One of them might see the muzzle flash. Or flashes, God forbid.
“We’ll have to haul it,” Raul said to Martha. “After.”
“You think?” Martha said.
Getting away had looked free and clear when they first camped, since they were on a hillside opposite the church, just under a mile away. They’d figured on scrambling on foot behind the treeline for half a mile and jumping into the truck at the rendezvous point. After that, the road waited.
But the patrol could finger them, and there was no time to reposition.
He had his own army, and it would rise like a dragon after the gunshot.
Raul licked his dry lips. Every other part of him was drenched with sweat.
He and Martha had told their neighbor they were hitting Vegas for a few days, leaving their dog, Wolfie, and a spare key behind. They had cleared the sink of dishes and taken out the garbage so they wouldn’t leave a smell. They hadn’t talked about not coming home.
For the hundredth time, Raul wished he and Martha weren’t too old to have kids. But thank God they didn’t have kids.
Raul treated himself to the view through Ole Susie’s scope, a beautiful sight: an empty platform under the belfry, so clear he could see bows on the white ribbons wrapped around the columns. The pulpit was in the middle of his sight, between two columns. A picture postcard.
He hoped the wedding would start on time.
Thirty-eight
7:50 a.m.
A bracing pipe organ played Mozart’s “Ave Verum Corpus,” trembling the walls. The choir in the balconies joined the song. At least a hundred elementary-age schoolchildren dressed in white lined the palace’s main hall, gently tossing gardenia petals to the floor as Fana passed. The church’s main hall was a wonderland of gardenia and hibiscus flowers.
I’m getting married, Fana realized. Just like Michel had told her, her imagination had never treated her to a wedding day. What kind of mate could have fit her? She had expected to be alone the way she’d been alone in her ocean. Life is something you touch, Gramma Bea had told her right before she died. Fana brushed against Gramma Bea’s spirit when she called out the memory; a hug from her grandmother.
Why had the idea of this day filled her with so much fear?
Michel was a challenge, but his hand was everywhere in the beauty around her: he had chosen the musical pieces, the choir, the children, as gifts to her. The ceremony itself was a gift to the crowds, who were giddy with their hope for lasting life, lasting love. At least for a day, joy smothered the misery of the distant hall that housed the Cleansing Pool. Even Mom, trailing behind her with her wedding party, could feel the beauty in the music.
And something else! Peace. Fana realized she could hear the music only because she wasn’t caught in the heads of the hundreds of faithful inside Michel’s church, or the thousands more waiting outside. Noise, her lifelong struggle, was solved. Since her fusion with Michel, she could control the noise like a volume wheel, up and down, nearer or farther, this person or that person. The novelty distracted her. She warmed herself in the love of a schoolboy who blushed when she smiled at him, skated past her father’s trepidation, enjoyed Phoenix’s wonder. Fana surfed across the chaotic noise outside, let it lift her like her inner ocean’s wave. Her soul sang with her new abilities.
But you’re getting married, she reminded herself. Don’t wander too far.
Fana searched for Michel in the flock of crimson robes and skullcaps proceeding toward her from the opposite direction in the hall, the Sanctus Cruor initiates carrying their sect’s flag on medieval-style poles. Michel’s essence was everywhere, as solid as mass, but she couldn’t find his physical body.
Fana stopped walking to wait for him at the designated place, where the corridor met the narrow walkway to the tower. There, they would hold hands and walk to the tower together.
Why couldn’t she see him?
Suddenly, his scent was under her nose. Fana was toe to toe with Michel before she recognized him, confused by his appearance. He had cut his dark hair short, preserving only the curls across his forehead, the way he’d looked when she’d first met him as Charlie on the Underground Railroad.
And he wasn’t wearing his Sanctus Cruor robe!
Michel was dressed in a military-officer-style white suit with a waist-length jacket and sash, his chest pinned with two rows of Sanctus Cruor medals. A thin golden ceremonial sword with garnet stones on the hilt hung from his belt, just below his navel.
Michel had transformed himself into her prince.
Fana felt her father’s relief, her mother’s surprise. Teru’s pride. Stefan’s outrage. The initiates’ wonderment circled the hall, as if Michel were nude. Fana saw herself through Michel’s eyes: her favorite white scarf from Lalibela, bare shoulders, and layers of shiny white taffeta. To him, she was beauty itself.
A BRIDE SHOULD BE HAPPY ON HER WEDDING DAY, NO? Michel said.
He held out a white-gloved hand to her.
• • •
Dawit blinked. Michel, who usually hid himself behind his robes, wielding his vestments as a weapon and shield, wasn’t dressed as the spiritual leader of Sanctus Cruor? Fana’s mission was succeeding already!
AND SHE HAS ONLY BEEN HERE TWO DAYS! Teka said, excited. He shrouded his private thoughts with a powerful mask. IMAGINE WHEN THEY DEBATE THE LETTER, THE MEANING OF THE CLEANSING. SHE IS GAINING INFLUENCE, JUST AS YOU SAID.
But Michel was gaining influence over Fana just as quickly. Where would they meet?
Fana’s bridal dress brought tears to Dawit’s eyes, but not because of its beauty. The small victory, to Dawit, was bittersweet. He had counseled other leaders to marry for the sake of peace, but his own daughter? His faith in Fana’s plan seemed like a betrayal to her, no different from Mahmoud wresting him from his life with Jessica in Miami.
His daughter looked serene, even happy; Michel’s fairy-tale clothing had delighted her.
But for how long?
Jessica squeezed Dawit’s hand hard. He knew her thoughts, and she knew his. “Dear God,” Jessica whispered. “Please protect her. Give her power, Lord, but give her wisdom too.”
Teka nudged Dawit. HAVE YOU HEARD FROM MAHMOUD?
No, Dawit said. Should I have?
I HAVE FELT HIM MASKING STRONGLY SINCE I SENT WORD OF THE WEDDING. AND HE HAS SUDDENLY COME TO MIND.
Dawit almost missed a step. Teka’s abilities far surpassed Mahmoud’s. How could Mahmoud create a barrier strong enough for Teka to feel from so far—especially since Teka’s time with Fana had improved his gifts so much? And if the mask wasn’t Mahmoud’s alone, who was helping him? And why?
You should not have told him, Dawit said.
THE COUNCIL ELECTED HIM LIAISON, Teka said.
If Lalibela were to rise against Michel, could this be the day they would choose? Of course! Would Mahmoud be bold enough? And who else would join him?
Some of their own party might. Berhanu might.
Any attack on Michel would pose a risk to them all, so Dawit sent private pulses to Berhanu, Teferi, Fasilidas, and Teka to be sensitive to any Brothers who might be nearby. Lalibela might be about to move against Sanctus Cruor, he said. Berhanu’s surge of excitement was so well contained that Dawit barely noticed it.
Do you serve Lalibela, or do you serve Fana? Dawit asked Berhanu.
Berhanu did not answer him.
“What’s wrong?” Jessica whispered to Dawit.
Dawit only shook his head to hush her. Michel was the best telepath in Sanctus Cruor’s ranks, but Stefan could intercept thoughts, too. He didn’t want his unease to spread.
Trumpets sounded from the traditionally dressed mariachi players on the balcony.
Hand in hand, Fana and Michel began their walk to the tower.
Michel, then Fana, climbed the narrow, winding tower steps, while the rest followed. Fana picked up her dress to keep from tripping over it as she climbed. It was a long climb, with little elegance in the rougher stone
to reflect the rest of the morning. Their retinues followed them at a careful distance.
Michel and Fana emerged in the tower, holding each other’s hands.
The tower’s marble platform was oversized, with enough room for the twelve who followed Michel and Fana to fan out behind the waiting pulpit, facing the crowd below. Dawit glanced up at the massive bell, hanging in stoic silence above them.
Fana and Michel strode to the front of the tower, facing the courtyard, and waved. As if they had already rehearsed. An open target.
As Dawit scanned the breadth of the crowd below, he noted innumerable hiding places in the trees, outcroppings, and hillsides. Only a few hundred soldiers were spread within a crowd of more than twenty thousand: decoration, not security. The tower wasn’t even equipped with bulletproof shields. Michel thought he was truly immortal.
As Michel and Fana waved, cheers and chants rang through the courtyard, up and down the driveway and into the woods, rumbling like an earthquake. If he and his Brothers couldn’t detect Mahmoud in the endless crowd, only Fana or Michel could. Michel believed he could rely on his speed and perceptions, but he might miss something.
Was warning Fana the same as warning Michel?
Feel for Mahmoud and our Lalibela Brothers, Dawit told Fana. Be careful.
NONE OF YOUR BROTHERS ARE IN NOGALES, Michel said curtly. NO WEAPONS BORN IN YOUR HOUSE OF SCIENCE ARE HERE—EXCEPT YOURS.
Dawit didn’t know if Michel had intercepted the thought or if Fana had shared it, since Fana didn’t send him a response. Had Michel blocked Fana from hearing him? Dawit wished he hadn’t brought up Mahmoud’s name without evidence against him. Dawit pulsed an explanation to Michel, but Michel sharply barred the communication; a twinge behind Dawit’s eyes.
LEAVE US IN PEACE, SIGNORE, Michel said. THIS IS OUR WEDDING DAY.
Berhanu and Fasilidas gave Dawit knowing looks; they had heard Michel’s rebuke, too. Berhanu grinned to himself, amused by the irony; Dawit hadn’t seen Berhanu smile in ten years.
The crowd fell into a reverential hush as soon as Michel and Fana stopped waving. Only the hawks and sparrows thrashing in the trees dared to break the silence.
When Teka took his place at the pulpit, Dawit brushed away Stefan’s loathing and envy. He had no room for thoughts of Michel’s father.
Teka spoke, his voice amplified by large speakers echoing across the mountainside.
“Bless the Blood,” Teka said, in Spanish. The crowd repeated the blessing, instantly hushed again. “The Letter of the Witness writes of ‘mates immortal born …’”
Distantly, a woman shrieked with ecstasy, overcome.
“But what unfolds before us this morning is far simpler and grander than Prophecy,” Teka said. “We are witnessing the union between Michel Tamirat Gallo and Fana Beatrice Wolde: They have chosen each other today.”
Over Texas
8:05 a.m.
Johnny Wright kept his TV on CNN, which was showing footage of a political event somewhere in the flat Midwest. Hats and balloons paraded while candidates told lies. Johnny wasn’t wearing headphones to hear the TV; he was too anxious to stand any noise beyond the racket of the engine at his first-class window seat. Breaking News, he tried to will his TV screen to announce. Assassination in Nogales. He could almost see it.
Johnny hadn’t expected to board a commercial airliner again, but the inspiration had hit him when the colony plane landed in Dallas. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He would be safer if he flew commercial rather than the Lalibela Colony jet. At the airport, faced with the massive panel of worldwide flight destinations, Johnny had tried to make himself buy a ticket for Nigeria to be with Caitlin and the others, his new family.
But Johnny had never been able to make peace with hiring somebody else to do it. Unlike his new Lalibela Brothers, he couldn’t live with hiding. Mark Christian, his alias, had boarded nonstop North American Airlines flight 999 for Nogales.
Johnny stared at the time stamp in the corner of the CNN screen and its slowly shifting numbers. The wedding had started five minutes ago.
Johnny rested his head on the flimsy pillow he’d been handed as an early-morning passenger, but leaning against the window only made the engine noise more unbearable. If pacing the aisle wouldn’t bring attention to him, Johnny would have been on his feet. Had it always been this hard to sit still, or was it because of the Blood?
On a plane bound for Nogales, any of his neighbors might be agents. Johnny had cut off the crown of minidreads people knew from his photos, so his only costume was short hair, a thin mustache, and nerdy black-frame glasses. Malcolm X glasses.
A flight attendant, a middle-aged black woman with broad hips, leaned over to offer Johnny a mimosa from a silver tray. Johnny stared at her swinging necklace, a garnet teardrop that looked like blood. Johnny only shook his head and waited for her to move on.
He wished he could risk calling his parents. He could barely remember their voices.
Johnny wasn’t supposed to be using a cell phone, his usual ruse, so he tried to speak softly enough that his neighbor, a heavy man in a too-tight sports jacket, wouldn’t hear him.
“What’s up?” Johnny said under his breath to his radio, toward his pillow. He couldn’t pull off a casual tone, biting the words. Talking to Caitlin was all he had.
“Nothing yet,” Caitlin said, always on standby. “But it’s jammed solid, so it’s still on. Maybe it hasn’t started.” Johnny had his own access to the Nogales sat photos on his wristphone, but he didn’t want his eyes on that structure even through a satellite. Until the gunshot, Johnny didn’t want his name to be whispered anywhere near him.
Maybe they weren’t getting married in the tower. Maybe that was it.
“Any visual?” Johnny said.
“I’ve tried every angle,” Caitlin said. “Same problem.”
Too many shadows. Johnny tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs were locked up.
“How you doing?” Caitlin said.
“Not real good.”
Caitlin sighed. “Why are you on that plane again?”
So I can do it myself if I have to, he thought. But Caitlin already knew why he would be landing in Nogales in an hour. He’d timed his flight so that if something had happened to Fana, he would be there for her.
“You’ll know when I know,” Caitlin said. “Good luck, Johnny.”
“Thanks,” Johnny said, but luck was only the beginning of what he needed.
Once the lighted sign above him freed him to unfasten his seat belt, Johnny got up to go to the bathroom, mostly because he needed to walk. Johnny hadn’t seen any initiates in regalia on the plane, but he could tell from their faces that most of the passengers were pilgrims. Johnny remembered chatter from commercial flights, people talking to one another, or at least reading, but the passengers bound for Nogales sat with straight backs and flushed, thoughtful faces, as if the plane were taking them to the shores of the New World. They were old women, young men, parents, teenagers, black, white, Latino, all of them ready to have someone they could believe in.
He isn’t the one, Johnny thought. But if you keep looking, you’ll find the way.
The curtain between the cabins hung near the bathroom, and Johnny’s glimpse to the coach cabin made him freeze and look again. Did he know that beard?
In the rear of the plane, the passenger staring at Johnny looked like Mahmoud.
“Dammit.”
Raul hadn’t spoken a word to Martha in an hour, as silent as their radios. He had sunk into the details around them, floating on adrenaline. His ear caught every pebble rolling down the hill, every breeze in the leaves, every distant car horn. That was the thing he and Martha never needed to say: they felt alive only when they were disappearing into a mission. There was no other feeling like it, except Glow.
“Goddammit,” Raul said, his second word in an hour. His finger was getting itchy.
“Easy,” Martha said.
When the groom had first stepped
out on the tower platform, he’d stood in Raul’s sight like he was posing for a photo. But Raul had forgotten he was so young, or he’d thought the pictures he’d seen were older. The kid was only eighteen or nineteen. Most soldiers were kids, but his surprise at the groom’s youth cost half a second. Raul had lost his perfect shot when the kid shifted left to start waving to the crowd.
Raul and the kid were dancing now.
Whenever Martha helped Raul lock on, the kid bobbed or artfully blended against someone else’s profile. The SOB planted himself behind a column and lingered out of range forever, taunting Raul with the white fabric of his jacket on his gilded shoulder.
For the first two minutes, maybe three, Raul thought the kid was lucky. Really lucky.
But after six minutes, Raul was remembering his cousin Andres’s mumbo jumbo about Tres Ojos, Three Eyes. How the kid claimed to be an immortal, and you should never think his name. A worm of fear ate away at Raul’s reasons for being in Nogales sweating in a ghillie suit. He imagined being forced to watch Martha nailed between trees, hanging like a scarecrow, an image so vivid it was like a memory. His mind was as itchy as his finger.
Time to turn on his jukebox.
An old Lynyrd Skynyrd tune revved itself in Raul’s mind, “Gimme Three Steps,” a dose of southern-fried inspiration. Raul needed the kid to walk three steps away from the column. He and Martha needed only three steps to stay out of the dragon’s mouth. Gimme Three Steps, God.
The bride and groom lined up at the altar, and the kid offered Raul the back of his head.
Raul’s beautiful postcard was in focus again.
“Ready?” Martha said. “Send it.”
Raul never heard her. He had already pulled the trigger.
Thirty-nine
We are witnessing the union between Michel Tamirat Gallo and Fana Beatrice Wolde: they have chosen each other today. Teka’s voice guided Fana and Michel back to the tower when their thoughts tried to run away with them.
My Soul to Take Page 36
