Stealth Power

by Vikki Kestell

  Ugh.

  But inside? In my heart? I was in love. Not with Gus-Gus, but with the work, with the powerful art I was learning. I bristled under the discipline, but I loved the result.

  ***

  The following morning, I received a text—and it wasn’t from Zander. I blinked as I read it.

  Your shipment of 3 boxes from martialartsofamerica.com has been delivered.

  “What shipment?” I hadn’t ordered anything.

  Gemma Keyes. We ordered equipment for you. We charged the order to your Capital One card.

  “Nice of you to tell me,” I growled.

  You are welcome, Gemma Keyes.

  Clueless. Like Zander said, for all their brilliance, they were, on some levels, clueless.

  “Uh, okay.” I had to wait until nightfall, until the UPS store closed, to pick up my packages. While I fixed breakfast, I wondered what the mites had up their nano-sleeves.

  They ordered equipment for me?

  I was a little excited to see what the order might contain.

  Felt kinda like Christmas.

  ***

  Abe plopped into the wheelchair and grinned at Zander. “Aren’t we a pair? Yep. Matched bookends, what with our bruises an’ all.”

  The nurse lifted Abe’s feet onto the chair’s metal footplates and glanced up. “Are you the individual looking after Mr. Pickering for a bit? He’s going to be weak and unsteady for a while longer.”

  Zander nodded. “Yes; the doctor already told me. I’ll be in and out at Abe’s during the day and staying nights with him until he’s able to manage on his own.”

  She grinned. “Well, Mr. Pickering has a point. You two look like you got tossed into the same blender.” She did a final check on the room and placed the plastic bag of Abe’s belongings and medications in his lap.

  “That we did, after a manner of speaking,” Abe answered. He slanted a look toward Zander. “Any sightings of my next-door neighbor?”

  Zander glanced at the nurse before shaking his head.

  “All ready, Mr. Pickering?”

  “Ready to blow this popsicle stand? Been ready for two days!”

  The nurse folded her arms and stared at him. “Says the man who left the MICU only five days ago, the man who recovered from a traumatic brain injury—and quite miraculously, if the rumors are to be believed.”

  “Well, I believe in miracles, not rumors, Miss Danielle.”

  She smiled. “I do, too. So, let’s blow this popsicle stand, shall we?”

  She wheeled Abe to the elevator and out the main entrance, where Zander’s car was waiting. She and Zander helped Abe from the chair into the passenger seat. Zander latched the seatbelt across Abe’s chest.

  “Follow the doctor’s orders, Mr. Pickering. Don’t overdo it, or I expect we’ll be seeing each other again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Zander got in on the driver’s side and pulled away from the hospital. “You okay, Abe?”

  “Not as steady as I might want, but I’ll be fine. So, what I asked earlier. Anyone seen Mateo? I don’t fancy him being part of the welcome wagon when we get to my place.”

  “No one has seen or heard from Mateo. Gemma has been looking, but . . . no joy.”

  “No news is good news in my book!”

  “Abe, I had a little work done on your house yesterday.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Had a couple of guys from church replace your broken front door and install metal security doors and deadbolts, front and back.”

  Abe said nothing for a minute. Then he sighed. “Suppose that’s only right. If I’d had them installed same time as Gemma had hers put on, Mateo and his thugs couldn’t have kicked my door in. You and I wouldn’t have been laid up like we were.”

  “Won’t happen a second time, Abe.”

  “I thank you, Pastor Cruz.”

  “Abe, we are family. It’s just Zander.”

  Abe patted Zander’s shoulder. “Thank you, Zander. For everything.”

  They were companionably quiet a while before Abe added, “Need your help with something, son.”

  “Anything, Abe.”

  Abe nodded. “Need you to help me get healthy again. Strong. Whatever it takes.”

  Zander glanced over at his friend and back to the road. “Not going to let you overdo it, Abe.”

  “I’m countin’ on you to keep me in line but moving forward. Moving forward. Making progress.”

  “That works for me—of course you know I’m still recovering myself, right? So, no sparring matches, no hundred-pound bench presses, no chin-ups, no five-mile runs with forty-pound packs.”

  Abe chuckled. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

  “All right. Well, to start with, we’ll get you home and settled. Then I need to go into the office for a few hours. Tonight, after dinner, we’ll see how you’re doing, try a short walk around the cul-de-sac—if you aren’t too tired.”

  “I won’t be. I want that boy home with me, Zander.”

  ***

  For the first time in nearly two weeks, Zander let himself into the office wing of Downtown Community Church. The clock on his phone’s face read just after noon when he stopped in the secretary’s office doorway.

  “Hey, Mrs. Coyne. How are you doing?”

  “Pastor Zander! It’s so good to see you up and around.”

  “Thanks. I have a lot to catch up on, so I thought I’d come in for a few hours this afternoon.” The doctor had cleared him for “light activities” that put no stress on his mending bones. Light activities meant “no lifting” or going without the sling that strapped his casted arm to his chest to keep his cracked collarbone and ribs immobile for another week.

  “Please let me know if I can do anything for you?”

  “You’re a very kind woman, Mrs. Coyne.”

  “And you are too sweet! By the way, I don’t care what Izzy says about your bruises; I don’t think you look like an eggplant that fell off a truck.”

  Mrs. Coyne tried to hang on to her wide-eyed and innocent expression. She failed. Her mouth twitched and her body shook with repressed humor.

  “Mrs. Coyne, forget what I said about you being a kind woman.”

  When she snickered, Zander used his free arm to grab and hold his middle against the laughter bubbling up in his gut. “Mrs. Coyne, I think I’m gonna kill my sister.”

  “I can see the bulletin headline now: DCC Associate Pastor Murders Impudent Sibling. ‘She deserved it,’ Cruz insisted.”

  Mrs. Coyne didn’t try to hide her impish grin any longer; she and Zander laughed aloud at the same time.

  “Don’t, please! It hurts!” Zander left a giggling Mrs. Coyne and, while shaking his head and holding his sore ribs, he let himself into his office and propped the door open. He turned on his computer, logged in, got himself a glass of water, then sat down to go through a long list of unread emails.

  He clicked on an email from one of the counselors from youth camp—and yawned. Too many days of inactivity in the hospital—and under Izzy’s “care” at home—had resulted in lethargy.

  Time to get back into my routine. Start getting active again. Maybe a brisk walk after dinner with Abe will be a good start since I’m restricted from jogging for a couple more weeks.

  He finished his correspondence by around 2 p.m. and opened his Bible. He was appreciative of the volunteers who had taken his Sunday school class two weeks in a row, but he was itching to get back to it.

  Zander heard the melodic ding-dong as the door to the office wing opened and closed. Without paying much attention, he heard an indistinct feminine voice speaking to Mrs. Coyne.

  A moment later, “Pastor Cruz.”

  Zander’s head came up from the text he was studying.

  “You.”

  Genie Keyes loitered in the doorway to his office. “May I come in?”

  “As much as I deplore incivility, I’d rather you didn’t.”

  Genie arched one brow. “Yes, I supp
osed I’ve earned that.”

  “What is it you want?”

  Genie fixed her eyes on him. “What I want is Cushing’s head on a plate.”

  Zander sat back, wincing as he did.

  Genie noticed and looked closer, saw his fading bruises. “What happened to you? Get run over by a truck?”

  “Funny, but no. Um, Cushing, who?”

  Without invitation, Genie took the lone chair in front of Zander’s desk and crossed one shapely leg over the other. She sniffed as she inspected his office. “Could they have made this room any tinier? And it’s weird being in this building, this church again. It’s smaller than I remembered it.”

  Zander shrugged. “Again, who is Cushing? Should I feel sorry for her? Call in a warning to the police?”

  “I never said Cushing was a woman.”

  Zander stared at Genie. She stared back. “You just told a lie, Pastor Cruz. You know who Cushing is. She was the commando-in-chief over that botched raid on Gemma’s house.”

  Zander remained silent, but his eyes never left Genie.

  “Well, then, why don’t I tell you why I’m here, shall I?”

  “The short version, please.”

  “All right. You and I met a few weeks back and, sadly, got off to a rocky start. I was in town because Gemma’s neighbor, Mrs. Calderón, called me out of concern for Gemma. She said my sister was acting strangely. Said Gemma had lost her job and that I should check up on her.

  “Well, I did call Gemma, and I got the distinct impression that something was up. So, of course, like a good sister, I came back to this nasty little town to see for myself what was what.”

  “You’re the good sister now?”

  Genie’s expression shifted. Hardened. “Skip the sermonizing, Reverend Cruz. I took the time and expense to fly back to Albuquerque to check up on Gemma and never once saw her. When I went to her house, I saw you, but not her. I came back later in the evening hoping to find her home. Imagine my surprise. A full-on SWAT situation couldn’t have been any more dramatic.”

  “Yes, I saw when you arrived . . . when the soldiers, er, recognized you.” Zander managed to keep his mirth tamped down, but his mouth twitched.

  Genie scowled at him. “Yes, they mistook me for Gemma! Apparently my sweet, innocent twin is not nearly as sweet and innocent as she puts on.”

  She shifted gears without a pause. “And who was running the show that night? Who was giving the orders that evening? Why, General Cushing—whom you watched from that old man’s front porch.”

  Zander shrugged. “I’ll tell you what I told the agent who interviewed me. Abe Pickering is a long-time DCC member. He asked me to introduce myself to Gemma. I did. We talked a few times. End of story.”

  “I don’t think so. You were entirely too protective of her when we first met.”

  He shrugged again—and grimaced in discomfort. “Miss Keyes, er, Genie? I have been out of the office for nearly two weeks. Today is my first day back. I have a lot to catch up on, so if you don’t mind, get to your point?”

  “I told you. I want Cushing’s head on a platter.”

  “Cushing is the woman at the raid on Gemma’s house?”

  “Oh, stop trying to play me, Cruz. It won’t work.”

  “Why? Because you’re the evil twin?”

  “Gemma has painted me in that light to you.”

  “I don’t know if ‘painted’ is the right word. When she speaks of you, it’s obvious that she used to be afraid of you.”

  Genie opened her mouth to snipe back, then closed it on Zander’s last words. “Used to be afraid of me? You know her better than you admit to if she’s confided in you. And what does ‘used to be afraid’ mean, anyway? Gemma has been afraid her whole life. She’s weak. Passive. You expect me to believe she’s different now?”

  Zander lifted one brow. “I’m a good reader of people, Genie. It didn’t take me long to figure out that you made Gemma’s childhood a living nightmare. And no. Gemma is neither weak nor passive as you claim. The few times I’ve talked with her, she’s demonstrated strength and confidence—except, perhaps, when it comes to you.”

  Genie smirked and laughed low in her throat.

  Zander shook his head. She’s enjoying this, Lord. Please help me turn this conversation. Give me the right words?

  “It’s okay, Genie. I understand.”

  Genie blinked. “You understand what?”

  “That you’re broken. I even understand how you’re broken.”

  She snorted, but Zander kept at her. “Every person in the history of the world is broken. Some of us have broken genes that produce birth defects. Some of us are broken through our upbringings. Others are broken by the traumas of life.”

  Zander smiled, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Your feelings are broken, Genie.”

  She stared at him, her eyes cold and hard. “You’re mistaken. The fact is, I don’t have feelings.”

  “Oh, yes, you do. You have feelings—but they’re all messed up. You don’t feel love, but you do feel superiority over and disdain for others. Those are feelings.

  “You don’t feel empathy or compassion; however, you get excited and feel powerful when you cause someone pain. Those are feelings, too, Genie—but they are broken feelings. Wrong feelings. Deviant feelings—but feelings nonetheless.”

  “All right then, have it your way: I don’t have normal feelings. I could never, for example, love God or Jesus or sappy Christians.”

  “That’s because you can’t love anyone, Genie, not even yourself. The only reason you said you couldn’t love God or Jesus or Christians was to take the spotlight off your own deficiencies—off the truth that you are incapable of love. Do you hear that? The great, successful Genie Keyes—a failure at something? That’s right. You are incapable of love.

  “Love is kind. You aren’t kind even to yourself. Love is gentle, but you drive a steamroller. Love forgives—yet you pay others back in spades for even perceived slights. That’s why you’re here, right? To pay Cushing back. You don’t even love yourself. Oh, you are narcissistic, but that type of ‘self-love’ is really just self-centeredness parading on a grander scale than most people’s ordinary selfishness.”

  Genie quivered with rage. “Are you done? I came here to talk about Cushing, not receive a psychoanalysis.”

  “No, I’m not done, because when you leave my office, I want you to see God differently than you do now—in fact, I want you to see yourself differently. The first step in coming to terms with God is acknowledging who and what we are. That’s good news for you, Genie, because he isn’t asking for your ‘feelings.’ Rather, he is asking that you acknowledge your brokenness.”

  “Right—because your so-called god loves lording it over people.”

  “No, that’s what you love. The thing about God? He deserves to be worshipped, and yet he never forces himself on anyone. He asks for our freely given, freely chosen submission to his kingship.”

  She laughed. “See, you don’t know a thing. I’m a free spirit. I don’t submit to anyone or anything.”

  “No, Genie, that’s not true.” He left his rebuttal hanging, knowing she would not—could not—let his assertion go unchallenged.

  “Like I said, Pastor Cruz, you don’t know me.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but you aren’t any different than anyone else. You are not special or better than others; in fact, you are just like the most common of individuals—susceptible to the same sin as the rest of humanity. So, in that regard? Yes; I know you.

  “You say you’re a free spirit? Guess again. The Bible tells us that whatever controls us is our master—and we are its servant. You have ‘control issues,’ and haven’t figured out that those ‘control issues’ themselves are what control you.

  “You are unable to restrain your inner urges; instead, they dominate you. Oppress you. Put another way, you are subject to your impulses—that makes them your master and you their slave. You are a slave.”

 
“No! No one tells me what to do!”

  “Really? Then let’s examine your impulses and how they reveal your spiritual condition.”

  “Impulses and spiritual condition! Ha!” She mocked him; she scoffed. “One does not influence the other.”

  “On the contrary, they are directly related. One is the symptom, the other the cause. You, Genie, are defined by your impulses, by the deviant, broken desires that drive and control you. And when our desires control us? Run us? Manipulate and rule us? Well, that is the very definition of spiritual bondage.

  “Spiritually, you are defeated, Genie. You are subject to the master of this world—to Satan himself. He controls you and this fallen world. You are just his puppet. Whatever he tells you to do, you do it.”

  “I do what I like, what I choose!”

  “No, you do what you are told.”

  “You have no idea who I am or what I’ve done.”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  “You don’t know anything!”

  “I think I do. Let’s see, shall we? Gemma told me your parents died in a house fire when you girls were, what? Ten years old?”

  Genie’s face stiffened. “Nine.”

  “Nine years old. Only a child. Is that when you realized what you were? How aberrant you were?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Genie’s left hand strayed toward her ear and touched its lobe.

  Her gesture—the “tell” of a liar—saddened Zander as it confirmed what he suspected. “You set the fire that killed your parents, didn’t you, Genie? I wondered, you know, when Gemma told me how your folks died. Her account struck me as odd—how devastated she’d been but how unaffected she said you’d been. That’s because you killed your parents.”

  “Of course, I didn’t!” But her lip curled and lifted on one side hinting at just the ghost of a smile.

  “You’re pleased with yourself, but I’m not surprised you got away with it. Nine years old. Who’d suspect?”

  “I told you: I did not do it!” Genie’s mouth twitched, as though she wanted to disprove him, but her evil smile refused to allow another expression.