Chosen (16 page)

Mariah reached for objectivity, satisfied she came across as obliging and humorous; nevertheless, it was obvious she had nothing more to tell him than what she had told the Feds. Her confusion was genuine. The majority of people glued to their sets fell in love with her, believed her, and sympathized with her predicament, according to the polls.

Something new had been added: for the first time in her life, she possessed a poised and unashamed attitude. Prior to this, she never allowed herself to be the center of attention, more comfortable in the background. She had to admit she at least looked confident and unafraid.

The
Visitation
was never mentioned. The audience didn’t need any more ammunition than they already had.

After the ordeal with her family, telling her friends about her psychic gift was easy. Most were left with a sense of unease and fear. They tried to be supportive—“What’s happened doesn’t matter, we love you.”—but they were justifiably afraid and nervous about their own safety and privacy.

They had cause. Within minutes after the show, the news hounds ran them to ground, probing for dirty laundry. In the days that followed, many ethical journalists advanced Brokaw’s style and circumspection, but the bottom-feeders were unprincipled, doing everything within their power to edge them out.

When the first pass (her closest friends) yielded nothing sensational, they dropped down to level two: those who knew her more casually. While they could not find any indication of drugs, cults, or children born out of wedlock, they did uproot the idiots who made up fantastical stories just to get their fifteen minutes of fame.

So they burrowed down to the third strata: Childhood acquaintances that either could not quite place her or just remembered a cheerful kid who asked a lot of questions; old boyfriends (juicier, but nothing extraordinary); parents of friends; and teachers. Frustrated at the lack of a lurid past, they insinuated that maybe Ms. Carpenter was controlling the minds of everyone they spoke to.

If they thought pulling information out of her friends was tough, they were chatty gossips in comparison to her family. No one refused to talk to them (Mariah asked them to comply so it wouldn’t look like they were hiding anything) but nobody said anything of value. Even her extended family at the church had little to say. One constant theme ran through all the interviews: everyone was flabbergasted.

Mariah was glad when Thomas agreed to watch the special with her, especially surprised when he seemed flattered. Halfway through the segment he had reached for her hand; she had not pulled it away, drawing comfort from the warmth and support he offered. She could see him out of the corner of her eye as he peaked at her throughout the show.

The special was almost over when the phone began to ring. She glared at it, hoping a hostile look would make it stop. When it didn’t, she yanked the plug out of the wall.

When Brokaw signed off with a promise of more to come at a later date, Thomas retrieved the remote control and pressed the “off” button. “Talk to me, lady,” he said, his low, seductive voice making her pulse race. Meant to reassure, it fell short of its goal; it was, however, better than the silence.

“Well, it’s begun.” She cleared her throat. “I guess I could get an unlisted phone number, but too many people know where I live.” She cocked her head and gave him a roguish smile. “Does that offer to be your roommate still stand?”

He grinned and leered at her. “Anytime, babe. I’ll even give you a whole shelf in the medicine cabinet and, if you’re especially nice to me, maybe half a bureau drawer!”

She giggled. This man, with his sense of humor, made her life seem a little less intimidating. The smile evaporated, however. “Thanks, Thomas. I wish I could, but I can’t run away from this—from
me
. With Frannie guarding me like the crown jewels, I should be fine. I mean it, really.” The bravado in her voice wavered. “I’ve got to try and maintain as normal a life as possible and hope that, in a couple of days, someone does something so outrageous that it takes the heat off of me.”

He hugged her so she missed the skepticism in his eyes. Thomas wondered if even a presidential assassination could supplant this news.

Over the next several weeks, Mariah’s life became surreal. At Michael’s suggestion, she got call forwarding on her phone service and sent her calls to the switchboard at church.

One call was from Elliott & Shanks, a public relations firm. Their specialty was crisis management, devising strategies for keeping ahead of ugly stories and reshaping the ones that got reported. The firm’s representative even offered to field calls and craft messages for free. Mariah knew they were not being charitable: as their client, she would give the firm massive exposure, and attract high-paying celebrities and institutions.

She declined their offer. Her life was complicated enough without people in her face telling her what to do.

The volume of calls to the church switchboard increased, and another operator was brought in to handle the overflow. Esther Geronimo, a warm and friendly mother figure, began to weed out those “irritating pains in the rear porch” that called to do nothing more than harass. Mariah was grateful. She returned only those calls from relatives and friends, and the few professional people she wanted to speak to. All the calls were recorded so the inevitable death threats could be turned over to the police.

She was the main topic of conversation at work. It was obvious, the way everyone clammed up when she came into sight. They attempted nonchalance, but were unsure how to treat her. Thank heavens Ben didn’t have that problem. He was, of course, still convinced it was God working through her so he accepted, without reservation, what had happened.

People found out where she lived. The police roped off access to her apartment complex so she and her neighbors could get in and out. Mariah knew the residents complained: she felt guilty about the streets being nearly impassable. Most of the crowd wanted a glimpse of “the Real Deal” as she was labeled by one tabloid rag.

Frannie became insistent that she move to a safe house where she could be protected from the crowds, but Mariah stubbornly refused. She had already lost her privacy; the minute she gave in, she would lose the only thing she valued more: her freedom.

It was inevitable, however. The crowds began to frighten her as they reached out to touch her. Some begged her to find someone they loved; some fell on their knees in their belief she was the Second Coming. She tried to tell them that they were looking for God in the wrong place, but they convinced themselves that Christ would continue to perform miracles through her.

Money poured into the church from all over the world in her name. Some of it was spiritual donations from those who wanted to do something in the face of this phenomenon. Others sent money as a down payment to find missing loved ones, as if that were the criteria. Michael set up an account in her name, but Mariah wanted no part of it, and told him to do whatever he wanted with the money. He was reluctant to spend it; he did not want to offend those who had sent it by using it for other than what it was intended.

Blogs erupted, some with positive aspects of her achievements, other with bizarre confirmation that she was an alien abductee. Chat lines popped up overnight, the academic and technological forces dissecting what had happened in terminology foreign and esoteric. There were websites of devotees who fawned over her like fanatical sycophants. The dark side waded in to bluster about eliminating her before she became so powerful that she would rule the world. Entrepreneurs salivated over big bucks: one sold a tee shirt with a picture of her with Jesus, with the banner “Two Carpenters” on the back; restaurants named sandwiches after her; beer mugs, lipsticks, cat toys and bogus paraphernalia they said belonged to her found their way into respectable retail stores.

And still the insanity grew. Conventions were organized. People showed up in outlandish outfits that they were told she wore. Strands of hair purported to be hers were sold in lockets as good-luck charms. Mariah dolls had red hair stuck to the scalp, shiny spots of artificial sweat dappled on the face and neck, and eyes that nearly bulged out of their sockets.

Software developers announced soon-to-be-released video games with Mariah Carpenter, the heroine, battling everything: aliens, Kung Fu evil doers, mutants, zombies, and vampires. There was even one game under construction that pitted her against government agents when she turned rogue and began to come after the President.

The knowledge that she would have to capitulate and move came the night she flew out of the apartment complex, her heart rate back to normal after a blacksmith had cleaved her chest on his anvil. The driveway was clogged with people meandering around, while others sat on the lawn, singing and praying. She took one look at their adoring faces and lost it.

“I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!
GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY
!” The words, blasted in that thunderous voice she could only affect when in the throes of a
Finding
, were sufficient to scare the bejabbers out of everyone. They lurched to their feet, scrabbling and trampling each other to get out of her way. Mariah ignored them as she yanked open her car door, snapped on her seat belt, and revved up the motor. She was on her way to the church and had no time to worry about their feelings. The paparazzi that kept a constant vigil at her place tried to plow through the crowds to get to their vehicles, but she lost them before she hit the on-ramp to the highway.

When she arrived at their special room, Michael was in his accustomed place talking to Frannie while Thomas fiddled with some new lights. They froze when she entered then noted, with relief, that she appeared strong and healthy. In complete control for the first time, she waited until Thomas finished.

Frannie caught her eye and smiled. Mariah nodded, her face expressionless. She then exchanged what she thought was a warm look with Thomas, although he frowned. However, she felt calm, almost relaxed.

Mariah walked behind Michael and placed her hands on his shoulders. Thomas hoisted his camera onto his shoulder and turned to face her. He smiled tentatively, but what he saw when he brought her into focus made the smile die on his lips.

He barely got out a “Ready” when Michael slumped. He never stiffened and Mariah didn’t jerk from unseen blows. She took in a deep breath then exhaled slowly. A grimace replaced the smile: her eyes were hard, cold and focused.

She found herself in a dilapidated motel room. Her nostrils flared from the smell of a cheap cigar and the sour odor of sweat that wafted up from one of the two beds. The only window in the room was closed. Stiff, green Fiberglas drapes dipped unevenly in several places over a curtain rod that was missing several drapery hooks. On the chipped Formica table under the window laid a two-foot metal pipe, about half an inch in diameter.

Estella Fuentes cowered against the nightstand between the two beds. She looked like she was trying not to cry, presumably so the monster smoking his cigar wouldn’t hit her again. Her right arm was swollen, probably broken, and she had several purple bruises.

Everett Vaughn Hinckley tried to rape Estella when they first arrived at the run-down motel in La Mesilla, New Mexico. He had pulled off Highway 25 soon after picking up a Smokey south of Las Cruces, even though he “wasn’ doin’ nuttin’ wrong, those fucking highway jocks had a way of stoppin’ you for no damn reason, just ‘cuz they could.”

But he could not maintain an erection. It infuriated him and he, of course, blamed it on Estella. She was too skinny. She had the body of a little boy. And he certainly was not interested in little boys, no way, no matter what those hysterical parents said at his court hearing a year ago. Everett decided to prove them wrong.

He stopped hitting her with the pipe after half a dozen well-placed smacks because he didn’t want to damage her too soon. Now he lay naked from the waist down except for his phony snakeskin boots planted on the threadbare chenille spread.

He puffed on his cigar and hummed tunelessly to himself. All he needed was a rest. That was it: he was just worked up because of the fucking court case and that cop tailing him. He just needed to settle himself down, and then he’d be ready to rock ‘n roll. He’d show them all he was no nancy boy; he liked his sex the normal way, with girls. Once he proved to himself—no, to
them
—that he was as normal as any man, he would make sure Miss Cry Baby never got to rat him out.

Victor Fuentes had read the newspaper story about the lady who found children to his daughters, Estella and Selena. Even though the girls giggled, Estella secretly hoped she could meet the lady. On the twenty-mile ride to the motel, Estella prayed to the lady to rescue her, but she was so disappointed when Hinckley ripped off her clothes and got on top of her. Where was the lady to stop him? She still hadn’t come when he beat her with the pipe.

But she was here now. Peace filled Estella’s mind when the voice in her head said, “Stay still, little one. I’ll take care of you.” It sounded like a man’s voice, but Estella didn’t care. She told the lady where she lived in her head, and that she knew she was in La Mesilla because she had been to the water park there. She even knew where she was; when Everett had gone into the office to pay for the room, she sat with her hands tied behind her back and her mouth taped shut, right in front of the neon sign that proclaimed this to be the
*St rbri ht*Mot l*
. Mariah had no problem filling in the blanks created by the burned out bulbs.

Everett glanced down at the little whore on the floor between the beds.
That was it
, he thought, pleased with himself.
She might look like a kid, but she was just a little piece of ass sold to the lowest bidder, a tramp just like his mother.

He began to feel aroused. Blood coursed into his penis as he thought of his mother who had fucked anything on two feet, doing it right in the same room where he slept when he was just a little boy. The more he thought about his mother, the harder his erection became. Oh yes, he was ready for mama now; he would show her what a
real
man felt like between her legs.

Vaulting off the bed, Everett laid his cigar over the edge of the table and grabbed the pipe with his right hand, slapping it several times into his left palm. Then he moved between the two beds, a sneer on his lips as he gazed down at the crybaby. His legs were spread and his cock jutted out from his body, looking red and angry.

Estella began to cry louder. He leaned down and grabbed her, his arm already raised to deliver a healthy smack to her face with the pipe. This time he wouldn’t just tap her a couple of times: he was going to beat the living crap out of her, fuck her till she passed out, and then finish the job with several well-placed blows to the head.

Thomas felt the air tighten with an intensity that nearly took his breath away. Mariah was doing it again, sucking energy out of the room. But something was different from the night she found Sophie Celeste. This time Mariah seemed calm, deliberate ... except for her eyes. As the flood lamps in the room dimmed, her eyes blazed with fury, the pupils dilated extravagantly. The air thickened with a force that surged clockwise around the room.

Michael came out of his trance at the same time the air became charged. He stared wild-eyed and confused at Thomas. Mariah still had her hands on his shoulders; Thomas wondered if she still needed the
Joining
or if she just wanted the comfort of Michael’s presence.

He jumped when Mariah’s hands shot out on either side of Michael’s head, palms facing outward. Her head was lowered but her eyes stared straight ahead. And then that deep, resonant voice which came from the depths of her soul screamed, “DON’T TOUCH HER, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”