by Ted Dekker
Paula seemed slightly taken aback, but she smiled. “You like it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s called Lavender Lace. Sally gave it to me for my birthday.”
It was his mother’s perfume!
“Can you tell me which house she lives in?”
Steve and Paula looked at each other, clearly baffled.
“You don’t remember?” Steve asked. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m sorry, it’s just this . . . I get bad headaches . . . I’m trying out a new pain medication, and it’s making me . . .” He searched for the word.
“Loopy,” Kelly said.
“Loopy,” Carl said.
“Well, loopy or not, it’s good to have you home, Chaplain.” Steve pointed down the street. “Third house on the right. The white one.” Carl turned and started to walk.
Kelly thanked Steve and Paula—Something I should have done myself, Carl thought—and caught up to him.
“Hold on, Carl. Please.”
“What is it?”
She grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Just stop for a second. I realize this is important to you, but we have to be careful. You can’t be so obvious. We’ll be followed here. Kalman will stop at nothing to squeeze these people for information if he suspects that you’ve told them anything that could implicate him. We were here—that’s all. Nothing more.”
“Obvious? Why am I obvious?”
“For starters, you are acting loopy. This is nothing like the calculating killer you were trained to be. I don’t even know who you are anymore. I’m just asking you to be careful.”
“I was a chaplain,” Carl said. “Did I have faith?”
Kelly studied his eyes for a few moments. Her features softened, and she offered a consoling smile, touching his cheek with her thumb. “I’m sure you did. I’m sorry. Just try to be . . . normal.”
“I’m not normal—Agotha saw to that. I want to be normal. You know that’s all I want. But I don’t even know if my true self is normal.” He glanced back down the street and saw that Steve and Paula were at the door of their restaurant, watching them. Kelly had a point—Kalman could cause them some trouble.
“I can be normal for them, as normal as I can bring myself to be. But with my mother . . .”
With his mother he didn’t know what. He probably wouldn’t even recognize her.
Kelly took his hand in hers and turned him back toward his mother’s house.
“Come on,” she said. “Your mother is waiting.”
ENGLISHMAN WALKED the B concourse in Denver International Airport, wondering what it would be like to be the thin rail of a man who hurried just ahead of him. The man was late for a flight, judging by his periodic watch-check. Was he going home to his wife and children?
Was he flying to Boston for a meeting with powerful bankers the next morning?
Was he eager to catch a plane that would deliver him to his mistress in Dallas?
Was he going to die of leukemia in twenty years or get hit by a car in two days, or did he already have a terminal disease and not know it?
Why did this man even want to live? Didn’t he know that it would all end soon enough anyway? Didn’t he know that a billion people with two legs and two arms, full of vim and vigor just like him, had lived and died and were now just memories in a few people’s minds? Assuming they were lucky—most didn’t even survive as memories. They were simply gone.
The simple, terrible tragedy of life’s story was that it all ended on the last page. It didn’t matter what clichés or wonderful descriptions or clever words people used to tell their stories; the greatest certainty any person had was that it would be over in about four hundred pages or eighty years, depending on how you looked at it. Hallelujah, amen, you are dismissed.
Of course, there were those who believed in the afterlife. Englishman hated those people. Not because he thought that they were right, but because he knew that if by some small chance they were right, he would not be joining them in their new journey of bliss.
Englishman lost interest in the skinny man and entered the moving sidewalk, letting his eyes rove over the concourse.
Hundreds of people hurried to and fro or sat at the gates waiting for their planes. Tall ones, short ones, skinny ones, lots of fat ones, blond ones, brown ones, black ones, young ones, old ones. Meat, thousands and thousands of meat packages. And every one of them thought they were that one package that actually mattered.
Englishman could easily kill any one of them at this very moment and walk away to tell how their particular story ended.
This meant he actually had control over their stories. He could write the last chapter of their lives. The end. Hallelujah, amen, you are dismissed.
He could actually end a few dozen stories right now, at this moment, before the authorities managed to stop him.
Not catch him, mind you. Stop him.
Englishman wasn’t proud of his ability to control others by writing their final chapter. He was simply fascinated by it. The killing itself had long ago become rather tedious, but the power he possessed to end them made his mind buzz.
He crossed his arms, spread his legs, cocked his head all the way back, and closed his eyes.
No doubt dozens of people were staring at him at this moment, wondering why in the world the famous actor named Jude Law was passing through the Denver airport without an armed guard, drawing so much attention to himself by striking such a presumptuous pose.
Small minds.
Paradise, Colorado, was a five-hour drive from the airport. Six counting the slight detour to collect the weapons stashed at the safe house they’d prepared in Grand Junction. If his intel had informed him that the lovebirds had caught on to his very good plan, he would have flown to Grand Junction and driven from there. But the pair was clueless, so he had plenty of time. And Englishman preferred to drive. It offered more flexibility and was safer.
Without looking, Englishman knew precisely where the moving sidewalk ended. He stepped onto the carpet and took five full steps before opening his eyes.
Johnny Drake’s story was coming to an end.
27
Carl stood at the white house’s front door, staring through the screen at the small, octagonal crystalline window that revealed a fragmented image of the inside.
Fragmented like him.
“Go ahead,” Kelly said softly.
He lifted his hand, rapped on the screen door’s metal frame, then stepped back.
Hello, Sally.
Hello, Johnny.
Are you my mother?
No one came to the door.
“Maybe she’s not home,” Kelly said.
Carl was about to knock again when the latch rattled. The knob turned. The door swung in.
A woman stood behind the screen door. “Sorry for the wait, I was—”
She froze, eyes round. Carl’s heart pounded. He didn’t recognize her, but it could be because the screen impaired his view. She was his mother, had to be his mother, would be his mother. Somehow everything was going to be okay now.
“Johnny?” She lifted a hand to her mouth. “Johnny!”
He was Johnny and this was Sally. His mother.
“Hello, Mother.”
She flung the screen door open and rushed to him, throwing her arms around his neck. He staggered back a step and instinctively put his arms around her torso.
“Johnny, oh, Johnny! You’re alive! I was so worried.”
She kissed him on his cheek, then squeezed him tight and buried her face in his neck.
Carl, who knew he was Johnny, held her gently as she wept.
Are you my mother?
Surprisingly, he didn’t remember her as he’d expected to. She was wearing a different perfume—roses. She was beautiful and her tears were real and her eyes were a light brown, like his, but he couldn’t remember. He stood still, suddenly frightened.
Sally stepped back, took his face in both hands, and studied his features. “Look at you. Y
ou haven’t changed a bit.” Her eyes darted over his shoulders. “You’ve leaned out. Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
He could see the questions flooding her mind. One of them was probably why he wasn’t doing the things sons were supposed to do in reunions like this, whatever those were. Jumping up and down or whooping and hollering with joy? He could manage a handshake, no more than a cold handshake.
Carl stepped forward and hugged Sally rather awkwardly. “It’s good to be home,” he said.
She patted him on the back. “Come in, come in. Who’s your friend?”
“This is Kelly. She’s the woman that I’m in love with.”
Kelly looked surprised, then quickly blushed.
“My, we are full of surprises,” Sally said, smiling warmly. “Please, come in.”
They walked into the house. Brown carpet. Tan leather couch and love seat. Kitchen with yellow daisies on the wallpaper. A counter divided the kitchen from the eating area. The hall ran past three doors on its way to the back entrance. This was the house he’d grown up in?
He stared hard, intent on remembering. If he’d spent eighteen years in this house, the memories would be here, in the darkness somewhere. They had to be. Just there, beyond the black veil.
It occurred to Carl that he was in darkness. He’d entered his tunnel. At the end of the tunnel he saw a light. That light was what, his identity? His childhood?
Sally was saying something about cookies, but Carl’s mind was now running, running down the tunnel toward the light. He could hear his feet slapping on the wood floor. Hear his breathing, heavy in his pursuit.
The light seemed to be moving away from him. The farther and faster he ran, the farther the light moved.
His mother was calling his name.
Johnny?
Sally was crying out for him to rescue her. Rescue him, trapped in this tunnel.
Johnny!
“Where are you?” he cried.
KELLY WAS standing by the sofa table with Sally when Carl bolted down the hall. He ran to the first door and threw it open.
Sally watched him go, dumbstruck. “Johnny?”
“Where are you?” he cried.
“Johnny?”
“Where are you?”
He spun from the room, took a sharp right, and slid to a stop by the next door. Opened it. Stared. Slammed it shut.
“Where are you?”
Confusion laced Sally’s voice. “Johnny!”
Carl stumbled toward the last door, shrouded by shadows. He banged through and disappeared.
“What’s wrong?” The blood had suddenly left Sally’s face. “What’s he doing?”
“I think he’s looking for himself,” Kelly said.
“That’s his room. What’s . . . ? Is he okay?”
How could she explain the horrors that had brought Carl to this place? “No. No, he’s not okay, but I think he will be.”
No sound came from the bedroom.
“What’s he doing?” Sally asked again.
Carl suddenly appeared in the doorway to his bedroom and stared at them. He looked as though he might have seen an apparition intent on torturing his soul.
“Mom?”
“Johnny . . .” Sally’s voice was twisted with anguish.
Carl walked down the hall, eyes fixed on Sally. Something had changed. His eyes were large and streaming tears. The sight brought a painful knot to Kelly’s throat. How could she ever forgive herself for what she’d done to this man?
And yet, she was meant to walk this path with him. She’d known this would happen. Now that it really was happening, she wondered how she could have allowed herself to fall in love with him.
Johnny rushed toward them, blubbering like an open tap.
“Mom. I’m so scared.” The rest of his words were garbled by a gushing sob. He ran into Sally’s arms and hugged her with desperation. Kelly began to cry.
Mother and son were both blurting things now, but their words were stepping on one another, so she couldn’t make them out. Then she heard Carl say, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, please forgive me.” He was blaming himself for what Kelly had done.
Kelly turned from them, walked into the living room, and eased herself down into the love seat. This was her doing.
Every switch thrown by Agotha as she stood silently by.
Every needle that had pierced his flesh.
Every drug that had weakened his resolve.
Every treachery, every betrayal, every moment of loneliness that he’d endured out of misplaced love for her.
“No, no, no,” the mother kept crying. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything. Please, Johnny. Please, I love you. I love you.”
“I put you through so much pain,” Carl cried. “I can’t live with myself.”
“No, no, no. Stop it, you can’t talk like that. Whatever they did, it’s okay now. You’re home, Johnny. I’m here for you.”
Kelly covered her face with her hands, put her head back on the cushion behind her, and joined them in their sorrow.
“JOHNNY,” CARL said. “I want you to call me Johnny now.”
“Okay.” Kelly offered him a small smile. “Johnny.”
Something in Carl had broken. He was now Johnny even though he still felt like Carl.
He’d caught up to the light in his tunnel, passed through it, and stepped into a new world in which Sally was his mother. The room he’d run into was the room he’d grown up in, he could remember that with perfect clarity. This was his house. They’d spent an hour in the house, and he’d viewed each room a dozen times, desperately mining his memory for more, more.
He still couldn’t remember any details of what had happened during his childhood without being told, but when Sally told him, he did remember, however vaguely.
Did it matter? He’d found his mother. He was whatever she was.
Johnny stood up from the couch, walked over to where his mother was seated, and bent over and hugged her again. Then he returned to the couch, sat down, and swallowed a terrible knot in his windpipe.
“You’ve become very emotional,” Kelly said.
He couldn’t seem to stop the gushing.
“I’m still having a hard time believing all of this,” Sally said. “A year ago you were a chaplain in the army, stationed in Kuwait. Now you’re . . .”
Her voice trailed off. They hadn’t told her about his mission or the extent of his training. Only generalities that suggested why he was so different from the way she remembered him. She deserved that much. The rest would come in time. Johnny was afraid she might take Kelly’s head off if she knew the whole truth.
“I’m not an assassin,” Johnny said. “I haven’t killed anyone. I was only trained as an assassin.”
“What about your faith? You were a man of great faith—surely that hasn’t just disappeared.”
“I don’t know. I just learned who I was last night. I can’t. My mind’s still spinning.”
“How can the United States government make someone forget their own mother? It’s inhuman!”
“I remember you,” Johnny said, fighting emotion again. “I do remember you.” Although he wasn’t really sure he did. Perhaps he was forming a fact in his mind now rather than actually recalling her face.
“The training was extensive,” Kelly said. “And these people in Black Ops have developed ways of erasing a soldier’s identity, not only his memories. Johnny’s mind is much stronger than most, which makes his recovery even more difficult. Did Carl show any unusual . . . abilities when he was younger?”
“Johnny,” Johnny said. “Please call me Johnny.”
“Sorry. Johnny.”
Sally looked at him inquisitively. “Not that I can remember. Do you remember Project Showdown?”
Samuel had mentioned the name. Project Showdown still lives. But Johnny drew a blank. “No.”
“You can’t remember anything about it?”
“No, why? What’s P
roject Showdown?”
“Wow. Well, I don’t know where to begin, really.”
The phone rang shrilly. Sally ignored it.
“Do you remember the monastery up in the canyon?”
“No. I remember you and this house and what you’ve told me, that’s all.”
The answering machine kicked on after five rings. Sally’s voice. “You’ve reached the Drakes. Please leave a message.”
Drakes. Not Sally Drake, but the Drakes, as in more than one. She’d never given up on her son. It made Johnny want to hug her again.
“This is David Abraham. It’s critical that I reach you, Ms. Drake. Please call me immediately on my . . .”
Johnny didn’t wait for the rest. This was the old man from the hospital. Samuel’s father. He went for the phone and snatched it from the cradle as David repeated his number.
“Hello, this is Johnny.”
A pounding of machinery in the background filled a long pause.
“So you have gone home,” the voice said.
Johnny looked at Sally and Kelly. “Yes.”
“Thank goodness. How much do you remember?”
“I only remember who my mother is.”
“They’ll be coming for you. If I can find you, they’ll find you.”
“Yes, I know.”
“How many people besides your mother have you talked to?”
“Just Steve and Paula. The Smithers.”
“Good. Can you trust me?”
“Do I have a choice?” He wanted to trust the man. “I think so, yes.”
“Then I want you to meet me in the canyon above Paradise. Do you remember it?”
“No.”
“Sally can tell you how to reach it, but come alone. It’s where all of this started. And it’s critical that you leave no evidence of your visit. Sally has to leave town with Steve and Paula. Immediately. I obviously don’t have to explain—”
“She’s leaving in an hour,” Johnny said. “We’ve already explained enough of the situation to persuade her to leave.”
“Good. Meet me at the mouth to the canyon.”
“Kelly will come with me. She’s my . . . She’s with me.”
“Can she be trusted?”
“Without reservation.”
“She’s from the X Group.”
Johnny turned to face the kitchen sink. “She loves me.”
