Gregory nodded, watching as the technician slid his ID card and gave a fingerprint to get into the secured observation area. There were no cameras in this area of the facility; Gregory felt that the fewer records were kept, the better.
I don’t know what to do. He had no problem admitting that to himself; before God had blessed him with her, he often found himself at a loss. Whenever faced with this sort of situation, however, Gregory had a foolproof plan.
He got down on his knees and began to pray. Please, God, help me understand. Give me the wisdom to use this gift well. Help me to see what I have not seen. Please.
Moments passed, then minutes, as Gregory knelt on the floor of the facility, listening for God’s Word.
Then his eyes snapped open and he smiled. “Thank you, my Lord, for showing me the truth.”
If there was one, there have to be more. They wouldn’t just leave her behind. Maybe she can’t predict their actions, maybe they’re too strong.
Gregory Caitlin knocked on the observation room door. Francis cracked it open and peeked out.
“Yes, sir? Ready to go now?”
“Not quite yet, Francis. I have a few things to put on our research list.” He put a hand on the scientist’s shoulder. “Deus vult.”
CHAPTER THREE
Sam blinked his eyes open, wincing at the bright light coming through his living room windows. What the hell? He brought his arm up to shield himself from the glare. Shouldn’t be any light here till afternoon…what time is it?
Sam sat up from the couch, head swaying, holding back the vertigo resulting from the sudden drop in blood pressure. His gorge rose, then fell, then rose again as he gripped the arm of the couch. Three empty bottles of Merlot and one of Jose Cuervo rolled off the coffee table as Sam’s leg bumped into them. Bloodshot eyes stared at him from the television, the mirrors, the glasses on the counter in turn as he stumbled toward the bathroom, each step a battle with his gag reflex, a scorched earth combat where his brain was the battleground.
And the final fight, waged over the bowl of the porcelain god, was a brutal, bloody one.
Sam wiped his lips, grimacing at the sweet-sour taste in his mouth and glancing at the digital clock. 2:32. Goddamn. He bowed his head over the toilet again. Guess Gonzalez is gonna throw my desk out on the lawn. He rinsed his mouth out with peppermint Scope, spitting small chunks of his dinner from the night before into the sink with the blue foam.
A warm shower and a glass of orange juice had Sam feeling almost human about 45 minutes later. He scrubbed his teeth again before putting on his clothes for the day; his hand hovered over his work clothes, the ones he had set out for today, before passing them by and settling on a pair of sweats. As he dressed, there was a knock on his door.
Who could that be? He settled his shirt over his head, ran his hands through his hair to tame it a little, and ran to his front door. His look through the peephole revealed a trim redhead smiling at him. Sam grinned. Maybe my luck has changed. He opened the door.
The redhead smiling at him was wearing a grey uniform, messenger hat emblazoned with a cute pair of angel’s wings, and she was holding a small packet. ”Telegram,” she said, her voice lilting and musical. Sam laughed.
“Seriously? You guys still do those?”
The telegram girl nodded, giggling. “I just picked it up.” She saluted him. “Part time job while getting through my senior year. Trying to pay for my class trip.”
Sam’s smile faltered. “You’re…in high school?”
“Yep! Class of 2013, at your service!” She giggled again. “So, do you want your telegram?”
“Sure.” Sam began rubbing his hand over his face as his headache crept in again. She held out the small packet, which he took. “Drive safe.”
“Oh, don’t worry; I’m on my bike.” The messenger turned and jogged around the corner of Sam’s garage. A moment later, she was pedaling down his driveway and out of his street.
Sam watched her leave, laughing at himself. Nope. Shitty day from beginning to end. His fingers worked the seal on the package, unwrapping the telegram. His eyes widened as he read the text.
MOTHER NEEDS YOU HOME STOP SOMETHING TO TELL YOU STOP ASK ABOUT GREAT GRANDMOTHER STOP GOOD LUCK STOP.
There was no return address, no signature, no indication of who this telegram had been sent by. Sam scratched at his stubble as he read the note again. Great grandmother?
As far as Sam could remember, his great grandmother had been a very strange woman; she was religious, like her daughter and granddaughter, and she would quote Bible verses in confusing ways whenever she had a piece of advice to impart to anyone, especially Sam, an only child. He remembered one particular instance that had occurred in her house in Oregon, during a rainy day as they both sat on the porch during the Thanksgiving holiday when Sam was 5.
“Exodus 22-18, Sammy; don’t suffer a witch to live. But!” Here she had raised one of her calloused fingers, and Sam had seen it was covered in letters and markings, like some sort of strange tattoo. “Great King Solomon raised God’s temple using spells to command the demons and the genies.” She had laughed. “What do you make of that, Sammy? How do you make it make sense?”
Although only five years old at the time, Sam had still been possessed of a prodigious intelligence. He had thought about his great-grandma’s question for several moments before answering. “I think it’s because Solomon was using God’s magic, but the witches were using bad magic.”
More laughter from the old lady. “Exactly what I thought you’d say.” She had clapped her hands together before leaning in closer. “Don’t forget this, Sammy; there is good and evil in the world, but all of that is in here,” and she pointed at his head, “and in here,” to his heart. “A rock can kill people, or a rock can build a house, but a rock can’t be good or evil. Magic could hurt people, or it could help them; it was the magician, the sorcerer, who decided if they were working for God or not. That’s what ‘free will’ means.” She had raised Sam’s chin with her fingertip, staring into his eyes. “Can you remember that, Sammy?” He had nodded.
“Sure, Gramma.”
Sam wiped his eyes, the memory drawing tears. It had been over a decade since he had last seen his great grandmother; his mom had sent word a couple of years ago that she had passed away, but he had been busy with school and work and had barely noticed. Now that felt like a terrible shame. She had been eccentric, sure, even strange…but thoughts of her had the warm childhood fuzzy feeling of chocolate chip cookies in front of a fire.
Still, what could this telegram mean? Who could have sent it?
And how could they know about Sam’s great grandmother?
Sam rubbed his temples, heading inside to get his extra-strength Tylenol. What the hell is going on? He opened the cabinet and shook out a couple of tablets. It’s like my life is…under attack…like everything is going crazy all at once. He choked the gelcaps down with a swig of milk, grimacing at the feeling of the capsule sticking in his throat, chasing it with more milk.
Sam looked at the clock again. 3:38. Swiping his phone, he pulled up his mother’s number. Hesitated over the “call” button. Pressed it.
Ring. Ring.
She probably won’t even pick up. His heartbeat picked up and his hands were beginning to shake from the involuntary surge of adrenaline. And anyway, who…
Click. “Hello? Sam?”
“Hey, Mom. How’s it going?”
“We’re okay over here; your dad is getting over a cold. Won’t stay in his bed, the stubborn louse.”
A distant call: “Mary! How many times have I told you? I’m not stubborn!”
The reply: “So I guess you’re just a louse, then?” Back to the phone. “He’s all right, though, honey.” A moment’s pause. “So why are you calling, Sam? God knows you never call unless something important is going on, and I haven’t heard from you in months.”
Sam licked his lips, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks at the gentl
e admonishment. “Actually, Mom, I was just wondering if I could come over tonight for dinner. I don’t feel like cooking and I haven’t seen you two in ages.”
Another pause. “Really? We’d love to see you! Gosh, I’ll have to put out some good plates, get some more butter…hey, Herm! I need to run to the store to get butter!”
Unintelligible mumbles came over the line.
“Sam? Can we expect you at seven o’clock? I think I can have dinner ready by then, honey.”
Sam nodded as he spoke. “Sounds good, Mom. Look forward to seeing you two. Love you.”
“We love you too, Sam. Take care.”
Sam pressed the red button on his phone’s screen to end the call. What am I going to say?
He pondered the question as he got some nice clothes down, preparing the ironing board so he could spruce them up a bit. The repetitive motion of the hot iron moving over the clothing soothed his mind, like a moving meditation, relieving some of the stress of the last few days. As the seams on his shirt and pants hardened to crisp lines, he felt excited about visiting his parents again instead of nervous about it.
Before Sam knew it, it was six-thirty. He put on his clothes, belt, shoes, and hurried out the door to his car. The engine roared to life as he pulled out of his driveway, making good time as he headed toward Lancaster, about twenty miles north of his place in Acton.
Sam pulled in to his parents’ place at 7:15; his mother was standing outside the garage wearing her favorite “Kiss the Cook” apron and her black-just-starting-to-go-grey hair disheveled and covered in flour. She was tapping her foot as he pulled up. “Sorry, Mom.” He leapt from his car almost as soon as it had stopped and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I got caught up at home and didn’t notice how late it had gotten.”
Mary glowered at him for a moment or two, then her smile melted the ice and she hugged her son. “It’s good to see you, Sam.” She looked into his eyes as she pulled him down to her level. “Your father and I have missed you.”
Sam faked a cough behind his smile. “Me too, Mom.” He took an exaggerated breath in through his nose. “Is dinner ready? I’m starving!”
Mary beamed. “Of course it is! I cooked some meatloaf, and mashed potatoes, and asparagus with butter. You look like you could use a good meal, son.” She poked him in the gut. “You’re a bit thin, you know.”
Sam laughed; he and his mom always had this conversation whenever he was over to eat. “I’m fine, Mom, really; I have a high metabolism and I exercise a lot. It burns the calories.”
Mary shook her head. “I won’t hear of it! No son of mine should be stranded without knowing how to cook. How are you ever going to find a girlfriend if you can’t cook?”
Sam shrugged. “Good looks, nice job, decent personality?”
The two of them entered the dining room, where the dinner spread was laid out on the 6 person wooden table. “Herm, your son’s home! Come eat!”
“I’m comin, I’m comin.” Herman Buckland plodded through the entryway to the dining room, his purple-robe-covered stomach preceding the rest of him. Sam looked over to see his father, and his heart fell; Herman had gained at least twenty pounds since Sam had seen him last, and his skin was starting to get the papery texture and spotting of one you would consider “old.”
It made Sam uncomfortable to consider his parents old, because if they got old…
Mary clapped her hands. “Now that everyone’s here, we can say grace.”
Sam sat on his mother’s left, while his father sat across the table on Mary’s right. Sam reached across the table and took his father’s hand as Mary reached for Sam’s.
Mary gave her son’s hand a squeeze. “Sam? Would you like to say grace?”
Sam looked at her, saw the glistening in her eyes, the plaintiveness. Please, that look said. He sighed and bowed his head; the others did the same.
“Bless this food we are about to eat, Father, and bless our family. Keep us in your arms and your warm, sheltering embrace. Protect your children and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
“Amen,” came the chorus from Sam’s parents. Heads rose and smiles reappeared.
“Now then.” Mary reached for the plate of meatloaf. “Who’s hungry?”
~~~
“What did you think, honey?”
“Fantastic as ever, Mom.” Sam belched as the last of the meatloaf was cleared away. “Makes me wonder why I ever moved out.”
“Probably so you wouldn’t have to worry about us comin’ home while you were…occupied.” Herman shook his head and upended the can he held, draining the dregs of his Miller Lite.
“Maybe I just didn’t want to hear you and Mom going at it in the living room again.”
“Boys!” Mary scowled as she returned from putting the dishes in the sink. “None of that while I’m around, thank you very much!” Both of the men subsided, grins playing on their faces as Mary finished wiping down the dining room table.
“So, what’re your plans for the week, Sam?” Herman tossed his beer can into the trash. “Maybe we could make a game, or something…unless you’re too busy at work.”
Busy? Not at all. “No, not too busy, Dad. Let me know which game you want to hit and I’ll see what we can do, okay?” Herman nodded, stretched, yawned.
“I don’t know about you two, but I’m getting tired. Damn arthritis medication.” He flexed the fingers of his right hand; the joints were swollen and red. “Anyway, Sam, make sure your mom doesn’t overwork herself in that kitchen, you hear?”
Sam nodded. “Yes, sir; I’ll get right on that.” His eyes hung on the pictures on the walls, pictures of Herman and Mary’s younger days: missionary trips to Africa, volunteering at soup kitchens, newspaper clippings. He smiled, then rose and headed towards the sink, which his mother was filling up with sudsy water.
“Goodnight, Herm!” Without turning, she addressed her son. “Sam, could you get that washrag over there for me? Thanks, honey.”
Sam grabbed the green washcloth and turned back to his mother, lips dry, moving, but unable to make a sound.
She’ll think I’m crazy! Hell, maybe I am.
“Sam?” Mary turned away from the sink. “Did you get lost over there?” Her eyes alighted on Sam’s face, and the teasing smile was replaced with maternal concern. “Sam, what’s wrong?”
There was a pause, and she reached for a nearby towel and began drying her hands. “Is everything all right?”
“Mom…I…I’ve lost my job.” Her eyes widened.
“Oh, Sam! What…what happened? I thought things were going so well there…”
“They were, Mom, but…”
“Shh.” She raised a hand, silencing him with a finger on his lips. “Come in the living room and talk to me about this.” Mary led her son to the leather couch in front of the old-style wood-burning stove, crowned with an angel ornament on top that was blowing hot steam from its horn, and sat both of them down in front of the crackling fire burning within.
“Now then.” Mary began patting Sam’s back. “You just tell me everything, all right?”
So Sam did. He explained about the strange payments on Caitlin’s tax returns, about the small investigation he had begun, about Mr. Gonzalez’s call. Mary listened, nodding at the right places and tsk-tsking at others.
“And then,” he finished, “today I got a telegram – a telegram, Mom – and it said that I was supposed to ask you about Great-Grandma Em. No signature, nothing. What the hell is going on, Mom? Who could’ve sent it?”
Normally, Mary Buckland would have come down on her son for using (to her mind, anyway) profanity. As he glanced her way, however, Sam saw that she wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t paying attention to him at all.
“…Mom?” She started violently, her eyes blinking and muscles tensing as if someone had come up behind her and hit her with an electric shock.
“Oh! Sorry, honey, I was just…” Her voice drifted with her
eyes, lost somewhere in her own mind. Sam had seen this look before, and knew that his best option was to wait until she came out of it on her own.
About a minute later, she did, but her face no longer reflected a mother’s concern for her child. Instead, it held a steely determination, fire in her eyes as she turned her head back toward Sam. She took both his hands in hers.
“Sam, honey, this is very important. Please think, okay?”
“Sure, Mom, but…”
“Has anyone said anything strange to you…about God? Quoted Scripture? Since this thing began?”
“What?”
“The Bible, the Quran, the Torah! Told you to search for something, to find something?” Mary’s eyes darted around her son’s face, looking for some sign that he recognized what she was talking about. “Sam? Anything, no matter how small?”
At first Sam drew a blank; this whole situation was just so bizarre that he could not bring his brain to bear on the question.
Then, “There was this kid. Mikey. At the University…he said he was waiting for his family, that they were out looking for his sister. I remember thinking that that was very strange…”
“And?” His mother’s eyes were hard, like flint or granite. “What else?”
“Um…and he told me that I needed to look in the Bible because I could find the paths I was looking for, that I needed to read between the lines.” He shrugged. “Kinda got stuck in my head for a while, but I didn’t find anything. Weird, huh?”
Mary put her hands to her mouth in an expression of shock and horror. She crossed herself and spoke a quick Latin prayer to the Almighty.
“Mom? Mom?!” Sam reached over and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re freaking me out here, Mom. What’s going on?”
Mary opened her eyes again. They were shining with tears. “Stay here.” She stood and rubbed her mouth. “I need to go, get something.” Before he could respond, she was moving, rushing toward her bedroom. Sam heard a few mumbled words between his parents, then the door reopened, closed again. She returned, carrying a heavy…book? Sam took a second look as she placed the prodigious tome on the coffee table before them.
Chains of Prophecy: A Tale of Mythic Discovery Page 4