So he stood alone in silence, looking back on his life without a smile.
Only blackness lay before him, only darkness left and right. And there was no reason to turn and look behind him—he knew the shadows that hid back there. Time had caught up and finally passed him, and he couldn’t change what he had done. Everywhere he turned now, the feeling was the same. Whether in this life or the other, it was going to be the same.
But it didn’t matter. He was ready for something new. The next stage might not be better but he doubted it could be worse. He’d been empty and dead and desperately unhappy for almost fifty years, and the will to keep on fighting simply didn’t exist inside him anymore.
* * *
The dark spirit stared at the old man, looking deeply into his eyes. He knew the veil of separation lying between them now was so thin that the mortal could feel him when he was near. He took a small step toward the man and snarled.
The mortal kept on staring, hunching his shoulders against his cold.
How Balaam wished that the man could see him! How he wished he was more than just a wisp of smoke, a passing hint of darkness, a thought, a voice, a feeling of despair. How he wished that he was more than just a spirit, always sensed but never seen!
He wanted substance! He wanted texture! He wanted to feel something. He wanted to be felt!
He reached out to touch Drexel Danbert, but his hand passed through the mortal like light passing through a wisp of smoke. He shivered, cursing in frustration. No warmth, no sense of touch, no comfort or consolation could be found in the passing of his hand.
He looked at the mortal, hunger and lust and envy in his eyes. All of Lucifer’s servants worshiped flesh, and the closer they came to the end days, the more they desired what they knew they would never have. Ironic, Balaam thought, how so many of the mortals were willing to give up the one thing the dark angels wanted most. Control of their bodies. The ability to choose. Yes, the weapons the dark angels had developed to control the mortal bodies could be very powerful, and once people started down that path, they almost always slipped up in the end.
Why they were so foolish, Balaam failed to understand.
But they were. They had proven that for more than seven thousand years.
Balaam knew the old man could sense that he was near, sense the cold and the hatred and the blackness of his soul. Balaam didn’t have to speak loudly for the old man to hear him anymore; they had so much in common, they almost thought the same. The same desperation and sense of hopelessness controlled their calloused souls.
Balaam watched as the mortal looked down on the empty city where his fellow mortals used to live. “He doesn’t even know why he hates them,” the dark angel sneered as he watched. “His heart is blackened by emotion that his head can’t even understand. It makes no sense and he knows that, but he is so corrupted he can’t control his emotions anymore.”
Leaning toward the man, Balaam leered and whispered to his slave. “You did it,” he hissed proudly to his faithful son. “You taught them to hate each other. You divided them completely, tearing them apart. You did everything we asked you and now your work is done.”
Moving, Balaam stood before him so he could look into his eyes. The change had already started taking place. Every pleasure the mortal had experienced, every indulgence, every sin, was poison to him now. He had no good memories to support him, no joy in looking at his life. Everything he had done, every decision he’d ever made, had brought him to this point, and now all he had was pain. Every fleeting moment of earthly pleasure only added to his suffering, the cumulative memory a bitter realization that he had damned himself to hell.
Funny how it worked out in the end. For the righteous, thinking back on their lives seemed to bring them joy again. But for the evil, the memories of their failings created nothing but renewed suffering and pain. Even when it was over, it wasn’t over, and it all came back again.
To the evil, it was a haunting.
To the good, a joyful song.
* * *
Standing by the tall window, Drexel took his glass of brandy, a clear, coconut-flower Mendis (three thousand dollars a liter), tossed it back, let it burn against his throat, swallowed, poured another glass, tossed it back, then took the bottle and threw it against the marble wall. The liquid splattered like clear honey, then flowed toward the hardwood floor, mixing with the shattered glass. He sniffed the heavy smell of liquor, then walked to the front door.
Pulling it open, he hesitated and then turned. Walking back, he looked around his twelve-million-dollar apartment a final time, taking in all the things he’d spent his life collecting.
He looked at his favorite possession in this world. Underneath six inches of fireproof, bulletproof, and airproof glass, one of the four existing copies of the original Magna Carta was on display, the only one in private hands, the crown jewel of his collection. To the right of the display case was a set of original Shakespeare manuscripts. On the walls, multimillion-dollar paintings. Greek and Roman sculptures. Tucked away beneath one bookshelf, a collection of Asian pornography, nothing hard, always tasteful, his favorite form of art. It was like looking at a week-old newspaper. The things meant nothing to him now.
Sitting awkwardly on the single step that separated the marble entry from the main living room, he pulled on a pair of heavy boots. Standing, he looked around again. Then Drexel Danbert, one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, stepped out into the hall.
He didn’t leave a note for any of the partners who might come to look for him. He didn’t take any of the cash or T-bills that were stuffed in the open safe built into the corner of his den. He didn’t take the jewels, watches, paintings, rare manuscripts, any of the things he owned. Leaving the penthouse door open, he started walking down the stairs.
Going down was easy. Much, much harder coming up. Two days before, it had taken him most of the day to climb the stairs.
No worries now. He would never climb these stairs again.
He paced himself, stopping every three stories to catch his breath. Fifty minutes later, he hobbled through the heavy door on the ground floor. Lots of brass and chrome and marble greeted him; the building’s foyer was as beautiful as any of the apartments on the upper floors, but it had been many years since he had noticed any of the splendors. Most of the windows that faced the street had been broken, leaving shattered glass scattered on the tile floor. Every step he took crunched broken glass under his shoes.
Dressed in a pair of old slacks, a dirty denim shirt, and a battered coat he’d picked up on the street two nights before, he walked out onto the pavement. Stopping for a moment, he felt the swelling in his knees, then turned up the collar on his coat. The wind blew down the cement and glass and granite canyons that surrounded him, and hundreds of cars still lined the streets. The vents in the sidewalks were dead now, no steam, no smells, no hiss of passing subways underneath. A stray cat walked across the sidewalk and onto the road, disappearing underneath the nearest car, a yellow cab with a couple of brightly wrapped FAO Schwarz presents still inside. Breathing deeply, he smelled it, the dank and rot that drifted from the river. Cold air. The smell of rats. The stench of garbage in the streets.
Turning, he started walking.
West on Wall. North on Broad. West on Pine. Trinity Church came into view.
Keeping to the opposite side of the street, he swung around the old brick church, feeling creepy as he stared at the ancient cross.
A crowd had gathered on the far side of the church’s graveyard—a group of rough, angry, filthy men. He stared at them, hesitating, rage and loathing surging through his veins. Hot sweat started dripping against the back of his neck as a lifetime of raw emotion came crashing down on him. For almost seventy years he had gorged on hate and now it burst inside him, foul and full.
And it was inescapable. Whether in this life or the other, the pain would stay the same.
Looking up, he raised his fist and cursed his loathsome god. Th
en he shoved his hands into his pockets, turned toward the pack of filthy people, and walked off to die.
Chapter Two
Northwestern University Medical Center
Chicago, Illinois
Sara Brighton sat on a small chrome and plastic chair in the corner of the emergency room. The place swarmed with people, all of them sick or injured or dying, and the chaos and confusion grated against her nerves. Ammon stood beside her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. Their clothes were filthy, caked in dried mud and stained in blood, but they were dry now and warm, at least for the moment, and there was something good in that. The emergency room looked like something from a third-world country: dazed women; blood smeared across the floor; a child crying in the corner, apparently abandoned, her dark cheeks stained with tears. Four or five litters topped with bodies, some of them covered in disposable sheets, lined the walls. Another half a dozen gurneys were clustered in groups of three in the center of the room.
Sara motioned toward the motherless child, beckoning with her hands. The little girl hesitated, then ran to her, throwing her arms around her shoulders and burying her head into Sara’s neck. The child cried for a few moments, wetting the back of Sara’s jacket, then fell into a whimper before dropping off to sleep, her breathing interrupted with involuntary sobs. Sara stood up carefully, holding the little girl’s head against her shoulder, and walked through the emergency room, questioning everyone she saw, “Is this your child? Do you know who she belongs to?” Blank stares and impatient gestures. No one knew. No one cared. She adjusted the child’s weight against her weary arms and returned to the small chair.
Sara sat in silence for a long while. The chaos bustled all around her, but she didn’t seem to notice anymore. As time passed, her eyes creased in worry. Ammon watched her, seeing the anxiety fall upon her face, clouding her eyes and tightening her lips. He knelt down beside her. “What is it, Mom?” he asked.
She looked up, tried to shake it off, but the cloud remained.
“What are you thinking about?” Ammon asked again. He kept his voice low, not wanting to wake the sleeping child.
Sara thought for a moment, not looking at him. “It’s not right,” she answered slowly. Ammon could see she was talking mostly to herself.
“What’s not right, Mom?”
She continued staring off. “Your dad warned me.” Her voice was quiet.
“Warned you? About what, Mom? What did Dad warn you about?”
“About him. About what’s going to happen.” She shook her head.
“What are you talking about, Mom? Dad knew what was going to happen to him? He knew about the bomb in Washington? About the EMP?”
“No, no. Something else. Something with the . . .” her voice trailed off again.
“What, Mom! What’s going to happen?”
She looked at him, her eyes pleading. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to get it out. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe never. She finally looked away.
“Mom . . . ?”
She brushed him off with a lift of her hand. “I can’t talk about it. It’s probably nothing anyway.”
Ammon sensed the inconsistency in her answer. “Mom, it can’t be something you can’t talk about and still be nothing. Those two options are kind of mutually exclusive.” He tried to smile at her.
She looked around the crowded emergency room. “I’m thirsty.”
Ammon didn’t bite on her attempt to change the subject. “What did Dad warn you about?” he asked again.
“It’s nothing, Ammon.” She was determined now. “If it is, or if something changes and I think it is, then I will tell you.”
“Mom . . .”
“I’ll tell you, okay?”
Ammon looked at her, waiting, his face impatient. He wanted to press, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. She could be as stubborn as any of her children and far more stubborn than his dad. He watched her awhile, then stood and walked away, searching for a doctor or a nurse or an attendant or anyone who might be able to tell him where his brother was.
* * *
They waited for almost seven hours. By that time, Sara was exhausted and hungry and scared: scared of the scene around her, scared of what lay outside the brick walls of the hospital, scared of what might be ahead.
But mostly she was scared of what her husband had whispered to her on the last night they were together on this earth.
Looking around, she took a breath and thought about her son, who was lying on a bed somewhere in the bowels of the enormous hospital. Thinking of him, she felt a warmth inside her heart.
The only thing she wasn’t scared about was Luke. That was the only thing she knew would be okay.
Ammon checked his watch for the thousandth time, purely out of habit, but of course it wasn’t working, frozen on the moment a little more than five days before when the world had been thrown back a hundred years. Sara watched him, then held her arm out, her old windup still telling time. Ammon glanced toward it: 2:16 a.m.
Reaching out, he tapped her silver watch. “Kind of quaint.”
She looked down at her wristwatch. It was dirty now and worn.
“I know you’ve told us before, but I can’t remember. Where’d you get that old thing?”
Sara smiled wearily. “Right after we were married, your father and I went hitchhiking around Europe. He was stationed in Germany at the time. We had seven days’ leave. We bummed around, staying in student hostels, bed and breakfasts, getting every mile we could out of our Eurail pass. Sometimes we’d get on the train and just ride it until we felt like getting off, not even knowing what country we were in. On the last day, he bought this for me at a tiny shop in this little village on some huge mountaintop in Switzerland.” She moved her arm, holding the watch a little closer to her, fingering the silver band. “An old windup. Hardly impressive. He always apologized, thinking I’d prefer something more modern or expensive . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Ammon watched her. He didn’t want to think about his dad. “Nice to have something that doesn’t run on batteries or electronics,” he said.
Sara pulled on the band, looked around, then stood up. “There’s the doctor!” she said to Ammon.
The young doctor, his face pale with exhaustion, was walking quickly toward them, his crumpled blue cloak unbuttoned, the tails trailing behind him. Moving through the crowd, he was inundated with pleading questions. “Dr. Mortenson, what about my daughter! Doctor, can you tell me . . . ? Doctor, you’ve got to come and look at this right now! Doctor! Doctor!” Everyone had a crisis. Everyone needed his attention. Everyone had a sick or dying relative—husband, mother, daughter, son—all their needs legitimate, and all of it far more than he could do. He worked his way through the crowd, gesturing to some, offering a calming word or two to others. Ten feet from Sara and Ammon, he motioned for them to follow. They moved quickly toward him, following as he turned. Getting to the hallway, Sara stopped and turned around. What to do with the sleeping child in her arms? With no one around to offer the child to, she found an empty gurney and laid the little girl down. Patting her back, she covered her with the bedsheet, pulling it up around her neck, then kissed her cheek. It wasn’t right to leave her there alone, but what else could she do? There had to be someone who knew her; a relative or friend had to be somewhere amid the chaos. She couldn’t just take the child with her.
Stepping back, she patted the little girl’s back again, moved a strand of dark hair from her face, and turned to follow Ammon, who was chasing after the doctor down the hall.
The doctor passed through a double doorway, pushing the heavy electric doors back manually, then turned right and moved into a patient room. Sara and Ammon followed. Four beds were crammed into a room that should have held two. Luke was sleeping atop the first bed. The doctor stopped at the foot of his bed and turned. “Tell me again what happened to your son,” he said.
Sara started. “We were out in the country, what, south of here. We were stranded,
like everyone else. It was night . . . last night, I guess . . . no, two nights ago . . .”
Ammon watched the exhausted doctor grow impatient. “He was shot,” he interrupted, cutting to the chase.
The doctor turned and looked at him. “He was shot?” he repeated. His face was skeptical.
Ammon hunched his shoulders. “Yeah.”
“Did you see it?” The doctor spoke rapidly.
“I was standing right there.”
He turned to Sara. “You’re the mother, right?”
She nodded but didn’t speak.
“Did you witness the shooting as well?”
Again, she nodded as an answer.
The doctor looked at them both doubtfully. “Hmmmm,” was all he said.
“What is it, Doctor?” Ammon asked, his voice tight and weary. He, like the doctor, had not slept in more than two days: one night of holding Luke in the backseat of the car, another day of hiking cross-country dragging his brother on an improvised litter, another night to make it through the city, and then waiting in the emergency room.
The doctor studied him, thought, then turned and lifted an oversized folder that was hanging at the foot of the bed. Every motion was quick and efficient, not wasting an ounce of energy or time. “We have emergency power, enough to run a few of our instruments, and this is what I find.” He lifted a multicolored image and pointed as he talked. “A quick MRI of Frank’s abdomen.”
“His name is Luke,” Sara started to correct him.
The doctor clearly didn’t care. He pointed with the tip of his pen. “We have an entry wound, four centimeters below the lower thoracic cage.” He moved the pen. “We have an exit wound, just below the costal cartilage.” He moved the pen again, pointing to a lighter image on the MRI. Pausing, he stared thoughtfully. “An entry wound below the front rib cage. An exit wound near the center of the back, six centimeters from the spine.” His voice trailed off again. “But nothing in between them.”
The Great and Terrible Page 115
