The Harbinger

by Mary Eicher

“I abhor holier-than-thou hypocrites, Lucy. Besides, I don’t think he liked me.”

  “Nonsense, Temmie.” Lucy started the engine. “Who wouldn’t like a people person like you?”

  Artemis shrugged. “I don’t think that was his problem. He thought I was a people person. He just doesn’t like my kind of people.”

  Lucy merged smoothly onto Route 60. “It did seem like the two of you were communicating in some sort of code. What was going on anyway?”

  Artemis stared at Lucy for a moment. “You didn’t pick up on it?”

  “On what?” Lucy blasted the horn at a pickup that had just cut her off.

  “The horny old priest thought I had you under my sway,” Artemis stated. “He was worried about your immortal soul. Like I was going to reach over and seduce you at any moment.”

  She placed her hand on Lucy’s thigh for emphasis. The reaction was greater than she expected. Lucy swerved into the crowded right lane, forcing a RAV4 onto the shoulder where it plowed the ground, producing an enormous dust cloud. Behind the unfortunate truck, tires squealed as traffic adjusted to the unexpected interruption in the ability to see the road. Laughing, Artemis tightened her grip on the leg, and Lucy tore up the first exit and brought the car to a back-breaking stop at the first curb she found.

  “Not that I’m considering seducing you,” Artemis said, grinning mischievously and removing her hand from Lucy’s tensed leg. She folded her hands in her lap and ran her tongue along her lips, amused.

  Lucy stared straight ahead, still holding white knuckled to the steering wheel. “Is subtext one of your many talents?”

  Artemis arched an eyebrow and gave her a smile that could have melted metal. “You have no idea.”

  Lucy blew a stray lock of hair from her deeply reddened face. Never a dull moment, she thought for the hundredth time and wondered if Artemis could read her thoughts like she had done with the priest. Maybe she even knew a person’s thoughts before they formed them. She released the steering wheel and took a breath.

  “I think it’s time I meet Angie,” Artemis suggested out of nowhere. She’d heard about the child for months and sensing Lucy’s feeling for her matched the seriousness of her own, she believed the right time had come. “How about I take you two out to Disneyland or something tomorrow?”

  Lucy shook her head. “Your workload driving you crazy?”

  “Well, there is that. But seriously, I would very much like to meet your little girl. Should I bring her a stuffed animal or maybe a new book?”

  “She is quite spoiled enough, Temmie. Why don’t you just come over to my house for dinner tomorrow night? You can meet my mother too. I talk about you all the time. They’ll be delighted to finally meet you.”

  “I accept. Six o’clock okay?”

  “Perfect. Oh, and by the way, I am a pretty good cook, so come hungry.”

  *

  By all accounts the governor of California was an intelligent man. He was charismatic and clever and, thank the gods, a staunch liberal. That’s what made the substance of that morning’s phone call so difficult for the surgeon general to process. Ramos had left the Lake Isabella report with the governor after the staff meeting and apparently it had spooked the man. As the state’s head medical officer, General Ramos was now in a quandary about how to deal with the Harbinger issue.

  He found it impossible to dismiss it as the latest pop culture fascination of no more importance than Beyoncé’s wardrobe or the president’s latest tweet. Actually, the tweets were important, and the general was relieved there had been no tweeting about the Harbinger. It was still a California phenomenon, and only the rumors had gone viral. Incidents involving the Harbinger had not occurred outside the state. But within California, the Harbinger was a genuine problem, and the governor was finally going to address it.

  Ramos gathered the materials he had collected regarding the Harbinger. He would bring the matter up with his aide that very afternoon. Hysteria was a threat to public health if it got out of hand. He might have to launch a public service announcement campaign to quell the situation. Hysteria was exceedingly more difficult to deal with than an exotic pathogen. All he knew was something had to be done, and he was the one who got charged with doing it.

  He turned up the volume of the ever-present television playing in the background of his office. The NASDAQ was taking a dive largely due to weakness in the technology sector heavily resident in Silicon Valley. Ramos immediately understood the true source of the governor’s sudden interest. Anything that negatively impacted the wealthy investors had to be mitigated, especially during an election year.

  He pressed mute and prepared to go to lunch. Perhaps a series of public pronouncements was the best way to begin. He would address the rumor mill full force. With luck nothing further would be needed. There was no data to suggest the Harbinger itself was harming people. It was just an irrational fear that had taken hold. Ramos knew how to handle fear. He spent years as an army surgeon and nearly a decade as an emergency physician.

  Halfway down the hall his head seemed to explode with the sound of church bells. He counted five rings, and his stomach turned. He was going to be sick. He slouched against the wall, his hands shaking as he was seized with the terrible realization that the Harbinger was real.

  Chapter Eight

  The early morning sky over Menifee was a bright azure. The little plane banked to the right and continued its second pass of the drop area so the divers could get a good look. Two middle-aged women stared wide-eyed out of the windows and then at each other. They were really doing it. Somehow a casual kitchen conversation aimed at cheering up the recent widow had transformed them into skydivers. Helene fidgeted with her jumpsuit and tried to slow down her breathing while the instructor strapped his harness to hers.

  “Nervous?” he asked, rechecking his adjustments. “Don’t be. It’s a piece of cake. You’ll feel like you are falling at first, and then we just float gently to the ground.”

  Helene was at the brink of backing out. What seemed a good idea to a group of women sitting around a kitchen table had a whole different aspect a few thousand feet in the air. She looked over at her friend and wondered if Phyllis was feeling the same trepidation. If her friend backed out first, Helene would win the bet. But Phyllis looked enthused while the not so merry widow felt her latest vodka martini creeping into her throat.

  All their friends told them to be sure the instructor hadn’t heard from the Harbinger. They’d been teasing, but recent experience made Helene consider it a stellar suggestion. She had seen the Harbinger attack her husband with her own eyes three days before the accident at his shop. She winced, chastising herself for not having asked her instructor before they got in the plane, but she was going to ask before they jumped.

  The instructor carried her to the open door where the sound of the wind was deafening. She wanted to ask him the question. But now it was impossible for him to hear her. She tried to back away from the door, but he held her firmly in place. Phyllis got to jump first. Helene watched her friend and the tethered instructor drop into the empty air and sink away.

  “Ready? Here we go.” Her instructor pushed forward, and they were airborne, the hum of the plane retreating overhead. Helene watched the ground rushing toward them. The wind distorted the look of terror on her face and pinned her lips against her cheeks. The goggles protected her eyes, which had grown wide as she watched the ground zooming upward. Then with a whoosh, the falling sensation ended, and she began to float above a patchwork of fields and buildings that had slowed their vertical rush.

  On the ground, Helene let the instructor release her from the straps and buckles and hurried over to celebrate with Phyllis. They hugged and laughed and knew their friends would be impressed. Most of all they felt proud of themselves. Helene began to relax and smiled when she realized she hadn’t needed to ask her instructor about the Harbinger.

  “I think my son would say ‘That was sick!’” Phyllis laughed, swinging her hips
in a celebratory dance.

  “Glad you enjoyed it.” Helene’s instructor smiled. “I always get a kick out of taking people up for their first time.”

  “Yeah, me too.” The other instructor joined them, gathering the parachute into a ball as he approached. “I was surprised to see you come in today,” he said, turning to Helene’s instructor. “Didn’t you complain of a terrible headache the other day?”

  “Aw that? It hit me, and then it was gone. Hurt like hell though. And my ears rang for a while.”

  Helene looked with horror at the muscular young man who had conveyed her from plane to ground. He had heard the Harbinger, she realized. She could have died right along with him. Her eyes rolled up, and she fell backward.

  The others reacted to the sound of a thud and saw Helene lying on the ground.

  “My God!” Phyllis said, seeing that her friend had fainted. “Does that happen often?”

  The two instructors shook their heads. “Nope.”

  *

  It was Indian summer hot by eleven. Uberdorf set the monk’s robe on a hook on the back of his office door. He liked wearing it. The robe kept his mind focused on his public persona. However, when it was too hot, it was too hot. And this September day promised to be a scorcher. His servants would be sweating up a storm in the heavy robes; a fact that would have them particularly aggressive in pursuit of their daily quotas. He settled into a captain’s chair to read his messages and check his accounts.

  Looking at the receipts since his last broadcast, he grew positively giddy over the impressive growth of the cult’s financial fortunes. His mentor was pleased as well. Uberdorf had received an encrypted email to that effect that morning. They had apparently made their peace after what the mentor referred to as the unfortunate events in San Bernadino. Uberdorf was relieved they had put that disagreement behind them. Personally, he preferred always to move forward.

  There was much to do and the money with which to do it. He had been mulling over an idea to greatly expand the audience for his broadcasts. Even limited to a regional California market, Uberdorf’s ratings locally were second only to Joel Osteen, the superstar televangelist with his Boy Scout good looks and calm, convincing manner. Osteen was persuading his audience to remain calm while Uberdorf needed people bothered to the point of making rash decisions. That’s where the potential to fleece them was. The more fearful his listeners, the more likely they were to part with their cash.

  Uberdorf shot a rubber band at the picture of Osteen tacked to the wall. Osteen had twenty million monthly followers. Uberdorf knew it was not likely he’d approach that number any time soon; Osteen was global not regional. It would be so much easier to just take Osteen out and be done with the competition. But Osteen was no rival drug lord and Uberdorf had neither the finesse nor the opportunity to solve the problem as if he were.

  A new recruit to his growing army of Servants knocked lightly on Jamil’s open door. Uberdorf recognized him immediately. The kid was not cut from the usual Servant mold of big intimidating young men he normally permitted to don the brown robe. It was also a prerequisite that they be aggressive in their apostolic duties to convey a sense of urgency. This new monk, Brandon, with his screwed-up past and obvious timidity, could be a problem. But Jamil had taken him in knowing the kid would be easy to manipulate and eager to please.

  “Come in, Brandon.”

  Brandon crept forward, his hands clasped at his waist and his eyes wide with trepidation. “Reverend, something has happened.”

  “How can I help you, my dearest friend?” Jamil oozed.

  “I have been visited by the Harbinger. And I am frightened.”

  Uberdorf couldn’t believe his ears. He sat stunned for a moment and then rose from his chair. He wanted to smack the kid and remind him the Harbinger wasn’t real, but instead he merely nodded as if he understood and pointed to an empty chair.

  He let Brandon ramble on about how terrifying the bells had been. He listened to the story about the soldiers who had died at Pendleton and gambling losses and how he had failed to end it all a few months ago. Brandon sobbed as he explained how he had joined the Servants to find his true path in life only to find it was too late.

  Uberdorf lit a cigarette and let his eyes roam the small office while Brandon droned on. The one thing he focused on was that the kid actually believed he was about to die. When he could stand no more, he stood and patted Brandon on his newly shaven tonsure and told him to go back to his duties, promising they would soon talk again.

  Settling back at his desk, Uberdorf returned to his musing. The troubles of a superstitious kid were of no concern to him. If the Harbinger had materialized out of the ether to take out Osteen, that would have made Jamil a believer. A luckless former soldier looking for consolation did not. He sat up and puffed out his ample cheeks, seized with a grand idea.

  He reread the caption on Osteen’s picture: fear activates the enemy.

  “So it does, Mr. Osteen.” Uberdorf’s face eased onto a cold smile. Brandon’s fear was something he could use.

  He fired up Skype and contacted his main man. Jerry Benson was currently visiting his family along the Rio Grande and surprised to get the call. His surprise increased when Uberdorf explained what he wanted him to do. Uberdorf needed to know Osteen’s schedule and the type of security he employed. Then he explained he was sending a Servant named Brandon to deliver a very special package. Considering the rigmarole at airports, he wanted to send Brandon by train.

  “Yes, Saturday is the day Osteen does his live broadcast so that will work,” Jerry assured Uberdorf after assessing the situation. He understood precisely what Jamil had in mind. “I assume the kid won’t know what’s in the package.”

  Uberdorf rolled his eyes. “He told me he heard the Harbinger. He’s insisting he’s going to die. So, I’ll give him an alternate explanation. I’ll tell him the Harbinger doesn’t want him to die. He’s been selected for a special project to deliver a message for the cult. I think he’ll actually be happy about it.”

  The monk on the monitor shook his head. “Lucky for our side, I guess. It’s hard to believe someone is that dumb. Are you sure about all this, Jamil?”

  “My dearest friend.” Uberdorf lit another cigarette. “The Harbinger works in mysterious ways. Be sure to meet Brandon when the train arrives. From that point everything will be in your hands. Get him to Osteen in time for the broadcast.”

  He turned to the mound of paper on his desk and shoved it into a drawer with a sweep of his arm. Before facing paperwork, he needed to construct a bomb and disguise it as a gift. He wanted to rehearse the kid on how and when to make an entrance. It was imperative that Osteen accept the gift while on the air as a token of friendship from one religious leader to another. Then Brandon was to take a seat in the audience and call Jamil from a special cell phone to let him know his gift had been delivered.

  The next afternoon, Uberdorf summoned the clueless Brandon to his office and explained the mission. He prattled on about his trust in him and how he was playing a role in bringing people of God together. It was the reason the Harbinger had visited him. Jamil schmoozed and flattered and exuded praise. Brandon was overcome with it all. He beamed and assured Uberdorf that he would not fail. Then Uberdorf handed him the gift box and a ticket and sent him off to catch a train.

  *

  After rummaging through her closets, Artemis decided on a pair of taupe slacks and a light silk blouse for the occasion. She’d gotten a copy of Goodnight Moon despite Lucy’s advice, and she took an Uber rather than drive her motorcycle. She wanted to make a good, possibly great impression. Her hair was pulled back with a silver clip and she added a splash of perfume just because.

  The little girl was a bundle of energy, bouncing around the furniture excited about the tall, pretty guest. Angie was petite and feminine with hazel eyes and curly blonde hair held in place with rainbow ribbons. And like her mother, she had not a wisp of shyness. She commanded Artemis to read the new boo
k to her twice and sat on her lap while Lucy set the table.

  “She’s just like her mother,” Lucy’s mother told Artemis. “She takes an instant liking to people. Angie’s clearly very fond of you.”

  “She’s won my heart.” Artemis smiled.

  “Come on, everyone. Dinner is on the table.”

  Angie took their guest by the hand, led her to the table, and insisted that Temmie put her on the booster seat.

  “Your wish is my command.” Artemis complied.

  “Oh, you’ll live to regret saying that,” Lucy warned her. “Angie doesn’t hold back when she wants something.”

  Artemis winked at Angie. “That’s something we have in common.”

  The dinner was delicious, and the conversation was mostly led by Angie, who wanted to know about motorcycles and lawyers and how Temmie got so tall and a thousand other things. Artemis noted how happy Lucy was. Her happiness was a light that had appeared in Artemis’s darkest moment. She was certain what she felt for Lucy was love; the kind of love that could give her life the meaning which had eluded her for so long.

  Once Angie had been put to bed for the third time, it seemed to stick. Lucy’s mother excused herself saying she was going to watch “her shows” and leaving them to talk shop.

  “Not tonight,” Lucy said. “I refuse to talk shop tonight.”

  They sat in the living room and made a few attempts at other subjects, but ended up just looking at each other, eyes brimming with affection and unmistakable want. Artemis suggested they go for a drive.

  “Wait. I didn’t bring my bike.”

  “I have a car.” Lucy solved the problem. “Where do you want to go?”

  Artemis took a deep breath and searched Lucy’s face. Finding what she hoped for, she smiled and said in a soft voice, “My place.”

  *

  Brandon kept the package on his lap and looked out of the window at the beauty of a New Mexico sunset. He had never traveled before, and he was filled with a sense of purpose. He had the honor of conveying a gift from the Servants of the Harbinger to the renowned televangelist Joel Osteen. The Harbinger itself had selected him. He had caught a few of Osteen’s shows. If Osteen’s millions joined with the Servants, Brandon had no doubt they could change the world for the better. And he was thrilled to be the messenger.