Chosen (7 page)

Tuesday evening, August 12. Seven o’clock. Television program interrupted. Kevin O’Reilly, fourteen years old, never made it home from his part-time job. Abducted in Ohio. A twenty thousand dollar reward for information leading to the whereabouts of the boy and the conviction of the kidnapper.

It felt like Gregory Hines was tap dancing in her chest.

Mariah stared at the photo of Kevin on the screen. He had a big, toothy grin with shoulder-length, dish-water blond hair fluttering in the breeze. Blue eyes squinted into the sun as he proudly hoisted a large fish so the photographer could record his catch for posterity.

She forced herself to take deep, even breaths. While her rapid heartbeats decelerated, her breath was still irregular, like she had run up a flight of stairs. She reached for the phone and called Michael.

He was out of town.

Abigail told her he was at a ministers’ conference in New Mexico.
Can I do something for you, dear
? Mariah began to panic then forced herself to relax. What to do ... what to do...

And then she remembered. Michael had told Peter Martin about the
Findings
just in case she needed a backup. At this moment, she was grateful for his foresight. Furthermore, Peter Martin was an ordained minister.
Hopefully one cleric will be as good as another
she thought, panic only slightly abated. She asked Abigail for Peter’s home phone number then dialed it. He answered on the third ring.

“Peter this is Mariah Carpenter. I’m sorry to disturb you but Michael’s out of town and I’m heading into another
Finding
.”

Startled, Peter’s hand tightened on the receiver.
It’s a good thing she identified herself; I never would’ve known it was her. She sounds like a man
. Without hesitation, he agreed to meet her at the church.

Mariah’s next call was to Frannie’s cell phone. After four rings, she heard the voice messaging beep. When the prerecorded greeting finished, she said, “It’s Mariah. I’m on my way to the church.” No time for pleasantries: Frannie would make it or not.

Peter watched Mariah exit her car in the church parking lot as a white BMW came roaring down the street, tires squealing as it took the turn into the lot. The car fishtailed as Frannie pulled up next to Mariah’s car then slammed on the brakes. They both ran up the steps to the landing where Peter waited.

One glance at Mariah’s face was enough to make him unlock the door quickly. Her pupils were dilated, her cheeks bulged (evidence of tightly clenched teeth) and her breath whistled through her teeth. She followed him past the reception area and down the hallway that led to the sanctuary, her sense of urgency contagious.

Peter flipped on the center stage lights. With excitement and apprehension filling him, he sprinted up the short flight of stairs, heading for Michael’s lectern. When he was within two feet of it, he turned just in time for Mariah to grab his arms in a tight, uncompromising grip.

Peter jerked forward then felt as if he was being stuffed into a funnel.
Maybe I’ll come out thinner and taller
he thought wildly, the silly thought a means of stemming hysteria. He remembered Michael’s description of this phase of the
Finding
, but words could not explain the sensation of a huge vacuum cleaner sucking out his blood, bones, and organs.

Instinct caused him to try to wrench free. Even though he topped Michael by five inches and outweighed him by forty pounds, he was held just as immobile.

While Peter was too focused on these physical sensations to notice what was happening to Mariah, Frannie missed nothing. Even though she was stunned, she remembered the small tape recorder in her handbag. She yanked it out as her index finger jabbed the record button.

As Peter jerked and grunted in measured intervals, Mariah looked like she was being walloped. Sometimes she staggered backward, sometimes she lurched forward, but she always maintained an unshakable grip on him. Sweat bathed her face as her eyes locked on Peter’s.

A low growl rumbled in Mariah’s throat. She shook her head then said in an expressionless voice, “Not ... working. Need ... more.”

Her eyes swiveled in Frannie’s direction. In her excitement to observe the phenomenon, Frannie had moved close to Mariah on the right side.

A speculative look lit Mariah’s heated gaze, and her eyes narrowed. With a lunge, she grabbed Frannie’s left arm with her right hand, then slammed Frannie against Peter.

And with the bone-jarring contact, the connection was complete.

Frannie experienced only ten seconds of the wrenching, draining sensation before she felt warmth spread throughout her body. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Peter’s facial spasms cease and felt him relax through the solid contact she made against him.

Frannie surrendered to a sense of euphoria where she attained an unprecedented level of peace. In this semi-trance state, tension was replaced by something that felt strong, supportive.
I wish I could bottle this and sell it
she mused.

She was brought back to reality, however, when she heard Mariah begin to speak. Although she couldn’t make out the words, they sounded Middle Eastern, at least some of them. The rest was a bunch of nonsensical sounds.

Peter drifted—gently, peacefully—on a cloud of tranquility, and something else. In the back of his mind he remembered Michael’s words—“Like our souls were intertwining”—as he experienced the “filling up” sensation. Minimally aware of Frannie pressed against his shoulder and Mariah’s hand still clutching his arm, Peter Martin surrendered to this magnificent sensation.

He heard Mariah begin to speak and forced himself to concentrate. He’d been waiting for this part of the
Joining
, having shared in Michael’s wonder and exhilaration ... and he was not disappointed. Tears of joy welled up behind his eyelids. He was frustrated that his Ancient Hebrew was not as good as it was in his seminary days.

Mariah stopped speaking and her face glowed in triumph as her voice trembled from exhaustion. “Kevin, I’ve come to help you...No, you’re not going crazy...who I am is unimportant, where you are is what I need to know.”

Silence. Mariah’s eyes focused somewhere between Peter and Frannie, a patient look on her face.

“You’re
not
crazy, but even if you were, you might as well talk to me...I’m so sorry, hon, slow down. Where do you live? ...Wait, he threw you in...How long do you think you were in the trunk? ...How many hours? ...Hmm. Did you make any stops? ...Ok, it must’ve been a highway...yes, I understand. Try to remember sounds you heard while you...squealing brakes...About how long before the car stopped? ...Well, if it wasn’t your car... A train? ...Interesting. It adds up, the hours...it’s okay, I won’t leave you, just try to...

What was that? ...Is there a window? ...Try to sit up...a little more...yes,
extremely
bright. Wait a minute, Kevin, could the bright lights be floodlights? ...I can hear the horns, too...yes,
lots
of voices. Some event...what game? ...You’re right, it just could be...perfect! I can just make out the top...Yes, I
can
see the sign. It says “Wrigley”...a night game and Chicago won? And so have we, kiddo.

“Off to the left...Wonderful, Kevin, you’re on your way home...I love you, too...Just a little longer, we have to call the...Relax, don’t give him a reason to come up here. Just wait for the police.”

Mariah broke the connection and released Peter and Frannie simultaneously, causing them both to lurch from the absence of pressure. She was tired but steady on her feet as she glanced from one to the other, her eyes settling on Frannie last.

“Let’s go. We have to call the FBI in Chicago.” Without further conversation, she headed for the switchboard. They were one step behind.

Frannie reached George Cornish, the on-call agent in the Chicago office. She gave him her name and badge number, then identified Mariah by saying cryptically, “The psychic I’ve been working with has found Kevin O’Reilly of Ohio. I’m putting her on.”

As she handed the telephone to Mariah, Frannie realized the tape recorder wasn’t in her hand. She knew she had it right before Mariah decided to include her in the
Finding
. Panicked, she ripped open her bag and sighed with relief when she pulled it out and saw the tape still running. She must have jammed it into her bag when they headed for the switchboard; during the
Finding
, she was completely unaware of its existence.

When the final report was issued, Frannie gave Mariah the highlights.

“Usually the grab is done locally; however, Julio Martinez decides to snatch Kevin in West Harmony, Ohio, about one hundred and eighty miles from his home, to throw the cops off the scent. The squealing brakes Kevin heard was the elevated train arriving at the Addison Street Station which just happens to be under the exit.

“Martinez does the normal kidnapping ritual: he wants money, a helicopter, etc. While he’s negotiating, one officer Newcomb sneaks into the kitchen, finds Martinez in the living room, and kicks him in the back of the knees.”

Kevin’s parents were notified that their son was in Chicago, unharmed except for some rope burns and a nasty bump on the head. When he was brought home, his mother looked straight into the camera lens, pleading with the person who found her son to “Call us, please. My husband and I would like to give you the reward money and thank you in person for giving us back our precious child.”

The next morning the front page of the
Chicago Tribunal
had a picture of the happy family with a headline that screamed: “WHO FOUND KEVIN O’REILLY?” The article quoted Kevin who insisted: “There was this voice in my head that helped me find out where I was at.” The Chicago bureau chief was cornered, repeating yet again that, “the FBI acted on information from a psychic.” When the press demanded he reveal the name of this person, he justified his lack of cooperation by stating that the psychic had stipulated complete and total anonymity in exchange for the information.

One astute reporter from the Herald tied the two rescues in California with the one in Chicago. He titled the follow-up story: “ANGEL RESCUES GO NATIONAL. FBI CONTINUES TO STONEWALL PRESS.”

The police were besieged with all kinds of “psychics” crawling out of the woodwork like cockroaches. Since none of them could authenticate any of the unpublished conversation with Kevin O’Reilly or Agent George Cornish, and Mariah was not about to expose herself, the reward went unclaimed.

Frannie refused to divulge Mariah’s name to anyone, a decision that nearly cost her job. As far as she was concerned, there were already too many people who knew of Mariah’s existence: the two ministers (and their wives, she was sure); Sapitnaski; Sanders; and Bridger. Frannie Manzetti had no intention of adding any more to the list. The Feds in Chicago could not make her give up Mariah and, unexpectedly, Osterman backed her up. He was no fool: as long as one of his agents was in control, and the psychic was playing ball, he could sit back and figure out how this would benefit him. He was even able to play it coy with his boss. He nearly got fired, but saved his butt with Manzetti’s threat that the psychic would stop finding kidnapped children and no longer assist the Feds if forced to come forward.

Stop finding kidnapped children? That’s what you think, Mariah thought glumly, I have no more control over these
Findings
then you do, buddy boy
.

It dawned on Mariah the following day that she had done something during this
Finding
that she hadn’t done in the previous two:

She had seen the stadium sign through Kevin’s eyes.

Frannie sat in a conference room, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in her lap. Through years of practice, she knew her face was expressionless. She’d be damned if she would give the pompous ass across from her the satisfaction of knowing how furious she was.

She had called a local seminary to request the assistance of a professor who taught biblical linguistics. Assured that Alistair Poindexter was their best, Frannie called him, told him she needed something translated, and he agreed to meet her at the office.

Frannie and Alistair were antagonists the minute they laid eyes on each other. She thought him a middle-aged, chauvinistic, woman-hating Brit, stuffed with his own egotistical importance, acting like he was infinitely superior to her and the entire United States population. He thought her a castrating slut, who was probably sleeping her way up the ladder in a man’s profession, a product of over-indulgent, liberalistic policies, what Yanks referred to as “Affirmative Action.”

He’s doing this on purpose
. Frannie’s body was rigid, her teeth, clenched. She barely restrained herself from leaping over the table and clawing that smirk off his face.

With a condescending smile in her direction, Alistair played the edited tape for the fourth time.
You fucking turd
, Frannie seethed.
If you think I’m going to beg you to write something down, we’ll just wait until the Second Coming before I give you that satisfaction
!

Alistair must have sensed that Frannie was about to pounce on him and ram the recorder up his rear end, because he finally took pen in hand and began to write. She smiled, satisfied that he must have realized how close he’d come to mutilation.

Finished, he pushed the paper across the table in Frannie’s general direction, making sure she had to uncross her legs and stretch to retrieve it. As she began to read, he stood up, reaching for his cap and umbrella.

Frannie glared at him through lowered brows and said, “Have a seat Professor Point-Dexter. I might have several questions for you once I’m through.”

He sank down, bristling from the deliberate mispronunciation of his surname. His hands came to rest across his hound’s-tooth waistcoat, and he heaved the sigh of a martyr while his fingernail tapped against a metal button.

Frannie read almost one letter at a time.
Let the bastard wait
, she thought,
just like I had to
.

Despite her desire for some small revenge on Poindexter, she was mesmerized by his neat script which captured the text of the solemn words. She remembered Mariah Carpenter’s husky voice, the tones rising and falling with passion—and something else that Frannie was not able to identify:

Frannie glanced up and said, “Professor, I’d like to know if the person on this tape is comfortable with the language they’re speaking. By that I mean, does it sound like they’re translating from any language into this ... this Aramaic/Hebrew stuff, as they go along, or are they speaking it like it was their native tongue?”

“Well, Miss Manzotti” (Alistair smirked, knowingly committing three sins at one time; mispronouncing
her
last name, not addressing her by her Bureau title of ‘Agent,’ and using ‘Miss,’ rather than the modern business address of ‘Ms’)“I must say this tape intrigues me. It is Biblical Hebrew, which, at that time, was Aramaic. The dialect is archaic, the inflection and intonation used today only by biblical scholars.” Forgetting his previous hostility, Alistair leaned forward, his eyes gleaming behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

“Not only spoken perfectly,” he said, his tone hushed with reverence, “but the vernacular of the educated. No peasant slurrings, no colloquialisms. If I were to make an educated guess” (drawing himself up, Alistair Poindexter reminded her of a male grouse fluffing his feathers) “I would venture to say this man is a rabbi, a teacher, who is speaking before his students. More to the point, what he imparts is the teachings of Christ himself, ‘Lessons in Life’ from the
Sermon on the Mount
.”

Poindexter stared into Frannie’s eyes, his superior attitude gone. “I would deem it a great honour,” he said, “if I could meet the man who spoke these words. He not only speaks the ancient dialect fluently, he thinks in it; and, to answer your prior question, it is most definitely his native tongue.”

Frannie was surprised. She would never have expected this stuffed shirt to humble himself before her. She felt a twinge of pity for this middle-aged man who had dedicated his life to a language forced on those who only needed it to get their theology degree.

Frannie said, “I’m sorry, Professor Poindexter, I can’t reveal the name of the person at this time. But I promise that, if and when the Bureau is ready to make this public,”—waving the translated text— “I’ll make sure the person is aware of your desire to meet.

“Thank you for your time. I hope I may call upon you if we need your assistance in the future.”

She stood up, a signal that the meeting was over and he was dismissed. Obviously disappointed, Poindexter nevertheless thanked “Agent Manzetti” for her promise, picked up his cap and “brolly,” and was escorted out of the FBI building by the department secretary.

Back at her desk, Frannie reread the translation, a sudden chill causing an involuntary shudder. If she wasn’t careful, she might be persuaded to become a born-again Christian.

Frannie’s mother, Theresa, had tried to raise her four children in a semi-strict Catholic home. Her father, Sal, never attended church except for Christmas Eve and Easter. Her mother went three times a week, probably trying to atone for her father’s absent soul. She was forced to eat fish every Friday for dinner and to go with her mother to church on Sunday, but the rest of the time she pretty much did what she wanted.

Frannie had very little use for God: like Mariah, she believed He was not nearly as interested in women as He was in men. But then again, her opinion on a lot of issues was being challenged these days.