The God Machine (55 page)

W
HEN
F
RANKLIN AWOKE, HE FOUND HIMSELF WALKING
along the path to Dock Creek. It was a startlingly beautiful autumn morning. The air was cool and crisp, and the sky a cerulean blue. The fruit trees, the maples and oaks, that girdled the footpath were crimson and gold, and the stench that invariably wafted in from Dock Creek was noticeably absent, overcome by the aroma of wood smoke, the burning of leaves.

Franky was waiting for him at the footbridge. He was standing right there, in his midnight blue trousers, with that pale red chemise that Deborah had sewn for him—the one with the bone-colored collar and cuffs.

The sight of his son filled Franklin with a rush of exquisite delight so profound that he had to stop for a moment just to gather his breath.

Franky giggled and waved. He tore up the path toward his father. He ran and he ran, and he kicked at an apple that sailed through the air, spinning and coming to rest but a few feet from Franklin.

Franklin stared at the fruit. It was perfectly round—
like a ball, cannon shot, like the great globe itself. Spinning. He ran forward and kicked it, but missed. He slipped on some leaves, wet with dew, and flew back on his arse to the footpath. But, somehow, the fall did not hurt him. He stared up at the sky through the boughs of the trees, at the buttery sunlight, and realized that the pain of his gout and his gallstones had vanished.

Franky came up beside him, blocking the sun. He stared down at his father and smiled. Then he held out a hand.

Franklin reached out to grab it when, for the first time, he saw his own fingers. They were strong and un-wrinkled, and uncovered with spots.

Their hands came together, Franky's fingers so tiny and pale next to his. Franky leaned back to help him get up. But the boy was too light, and Franklin fell back to the ground, with Franky upon him.

They rolled through the leaves. Franklin held the slight body, afraid to let go, afraid to relinquish the scent of his skin, the warmth of his cheek on his face.

“Is it you?”

The boy giggled again. He rolled onto his back right beside him, and stared up at the white cotton clouds.

“Am I dreaming?” asked Franklin. “If I am, do not wake me.”

“No, Father,” the boy replied. “You're not dreaming.” Franky turned and looked at his father. “You're home.”

Born in Chicago, raised and educated throughout Europe, and a graduate of Amherst College, J. G. Sandom founded the nation's first digital ad agency (Einstein and Sandom Interactive—EASI) in 1984, before launching an award-winning writing career. Sandom has authored six thrillers and mysteries, including
Gospel Truths, The Hunting Club
and
The Wave
, and three young adult novels under the pseudonym T. K. Welsh, including
The Unresolved
and
Resurrection Men
. He is currently working on a sequel to
The God Machine
. Visit the author at
www.JGSandom.com
.

THE GOD MACHINE
A Bantam Book / May 2009
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2009 by J. G. Sandom

eISBN: 978-0-553-90644-8
www.bantamdell.com

v3.0