Meyer rose from his chair, grabbed his voice box by the handle, and moved toward the large window that faced the chaotic street scene below. Antique vending carts of every size, shape, and color were crammed side by side as far as the eye could see. Overflowing from them all was every manner of spice and garment and fresh vegetable to be found. The shouts of the proprietors hawking their wares could barely be heard above the traffic noise. The bustling location—an obscure structure in downtown Kolkata that sat among countless similar low-rise buildings on Kabiraj Row in the heart of the city—had been a perfect hiding place for the child clone, he felt.
“The child is what? Eighteen months old now?” Meyer asked as he stared at a merchant in a brightly colored madras Nehru, selling fried fish and kati rolls from a cart on the corner and arguing heatedly with another man.
“Eighteen months, eleven days,” Kapoor said. She nervously took small sips from the glass in her hand.
Hidden from sight since he had been secreted from Mumbai as a newborn more than a year before, the cloned child slept quietly on the second floor directly below them. He had spent nearly every minute of his life isolated inside the ash-colored building, under the watchful eyes of Kapoor and two nurses who had faithfully served the Demanian Church for years. Knowledge of the child’s presence at the compound had been limited to only a trusted few. Kapoor, instructed to supervise the center, its caregivers, and the child’s well-being, was to report to Meyer at Demanian Church headquarters in Geneva once daily. Rules laid down by Laurent were to be strictly enforced. The infant was not to leave the compound; visitors were prohibited on the second floor; and any unusual activities of the child were to be recorded and transmitted in timely, coded messages according to the protocols established by Meyer, Laurent, and the elders on the sect’s executive committee.
While the child, nearly flawless in features and disposition, had by all accounts developed normally, a series of unusual incidents involving Kapoor’s care of him had gone unreported for weeks. When rumors of the strange events eventually leaked to Meyer and Demanian Church elders, an investigative team was sent to India to assess the damage. The stories they brought back were severely troubling. Meyer had journeyed to Kolkata to verify the incredible reports with his own eyes. And given the disastrous health crisis that had begun to swallow the nervous city, he was also intent on making preparations to move the boy. The child required a safer hiding place in a different country altogether, a place where Meyer could keep him under his own watch.
Meyer turned away from the loud and colorful distractions of the street scene below and stared at Kapoor.
“Tell me about your complaint, this supposed ‘mother’s right of instinct,’ ” he said. The psychological workup on Kapoor was succinct. Meyer knew she’d fallen into the trap of treating the child as though he were her own. He eyed Kapoor as she slowly summoned the strength to respond.
“He was born of my egg. My egg,” Kapoor said flatly, as though she had rehearsed the explanation.
“An empty egg, Ria,” Meyer said. “Enucleated. You understand that, with the nucleus removed, there is not a trace of your genetic code in the boy?”
“Yes, but I—”
“Nor were you the surrogate mother who actually carried the child to term,” Meyer said.
“Yes, but where is she now?” Kapoor asked. A quiet disdain was evident in her voice.
“I would give a fortune to know,” Meyer said. He balled his fingers into a fist.
His people had scoured the world to find Domenika Jozef, the surrogate mother of the child clone. She’d been daringly rescued from the Demanian compound in Mumbai by her lover, Jon Bondurant, following the child’s birth. They both knew too much about Meyer’s cloned boy, and Meyer was desperate to hunt them down before they talked.
“Forget the mother. When did they start?” Meyer said.
“When did what start?” Kapoor asked.
“These incidents. The reason I’m here,” Meyer said with all the patience he could muster. He returned to his chair and stared directly across at Kapoor.
“In my experience,” Kapoor said, “children should take their nap alone. But I—but I—”
“But you what?”
“I guess I was wrong,” Kapoor said as she set her glass down on the table and clasped her hands together. “At least with this child.”
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Meyer said.
“Our vigilance over the boy since he arrived has been constant, including his hours of sleep. We recorded every minute of activity in our logs, as you requested,” Kapoor said. “However, a few months ago, I began to feel that this constant monitoring of my—forgive me—the child, particularly while he slept, was unnecessary. It was plainly intrusive. And it has been a terrible burden on the nurses who must spend long shifts watching him at cribside while he simply sleeps. I thought it a waste of time.”
“Not entirely unreasonable,” Meyer said, coaxing her forward. “Then what?”
“Within about a week of being left to nap on his own, and absent our monitoring, certain, well, certain things began to happen,” Kapoor said. “We were not aware of them at first, but then they were brought to our attention from the outside.”
“Outside? What do you mean?” Meyer asked.
“Each morning, an assortment of birds, mostly crows, often a half dozen or more, could be found lying dead and crushed on the sidewalk outside the child’s nursery window,” Kapoor said. “Mr. Murali, the building supervisor, became very upset. He told us tales of watching these poor birds fly at full speed into the window as though they were intent on breaking the glass. Then, well, there were the dogs.”
“What dogs?”
“Stray dogs. They roam the city in packs like wolves,” she said. “Many come. They hold vigil each night on the street below the nursery window, howling and pacing. Mr. Murali is forced to chase them away quite often.”
“Birds and dogs? That’s it?” Meyer asked. He had been told that she knew more but had refused to discuss it with anyone.
Kapoor hesitated. “The child’s naps during the day, while alone, caused a larger problem,” she said.
“What kind of problem?”
“Several people, well, many passersby—and I know this is difficult to believe—reported spotting the boy . . . levitating inside his crib. Floating above his mattress,” Kapoor said. She looked up at Meyer and locked her eyes with his for the first time.
Meyer leaned forward in his chair. He had expected to eventually hear of supernatural-like signs from the child. “Impossible,” he said as casually as he could in a synthesized monotone.
“Actually, quite possible,” Kapoor said. “His crib sits directly in front of the nursery window, just above street level. If he were levitating, he could be seen easily from the outside.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Meyer said, growing exasperated. “Exactly what is it these people saw?”
“We had not made it a practice to draw the blinds, and many people apparently witnessed his levitation over the course of several days. Larger and larger groups had begun to assemble on the street before we were even made aware. They spoke of the ‘flying child.’ Mr. Meyer, I swear to you, I observed it once myself.”
Meyer closed his eyes and cupped his hands over his face as he envisioned the commotion on the street outside the compound. He was delighted with the reported miraculous capability of the child, but Kapoor’s lack of attention to secrecy and security was unforgivable.
“And then?” he asked.
“The police and a local newspaper were called to investigate. I assure you, Supreme Elder, we acted quickly,” Kapoor said apologetically. “I appealed to their reason. It’s a simple illusion, that’s all, I said. Light from the sun that played tricks on their eyes through the glass. They had to believe me. What else could they do? Since then, we’ve nailed the blinds shut. We’ve moved the crib. The child is monitored during sleep again. We have not seen the levita
tion since.”
Meyer shook his head. Then he picked up the report and skimmed through it until he found the spot he’d marked. “What is this I hear about the child and his relationship to the death of your nephew?” Meyer asked.
Kapoor appeared stunned that Meyer knew so much. “The nurses have spoken?” she asked.
“We have a number of details from others, not all of them clear,” Meyer said. “I want to hear it from you.”
Kapoor clasped her hands together again, this time as though in confession. She spoke rapidly, as if to rid her mind of the tale as quickly as possible. “I took the child to my brother’s home,” she said.
“You did what?” Meyer shouted.
“It was a special occasion. I—”
Meyer’s face turned redder than usual. “You what?”
“It was a Saturday morning. He had been sheltered indoors for so long that I—”
“You are telling me you ignored the strictest rule, that the boy remain in the compound?”
“It was only a small family gathering,” Kapoor said. “A party in honor of my nephew’s confirmation in the Catholic faith. But it was a mistake, one I will forever regret.”
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Meyer said.
“When we arrived at my brother’s home, we were greeted warmly,” she said. “It was a surprise to many that I had care of the boy. I suppose that some were under the mistaken impression that the child was my own.”
“Yes,” Meyer said. He watched as Kapoor turned her gaze toward the window to avoid his eyes.
“Supreme Elder, everyone at the party who saw the child found him radiant. There were many photos and a great deal of fuss. I suppose . . .”
“You suppose what?”
“I suppose it angered my sister-in-law very much when so much attention was paid to the child. She took me aside as I held the child in my arms. She was furious. The boy had ruined her son’s special day, she said. She ordered me to leave and to take the ‘bastard child’ with me. It was only moments after that when the accident happened.”
The term for the child unsettled Meyer. He wanted to upbraid Kapoor for its use, but he was pressed for time. “The accident?”
“There were terrible screams from the backyard,” Kapoor said. “It’s all such a blur to me now. My brother rushed into the home with my nephew in his arms. He lay there lifeless, bleeding from his skull.” Kapoor stared out the window now.
“What happened?” Meyer said.
“He dove headlong into the empty swimming pool,” she said, shaking her head. “It had been drained of water in the winter several months before. His parents are certain he knew this. My nephew’s friends followed behind my brother in shock. They were screaming. One of them shouted out, and then the others joined in, ‘The water came! The water went! The water came! The water went!’ as though an illusion in the pool had occurred to them all. I don’t know what to say beyond that.”
“And your nephew?”
“He died in his mother’s arms before the sun could set,” Kapoor said. Tears had begun to run down her cheeks.
Meyer shifted uncomfortably in his chair and sat in silence for more than a minute as he considered Kapoor’s story. He took a deep breath. “Now, before I look in on the boy, I’m going to ask you about this ridiculous baptism incident, and I want you to be very specific about what occurred,” Meyer said.
Kapoor took a deep breath of her own. “I realize we do not baptize until age twelve,” she said. “My fear—” Kapoor stopped herself. “My fear was that the boy was vulnerable. That if it was to be ten years before his baptism, it would not be safe. What if something were to happen to the child? So I made arrangements.”
Meyer kicked the coffee table in front of him so hard it toppled the large bottle of water and the half-empty glasses beside it. His speaker tumbled onto the floor. Kapoor sat half-drenched from the explosion before her.
“Arrangements?” Meyer cried out as he righted his machine.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Kapoor responded as her entire body shook with fear. “I made arrangements. Arrangements with a local Catholic priest to perform the baptismal rite. Something to hold him over until the age of twelve, you see?”
Meyer reached for the toppled bottle and heaved it hard, just over Kapoor’s head. It missed her by only inches. When the bottle hit the wall behind her, it shattered and littered the rug with shards of glass. He had tried to retain his composure, but hearing the story directly from Kapoor, whom he had once trusted implicitly, was just too much.
Kapoor stared down at her lap again and pressed forward with her story as though to quickly bury it behind her. “I met the priest with the child along the banks of the Hooghly River not far from here. It was a Sunday morning. There was a problem with the child that morning. I don’t know why, but he was inconsolable. He kicked and resisted every step of the way. The farther we waded into the river toward the priest, the louder he cried. I asked the priest to perform the rites as quickly as possible so that we could return to the center unnoticed. But the baptism was difficult.”
“What exactly do you mean?” Meyer asked.
“When he, the priest, reached the part of the ceremony . . . you know the part I mean. The necessary part,” Kapoor said.
“The necessary part?”
“ ‘Do you reject Satan and all his works?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I do. Of course, I do,’ I said on behalf of the child. But by then, the boy had begun to wail,” Kapoor said. “He turned blood-red. He tried to hide his head under the blanket wrapped about him. Then, as soon as the priest poured water from the river over his head, he writhed in my arms. His breathing stopped for a moment, and he turned a pale shade of blue. His eyes rolled toward the back of his head and showed only their whites. That’s when I knew something had gone terribly wrong.”
Meyer sat stunned. He began to feel sick to his stomach. Something was terribly wrong. The child’s reaction to the sacrament was exactly the opposite of what he’d expected to hear. When he broke the silence, he asked only one last question. “This was on Sunday the twenty-first, about six weeks ago?”
“Yes, it was. Sunday the twenty-first,” she confirmed.
Meyer turned to the back of the report. On the last page was a copy of a frayed newspaper clipping. He quietly read portions of it again. It was a story, dated the day following the extraordinary baptism Kapoor had described, about several mysterious events that had occurred in the city. A Catholic priest had been found dead in his sacristy only three blocks from the Hooghly River, horribly disfigured, cause of death unknown. Found dead in their homes that same evening were the two paramedics who had attended to the withered priest. Yet another person was found dead a day later, this one the coroner who’d reluctantly performed an autopsy on the cleric.
Meyer sat in silence across from Kapoor for five minutes and scratched away at the side of his pockmarked face. Why these incidents had happened after the simple baptism of a child he hadn’t a clue. But he was certain of two things. One was an imperative, the other a mystery.
As to imperatives, it was more critical than ever that he find Bondurant and Jozef. They had to be eliminated, given all they knew, no matter the cost. No one could be privy to the power of the strange child clone until Meyer understood exactly whom his scientists had created and what powers the child might possess. The very future of his church was at stake.
As to mysteries, the stories that Kapoor related about the child clone and what they might mean were terrifying, even to Meyer. Since the ill-conceived sacrament had been performed and the unsolved events of that day had been reported, Kolkata’s Hooghly River had been named by the World Health Organization as ground zero for the spread of the deadliest virus known to man.
Chapter 3
St. Michaels, Maryland
Dr. Jon Bondurant stood on the top step of his shiny aluminum-clad Airstream trailer and looked down. His lean but muscular swimmer’s frame and broad shoulders filled the doorway.
He glanced at the delivery boy, who extended two large pizza boxes in Bondurant’s direction. Bondurant lifted the white cardboard lid of the box on top. He felt no rush of heat as he opened the lid, and he looked at the teen in disappointment.
“It’s cold,” Bondurant said.
The delivery boy looked confused as his wide eyes darted about the welcome scene of spring that surrounded them. It was only a week before that winter had shown no sign of letting go.
“I mean the pizza,” Bondurant said as he smiled. He reached into his faded jeans to pay for the pies.
“You know this place isn’t even on the map, mister?” the boy said unapologetically. “I spent twenty-five minutes trying to find you.”
Bondurant’s trailer sat on an abandoned dirt lot at the end of a shady lane by the river outside St. Michaels. It was nestled in a grove of oaks and evergreens, and neither the driveway nor the trailer was marked by an address, for good reason. But Bondurant knew it wasn’t the pizza boy’s problem as to why. At forty-two and wealthy beyond his dreams from the royalties on his bestselling books and the sale of the television rights, he could afford a permanent retreat and a lifestyle filled with so much more than the lot he presently called home. He’d been rushed into retirement a couple of decades earlier than most, a retirement he could thankfully afford. It was true that living on the run and on the road had turned out to be more expensive than Bondurant had figured. He’d done the simple math. Money had never meant much to him before. But at the current burn rate, the millions in his investment portfolio combined with the royalty payments to come could support him and his little family for a hundred years or more. For that he was grateful.
Bondurant warily scanned the lot around them for other signs of life under the canopy of fresh green leaves that had seemed to sprout overnight. He gave the boy two twenties to cover the pizza and a generous tip for his trouble in finding the hideaway. Then he turned and stepped back inside his cozy six-wheeled home. As much as Bondurant wanted to settle in somewhere more permanently someday, a house that could be hitched to a trailer ball and towed at a moment’s notice was unfortunately a real and potentially lifesaving necessity.
The Second Coming Page 2
