“I know you don’t believe me, Rita. But you will.”
“You seem like a nice young man, Ethan. But you’re also obviously insane.” She smiled sweetly. “No offense.”
“I’ll be called a lot worse than that before I’m through.”
“Surely you don’t expect anyone to believe these outlandish claims of yours, not without proof.”
“How do you explain what happened at the hospital?”
“I can’t explain it.”
“And what about my mother? You said you saw her death certificate.”
“I can’t explain that, either. But my inability to explain these things isn’t proof of anything.”
“A miracle is its own proof.”
“Clearly, something miraculous occurred at Olathe Medical. I’m not disputing that. But just because a miracle took place doesn’t mean you’re the one responsible.”
“There will always be those who doubt and deny, Rita. I’m here to give people hope, to demonstrate the power of faith.”
“And how do you mean to do that, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I don’t mind at all. But I’m not going to tell you.”
“I didn’t think you could.”
“If you really want to know, come back this afternoon. I’ll be holding a press conference here at the house.”
Rita smiled, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
CHAPTER 16
Once the shock of his returning memory had worn off, Papa Jim had sprung into action . . . if a seventy-three-year-old great-grandfather could be said to spring. Well, this one could. He didn’t feel like seventy-three. It was as if the intervening ten years, the decade of forgetfulness, as he thought of it, had been wiped out in the blink of an eye, leaving him ten years younger, still in his prime.
But of course those ten years weren’t really gone. And a good thing, too. Because he’d used them well, expanded Oz Corporation into the biggest private security and prison firm in the country, meshed its workings seamlessly into the structure of Conversatio, all the while grooming Bill’s replacement in the House, an ambitious but empty-headed South Carolina representative named Trey “Wex” Wexler.
After the 2010 terrorist attacks, while the rest of the country had blundered about in panic, Papa Jim had put Wexler on television and the Internet, using him as a mouthpiece to criticize the Democratic administration and the Department of Homeland Security. Wexler had introduced a bill in Congress to have Oz Corp federalized, a bill which, underneath the legalese, really called for the Department of Homeland Security to be privatized, and Papa Jim had called in all his favors to get it passed. The president hadn’t dared to veto it, and so Papa Jim, as CEO of Oz, had found himself installed as the new “Terror Czar” in 2011.
From that lofty perch, he had pulled the strings of Wexler’s successful 2012 presidential campaign, and, in 2014, had blown the whistle on a plot by Democratic representatives and senators to impeach the president on trumped-up charges; the resulting scandal had decimated the Democrats in the off-year elections, leading to a historic Republican majority in Congress that had immediately declared a national emergency, temporarily vesting President Wexler with virtually unlimited power. Howls were raised from the predictable quarters, all easily ignored, and lawsuits were filed, which were moving through the courts with a glacial slowness that was preferable to outright dismissal, as it provided the illusion of a functioning legal system while giving Papa Jim time to consolidate his political gains in time for the upcoming election cycle.
He’d realized at once that Ethan could be central to his plans for restoring America to greatness through the establishment of a Christian theocracy. It was hard to imagine a more perfect candidate than the Son of God! Unfortunately, it was also hard to imagine a more dangerous opponent. That was why he had to act quickly.
But Papa Jim wasn’t the only one to recover lost memories; at the same time his memories of Ethan had returned, so, apparently, had those of the Conversatio agents who’d been there at the Phoenix hospital ten years ago. Soon Papa Jim was being bombarded with private messages from the rest of the Conversatio directorate, demanding that he take action to secure the second Son.
Papa Jim told them he was already on it. He had tried to contact the agent directly responsible for Ethan, Lisa Brown, immediately. Unfortunately, he’d been unable to do so; it seemed that she’d been seriously injured in an automobile accident. Whether it was truly an accident, or Congregation interference, he didn’t know, but he’d dispatched a team of Conversatio agents to Olathe, as well as alerting his own security forces there. The “munchies,” people had taken to calling them; personally, he kind of liked the nickname.
Meanwhile, to cover all his bases, he’d put in a call to the convent of Santa Marta. It was time to bring Kate home. Once Ethan was informed of her identity, her presence would be a powerful incentive for his cooperation. But there too Papa Jim was stymied. The mother superior reported that Sister Elena had gone: No one could say where, or when, or how. It was as if she had disappeared off the face of the earth.
Had she been snatched by the Congregation? Papa Jim had his spies in the Vatican, even a highly placed mole within the Congregation itself, and he put out cautious feelers now, looking for any information about Kate’s whereabouts. At the same time, he circulated her description to his security people at every international airport in the United States. Then, like a spider at the center of its web, he sat back to wait for the flies to blunder in.
Instead, events had spun further out of his control.
Denny had alerted him to news broadcasts out of Olathe, Kansas. There had been an unexplained event at the hospital there, a mass healing that people were hailing as a miracle. A young man had claimed responsibility.
Ethan.
Papa Jim recognized him at once. Even after ten years, there was no mistaking that face. The face of his great-grandson.
Ethan had given a brief interview with a local reporter named Rita Rodriguez, then had promised to hold a press conference later in the day. In the interview, he’d not only proclaimed his responsibility for the healings, which from Papa Jim’s perspective was bad enough, a red flag for the Congregation, he’d also insisted that he’d brought his mother—that is, Lisa Brown—back from the dead, like Lazarus. Papa Jim had to assume that was why he hadn’t heard anything from Agent Brown. Even if her memory had been wiped clean, like his own, she still should have gotten in contact with him as soon as she’d recovered it. And it seemed logical to him that she would have recovered her memory at the same time he and the others had, that the event wasn’t unique to them alone. Since she hadn’t reported in, either before or since her accident, he could only conclude that she was no longer trustworthy. She had been turned.
Worst of all, Ethan had referred openly to the doctrine of the second Son, and had declared himself to be the Son of God, sent to Earth by his father to “shake things up.” Sound bites with Olathe residents and prominent religious commentators indicated that he was well on his way to accomplishing that goal. He was called a crackpot, a snake-oil salesman, a blasphemer, a drug addict, and worse. Not a single person, not even those who had been cured or had family members cured in the Miracle of Olathe Medical, seemed willing to entertain the remotest possibility that Ethan might be telling the truth.
As far as Papa Jim was concerned, that was the only good news yet. As long as people didn’t believe, the situation could be salvaged. If they began to believe that Ethan really was who he claimed to be—believed it, that is, before Papa Jim could get to Ethan and explain the benefits of cooperation to him, get him on board with Papa Jim’s plan for the salvation of America and the world—then there was a very good chance that chaos would result. And Papa Jim hated chaos.
So Papa Jim had lit a cigar and hit the phones again. His first thought had been to simply send in the munchies and take Ethan and Lisa into “protective custody.” But then he�
�d realized that such a course of action would only inflame things more than they were already. Media representatives had surrounded Ethan’s home, staking the place out in anticipation of the afternoon press conference, and there was simply no way to get in and out without having the operation captured on camera and broadcasted on every television screen, computer monitor, and cell phone in the country and beyond. No, he couldn’t stop the press conference.
But he could sure as hell try to shape it.
With all the passions stirred up by Ethan’s interview with the Rodriguez woman, Papa Jim supposed that it would surprise no one if there was a violent response during his press conference. There would certainly be protesters in attendance, Christians and members of other faiths offended by Ethan’s claim to divinity. All it would take would be one fanatic to spark a riot. And then, to restore order, his munchies would come swooping down like avenging angels to save the day, in the process sweeping up Ethan and Lisa and spiriting them away before anyone really knew what had happened.
Yes, he’d thought, pleased with himself. That was the best way to handle things. It would get the other directors of Conversatio off his back, give him some breathing room. It would strike a powerful blow against the Congregation. And it would stir up interest in, and sympathy for, the earnest young man who, however misguided, had been the victim of an unprovoked attack. Then, a few days later, there would be another press conference, a very different kind of affair, with absolutely nothing left to chance and a script for Ethan prepared by some of the PR wizards in media relations, the same bunch who had put the magic words in Wex’s mouth that had gotten him elected.
Papa Jim had savored another puff on his cigar, then summoned Denny into his office.
They had a fanatic to find.
It had all gone as Gabriel had promised.
She’d returned to her cell, gathered some clothes, her passport, and a few personal items, threw them into a carry-on bag, and simply walked out of the convent. No one stopped her. No one said a word to her. No one saw her, not even when she passed right in front of them, close enough to touch if they’d merely stretched out a hand.
As she passed through the gate and out of the convent of Santa Marta, she’d felt a part of herself slough off like a skin she’d outgrown or a disguise she no longer needed. She shed Sister Elena and left her behind in the dust.
Kate strode on without glancing back. There was nothing there for her anymore, and she knew it. Her path stretched before her, leading to one destination.
Ethan.
Her son.
Not dead as she’d been told. As she’d believed for so many years.
Rage filled her heart against her grandfather and everyone at the convent who had lied to her for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand. And against God too. Perhaps against Him most of all.
But she also felt shame at her own acquiescence in the lie, the ease with which she had accepted what she’d been told. As if, on some level, she’d wanted to believe it. It seemed to her now as she walked along the dusty road leading down from the hills that she had failed Ethan, failed herself. She should have gone in search of him years ago, should never have allowed Father Rinaldi and Papa Jim to manipulate her into taking the veil . . . for she saw clearly now that was what had happened. They’d wanted her out of the way. She was a danger to them, or perhaps just an inconvenience. So they’d shuffled her aside, and Papa Jim had taken Ethan.
Why?
She meant to ask him.
But first she was going to find Ethan.
Gabriel had told her to look for him in Kansas, of all places. So it was to Kansas now that she must go. But how to get there?
Gabriel had said that God would provide.
Well, she thought, as she walked along the side of the road, this would be a good time to start providing.
Any time you’re ready, God.
She was so used to being invisible that at first, when the car pulled over in front of her and stopped, she kept right on walking past it.
“Hey! Hey, excuse me, lady!”
She flinched and turned. “Yes?” She was ready to run, afraid that the mother superior had detected her escape and sent this car to fetch her back. But when the passenger-side door opened and a young woman emerged— a pretty young girl who appeared to be about the same age as she’d been when she’d entered the convent . . . was it really almost twenty years ago?— she’d known at once that this was the help she’d been praying for.
“Wow,” said the girl with an open smile, brushing back long blond bangs, “are you, like, American?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“We’re kind of lost. My boyfriend and I are looking for the airport, but we must’ve taken a wrong turn.”
“I’m heading there myself,” she said.
“Wow, really? This is so lucky! We’ll drive you, okay, and you can show us the way.”
“That would be great,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”
“You’re the one doing us a favor,” said the woman. “I think we would have missed our flight if we hadn’t found you!”
The woman’s name was Dawn, and her boyfriend was Sean. They were both nineteen, college kids who had spent the Christmas break touring Greece and Italy but were now heading back to the States for the start of the new semester. As she sat in the back of the rental car, answering their questions and asking some of her own, Kate began to appreciate how much had changed in the United States and in the world during her time in the convent. She felt as if she’d just awakened from a long sleep to find herself in a world both familiar and strange, like Rip van Winkle.
“Wait, so this new president, Wexler, is, what, like a dictator or something?”
“Jeez, Ms. Skylar, where have you been?” asked Sean, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “In a nunnery or something?”
She laughed weakly. “I guess I haven’t been paying attention to the news.”
“President Wexler isn’t a dictator,” Dawn said. “He’s a good man, a God-fearing man. We need a strong leader like him to keep us safe from terrorists at home and abroad.”
“Though times demand though leaders,” Sean said, sounding as if he were echoing an advertising slogan.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Kate said, not wanting to argue with her new friends.
“We’re lucky to have President Wexler,” Dawn insisted.
“And Secretary Osbourne,” Sean added.
Kate nearly choked at that. “Osbourne? You don’t mean Jim Os-bourne, the head of Oz Corporation?”
“Who else? He took over the Department of Homeland Security after the attacks in 2010 and made America safe again. He exposed the plot against President Wexler. He’s a hero, a real patriot.”
Somehow, Papa Jim had neglected to mention any of these developments to her in his visits and phone calls, and the discipline of the convent had effectively precluded her from engaging in any investigations of her own, even if she’d been inclined to do so, which she hadn’t, too sunk in self-pity and the comforting aura of martyrdom.
“That reminds me,” said Dawn, turning around in her seat to look directly at Kate. “I knew I recognized your name from somewhere. Sky-lar—that was the congressman who volunteered in Iraq and got killed. He was Secretary Osbourne’s son-in-law. You’re not related to him, are you?”
“No, I’m no relation,” Kate said.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Dawn. “It would be cool to be related to someone like that, you know?”
“I’m sure his family is proud of him,” she said, looking away, out the window, remembering the last time she’d spoken with her father, arguing with him. He’d tried to tell her that Ethan was still alive. Tried to convince her of the truth. But she hadn’t listened, hadn’t believed. She’d called him a liar, a crazy person. Now she would have given anything to tell him how sorry she was, how much she loved him despite all his failures as a father, because of what he’d tried to do at the end.
He’d been there for her when it counted, when no one else had been there, and she’d rejected him.
Oh Daddy, I’m so sorry . . .
“Hey, are you okay?” asked Dawn.
“Sorry,” she said with an embarrassed smile. She brushed the tears from her cheeks. “You’ve got me thinking about my own family. I haven’t seen them in a long time. I miss them . . .” She couldn’t go on.
“I know what that’s like,” said Dawn, passing her back some tissues, which she gratefully accepted. “This is the longest I haven’t seen my folks in, like, forever.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Sean incredulously. “You’re vidding them on your cell every night!”
“It’s not the same as being there,” Dawn rejoined. “Is it, Ms. Skylar?”
“No, it’s not,” she said. “Take this left, Sean. It brings us back to the main road.” It was amazing how well she remembered the way, though she hadn’t been out of the convent in nearly ten years.
The rest of the drive to the airport passed without conversation, as Dawn turned on the car’s radio and tuned to a satellite pop station, cranking up the volume and singing along in a high voice that wove in and out of the songs without ever seeming to hit the right notes. Yet Kate wasn’t annoyed; she felt strangely charmed, maybe because it reminded her of what it had been like to be that age herself, or a bit younger, how she too had sung along to the radio on car trips with a voice no better than Dawn’s and probably even a little worse, not because she thought she sounded good but just because it was so good to be young and to be alive.
Well, thirty-six wasn’t exactly ancient, was it? Even if it sometimes felt that way. The world seemed like such a different place than what she was used to, not only in large things like the rule of nations but in small things too, like the “vidding” Sean had so casually mentioned, which by his context could only refer to real-time video cell-phone transmission, something that had still been in the realm of science fiction when she’d entered the convent. How much else had changed? Would she recognize her own country anymore? Kate was afraid she would be a stranger there, friendless and all but forgotten, her parents dead, her grandfather someone other than the man she’d always thought she’d known, her son unaware of her very existence.
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