Josh Levy was waiting for Kallie when she left Dr. Frost's office. He wanted to formally introduce himself to her and also apologize to her for putting her in the virtual reality world in the first place. “It was a dumb thing to do,” he said. “We usually run the subjects through tests before we get to that stage.”
“But, you made an exception for me,” Kallie said light-heartedly.
Josh smiled sheepishly. “I guess I was showing off. I usually don't do that.”
“Blinded by my beauty?” she said in a sarcastic tease.
Josh laughed. “I guess you could say that.”
“Well, in that case, I accept your apology.”
She found Josh cute in an offhand sort of way. He had small brown eyes and stringy darkish hair that draped over his forehead. He was twenty-nine years old but acted younger somehow. It wasn't due to immaturity. She really couldn't say what it was. He was obviously intelligent. He'd told her that he was in the psychology graduate program after having earned B.A degrees in religious studies and psychology. The more she thought about it, she realized it was probably because he reminded her of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. Josh was very laidback and she found him easy to talk to. They conversed for a while, as if they'd known each other forever. When Kallie became conscious of the lateness of the day and started to reluctantly leave, four gabbing students suddenly walked into the lab, playfully bickering with each other like siblings.
Josh explained to her that there were only five students in Dr. Frost's graduate program, mainly because the criteria to get into it were brutal. In addition to having at least a 3.6 grade point average and near perfect GRE scores, Frost required participants in the program to have advanced themselves in another discipline as well as in psychology. The four gabbing students were the other ones in Frost's program.
A few moments later, after everyone had settled down, Josh introduced them to Kallie. “I already told you that I double-majored in psychology and religious studies. Cedric Leggett over there,” he pointed to a skinny, bespectacled kid sitting at one of the desks, “psychology and biochemistry.” Cedric smiled awkwardly at Kallie and then looked away. “Veronica Ross,” Josh continued, nodding to the only female in the group. She was pretty with a wide toothy smile. “Psychology and criminal justice. Evan Carmon, psychology and business. He's also working on his MBA now.” Evan was sitting at a desk with his back to her. He threw up an index finger and then put on the goggles and began pecking away at the keyboard.
“Evan's actually a math whiz,” Veronica offered. “He only majored in business because of his incessant quest for riches.”
“A man's got to eat,” Evan said in an unapologetic tone. He continued staring intently at the computer monitor. Kallie could see that he was wearing a white collared shirt with suspenders. Even from the back, he looked the part of a young Wall Street exec.
“Does it have to be caviar?” Veronica asked.
“Don't see why it shouldn't be,” Evan smirked.
Josh cleared his throat. “And finally, and leastly I might add,” he said laughing and pointing to a cornrowed kid sitting near the back of the room, “that's Marcus Leazer. He double-majored in psychology and biology. I think he's going to be the first Negro doctor in his part of the state.”
“That's very funny coming from a recovering Jewish crackhead,” Marcus said. He threw a balled up piece of paper in Josh's direction. Josh caught it and tossed it into the trashcan.
Seeing Kallie's shocked face, Veronica said, “Don't mind those two. They're closer than brothers. Now that you know our super powers,” Veronica added jokingly, “what are your special skills?”
“If you mean what I am majoring in,” Kallie said, “I haven't decided yet. I'm taking a psychology class now. I enjoy it. But, I'm not sure if I want to major in it.”
Cedric said, “Psychology is the basis…”
“Of everything,” Dr. Frost interjected as she walked out of her office. “You guys don't spend too much time sitting around gabbing. Your project is not going to complete itself. The heavens have bestowed upon you, a gift.” She nodded toward Kallie.
“Yeah,” Marcus said. “And what's her claim to fame.”
“She's one in 700,000 for starters,” Josh said.
CHAPTER SIX
Externally, Our Lady of Faith continued about its business in its usual orderly fashion. Mass, confession, and Bible study were held at their regularly appointed hours. There were the normal visits to the sick and shut-ins and the Church seamlessly continued with its various charity pursuits. Its doors remained open and its priest was mostly available. In fact, as was typical for this time of year, there'd been one wedding and two funerals in the nearly eight and a half weeks since Phillip Beamer had been brutally murdered on the front porch of a boarding house in South Carolina. However, none of Our Lady of Faith's parishioners knew of any particular connection between that horrific event and their own consecrated grounds. Then again, none of them knew that their own priest, one Father McCarthy, had been questioned about the murder by an immigration agent, not two weeks after Beamer's body had been nearly stumbled over by his landlady, the sweet, but ruthlessly hardworking, Mabel Jones. But to be fair, no one knew about that particular interrogation, except McCarthy, Bishop Boland, the questioning agent himself, and perhaps one or two other interested souls within ICE. The information had been purposely kept out of the media, and well, if even the media hadn't gotten wind of it…
The church didn't hold mass on Mondays, and McCarthy generally used the day for a little R&R, which typically for him involved a basketball in some way, shape, or form. He stood at the top of the key on the church-provided basketball court, gazing wearily at the goal. He'd bricked seven straight shots. He stepped back about a couple of feet and pound-dribbled the ball. Still eying the goal, he rotated the ball with his fingertips and launched another jump shot. Clack! The ball caromed off the backboard, barely glazing the rim. He feebly reached for it as it bounced past him, missing it by a hair. It continued rolling toward the bench, eventually going under it and thudding softly against the back wooden fence, rolling back a bit before coming to a dead stop under the bench. McCarthy sighed before walking over to the bench. He plopped himself down on it without even bothering to retrieve that malevolent round piece of rubber residing beneath him.
Sitting on the bench, McCarthy thought about the agent's initial and so far only visit to see him. McCarthy had thought for sure he'd soon see Dennard Bennett again. He'd halfway expected to be harassed regularly until he admitted knowing something in relation to Beamer's murder. But there'd been no further contact with the agent whatsoever. Of course, there was no way McCarthy could know what was going on behind the scenes, or what other paths Beamer's murder investigation had opened, or even if Bennett was simply playing possum, preparing to strike with a search warrant or subpoena at any moment, perhaps delivered for effect during mass or confession. All such possibilities had nested at the back of his mind since that day in mid-August. Thankfully, none of it had come to pass. He hated not being able to work fully with any branch of law enforcement or government agency. But it was beyond his control. The nature of his knowledge and the scope of his responsibilities had set the boundaries of cooperation.
You could not negotiate with evil. And make no mistake, terrorists were pure evil and thus were subject to elimination without delay, debate, or due process. Rememberers had enabled A.I. to execute the necessary task of the elimination of terrorists without fear of mistake. Rememberers' documentation of future events was beyond dispute. But law enforcement and government agencies would be hard pressed to understand. They were not conditioned to operate on faith. They operated by sight and evidence of things seen. There'd be questions and needless discussions. Subsequently, terrorists would go free and evil would live on, free to continue destroying anything and everything.
But in the grand scheme of things, McCarthy wouldn't have it any other way. The government needed its self-imposed bounda
ries. There was danger in a free-flowing government, knowing what McCarthy himself knew, and then executing countrymen and foreigners alike with neither trial nor second thought. McCarthy had been charged with a great duty. One in which the all-knowing Father had advocated for him many years before.
McCarthy was twenty-two when he'd first met Father Richard Boland, nearly thirty-five years ago. He'd just graduated from Carroll College where he'd led the Fighting Saints to four straight conference championships. After his college eligibility ran out, there'd been talk of a NBA free agent deal, maybe even a late second round draft selection. “Worse comes to worse,” Billy Felton, a sports agent with the Lockett and Lorde sports agency had said, “you can play overseas. Off the top of my head, I can name a half dozen European teams that would pay top dollar for your services. I'm talking hundreds of thousands of dollars. And with that Christian bit, you could possibly add a few endorsement deals to the pot.”
“That's just the thing,” McCarthy had said. “It’s not a bit. God's calling me. I'm not playing professional ball. I'm going to serve Him.”
“You can do both,” Felton pleaded.
“No,” McCarthy had said evenly. “I can't.” He didn't feel the need to go into the whole shebang about the dangers of trying to serve two masters. He simply turned away from Billy Felton and walked away. And with that, he'd also turned his back on the opportunity to be paid royally for what he truly enjoyed doing. His friends that weren't calling him stupid were saying he was making a noble sacrifice and would get his reward in Heaven. But even they'd had it wrong. He didn't feel as if he was making a sacrifice and he wasn't doing it to receive some grand reward in the afterlife. As far as he was concerned, God had already given him his reward by creating him, and then when He'd had no reason to do so, had immeasurably increased it by giving His only begotten son. A sacrifice? Man, there was nothing McCarthy felt he could ever do to repay God for what He'd already given him. McCarthy knew he could never adequately explain how he felt to his friends, so he hadn't bothered trying. But with Father Boland, McCarthy hadn't needed to explain his actions. Father Boland, the college chaplain, had instinctively understood.
“This basketball opportunity you speak of,” Boland had said. “It's like candy. Very sweet candy that tickles your taste buds. You're like a child with it. You'd be like the proverbial child in the candy store, gluttonously happy, devouring every sweet morsel. But no matter how much you'd eat, you wouldn't be able to get full, and eventually you'd probably even get sick. God, you realize, is like a full course meal. Even a small portion of Him can feel fulfilling. Yet, the next day, you'd be hungry again. And, you'd eat another portion, and again feel full. Until the next day when you'd start the whole process over again. Serving God, you realize, is like that. And that's what you want. It's what you seek.”
McCarthy felt the tears streaming down his face before he'd realized he was crying. Boland had nailed it. His simple analogy had so nailed what McCarthy had felt. God was the very sustenance of his life. A sacrifice? Not by a long shot. It had been he who'd needed God, needed to serve him. It was not the other way around.
Boland had gently placed his arms on McCarthy's shoulders, looking into the young man's eyes. With the back of his hand, he wiped McCarthy's tears away. “I can see that your desire to serve the Lord is genuine.”
On the strength of a strong recommendation from Boland, McCarthy enrolled in the Seminary. After graduation, he applied and was accepted to the diocesan priesthood formation program in Scranton where Boland had recently been installed as the ninth Bishop.
In Scranton, the new bishop saw that the initial faith and confidence he'd bestowed in the young priest candidate had been well deserved. McCarthy had an insatiable thirst and appetite for God's written word. He ritualistically studied his Bible and prayed to the Father for guidance and understanding. McCarthy's devotion to his studies prompted Boland, despite his own demanding and hectic schedule, to devote a fair number of hours a week to Bible study with McCarthy. He was impressed with the younger's growing insight into the Bible's true meaning. On one such studying occasion while the two of them sat at a table in Boland's office, McCarthy leaned back in his chair. “I always suspected that the Bible shouldn't be taken exactly literally. I mean, no one lives over a thousand years now, if they ever did. But now I'm seeing something else. I believe there're messages hidden in it. I feel God is talking to us in some secret code.”
Boland, who'd had his head buried in his personal Bible, looked up at McCarthy. “What sort of messages?”
“Here in Genesis,” McCarthy said, fumbling back to the front of his Bible. “It says that God created the world in six days, resting on the seventh. For years I thought that literally meant that on Monday, he created something. Tuesday he created something else, on and on to the end of the week, until finally coming to rest on Sunday.”
“And now you no longer believe that?” Boland said with a quizzical glint in his eyes.
“No, I don't. A twenty-four hour day is a man-made concept, based on the rotation of the earth on its axis. Just as a year is a manmade concept based on the earth's trip around the sun. God created man, Earth, and Sun. The very instruments man used to develop his concept of time. It becomes plainly obvious that God's concept of time would be much different from that of man.”
“Go on,” Boland encouraged.
“So taken literally, the Bible is not completely accurate. But if you look beyond the words or rather deep within them, it makes a lot more sense.” He looked back down at his Bible, turning a few more pages. “Like here, it describes the fall of man as occurring when Adam accepted the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil from Eve.” He looked up again at Boland. “The core of the story is true. But I think we get so wrapped up in trees and fruit that we've missed the whole point. I mean, there are people who have literally spent their lifetimes looking for the Garden of Eden. But they fail to see the significance of how the first woman's alignment with Satan led to her disobedience, or even how Adam's love for Eve led to his own downfall.”
“You're saying such a Garden never existed?” Boland asked.
“What I'm saying is that the Garden shouldn't be the focal point of the story. The principals of the story are what's most important—man, woman, and Satan. I believe the focus should be on them, specifically the original meeting between woman and Satan, and then on the following one between woman and man before man ate of the fruit. I believe it's the only way to really understand the fall of man.”
Impressed, Boland smiled broadly. “I believe you're ready.”
“Ready for what?” McCarthy asked.
Boland didn't immediately answer. Instead, he stared deep into McCarthy's eyes for the longest time. McCarthy felt as if the bishop's eyes pierced holes through his own pupils, right through to his soul, to the very core of his being, his spirit. Finally, Boland spoke. “Years ago, before you entered Seminary, I thought you'd be capable one day of knowing absolute truth. Tonight I'm certain of that. You're ready for a truth that precious few souls throughout history have been privy to.”
Boland's short spiel led to McCarthy's acceptance into URO and eventually his initiation into the Alliance where he would learn about time-cycles and eternal return. By looking into his eyes, Boland had deemed McCarthy worthy of receiving such knowledge and fully capable of handling the responsibility that came with it. Boland used the words many fathers and mentors often said to young gifted charges. “With great knowledge and privilege comes even greater responsibility.” Those would be the same words McCarthy would use in speaking with his young North Carolina mentee over thirty-five years later. Back in August, Boland had told him to rein the young man in without stifling him. The directive, though spoken rather easily by Boland, had at the time seemed a daunting task to McCarthy. How do you rein in, but not stifle, a cocky, young knucklehead? It seemed rather oxymoronic.
But surprisingly, the task had been a fairly easy one to complete. The r
eason? His mentee hadn't actually been the cocky knucklehead McCarthy had believed him to be. The young mentee was agreeable, and at the end of their conversation, he'd even vowed to be more considerate of the goals and wellbeing of A.I. Their conversation had gone so well that it was decided they should have at least one a week. It would be a fairly simple way to ensure that A.I., McCarthy, and the young preacher/Rememberer were all on the same page. The ritualistic phone call would occur on Mondays, which added the benefit of allowing the two of them to discuss their Sunday sermons.
Reaching under the bench to grab the basketball, McCarthy realized that the calls had become the highlight of his Mondays.
* * *
South Park Mall was sparsely populated on Monday evening. It was nearly four weeks before Halloween, and almost eight weeks before Black Friday, the official start of the holiday season shopping frenzy. After that date, the mall would be crushed daily until Christmas with a deluge of anxious, excited shoppers looking for the perfect gifts for loved ones. But this evening's light foot traffic, a calming before the retail storm, was exactly what Gerald Principe had desired.
He sat on the edge of the table-high granite wall encasing the fountain and watched a woman push a stroller toward Neiman Marcus. For a few weeks now, he'd been coming to the mall after his security shift ended, preferring the milling about of strangers to the quietness of his dark apartment where an onslaught of images, visions, and his thoughts constantly pushed against his skull. Without benefit of distractions, he was finding it increasingly difficult to separate the 'here and now' from the 'as yet to be.' A loud television or blasting radio proved ineffectual, as did his computer; all such technological things had become merely irritants. People, especially in small doses, usually did the trick. After the woman and stroller left his line of sight, his thoughts returned to Phillip Beamer.
He hadn't personally met Beamer, having come across the now dearly departed in a chat room. On some level, Principe regretted Beamer had to sacrifice his life for the cause, especially since a man of Beamer's murderous capabilities could have proven useful in so many different ways. The would-be terrorist's monstrous desire to blow up a federal building, thus killing hundreds, had been a noble desire indeed. But in the grand scheme of things, it was only small potatoes and, alas, Beamer had but one life to give. The erstwhile terrorist had not the capability or knowledge to open the gateway for the others. And therefore, despite being a kindred destructive spirit, Beamer's death had been necessary for the true cause. With his remembering ability, Principe could have warned Beamer of his impending demise. Instead, Principe allowed the federal building which had been successfully destroyed in the previous life-cycle, to be saved this go around and the architect of its planned destruction to be killed. He’d given a scented bone to the increasingly bothersome A.I.
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