Blessed Child (21 page)

At any rate, the Greek had done in twenty-four hours what should have taken two weeks. It had cost, of course, an entire Sunday's offering at least. The facility alone ran five thousand dollars, and so little only because Nikolous had pulled out his nonprofit tricks and made some other undisclosed guarantees. Then there were the short-take radio ads that had played nonstop on a dozen Los Angeles stations, announcing a “free magic show guaranteed to blow the mind” at the Old Theater on Figueroa Street in downtown L.A. The ad mentioned healings, but only as a side note. They'd plastered a thousand neon orange posters up and down the surrounding streets, each with the caption
A mind-blowing look at the impossible!
stamped below a black-and-white shot of Caleb looking innocent and somewhat mysterious. In all, the costs had to have exceeded fifteen thousand dollars.

The fact sat in Jason's skull like an undiagnosed tumor. It was fine that the Greek had gone to such lengths in an attempt to save Caleb, but the greedy snake wouldn't have coughed up a single penny unless he expected returns. Big returns.

By the looks of it, Nikolous's one-day advertising blitz had attracted a few thousand lost souls in search of something either free or spectacular on this Tuesday evening. The facility was about a third full.

They were from all walks of life, all ages, both genders, mostly seated on the main floor but scattered through the tiers as well. People in shorts, people in jeans, people in suits, people in dresses—the fans of magic. A scattering of physically handicapped in wheelchairs and walkers as well. And as far as Jason could tell they
all
had lizard eyes. Maybe because he was the only one on the stage right now, and they were trying to decide if this man dressed in blue jeans and a white pullover was the magic man who would blow their minds.

The center front row was occupied by the full mix. An older woman in a yellow dress who fanned herself with a folded neon poster sat beside a young girl in pigtails—her granddaughter perhaps. A man in his forties with toothpicks for arms and legs and jeans two inches too short sat by them. Two empty seats and then two teenagers with pants hanging a good foot below their crotches. The row was capped by a middle-aged man engrossed in a novel angled for optimum lighting. If any on the row were INS, it would be he.

Nikolous had taped off a thirty-by-sixty section on the left for the media. A half-dozen local reporters sat with recorders and notebooks, staring up at the competition and probably wondering what on earth NBC knew that they didn't. Donna's three-man crew had set up shop on a small step-up platform that elevated the camera tripod above any possible interference. A single cameraman sat behind the gaping lens aiming his contraption at Donna, who was speaking into a mike clipped to her blouse.

Her voice rose just above the cacophony of background voices. “That was my interview with Dr. Patricia Caldwell earlier this afternoon. As you may have gathered, the incident at UCLA occurred over a week ago and it wasn't taped, but let me assure you, it was most remarkable. Tonight for the first time we will see little Caleb on camera, and if the past is any indication, we may be in for a mind-bending ride. Let me assure you, there are no secret wires or hidden cameras or trick boxes that we've all associated with illusionists. There is only Caleb. But then Caleb is not so ordinary; I think you'll see that. Trust me, this is one show you don't want to miss. Jeff, back to you.”

So they had decided to shoot the event live? Nikolous had told them it would be taped and shown on the late news if the producers gave it a thumbs-up. Jason saw the small dish mounted behind the camera and he had his answer. They were at least prepared to go live, if events warranted. Donna had her clout, no doubt about that.

He quickly stepped to his right and ducked behind the curtains backstage. Nikolous stood by some huge canvas backdrops (presumably left over from a production) talking to one of the stagehands he'd assembled from his church.

Caleb sat on a folding chair beside Leiah, who stood over him like a protective hen. She had one hand on his shoulder and the other one at her mouth, biting nervously on a fingernail. She saw Jason and he watched the relief settle over her like a cool shower.

They'd dressed Caleb in long black slacks and a white short-sleeve dress shirt, complete with a brass-buckled belt and a red bow tie. His shoes were new too—black leather tie-ups. His hair fell to his shoulders, and his eyes peered up at Jason like pools of deep ocean water.

A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his upper lip; otherwise there was no sign that the boy was nervous.

“You ready for this, Caleb?”

The boy didn't respond, and Jason looked up at Leiah. “It looks like they're shooting it live,” he said quietly.

“Live? But what if—”

“I'm sure they'll only go to it if . . . things work out.” He noted a tremor in his right hand, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Don't worry; it's all going to work out.”

“It feels insane,” she said. “What if the Immigration Service is out there waiting for him?”

“I think they'd come back here, don't you? We're okay,” he said with as much confidence as he could muster. In truth the INS was completely unpredictable. The NSA was even worse.

“So basically it comes down to whether or not he . . .” She let the statement trail off, and he gave her a reassuring smile.

“Pretty much.”

They'd both had their worlds rocked yesterday, sitting on the couch with Caleb, and neither one quite knew what to do with the experience, he thought. They had talked about it briefly and agreed on one thing: what they had felt was not a figment of their imagination. Caleb's simple song had somehow infected them. It hadn't overpowered them; it wasn't as if they had wept without the power to walk away. But it had been very persuasive to say the least.

If either of them had harbored any lingering doubt about the boy's power, they'd dismissed it yesterday. The only question that remained was whether Caleb really could turn the power on and off at will, as if it were a fire hose.

By the looks of it they were about to find out.

“Prepare the boy,” Nikolous said, approaching, hands clasped behind his back. He would emcee the event in grand style, and he obviously fancied the part. He was all black. Shiny black hair, black mustache, black double-breasted suit, black shoes . . .
and if you got in there with the right instrument, you would find a heart to match,
Jason thought.

“And I don't have to remind you what this evening means,” he said, and then turned to his right-hand man—the tall, skinny butler-type from the offices who now shadowed Nikolous, radio in hand. “Tell them to start the music and dim the lights.”

The man spoke quickly into his walkie-talkie, and within seconds the lights eased down. A low-pitched note rumbled through the auditorium. The ambient noise beyond the stage walls fell as those gathered took their seats. He heard someone cough in the direction of NBC's setup, and he wondered if it was Donna.

Nikolous pulled the side curtain open and hooked it on the wall. From where they stood, Jason had a clear view of the stage and roughly half of the auditorium, including the camera now under power and winking green. The low, sustained note grew to a bone-trembling volume, and a hush settled over them all.

Nikolous pulled at his lapels, hiked up his shoulders one last time, and strode out onto the stage. Immediately a white circle of light popped on him and followed him to the mike stand. The stand was set low, to Caleb's height, and Nikolous lifted the cordless microphone out of its stand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for joining us on this fine evening. You are the few brave enough to believe, and for that you will see what few have ever witnessed. I promise you.” Nikolous had already decided that the boy was going to perform; that much was obvious.

“You will see no magic tonight.” A few objections peppered the auditorium. “No, no magic. What you will see is a psychic phenomenon never before seen, much less caught on camera. There will be no mastery of illusion or sleight of hand. There will only be real flesh and blood, doing what real flesh and blood could not possibly do. Unless of course you are a small boy with exceptional powers. Unless you are Caleb. Or unless you are
with
Caleb. Because if you are with Caleb, the rules change.”

The air felt charged with static. Caleb stared at the Greek and the sweat had spread to his forehead. A flash of doubt shot through Jason's mind. What if he did fail? What if he walked out there and just froze up? It would be a death sentence. Perhaps in more ways than they imagined.

“So then, let me present to you for the first time”—Nikolous lifted a hand toward the side entrance, and Jason's stomach cinched to a knot—“a boy who will destroy your sense of reason . . .” He paused and then announced in full volume, “Caleb.”

The audience hesitated as the name reverberated around the arena. A smattering of applause broke out.

Leiah led Caleb forward to the side curtain and knelt beside him. Nikolous approached from the microphone. They were to send him out after Nikolous had cleared the stage.

“Listen to me, Caleb,” Leiah said. “They won't hurt you. When I tell you, go out like we talked about, okay? Don't be afraid.” She ran a hand through his hair and kissed his cheek. “Jason and I will be right here.”

Nikolous arrived. “Go,” he whispered.

Leiah aimed Caleb for the microphone and let him go.

At first the boy did not move, and Jason thought his fears were being realized; the boy had frozen. But then Caleb took a step, albeit a slow one on legs that were now quivering. His hands hung loosely by his sides, and he quaked like a willow in the wind.

Leiah reached for him, but Jason grabbed her arm.

The boy walked toward the single chrome mike stand, and they held their collective breath. The spotlight blazed, and he hesitated for just a moment before completing the long walk to the microphone. The applause had died, and now only the atmospheric organ music throbbed in a low bass.

Caleb reached the microphone and faced it. He stood stock-still. Nothing happened. He shifted uneasily on his feet and stared out.

“What's he doing?” Nikolous rumbled quietly.

Caleb looked at them once, looked back at the audience, and then simply walked back toward them without uttering a word.

He had frozen.

Leiah rushed out and guided the boy the last few feet. “What's wrong, dear?”

“What are you doing?” Nikolous whispered harshly. They huddled around him in near panic. Soft rumbles rippled through the audience.

Jason took Caleb by the shoulders. “It's okay, Caleb. You only need to do what you can do, okay? What happened?”

“He froze!” Nikolous said. “Holy—”

“Shut up!”

Jason turned back to the boy. “Caleb, remember what we—”

“They're gone,” Caleb said.

“They're gone? Who's gone?”

“The people are gone,” he said.

“He can't see past the spotlight!” Leiah said.

Nikolous bolted up and snapped at the butler. “The lights! Tell the fools to shut down the spotlight! He can't see past the lights. Use backlights!”

The skinny man snapped the order into his radio.

A loud clunk sounded and the lights died. A soft amber light swelled from above and cast golden hues over the stage.

Nikolous patted his forehead with a folded napkin, smoothed his mustache, and marched out to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, pardon us, but it seems the boy could not see with the bright lights. Thank you for your patience.” He walked back with long strides.

“Are you okay, Caleb?” Leiah asked. “You really don't have—”

“You'll be fine, Caleb,” Jason interrupted, kneeling by him. What was Leiah thinking? The boy's own survival depended on this. “Go on,” he said, but the encouragement fell flat.

Caleb turned from them and started the long trek out to the microphone a second time. He was putting on a brave front, but he could neither hide the sweat that beaded his little face, nor the tremor that clung stubbornly to his bones. He reached center stage and faced the crowd. Three thousand sets of lizard eyes held him in their stares. The organ drew long, low, eerie notes.

And nothing happened.

Caleb had been at the microphone twenty uneventful seconds, staring dumbly at the crowds, when the music suddenly stopped, midrefrain, as if someone had bumped the needle on a record. A loud static sounded for a moment and then total silence. Someone snickered in the crowd. Things were not proceeding as planned.

Nikolous cursed in Greek under his breath, grabbed the butler by the arm, and jerked him toward the deeper shadows. The skinny man stumbled and would have fallen but for the other's grip. “Get someone in a wheelchair up there!” Nikolous snapped. “Tell them to grab one of the ill ones and get them on the stage immediately!”

The butler barked his order into the radio, loudly enough for at least the first dozen rows to hear. Fortunately he spoke in Greek.

Caleb looked their way, clearly at a loss. Leiah paced and gnawed at her fingers, and Jason thought she might run out and collect the boy at any moment. He glanced toward the NBC crew and saw that they'd crossed their arms and were shifting uneasily. The camera's green light blinked steadily; they were still on camera, though he doubted very much that they were live. Back at the studios, the anchor, presumably a good-looking fellow named Jeff, was probably talking about the smog alert that day or some other tidbit that preempted this fiasco.

Jason felt the drumming of his own heart, and he wiped his palms. It could be his own son, Stephen, out there, dying in front of the crowd. He and Ailsa had ignored their better judgment and agreed to put little Stephen onstage at the church once. It was before ALS had crippled him beyond standing; before the saints had decided they would rid his little boy of the disease if they had to beat it out of him. The pastor had interviewed him, and Stephen had frozen.