by Bill Myers
“Salman …” He half-whispered the name.
“Who?”
“Salman Kilyos.”
“The guy from Turkey, the one with AIDS?”
He looked up, eyes still wide. “I prayed for him … This afternoon I prayed for his healing.”
“The Lord finally gave permission?”
“I don’t know, not exactly … but he was healed.”
“Brandon.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought maybe I was just coming down with the flu — you know, kind of achy and stuff, but …” He looked back at his arms, examining the bruises. “These were his. I saw them on his arms …”
“Brandon, you’re scaring me.”
After another moment, he looked up at her, his eyes filled with wonder and fear. “I’ve got … Sarah, I’ve got AIDS.”
“What?” She took a half-step back.
He looked down at the bruises, exploring them with his fingers. “I prayed for him, he got healed, and I —”
“Brandon …”
“And now I’ve got his sickness.”
He examined the tattoo again, rubbing it. “This was his, too.”
Sarah was finding it hard to breathe. “That’s not possible.”
Brandon continued examining his body. “Everything is fainter, and I’m sure the pain is nothing compared to what he felt, but —”
“Brandon!” The cry stuck in her throat.
He looked back up.
“What is God doing? What does He want from us now?”
Brandon could only stare, then shake his head.
“What does He want? What type of monstrous thing is He demanding from us this —”
“Sarah …” His voice warned caution.
“And you would defend him? After this! This is the reward for our obedience? This is how he loves his children?”
“Sarah …”
“No!” She began to pace, incredulous.
“There really isn’t that much pain, honest.” He started toward her, but she would have none of it.
“This is not what God would do. No merciful God would do this!”
He continued toward her, but she backed away. “No.”
“Sarah …”
“No! This is not a God of love!” She had to get away, to get some space to think.
“But, the pain, it’s barely —”
“Stay away from me.”
He came to a stop, then reasoned, “Maybe this is some sort of sign. Maybe He’s trying to —”
“And still you defend him?” She was shouting, trying to hear herself over the insanity.
He started toward her again. “Sarah.”
Her mind reeled. She had to get away, she had to make some sense out of what was —
“Maybe if —”
She turned and headed for the bedroom, then changed direction and went for the closet.
“Sarah …”
She threw open the door and grabbed her coat.
“Where are you going?”
She wasn’t sure. But she was no longer willing, she was no longer able to listen.
“Sarah.” He was reaching out to her again.
“No.”
“But —”
“Leave me alone!”
She turned and headed down the hall, stumbling slightly, vision blurry from tears.
“Sarah …”
She opened the door and stepped outside. The cool air hit her face but she needed more, she needed to breathe. She started down the steps.
“Sarah …”
He was calling, but she barely heard. She had to breathe, she had to get away.
He was on the porch. “Sarah …”
Her feet moved as fast as they could down the sidewalk before she broke into a run. She had to get away. She had to breathe. She had to clear her head.
“Sarah … !”
CHAPTER 4
AND THE SITUATION WITH the Jews?” Lucas asked.
“For the most part they’re with us.” It was the secretary general again. Same smelly cigar, same overfed ego. “You dangle the rebuilding of the temple in front of them, and they’re bound to become cooperative.”
“Except for the Hasidim and a few other ultraorthodox sects,” another member of the Cartel corrected. Eric looked up from his doodling to see a short round man with a heavy Middle Eastern accent. “It is not giving up Israeli land in exchange for a temple that concerns them. Rather it is that the groundbreaking coincides with the day of your installment as chairman. They are afraid that it puts too much focus upon one man.”
The secretary general turned to Lucas. “Unless, of course, you can convince them that you’re their long-awaited Messiah.”
Quiet chuckles filled the room.
“Maybe we can.” Lucas grinned. “Maybe we can.” He turned more serious. “What about the Palestinians?”
“They are ecstatic. Finally, a homeland that’s more than a token West Bank patchwork.”
“And the Arab Coalition?”
The secretary general rolled the cigar in his mouth, then pulled it out. “They assure us that, for the most part, they can hold the extremists in check. But it will be no cakewalk. It’s not going to be easy convincing the fringe elements to share their beloved Temple Mount.”
“Even though the Dome of the Rock and the temple will be two hundred meters apart?” Lucas asked.
The secretary general nodded. “Even if they’re two hundred miles apart. You can create a state for the Palestinians, you can give the Jews their temple, but you still can’t control the crazies.”
Lucas nodded. “Have we made it clear to the Coalition that we’ll soon have another means of control at our disposal?”
“Eric …”
“They know that’s what we’re saying. But, of course, they want to know what that means of control is.”
Lucas smiled. “Assure them they’ll not be disappointed.”
“Eric …”
Eric returned to his sketching. What do you want? I’m busy.
“I’ve got something very, very special for you.”
If it’s another movie, I’m not interested.
“Oh no, my young friend, this is not a movie. This is something entirely different.”
Eric pretended to sulk. The last two times it had been very difficult to regain control of his body. Heylel had been too stubborn. Now Eric was going to make him pay. He continued his sketch of the secretary general — complete with cigar, donkey ears, and daggers sticking out of his neck. He waited for Heylel to say more, but there was only silence.
A half minute passed. He pushed up his glasses and focused back on the Cartel. They were yacking about Scorpion again and about finding a cure. He continued to wait. Still no Heylel. Eric was sure he was there; he could feel him. But he remained absolutely silent, and silence was something Eric could never stand much of.
So … He finally thought.
More silence.
Are you there? Hello?
“Yes, I am here.”
So what do you want?
“I think you are ready for the next level.”
Eric felt a rush of excitement but tried to hide it. Next level?
“There is much more power that awaits you, my friend.”
Like what? You keep promising me more power, but where is it?
“I have promised you great things, have I not?”
Yeah, but so far —
“So far you have merely undergone the preparation. And you have done well. You have allowed yourself to be opened and enlarged. Now you are ready to taste and experience powers you never believed possible.”
Really? Eric could no longer hide his interest.
“And not just in this dimension. My young friend, you are now ready to travel and experience the powers of all dimensions.”
How? When?
“If you wish, we may start at this very moment.”
You’ll be going with me?
“I’m afraid I must stay behind and talk to these people. But my other friends will be happy to take you. Many of them know the regions far better than I.”
Eric briefly focused back on the meeting. The representative of the European Union was talking. “… complete cooperation, as long as we have assurance that the London market will regain its stability and —”
Eric turned inward, back to his conversation. Where are these … friends?
“We’re right here.” The voice was so close it startled him.
“Hello, Eric.” There was another.
“Hi, there.” And another. “Ready to go on our adventure?”
I’m not sure. How long will we be gone?
“Time has no meaning where we are going,” the first voice explained.
“They need my help now, Eric,” Heylel said. “Let my friends take you with them. When you are done you may return.”
And you’ll let me be back in control?
“If I have completed my task, certainly.”
Eric immediately saw the fine print. It was the single word if. So he replied with a single word of his own. No.
“Eric?”
Not unless you let me come back when I want to come back.
“My young friend, be reasonable.”
I won’t leave unless you let me come back when I want to come back.
Eric waited a breathless moment. He was dying to see what they wanted to show him. He’d never been disappointed with any of Heylel’s surprises, and he knew this would be no different. But he had to show him who was boss.
“Let’s go, Eric,” one of the voices pleaded.
“You won’t believe what we’ll see,” another urged.
But Eric continued to wait. The silence lengthened. And then, just when he thought he’d asked for too much and had gone too far, Heylel spoke up. “All right, my friend. You may return whenever you are ready.”
You promise?
“Of course I promise. You may return whenever you wish.”
Something about Heylel’s tone made him the slightest bit uneasy. Whenever I want? he asked.
“Whenever you want.”
Eric still wasn’t entirely convinced, but he did have his word. He took a look around the boardroom. Well, all right then, just as long as —
But that was as far as he got. As soon as he had given permission there was such a loud, rushing sound that he could no longer hear himself think. For the briefest moment he felt his vocal chords start to vibrate, his mouth start to move …
“Good afternoon, gentlemen, ladies …”
And then he was gone, racing into somewhere or something a thousand miles a second. He wanted to scream in fear, in exhilaration, but he moved so fast the cries were swept from his mind before he could think them.
As he pulled their Ford Escort into the Cedar Mall parking lot, Sarah’s words kept echoing in his head. “What kind of God would do this? Is this how he loves his children?” Brandon turned off the ignition and crawled out of the car. He was stiff and a little achy. The pain wasn’t unbearable, just a reminder. But a reminder of what? Of a tyrant God who played hide-and-seek with his will? “No merciful God would do this!” He tried ignoring the thoughts, but they kept returning.
He slammed the car door, threw back his hair, and started toward the main entrance. It was 7:45. The bookstore downstairs was Sarah’s favorite hangout. It was open until 9:00. He hoped she would be there.
A fog had settled in, absorbing much of the sound of traffic from I – 30 while also highlighting the scrape of his shoes against the asphalt. As he walked, his mind continued to spin. What was God trying to prove? Yes, he was a God of love and mercy; the Bible made that perfectly clear. And yet, how could a God of love and mercy allow such things to happen? How could he give the two of them such an incredible call on their lives and then go out of his way to keep them in the dark? And what about Salman’s sickness? No wonder Sarah was freaked.
But it was more than just Sarah and it was more than just him. What about all the other suffering? Those thousands dying of starvation every day, the Jews and Arabs being wiped out by this malicious virus, the wars raging out of control? It had gotten to the point where he didn’t want to turn on the news, afraid of what he’d see.
And yet God, who could see everything, God who was all-loving, who was all-caring, continued to allow these things to happen. Not only allow them, but by the looks of things, endorse them.
The automatic doors hissed open, and Brandon stepped into the mall. He’d barely entered before he heard the first voice …
“I’m worth something! I’ll make you happy! Please …”
It was a girl, so loud, so close that he turned, thinking she was behind him.
But no one was there.
“I’m somebody, look at me … please! I’ve got lots to offer. Please like me. Pay attention to me!”
He glanced about. It was the typical evening crowd — kids, couples, couples with kids, and a few of the elderly. But no one was close enough for him to hear, not like this.
“I’m somebody. Like me. Love me. Please …”
And then he saw her, standing by the Coffee Beanery, sipping an espresso. She was fourteen at most. Cutoffs too short, midriff blouse showing plenty of firm belly and a pierced navel. But it was the eyes that broke his heart. Under the thick blue makeup was a look of studied indifference. A rehearsed attempt to disguise her neediness and cover her pleas. Pleas that Brandon heard loud and clear.
“Somebody. Look at me. Like me. Love me.”
She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.
“Somebody! Anybody!”
“I’ll take ’em out. I’ll take ’em all out.” It was a different voice. Male. Full of humiliation and anger. “Get the old man’s shotgun and blow ’em all away. That would show ’em.”
Brandon scanned the crowd.
“Let ’em know you don’t mess with me.”
It came from the kid ahead of him. He couldn’t see the face, only the baggy pants and the swagger.
“Anybody, please.” It was the girl again. “Please! I’ll make you happy. Love me.”
“Better yet, I’ll blow away their families. Yeah, that would show ’em.”
A third voice joined in. “He’ll say we can’t support it. Not with Julie and college. He’ll say we’re too old to start another family … I’m too old. And what about Down’s syndrome? Dear God, I’m too old. He’ll make me get rid of it, I know he’ll make me get rid of it. Dear God, help me! Show me what to do!”
It came from a middle-aged couple off to his left. She was laughing at something he’d said. But underneath, Brandon sensed her anguish. It’s not that he was reading minds; these were louder than specific thoughts. They were overriding fears, never-ending anxieties that constantly plagued and haunted.
“Somebody, anybody —”
“Nobody mess with —”
“Maybe I won’t tell him, maybe I’ll —”
He’d had similar experiences, sensing people’s feelings, but only when he looked into their eyes. Never like this.
“Please.”
“I’ll show ’em.”
“Help me!”
And never this loud. He picked up his pace. If Sarah was there, he’d find her and get out as quickly as possible. The sooner the better.
More voices joined in. Some pleading, others crying — the schoolteacher who’d just lost his retirement in the mutual fund that had crashed, the alcoholic housewife, the young mother convinced of her husband’s affair — each crying out in private despair.
The voices grew in number and in volume. They were everywhere now. So much pain. So much sorrow. He broke into a trot. How could a God of love allow this much suffering? There was a nine-year-old Jewish girl, eyes red over the death of her father, terrified for the life of her mother. But she wouldn’t be terrified for long. The virus would kill her before summer.
A groan rose in his throat … partially from angui
sh, partially to drown out their cries. But the cries grew worse, turning into screams of overwhelming need, unbearable sorrow.
Up ahead was the escalator leading down to the bookstore. He quickly headed toward it. But a young man approached from the right — crippled arms, dragging foot. He must have recognized Brandon, because he called out to him, his mouth twisting pathetically. Brandon slowed as he approached. He tried to listen, but couldn’t hear. The cry of the other voices was too loud. Not that it mattered. He knew what the boy wanted. And he’d be happy to oblige. Anything to relieve at least one person’s suffering. Maybe God wouldn’t do anything, but he would. He could at least ease one person’s agony.
Brandon reached out and took the boy’s shoulders. Immediately he felt the heat. And, immediately, the searing pain. It traveled into his hands and up his arms. Brandon stared in horror as his wrists began to twist and his arms turned upon themselves. He looked back to the boy, but the child paid him no attention; he was looking down at his own hands and arms … as they straightened.
Brandon tried to speak, to yell, but his mouth was contorting. He felt a drool of saliva spilling from the corner and couldn’t stop it. Suddenly his left leg turned in, then crumpled, sending him crashing to the floor. The pain was unbearable. He looked around, eyes wild. People were gathering. With them came even more voices. Desperate voices. Suffering. Screaming. Shrieking.
With the boy’s help he struggled to his feet. The kid was talking, but Brandon couldn’t hear the words, only stare at the mouth. It was perfectly shaped now, like the rest of his body.
Brandon drew back, horrified, furious at what was happening. No doubt this was more of God’s handiwork. Is this what He wanted? For Brandon to take on the suffering of others? Fine. So be it. Let God be the tyrant Sarah had described. Let Him be the monster. But not Brandon. Brandon had a gift. He had the ability to end suffering. And he had something God apparently lacked. He had the love.
A mentally retarded woman appeared in the crowd — mid-thirties, holding her mother’s hand. Or was it her caretaker’s? It didn’t matter. She was simply another victim. Someone else in need of healing.
He reached out toward her. The woman cried in fear, but he managed to grab her hand. She tried to pull away, but his twisted grip was like iron. Again there was the heat. But this time no pain. Only a numbness that raced through his mind like a drug. A drug distorting his logic, dissolving his understanding.
