by Tim LaHaye
Sorin had known Viv? He had never said a word, not even years later when Marilena had dragged him to Viv’s meetings.
One of the early letters from Viv:
The carrier of the chosen child must be bright, well-read, and at least agnostic, if not one of us. According to the spirits, the looks may come from your lover, but the intellect must come from you and whomever you select to bear the child.
Mr. Stonagal sends his greetings and best wishes and asks that I thank you again for your many kindnesses to his now late son, who told him more than once that Zurich was among the happiest seasons of his short life.
In the bonds of the spirit,
Viviana Ivinisova
Could these documents be forged? Had Viv hoped Marilena would one day discover them? Were they meant to torment her? Was it possible Sorin had been in on this from the beginning? from before the beginning? And Baduna too? They were the sperm donors? Marilena could not make it compute. Sorin had attended a private high school in Zurich, his prodigious mind earning him shoulder-rubbing privileges with the children of international wealth.
She riffled through the documents, coming to one from Sorin referring to his first wife:
Ms. Ivinisova:
My wife, of course, has proved unfit, as have two promising students. But I am still diligently searching. How much easier this would be, were I allowed to use our own association as a pool. But I see the value of an outsider as a vessel, provided she is not an enemy of the cause.
Still searching and humbled to be of use.
Sorin C.
Marilena could barely breathe. Subsequent letters told of Sorin’s discovering Marilena and slowly, carefully determining her suitability. It stabbed to see his references to being grateful she would not be contributing to the boy’s appearance. Later he spoke highly of her intellect and academic capacity.
Viv urged him to be cautious but expeditious. We are being urged to make this a priority. Don’t rush, but don’t dawdle either.
Later Sorin sought advice on how to broach the subject with Marilena, his live-in lover, who had quickly become merely a live-in colleague: pleasant enough, but not romantic material.
Viv had responded:
The desire for a child can be prayed into her, Sorin, if you know what I mean. It’s crucial that she thoroughly believes this is her idea.
Sorin wrote disparagingly of Marilena as a target:
I married her, per your suggestion and with the long-term financial benefit in mind, so please assure me I am not wasting the best years of my life.
Viv assured him of just that.
Then came the strategizing of how to plant within Marilena the longing for a child and expose her to the diversion of a weekly meeting that would introduce her to the spirit world. Sorin had been attending private meetings for years with Baduna. Marilena shook her head at her naïveté. Not only had she assumed Sorin had been seeing another woman, but she also never suspected he was anywhere but in someone else’s bed all those lonely evenings.
The maternal instinct merely a construct? Marilena had never felt anything so deeply, wanted it so badly. She could not be persuaded, despite this evidence, that it had been anything but real. Planted by Lucifer? Could that explain the driverless car? It couldn’t be. Marilena’s fingers shook as she flipped through the pages, her wasted life documented in computer printouts.
A major issue proved to have been her reluctance to buy into Luciferianism with the gusto they had hoped. Viv had written to Reiche Planchette:
That would have solved everything, but she is a tough case. Even my moving in with her, which does not seem to have made her suspicious, has not seemed to move her closer. She’s a dilettante, but I am beginning to fear she will never be a disciple.
Expendable, per J.S., Planchette had replied.
Marilena’s eyes began to swim. Her life had been a sham, someone else’s idea. She tore through the rest of the documents, catching snatches of details she thought had made up the vicissitudes of her existence. She had merely been a pawn, her life choreographed by others for their purposes and their gain. Her own husband had used her to win a fortune and to seed a cause in which he claimed not even to believe!
Was it possible her own son had never connected with her, never returned her affection, because he was not hers at all? Was he merely a product of the spirit world—a pseudo cheap imitation of the Christians’ incarnation—and not flesh of her own flesh? She could not accept it, not abide it. She was bonded to Nicky as if he were part of her—an organ, a limb, an extension of herself.
Marilena’s forearm throbbed, and she was horrified to notice that redness and swelling had spread from all four sides of the bandage. Infection. And a fast one. She could consult online medical resources, but she knew she was in trouble. The hand on her bitten arm quivered as if she had Parkinson’s, and her vision began to cloud. She must not let her anguish make her physical injury worse.
The phone rang and she ran to it, light-headedness forcing her to grab at the wall and then slump to the floor once she answered.
The male voice sounded middle-aged. “Yes, ma’am, is this Marilena?”
“Speaking.”
“Are you all right? You sound shaken.”
“Who’s calling please?”
“This is the protopop at Biserică Cristos.”
“Yes, Vicar, thanks for calling. I must come see you, but I fear I need medical attention first.”
“What’s wrong? How can I help?”
She told him but said it had been a dog bite.
“I’m afraid I must recommend you take a cab to your doctor,” he said. “I have obligations this afternoon and was going to suggest that you drop in to see me around five o’clock.”
“I can do that,” she managed.
“Are you sure? Should I call someone for you?”
“No, please. Thank you. I can make it to the doctor, and I will get to the church by five.”
Marilena had to call three taxi companies before she found one in Cluj-Napoca that would send a car that far, and they demanded a hefty premium. They were to pick her up in an hour.
Perhaps it was her imagination, but Marilena was convinced the redness around her bandage had deepened in the past few minutes. She fought panic when she felt pressure beneath it and something oozing. She staggered back into Viv’s room and quickly spread out the final few pages of the file, speed-reading them to be sure she missed nothing.
Marilena froze when she noticed Mrs. Szabo’s name. They knew her? had known her before? planted her? Was the whole school issue part of the ruse, a setup to pit Marilena against Nicky? And the doctor! Even he, “Doctor Luzie,” and the medical facility were named. But there the file ended. There had to be more!
Marilena moved to Viv’s computer, but it was password protected. She tried every combination of words and numbers she could think of, using Viv’s birth date, addresses, names of friends and associates, words associated with spiritualism. When nothing worked after more than half an hour, Marilena started entering the numbers backward. Viv had been born June 12. Marilena had tried and failed with 612. She tried 216.
As she heard tires in the gravel outside and a horn, the home page opened and welcomed “Viviana” to the Internet. Marilena quickly scanned the lists of folders and files, spotting one titled “SC.” If that stood for Sorin Carpathia, it might have the latest information.
Marilena stood to ask the cabdriver to wait, but dizziness struck and she had to sit on the bed a moment. Finally she slowly rose and made her way out. She held up a finger to inform the driver she would be another few minutes, but he angrily pointed at his watch.
“I’ll hurry,” she said.
“Two minutes!” he shouted.
NINETEEN
HAD MARILENA not had enough to eat? Something pierced her gut. If anything, she had, in her panic, eaten too much. So why was she light-headed and nauseated? She stayed close to the wall, extending her good hand for balanc
e, and found her way back to the computer.
The SC folder demanded a password as well, and 216 worked again. Viv was apparently, fortunately, not terribly computer literate. The folder contained a list of files arranged by dates, and Marilena quickly deciphered that they matched the documents she had found in the safe. She could have saved so much time and mess by starting at the computer, but how could she have known?
With her vision fast deteriorating, Marilena fought to concentrate. At the end of the detailed list she found documents dated later than what she had read. Why had Viv printed out all this stuff? It made no sense. If she wanted Marilena to find it, why had she not just shown it to her?
Blinking, eyes swollen and dry, she leaned forward to read an entry from just three days before. It was to Planchette.
Nicky has devised an ingenious way to provoke Marilena. He amazes me afresh every day.
Marilena was no physician, but she had read enough in the medical field to know the signs of shock. And that’s where she believed she was headed. Racing against the clock, she squinted at a sentence she feared her own wounded mind had conjured up:
If we can effect this before we reach Cluj-Napoca, your man will be in place.
Your man? The doctor? Marilena racked her brain to recall the hospital visit. They had not had to wait for a physician; that was rare. And had they gone through the usual red tape—the registering, the insurance check, all that? She couldn’t recall. But the doctor had seemed sympathetic, mentioned that the bite was human, offered to examine the child who had inflicted it. How did that fit? Or was it all part of the plot?
Marilena was paranoid and reminded herself not to chase irrational trails. She heard the horn outside and reached past the computer to pull back the curtain. She gestured, pleading for more time, but she couldn’t tell whether the taxi driver was looking.
When she sat back down she noticed she had brushed the keyboard, and her page had disappeared. She had to refresh it to get back to the list of files, but now she heard the cab moving. He couldn’t leave. Maybe he was just repositioning. But another two short bursts on the horn made her realize she had exhausted his patience.
Marilena leaped off the chair and staggered to the front door. She opened it to a cloud of dust as the taxi pulled out onto the highway. “No!” she wailed. “I’m sorry! I’m ready! Come back!”
But he was gone. As Marilena shut the door, her knees buckled and she dropped to the floor. She landed on her right hip, and a sharp pain shot through her pelvis. As she tried to rise, dizziness forced her down again, and there she lay, panting.
The room swam and she tried to pray. “God, I have given myself to You, admitting I am a sinner and pleading for Your forgiveness, for salvation. Do You not care? Can You not help me? I’m dying.”
Marilena forced herself up to all fours, her knees tender on the wood. She crawled to the phone, noticing dark purple tracks extending from all sides of her bandaged forearm. Her mind kaleidoscoped with conflicting images. She imagined herself on the phone, talking to the hospital and their telling her they needed the name of her doctor. She couldn’t remember it, though she had just seen it in the computer file. In her mind she recounted the treatment, told them it had just been the day before, the time, the injury. No record. No record. No record.
But I need help. Need an ambulance.
We have no ambulances. Call the authorities.
I don’t know the numbers and can’t get to the phone book. Could you call them for me?
That is your responsibility, ma’am.
But I am going into shock.
Call Planchette. Call Viv. Call Nicky.
You know my son?
He is not your son. He is the son of Lucifer.
You know this? Everyone knows this?
Ma’am, you are dreaming. Call the vicar.
You know the vicar? Can you call him for me?
The vicar is Lucifer.
No! No, he’s not! He’s kind, but he’s busy. He’ll see me at five.
The phone was ringing. Marilena shook her head, trying to return to sanity, to real consciousness. Was the ringing real? Or was this also part of her hallucination? She wanted to get to it before the machine picked up.
She reached, but it seemed to drift farther from her the closer she got. She whimpered as the fourth ring ended and the machine kicked in: “You have reached the home of Viv, Marilena, and Nicky. Please leave a message after the tone, and we will get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Ah yes, this is Dr. Luzie, checking on our patient. If she or one of you could call me—”
This was real! But dare she talk to him? She had to take the chance. Luzie? What kind of a name was that? As he droned on about wanting to know if there were any signs of infection or whether she had any questions, she wondered if there was anything to the fact that his name was close to iluzie, “illusion.” Was her mind still playing tricks?
With a desperate reach, Marilena grabbed the phone. “Doctor! I’m here!”
“Ms. Ivins?”
“No! Marilena.”
He hesitated. “Just checking to see how you are, ma’am.”
“Thank you, thank you. I’m in trouble, maybe going into shock, delirious.”
“Have Ms. Ivins get you to the hospital as soon as possible. I’ll meet you—”
“She’s gone! I’m alone. No car.”
“Can you call a taxi?”
“Takes too long . . .”
Marilena was fading, angry. Why couldn’t he understand she needed an ambulance? Her tongue was thick, her mind whirling again. Was this real? Was he real? Could he be trusted? Of course not! He had been planted, all part of the Înşelăciune.
“Sir, if you have any decency . . .”
Marilena heard the phone hit the floor just before she did. She was drifting . . . drifting . . . and while she fought to remain conscious, the lure of sweet peace overwhelmed her. Sleep would quiet the cacophony in her brain. She could do nothing for herself anyway. Had she been close enough to the pain pills, she would have taken them all, no question.
“God, grant me peace. And if I am dying, receive me.”
__
Marilena had no idea how long she had lain here. Her watch read four thirty, if she could trust her eyes and her mind. Nearly twenty-four hours since her own son had bit her. She was cold, shuddering. Hungry. Dare she eat? She still felt nauseated. She carefully rolled to where she could get back up on all fours, then kneel, and finally stand. Woozy.
Marilena sat on the couch. The phone lay on the floor ten feet from her now, and she heard the annoying tones and intermittent recorded message asking whether she was trying to make a call. She should pick it up, hang it up, try Planchette again, leave a message for the vicar, call the hospital. Do something—anything. But the ten feet looked like ten kilometers, and so she just sat.
Was this how it was to end? Had her foolish, selfish choices led to losing everything, including her son and her life? Waste. What a waste. But Marilena was a fighter. She wouldn’t simply sit and take it. She forced herself to stand, stumbling to the wall for support until her head cleared. She hung up the phone, then picked it up to dial.
She would try Planchette’s home first. Demand to know whether the woman—whoever she was—had heard from him, given him the message. Marilena would yell, cry, threaten, whatever she had to do to get answers. Maybe she would reveal that she knew everything and that she would go to the press, the authorities, expose the association.
But what about the fact that that number was no longer in service? Had that been an illusion too? a dream? She dialed. Same message. She slammed the phone down and picked it up again. The church line was answered by machine again too. The hospital. She would call for an ambulance. But before she could dial she heard a car.
Marilena made her way to the front window and peeked out to see a late-model black sedan. When the driver emerged, the car still running, she saw it was the doctor! Was this salvation or
death? It made no sense. Why would he come himself? Why not send an ambulance? He had to be part of the conspiracy.
Oh, if she could only believe he had a sense of decency, a modicum of humanity! But she couldn’t risk it. Marilena headed through the kitchen to the back door. As she slipped out, she heard him knock quickly and open the front door. How long would it take him to realize she was not there? He would discover the mess, the file, the computer.
Her survival instinct masked her myriad ailments. She had to get away, but where would she go? She could hide in the woods only so long. The barn might shield her, but he would think of that. She had to get to his car. How delicious was the thought of leaving him in a cloud of dust. But where could she drive? If not straight to the emergency room, she might die. But she would be easily found there too.
Regardless, it was her only chance. She began a wide circle around the cottage, staying far enough from the windows that she could dart from behind one tree to another. She heard slamming and banging inside, the back door opening, footsteps. She waited. He cursed and returned inside through the back door.
Marilena crouched behind a tree about twenty feet from the idling car. It represented sweet freedom, at least temporarily. But he would report it stolen and she would soon be apprehended. At least that would put her with the authorities, who—if they didn’t write her off as a fantasist—might at least provide sanctuary.
Marilena was about to bolt for the car when she heard the front door swing open with a bang and saw the doctor stride onto the porch, hands on his hips, jaw set. Luzie scanned right and left, clearly seething. Then, as if realizing his carelessness, he all but slapped himself on the head, bounded down to the car, turned it off, and removed the key.
Marilena’s last option had expired.
Or had it? She would not just crouch here, waiting to be discovered. She could not outrun him, but she had to somehow elude him. He returned to the porch, looked around some more, turned his back to her, and flipped open his cell phone.
Marilena hurried back the way she had come, keeping the cottage between her and him. She peered around the side to see if he was coming her way. From behind a hedge she saw him searching the other side of the place, near where she had watched the car. That left her free to head the other way, toward the barn.
