by J. R. Bowles
“I'm pretty sure I can. All I have to do is call the ship.”
“Let's get Jackie clothed, then go into the city and see if any of us can feel any of the other centers,” Zolar said.
“Sounds good to me,” Bernie said. “After all, the next center should be a woman, since the Sex Center is next—unless this Avatar is gay.”
“Hey wait a minute, maybe the Avatar is a she. Did you ever think about that?” Jackie protested.
Bernie and Zolar laughed.
Zolar managed to say, after he quit laughing, “Bernie, she might be right.”
Bernie quieted down and looked at Zolar. “How do we know it's not one of us? We were together--but couldn't one of us have triggered the opening?”
“No.” Zolar shook his head. “We would know. Beside the key was someone named Billy.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
“I don't know about you guys, but I'm a little scared,” Jackie stated flatly, looking from one to the other.
“Yeah, me too.” Bernie agreed.
“I have another bombshell for you,” Zolar said, since the conversation had eased back down. “July 1, almost thirty years ago, eight babies were born in a hospital in Roanoke, Virginia; Shenandoah Hospital, as a matter of fact. The hospital no longer exists, it burned down and most of the records were destroyed.”
“I was born in that hospital,” Bernie exclaimed with shock. “My parents were vacationing in the Smoky Mountains, when I decided to come early.”
“So was I.” Jackie said. “I grew up in Christiansburg, that's a small town west of Roanoke, but my parents were shopping there when my mother went into labor.”
“Guess what, guys?” Zolar said. “So was I. I grew up in Salem, where my father was a professor at Roanoke College.”
“Strange coincidence.” Jackie said. “All of us being born in the same hospital in the Star City of the South.”
“Star City?” Bernie asked.
“Yeah, they call Roanoke the Star City because they built a giant star on Mill Mountain. It even lights up at night. It overlooks the Roanoke Valley.”
Zolar nodded his head. “Yeah, Bernie. It's a big star that's lit up white at night, and if there's a major death, someone important dies, it's lit up red.”
“My mother said the night I was born the star was red,” Jackie said solemnly. “This is sort of a gruesome thought, but it popped into my head — like a bloody star of Bethlehem.”
“Well, let's get going.” Zolar said, trying to ease the contagious melancholy.
“Yeah,” Bernie agreed, “Let's do it. Whatever that means.”
“Whatever he is, could we call him something besides Avatar or Anti-Christ or 'him?'” Jackie whispered, not quite knowing why. “It's just so odd. I need something not as scary.”
“Well, if he's the Anti-Christ, the devil's name was originally Lucifer. Which actually meant Lord of light or the Morning Star, and he's supposed to be loved by people. The name John comes to mind; it means 'beloved.' I guess he is supposed to become the beloved lord of light. Let's call him John Lucifer,” Zolar suggested.
“I like the idea of John,” Bernie added, “but Lucifer--it's so blatant. Let's disguise it; you know, like a nickname, so it doesn't sound obvious if we're discussing him. How about John Star, like the Morning Star or your Star City of the South, or plain John, or Mister John.”
“John Star sounds okay,” Jackie agreed, and watched as both men nodded their agreement. She rose and started clearing the table.
Zolar did the same.
Bernie said, “Zolar, you rest, you fixed the breakfast. Let Jackie and I do it. You're the one in the know here. You just make some plans as to what we're going to do. But first, Jackie, don't forget you have to call your ship.”
“Moo!” Jackie exclaimed.
“What's this? Am I a cow now, or what?” Bernie frowned at Jackie.
“Country joke. People often name their cows Bossy.” Jackie grinned at Bernie and winked at Zolar.
They all laughed. It felt much better than crying.
CHAPTER 18
The Reverend Thomas Lamb closed his eyes in the shower, reliving the experience he had just after midnight. “Dear God, I can't believe this--how am I to accomplish this alone?” he cried. He was drying himself on the stiff towels of the run-down hotel when there was a knock at the door. He wrapped the towel around him and cracked the door.
“Are you Thomas Lamb?” A young woman at the door asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“I have a telegram for you.”
“Thank you.” Thomas opened the door slightly wider, reaching his left hand out, all the time wondering, who could know he was here?
“I'm sorry, it involves money so I'll have to have identification and your signature.”
Thomas paused a moment, feeling exposed, but opened the door. “Excuse my state of undress. I'll have to get my drivers license, one moment please.”
As Thomas walked over to the dresser, the woman walked in as if she had been invited.
When Thomas turned around he was startled to see that the dark-haired woman had followed him. He felt a moment of fear when he realized she had shut the door. He quickly dismissed the thought: although he was still, wearing only a towel and feeling rather vulnerable, she was a petite thing, and her smile and warm brown eyes disarmed his feelings of uneasiness. He gave her his Virginia drivers licenses.
She inspected it. “Thomas Anthony Lamb,” she read. “Thank you, Mr. Lamb. Please sign here.” She pointed at the paper, while staring at his hairless chest. She handed him the telegram.
Thomas took it. “Enclosed is $10,000 dollars. Check into the Castleton Hotel near Madison Square Garden.” It was unsigned.
“Is this supposed to be a joke?” Thomas said, forgetting his state of undress.
“I assure you, this is no joke,” the woman said. “As soon as I return to our security van with your signature, there will be a man with your money escorting me up. We normally require people to come to our office for money but with this amount of money we deliver.” She glanced around the Spartan excuse for a hotel room. “By the way, my name is Becky.”
“No offense, but I'll tip you after I get the money. I'm new to New York, and I have heard of all kinds of hustles.”
“Smart thinking,” she smiled. “We will be back in a few minutes.”
CHAPTER 19
Michael O'Malley felt different walking through the streets; different than yesterday, when he had been living on the street. He thought, it is strange the way memory works: You can't remember who you are and then it all suddenly floods in on you, even the things you wanted to forget.
After a very long walk north he located them. He paused in front of Mama Leone's. He could tell that he was there with one of the centers. A center which had yet to open.
He told the hostess his party was already here, and smiled charmingly at her. She asked him if he wanted them paged, or did he just want to look around; he told her he would find them. They were above him. He could tell. He made his way to the second floor. There, across the room, he spotted John and a young woman sitting near the window. He could tell the girl was one of the centers. She was pointing at a large red and yellow floor vase and must have been commenting on its design.
Michael walked over to them and cleared his throat.
“Hello, John.” Michael said unemotionally.
John and Morgan both looked up at the same time. Slowly John recognized Michael. He stood up enthusiastically, grabbed Michael's hand, and then pulled him toward him and gave him a bear hug.
“I can't believe it. I thought you were dead! What happened to you? My God, they said you died in a plane crash. I even went to your memorial service.”
“I'm afraid the rumors of my demise were somewhat exaggerated.” Michael smiled. “But please don't let me interrupt your lunch. I spotted you and had to come over and say hello. Perhaps we can get together later?”
“No!
Please join us,” John insisted, and then turned to Morgan. “You don't mind, do you--Michael's and old friend.”
“Not at all.” Morgan smiled at Michael, noting his rugged handsomeness.
“No, I couldn't,” Michael politely protested.
“Please join us,” Morgan said sweetly. “I'm anxious to meet any friend of John's.”
“Thank you.” Michael pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Morgan, this is Michael O'Malley. We went to Radford University together.”
“Radcliff?” Morgan feigned in ignorance; she knew just about everything about John.
“No, Radford. It's a small college in the western part of Virginia, near Blacksburg, that's where VPI, is. You know, Virginia Tech.” Michael clarified.
“Michael, this is Morgan Cross, a very special friend of mine.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Cross,” Michael said, gently taking Morgan's offered hand. He looked into her big green eyes, made a quick glance at her braless chest. As he touched her, he knew for sure she was to be the second center.
“Please call me Morgan,” she answered, feeling her nipples harden as he held her hand.
“John and I were roommates at Radford, many years ago,” Michael explained.
“What happened to you, Michael?” John interrupted. “We thought you were dead.”
“After the plane went down, I wandered off with amnesia. I couldn't remember a thing until recently,”
Michael answered, thinking, very recently--only this morning, when the first center opened. He inhaled at the thought of the first opening. It was supposed to have been him, but for some reason the forces at work had made a substitution as if he really had been dead. Michael wondered who the first center was--he remembered hearing the name ‘Billy' when the opening happened. He felt a tinge of jealousy at the thought of being substituted.
“I always thought it was strange, since they couldn't find your body. They never were able to legally declare you dead,” John said.
“What are you doing now, John?” Michael asked with true curiosity.
“I have a little software business in Florida. I'm here on business. But enough about me--it's good to see you alive, I still can't believe it! At least, since you weren't pronounced legally dead, I would think your estate wasn't divided up. Was it?”
“No problems.” Michael said, and realized he should call his lawyers and let them know he was alive. He hadn't made a will, and even if they had declared him legally dead, which he doubted after only two years, his estate would still be tied up in probate.
“Are you working or anything?” John asked, and then turned to Morgan. “Michael's modest, but he inherited close to a billion from his grandfather's estate back when he was still in college. You know, Michael, I was always surprised that you even finished college, with all that money.”
“I don't spend very much, and still find myself putting away money.” Michael smiled at the truth of his statement and then said, “John that's enough about us. Let's not neglect this lovely young lady. How did you two meet?”
“I just met John yesterday. I'm a flight attendant, and John swept me off my feet.” She smiled coyly.
“That's not the John I know.” Michael said, and watched John almost blush. “Well, you two need to get to know each other, and here I am, intruding. So if you both would pardon me.” Michael said, as he stood to leave.
“No, please don't go,” Morgan and John chimed in simultaneously and then laughed.
“I really must be going. I just stopped in for a quick drink,” He lied. “It certainly was good to have run into you John, and a pleasure to have met you, Morgan.”
“My pleasure,” she offered out her hand.
John stood and again clasped his friend’s hand. “Where are you staying?”
“I’m staying at the Castleton Hotel, near Macy’s.”
“So am I,” Morgan said, surprised at the coincidence.
“Well, that’s great,” John said. “Michael, maybe we can get together and talk old times.”
“Sounds great. I’ll see you later then. When you get some free time just call the hotel. I’ll be there for a while.”
“Okay,” John nodded. “Why didn’t you stay at your house–I thought you had one uptown or something?”
“I still do. There wasn’t any time to have it opened. This trip was spontaneous,” Michael said, and waved slightly as he walked away.
Chapter 20
Reverend Lamb sat in his room and waited for the messenger to return. He couldn’t figure out what was going on. Why would anyone send him this much money?
After the girl left, Thomas quickly dried off and slipped on his pants and shirt. As he sat there string off into space, still barefoot, there was a knock at the door.
“I’m back,” the woman said, before he had opened the door.
He again cracked the door to inspect her and the man in a security uniform, gun and all.
“We don’t usually deliver cash, but it was specified in the instructions we received.” She did all the talking while the guard walked over to the dresser and set down a brown leather bag, then departed.
“I must insist you count it and sign right here for the actual receipt.” She smiled while sitting down on his unmade bed.
“This is all too strange,” Thomas shook his head while frowning. “Who could have sent this?”
“What's on the gram is all I know,” she responded, while he counted. “Would you like an escort around the city?”
Thomas paused in his counting, first thinking he could use some guidance in this city, feeling apprehensive. But he had asked God for help, hadn't he? And this was just a friendly young woman, with soft brown eyes. “I would like that.” He smiled.
“Good, soon as you sign, I'll go back to my office and take the rest of the day off. I'll be back in about an hour.”
He finished counting. “It's all here; I can't believe this. Where do I sign?”
She walked very close to him. “Sign here.”
Thomas reached into his pants pocket.
“No tip, it's my pleasure. I'll be back in an hour. I've been needing a break.” As she was closing the door she added, “As Sherlock Holmes said, 'The game is afoot.'”
Thomas stared at the door. What was going on? Who was helping him? God knows, he needed the help. He smiled to himself. God does know! Was he supposed to kill this Anti-Christ? If that was the case, how?
Could he bring himself to kill, even for God?
Less than forty-five minutes passed; he heard a knock.
“Who is it?” he asked, feeling disquieted with all this money in the room.
“Becky from Western Union, I'm back.”
He opened the door. “Come in.” He smiled as he noticed she had changed to a dress and light jacket.
“Hi, Becky,” he offered his hand, “thanks for coming.”
“Hi,” she bubbled.
He needed help; maybe she was God's messenger too. Could he trust this stranger? Ask and you will receive, he heard in his mind. God, please let this be real help, he thought.
“I've finished packing. I need to move to the Castleton.”
“I know, I read your telegram. I already called and made a reservation, and I have a taxi waiting downstairs.” She grabbed a suitcase.
“My word, you're way ahead of me. But you know,” he paused solemnly, “right now I need all the help I can get.”
“I figured that, country boy,” she said, teasing him.
He bristled, then relaxed, seeing she was kidding him.
“My accent that bad?”
“Bad? Not hardly, it's quite charming.”
“Are you from New York?”
“Born and raised here. Grew up in Queens, but I live in the East Village now. Can't you hear my accent?”
They chatted about New York, the weather and various inane subjects en route to the Castleton. Upon arriving, Becky quickly paid the taxi.
“I could h
ave paid, as if you didn't know,” Thomas protested.
“I know, but do you think he's got change for a hundred? You don't need to flash that kind of money around anyway. Don't worry, you can owe me.”
They walked over to the clerk on duty.
“Reservation for Thomas Lamb.” Becky stated.
The clerk punched at his computer, all the time looking Becky over with faint distaste, and checking Thomas out.
“Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Lamb, and how many nights will that be?”
“Mr. and Mrs.?” Thomas thought to protest but Becky squeezed his hand.
“Ten days, Rudy,” Thomas said, noting the clerk's name tag. He had often made it a point to use people's names whenever possible; he felt it was more personable.
Rudy was pleased with the recognition, and asked cheerfully for the first time today, “How would you like to pay for that sir?”
“Cash.”
Rudy collected the money and handed over the room card key. “That's room 228.”
As they walked to the elevator, Thomas asked, “what's this Mr. and Mrs. stuff?” He raised his eyebrow.
“In this city, if you are by yourself they figure you're either up to something, or gay. When I called to make the reservation, I could tell what that guy's persuasion was at the desk, and knew you haven't had experience dealing with anyone like him.”
* * *
As the elevator doors closed, Bernie, Jackie and Zolar entered the hotel lobby.
“Are you sure this is the place?” Jackie asked.
“I can't be sure, but the vibrations are definitely coming from here,” Zolar answered, holding the door for them.
Bernie walked up to the counter. “We would like a suite with three bedrooms.”
Rudy, punched at his computer. “The only suite I have is two bedrooms, with a fold-out couch, on the second floor.”
“That will do,” Bernie said.
“How long would you like that?” Rudy eyed the three of them as if he figured they were planing an orgy.
“I'm not sure,” Bernie answered, sensing Rudy's thought vibration and reading his expression. “I guess one big king-size bed would actually do, but we will have to sleep sometimes,” he chuckled.