“Are you ready to meet?”
“It’s time already?” Mark glanced at his watch and scowled. Time was always sprinting too fast and too far ahead of him, and lately it seemed time had lengthened its lead.
“Yep.” Ben tapped his watch with his pinky finger.
Why did the kid do that? Made him look so metro.
“Three p.m. on the button.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
Ben turned to go.
“Wait, why are you smiling?”
“I’ll tell you when we meet. You’re going to love it.”
“Tell me now.” Mark slid out of his chair, sauntered around the end of his desk, and leaned back against it.
“It can wait. I’ll be back in ten.”
“I’m ready now.”
Ben smirked, so slightly Mark almost missed it.
“Have you studied the local news feeds from around the country yet?” Ben pushed his dark red hair off his forehead, which flopped back down a moment later.
“No, I pay you to look at it for me.” Mark folded his arms.
“Ah yes, that’s right. I’ll be back in three minutes. I might have missed a story or two.”
Passive-aggressive little snot. He hated passive-aggressive behavior. Straight aggressive worked faster and kept people in their places more effectively. When he shot people, at least he had the courage to shoot them in the chest.
“Ben, what do you think you’re doing? Do you think God condones that attitude?”
“What attitude?”
“Cut it. We both know what you’re pitching me and it won’t fly. If you want to be sitting where I am someday, you have to submit to my authority. Got it? Not just your actions—your attitude. Are we clear, or do you need to start looking for another job right now?”
“I’m sorry, Mark. You’re right. I totally get it. Forgive me.”
Grace. He needed it himself. So he needed to give it. Even when his emotions screamed to do the opposite. Breathe deep. Offer grace, c’mon.
“Done. It’s over, forgiven, forgotten.” Mark clasped his hands behind his head. “Now talk. Tell me about this story.”
Ben set a printout of a news story onto Mark’s desk. It featured a picture of a young blond boy with what must be his parents on either side. The headline read, Boy Cured of Asthma. Family Says Miracle.
“So what?” Mark pushed the paper back at Ben. “God still heals people these days.”
“I believe He does as well. But when the healing comes from involvement with a certain type of inanimate object I believe you have an absorbing fascination with, it makes the whole scenario much more interesting.”
Mark’s pulse spiked. “If you’re grinding my gears—”
“I’m not.” Ben shook his head and tapped the paper. “I’m betting the chair that kid sat in before he got healed was a chair you’re extremely familiar with.”
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.” Ben tapped the article again. “It was an antiques store.”
Mark leaned forward and read the entire article, raked his fingers through his hair, and said more to himself than Ben, “So this mom and her son wander into an antiques store, the boy had an asthma attack, the kid sits in a chair, and four hours later he’s healed.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Where is the store?”
“The article didn’t give the name of the store.”
“Yes, I know.” Mark smacked the article with the back of his hand. “I can read. But the article is out of Colorado Springs, right?”
“So you want me to—?”
“Get on a plane tonight. Fly out there and find the store. Then charm the owner and find out everything you can about this chair.”
“And you’d like me to do it yesterday.”
“Precisely.”
Ben turned to go. “Anything else?”
“Nope.” Mark rubbed his mouth. “Wait.” He went to his desk and slid open the top drawer. “I’m booked tomorrow night, so I can’t use these.” He handed Ben two tickets to the OneRepublic concert.
“Are you serious?” Ben’s face spread into a grin. “I love these guys.”
“I know.” Mark patted him on the shoulder. “Enjoy.”
Mark stood at his office window and stared at the unsightly souls trudging up and down the sidewalk in front of his building. Most of them had no awareness of the eternal. No realization that immortality was all around them. That certain inanimate objects could set them free.
If it really was the chair, he’d need to move fast.
Yes, the legend was obscure. The odds of the store owner knowing what he had, if it truly was the chair, had to be close to zero. But there might be others fascinated enough to watch the tabloids and the news and would be ready to move almost as fast as he was.
He smiled. With any luck, Ben should be able to grab the thing for a few hundred bucks and have the chair sitting in his office by tomorrow afternoon.
This could be it. With the chair he could finally slay the beast forever.
CHAPTER 12
Corin drove toward Tori’s house trying to decide whether to tell her about the chair healing Brittan. Maybe he should, maybe he shouldn’t. And not because she was down on Christianity. But because part of him deep down wanted to believe the chair could heal, and talking about it made the belief grow. Then when an inevitable rational explanation for Brittan’s healing surfaced, he’d be left with another crystal hope for his brother dashed into tiny fragments.
He pulled onto the freeway, shifted into fourth gear, and glanced at his watch. Why did she have to live so far outside of town? Why did he have to be such a bad judge of time?
Corin rang Tori’s doorbell at 6:10. Ten minutes, only ten minutes.
She flung the door open and frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Why?”
“Only twelve minutes late, something has to be wrong.”
“Ten.”
“Twelve.” Tori tapped her watch. “But twelve signals improvement. Won’t you come in?”
Corin offered her what he hoped was a plastic smile and trudged over the threshold into her entryway.
Tori brushed past him into the kitchen. “Would you like some wine?”
“No thanks.”
“Really?”
“If I’m going to figure out what’s going on, I gotta keep my head clear.”
“Ah, one of those days. In one word how would you describe it?” She called out from the kitchen.
Should he tell her? “Disturbing.”
“That sounds interesting. Would you like to talk about it?” Tori walked back in with a glass of dark red, the rest of the corked bottle under her arm. “You don’t mind if I have a glass without you, do you?”
Corin shook his head and tried to decide if he wanted to talk. Did he? Yes. Besides, since he knew little about Christianity and Tori did, she might be able to spill some rays of sunshine on what had happened to young Brittan Gibson.
They stepped outside onto Tori’s covered porch and settled into the two Adirondack chairs nestled in the far right corner.
Corin stared at Cheyenne Mountain in the distance and let the tranquil image of the setting sun sink into his shoulders. “It’s peaceful out here.”
“So it’s worth the long drive to get here?”
Corin smiled and nodded. He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss.
She toasted him, then flicked the edge of her glass with her fingernail. The ching filled the cool early evening air. “So are you ready to give me your definition of disturbing?” Tori crossed both her legs, took a sip of her wine, and leaned forward.
Corin continued to stare at the jagged peaks to the west. “If Jesus made an object d
uring the years He was doing the carpenter thing, would it be possible for it to have healing powers?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Are we talking Indiana Jones here or real life?”
“Real life.”
“How would I know?”
“You told me you did the church thing all the way through high school. I thought you would know if religious artifacts had healing powers.”
“Sure!” She laughed. “Ask me anything you want to know. And don’t forget, I know all about UFOs too.”
“I’m serious.”
“That kind of stuff is for guys making movies, not kids traipsing in and out of Sunday school. Can we move on to other subjects?”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to talk religion.”
“Why?”
“I told you already, religion was my parents’ thing, not mine. When I left for college I left it too. I’m not into talking about church or God’s love or Jesus or any of that stuff.”
“I’m not talking about church or God; I’m talking about whether religious objects somehow have some kind of super powers.”
“Real life isn’t like those comic books you love so much.”
“I realize that. It’s why I’m trying to have a conversation with you about it so I can learn something.”
“Fine.” Tori flopped back in her seat. “Let’s talk about the chair that old lady dumped in your store a few days ago.”
“She’s not old.”
“I thought you said she was in her seventies.”
“She’s elderly, not old.”
Tori laughed. “Sorry. The chair the elderly lady said was made by Jesus.”
“She didn’t say it was made by Jesus. She implied it. You’re the one who—”
“Whatever.”
Talking about God turned Tori into the ice queen. Why? “So if Jesus did make this chair, could it heal a little boy?”
Tori leaned forward again, a frown etched into her forehead. “Did someone get healed?”
Corin pulled the Internet article on Brittan out of his back pocket. “Did you see that story about the kid who was cured of asthma?”
“No.”
Corin handed her the article.
She uncrossed her legs and took small sips of wine as she read the paper. When she finished the story, she set it on the armrest of her chair and smoothed it out with her palm. “What a joke.”
“What?”
“Are you saying you actually believe your chair healed this kid?” Tori leaned back again and folded her arms.
Corin waggled his head back and forth. “I’m saying it might be possible.”
“You’re serious.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“A few hours before the supposed miracle hit, he was in my store. He fell asleep in it. So maybe it healed him.”
“So you’re saying catching a few winks in that chair helped get rid of his asthma?”
“I don’t know; I’m just exploring the idea.”
“Do you think if I fell asleep in it thinking about my feet, I wouldn’t get any more ingrown toenails?”
“I’m serious, Tori. I think the chair has something to do with his getting cured.”
“Okay.”
“Answer me, from what you know, do religions believe artifacts like this chair have healing powers?”
Tori took another sip and stayed silent. The scowl that had taken up residence since they started talking about the chair shifted into sadness.
“You all right?”
“I’m good.”
“So do they?”
Tori stared into her glass, her lips pressed together.
Corin stood and walked to the end of Tori’s porch, tapping his fingers on the railing as he moved. “Okay, I get it. No talk. Listen, don’t worry about it. I can start Googling this stuff. I just figured you might know something about it since you grew up in the church.”
Tori ran her fingers through her black hair and tugged on the ends. “Yes, there’s a bunch of people who think religious objects have miracle powers.”
“Like?”
“Haven’t you seen those pieces of toast where Mary shows up in them? Or Jesus appears in a piece of avocado?”
“Are we going to talk about this or not?”
“I’m serious. People think that.”
“I was hoping for something a little more substantial than food.”
Tori pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail. “Yes, there are serious stories about healings being tied into religious artifacts.”
“Like?”
“In ancient days up through the Middle Ages, most Christians believed amulets or blessed objects had healing powers. At times Christians used the Bible like a talisman in desperate situations, like when someone was dying. They’d put it under the bed, thinking it would heal the person.”
“Anything else?”
“The Shroud of Turin. People claimed just looking at it had cured them.” Tori stood and pointed at his stomach. “Do you have any room in there for some Brie and crackers?”
“Sure, love it.”
Tori kissed Corin’s cheek and scuttled into the house.
Hot . . . cold. Doesn’t want to talk about it, then willing to talk about it. Then prickle city again. What did she have against religion? Those kind of prickles didn’t come from nowhere. The more someone railed against something, the greater the odds that the something burned them at one time. What scars of religion did Tori carry under her usually perky personality?
She returned with the cheese and crackers. “I have a question about your healing chair.” The sadness had been replaced by a curiosity, a longing in her eyes for something.
“Okay.”
“Have you sat in it yet?”
“Yes.”
“Did it heal you?” Her eyes made him imagine her as a little girl in a pretty dress, traipsing off to Sunday school.
“The only injuries I’ve ever gotten are minor bumps and bruises, and I’ve never had a chronic illness, so I’m not sure what it would heal me of.”
“What were you thinking you wanted to be healed of when you sat in it?”
“You should do that?”
“I’ll bet if you ask that Brittan kid, he’d say he was wishing he could be healed of his asthma when he was sitting in your chair.” Tori brushed her hair back from her face. “That’s what happened in the Bible. I remember there were these guys who begged Jesus to stop as He walked down the road, and He turned to them and said, ‘What do you want?’ and they said, ‘We want to see.’ So it makes sense that you should know what you want to be healed off when you sit in the chair. You need to believe it’s going to happen.”
He smiled. “It almost makes me wish I had something to be healed so I could test the chair that way on myself.”
Tori arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
“Do you want to elaborate?”
She shrugged. “No.”
“Please elaborate.”
“Well, who’s to say the chair can’t work on mental conditions as well as physical?”
He smirked at her. “You’re saying I’m mental?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
Tori took his hands. “If I’m setting my feet on Fantasy Island for a moment, yes, I would love to think your sitting in a chair or lying on a bed or swinging from a rope would help rid you of some of those fears swirling around in your conscious and subconscious mind. Wouldn’t you?”
“I told you about those?”
“Yep.”
Corin popped a piece of Brie into his mouth and watched a Flicker
dart back and forth between two limber pine trees.
Yes. He would like to be healed. More than she could imagine.
But Brittan’s healing was physical, not emotional.
Tomorrow he’d call a few local churches. See if they knew anything. Also, do a little Internet research on the healing powers of religious artifacts as well as what the Bible said about healing.
And maybe he’d take another ride in the chair.
CHAPTER 13
A rap on the door of Mark Jefferies’s den made him jerk.
“Hey, honey, dinner is almost ready.” Mark’s wife stood in the doorway smiling, her black hair cascading over her shoulders.
“How soon is soon? Can you give it to me in minutes, please?”
Irritation flitted across her features. Mark thought about pointing it out, then decided to ignore it. Give her grace. Grace was always a good choice.
“Ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Which one?” Mark turned back to his computer. “Ten or fifteen?”
“Fifteen.”
“Perfect. Thanks.” He looked up and winked at her. “You’re awesome.”
She smiled and turned to go.
“Hey, I almost forgot.” Mark leaned back, hands cocked behind his head. “Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue should be hitting our mailbox in the next few days. I don’t need that garbage filling my brain.”
“True.”
“So I need you to make sure you pick up the mail for the rest of this week, and when it gets here, burn it or toss it, whatever.”
“A lot of men would take that mag—”
“I’m not a lot of men.” Mark picked up his remote, turned on the TV, flipped to ESPN, and smiled.
“I’m grateful.” She walked over to Mark and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll keep an eye out for it.”
“And burn it.”
“Don’t worry; you’ll never see it.”
“Thanks, gal pal.”
AT MIDNIGHT, MARK woke, slipped out of bed, and wandered into his study. He glanced at the shelves packed with books from the past five centuries, then wandered over to his black leather chair, sat, and flicked on the lamp sitting on the end table next to the chair. The warm light fell on the small book sitting next to the lamp illuminating its worn brown leather cover. Mark picked it up and ran his finger along its surface.
Jim Rubart Trilogy Page 70
