by Bill Myers
He turned to the crowd. Why were all these strangers staring at him? He didn’t hurt them. Why did they want to hurt him?
His left foot gave out again. He lunged forward and fell to the floor. Up ahead was the big, shiny exalator. He liked exalators. They were fun to ride. They made him happy. If he could just reach it, maybe he’d be happy, too.
Suddenly a bad man was reaching for his arm. He couldn’t hear him over all the crying and screaming. Why were they screaming? Why were they staring? He didn’t do nothing to them. Oh look, there’s the exalator. He liked exalators. Why was that man grabbing his arm? He was a stranger. He mustn’t talk to strangers. He wrenched his arm free and dragged himself to the bright, shiny stairs of the exalators. He liked exalators.
He struggled back to his feet and reached for the moving black belt. There was that arm again. It grabbed him. He tried to break free, but it held so tight that he had to throw himself backwards to break its grip. But the force caused him to lose his balance, sending him backwards, backwards through the air so he thought he was flying, flying until he hit one of those shiny steps with his shoulder and kept rolling onto his head and flipped over and over again, and then again, screaming in fear and pain, knowing Momma would be mad at him for getting his clothes dirty, but he couldn’t stop rolling and screaming and falling down and down and down until he reached the place where he was no longer falling or feeling pain or screaming or hearing those awful voices.
Until he reached the place where there was nothing at all…
“Eric, sweetheart, wake up.” Katherine patted his face gently. “Eric.” Then a little harder. “Eric.”
He still gave no response.
She was on the polished marble floor with him, his head cradled in her lap. She glared up at members of the Cartel and then at Lucas. “What did you do to him? What happened?”
Lucas kneeled down beside her. Always the voice of reason, he tried to explain, “Katherine, we didn’t —”
“What did you do?”
She looked back at her son. By all appearances he was asleep, resting peacefully. “Eric.” But he would not wake. “Eric!” She could feel panic trying to take over and used all of her strength to fight it off. “Where is Heylel?” she demanded. “Was Heylel here?”
“Yes,” another voice answered.
She looked up to see the fat cigar chewer. “What happened?”
The man shrugged. “He gave us his counsel, and then he left.”
“Eric didn’t interrupt, he didn’t try to take over?”
“That’s what’s so odd.” Lucas continued the explanation. “After Heylel left, Eric simply collapsed, he just went limp.” He looked back at her son. Katherine could tell he wanted to reach out and touch the boy, but she also knew he had enough brains not to try.
She turned back to Eric. “Sweetheart …”
Nothing.
“Eric …”
Now it was Lucas’s turn. “Eric … Eric, can you hear us? Eric, wake up, son.”
Katherine caught some movement under the eyelids. “Eric?”
They shifted several times before they finally fluttered open.
“Eric …”
He squinted at the quartz lights over the table, then looked around to get his bearings. When he saw Katherine he relaxed and tried to speak. “Mom.” His voice crackled like dry leaves, barely above a whisper.
“I’m right here, baby.” She pulled him closer, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “I’m right here.”
He slowly closed his lids.
“Eric!”
Then reopened them. As he did, he began to smile.
“What? What is it, sweetheart? Are you okay?”
The smile broadened. “It was beautiful.”
“Was it a dream, did you have another dream?”
He shook his head.
“What was it, what did you see?”
“I saw the future.”
“The future?”
He nodded. “I was famous, Mom. Everybody loved me.”
“Oh, baby.” She bent down to kiss his forehead, then stroked his hair again. It was then she caught a glimpse of her hand. It was trembling. Violently. “Everybody loves you, sweetheart. We all love you.”
“Katherine.” Lucas touched her arm, offering to help.
Instinctively, she pulled Eric away. “Leave us alone.”
“Kath —”
“No, no more!”
“I know what you must be —”
“You get that doctor here, and you get her here now!”
“We’re doing all we —”
“You get her here now.” She glared up at Lucas. “You get her here, or we’re on the next plane. You hear me? Do you hear me?”
She was shouting now. Her whole body trembled, but there was nothing she could do about it. She continued glaring at Lucas, waiting for a response.
Finally, he began to nod.
Sarah’s white sneakers squeaked against the worn linoleum as she raced through Bethel Lake Community Hospital. She was on the third floor, the very floor where she’d stayed when recovering from her accident a year ago. She turned left and nearly collided with a gurney as she continued searching for the room number … 308, 310, there it was, 312. She burst into the room but was immediately brought to a stop.
There, on the bed, pulled into a twisted fetal position, lay Brandon. His arms were bent and his head cocked sideways. An oxygen line ran to his nose, and a heavy nurse in her late fifties was adjusting some IV lines. But it was the dazed look on his face that took Sarah’s breath away. She’d never seen him with such a lifeless expression.
Spotting her, his eyes flickered with recognition. his mouth twitched, slurping back a drool of saliva. It contorted, trying to speak. “Thar … wa …”
“Brandon!” She started toward him, but the nurse turned and blocked her path. “No, don’t touch him.”
“What? That’s my husband!”
“Are you Mrs. Martus?”
Sarah’s head reeled. “Yes, yes, and that’s my husband, Brandon Martus.”
“The healer guy, right?”
“Yes, right, right.”
“Thar … wa …” his voice was wracked with pain as he tried to reach out to her.
Again Sarah started toward him and again she was blocked. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “What happened?”
“He was at the mall, doing his …” The nurse searched for the word. “His thing.”
Sarah turned to him. “You were healing people? Brandon, you were there trying to heal people?”
He nodded, wincing in pain at the movement.
She turned back to the nurse. “What happened?”
“I can’t be sure, I mean I wasn’t there, but —”
“Tell me what happened!”
The nurse took a breath and continued. “The people that he touched, the sick ones that he … healed.” She glanced back to the twisted body.
No more had to be said. The realization hit Sarah hard. “He took on their sickness?”
“Tharwa … et hoorts.”
“I’m not saying that. I mean, it may be what others are saying, but …” The nurse glanced down at her hands and rubbed them self-consciously.
“What?” Sarah demanded. “Tell me!”
“Well, I’ve had rheumatoid arthritis for years now. Sometimes it gets to hurting real bad.”
“And …”
“When your husband came in, when we were moving him, he grabbed my hands, and I felt this heat, and …” She held up her hands and slowly wiggled her fingers. “The pain is gone. Completely.”
“Tharwaa …”
“It’s okay, Bran.” Sarah moved past the nurse and squatted down beside him. “I’m here, I’m here …” His face was sweaty, and she knew the pain was excruciating.
“Tharwaa … make it thtop …”
“Shhh, it’s okay. I’m here, I’m here.”
“Doon’t weave me.” The words pierced
her heart. She could tell every syllable was difficult for him. “Doon’t weave …”
“I’m right here, hon, I won’t leave you, I’m right here.” She took his hand and kissed it lightly. It was only then that she saw his knuckles. Each joint was swollen and inflamed. They were turned and gnarled in what could only be the advanced stages of rheumatoid arthritis.
Sarah looked up at the nurse, but the woman had turned away, wiping her own eyes.
“Tharwa … et … hoorts …”
“I know, honey, I know …” She could barely get the words out as tears sprang to her eyes. And then, when her throat was too swollen for words, she began to pray.
Dear God … Dear Lord, what are You doing to us? What are You doing?
CHAPTER 5
“HOW MUCH LONGER WILL you be?” Sarah asked as she flipped through the papers inside another one of the clinic’s beat-up filing cabinets.
“Just a couple more minutes. The call’s supposed to come in at 11:00. I’ll have everything fixed up and running by then, no sweat.”
Sarah glanced across her tiny office to the dust-coated clock on the shelf. It was crammed into a bookcase with a thousand other books and periodicals in various stages of spilling onto the floor. It read 10:52. “You’ve got eight minutes,” she said.
“No sweat,” the kid repeated.
She watched as he finished attaching a TV camera no bigger than a golf ball to the side of her computer monitor. Although videoconferencing had become more and more common, it was one of the many luxuries she and Brandon had decided to do without. She jimmied the filing cabinet until it shut, then leaned against the wall only to hear the brittle paint crackle and fall to the floor behind her. One of the many luxuries.
It had been two days since she’d first noticed the marks on Brandon’s arms. Two days of coffee and bad hospital food. Two days with absolutely no change. He still lay in his bed. He was still twisted. And he still writhed in agony, barely coherent … except for the part where he called out her name. That, unfortunately, she understood perfectly.
Of course his mother had arrived and insisted they take shifts, ordering Sarah to go home and get some rest. And, of course, Sarah had tried to refuse. But Mrs. Martus epitomized the term “Steel Magnolia.” Despite her Southern charm and hospitality, there was iron inside the lady. An iron that made sure she got her way, whenever she wanted her way. And before Sarah knew it, she was heading home to get some rest.
But after staring at the ceiling fan in the bedroom for the first half of the night and cleaning the apartment throughout the second, she decided to come to the clinic and get some real work done. That’s how she handled stress. Some folks had their wine, their TV shows, their aerobics … Sarah had her work.
When she arrived, the kid was already there, flirting with Ruth, their receptionist. He was from a local computer store that had been given some very specific instructions. They were to hook up the latest videoconferencing equipment for her without charge.
“And the catch?” Sarah had asked.
“No catch, it’s a gift.”
“From whom?”
By the look on the kid’s face, he must have been waiting all morning to give her the answer. “At eleven o’clock this morning, Lucas Ponte will be giving you a call.”
Sarah hadn’t been amused. “Right. Tell him I’d love to chat, but I’m having an early lunch with the pope.”
“No, I’m not kidding,” the boy had said. “They called up the store early this morning and made it real clear what we were to hook up for you.”
“They?”
“The guys from the Cartel.”
“And you believed they were for real.”
The kid had shrugged. “Got me. But the money they wired over was real enough.”
That conversation had been thirty minutes ago. After calling his store and being assured that the gift was gratis, that there were “no hidden charges whatsoever either now or anytime in the future,” Sarah had finally agreed to the hookup, if only to see who was behind it. Because as practical jokes went, this was about as elaborate as she’d seen.
While the kid puttered with the computer, she returned to her files looking for any material related to what Brandon was suffering. Anything on empathetics (from husbands who actually feel labor pains with their wives to mothers who have to go to the bathroom whenever their children do), to various psychic phenomena, and even to the stigmatics … those unfortunate souls, particularly Catholic, who so identified with Christ’s suffering that for one reason or another their palms actually begin to bleed.
But she could find nothing resembling Brandon’s experience, nothing where a healer so empathized with the sick that he took on their illnesses.
There was, however, material on various individuals who referred to themselves as “intercessors” — men and women who felt they were called to intercede and pray for others. People like Rees Howells, who lived in Wales during the first half of the twentieth century. As a man of great faith whose prayers were responsible for several miracles (including what some believed to be major influences on World War II), Howells had stressed over and over again that the first step in interceding was to lose yourself so deeply in the needs of others that you literally start identifying with their suffering.
Perhaps. But to actually take on the suffering? To identify so strongly with the sick that you actually become sick? No. From what Sarah understood of Scripture, that sort of work bordered on heresy. That was Christ’s job, to take on the sins of the world, to suffer in our place. It certainly wasn’t man’s. But if she was right, then why would God —
“Dr. Martus … they’re on-line.”
Startled from her thoughts, Sarah looked over to the monitor. An image of a handsome woman in a navy blue business suit flickered onto the screen. “Dr. Martus?”
“Yes, uh … ” Sarah moved somewhat clumsily to her chair and sat. “Right here, this is Dr. Martus.” She was unsure whether to look at the camera or at the monitor. She tried a little of both.
“My name is Deena Pappopolis.” The woman had a slight accent, probably Greek. “I am executive secretary to Lucas Ponte.”
“I see, and that would make me Queen Elizabeth.”
“Pardon me … ”
“I appreciate the toys, Ms. Pappopolis, and junior here and I have been having a real in-depth conversation, but what’s going on and who are you really?”
“If you will hold the line for just a moment, Mr. Ponte will be able to explain.”
“Uh-huh.” For a few chuckles someone was really going out of their way. Then again, maybe it was some sort of commercial, or one of those hidden camera things. Whatever the case, she was already weary of it. She had a lot to do and wanted to get to the punch line as soon as possible.
Suddenly the image cut to a man — young fifties, neatly trimmed beard, distinguished looking, and the same trim figure and riveting black eyes that made the real Lucas Ponte so immediately recognizable.
“Hello, Dr. Martus.”
For the briefest second, Sarah thought he might be real. She held her tongue a moment and played along … just in case. “Yes?” But even as she answered she remembered hearing of agencies that booked look-alike celebrities for parties and various affairs. Granted, he was a pretty good likeness, but on closer examination even she could tell —
“This is Lucas Ponte.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She wasn’t certain, but she thought she caught a trace of a smile.
“Actually, I am.”
“And I’m the Virgin Mary. Pleased to meet you, Lukey. I can call you Lukey, can’t I?”
The smile grew more obvious. “If you wish. And do I call you Mary or Mother, or just plain —”
“You can call me impatient,” she interrupted, “and plenty busy. Now who are you, why did you spend money on all this equipment, and what do you want?”
His charm remained though his tone grew a bit more sober. “I appreciate
your demanding schedule, Dr. Martus, and please forgive us for the intrusion. But we wanted to make certain you have been receiving our e-mail.”
Surprised, Sarah hesitated, then swallowed. Of course she’d read the e-mail, had even given it some consideration. But how did these people know about it? Unless … Instinctively her hand shot up to her hair, pulling it over her scar. “I … things have been very busy for us lately.”
He continued smiling. “I can appreciate that. Especially given your recent marriage. Congratulations.”
Sarah felt her face flush. She was beginning to accept it as true — she was actually talking to one of the most influential people in the world. As the fact took hold she felt herself beginning to unravel under his dark penetrating eyes. What had he just said? Congratulating her on the wedding? “Yes, uh …” She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”
“Your husband is a lucky man.”
Sarah’s face grew warmer, which made her even more insecure, which began to irritate her. She didn’t appreciate being made to feel like some self-conscious schoolgirl. She repositioned herself and swallowed again, only this time there was nothing left to swallow. “Why, uh, why exactly are you calling me?”
“Katherine Lyon, the woman who has been e-mailing you about her son?”
“Yes, now that you mention it, I do recall our staff receiving something.” She sounded a little stiff, but definitely more professional.
“She has asked me to personally contact you, to see if there is any way to prevail upon you to spend a few weeks of your valuable time over here. Your training in neuroscience as well as your expertise in the paranormal may prove quite valuable in diagnosing her son’s problem.”
Sarah cleared her throat. “The mother had said something about seizures and spirit guides?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“Surely there’s someone closer to you who can —”
“Dr. Martus, I appreciate your modesty, but her son is very important to all of us at the Cartel. And, consequently, I believe, to the world.”
