the only one; there were about a hundred people there, and as far as she knew, they all got healed.
It wasn’t surprising that when three thousand tickets for a Saturday-night event went on sale for a thousand dollars each that afternoon, they were sold out within the hour.
Caleb was back.
But none of them knew what Jason and Leiah both knew as they silently watched the madness on television: Caleb’s gut-ache was back as well.
Leiah turned to Jason, shaking her head. “They don’t know how to lighten up, do they?”
“If he fails again, they’ll lighten up. Although I’m not sure that would do us any good.”
“Well, it can’t go on forever.”
“You’re right, but I’m having trouble seeing how it ends. It looks more and more like a no-win scenario.”
“What do you mean? Eventually we need to get Caleb out of this mess. That’s a win scenario.”
Jason glanced back at the television, where Donna had just concluded an exclusive, and then turned back to Leiah. “Maybe. But not if someone really is still trying to harm him. Especially if it’s NSA related. Let’s say all this goes away and Caleb becomes just another ordinary child. Chances are they’ll still ship him back to Ethiopia, and as far as we know his life is endangered there.”
“No, we fight to keep him here,” Leiah said.
“And even here he may be in danger.”
“From the NSA? Based on what?”
“Crandal,” Jason said. “He’s talked about Crandal in association with his vision three times now. And people are starting to listen. You could hear a pin drop in that room last night when he talked about the vision. I guarantee you Crandal’s wetting his pants about now. Caleb could throw his whole campaign a curve.”
“He wouldn’t hurt Caleb over an election.”
“Probably not. But this has to go beyond the election. This goes back to Ethiopia and the EPLF’s attack on the monastery.”
“You think Crandal’s behind that?” she asked with a raised brow. “Seems like a stretch to me.”
“Maybe. But we can’t just ignore Caleb’s vision. He doesn’t like Crandal, and if it were anybody else, I would shrug it off. But Caleb’s not anybody.”
She didn’t respond.
“Even if Crandal isn’t a threat, Caleb’s got this gut-ache . . .”
He stopped midsentence with his mouth still open. It was the first time he had even thought to connect the two—Crandal and Caleb’s gut-ache. Not that they were actually connected, but . . .
“What is it?” Leiah demanded.
“I don’t know. I just thought . . .”
“Thought what?”
He glanced around the coffee shop. “It’s probably crazy, but what if Crandal’s somehow responsible for this illness of Caleb’s?”
“He’s got the flu—the doctor said so himself.”
Suddenly the pieces fell in his mind like dominoes. He sat up, intent. “That would explain his recovery!”
“From the flu?”
“No. Okay, listen. Caleb can heal anybody, right? Jesus said that with the faith of a mustard seed you can move mountains, and Caleb really believes it. He’s never been exposed to anything contrary. In that sense Dr. Caldwell at UCLA is right. He’s a sort of spiritual noble savage. But then he’s isolated in a room with a television. I know this might sound strange, but follow me.” He lifted his hand.
“Suppose his delicate mind-set is assaulted with these crazy images day and night. He’s filling his mind with cops and robbers and who knows what else.”
“What does that have to do with his illness?”
“Nothing at first. But then say he begins to lose his . . . I don’t know, his faith or something. He starts to lose his healing power. Remember he came out on the fourth meeting, and he lay on the floor like he was repenting before anything happened. Then again in the church, only even more so. Finally he comes out onstage and just collapses.”
“Maybe. But I still don’t see how his illness . . .”
“What if it wasn’t an illness? What if it’s something that’s building up in his system? As long as his faith is strong it doesn’t affect him. He’s healing himself, so to speak. But as his faith fails, the effect grows.”
“Something like what?”
“Something like poison.”
“Come on! You can’t be serious!”
“I’m not saying it is, but think about it. It would be the perfect way to eliminate him. And who else has the flu? No one.”
Leiah wasn’t buying the explanation entirely, but her face was wrinkled with concern nonetheless. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Maybe. Depends on what Crandal’s hiding.”
She grabbed her purse and began to stand. “Then we have to do something! We have to get him out of there!”
Jason reached for her arm. “Hold on. We have to think this through. We don’t even know if I’m right.”
“No, but if you are, we don’t have time to think this through. We have to tell Nikolous.”
“And Nikolous will laugh us down if we don’t have more evidence. He was forced to refund a bundle on Tuesday. I don’t think he’s in any mood to do anything until after tomorrow’s meeting anyway. His whole reputation’s at stake.”
She eased back.
“It’s only two hours until we pick him up anyway. If he fails tonight, we take him to the hospital.”
“Based on your theory, it won’t matter,” she said.
“The hospital should be able to tell if he’s been poisoned.”
“But if he’s full of poison and he loses his power for lack of faith, what can save him?”
“What saved him last time?”
“Renewed faith?”
“And then he lost it again after they moved him back to his room.”
Jason shrugged. It was all quite confusing, this meddling in faith. Jason wasn’t even sure where his
own faith rested. In Christ as God, yes. But this matter of the powerless church would not let him free.
He took a gulp of cold coffee.
“We should be prepared to do whatever we need to tomorrow night. He looked pretty gray this afternoon. If need be we take him to the hospital without Nikolous’s permission.”
“He’ll fry you,” Leiah said.
“So be it. And I know Donna’s already talked to Crandal about this latest accusation of Caleb’s, but I think she might be up to pushing it. His answers were too pat and I could be misjudging her, but I don’t think she was entirely satisfied. Maybe she can put some pressure on him.”
He threw back the last from his cup.
Leiah slid her hand across the table, palm up. He put his hand in it, and she closed her fingers around his. Her sleeve rode up her arm enough to show the scars. He still wasn’t sure how to deal with her skin. He only knew that he loved her. She calmly reached forward and pulled the sleeve back down.
“I love you, Jason.”
He looked up into her blue eyes. “And I love you, Leiah.”
“You won’t let anything happen to Caleb, will you?”
She was asking him to be strong for her. For Caleb. To be her man.
“No, I won’t. I promise.”
“No way.” Stewart Long turned away from Barbara, grinding his teeth. “You’re crazy. I can’t believe you’d want that after what we put him through.”
“Put him through? What did we put him through, Stew? It happened, sure. He was mortified, we were all mortified, but how can one night of mortification compare to ten years of muscular dystrophy? How many diapers does it take to balance out one night of embarrassment?”
Stewart swung around. “Look, I’m the one who bought the tickets, remember? I paid six grand for that shot—six grand we don’t have, incidentally. I’m the one who got us front-row seats by securing a place in line ten hours before the event started. I’m the one who wheeled Peter up there and put him on the stage in front of the whole world. Don’t patronize me!” He breathed deep through his nostrils. “This has nothing to do with my embarrassment. We’re talking about Peter’s dignity here. Let’s not strip away what little he has.”
“I agree, Stew.” She spoke softly but firmly. “But we’re also talking about his life. He has to live with the diapers and the wheelchair. And so do we. If there is a possibility of changing his life forever, isn’t it worth the loss of a little dignity?”
“If. And what if there isn’t a possibility?”
“They say Caleb has his power back. He healed a hundred people in a private meeting.”
“Good for him.”
“There’s a meeting tomorrow.”
“And we’re not going,” he said. And then added, “Even if we could find tickets, I wouldn’t want to go.”
“I want you to think about it, Stew. Maybe not for tomorrow but for the next time. I want you to put yourself in Peter’s shoes and pretend you wear braces on your legs and think about going to see Caleb no matter what the ‘if ’s’ are.” She walked into the kitchen, then turned on the checkered linoleum. “He wants to go. Did you know that? Now you do.”
30
Day 35
JASON STOOD BEHIND THE CURTAIN, sweating, his stomach in knots. In the side wings Caleb waited with Leiah, trying to be as brave as possible, but he couldn’t hide the thin film of sweat that shone on his forehead. They asked him how he felt, and he told them fine, but neither Jason nor Leiah believed him. He was discovering denial.
Most of the three thousand ticket holders sat or lay on the main floor. A few hundred sat in the orange seats. A dozen of the black-clad antichrist club stood at the railing in their customary place. The leader stood perfectly still and held his eyes on the curtain as he always did. Behind him several members held their “Beware the Antichrist who comes as a wolf in sheep’s clothing” signs and imitated the posture of their leader. Only the one on the end did not stare forward.
Why would a group of protesters clearly in need of no healing pay a thousand dollars a head to attend the meetings? It made for some awful serious protesters, but at whose expense? Jason had brought the matter up with Nikolous again at the last meeting, but the Greek only shrugged and said that they were ticket holders.
Jason shivered. He was about to turn away when the small one at the end caught his attention again. The black-hooded fellow was looking toward the back, and Jason followed his stare. The red seats were empty and the lights along the back wall were off, perhaps to discourage anyone from sitting there. But the man seemed to be studying something up in the bleachers.
Jason released the curtain and returned to where Leiah waited with Caleb. The boy sat on a chair, his legs hanging limp and his shoulders hunched. Jason ruffled his hair.
“You ready for this Caleb?”
The boy stared ahead with glassy eyes. Jason exchanged a concerned look with Leiah and knelt down. The boy looked as sad as Jason could remember seeing him. He put a hand on his shoulder.
“You sure you want to do this, Caleb? We can go, you know. We can call this off and go home.”
“No,” Caleb said in a near whisper.
Jason bit his lip and nodded. He stood and walked to the side stage door, feeling disturbed without being able to corner the emotion. True, Caleb was obviously not himself again, but there was more to worry about here than his health. The notion crawled along his spine like a burrowing tick. Maybe as a result of all the talk about Crandal.
“God, help me,” he muttered, opening the door. He found himself praying naturally these days, almost as if God was right beside him. That’s how it had felt in the church last Sunday, and the closeness hadn’t entirely left him. “Give me wisdom. Protect us.”
Jason scanned the crowd from the shadows of the side entrance. Atmospheric music that he recognized as the theme from the movie Platoon swelled to fill the auditorium. “God help us.” His praying was not colorful or even proper, but he didn’t really give a flip. Colorful and proper had put Stephen in the grave.
That small man with the black hood was still studying the bleachers. Jason looked across the arena and saw that he divided his attention between the stage and the same section of red bleachers.
Jason followed his line of sight again. But there were only shadows.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Nikolous’s deep voice boomed over the speakers. “Welcome . . .” The word reverberated and the already quiet crowd fell motionless. Two dozen cameras focused on the curtains.
Jason pulled the door closed and joined Leiah. Nikolous insisted that the boy go out before the curtain went up tonight and Leiah intended to walk him out. She stood and helped him to his feet.
“Okay, Caleb?” she whispered.
Nikolous’s voice boomed again. “We are here to witness history.”
Caleb nodded.
“After tonight, your life will never be the same,” the Greek’s voice echoed.
Leiah led a weak Caleb out onto the stage, stood him before the microphone, and smoothed his hair. She knelt and whispered in his ear. Then she kissed his cheek and walked back to Jason.
Nikolous said a few more things, but Jason’s attention was on the boy, wavering on his feet with his hands limp by his sides. Such a brave boy. He was sick; you could see it even at this distance. So why were they allowing Nikolous to exploit him in such a state? Maybe they’d become so used to this odd arrangement that they no longer took exception to it.
Something is wrong.
Jason felt the impulse, like a hot iron at the base of his skull.
He stepped up to the stage entrance just as Leiah returned.
Something was very wrong. His pulse thumped in his ears. Nikolous had said his last and the music was building up in eerie volume. They should take the boy now. Just take him and run.
“What’s wrong?” Leiah asked.
“I don’t know.”
Jason almost ran for the boy then. Everything in his body
was telling him to run for Caleb. He’d never felt such a strong compulsion in all of his life.
The curtain suddenly began to rise and Jason pulled back slightly. Too late. He couldn’t run out now. The show had started.
Leiah stood at his elbow. “Jason, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”
He shook his head and held up a finger to silence her.
The curtain rose slowly, exposing Caleb to the crowd. Thundering applause filled the arena. The black-hooded antichrist protesters came into view diagonally from Jason. Their leader glared directly at him. At him! Not at Caleb, but at him, like a devil from hell peeking through that hood. We’ve got our eyes on you; yes we do.
Jason felt a chill rip up his spine. He jerked his eyes to the small one at the end. The one who’d been looking up at . . .
He was gone!
Banks eased the rifle out as soon as the houselights dimmed.
He saw Junior leave his spot and nodded in satisfaction. That’s right, Junior; we’re about to make you famous. As soon as Starks had given the punk his mission, Junior had started that idiotic staring of his. The price of setting up an amateur.
The mini-14 felt good in his hands. The perfect kid killer.
The curtain began to rise and Banks knelt behind the last row of seats. It would take Junior four minutes to get up here, assuming he didn’t stop at the john. But he’d been instructed not to. No running, no stopping off even to take a leak. Just walk calmly up to section 63 and give the note to a brother in black robes. The same walk had taken Banks between three minutes, forty seconds and four minutes, two seconds on his three trials.
Banks would take the kid out at three minutes, thirty seconds.
Applause filled the auditorium and he smiled. The kid was there, under the white glare of a bright spotlight. Banks lifted the rifle to the back of the chair. He snugged his cheek on its butt and peered through the scope. The boy’s face filled the glass, then moved out. Banks adjusted the rifle, but the kid had moved again. He was wavering back and forth on his feet.