Eli

by Bill Myers

The sun was hot, the wind cool, and everything was a blur, a thrilling blur of grass and trees and sky. “Daddy?”

  This time there was no answer.

  “Daddy?”

  Still nothing.

  Panic seized her. She turned. No one was there. “Dad—”

  The bicycle wobbled once to the left and then she lost control.

  The handlebars spun from her hands, forcing the front wheel to veer sharply and throw her forward, over the front end, screaming as she flew through the air until she landed hard on the grass.

  She felt no real pain, not really. Just shock. And betrayal.

  A betrayal like she had never experienced before. “Daddy,”

  she sobbed.

  “I’m coming, Sweetheart!” Through her tears she saw his approach, heard the concern in his voice. “I’m coming!”

  “You let go!” she wailed. “You promised, but you let go!”

  She pounded her fist into the mattress. “You promised . . . you promised.” Julia Davis-Preston sat hunched forward, her head on her father’s mattress, quietly sobbing. She felt the sheet wet against her face from her tears. As the dream dissolved, she bit her lip, trying to hold back the emotion. She knew where she was. Back in ICU. Back in her father’s hospital room.

  She raised her head and glanced around. Fortunately no one had seen or heard her. She wiped her eyes and looked down at her watch. It was nearly 8:00 P.M. She took a deep breath, shoved the remaining fragments of the memory from hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 145

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  her mind, and rose. It was time to go. Time to get some rest.

  She gathered her things and started for the door. She hesitated a moment, thinking of turning back to him, of saying something. But she didn’t. Instead, she kept on walking, down the long corridor, through the lobby, and out into the night.

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  P A R T T W O

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  C H A P T E R

  S E V E N

  “ISN’T THIS INCREDIBLE?” CONRAD SHOUTED OVER THE WIND.

  Suzanne stood a dozen feet from him looking down at the river and the vast farmland stretching beyond. It was nearly dusk. The two had just arrived at the top of a bluff overlook-ing the Smokey Hill River in Kansas. The view was spectac-ular. But it was more than just the land and the river. It was also the sky. Violet-black thunderheads hung heavy over the landscape. They swirled and churned as a dozen shades of blue and black and gray broiled, mixing and remixing into each other. Their insides glowed and pulsated with flashes of light, as occasional forks snaked to the ground.

  There was majesty here. Conrad could feel it. In the land, the river, the sky. Everywhere. He stood in reverent awe, drinking it in . . . the raw, terrible, frightening power. Any strength man possessed paled in comparison to this breath-taking display of grandeur.

  He glanced to Suzanne who watched, equally moved.

  He’d known she would be. That’s why he’d invited her. The rest of the group were camped down at the Sommer’s farm, a small piece of land owned by Scott and Brent’s aunt, thirty miles southwest of Abilene. Conrad could have invited the 149

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  150 others up here as well, but he’d sensed they wouldn’t appreciate it like Suzanne . . . or need it as much.

  Three days ago she’d received a letter from her sister in Lebanon, Tennessee, saying that their brother, Michael, had been in a serious construction accident and would she please come down at once. Conrad was well aware of Suzanne’s strong dedication to family, and he could only imagine how difficult it had been for her when she had finally made up her mind and refused. But she had. She had decided to stay on and continue with Eli. Of course this had brought all kinds of outrage from her loved ones. Even daughter Julia had gotten into the act, hinting at taking some sort of legal action against Eli. And why not? Everyone else seemed to be.

  It had been eight days since the bombing up in Montana—

  that’s what the officials called it: a bombing—though they claimed to have no clues or suspects. Conrad’s list, however, was just a little bit longer. Between angry religious leaders, the millions who had been inflamed by the media coverage, and the hundreds of angry white separatists whose beloved leader had just turned himself in, the possibilities seemed endless. Then there was that image of the gray Taurus with the government officials, and Bill Johnson watching from the backseat. The thought of that collaboration still made him shudder. How deep did it all go?

  He pushed the thought from his mind and turned his attention back to Suzanne. The wind had increased, blowing back her salt-and-pepper hair, pressing her printed summer dress against her body. She still had a nice figure, though nothing compared to the way she’d looked in her twenties.

  Then again, who did? And yet, almost to his surprise, he had come to realize that looks really didn’t matter that much. Not when it came to Suzanne. Not when it came to someone he so deeply cared for. Not when it came to someone he so . . . he so

  . . . well, any word he thought of rang like a hollow cliché in comparison to the frightening depth of his feeling for her.

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  He continued to watch her, trying to understand where his feelings came from. He remembered when they were in their twenties, working so hard to refurbish the house in Pasadena. She had worn sweats and Conrad’s old work shirts, nothing to complement her beauty, and yet somehow that had made her all the more attractive. Or when she was pregnant with Julia. Definitely not material for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, but underneath the weight and the puffi-ness, she had literally glowed. It was the same now. Despite the gradual loss of her figure and the lines etching their way into her face—that was only the outside covering, like wearing the sweats and his work shirt at the house. Somehow, this exterior only accentuated her interior beauty, making her all the more graceful and peaceful and lovely. It was amazing.

  He’d had some of the most beautiful women in the world, and yet none of them held a candle to what he saw now. To what he felt now.

  She turned and caught him staring. “Are you okay?” she asked, stepping over to join him.

  He glanced away, a little embarrassed. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  And it was true, he was fine. Finer than he had been in a very long while. He looked out at the approaching storm. “Have you ever seen anything so . . . majestic?”

  She shook her head and looked back up at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  She tried unsuccessfully to hide her amusement.

  “What is it?”

  She looked back out to the storm. “You’re changing, Conrad Davis.”

  “Me?”

  She nodded. “In the old days I couldn’t get you to look at anything except the latest TV news. Then all you would do is complain about how somebody had botched up a report, or how you should have been there, or how you could have done it better. It was all Julia and I could do to get you to take vacations. Even then you really weren’t with us. But this?”

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  152 She motioned toward the storm. “You dragged me all the way up here just to look at . . . clouds?”

  He smiled, again embarrassed. Then he turned and looked back at the storm.

  “What’s happening?” she quietly asked.

  He gave a shrug and watched. Another blinding jag of lightning forked its way to the ground.

  “Connie?” she gently pressed him.

  He took a deep breath and let it out. “All of my life I’ve been looking for the truth. And now . . .” He took another breath. “And now, I’m finally finding it.” She kept watching as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. “You know how he keeps talking about letting go, about giving up our life so we can find it?”

  She no
dded.

  Finally he was able to look at her. “I think that’s happening. I’m giving up my life—not all at once, but a little at a time—and I’m finding it. And the amazing thing is that the truth I’ve been searching for . . . it’s not in facts and figures and stories. It’s in a man.”

  Suzanne reached out and quietly took his hand. He continued. “And if we can get the rest of the world to see that truth . . .” He searched for the words.

  She finished his thought. “Then it will never be the same.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “That’s it. Exactly. Now if we could just get Eli to sign up for that program.”

  “Oh, I think he has, Connie,” Suzanne said. “It’s just the way he goes about it that you can’t accept. Doesn’t it seem odd—we say we trust him with the big things, with all his theories, but when it comes to the actual details of our lives, to the areas we’re the experts in, we can barely give him an inch.”

  “You, too?” he asked in surprise.

  “All of us.”

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  Conrad said nothing and looked back out at the storm. She was right, of course. But what about common sense? You wouldn’t jump off this cliff without expecting to fall. You wouldn’t stand in the middle of that field during this storm.

  And once you’re in the public eye you surely wouldn’t act without considering all of the possible public reactions. It was common sense, just another law of nature.

  The wind blew harder now, and it had started to rain. But Conrad felt no compulsion to leave. Apparently, neither did Suzanne, and for that he was grateful. Once again he thought of the changes in his life. So many wasted years, so many damaged lives. Then, of course, there was his daughter. “Any news from Julia?” he asked.

  Suzanne shook her head. “Just the latest accusation that I’ve been brainwashed by a religious cult.”

  “Good ol’ Julia. You told her I was here?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And?”

  “Let’s just say it didn’t improve her outlook on my situation.”

  He nodded sadly. The wind whipped at their clothes as the rain fell harder. He slipped his arm from the sleeve of his parka and offered her half his jacket. She gratefully accepted, moving in as he wrapped it about her. Immediately, he recognized his mistake. They were together now, pressed side by side, closer than he had ever intended. What had he done?

  He had been so careful, promised himself never to let something like this happen. Granted, there was that emotional outburst at the bombing, but this, this was entirely different.

  He tried to concentrate on the storm. But it was no contest.

  The warmth of her body, the smell of her hair, the gentle rhythm of her breathing pressing against his side, it was more than he could endure.

  She took a deeper breath and quietly sighed. “You ever wonder if it’s true?” she said.

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  He’d forgotten the thread of the conversation. “What’s that?” he asked huskily.

  “That we’re part of some religious cult?”

  “Sure, in the beginning.” Grateful to find his voice, he continued. “But the teaching, it’s so pure. And the miracles

  . . . It’s been a while since I’ve seen a cult leader raise someone from the dead.”

  “Or transform lives,” she added. “Taking cold hearts of stone and changing them into loving, caring hearts of flesh.”

  At first Conrad was unsure what she meant, until she turned and gazed up at him, and he saw those compassionate, engaging eyes. Despite their age, the years had not dimmed them. But he saw something else in them as well. Something searching . . . and something very, very compelling. She held his gaze, refusing to look away. Then, before he knew it, he pulled her closer. She did not resist. A moment later he was dropping his head and lowering his mouth to hers. He found her lips and they gently kissed. It was a tender kiss, soft and delicate, until he felt his passion begin to grow. That’s when, with every ounce of self-control, he pulled away. Shuddering, he caught his breath, looking everywhere but to her.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I don’t know what I was thinking. That was totally insensi—”

  Her arms reached around his neck and she pulled his mouth back to hers. Their lips met and they kissed again, longer, slower. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware of the pounding rain, the whipping wind . . . and of the tears forming in his eyes. But it didn’t matter. How long they kissed, he wasn’t sure. But when they finally parted, he saw that her own eyes were as wet as his, from both the rain and the tears. She continued looking at him, refusing to take those eyes from his. And then she spoke. It was soft, barely audible in the blowing wind. But audible, nonetheless. “What took you so long, Conrad Davis?” she whispered. “What took you?”

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  v

  Julia eased her rental car to a stop alongside the curb. She put it into park and sat for a long moment. The drive had taken over an hour. Initially she had thought of staying at one of the motels in Thousand Oaks, or even along the 118 Freeway as she headed through Simi Valley. But one missed exit followed another, until for whatever reason, she found herself here in the old section of Pasadena. Here, at her childhood home.

  She ducked her head to look out the passenger window.

  The house was an old two-and-a-half-story affair, with a large wraparound porch. No lights were on inside.

  Five years. It had been five years since the last time she’d been back. And then it had been only briefly . . . just long enough to get into another fight with him before she was off again. Her father could be so stubborn sometimes, so bullheaded. And, of course, hypocritical. She supposed he could make the same claims about her—except for the hypocrisy.

  That was one thing she could never be accused of.

  She still wasn’t sure why she was there. Maybe it was because this house had been such a part of her life. And his.

  After all, the man had lived here thirty years. You don’t live in a place that long without it becoming a part of you. Maybe that was it. Maybe staying here was her way of staying close to him.

  The thought gave her little solace.

  She reached for the car door and opened it. The evening was still, almost balmy. The old-fashioned lights with their large, acorn-shaped lamps glowed yellow-white along the street. The smell of cut grass filled the air. And, of course, the smell of magnolia—rich and sweet, the doorway to a thousand childhood memories. Julia closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. She’d read once that the smell center of the brain was closest to the memory center . . . which would hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 156

  156 explain why certain aromas can touch off long-forgotten memories.

  That was certainly the case here. So many memories . . .

  sweet, tender, loving, bitter. Maybe that was why her father had fought so hard to keep the place through all the divorces, because of the memories. Sometimes he was quite the senti-mentalist.

  She popped the trunk, stepped outside the car, and walked to the back where she pulled out her suit bag. She closed the lid with her free hand and turned to face the darkened house. She took a long moment to prepare herself.

  Finally she started up the sidewalk, her pumps clicking softly against the worn concrete. The cracks were the same, except for one or two new ones. Just ahead was where she’d skinned her knee double Dutching with Katie Green. Up there was where she and Kevin Thomas had started a fire with his father’s magnifying glass. And there, right near the porch was where the two of them had dripped melted wax on wayward ants, embalming them for posterity.

  She arrived at the porch steps and started up them. The white paint had peeled slightly and they could definitely stand for another coat. Once she reached the top she headed for the door. She stooped down to the geranium pot, the same geranium pot that had been th
ere forever, the one her father had promised would always have a key under it. She tilted it back. It was difficult to see in the dark, but there it was, coated with years of corrosion and dirt.

  She scooped it into her hand, rose, and reached for the screen door. It gave a quiet groan as she opened it. It was only then, when she tried to put the key into the lock, that she noticed how violently her hand trembled. It shook so badly that she could not insert the key. The sight angered her, making her all the more determined until finally she succeeded.

  Once the key was in place, she turned the lock. It gave a dull click. Then, with the same trembling hand, she grabbed the knob, turned it, and pushed open the door.

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  v

  “Jake?” Conrad yelled into the camper. “Trevor?”

  There was no answer, only the howling wind outside.

  “Anybody in here?”

  Still nothing. He pulled his head from the camper and shut the door.

  “Nobody?” Suzanne shouted.

  “No,” he yelled back.

  She turned to look down the row of deserted RVs and campers. “Where could they be?”

  He shook his head and glanced back at the farmhouse. It also looked deserted.

  Twenty minutes had passed since they’d kissed. Just long enough to climb back down the ridge . . . and just long enough to find themselves caught in the middle of the growing storm.

  Now wind tore and tugged at their clothes as rain pelted their faces.

  “What’s that sound?” Suzanne yelled as she pulled back her hair, trying to keep it from slapping her eyes.

  “What?”

  “That roar, where’s it coming from?”

  Conrad heard it now, too. But it was more than hearing it.

  He could feel it—in his body, vibrating through the air, through the ground. An earthquake? No, not here. But it had that same ominous rumble. He looked toward the barn, then out to the pasture, squinting into the wind.

  “Connie! Over there!”

  He turned to see Suzanne pointing at the storm cellar by the pump house. The door was open, and Jake stood down in the steps, waving and shouting at them.