Dark Light--Dawn

by Jon Land

  “You should have asked me,” Ben insisted, staring him in the eye. “Just like you should’ve asked me about this search of yours, for that rock. And just like going public with the company.”

  “We discussed that.”

  “It was more you informing me of your plans.”

  “Right, my plans to make us both richer than rich. And, as I recall, you didn’t argue much at the time. Hey, you want out, Ben. Just say the word.”

  “I want out. I’m saying the word.”

  At that, Ben watched Denton prance behind his desk, looking more through than at him, as if he wasn’t even there.

  “Okay,” Denton said, pretending to check his stack of accumulated mail, “bye. It was nice while it lasted.”

  Ben didn’t move. “That’s it?”

  “You were expecting a gold watch, a severance package, a kiss and a hug maybe?”

  “I still own half of this company. It’s not as simple as walking out the door and closing it behind me.”

  “Yes, it is, because you own squat.”

  Ben drew up even with Denton’s big desk. “You want to say that again?”

  “You heard me. And, on the chance you didn’t, check our original partnership agreement. See what you got for all your sweat equity.”

  “I don’t have to. Everything’s fifty-fifty, an even split.”

  Denton grinned, a poker player knowing he was holding the winning hand. “I’m talking about the fact that if you want to sell your shares, you can do so only to me. And, guess what? I’m not interested in buying them right now. Means you’re stuck, partner. In addition, any distribution or profits on an annual basis, according to our partnership agreement, is to be decided by management. And since I’m the CEO and Chairman of the Board of Directors, I’ve decided to distribute zilch, zero, nada. But I’m a nice guy, so you can keep drawing your salary, for as long as you’re alive. After you’re dead and buried, it’ll be like you were never in the building.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  Denton shook his head. “It was. It isn’t anymore. If you want to try and sue, go right ahead. But then the facts that our books don’t balance would inevitably come out and then we’d both get nothing. One of us goes down, or to jail, we both go. How’s that tune ring to you?”

  Ben felt something tugging at his insides. “So buy me out and let’s be done with it. Just because we share the same skyscraper doesn’t mean we have to share the same jail cell.”

  Denton stifled a laugh. “Buy you out? Why would I do that, why would I consider giving you even a penny with you knocking on death’s door?” He let his point sink in, watched the color drain from Ben Younger’s face before continuing. “You think I wouldn’t find out? You want me to buy you out? I’ll bury the goddamn check in your grave. I shouldn’t have to remind you that, according to our partnership agreement, in the event one of us dies, he grants full ownership to the other partner. Unless I buy you out, which I have no intention of doing, since I’ll own all your shares free and clear once you kick the bucket. Know what that means, partner? It means your crazy wife and, especially, your whack job of a son won’t get squat. I’d rather eat the money and shit it out, before letting him get his hands on anything. ‘Mad Max,’ I hear they call him in school, according to Vicky.”

  Ben’s phone buzzed with an incoming text message before he could respond.

  “I have to go,” Ben said, after reading it.

  “The hell with that.”

  Ben had already started for the door. “We can finish this later.”

  “Hey, as far as I’m concerned it’s finished already, and so are you. But I’ll tell you this, partner. You keep your piece of shit son away from my daughter. You think I don’t know where he gets his genes, that what’s killing you is probably the same thing that’s made him batshit crazy? You think that mark on his palm is the only thing he inherited from you? Man oh man, does nutso run in your family or what?”

  Ben held up his palm for Denton to see. “You’ve spent millions of dollars looking for the rock that did this. Maybe you should look in the mirror.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The Vatican, 2008

  “I have a new assignment for you, my friend,” Cardinal Josef Martenko told Father Pascal Jimenez, as they strolled through the Vatican gardens. “One I believe is a better fit for your area of expertise.”

  “My work spreading the word of Christ along the Horn of Africa disappoints you?”

  “No, Pascal. In fact, it’s exemplary. You’ve proven a wonderful emissary for the church and His teachings.”

  “That is my area of expertise, Your Eminence.”

  “Pascal, please. Do you recall what transpired in the aftermath of the eclipse?”

  Jimenez nodded. “How could I forget? I’d been wandering in the jungle for who knows how long when I finally made it back to the Catholic mission you were running.”

  “You’d been wandering for days.”

  “I don’t remember much of it, hardly anything.”

  “But you recognized that a miracle had saved your life, Pascal. How God made that heathen traitor spare you. How the sky darkened, and when the light returned, he was gone.”

  Your God is not here.

  Cambridge’s words, spoken with smug self-assurance, had haunted Jimenez ever since. As it turned out, though, God must’ve been there, and that fact had left an indelible impression on Jimenez, making him see the world in an entirely different light. His dazed trek through the jungle that followed ended when he collapsed at then Father Martenko’s feet, dreaming in his fugue state of the priest framed by an ocean of light extending a hand down to show him a new way. In that moment, Pascal Jimenez had glimpsed his future, and for the last fourteen years had served the church to the best of his ability, never letting his own experience with God stray too far.

  Jimenez watched Martenko’s flat expression grow reflective, even nostalgic, his robes billowing in the stiff breeze, casting the illusion that he was floating rather than walking. “You described it all for me, once you regained consciousness. You told me you wanted to give yourself to the church, that it was the only outlet for your newfound faith. And who could blame you after what you’d experienced? And yet you chose Africa for your posting. You think I didn’t know why?”

  “I know you did.”

  “Because you thought your path might cross with that lunatic monster again.”

  “Because I wanted to protect others from him. Turn them to the graces of God, so they’d know how to fight the devil. I felt I owed that much to God, after He spared my life.”

  Martenko nodded, as if Jimenez had made his point for him. “And that mission has served you well, prepared you for the next stage of your service to Him and His holy church. These are difficult times for the world, Pascal.

  “There is so much violence taking place everywhere, on a scale unprecedented since the horrors of World War Two. With wars over religion breaking out and continuing everywhere, people’s faith is being put to the test, and they are searching more than ever, even groping at times, for something to believe in. That has led to an unprecedented rise in the reporting of very odd events or, as they are prematurely labeled, purported miracles. Unexplained phenomena the most faithful of our flock wish to leave at God’s door.”

  “So long as they come to God’s door, what does it matter what brought them there?”

  “Because they have come to Christ, hoping Christ will come to them. Better that faith be kept to achievable limits lest the church become a victim of their misplaced expectations. Indeed, we must manage those expectations, Pascal, control them before they create their own narrative.”

  “And where do I come in?”

  Cardinal Martenko, a lowly priest himself when they’d first met seventeen years before, stopped and turned to face Jimenez. “The Miracle Commission I oversee is woefully understaffed. I’d like you to come on board as the chief investigator, reporting directly to me.”


  Jimenez stiffened, gazing back as if wishing he could rewind the path they’d taken through the garden. “I’m happy in Africa, Your Eminence.”

  “The church has bigger plans for you, my friend, important plans.”

  Jimenez felt Martenko lay both hands on his shoulders. He wasn’t a strong man, nor a big one, but his hands held a strength and heaviness that had always been able to mold Jimenez in their grasp. He felt that happening now, felt himself bending to Martenko’s will.

  “You think it wasn’t God who brought you to my door all those years ago, Pascal? You think you weren’t delivered on to me for a reason? A scientist who had suddenly found God? We helped that man find his faith, salvage hope from a horrible experience, lend renewed purpose to his life. We took that man and made him a priest.” Martenko’s soft stare became pointed. “Now we need the scientist again. What better qualifications to investigate these proclaimed miracles and determine their efficacy? Who better qualified, and with more credibility, than a servant of God who is also a man of science?”

  “I haven’t been a man of science for many years, Your Eminence.”

  Martenko’s gaze narrowed, and then slowly widened again. “You’ve taught natives the principles of irrigation, food preservation, gotten them to accept inoculation from disease. Apparently you’ve never stopped being a man of science.”

  “I was speaking figuratively.”

  “So was I. Your skills are exactly what the church requires, Pascal. The world is changing. We never beat the media to the site of a purported miracle any longer—sometimes we even learn of them from the media. I’ll make sure your assignments are kept to areas where science is involved and an assessment based on your particular areas of expertise is required.” Cardinal Martenko paused briefly. “Do you trust me, Pascal?”

  “I owe you so much, Your Eminence, everything.”

  “Debt isn’t the same thing as trust, my friend.”

  “I trust you.”

  “Then you must trust I’m proposing this reassignment, this promotion, in keeping your best interests in mind as well. Your base of knowledge makes you a valuable asset for the Vatican in these difficult times, if utilized properly. When we debunk a miracle, it’s because we didn’t know enough, and on the rare occasions that we acknowledge one, we’re told we know too much. You represent the happy medium, possessing a rare credibility for someone in this position.” Martenko stopped again and squeezed Jimenez’s shoulders affectionately. “So, have I convinced you?”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “I told you, we’ll keep you away from areas where you’re more likely to revisit the past.”

  “I’m afraid of losing my faith, Your Eminence,” Jimenez elaborated. “It’s all I have now, and disproving miracles is no way to maintain it.”

  “And what if there were some miracles you weren’t expected to disprove, one especially so that requires immediate attention?”

  Jimenez leaned forward, his attention captured. “If this is the path you’ve chosen for me…”

  “It’s not me who’s chosen it for you, Pascal, it’s our heavenly Father Himself.”

  “In any event, I shall take it.”

  Martenko nodded, smiling tightly. “That’s good, because we have a private jet at Ciampino Airport waiting to take you to your first assignment.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Western Iraq, 2008

  The air smelled like blood for good reason, Mohammed al-Qadir thought, as he walked amid the aftermath of the ambush.

  Al-Qadir heard a moaning sound and moved to the far side of a toppled troop carrier where an American soldier missing a leg had crawled into the lee of the vehicle, the stench of the man’s blood adding to the soak of the smell in the air. The man looked at him, following his approach weakly with his eyes. Remaining silent when al-Qadir stood over him.

  Al-Qadir could feel death coming to take the American soldier, and knelt by the dying young man, feeling the life, the very essence, ebbing out of him. Felt around through his fatigue pants pockets until he found what all Western soldiers carried: pictures of their loved ones.

  He’d been waiting for the convoy at this spot along the hard-packed road that wound through the desert, stitching the desolate villages, towns, and cities together while providing a lifeline in the form of supplies and security. The IEDs, improvised explosive devices, had gone off both around the convoy and beneath the roadbed. Not all the trucks were hit, but enough were struck to send them spiraling into each other, kicking up huge plumes of dust and gravel. And when the plumes cleared, there were the horrible screams and the smell of blood that continued to thicken in the air, as al-Qadir’s men emerged to gun down the survivors offering further resistance. Gleefully massacring them.

  Al-Qadir watched his men then round up the survivors who’d surrendered to exploit as prisoners by beheading or burning them on camera. As one of the leaders of Al Qaeda in Iraq, he looked at this blessed moment as payback for the military surge that America had already proclaimed a smashing success. A violent response to the violence the Americans and the West in general had brought to this country.

  Al-Qadir stood back up over the one-legged American soldier who was slowly bleeding to death, holding the two pictures of the man’s family in either hand. Wife and kids in one, just the kids in the second. Plump cherubs with sweet faces and loving eyes.

  Al-Qadir looked back down at the American who had raised a shuddering hand into the air, as if to ask for the pictures back. Instead, al-Qadir dropped them onto the roadbed pooled with gasoline spilled from the trucks’ ruptured tanks. He watched the American grope for the snapshots, straining to grab hold but failing, since al-Qadir had placed them purposely mere inches out of the man’s grasp.

  “I know where my road leads now,” he said suddenly, addressing the dying soldier without having planned to. “And I want to thank you, thank all of you, for helping to show me the way. My destination isn’t a country or a place; it’s a fated place in the history I am determined to change. The road leads to your wife and children, who will be struck down brutally in the passage of time, just as you were here today.”

  The American launched a final, desperate push to reach the pictures, almost grasping them, before al-Qadir eased them aside with the toe of his boot.

  “I didn’t realize all of it until recently,” al-Qadir continued, “or what my fated role was to be. But your petulance, your arrogance, your invasion and surge has helped guide me the rest of the way toward fulfillment. I see now that we need not come to you, that you will continue coming to us, as the war our two sides are fighting sets the stage for the End Times.

  “Smell that?” al-Qadir continued after a brief pause. “It’s the stench of death and defeat and someday soon, your entire world will be rich with it.”

  The dying soldier kept clawing for the old, dog-eared snapshots and al-Qadir kept easing them away from his grasp, while always leaving them tantalizingly close.

  “You are blessed, truly blessed, to face the man who will visit the wrath of the one true God on mankind. That makes you a pioneer of sorts, the first of the infidels to venture down a road as figurative as it is literal, in your case anyway. Your reward for that is being spared the pain of what is to come.”

  Al-Qadir lit a match and shielded the flame from the wind with his sinewy frame that was knobby with muscle.

  “Now you must witness the pain of what it is to be, a pioneer once more.”

  Al-Qadir dropped the match directly atop the snapshots that had frayed even more under his boot. Watched the American flail for them one last time, before realizing that the flames consuming them were already following the line of gasoline toward him.

  Mohammed al-Qadir had already walked away when the American’s high-pitched, shrill screams started. They persisted for several moments, during which al-Qadir stepped back to watch the smoke rising over the remnants of the convoy. As the dying soldier’s screams reached their peak, he saw the smoke twisting aroun
d itself and seeming to thicken. Forming into something, terrible and wonderful at the same time. Al-Qadir thought he glimpsed a gaping mouth, eyes that were actually flames, and teeth formed by the light sneaking through. Something was coming to life, finding shape and purpose in the air and the blood and the despair of dying men.

  Al-Qadir reveled in the sight, awestruck in anticipation of what its final shape might be. Those flaming red eyes seeming to regard him for one blessed moment before the American’s screams began to fade, and whatever was forming faded with it.

  It was gone the moment they ended, just coarse black smoke before him again, that rose in diminishing clouds for the sky. But al-Qadir didn’t fret, because he knew something far larger, and more ominous, was forming even now, adding strength and sustenance with each life he took. He had no idea what it would look like once complete, or when that time would come exactly.

  Only that he would be there when it did.

  FIFTY-SIX

  New York City, 2008

  Ben Younger left his car in a red zone, checking the text message from his son Max one more time to make sure he had the address right. A flophouse on the lower West Side with a faded, washed-out marquee advertising rooms for rent by the hour.

  He opened the door to the SUV and started to climb out, only to be struck by a wave of dizziness. The world turned to black and white, all the color washed out of it, the scene beyond taking on the surreal feel of an old movie. His ability to follow motion too was affected, people moving in stops and starts, the moments lost between them even though his eyes stayed open. The worst symptoms had started three months back, just glimpses of those which lingered for increasingly longer durations, leaving him, inevitably, in the kind of cold sweat he felt starting to drench him now.

  Ben squeezed his eyes closed and tried to find a happy memory, a happy thought. Opened them after thirty seconds to find the color still washed from the world. When he closed them again, he tried to think of nothing, but his thoughts turned to Max anyway, what it meant for the boy’s health and future that he bore the identical mark on his palm.