The Caleb Collection

by Ted Dekker

  “Are you deaf, boy?”

  “No, Auntie.”

  “Then you answer me when I speak to you. You don’t fool me; you’re a troublemaker, boy. And if there’s one thing I detest in this world, it’s troublemakers. Now you may think the world is just one big peachy place filled with people who run at your every beck and call, but believe me, boy, you’re going to learn different.”

  She walked farther in and the light caught her eyes now. He wanted to tell her that he’d never thought of the world as one big peachy place, but the words seemed to stick in his throat.

  “If it were up to me, I’d have given you at least one good whipping by now. If for nothing but your snotty attitude. Now, if you get Nikolous upset, I don’t think he’d mind me giving you a good whipping. So tomorrow you go with him, you understand?”

  “I will go with Leiah and Jason.”

  She wagged her head and repeated in a mocking tone, “I will go with Leiah and Jason.” She took a deep, disgusted breath. “You’ll go because I said so, and Leiah and Jason can crawl up and die for all I care.” But she didn’t push the issue, and he wasn’t about to either. Not now.

  Martha looked at him for some time, and then scanned the room, as if searching for a violation of some kind. “You like this quiet, don’t you, boy? Of course you do. It reminds you of your precious monastery.”

  She dropped her arms to her sides and turned back to him. “You’re actually a happy little fool in this dungeon, aren’t you? You are one sick child!”

  Martha suddenly walked to the glassy box in the corner, did something to it, and stepped back. The box lit up. It was a light of some kind.

  The witch turned, faced him for a few long seconds, and then marched out of the room with a humph. She left the box light on.

  Only it was more than a light. Caleb stiffened and caught his breath at the image before him. The glassy part of the box had become a painting. A moving painting full of rich colors and sound.

  He scrambled back into the corner of his bed, suddenly panicked. But his alarm passed almost immediately, replaced by fascination at the wonder before his eyes. He’d seen something similar at the airport in England with Jason and Leiah, but it had been far away and his mind had been in a fog. He stared with wide eyes as a painting of a boy with spiked yellow hair and eyes as thin as slits walked across the picture. The boy was not real, but a drawing of a boy. In fact, the whole screen was filled with a drawing, as if someone inside the box were quickly painting this picture and making it move.

  Caleb stared at the picture, mouth agape. The pretend boy held a red stick in his hands and he walked over to a sleeping dog. He dropped to his knees, shoved the stick under the dog, and then ran away on his tiptoes, snickering. The scene made the hair on Caleb’s neck stand.

  A loud boom and a flash of light suddenly filled the room and Caleb started. In the next moment he saw what had happened. The red stick was a weapon and it had exploded. The dog now lay burning on his back with his four legs sticking straight up in the air.

  Caleb had never felt the kind of horror that flooded his veins at the sight. He yelped with terror and threw his arms over his head. He curled up tight in the corner of his bed and clenched his eyes. Oh, dear God, what is this? What is this?

  He wanted to run to the picture and beg for the dog’s life, but he knew he couldn’t. It was just a picture. He wanted to run from the room and never see the glass box again. Instead he covered his ears and curled up and began to sing.

  It had taken Roberts two days to learn the truth about the boy, Caleb. He would’ve pieced the information together in a few hours if Colonel Ambozia had shot straight from the start. Instead the Eritrean commander had pretended as though he had no knowledge whatsoever of any living soul escaping the monastery. They had accomplished the mission as agreed and the price had not been cheap. Forty-eight of his soldiers had lost their lives in the invasion, and he personally had suffered more than enough political fallout to threaten his future.

  “Then let me be a little more blunt, Commander. The arms are still in my control,” Roberts had returned. “You really don’t have to pretend that you’re in mourning over there. We both know you’d quickly give up a thousand men for this shipment, and for all practical purposes it will guarantee your political future. Our agreement was for total silence, and I promise you that as long as there remains any question of that silence, we’ll hold the shipment. Now whether you like it or not, we have a boy here who just happens to be walking through our streets talking about Tempest. For your own sake, you’d better find somebody over there who knows who he is.”

  Colonel Ambozia’s right-hand man, a sleazeball who called himself Tony, phoned sixteen hours later, and his news was not what Roberts had been hoping for. He had just delivered that news to his boss.

  Crandal blinked and stared, silent for a moment. “So you’re telling me this kid, who just happens to show up at one of my press conferences, is not only from Ethiopia, he’s the adopted son of our dead priest?”

  “Yes.”

  Roberts took a slug of scotch and set the glass on the meeting table. They were alone in the Hyatt Regency’s most expensive private suite, twenty stories above Los Angeles’s night traffic. It wasn’t the first time they had been in this situation, facing sudden long odds, but this time its gravity felt heavier.

  Crandal blinked a few more times, incredulous at the words he’d just heard. He turned to the window and stared off at the stream of lights that lit the 405 freeway. Roberts watched the man: the flare of his nostrils, the slow closing of his eyes, the deep calming breath. And then Crandal’s eyes opened and he spoke calmly.

  “How old is he?”

  A less-disciplined man would be fuming now. Crandal was past that. He’d already moved on to problem solving.

  “Ten. Maybe eleven.”

  “So he was alive in 1991. He was in Ethiopia during Tempest.”

  “Very young, but yes, alive. We have ourselves a genuine product of our own war, come back to haunt us.”

  “And the father?”

  “Unknown. Father Matthew raised the kid as his own.”

  “Which would explain the boy’s knowledge.”

  “Except for his use of the name. Tempest. Our sources insist Father Matthew never referred to the 1991 invasion by its given name. Only that the invasion was supported by the NSA.”

  “Then your sources are wrong. The kid knows about Tempest.”

  Roberts nodded and took another drink. The liquor burned its way down his throat. He replaced the glass. “They say this kid’s psychic.”

  Crandal ignored the comment. “So we know who he is. How are we taking care of him? And who are the others?”

  “The others are caretakers. He’s been granted refugee status in the care of an orphanage run by an Orthodox church and directed by a Father Nikolous. Their presence at the park was incidental.”

  “Incidental? We’re five thousand miles from Ethiopia, and you want me to believe that the one person who managed to escape an operation ordered by me just incidentally wanders up to one of my press conferences? Don’t be an idiot.”

  “Unlikely, I agree. But I believe that’s exactly what happened. Which is why I want to step carefully on this one.”

  Crandal looked at him, and for just a moment his eyes fell to slits, but otherwise he remained expressionless. “Tell me.”

  “For starters, I really don’t believe he’s said anything. And if he has, there’s no sign of it.”

  “There’s no guarantee he won’t say something tomorrow. For all we know, he’s spilling his guts right now.”

  “You don’t think they asked him what he meant by Tempest after the press conference? Sure they did. And he told them nothing. Which can only mean he knows nothing.”

  “He knows about Tempest. We both heard him.”

  “No, he knows Tempest, but he doesn’t necessarily know anything about Tempest. Or he no longer remembers anything about Tempest.
For all we know, the old priest in Ethiopia had your picture plastered on his bedroom wall, and when this kid asked him who that man was, he told him that man is Tempest. Who knows? The point is he isn’t remembering anything.”

  “We can’t risk a jog in his memory.”

  “Of course. But on balance we have to weigh the risks. The kid goes; we agree on that. But I don’t think we can afford to take him out with conventional means. Donna Blair not only knows of him, she heard him at the press conference. We can’t just pop a slug in his head without raising questions that will inevitably lead back to the press conference.”

  Crandal closed his eyes and stretched his neck.

  Roberts continued. “The Orthodox church he’s holed up in is a virtual fortress. This Father Nikolous character likes his privacy. A hit-and-run or any other accident will be nearly impossible in this situation. His environment is too protective.”

  “Then have him removed from his environment,” Crandal said, eyes still closed.

  “Removed? He’s in the custody of the orphanage by order of the court. Removing him may not be so easy. But I believe we may have found another way. A way to deal with him from the inside. Through natural causes.”

  “Yes, of course. But you’re wrong about his removal.”

  “How?”

  “He’s a refugee.”

  “He is.”

  And then it hit Roberts. He shifted in his seat. Of course! It was brilliant.

  “Call the NSA,” Crandal said. “Have Jack take the case over on national security grounds. The invasion should give him plenty of reasons to do that. Then have him contact immigration. They’ve never been a problem; I don’t see why they would be one now.”

  “We have the kid deported.”

  “Yes.”

  A wave of relief swept down Roberts’s back. He threw back the last of his scotch. “And we terminate the kid the minute he sets foot on foreign soil.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And if immigration does put up resistance?”

  Crandal shoved his bulk from the chair and strode for the bar. “If they do, we use your natural causes, Roberts. But they won’t.”

  13

  Day 7

  JASON SAT ON THE WOOD BENCH near the entrance to the L.A. convention hall, watching the scattered traffic of conventioneers coming and going midmorning. Leiah sat beside him, unhappy at being here, he thought. Unhappy because she was a doer, and there was clearly nothing she could do here except watch.

  It had been three days since Caleb’s last outing to the park, and in that time they had entered a kind of stalemate. They’d visited him each afternoon for an hour without learning more or reshaping the boy’s situation. Leiah clearly lived each of the other twenty-three hours for that one with Caleb.

  A boy maybe twelve purred by in an electric Everest and Jennings wheelchair, his head tilted and his lips loose. A paperback novel jostled on his lap— Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game. Jason wondered how the boy managed to lift the book for reading. Some new contraption would service it, no doubt. A woman, presumably his mother, walked beside him confidently, with her chin lifted and her left hand resting on the back of the chair. They passed by, maneuvered easily around the large junipers growing from their holes in the concrete, and disappeared into the hall.

  For every visibly handicapped person, there were at least two professional attendees to the convention, dressed in suits, come to scope out how the latest in technology might fatten their wallets, no doubt. Others walked by as well, caretakers, but they were dressed more casually and generally lacked the hawk eyes of those in suits. The scene rolled past in stark contrast to what Jason had become accustomed to on the streets of Addis Ababa. The lame were no fewer in number in Ethiopia to be sure, and more often than not, they were victims of leprosy or some such illness. But they were simply cast into the pot with hordes of outcasts rather than cared for as they were here. This alone was a reason to love this bastion of capitalism called America, Jason thought.

  Jason glanced up, thinking it would be another hot day, even though it was already October. The sun had come out in regular Southern California fashion, diffused by a haze that hung over the city. You’d think having lived in Africa all these years he’d be accustomed to the heat, but in reality he’d spent most of his time above five thousand feet, where the air was usually clear and cool.

  “You’d think if the old buzzard insisted we be here by ten, he’d be here by ten,” Jason said.

  Leiah glanced at him and nodded, and then returned her gaze to a small child hobbling past on forearm crutches thirty yards away.

  “You know what he has in mind, don’t you?”

  “I think I have it pretty much figured out. And if this isn’t exploitation, I don’t know what is.”

  “You’re right.” Leiah had taken to wearing scarves or wide chokers when she wasn’t wearing a turtleneck, and she wore them with style, he thought. Today she wore a yellow scarf to accent a white blouse and her standard-fare jeans. Even her choice of black work boots blended with style. Her look was less cowboy and more steelworker, but then again, they weren’t in Texas. If they had been in Texas, he had no doubt she’d be wearing cowboy boots and looking like a regular ranch hand. Although regular was not a word that did any justice to Leiah.

  She faced him with flashing blue eyes. “Is it just me, Jason, or does this not feel right?”

  “No, it’s not just you. This doesn’t feel right.”

  “Then why are we sitting by while this maniac drags Caleb around?”

  She did have her way with words. No confusion permitted. “We’re not just sitting here, Leiah. We’re doing what we can.”

  “And you know as well as I do that it’s not enough.”

  “Maybe not. But you have to look at the bright side. He seems happy, doesn’t he? If there were things going on that should concern us, Caleb would tell us, wouldn’t he? And I don’t know about you, but on both of our last two visits he seemed just plain happy.”

  “Come on, Jason. What do you expect from a child in his situation? He’s lost. He doesn’t know any better. All he knows is happy because that’s who Caleb is.”

  “You’re saying he’s too stupid to know that if someone beats him it’s not a good thing?”

  “No! Of course not. And I didn’t say the old bat is beating him. But he’s good to the bone, and part of being good is seeing the best in others. If he’s happy, it’s because he finds contentment where most ordinary people never would. But that doesn’t mean it’s healthy for him. They have him locked up in his room all day—you think that’s reasonable?”

  “No.”

  “And when will it end?”

  “Nikolous is isolating—”

  “I know what Nikolous is doing. And today he’s going to march Caleb out here to see if he can pull off a few more tricks. He’s turning the child into a circus attraction,” she said.

  Jason considered her argument. The simple fact was Nikolous hadn’t damaged the boy in any visible way. Unless or until he did, their hands were tied by the court order. He understood Leiah’s love for Caleb; he felt it himself. They had talked of little else for hours on end over this last week. But this was not Africa, for goodness’ sakes. You couldn’t just muscle your way past the system if you expected to stay a free man.

  “Look, I swore to both Caleb and his father that I wouldn’t let any harm come to him. I intend to keep that promise.” He met her eyes and was struck by the impulse to reach out and brush her hair from her face. “I’ll do whatever is reasonable. But doing something halfcocked won’t necessarily do Caleb any favors, right?”

  She kept her eyes on his, searching his soul, it seemed. Truthfully he felt exposed.

  “Whatever is reasonable? How about whatever’s necessary?”

  He thought about it and then nodded. “Whatever’s necessary.”

  She smiled gently, and it seemed to seal more than he had promised.

  They w
aited another five minutes before Jason saw Donna. She approached them from the street, wearing a wide smile. Nikolous had said nothing about her coming.

  “Well, well look who’s here,” Jason said, nodding in her direction.

  Leiah looked at the news correspondent and then glanced back at Jason. He shrugged. “Trust me, I didn’t invite her.”

  Donna walked up smiling. “Hello, Jason. Leiah. Are they here yet?”

  Jason stood instinctively; he did so alone.

  “No.”

  “We’re early anyway. He said he’d be here at ten-thirty.”

  “And what brings you here?” Leiah asked. She crossed her legs and folded her arms. “Here to make Caleb famous, is that it?”

  “Maybe. That really depends on him.”

  “Maybe it depends more on you. You’re the one with the camera.”

  “What camera? I don’t see a camera. Not today,” Donna shot back. “Listen, I know you don’t approve of the whole idea of bringing the boy into the public eye; for that matter it’s quite obvious you don’t approve of me either. But like it or not, this isn’t your private little party. You have no idea how much good the boy might bring the world. Try to think beyond yourself on this one, will you?”

  Jason felt the sting from her words himself. Leiah didn’t have a selfish bone in her body. But neither was she spineless.

  “It was the boy I had in mind,” she said.

  Donna looked at her, nearly said something in response, but chose to dismiss Leiah with a nod and turn to Jason instead.

  “So what did you make of his statement at the press conference?” she asked. Before them the number of attendees entering or leaving the building had dwindled to sporadic bunches. Donna hardly seemed to notice them.

  “I agree with Leiah, Donna. Caleb is our first concern here, not what he can or cannot do. He’s a child. And as for Crandal, the man makes me cringe.”

  Donna smiled. “Point taken. He makes you cringe, huh? That’s power for you. And believe me, he’s got more than the rest combined.”

  “It’s more than power,” Leiah said. “The man is dangerous. I think Caleb saw that.”