Underground Zealot 01 - Soon

by JERRY JENKINS

  “You’ll kill him!” Jefferson flung himself at Johnson, trying to wrestle him away. “Help me!” he yelled at Paul, who had been watching with satisfaction. Johnson was only doing what Paul wished he could do without losing his job. Paul moved in slowly just as Johnson, finally out of steam, dropped the cinder block.

  “What’s wrong with you, man?” Jefferson demanded, panting, aiming the question as much at Paul as at Johnson.

  Tick knelt in the dust to examine the still figure on the ground, his T-shirt and jeans dark with dirt and blood. He looked up. “I can’t get a pulse, Donny. I’m going to have to place you under arrest.”

  Johnson snorted and his body went slack. He had popped the armhole seams of his expensive shirt. “Lost my head. A Christian, rabble-rousin’, sabotagin’—”

  “Who told you that?” Tick said.

  “Lloyd confessed to me,” Paul said. “That gives the Zealot Underground task force jurisdiction. Leave Johnson to me. I want his help.

  Round up every Mexican on this oil field for interrogation. And march that group in the barracks out here now.”

  * * *

  Seven Mexicans stood shoulder to shoulder in two rows, hemmed in by four large guards.

  “Where’s the one with the busted foot?” Paul said.

  A guard pushed him from the back row, and he stumbled, limping on a newly molded plastic-foam cast.

  Paul grabbed his arm and hustled him over to Stephen’s bloodied body. “You see your friend here?”

  The man nodded.

  “You know what killed him? His alliances. And he told me that he had a lot of company on the Mexican crew. You a Christian?”

  No answer.

  “You don’t deny it? Think you’re brave? It’s a simple question. Are you a Christian?”

  Silence.

  “Tough guy, huh? Stephen was tough too, but look at him now. I know—and you know—who’s behind the fire.”

  Paul shoved the man to his knees. “I want names.” He pressed his gun to the back of the man’s head. “You’ve got five seconds.”

  One of the Mexicans behind them sobbed.

  “Do I hear a name?” Paul called out. “Your man is about to die.”

  A Klaxon blasted. They all spun toward the sound, and Paul saw an eruption of smoke in the distance.

  Johnson cursed. “Not another one!”

  He whirled and bounded toward the limo. Paul sprinted after him, grabbing the back-door handle just as Johnson was sliding into the front seat beside the driver. Diving onto the floor, Paul clawed the back door shut as the limo sped off. He pitched and rolled until the car cleared the rough terrain and reached the road, and then he managed to get settled on the seat.

  On the floor in the back lay the gritty dusters they had worn that morning, along with the hat Johnson had loaned Paul. Despite the acrid soot on the coats, Paul put one on. He found the one he’d worn, his mask and goggles stuffed in the pocket. Smoke filled the air as they neared the site.

  The car paused at a gate, which was flung open by masked sentries streaked with soot. “Turn off that alarm,” Johnson bellowed out the window. “No one lets in the fire crew till I say so! Get a roll call and search everyone right now!”

  Already, out along the perimeter fence, guards rounded up the roughnecks—some masked, others bare-chested, shirts tied over their faces. The crew was apparently moving too slowly for one guard, so he whipped out a Laser Taser that fired thin strands of barbed wire in an arc of about twenty feet. When the barbs caught clothing or skin, they transmitted an electrical charge that made the men scream and scramble into position.

  The driver shot forward but soon had to slow when the windows clouded over. Windshield airjets could do only so much against oily grit.

  Johnson didn’t seem daunted. He slipped on goggles and a mask and borrowed the chauffeur’s cap.

  The driver lowered the interior window.

  “Give me one of those coats, Stepola,” Johnson said. “The biggest one.”

  “What are you doing, Johnson?” Paul said. “Just call out the fire crew and wait in the car. You’re under arrest.”

  “I’m the law out here, mister, not the NPO.” He brandished a Walther Stealth. “Try to stop me, I’ll kill you.”

  Paul held up his hands. “You’re insane, walking into a fire.”

  Johnson opened his window a crack. “There’s an updraft. Just wait five minutes,” he told the chauffeur. “I’m gonna catch me a terrorist.”

  Smoke rushed into the car when Johnson opened the door. The chauffeur buried his head in his arm and coughed. Paul, his own goggles around his neck, put on his mask .

  “We’ve got to stop him,” he told the driver. He flicked the tip of his thumb against his pinkie repeatedly, trying to activate his molar implants.

  No signal. Something was scrambling the frequencies. “Can you call for help?”

  The chauffeur was putting on a mask. He tried to raise a signal on the car phone. Nothing.

  “I’m going after him,” Paul said.

  “Mister, I’d give him the five minutes. He knows this field like the back of his hand. You get lost, we’ll get killed chasing after you.”

  Paul hesitated, then stayed where he was. Tick and the others saw the explosion. They had to have called the fire crew.

  Long minutes passed. Paul and the chauffeur, mouths and noses shrouded, sat in silence.

  After ten minutes Paul couldn’t stand to wait any longer. “Johnson is a rancher. Would he have a rope in the car?”

  “In the trunk.”

  Goggles on, draped in the coat, mask tight over his mouth and nose, Paul made his way to the trunk. He found a large coil of emergency-orange rope, tied one end around his waist, and handed the rest to the chauffeur. “Keep the window open a little so you can spool this out as I go. I’ll yank every other minute or so. If you don’t feel a yank after more than a couple of minutes, pull me back.”

  Near the car the smoke was relatively thin, just an oily haze.

  “Johnson!” Paul called out, scanning the ground. Up ahead the air looked denser. The well had to be that direction. Paul wondered how effective his mask would be in heavy smoke.

  The car was soon hidden as Paul penetrated deeper into the cloud. He swiped at his goggles with his sleeve. He cut a zigzag path straight ahead on the road, then cut an arc to the left, swung back to the road, and cut an arc to the right—sweeping the ground in search of a fallen man.

  “Johnson!” he yelled, voice muffled.

  Paul kept stopping, trying to get his bearings, peering into the fog.

  Even his sense of time was distorted. Count out loud. He chanted numbers, pausing each time he reached one hundred to yank the rope.

  “John-son!”

  On one of his zigzags, he discovered a wider apron of concrete. He had to be getting closer to the well.

  The wind picked up and smoke swirled around Paul. In the distance he heard a growing whir. He yanked his hat tighter and resecured his mask, tugging at the rope to reassure himself of his tether. His vision dimmed as the mounting winds caked oily soot on his goggles. He tried to rub it off, leaving them so smeared he could hardly see at all.

  The whirring grew louder, faster. That tornado sound.

  A hint of light, a flare, a sputter. What’s going on?

  Paul frantically scrubbed his goggles with his sleeve, fighting panic.

  The winds began to wail. What is it?

  Finally, he had to see it. Shielding his eyes with his arms, he yanked his goggles down.

  A blaze of light blasted away the smoke. A white jet of flame shot to the sky. Searing heat. A pillar of fire. Pain. A white gusher.

  * * *

  White jeans, white shirt, white cowboy hat. Everyone else was flamboyantly dressed, so the figure didn’t even stand out at the Houston Cheetah Racetrack. The gleaming glass-and-steel structure south of the city was a giant, modernistic bowl with three tiers of tracks, hundreds of betting windo
ws, and seats for the tens of thousands who came to watch the exotically beautiful, fastest-running land creatures in the world.

  Ringing the seats and tracks were gardens interspersed with a range of restaurants, from Houston’s finest to humbler tourist haunts. At precisely eight o’clock the figure in white found a table at one of the latter, Horatio’s House of Ribs, and ordered a full slab, coleslaw, potato salad, and a black cow. Waiting for his food, the figure turned over the paper

  “Texas History Quiz” place mat and began to jot the day’s events: the brutal killing of Stephen Lloyd; the roughnecks’ detention at the Sardis Oil field; the unknown whereabouts of its owner, the well-known magnate Donny Johnson; and the second mysterious conflagration.

  When the food came, the place mat was right side up, and the figure was checking off answers to the multiple-choice quiz questions.

  When the white-clad figure was gone, the place mat was left folded in half, quiz side up—all filled in, every fact correct—with the empty soda glass placed directly over a picture of Spindletop and enough cash to cover the bill.

  Before dawn every media outfit in the state had a helicraft circling the Sardis Oil field, capturing the striking image of the two white columns of flame against the dark sky. Newscasts around the world led with the story:

  “Texas Mystery: Twin Pillars of Fire.”

  10

  Paul felt conflicting sensations and dreamed strange dreams. At times he felt afire. Moments later he shook uncontrollably from cold. He was vaguely aware when he was jostled, moved, lifted, settled, strapped. He heard voices but couldn’t make them out. He was aware of crying out in pain; then another compressed air injection brought the floating, mellow feeling, rendering him so drowsy he felt he could sleep forever.

  The image of a blast of white light was implanted on his brain.

  Whenever he roused, it jolted him . Soot. Can’t breathe. Smoke. The exploding well. The white gusher. Terror.

  He was moved from a vehicle and was now outside. His skin was so tender he wanted to scream, but he could not make a sound. He was covered, but cold wind sliced through him to the bone. Now he was on a gurney, rolling over uneven ground. On a ramp. Bumping, almost tipping.

  Whining engine sounds. An airport? A plane? Was he going home?

  More voices. Someone was referred to as Doctor and Doc. Were they talking to Paul himself? He could not respond. Another injection and sweet relief. Drifting, drifting . . . and he was gone into dreams of his family. Jae and Brie and Connor embracing him, welcoming him home.

  Driving to work, but Felicia was now his boss. Then she was in flames, and the Chicago bureau’s building crashed into the river.

  * * *

  When Paul awoke, his head was clearer, his senses acute. His eyes were bandaged snugly, and he felt gauze circling his head. His scalp was cold, and he was sure his hair was gone. Unmistakable hospital smells. The heavy padded steps of thick-soled shoes.

  Paul felt the clear, irritating pain of an IV shunt in his right hand. His lips were cracked and dry, but when he licked them he tasted petroleum jelly. An oxygen feed irritated his nostrils. He swallowed and tried to clear his throat. Paul’s whole body ached, and though he sensed he had not moved in hours, he was sleepy.

  “Water.”

  But no one was there. He felt for a button, but through the tape he couldn’t make out anything.

  “Where am I?” he tried, louder.

  Someone hurried in. The voice of a young woman. “Are you awake, Dr. Stepola?”

  “Am I in Houston?”

  “Oh no, sir. You’re in PSL Hospital in Chicago.”

  “PSL?”

  She sounded conspiratorial. “Well, years ago it was Presbyterian-St.

  Luke’s, but of course they don’t call it that anymore.”

  She pressed a tiny sponge between his lips and he bit eagerly, sending cool water across his tongue and down his throat. He coughed. “More.”

  “Slowly.”

  “Is my hair gone?”

  “I’ll get your doctor.”

  “Tell me that. I can take it.”

  “Temporarily, yes. And it looks rather striking, if I may say.”

  “Am I burned?”

  “You were.” He heard pages turning. “But you were lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  “You had on a hat and mask. Your hands were inside your sleeves.

  You must have used your arms to shield your face, except for the line from your eyes to your ears.”

  “What about my eyes?”

  Her hesitation pierced him. “I’ll have to get your doctor. He wanted to know when you were conscious anyway.”

  She gave him a little more water and hurried out. Within minutes he heard two sets of footsteps.

  “Hey, Paul!” It was Koontz. “You are one tough customer. I’m starting to think you’ve got nine lives.”

  “Not funny, Bob.”

  “It’s no joke, buddy. Listen, your wife and your father-in-law will be in to see you soon. And when you’re ready for it, the kids, of course.”

  “Bob—”

  “This is Dr. Raman Bihari—a top eye specialist who will also oversee your general care.”

  Paul felt a hand laid gently on his left biceps. “Dr. Stepola?” A male Indian accent.

  “Yes. What’s wrong with my eyes? I want the truth.”

  “I will be very frank with you about your vision. After your burns were assessed and treated, I performed a procedure that allowed me access to your eyes. Your lids had been badly burned, but fortunately, technology has advanced to where we believe they will look and function normally.”

  “I’m less concerned about my eyelids than my eyes, frankly—”

  “Of course, and so am I. The truth is that you apparently took actual flame directly into your pupils in both eyes. There is considerable damage that may only be able to be rectified through transplant surgery. But the body is an amazing self-healing mechanism. My plan is to monitor you carefully, but keep your eyes medicated and covered for approximately two months to see how much natural restoration may take place on its own. Then we will decide on surgery.”

  “But for now I’m blind?”

  “With or without the bandages, yes, sir.”

  “What’s your best guess about my vision returning?”

  The doctor drew in a long breath. “I hesitate to speculate. . . .”

  “Tell me.”

  “My guess is that there is a better than 90 percent chance that you will require transplant surgery in order to have any return of vision.”

  “Then why not just do that now?”

  “The odds against success would be just as bad if we didn’t wait for your body to heal the retinal area itself.”

  “And if it doesn’t do that?”

  “Even the transplant surgery would be futile.”

  “Tell me. How common is it that the body heals itself enough to make transplant surgery viable in cases like mine?”

  “I’m sorry. It is very rare. I never give up hope because you never know, and as I say, the body is amazing. But it is very possible that nothing more can be done.”

  “What will I be able to see? Fuzzy images? Shadows? Anything?”

  “Without significant restoration, you would not be aware even of shades of light.”

  * * *

  Dr. Bihari called in help so Paul could get out of bed. Paul had heard of the other senses becoming hyperacute when one went blind or deaf, but he was astounded at how quickly this manifested itself. It was as if he could hear everything on the floor. He was also supersensitive to touch and felt the draft under his gown.

  He immediately became demanding. “I need a robe. I’m not going another step in this getup.”

  A few minutes later he was changed and back in bed. “Bob, get everybody else out of here and shut the door.”

  “You want to wait and talk when Jae and your father-in-law—?”

  “Do I sound like I wa
nt to wait?”

  Paul made him pull a chair close. “Bob, I want to know what happened in Gulfland.”

  “You have a right to know. Another oil well caught fire. Johnson’s chauffeur said Johnson went to check it out but never came back. You tied a rope around your waist before you went out into the smoke to save him.

  That was good thinking, because then the well blew. The chauffeur was trying to drag you back when fire rescue showed up. They followed the rope and found you. After the docs got you stabilized, we flew you back here. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for about a week.”

  “What happened to Johnson?”

  “Didn’t make it. Smoke inhalation.”

  “I let him go out there, Bob. I should have stopped him.”

  “We know from Tick that he had a gun and he’d just beaten a man to death. Suicide is not in your job description. You did the right thing.”

  “Tick told you what led up to it?”

  “He said you were sweating a suspect when the horn went off.”

  Koontz hesitated. “Tell you the truth, Tick is catching major heat on this one. The word leaked about the second well. It was all over the news even before Johnson’s body was found. And of course, a death like that couldn’t be kept quiet. Half the country seems to think this is some kind of miracle, and the other half wants to fire the entire NPO for failing to foresee and prevent terrorism. People upstairs believe Tick botched this.

  He’s been encouraged to take a leave of absence.”

  “What a mess.”

  “He’s got a daughter to visit in Australia. But he’s really torn up about Johnson’s death and about you. Your injuries, I mean.”

  “I don’t want his pity. Yours either.”

  “Easy. All I’m saying is that people care.”

  “Caring won’t bring my sight back.”

  “Paul, you’re getting tired.” He heard Koontz stand and move his chair. His voice came from farther away now. “Get some rest before Jae gets here.”

  “It bothers you that I’m angry? Losing my whole life—job and everything—shouldn’t upset me?”

  “Paul, it’s going to take time to adjust. I don’t blame you for how you feel. I want to help. I’ll spend every off-hour here, if that’s what it takes.