by Steven James
And that really was the problem.
He took his seat in the first-class cabin.
Yes, lay low until the dust settled, then pursue the second option—The Singularity. If he couldn’t use the experimental telomerase drug to extend his life indefinitely, downloading his consciousness onto a computer would.
Akinsanya looked out the window.
He was going by an alias today, of course.
After all, he’d served in the US military for thirty years, had just recently left. He was the man who had first found Darren at Fort Bragg and Daniel at Fort Benning. Akinsanya was Colonel Derek Byrne. And he was not at all done with his mission.
Cyrus opened his eyes and saw Mambo Atabei sitting beside his hospital bed.
He would have cried out for help, but the damage to his throat from the wasps was too severe. It wasn’t clear if he’d ever be able to speak again. In fact, the doctors were saying it was a miracle that the swelling hadn’t completely closed off his airway.
A miracle?
Well, Cyrus didn’t exactly believe in miracles, or, conversely, in curses, or in any of the spiritual forces of good or evil that religious and superstitious people acknowledged.
But honestly, he didn’t like considering the possibility that there was something to Atabei’s practices—or the role they might’ve played in Tanbyrn’s death. And right now, seeing her here, he realized he most certainly did not want to find out.
Atabei assessed him. “The kind officer at the door let me through when I told him I was your spiritual advisor. I wish I could apprise you that my Loa ordered me not to perform a ceremony regarding your well-being tonight, but that would be untrue. She informed me that you had intended to kill me.”
Cyrus’s eyes grew large. He tried to speak, made only unintelligible sounds. His wrists were strapped to the sides of the bed, so he couldn’t press the call button beside him for help.
How?
You never told anyone!
“I just came by to tell you that so you’d know what’s coming. Expectation always helps in the equation, belief plays a very important role in shaping the future.” Atabei patted his arm and stood. “Well . . . I should probably be going. It looks like I need to be buying a goat on the way home.”
Fire and Ice
Two months later
My publicity guys are truly geniuses.
The timing of walking through the Eastern State Penitentiary wall in Philly had been really brilliant. We’d finished the documentary on the events in Oregon and Philadelphia, and it aired the same night as the penitentiary special, coinciding with the week my new stage show opened in Las Vegas. We sold out the first month of the run in the first twenty-two minutes after tickets went on sale online.
We dedicated the documentary to Dr. Tanbyrn and Abina, donated the proceeds from the television special and the run of the show to the Lawson Research Center. All Charlene’s idea.
I hear a knock on the greenroom door three minutes before I need to be on stage.
“Yes?”
Xavier leans in. “Jev, there’s someone here to see you.” I’m about to tell him that I don’t have time to see anyone right now, that he should know that, but he goes on before I can say anything. “It’s your dad.”
“What?”
“He’s waiting just down the hall.”
My father and I still hadn’t spoken. I could hardly believe he was here. Regardless, this was not the time to talk.
At least see him, at least make plans to meet up after the show.
“Okay, tell him I’ll be there in a sec.”
Two minutes.
As I leave the dressing room, I can hear music pounding through the auditorium and my blood begins to rush. This is it. What I was made to do. What I truly enjoy. Joy as evidence of God, of victory over the pain of this broken world? A place so touched with despair? Charlene believes that. I’m not quite there yet, but maybe I—
I see my father waiting for me. Slim. Salt-and-pepper hair. My features. What I’ll look like in twenty-five years.
“Dad.”
“Jevin.”
He clasps my hand. Our handshake is stiff and unfamiliar.
Charlene stands near the edge of the stage. She looks at me urgently, points to the lift that will take me to the platform hidden high above the audience. I hold up one finger: I’ll be right there.
“Dad, I’m glad to see you, but could we talk later? I need to go.” My eyes are on the lift.
“I’ll ride with you.”
“Um . . . okay.”
We step onto the platform. Begin to ascend. Neither of us speaks. Smoke from the smoke machine hovers in the air and curls past us in ghostlike wisps as we ride through it. Finally I break the silence. “So you got the ticket.”
“Yes. Thank you.” We ride in silence again. “So you gonna do any escapes tonight?”
“Yeah. It’s a good one. I call it ‘Fire and Ice.’ I’ll explode above the audience”—that idea came from Xavier, but I keep that to myself—“then appear in a block of ice onstage.”
“Kinda like Blaine, when he was sealed in the ice for sixty-three hours? Or Dayan for sixty-six?”
“Well, I figured instead of standing around in there for three days, I’d just escape from it.”
I check my watch.
One minute.
We reach the platform.
“No more claustrophobia, then?”
“You heard about that.”
“Charlene might’ve mentioned it.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know they’d been talking. “Well, I’m not sure I’ll ever be over it completely,” I tell him honestly. “But you find a way to—”
“Move on.”
“Yes. To move on. Listen, after the show we can—”
“Yeah.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, looks at me. “Hey, listen. I’m proud of you, okay? You know that, don’t you?”
He’d never told me that before. Not once.
“Yeah, Dad,” I tell him, because it’s what he needs to hear. “Of course I do.”
Things’ll never always get worse.
He smiles. “So, go do your escape. I’ll be watching.”
“Okay.”
My watch tells me thirty seconds.
My father takes the lift back down as I walk onto the girder. We don’t wave to each other, but he offers me a small nod. I nod back.
So, Charlene’s been talking with him.
And now it’s going to be your turn.
A doorway between us was opening. One worth stepping through.
Below me, the spotlights cut through the vast auditorium, swishing above the crowd, bright sabers welcoming me back home.
I clip into the system Xavier designed. The wire is invisible, as are so many of the things that support us when we fall.
The lights change and the music rolls forward, deep and ominous.
My cue.
I take a breath.
And close my eyes.
And tip into the empty air.
To make an entrance these people will never forget.
Acknowledgments
A special thanks to David Lehman, Pam Johnson, Dr. Todd Huhn, Trinity Huhn, Jennifer Leep, Jessica English, Heather Knudtsen, Shawn Scullin, Ariel Huhn, and Tom Vick, who all offered me invaluable editorial insights.
Thanks also to Howie and Tom for handing me the trocar, to Noah Tysick for leading me to the peristyle, to Steve Glaze for helping me take flight, to Eric Wilson for showing me the waterfalls, to Kate Connors for your research on pharmaceuticals and patent protection, and to the Mind Science Foundation for expanding my horizons.
Steven James is the author of many books, including the bestselling Patrick Bowers thrillers. He is a contributing editor to Writer’s Digest, has a master’s degree in storytelling, and has taught writing and creative communication on three continents. Currently he lives, writes, drinks coffee, and plays disc golf near the Blue Ridge Mountains of Tennessee.
> Books by Steven James
* * *
THE BOWERS FILES
The Pawn
The Rook
The Knight
The Bishop
The Queen
THE JEVIN BANKS EXPERIENCE
Placebo
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