Chosen (5 page)

Mariah chewed another mouthful of food as her gaze shifted back to the window. She was not about to let this officious public servant bully her. The devil inside her decided to have some fun. She deliberately reached for the milk, well aware that Manzetti was becoming impatient.

As Mariah looked up, she caught Michael’s glance. His lips twitched as he tried to suppress a grin; however, the twinkle in his eyes gave him away. He looked ashamed of himself for enjoying Agent Manzetti’s discomfort: nonetheless, admiration for the way she was handling the situation shone in his eyes. Mariah was glad of his silent approval.

She decided to needle Manzetti just a little more so she spoke directly to Sapitnaski. “I don’t know what else I can add to what I already told Officer Sanders. I assume you’ve read his report?” He nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Manzetti glowering. Mariah continued, her voice filled with a nonchalance she didn’t feel.

“Quite frankly, I’m as baffled as you. As I told Officer Sanders, nothing like this has ever happened to me. I didn’t know Amanda, never heard of her before seeing her on the news. Don’t know the kidnapper either. I went to sleep after giving Sanders the information. Michael told me half an hour ago that Amanda is home.”

Her voice was edged with exhaustion. “I’m really beat. I need more sleep. I’m going to finish my food and head home.”

Manzetti’s eyes narrowed.
Not until I’m damn good and ready to let you go, sister.
Against her will, she began to believe this ludicrous story. Plus it was difficult to maintain the fierce look of a predator when the prey yawned and blinked like a sleepy kitten. Even so, Manzetti was not about to let this woman take control of the interview.

Her voice flat and steely, she said, “I’m sorry Ms. Carpenter, but I do have more questions. Lots more. While I can see you’re tired, we can’t close this file until all the loose ends are tied up. And frankly, you’re one hell of a loose end.”

Mariah grinned. Disarmed, Frannie couldn’t help but thaw a little more
. This woman is either totally innocent or one of the best freaking con artists I’ve ever met.

Sapitnaski asked a few innocuous questions but with none of Frannie’s intensity. The story Mariah Carpenter told—from the moment she saw Amanda on television, her days of restlessness and nights of sleeplessness, the interaction with Michael in his office, and her conversation with Amanda—was the same as what appeared on the police report.

Frannie tried several tricks to get Mariah to slip up. After enduring what seemed like hours of badgering, Mariah slammed the container of tuna casserole onto the coffee table, and said, “
This
is the reason why respectable citizens don’t want to get involved. You’re treating me like
I’m
the criminal! For the
last
time, Agent Manzetti, I don’t know why or how I did what I did. I’ve
never
done anything like this before.” Mariah locked eyes with Frannie. “If I could explain what happened I would.” She yawned noisily. “And furthermore, I’m beyond exhausted. I either get some sleep or I pass out. I haven’t slept a lot in three days.”

In a voice heavy with fatigue and dismissal, she concluded, “If I have to accept this, so do you.”

Frannie grinned inwardly despite herself. She admired Mariah’s spunk because she would have felt the same way. And she realized she was wasting her time. Frannie Manzetti was either hearing the most fantastic story in her twenty-eight years of existence or she was being conned with the damnedest bullshit, aided and abetted by a minister known even outside this church as honest and sincere.

Frannie turned her chair to face Jenkins, still able to see Carpenter out of the corner of her eye. He said, “I’m sorry, Agent Manzetti, I have nothing to offer. I was never in control nor did I communicate with Amanda.” As much as she hated to, Frannie believed him; his reply was candid, his eye contact never wavered, and his responses were concise and matter-of-fact.

Several times Manzetti caught Sapitnaski glancing toward Carpenter who smiled at him, causing him to smile back.
The fool
, Frannie fumed. His admiration was an infantile response to Mariah’s good looks and potential celebrity. That wide-eyed innocent look of hers would do it every time.
But I’m not so easily taken in, missy. No fucking way
.

Frannie was a proficient enough interrogator to know that this interview was over. She gave her business card to both, requesting they contact her if they thought of anything else.

On the drive back to her office, Frannie’s mind wasn’t on the abduction of Amanda Forrester. Those two (and the circumstances that surrounded this case) excited her. What began as a recognizable occurrence—the kidnapping—suddenly had taken a left turn into Bizarroville with a preposterous explanation that pointed to mysticism. It went against her nature and her law enforcement background to accept, at face value, something so outlandish.

Nevertheless that’s exactly what she was doing. Her instincts about people were usually dead on: her gut told her that Mariah Carpenter and Michael Jenkins were telling the truth, God help them all. They were not the typical publicity freaks; at least their backgrounds checked out and their whereabouts at the time of the abduction were acceptable.

Maybe Frannie Manzetti would have to rely on faith, something she thought buried along with her Catholic upbringing. Maybe there
were
things that could not be explained using facts and figures.

Maybe she’d have to keep a real close eye on those two.

During the drive home, Mariah tried to concentrate on the traffic, the scenery, anything that would keep her from thinking about the
Finding
of Amanda Forrester. It was a battle she lost.

At home, she turned on the shower and shed her clothes. The steam rising from the hot water trapped in the shower stall made her feel like she was stepping into some eerie, foggy movie (the kind where you scream at the stupid person to stop, knowing something evil is inside the fog waiting for the stupid person).

The hot water felt wonderful and soothing. Her mind began to relax... floating in a sea of calmness...

A long-buried memory surfaced, and she watched it play out.

There she was, all decked out. Blue skirt with matching sweater made of some cheap, irritating acrylic; straw hat festooned with dusty plastic strawberries on the brim, tied under her chin with starched ribbons that made her neck itch; and those awful white gloves, stored in the back of her sock drawer, too small for her hands even last year, smelling faintly of feet. She hated Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year
.

She plodded along next to her older sister, Judith, scuffing the toes of her patent leather shoes. It was a total waste of time she griped, because God didn’t even like girls. When Judith’s eyebrows rose, nine-year-old Mariah said, Well, if he did, why do the girls hafta sit upstairs? The boys get to sit downstairs so they can kiss the Torah when Rabbi Shapiro takes it out of the ark and brings it up and down the aisles!

With an automatic fast-forward, she was now leaning over the short wall in the first row of the temple’s balcony, the better to watch the men below just in case something interesting happened. Rachel kibitzed with Mrs. Landau, assuming her daughter’s preoccupation would keep her engaged for the duration. She would forever label this erroneous assumption “The Most Embarrassing Moment of My Life.”

And then began The War of the Alien Twins. Mariah pulled off her gloves and splayed the fingers of one so it lay flat then bunched up the other into a ball. In the battle for control of Temple Balcony between the twins from planet Cotton, Closed Fist pummeled Flat Palm until Flat Palm had enough... whereupon it kicked Closed Fist. As the battle raged, she got carried away and nudged Closed Fist too near the edge
—
and there he went, over the balcony
.

Davey Rubenstein’s grandfather was directly beneath her. When the glove was about two feet above his right shoulder, she rose slightly off the wooden bench. With pupils dilated and a half smile frozen on her lips, her hand shot over the edge of the balcony, her index finger trained on the glove.

Its descent slowed immediately. When it was no more than a few inches from the old man, Mariah moved her finger to the left and then down: the glove veered and settled on his head.

She’d been so proud of that precision landing. Her self-congratulation was short-lived, however. In the next instant, she made history at the Providence Street Synagogue.

Mariah grinned. What happened next was still funny, no matter what her mother said.

The old fart acted like someone was trying to bludgeon him to death. With a blood-curdling shriek, his arms flailed in an attempted to dislodge the UFO (Unidentified Falling Object). The violence of his gyrations dislodged the glove and his yarmulke, his little beanie, and the two slid from his head to the floor. She never saw him stomp her glove; she was already on her way down the stairs to retrieve it.

She wrenched open the double doors leading into the sanctuary, the Forbidden Zone. Mariah still remembered the roar that erupted. One might have thought she was about to sacrifice a child on the altar the way they carried on. Poor little Mariah: she assumed their hysteria had something to do with a religious offense against the Torah which was currently out of the ark. But no, their anger was because she violated that ancient Hebrew orthodox tradition of male and female segregation, nothing more.

Her father sat down heavily in his pew, his eyes shut, his head bowed, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. The only member of the family who saw Mariah hustled out of the sanctuary was her brother, Stephen, who loved to amuse everyone with the image of her stubbornly refusing to leave until someone gave her that filthy glove. He enjoyed tormenting her with the idea of writing a mystery novel, the title being
The Tumult in the Temple.

Her almost non-existent religious participation came to a screeching halt that day when she became the first person ever to be barred from entering the synagogue. (Now that really broke her heart.
)

Her mother and sister were standing by the front door when she emerged. Rachel’s fury and embarrassment had rendered her speechless
—
momentarily. Sparks seemed to shoot from Rachel’s eyes, and the muscles in her jaws bulged from clenching her teeth. Two hectic spots of color stained her cheekbones like they had been painted on.

All the way home, Rachel kept up a muttered soliloquy. So she had a simple life, a husband who didn’t drink and gamble away his paycheck, a house instead of a flat to raise a family in, and children who were healthy and cute. Why couldn’t they be in their right minds? It was scary, even now, watching her wave her arms around as she ranted and raved at the sidewalk. Mariah could still feel her mother’s heated gaze as it swung in her direction. Rachel’s tirade ended with a shake of her finger and a dire prediction that, “You’re going to put me in an early grave with your never-ending questions and those meshuganah tricks!” Her parting shot had something to do with men in white coats and a loony bin
.

How could she have forgotten that incident? Could it have something to do with this
Finding
ability? With a sigh, she gave it up as a lost cause.

Mariah went through the motions—home, work, church—for the next several weeks. Logic and reason, which had always stabilized her in a world fraught with psychological imbalances, seemed to have deserted her. She, who questioned everything until her criteria for truth was met, now had to accept these incredible incidences based on nothing more than a belief in an unseen being whose method of operation did not usually make sense. She felt her mind on the edge, balanced delicately between sanity and madness.

Sunday afternoon, July 15. Mariah sat curled up in her recliner, reading. At one o’clock she lowered the book, suddenly restless. It wasn’t hunger: she had just eaten lunch. Watering her plants didn’t seem to quiet the jittery sensation, so she decided to see if there was anything worthwhile on the TV.

The screen came to life, and she found herself staring into the eyes of a small child. The name under the picture identified him as Joseph Armstrong, resident of San Francisco. Mariah froze, her attention riveted on his face.

“He was in front of the house with his puppy,” his mother, Latasia, sobbed, her anguished face replacing his. “I just went into the house to get the phone when I heard it ring. I told him to stay put, that mommy would be right back. He’s a good baby, he wouldn’t leave. I wasn’t even gone a minute!” Once again, Mariah stared at Joseph, a real cutie with huge twinkly eyes, curly brown hair, coffee-colored skin, and a mischievous grin that split his face from ear to ear.

Oh, no, here it comes
, Mariah groaned as the now-familiar symptoms crashed down on her. In less than a minute, her throbbing heart felt like it was trying to break through her ribs.

This time there was no hesitation.

Her hands shook as she dialed Michael’s number, praying he would be home. As the phone rang, her heart rate began to return to normal; however, she realized she had been holding her breath when she heard him say, “Jenkins residence,” because it came out in a
whoosh
.

“Michael. It’s Mariah. I need you again.”

Her strained, husky voice caused his stomach to clench. “I’ll meet you at the back door of the sanctuary building.” He trotted into his bedroom and stripped out of his running shorts and tee shirt while telling Abigail who it was on the phone and where he would be.

Twenty minutes later, Michael stood at the top of the outside stairs. He heard tires squealing and watched Mariah turn into the parking lot, slam on the brakes and emerge from the car, her motions stiff and jerky. Rather than take her up to his office, he led her into the darkened sanctuary, flipping on only those lights that illuminated the stage. Then he headed for his Sunday pulpit.

In anticipation, he took a deep breath and turned to face her. She was right behind him, her face expressionless. Her hands shot out and she gripped his arms. The wrenching sensation began, but not with as much force. Maybe because he was not as frightened this time or because he didn’t try to pull away.

Mariah’s reactions also seemed less severe. She kept her eyes locked on his all the time, and though she still acted like she was being gut-punched, it was not as violent. The
Joining
came more quickly, too. They phased into it in less than ninety seconds.

This time, her words were not mumbled. Even so, he was still disturbed. Michael remembered his days in theological school and the Biblical Hebrew classes, sure he had forgotten more than he remembered. Still, he was pleased he could decipher enough to grasp the meaning of this phrase. He knew for certain it was not a prayer. Mariah seemed to be speaking
to
someone. It was the words, plus her perfect mimicry of a male voice, that made him tremble. Once again his brain tried to accept what seemed obvious, tried to believe the outrageous possibility of what he heard.

“Deliver the little children to me and do not harm them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to them.”

The rest of the words were unrecognizable although the tone modulation suggested conversation. Sometimes the sounds were guttural, sometimes pleasing ... tones that receded, advanced, wove around and through him, and elicited confusing emotions. Then as abruptly as before it was over, and her conversation with Joseph Armstrong began.

It appeared that Joseph’s thoughts were more disjointed than Amanda’s had been. He was just three years old and terrified, tied up in a dark place according to Mariah’s responses. Her patience seemed infinite. She kept talking quietly as he switched between crying and screaming, finally able to convince him she was an angel sent by his mother to find him. She pled and cajoled, listened and soothed, then responded in a low throaty voice filled with compassion. Although she perspired profusely, she hardly reacted, such was her fierce concentration. Dimly, Michael feared she might suffer from dehydration; she looked pale, unsteady. He judged that she had been talking to Joseph about twenty minutes.

Slowly, painstakingly, Mariah pulled enough from Joseph’s mind to realize he was in the basement of a house not far from where he lived. He recognized the big brown mailbox that he and his mama passed by on their way to the park. With a triumphant smile, Mariah finally broke the connection with a promise that she would send someone to get him.

Releasing Michael’s arms, she spun around, stumbled, and almost fell as she headed for the switchboard in the reception area. As she shoved a wheeled chair out of her way, Michael pushed a button to give her an outside line. She pulled Agent Manzetti’s business card from her pants pocket. (When had she put it in there?)

“Federal Bureau of Investigations, may I help you?”

“Agent Manzetti please, my name is Mariah Carpenter.” She winked at Michael, a thin smile on her lips. Her voice was weak but back to its normal pitch.

In a trained monotone the operator said, “Agent Manzetti is not here at the moment. Would you like to speak to someone else or should I page her?”

Mariah said, “She’ll want to talk to me, so page her. But if you can’t get her immediately, then I’ll speak to Agent Sapitnaski. Uh, this is an emergency.” The last was thrown in just to make sure the operator didn’t think it was a personal call.

Put on hold, she looked at Michael. He seemed tired but otherwise fine. “Wasn’t so bad this time, huh,” she said. When she received a nod, she drew in a deep breath then let it out slowly, murmuring to herself. “Guess I was wrong. God isn’t through with me yet.” An attempted smile was aborted when her attention was drawn to the telephone.

“Ms. Carpenter, this is Agent Manzetti. What can I do for you?”

“I believe I can do something for
you
, Agent Manzetti. It’s about Joseph Armstrong.” Mariah began with the more important, albeit sketchy, details she had pulled out of him; the brown mailbox, the “big kitties” in front of the house where he was taken. There were a few apparently irrelevant pieces of information—“My daddy gonna hit da bad man!”—but she gave them to Frannie anyway. She nodded several times before she hung up then informed Frannie she was going home and, “If you want to talk to me, I’ll be there.”

Mariah hung up and leaned against the receptionist’s desk. “She didn’t ask any dumb questions this time. She’ll probably get to those at my place. I’m okay to drive, really,”—this, seeing the worried look on Michael’s face—“and I have to get out of these nasty wet clothes.” He looked unconvinced, but was too tired to argue. Besides, she had suddenly found a smidgen of energy, so he bid her farewell without protest.

Mariah tried to think of something normal during the drive home, but finally gave up. The notion that the
Findings
were going to become a regular occurrence was alarming. Could her heart take it? What about her sanity? Her body had acted nearly the same as the night she found Amanda although with no queasiness and perhaps a little less violence.
Maybe the more times it happens, the more I’ll get used to it.

That was
not
a comforting thought. Weird things were happening over which she had no control. Would her brain just shut down if it couldn’t rationalize all these impossible-to-explain occurrences?