by David Beers
I’m sorry, she thought. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know. It wasn’t your fault and I have to keep telling myself that it wasn’t my fault either. You were lost and when I understood the truth, what choice did I have?
And then, another side of her spoke up, the one from which all her guilt and self-loathing sprang from. You could have told him the truth you were shown.
No. David wouldn’t have listened. Once the Unformed held someone in Its hand, there wasn’t any escape; and that’s what Veritros had come to realize. It’s why Rebecca ultimately decided he had to die.
What about Veritros then? If that’s true, why was she different?
Rebecca tried pushing the thought from her mind. She was different because she wasn’t David. She was different because she didn’t grow up beaten and bullied, watching her parents gunned down. She was different.
Only one question mattered: Was it worth it?
The destroyer of everything she loved, Rebecca didn’t have an answer. The world had been gained, but her soul no longer belonged to her.
Without knowing it, Rhett was asking himself the same question, though he felt extreme guilt even considering it.
Was it worth it?
Rhett felt no pain, and for that, he was glad. David had tortured people and Rhett had watched, but it wasn’t something either of them enjoyed. It was done for a simple reason: David had needed something, and torture had been the most efficient method of getting it.
Now, though, Rhett was receiving first hand knowledge that certain people did enjoy it—the First Priest being the greatest example.
Rhett’s torture wasn’t physical, which was something he hadn’t considered before. David’s exploits had always been physical, using his power to break people who dared defy him. He hadn’t had the patience or time for this mental aspect.
Which was what Rhett now faced.
Because no matter what time of day it was, he could look up and see Christine. Whether he turned to his left or right, or only stared straight ahead, the wall recognized his face and showed her to him.
The First Priest had let him down from the wall, but not Christine. She still hung, almost like the man named Jesus had—though without spikes through her hands and feet.
And that’s when the question came to Rhett, whenever he looked up at her.
She slept much of the time, which Rhett appreciated. Perhaps in sleep, she couldn’t feel what they were doing to her. Though, given their method of torture, Rhett doubted she could do much else.
Three tubes were attached to Christine. One at her neck, one just below her rib cage, and finally one connected to her calf. Thin things that looked almost painless hanging from her body.
Her blood filled them constantly. A slow drip, to be sure, but continuous. She was being used as a blood bank, and as her body futilely tried to refill its supply, the True Faith took it from her. They had drained enough to make her weak and sick, but not enough to kill her. They kept her in some kind of half-life, and no matter how much Rhett pleaded, the First Priest wouldn’t stop.
“Why?” Rhett had asked. “Why not just use her nanotech to diagnose her blood?”
The First Priest had smiled. “We can do a lot more with it once it’s out of her body. I didn’t know that at first.”
Was it worth it?
Did Christine think it was? Hanging on the wall with her best hope being that they would finally kill her? Had following David been worth it for Christine?
And now, Rhett was forced to watch while continuing to divulge everything he knew about David—all in hopes that they wouldn’t inflict more pain on Christine.
When David was alive, Rhett would have done anything … even kill the woman he now watched suffer. He might have hated it, questioned it, but in the end, he would have done as commanded. The Prophet. The key that would free everyone.
Dead, though, and now Rhett asked himself if any of it had been worth it. A false Prophet. An imposter.
The words stung Rhett’s mind like hornets flying around inside his skull, frightened and angry. David wasn’t false, nor an imposter. His damned sister had traded him … and for what?
Another question Rhett couldn’t answer. What had Rebecca gained, because everyone else had lost everything. Did she gain that? Everything?
Had it been worth it, to know the man who said life could be different, though in the end he’d been wrong?
Forty-Six
The drone had a front and backseat. Daniel chose the back on the right side, while the psychopath sat in the front left. There wasn’t a driver or passenger side in the typical sense, as the drone would fly itself—still, Daniel thought it interesting that the man didn’t care where Daniel was. Behind or next to him, it didn’t concern the psychopath.
You should remember that, too. He’s not concerned because he doesn’t see you as a threat. You’re weak to him, and he’s probably right. To survive this, you’re going to need a significant advantage over him. You don’t have one yet.
The drone was heading to the One Path, at least from what Daniel knew. He realized quickly that he couldn’t actually be sure of anything, and would have to trust this psychopath some. Though, it really wasn’t the psychopath he trusted, but the psychopath’s desire to see Nicki. That drove him, and Daniel thought it would continue doing so.
“How long?” he asked.
“Another 12 hours or so.”
“And what do we do when we get there? How are we going to find her? Stop with the bullshit and just tell me.”
The psychopath gave a slight smirk, though his lips didn’t reveal any teeth. He brought his hand up to his right temple and tapped on it twice with his index finger. “I’m like a hound dog. I can sniff her out.”
Daniel felt his stomach turn at the word sniff being used about his daughter. He could say something, but what would be the point? If Nicki and he were to live, he needed to understand this man. “How do you do it?”
The psychopath’s chair spun around slowly so that the two faced each other. “You keep asking me that. No one else has. I had a mentor once. He never asked. The Priests I serve, they never ask. Yet you keep on. Why?”
“Because it’s my daughter we’re after, and I want to know how you’re tracking her. Anything that concerns my daughter, I want to understand.”
The psychopath said nothing, his bony hands folded in his lap.
“Why don’t you want to tell me?” Daniel asked.
The psychopath remained quiet.
“Okay, then, why do you think no one else has asked?”
“I don’t think they want to know how I do it. Or at least, I don’t think anyone besides my mentor wants to know. My mentor obviously knew. He and I were very much alike.”
“He was insane, too?” Daniel said, the words flying from his mouth before he could silence them.
“That’s how you truly see me, isn’t it?”
Now Daniel said nothing.
“I suppose you would also think him crazy, too. A psychopath. I’m not too sure of the meaning of that word. I mean, I’ve heard it before, but I’ve never really considered it when thinking about myself. What’s your definition?”
“Whatever you are.”
The psychopath seemed to genuinely consider it, looking away and nodding ever so slightly as the words sunk into his mind. After a few moments, he looked back to Daniel. “I can tell you how I do it, if you want. I suppose now it doesn’t matter who knows what. I’ll be excommunicated for sure. Do you really want to know?”
Daniel nodded, though he didn’t feel as confident as he had minutes before.
“How old are you?” the psychopath asked.
“Fifty-two.”
“I’m 45, which is another reason why I decided to come along on this little adventure.”
And Daniel understood then. His eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly, dumbfounded as he looked at the man sitting across from him. “You have it …”
“Not for muc
h longer, though,” the psychopath said. “It’s weakening even now, has been for the past few years. Finding her isn’t as easy as it would have been five years ago, let alone ten. She’s the last one, and even if she wasn’t, I wouldn’t be able to do this much longer.” He looked away again, his face taking on a wistful appearance. “I’m going to be excommunicated, but I’m not sure what purpose my life would have once the sight is gone. I would continue serving God, but in what capacity? Back to construction? I’m not sure I could.”
“You son-of-a-bitch,” Daniel said, gripping the sides of his chair. “You killed your own kind. You killed people just like you, for being just like you. You used the sight to find them, and then what … what do you do to them?”
The psychopath’s eyes flicked to him, as if having forgotten he was there at all. “We’re an abomination, Daniel. I understand that. The Church has proclaimed it so. We’re a mistake that God never intended. Maybe part of me is even a worse abomination, because I can’t help liking what I do. I can’t help that I love it, but that doesn’t change the facts. Our kind has to die. We should never have existed in the first place.”
Daniel felt his heart thumping in his chest, could hear it in his ears. He gritted his teeth as he spoke. “What do you do to them?”
“I can show you that, too, if you’d like. I can’t do everything your daughter can, but I’ve always been pretty strong with it. Do you want to see?” Glee radiated through his face and voice.
Daniel saw too late what was about to happen, though he tried fighting it. He stood, making it halfway up before the psychopath was on top of him.
He forced Daniel back down into the chair, one hand on his throat, and the other on top of his head. Spit flew from Daniel’s mouth and his fist swung upward, trying to break the man’s face. He managed to hit him once, the psychopath’s head snapping backwards, but only for a second.
Daniel swung again, but his hand never connected. It paused midway, and then fell back to the chair.
Daniel’s eyes rolled back in his head, and after thinking for years and years that he understood the sight, he realized there were uses he hadn’t considered.
Jackson Carriage was 28 years old. Daniel Sesam knew his name now, knew his age too. He saw a lot about the man, more than he wanted, and realized there was more to come.
He stood alone in a vast yard. It was farmland, and a farmhouse in front of him. In the distance, to the right of the home, cows grazed—none looking up at the stranger before them. People came and people went, but the important thing to them was right in front of their faces. Perhaps those cows had reached enlightenment.
Jackson hadn’t yet, though, but at 28, he hoped he might find it inside this house. He wore a suit with a tie, and carried a briefcase. His shoes were polished to a superb shine, reflecting the sunlight above. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, then used it to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Summertime and hot, Jackson’s mentor hadn’t understood why he insisted in going out to the farmhouse like this. That was okay. Jackson didn’t need his mentor’s permission to do it, nor his understanding. He was past that part in his apprenticeship, able to do as he wished now.
His mentor, Brent, had said something the other day that made Jackson think this approach would be best.
“We’re running out of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Twenty years ago,” Brent said, “it seemed I was hunting a different one every month. Now, you’ll go months with no work. The only reason we brought you on at all is because of this damned cancer eating me up. Otherwise, there simply isn’t enough work for both of us.”
And that was true. Brent was in an infirmary right now, getting his treatments, but if he’d been in the field, there wouldn’t be any need for Jackson—because, they were running out of people who possessed the sight. Which was why Jackson stood dressed as he was, holding a suitcase and looking just as pleasant as pie.
He wanted these farmers to think he was a traveling salesman. Something right out of Pre-Reformation time. They kept an idyllic looking farm here, why couldn’t he add to that idealism? Jackson walked up the long driveway, doing his best to keep his eyes off the front door. He could feel the boy inside; it was like a pulse inside his mind, and the closer he drew to the house, the harder it beat.
He reached the porch, climbed up the few stairs, pulled back the screen door, and knocked.
Jackson wiped the sweat from his brow once more as he waited, making sure to place the handkerchief back in his pocket when he heard steps inside.
The door opened and Jackson gave his warmest smile. He knew people felt something was off about him almost immediately, so he and Brent had worked on disarming them. The first thing was a smile. People trusted smiles, and Jackson was good at understanding when things were turning against him.
“Can I help you?” a woman asked.
“Ma’am, I’m George Franklin and I’m with the Catholic Church’s Bible Replenishment Group. Have you heard of us?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t believe I have. What is it?”
She was curious. You mention the Church and the Bible and people got interested. They couldn’t help it.
“Well, ma’am, let me show you my identification here, so you know I am who I say I am.”
Jackson bent over slightly and placed his large briefcase on the porch, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Jackson grabbed the ID from inside and handed it over.
“See, right there in front. George Franklin.”
Jackson had made the ID before leaving the Vatican. The Bible Replenishment Group actually existed, though Jackson had nothing to do with it.
“Yes, that’s you,” the woman said, glancing up from the ID. “How can I help you, Mr. Franklin?”
“Well, would you mind if we stepped inside first? The heat out here, well it’s beating me down, if I can be honest.”
He smiled again, seeing a moment’s hesitancy on the woman’s face. Jackson knew it was only her and her son here right now. Her husband had gone into town, which was 10 miles away. If he showed back up—which probably wouldn’t happen—Jackson would handle it.
“Sure,” she said, Jackson’s smile throwing her off. “You’re with the Church after all.”
Jackson nodded and the woman stepped aside, allowing him entrance.
The funny thing about all this? None of it was illegal. Jackson’s job—indeed his duty to God—was to enter this house and rid the world of the boy.
Jackson stepped inside, doing his best to keep from closing his eyes. The pulse was almost thumping inside him now. He could tell that the kid was upstairs, and depending on what the sight decided to do, he might know Jackson was downstairs—or know what Jackson was.
“Come on into the kitchen,” the woman said, leading the way. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, ma’am, that would be great,” Jackson said, keeping his eyes straight ahead, watching the woman’s back.
She went to the cabinet, took a glass out, and then poured water from the tap.
“Here you are,” she said, handing it to him. “Come over here and have a seat, then tell me about this Bible Replenishment business.”
He saw she was growing more and more disarmed, which was what he wanted. Jackson followed her to the table, taking a sip of his water. “Thank you. Tastes absolutely amazing,” he said, taking a chair at the table and putting his briefcase on the floor. He placed his water down and looked to the woman, still smiling. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Oh, goodness. I have no manners sometimes. My name is Mary Bellchick.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Bellchick,” Jackson said. “So, the Bible Replenishment Group is tasked with replacing Bibles in people’s houses, free of charge. We used to just mail these things out, but we’ve found it actually more cost efficient and people focused to actually go to individual houses. That way we can see
exactly how many Bibles a home needs, as well as anything else we might be able to help with.”
This was, of course, a lie, but Mary Bellchick would never know.
“Oh, well that sounds great,” she said. “When did this start? I remember getting a package with Bibles in it maybe two years ago?”
“That sounds about right,” Jackson said. “We began this new program the past year. Do you know how many Bibles your house needs right now? My records show you have a husband and a child. Are either of them home?”
“Terry is,” she said. “He’s my son, and I think he’s upstairs. Just give me a minute to grab him and see what condition his Bible is in, okay?”
“Certainly.”
She stood up and walked out of the kitchen. Jackson listened to her steps fade, his Church credentials lending him all the credibility needed to sit alone in her house. The pulse in his head had grown from thumping to pounding. It didn’t hurt—no, it felt indescribably good. Like an orgasm, though without the lust attached to it.
Jackson knew he didn’t have much time. He would have to act soon—the pounding would demand it.
Another minute or so passed, and he heard two pairs of feet walking toward him.
Jackson stood up, turning around just as the boy entered the kitchen. Jackson’s mouth opened slightly, unable to help it. The boy was beautiful, and each time Jackson saw someone with the sight, he forgot about all the rest. He forgot about anyone he’d ever met, and thought that he would never meet anyone else again. There was only this boy, and the rest of the world faded away.
“Mr. Franklin?” the woman asked. She was concerned; Jackson’s oddness coming back full force in her mind—and his subconscious heard it. A flare went up inside his head, telling him to pay attention, that he was blowing his cover. He ignored it. No flares—no bombs—could pull him from the boy.
Fourteen years old.
The sight in full bloom, just now taking him over. His parents didn’t know, neither of them had it—this stemmed from generations before. But Jackson saw it as clearly as he saw the mother standing next to him.
