The Chair (12 page)

“I never said the chair heals people.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“I already told you once, I have no idea. Why aren’t you talking to the mom of the kid who was supposedly healed?”

“I might do that.” Ben picked up his notebook and drink. “Before I go, would it be possible for me to look at the chair?”

“I’m guessing you already know the answer to that question.”

“True.” Ben smiled, a genuine one this time. “I know how it must look, me barging into your store asking all these questions. But truly, our intent is to help, not to hinder.”

Something about the way Ben said this rang true. He didn’t trust Ben, didn’t like him, but Corin was curious about the offer.

“If I did decide to accept your help, what do you think you’d be able to assist me with?”

“I don’t think you know what you’re dealing with.”

“And you do?”

“No.” Ben shook his head. “I don’t think we do either. If the Holy Grail showed up in the crypt of a European cathedral, we wouldn’t know what to do with it. If pieces of Noah’s ark were discovered in Turkey, we would be extremely presumptuous to say we knew what we were dealing with.” Ben lifted his raspberry concoction to his mouth and looked over the top of it. “But I will say we likely know more about what to do with supernatural relics than you.”

“Probably true.”

“And we know more about the supernatural aspects of Christianity.”

“I’ll give you that as well.”

“And we could examine the chair, give you our thoughts, and store it in a safe place for you.”

“You want me to give you the chair?”

“Not give, just protect.”

Before the dream and Brittan’s healing, Corin would have walked the guy right into the vault and showed him the chair. Probably would’ve offered to let Ben borrow the thing and report back in a few days or a week what he found out.

But maybe God spoke to people in dreams. Hadn’t he seen that in a movie once? So for the moment he’d take the dream as a warning and err on the side of the lady’s advice. Because he couldn’t get the idea out of his brain that his benefactor and the lady in the dream were the same person.

Corin strolled toward his front door. “Thanks for stopping by, Ben. I appreciate it. And if I have any questions I’ll know who to talk to.”

“Right.” Ben frowned and handed Corin his card. “Thanks for your time.” He pushed open the front door, stepped through, then turned back to Corin. “My pastor is a powerful man. Influential. And driven to get what he wants.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“It wasn’t a warning; it’s an invitation to accept his help.”

Corin turned and walked back toward his sales counter. “Thanks for the warning, Ben. If I need to, I’ll be in touch.”

When he drove home that night, the bed of his truck held a tightly wrapped and very secure artifact from ages past.

C
orin picked up his cell phone on the way home and dialed his brother’s house to see if the gift he’d sent had arrived. It was a way to be a part of Shasta’s family, even if it was only looking through darkened windows. Plus his nephew was an amazing kid. Robin answered on the first ring.

“Hey, Cor. Sawyer once again thinks you’re the coolest uncle ever.”

“I had to send it. It’s his birthday. Every ten-year-old boy needs
Race Town III
on his birthday.” And every ten-year-old boy should somehow be protected from what Corin went through at that age.

She laughed. “I think his hands are going to fuse into the shape needed to hold the controller.”

“But you’ll limit his playtime to three hours a day, right?”

“Less than that. I’m not sure I want him to grow up to be a thrill junkie like you.”

Corin hesitated. “Maybe someday soon I’ll be able to play the game with him.”

Robin didn’t answer.

“Sorry, had to say it.”

A short sigh floated through the phone in concert with his own.

Should he ask the follow-up question? He knew the answer, so why did he always ask? “Will you and Shasta and the kid be coming to my house for dinner next weekend?”

“I think you know the answer to that one.”

“Yeah. What did he say this time?”

“That he’s busy.”

“You’d think he’d have a better excuse by now.” Corin kneaded the steering wheel. “Does he miss Mom and Dad? The anniversary of their passing was six weeks ago.”

“I know.” Robin coughed. “He misses them a great deal.”

“But that same emotion isn’t extended my direction.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Hang on a second.”

Corin heard a door shut through the phone, and when Robin spoke again it was in a whisper. “He still cares about you. And I’ll never stop talking to God about it.”

“Right.”

“Deep down he does. I see it in his eyes when your name comes up.”

“All I saw in his eyes during my last impromptu visit was apathy. A healthy dose of it. It’s not that he hates me; it’s that he’s devoid of any type of emotion toward me.”

“He cares.”

“If I died tomorrow, he wouldn’t cheer, he wouldn’t break down. He wouldn’t do anything.”

Five seconds passed.

“Do you know what he had restored to pristine condition and keeps out in the garage?”

“No idea.”

“His Honda CRF 230.”

A memory flooded Corin’s mind as he considered the implications of Shasta keeping the Honda. His brother had almost killed himself on that bike on that August morning in 1994.

“You always have to push me a little farther than I want to go, don’t you?” Shasta tried to pretend he was frustrated, but Corin knew underneath his helmet his brother was laughing.

They sat on their dirt bikes, revving their engines, staring at an eastern Colorado gorge with a seventy-foot drop to a thundering river.

“Not a little, a lot farther.” Corin shifted into first gear, revved his engine, and let out the clutch. The wheel of his Honda CR 500 popped into the air and the bike screamed forward, the rush of acceleration making him laugh. The jump wasn’t long, but being short wasn’t an option. He let the whine of first gear get to ear piercing, then shifted into second, then third. He needed to be going at least forty-five when he hit the ramp, fifty would be better.

The wind whipped against his chest and he leaned forward in the seat.

Thirty feet to the ramp. Twenty. Five more feet. Launch!

The ground vanished and he flew thirty feet into the sky.

Corin’s landing was perfect and he skidded to a stop forty yards on the other side of the gorge.

He threw his bike into first gear and raced back up to the edge of the cliff and shouted across the gorge. “You coming, little brother?” Corin shouted.

Shasta revved his engine in response. Corin imagined he could see Shasta rolling his eyes under his helmet.

“Just don’t be slow, little bro.”

Shasta hit the ramp dead center but Corin’s heart clenched. The bike didn’t have enough speed.

C’mon! Be enough.

Time slowed as Shasta arced across the ravine, body and bike in perfect form.

Be enough.

An instant later the back tire of Shasta’s Honda smacked down high on the ramp sending a mini dirt shower into the air. Shasta threw his hands up in victory.

He yanked off his helmet, long dark brown hair swirling in the wind, and grinned at Corin after skidding to a halt twenty yards away. “Yeah, baby!”

“I don’t need a heart attack, bro. What were you thinking?”

“What are you talking about?”

Corin jogged up the ramp to see where Shasta’s tire had landed. He coughed out a frightened laugh when he reached the edge. A foot and a half, maybe two. He stared at Shasta.

“More speed next time.”

“Hey, I wanted to make it interesting for you.”

“Too interesting.” Corin jogged back down the ramp over to his brother and slapped his hands down on Shasta’s shoulders. “That kind of interesting I can do without.”

“I was just curious how riled up I could make you.”

“This cat doesn’t want to get killed.”

“But I was satisfied.”

“Get serious, did you do that on purpose?”

Shasta took off his gloves and stuck them in his back pocket. “True serious?”

“Yes.”

“I blew it back there. Thought I had enough speed. I’m sorry, bro; didn’t mean to scare you. That one even made me nervous.”

“Don’t do that to me. Losing you would not be good for my mental health, get it?”

“Got it.”

“Cor? You there?”

Robin’s voice sliced through the memory and brought him back to the present.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

The image in his mind of the dirt bike jump faded into a picture of the ski slope. “I made him do it.”

“It was his choice.”

“I forced him into it.”

“You pushed him down the hill? Forced him up that ramp?”

Corin massaged the knots in the back of his neck. “Nice try. I appreciate it.”

“I’m not trying to placate you. Yes, you were probably persuasive, but in the end it was his choice. He chose to launch himself into the air; you didn’t choose it for him.”

“Life would be different if I hadn’t talked him into it.”

“Promise me something,” Robin said.

“Anything.”

“You’ll never stop trying.”

“Never.” Corin looked at himself in the rearview mirror and studied his haunted eyes. “I’ll die first.”

CORIN STRODE THROUGH the doors of Tori’s dojo early Friday evening determined to talk to her about the chair. She wasn’t warm to the subject, but things were getting too weird and she was the only one who he could trust.

Hey!” She bounced up to him in a bright blue top and black gym shorts and planted a kiss on his lips. “Ready for a slash-and-dash workout?”

“Slash and dash?”

“Slash through this thing and still dash out with plenty of time to enjoy that dinner you promised me at your place plus get to the theater in time to catch a late flick together.” She glanced at the clock on her wall over the mirrors that ran the length of the dojo, then trotted over to the gray workout bags hanging from the ceiling.

As Corin peeled off his sweats he said, “I need to talk to you about something.”

Thwack!
Tori gave her bag a roundhouse kick. “Talk.”

He jogged over to the bag next to Tori and struck it like a boxer.

“This isn’t boxing, bub; it’s mixed martial arts.”

“Right.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“The chair.”

“Again?”

“A guy from some megachurch came in today wanting to, ‘Give me expertise in what I’m dealing with.’”

“What are you dealing with? Is the thing going to explode?”

“Then he insinuated I would be wise to let him study it and keep it for me.”

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Tori kicked the bag three times in rapid succession, then finished with a shot from her fist. “Just sell the thing. Or give it to this guy.”

“Don’t you think there might be something a little weird going on here with this chair? The healing of that kid, now a sudden interest from this church?”

“Definitely something weird.”
Thud, thud, thud!
Tori pummeled the bag with her feet.

“I need to know if this chair can heal people.” Corin gave his bag a swift kick and followed it up with a forearm blow even Tori would be proud of. “Could it really have been made by Christ? Where should I take it? I have to talk to somebody who knows something about this. Figure out what to do with it.”

“Shut up, Corin.” Tori grabbed her bag with both hands and stared at him.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“What’s your problem?”

“The weird thing I’m talking about is you. Just because a kid gets healed, you’re suddenly wanting to be Pastor Joe-Bob and start preaching to the world.”

“Hello?” Corin knocked on his skull. “Anyone home? What’s wrong with you? I’m not wanting anything but to know what this thing is and what I should do. Doesn’t it freak you out at all that I might have a miracle chair sitting in my basement? Wouldn’t you want to find out more about it?”

Tori let loose with a double shot to the bag with her fists. “Sorry, I’m just getting tired of all this God talk.”

“It’s not God talk.” Corin popped the bag so hard his fist stung. “It’s chair talk. Why are you stonewalling me on this?”

“I’m not stonewalling; I’m just not into talking about religion. I told you that.”

“This isn’t religion. It’s a chair. That might be doing bizarre things. I’d like some answers.”

“Call James Randi.”

“Who?”

“Founder of J.R.E.F. The James Randi Educational Foundation. He has a standing offer of a million bucks to anyone who can demonstrate any psychic, supernatural, or paranormal ability of any kind. I bet he’d be able to prove your chair isn’t anything more than a nice-looking piece of wood.”

“I’m not calling some celebrity.”

“Fine.” She gave her bag three sharp kicks. “But can we be done talking about it now?”

They stopped talking and Corin pounded away, hoping to take out his frustration on the bag. She’d locked him out. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t keep trying to pick the lock.