After the train barreled through the tunnel deep beneath the Potomac River, it stopped at the Rosslyn, Virginia, station. Bondurant stuck his head out of the open car doors and looked left and right down the deserted platform. Not a single passenger got off the train. Now almost to the front car, where he might find Khan, he tore down the center aisle of the nearly empty train in a dead run, determined to reach her before the next stop.
As he burst through the last of the connecting doors that opened onto the lead car of the train, he caught his breath. Khan, absorbed in a book, sat twenty feet from him facing the rear of the train. Given that they were total strangers, Bondurant hastily tried to gather his thoughts about how best to introduce himself. But as he approached her in the aisle, the train slammed hard on the brakes in the middle of the subway tunnel with no warning and for no apparent reason. Everything in the car that wasn’t sitting or was lying untethered—newspapers, a few empty bottles, a forgotten umbrella, and Bondurant himself—submitted to the law of inertia and flew forward until it found a solid object against which to come to rest. The heart-stopping incident was accompanied by a brief loss of power that left the car in total darkness.
This unfortunate combination of factors—no handhold, plenty of brake, and cruel physics—conspired to throw Bondurant into a trajectory where he tumbled forward, out of control. When he landed several feet from the point he’d been launched from, he found himself on all fours, his face planted squarely between Khan’s shapely legs. When power was restored only a second later and the lights of the train car were lit again, Bondurant assumed the time was ripe for an introduction.
“And you are?” Khan asked.
He looked up from her lap. “Jon. Dr. Jon Bondurant,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Khan.”
“Do I know you?” she asked. “You’re not the first man to kneel at my feet.”
Bondurant was still crumpled on the floor where he’d fallen. Stunned and off balance, he watched helplessly as she grabbed him by his hair and tilted his head back to get a better look.
“I’m afraid you don’t,” Bondurant responded. He closed his eyes for a moment in embarrassment.
Khan, nonplussed, grabbed Bondurant by both ears and turned his head from side to side as if she were examining a puppy for sale.
“Just a moment,” she said. “I do know you. You’re the anthropologist-turned-author. The blood on the Shroud and all that?”
Bondurant frowned, grabbed her wrists, and pulled her hands from his ears in an effort to regain some composure. Freed from her thighs, he pushed himself off the floor and sat down directly across from her as the train lurched forward and started on its way down the tunnel again. He watched as she reluctantly set her book aside to deal with him.
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s me,” Bondurant responded. He wasn’t going to argue with her. “I’ve been desperately trying to reach you for a while.”
“I saw your messages. I don’t take calls. I speak to others only when I wish to. Besides . . .” She let what she was about to say hang for a moment. She slowly crossed her legs to reveal them to mid-thigh in her leather skirt. Bondurant watched her follow his eyes to her bare legs.
“Besides?” Bondurant said.
“Besides, I wouldn’t have taken your call anyway. I saw that ridiculous press conference you held. God is dead. God is not dead. You’re a confused man.
“I’ll tell you about God,” Khan continued as she gave him too little time to respond. “He’s not in a church. He’s not in a temple. He’s not in a mosque. He’s here, Dr. Bondurant,” she said. She jabbed a finger at his chest. “In you. In me. In all of us. In everyone and everything. That’s where God lives.”
“Dr. Khan, if this train were going all the way to California, I could talk theology with you until we reached L.A.,” Bondurant said. “Right now, I need to talk to you about something that’s critical for you to know.”
“What do I call you?” she asked as she ignored his request. “Dr. Bondurant?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” he said. He began to grow impatient, and it showed.
“I will call you Jon.”
“Fine. Call me Jon.”
“You like my legs? Obviously, yes. You haven’t stopped staring at them.”
“That’s not true,” Bondurant said.
“Other men, they try to look me in the eye. Not you.”
“I have difficulty with that at times,” Bondurant said. He half considered getting off at the next stop, leaving his important business with her undone. Frustrated that he had gotten nowhere, Bondurant could think of no other way to get her attention than to drop the bomb directly in her lap. He pulled a small glass vial from his pocket and held it within a few inches of her eyes.
“Dr. Khan, I think this blood might be the key to the antidote you’ve been seeking for years. I finally have some proof. I think it may have the power to stop the Devil’s Sweat.”
“When pigs fly,” Khan said, not missing a beat. She grabbed the vial from Bondurant’s hand. “Whose is it?” she asked.
“You wouldn’t believe me,” Bondurant said. “Suffice it to say it’s a long-held hunch. But it’s a good one. And if I’m right, the end of the plague you’ve been seeking is at hand.”
Khan looked at Bondurant dismissively. She flipped the delicate vial high in the air the way she would toss a coin. It forced Bondurant to leap toward her. He barely caught it before it hit the ground. Khan grabbed him by his shirt collar with both hands as he leaned forward in his attempt to rescue the vial. She pulled him in close.
“I’ve been hunting for the source of this godforsaken plague forever, it seems,” she said. “Just about every lab in the world has exhausted itself to find an antidote. Most have given up. I don’t give up. I never give up. But there’s no hope in sight. Fifty million now dead. My math says fifty million more if there’s no antidote soon. And you, of all people, are going to lecture me about a hunch you have about some blood?”
Bondurant instantly realized how ridiculous the proposal sounded.
“I’m going to let you in on a secret,” Khan continued. She stared directly into Bondurant’s eyes, and it was clear to him that as tough as her exterior might be, there was a person inside who was clearly exhausted. “This monster, this Devil’s Sweat, it’s not of this world. Do you understand me? It’s not derivative. It’s not a strain of anything we’ve seen before.”
The train stopped at the open-air station they’d reached in the Virginia suburbs. The exit doors opened and revealed only the black of night smothering a solitary lamp outside.
“This is my stop,” Khan said as she got up to leave.
Bondurant could tell he’d lost her interest entirely. He grabbed her by the hand and pressed the vial into it. She squeezed his hand in return and paused before she let go.
“Just test it,” Bondurant said, pointing to the vial now safely in her hands. “I trust the source. He has the power to heal. What have you got to lose?”
“Lose?” Khan asked. She turned and passed through the train’s doorway into the night. She looked back only once. “Dr. Bondurant, it’s the Devil’s Sweat. We could lose where God lives. We could lose it all.” She pointed again, this time to her own chest. “Everyone and everything.”
Chapter 27
Dickerson, Maryland
Domenika was concerned that it was far too early to remove the training wheels from Christopher’s tiny red bike, but Bondurant had assured her the right time had arrived.
“Chris, if you feel yourself falling over,” Domenika told the boy, who was all of “almost six years old,” “then you just put your feet down to stop. You hear?”
“I know, Mommy,” Christopher responded as he stared down the street outside their home. He had a slight look of trepidation about him, not nearly matched by his mother’s angst. “But when I stop, I use the brake.”
“He’ll be fine,” Bondurant said.
They’d moved to a quiet street in Dicke
rson, a tiny hamlet on the banks of the Potomac River just off rural Maryland Route 28. The charming town of fewer than 2,500 inhabitants was home to White’s Ferry, which operated daily near the small town as it had since the late 1700s. It was the only such outfit left on the river. Its modest platform, topped by a tiny pilothouse, carried a handful of passengers, bicyclists, and cars back and forth at a point in the wide green stream where the muddy waters ran still. An idyllic village in which to raise a family, Dickerson had one other advantage that Bondurant and Domenika appreciated. Like Coos Bay in Oregon before it, Dickerson was a small haven where strangers stood out quickly and—also important—could be seen coming from far away.
Bondurant steadied Christopher on the bike and grasped the edge of the seat as he prepared to push the boy forward in a straight line down the middle of the street. Several vehicles were parked on the side of the road, but there wasn’t a moving car in sight.
It was at moments like this when Domenika felt she could strangle her husband for his stubbornness. His confidence in Christopher’s abilities wasn’t unfounded. The boy had done well in kindergarten. Reading was his first love, particularly stories that involved animals. He was smart and athletic and had demonstrated excellent coordination in just about everything he tried. With some loving coaching from Bondurant, he’d caught his first fish and learned to tie his own shoes, and with a little supervision on the water temperature, could even draw his own bath. Domenika had gotten him over the challenge of zippers, buttons, and clasps and taught him how to fix himself cold cereal and juice before Bondurant dropped him off at school each day.
There were some spills and challenging moments when it came time to pick up his toys, make his bed, or tidy up his room. There was an occasional tantrum over not getting what he wanted. He wasn’t perfect by any means. But in Domenika’s eyes, with every such wonderful advance as riding a bike or brushing his teeth came a fear that her son, the precious child she’d given birth to what seemed like only days ago, had suddenly, truly begun to grow up. Christopher was doing “grown-up” things, and with such things came a mother’s concern.
Domenika looked on as Bondurant leaned over Christopher and prepared to launch him down the peaceful lane.
“The secret is to keep pedaling, Chris. Keep going. Don’t stop,” Bondurant said. “If you stop pedaling, the bike will slow, and then you could fall. So keep pedaling. Keep going. No matter what.”
“Oh, my Lord,” Domenika said. “I can’t watch this.”
Christopher had a look of determination in his eyes. He placed his right foot on the high pedal and pushed down with all his might. When he did, the bike surged forward several feet. Christopher barely managed to hold on to the handlebars. As his father had instructed, he pedaled furiously away with both feet. The bike traveled twenty yards, wobbled left, right, and then left again. Christopher found his balance, straightened his trajectory, and soon was smoothly on his way. He yelped with delight.
“First try!” he cried out.
“Too much, too soon,” Domenika said, nearly under her breath.
“What?” Bondurant said. He reached his arm around her shoulder. “Look at him. He’s doing great.”
“It’s not just the bike, Jon,” Domenika said. She knew it wasn’t the right time to have the argument, but there never seemed to be a right time. “It’s so much more.”
“What do you mean?” Bondurant asked.
Domenika could feel that her husband’s concern was genuine as he caressed the back of her neck. She watched as Christopher, out of earshot, continued to sail with confidence down the center of the road. “I know this is going to sound crazy. It will,” Domenika said. “But I hope, with all my heart, that those precious drops of blood you took from Christopher and gave to Dr. Khan . . . Well, I—” She stopped herself short, certain her husband wouldn’t understand.
“You what?”
“I hope they’re worthless, Jon. I hope they don’t help a single soul.”
“What? What could you possibly mean?”
“I mean, maybe I’ve changed my mind. I don’t know. I just—” Domenika stopped herself short again.
Bondurant’s voice had begun to rise, and she was certain he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, understand. How could he? He wasn’t a mother, and she hadn’t fully reconciled how she felt herself.
Bondurant’s arm left her shoulder. “I’m not getting it, Domenika. This is something we agreed to a long time ago.”
“We did.”
“And now that it’s obvious Chris has some kind of incredible gift, the kind we’d hoped for, you want to put it away?”
“I want him with us. Not with the world. I’m afraid if he stands out—and he will—we’ll lose him somehow.”
“Domenika, I, for one, can’t believe my own eyes. I don’t understand this gift he has. But I know we have an obligation to use it for good.”
“Use it or use him? You know where all this is going, just as I do,” Domenika said. “This is about more than his blood. Special powers or not, he’s just a child. He’s my child. My son. And I can’t—excuse me, I won’t—let you or anyone else put him in danger from the devil.”
“Right. Just look the other way?”
Domenika watched Christopher as he stopped at the end of the street. She could tell he was afraid to make a circle and turn himself around. He’d hopped off the bike and turned it the other way. He put his feet to the pedals again and headed directly toward them.
“Call it a mother’s instinct,” Domenika said. She looked her husband directly in the eyes. “Call it what you want. I care about what happens to this world. I do. And I know you have all the right intentions. But every feeling I have tells me to be careful with him, Jon, or we’ll be sorry. I want to spare Christopher from Meyer, from the Watcher, and from anyone else.”
As soon as Domenika had finished, she turned from Bondurant to look at her son down the lane. He took his hand from the bike’s handlebars to give her a wave. Then, without warning, she heard a car’s engine start. The roar was loud and distinct but far enough away that she couldn’t tell exactly where to find the car. She looked toward Bondurant.
“Jon!” she said.
She watched as Bondurant bolted from his spot toward his son, who rode forward right down the center of the road. Christopher smiled and waved once more, this time to his dad, oblivious to the cars parked on both sides of the road.
Suddenly, a set of brake lights on the rear of a pickup truck only fifty feet from Christopher’s path lit up. They glowed bright red. Domenika pictured the driver in a rush, unaware of the tiny bike of her child. She tried to scream but in her panic had lost her voice.
The engine revved loudly once more, as though the towering truck, a four-wheel-drive monster with enormous wheels, was preparing to leap from its spot on the side of the road.
It did.
And as it lurched into the roadway with a squeal of its giant tires, Domenika’s heart jumped. She nearly fell to the road. Her son, his eyes now wide in total fear at the sight of the truck’s massive grille before him, simply couldn’t stop.
Domenika grimaced as the driver of the truck looked up without a second to spare and saw the little boy directly in his path. He hit his brakes and swerved as hard as he could.
When Domenika had the courage to open her eyes again, she could see that the truck had missed Christopher by less than a foot. She bit down on her lip hard. Of one thing she was sure. She would never let him be in harm’s way again.
Chapter 28
Dickerson, Maryland
Domenika was proud of herself. She had never made such a perfect cake before. It was her husband’s birthday, and she was excited to celebrate. Christopher had said his prayers and been put to bed. The kitchen was filled with warmth. She’d planned the perfect evening, one that would begin with two of her other favorite people coming to help celebrate.
Father Parenti would be there, of course. He was family. He’d taken a small abov
e-garage apartment just down the lane. Her other guest for the small celebration that evening was Father De Santis, her college adviser and friend who had long held a special place in her heart. He’d made the long trek from Europe and gone out of his way to have dinner with them before moving on to attend to Vatican business in New York. He had been a father figure to Domenika during her studies, when she found herself lonely and far away from home at the Gregorian University in Rome.
She knew, of course, that the Vatican had once had a special interest in Christopher. Ever since the child’s birth, which the pope himself had been present for, there had been a couple of visits by De Santis and a handful of others from the Vatican curious to track the child’s progress and well-being. There had even been a secret conclave formed at the behest of the pope after the incident at the children’s hospital in Portland had briefly been in the news. Led by De Santis, the group was charged “to consider the important theological questions on the possibility of divinity to reside in, and be transferred by, the DNA of man.”
When the conclave’s secret report on Christopher to the Curia, the pope’s inner circle, was issued, it came as no surprise to Domenika. There was heaven, and there was earth. There was God, and there was man. But it was God who had created man, and as the pope had decreed, it was impossible for man to create the divine.
Beyond the Vatican’s passing interest in documenting the appearance and intelligence of the child for curiosity’s sake, the Church, through De Santis, had whispered to Domenika that Portland was a fluke. The Church was content to leave her family alone. Which was absolutely, positively fine by her.
Domenika also knew that Parenti was suspicious of De Santis. He’d confessed to Domenika that he was convinced De Santis’s watchful eye over Christopher’s well-being meant more than his brief visits implied. Bondurant had told Domenika that he was sure Parenti was simply jealous of the relationship she enjoyed with her former mentor and the attention De Santis showered on her when he came around. That explained everything, Bondurant said. Domenika would smile when reminded of Parenti’s affection toward her. She adored the tiny priest all the more for his tender considerations.
The Second Coming Page 16
