by Bill Myers
Now, however, Eric was playing another game …
Two large, gray-back shrikes sat perched on the stones in front of him. They had the typical black masks around their eyes and beautiful yellow-gold breasts. Katherine was surprised to see two such perfect specimens side by side, much less so close to Eric. Normally they were cautious of each other and of humans. But not today. Today they were all friends. Today they sat on the rocks staring at Eric, calmly tilting their heads as if listening. Maybe they were. From time to time, one or the other would preen himself then hop a little closer.
It was a touching moment, and Katherine was grateful to see her son enjoying the peace — something that, because of the genetic deterioration, was coming less and less frequently. Figuring lunch could wait, she dropped back behind the rocks to watch, unnoticed. A birch prayer pole rose from the outcropping above her, its hundreds of Buddhist prayer flags snapping and fluttering in the wind.
As Eric continued focusing upon the birds, they began to preen themselves more vigorously. At least Katherine thought they were preening … until they began pulling out feathers. At first it was just one or two. But as seconds passed they began tearing out clumps of white down, then some of the larger, blue-gray feathers.
Eric shifted, pushing up his glasses and concentrating more intently.
The more he concentrated, the more violent their actions became. Beakfuls of down and feathers flew as the birds pecked at themselves more and more furiously. Then came the first sign of blood. Bright red against their golden breasts. And still they tore into themselves. Brutally. Insanely. Self-inflicted wounds that grew deeper and more bloody.
Katherine’s hand rose to her mouth.
The poor creatures began to stagger under their own blows. But even that wasn’t enough. Not for Eric. He focused more intensely until, suddenly, the helpless birds turned against each other with a vengeance. The fight lasted several more moments as beaks and talons ripped and tore, as blood and feathers flew. It was all Katherine could do not to cry out.
And then, at last, the battle came to an end. Both birds lay on their sides, heaving bodies gasping for final breaths. Eric’s private cockfight was over.
Katherine turned away as a half-cry, half-groan escaped from her throat. She looked back, hoping he hadn’t heard. But she was wrong. The boy’s head swiveled in her direction. She pulled further into the rocks. And there, hidden by the boulders, with the flapping prayer flags above her, Katherine began to cry. She’d suspected this behavior before, had done her best to deny it.
But now …
She closed her eyes and swallowed back a sob. This monster was not her son. Not her baby boy. Where was the child whose heart broke the time a sparrow hit their picture window? Where was the little boy who wanted to raise ladybugs for a living? What of the toddler who padded into her bedroom at night just to cuddle? Where was he now?
And … what would he be tomorrow?
They were trapped, she knew that now. Despite her fears, despite her rantings at Ponte and her objections to Heylel, there was no alternative. They had to stay. The Cartel and their genetic research to reverse the deterioration of her little boy … it was his only hope.
It was her only hope.
Brandon had just finished his last session for the day. It had been a grueling one with a mentally disabled girl and her mother. The children always took the most out of him. Their sessions were the most rewarding when the time was right and the healings were successful, but they could also be the most painful when God, for whatever His reasons, said no.
And this time, He’d said no.
Brandon escorted them out of the examination room and into the dimly lit hallway. Of course there were plenty of tears and he did his best to console them, encouraging them to return in a few months to try again. They’d nodded, and after the good-byes and obligatory hugs, he turned wearily into the room to begin filling out the girl’s chart.
The paperwork had been Sarah’s idea. And she was right. There was no reason why they couldn’t run the clinic like any other medical facility — recording each patient’s malady, carefully documenting the healing, or the lack of it, as well as the number of sessions necessary before it was finally complete. In short, they were simply removing the superstitious elements from God’s work and evaluating it rationally and scientifically.
“Science and religion don’t have to be enemies,” Sarah had said. “Not if we look upon science as just another means of studying God and His work.”
Of course the clinic wasn’t the first of its kind. There had been others … like the one founded in the early part of the twentieth century in Spokane, Washington, by John G. Lake. Records indicate that up to two hundred people a day were treated at this facility, often with some sort of medical follow-up or scientific verification. Now, Brandon and Sarah were doing much the same, though with their slower style of care and compassion they were lucky to squeeze in ten people a day. And since their success rate hovered between seventy and eighty percent, word was quickly spreading and appointments were having to be made weeks in advance.
All of this was good. Now if they could just reach an agreement on the finances. If he could just get Sarah to see that you don’t charge money for God’s free gift. The subject was coming up more and more frequently, as were other major and minor disagreements in their marriage. But didn’t newlyweds always have problems and rough edges to smooth out? At least that’s what he’d heard.
Brandon finally finished the chart and gathered his papers. He crossed to the door and snapped off the lights. But he’d barely stepped into the hallway before Salman Kilyos grabbed his arm.
“Mr. Brandon … please!” He was a young man, no older than Brandon. His grip was weak, but desperate. “Help me, you must.” His wrists were so skinny that the fake Rolex slid up and down his left arm like an oversized bracelet. The translucent skin on his arms showed three purplish bruises — sickly looking things, Kaposi’s sarcoma, a frequent symptom of those in the final stages of AIDS. Brandon’s first instinct was to pull back and break the hold. But then he looked into the man’s hollow face and pleading eyes.
“I beg you, Mr. Brandon … ” He began to cough and quickly pulled out a soggy handkerchief, shoving it to his mouth. Brandon’s revulsion did not lessen. Salman continued coughing, each spasm wracking his frail body. “Please … for the love of God!”
Brandon watched with compassion. On the man’s left forearm he saw the tattoo of a crescent moon with a star hovering over it. They’d talked about it during an earlier visit. It was the symbol of Salman Kilyos’s homeland, Turkey. But it was more than that. Because as Brandon stared at it, he realized it was the same symbol he’d seen in his last dream, carved into the altar. What did it mean? A coincidence? He doubted it. If there was one thing he’d learned in the past year it was that coincidences like these were never a coincidence — especially when connected to the dream.
Then what was it?
Salman had originally come to America looking for a remedy to his disease. “God’s curse for liking the ladies too much,” he had joked, making sure the emphasis was on ladies. Although many clinics were experimenting with possible breakthrough drugs and procedures, none was either willing or able to help him. And, now, in his final days, nearly all hope had run out.
All hope but in Brandon … and his God.
As the coughing subsided, Brandon gently admonished him. “Salman, what are you doing here? You should be in bed.”
“In bed? In bed? What am I going to do in —?” The anger sent his body into another coughing fit, and he had to lean against Brandon for support.
“Here.” Brandon gently took his arm and eased him into the chair next to an old metal desk. He glanced up and down the hall for one of the staff members. But they were either up front in the reception area or down the hall helping Sarah. That’s when he saw the open window to the fire escape. “Did you break in again, Salman?”
The young man fought back
the coughing long enough to gasp, “It is the only way I can get in to see you.”
Brandon sighed. This had been typical of his entire day. Better make that the last couple weeks — ever since he and Sarah had received their little edict from the Lord. Although they’d moved into their new apartment, and although it had two bedrooms, they’d decided it was best for him to continue sleeping at his mother’s. They may be end-time prophets, but they weren’t fools. Of course they still had a thousand and one questions to ask, but there had been no further word and no further answers. Nothing. Now, all they could do was obey and wait. As frustrating and, at times, as angry as it made them, there was no other alternative but to obey and wait.
Tensions were no better at work. Brandon had learned to smile and laugh at the newlywed jokes, but each one felt like a blow driving in deeper the unreasonable demand God had made and — although he constantly pushed the word out of his mind — the cruelty.
Finally, there was Sarah. As painful as it was for him, there was no telling what it was doing to her. Being told she represented a harlot, an adulterous bride, that she wasn’t even worthy enough to sleep with her husband? When she’d first become a Christian, it had been all she could do to grasp the concept of God’s unconditional love. And now … who knew how all of this was tearing her up inside?
He directed his attention back to Salman, kneeling down before him as the man continued to shudder with each wracking cough. The poor fellow didn’t have enough strength to be out of bed, let alone out in public. He’d been to the clinic a dozen times. And each time Brandon had turned him away. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Because every time that he prayed, seeking the Lord’s will, he had the clear and unmistakable impression: Healing is not yet permitted for him, not at this time.
The response always troubled Brandon. He’d healed several AIDS patients in the past, so why not Salman? Every time he’d turned him away his heart grew heavier. And every time the man walked out the doors of the clinic he looked like he’d received his death sentence. Perhaps he had.
The coughing became more violent.
“Salman … Salman, are you all right?”
Salman tried to respond, but it was impossible for him to answer.
“Salman?”
His grip tightened on Brandon’s arm.
“Salman!”
The man gestured frantically but could not speak. He wasn’t getting enough air. With his free hand, Brandon reached toward the phone on the desk. He grabbed the receiver and pressed 306, Sarah’s extension. The line began to ring.
Salman’s coughing grew more frightening, his wheezing and gasping more desperate.
The phone continued to ring, but no one answered. Brandon turned and shouted down the hall, “Sarah!”
No response.
“Somebody! We need some help here!”
The door to the reception area flew open and Ruth Dressler, a young part-timer, ran in.
“Where’s Sarah?” Brandon yelled.
“She’s picking up supplies. Is that Salman Kilyos?”
Brandon nodded.
“Mr. Bran …” That was all Salman could wheeze. It was barely a whisper. But his eyes had connected with Brandon, and they cried volumes. Why? Why won’t you do something? Why would God allow this?
Of course, Brandon had asked the same question. Hundreds of times. Not only about Salman, but about the others. About the thousands of drought victims he saw dying of hunger every day on TV, about those bodies ravaged and destroyed by the Scorpion virus, about the innocent war casualties, about the mentally tormented like that little girl he’d just refused, about the endless stream of humanity whose emotional and physical misery would never come to an end.
But Salman’s could …
The thought surprised him, yet it made sense. Salman was right there, right in front of him. And it’s not like he’d be disobeying God. After all, God had never said, “Never.” He’d simply said, “Not yet, not at this time.” Well, “not at this time” meant there had to be some time. And, by the looks of things, this was about the only time Salman had left. If it didn’t happen now, it was doubtful it would ever happen. And since there was so much pain and fear, and since God was a God of love and mercy, and since Brandon had the power to at least end this person’s suffering …
He reached back up to Salman and placed both of his hands on the man’s chest. Silently, he began to pray. Without waiting for confirmation from the Lord, he quietly but firmly began speaking healing into the man’s body. It wasn’t disobedience. How could it be? After all, God was doing the healing. And if He didn’t want to heal, He didn’t have to heal. It was as simple as that.
Luckily for Salman Kilyos, it appeared, God did.
Brandon felt the heat begin in his palms, then spread out to his fingertips.
Salman felt it too. His gasps grew more panicked.
“Just relax,” Brandon said. “Just relax.”
Salman nodded. Soon his breathing started to come easier. In a matter of seconds, the wheezing had all but vanished. But the healing wasn’t complete, and Brandon continued to pray. The heat in his hands gradually spread to his arms and then up into his shoulders. He began breaking out into a sweat. But this had happened before. With the more severe cases it happened.
“It is so warm,” Salman whispered.
Brandon nodded and glanced up at him. For the first time that he could remember, he saw Salman smiling. Brandon smiled back. “How do you feel?”
“The pain …” Salman sat up in the chair. “I can feel no pain.”
Brandon shifted his weight, but kept his hands on the man.
“Praise God.” It was Ruth behind him. He’d almost forgotten she was there. “After all this time, praise God.”
“Yes.” Salman nodded. “Praise God.” He reached up and took Brandon’s arms. His grip was much stronger. “Praise God. Praise the Lord!”
Brandon smiled again and continued to pray.
A moment later Salman rose unsteadily from the chair.
“Easy … ,” Brandon warned.
“Praise God!” he shouted. “Praise the Lord!” Although he was still weak, Salman was now on his feet.
“Be careful …”
The man barely heard. He began dancing a little jig. “Praise God!” He reached down, urging Brandon to his feet. Brandon cooperated, but for some reason, the sudden rise made him a little light-headed. For a moment it was Salman’s turn to steady him.
“Thank you, Lord!” Salman shouted. “Thank you, God!”
Brandon looked on, smiling. He, too, was thankful. But instead of feeling the warm afterglow that so often accompanied the healings, he felt nothing. Heaven had grown strangely quiet. He frowned slightly, wondering. But only for a moment, because Salman had suddenly discovered something else about his healing.
“Look!” He’d pulled up his sleeves, showing his arms. Then he reached for his shirt and unbuttoned the top three buttons until he could look down at his chest. “They’re gone! My spots. They are all gone!” He pulled out his shirt to check his stomach. “All of them. They are gone!”
He reached out and took Brandon’s hands, pulling him into the dance. “Praise God! Thank you, my friend. Thank you from my heart’s bottom. Thank you!”
Brandon had to grin. Salman’s joy was contagious. But only to a point. Because there was something else. Something that felt no joy or excitement. Something that felt the slightest bit uneasy.
Katherine finished her e-mail to Dr. Sarah Weintraub and hit the spell checker. It had been her second mailing to the neurobiologist in almost as many weeks. Once again she had urged the woman to come see her son, and once again she had promised “very substantial” compensation … including the power and prestige involved in working with the Cartel. During the upcoming months that sort of connection should prove very valuable. These were the same points she had used in her first mailing, but in this one Katherine had included a slightly different approach.
Instead of facts and figures, with which she always felt the most comfortable, she took a chance and tried speaking from her heart. She tried reasoning with Sarah, woman to woman, pointing out how Eric was her only child, how she loved him more than her own life, and if Sarah had or ever would have children of her own, she would know exactly how she felt. The tone made Katherine uneasy. She hated sounding needy to anyone. But this was her little boy she was battling for, and she’d do whatever it took.
After catching a few typos, Katherine hit send, and the mail was on its way.
She never knew if Sarah had read the other e-mail or not. It had been answered, but by a staff member who explained how incredibly swamped Sarah was, and how, at least for now, she had to stay near the clinic. However, the answer had included an invitation for Katherine and her son to come to the clinic for an examination and consultation anytime they wanted.
The naiveté of the offer angered Katherine. They couldn’t fly back to the States. Not now. Didn’t these people read the news? The Cartel was in the final stages of negotiation. Eric’s input was needed now more than ever. Katherine had included this in her latest mailing, but again wondered if Sarah would ever see it. Still, between her mailings and the promised communiqué coming from Lucas’s office, something should shake loose.
Katherine keyed back into the main menu. Computers had been a part of her life ever since her Omaha days, way back when she’d worked for the Department of Defense. But after the murder of her police officer husband, and the next eighteen months of blur lost in the bottom of a bottle, she had decided it was time to make a new start. That was when she packed up little Eric, headed west, and tried to forget everything about her past. Well, everything but her expertise in computers.
She’d opened a small computer store in Everett, Washington. Unfortunately, it had set a record for the most amount of money lost by any company in its first year of business. And that was her good year. From then on things got worse. She may have been a whiz at computers, but she was clueless about business.
