Godsent Read online

  The boy was sound asleep. The poor little guy was completely tuckered out after a day that featured a birthday party with cake and ice cream and a dozen neighborhood kids and their parents. Maybe one year was a bit too young to really understand what all the fuss was about, but the boy had watched with fascination as the older kids played, laughing and gurgling with joy as the birthday cake was set before him with its single candle burning, which Lisa had blown out. And he’d certainly appeared to enjoy the cake, though more of it ended up on him than in him.

  Now, looking at his son’s peaceful face in the glow of the nightlight, Gordon once again offered up a prayer of thanks. How privileged he was to be standing here! He reached out and adjusted the soft, blue blanket to better cover the sleeping form. Then, his heart overflowing with feelings of tenderness and protectiveness toward this innocent and helpless life that had been placed into his care, he bent and kissed his son’s warm, smooth cheek, drawing in the clean, fresh scent of his skin and hair; Lisa had bathed him before bed.

  If he was aware on some level of Gordon’s kiss, the boy showed no sign of it. He was breathing regularly, and behind his closed eyelids Gordon could see the movements of his eyes as they followed whatever dreams had found him. What could they be? Was he dreaming of his birth mother? Rehashing the events of the day? Or was he instead in communication with God, dreaming a future that was still years away, a destiny that Gordon could only guess at?

  “Are you him?” he whispered. “Are you the second son?”

  “Whoever he is, he’s our son too,” came Lisa’s voice from behind him.

  Gordon gave a start. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I like watching you watch him.” Smiling, she moved up beside him and slipped an arm around his waist. “My two favorite guys.”

  “He’s pretty amazing, isn’t he?”

  “Um-hmm.” Her head was resting on his shoulder; he could smell her sweat mixed with the odors of roast chicken. “It’s hard to imagine anybody would want to hurt a hair on his head.”

  “We won’t let them.”

  “I know.”

  They stood quietly for a moment. Then Lisa spoke again.

  “Is it selfish of me to wish that he turns out to be just a normal kid?”

  “If it is, then I’m selfish too,” said Gordon.

  “I don’t want him to be hurt. I don’t want him to suffer like the first son did.”

  “Honey, everybody hurts. Everybody suffers. It’s part of being human. We can’t shield him from that, no matter who he is. Not completely. All we can do is be there for him when he needs us and give him all the love we have to give.”

  “How did you get to be so smart, Mr. Brown?”

  “By marrying you, Mrs. Brown.”

  “Right answer.” She stretched up to kiss him. “Now come on, before your dinner gets cold.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Arms around each other’s waists, they left the room.

  Behind them, Ethan slept and dreamed.

  CHAPTER 6

  1998

  It was time.

  His heart beat quickly in anticipation, but his movements were slow and grave, deliberate, as he lit the candles and laid out the vestments one by one upon the bedspread. It was one of the ways that he exercised discipline over his body, curbing its hasty impulses, subjecting its appetites and demands to a rigorous control that brought him by small increments of suffering and self-abnegation steadily closer to God. He would forego food, sleep, speech, deprive himself of comforts that others took for granted . . . but not as some did, making a public show and in so doing seeking to elevate themselves above their fellow men, as if the mortification of flesh and spirit was an end in itself and not a means of reaching an end. No, that was not his way. As with other things, his suffering was private, a secret known only to God, concealed beneath his outward display of friendly good humor just as the cilice encircling his thigh, its tiny metal spikes kissing his flesh like thorns, was hidden beneath his clothing.

  Or soon would be.

  Now, in the flickering light of the candles, naked but for the small wooden cross he wore on a leather string about his neck and a pair of fresh white underpants, he knelt before the bed whose softness he had scorned, sleeping instead each night of the past three months upon the hard, cold floor without even a sheet to cover him. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and prayed that he might serve God this night without impurity of mind or of body, performing the ritual required of him with a humble and contrite heart, reconciled to all men and with no animus toward anyone. As he prayed, small shivers shook his lean and finely muscled frame, his bony shoulders with their silvery lacework of scars; although it was the height of summer, he kept the air conditioner running at full blast, so that it was a perpetual winter within the apartment.

  At last he raised his head and stood, making the sign of the cross. Then, methodically, he donned the vestments of his office.

  First he bound the cilice tightly about his thigh, welcoming the familiar pricking sensations as the hooked barbs sank into the already scarred and scabbed flesh. Then he covered the cilice with a bandage that served both to press the barbs deeper into his skin and to absorb any telltale drops of blood, for it would not do to leave any blood behind.

  Not his own, anyway.

  He drew the wooden cross to his lips and kissed it, then lifted from the bed an oblong piece of white linen about two feet square that trailed long strings from each end, giving it the look of a sleeveless straightjacket: the amice. This he touched briefly to his forehead before draping it over his shoulders. He crossed the strings of the amice over his chest, passed them behind his back, then cinched them tightly about his waist. As he performed these actions, he prayed earnestly that the amice would serve as a vest of salvation to protect him from the assaults of the devil.

  Then he lifted what appeared to be a white dressing gown: the alb. Drawing the alb over his head, he prayed to be washed in the blood of the Lamb and, thus purified, rendered fit to enjoy the eternal delights of Heaven.

  Next came the cincture, a ropelike linen cord. Doubling its length about his waist, he prayed humbly for God to gird him with purity and extinguish within him, even unto the smallest and most stubborn ember, the sinful fires of lust.

  There were now three garments remaining. Each of them, in stark contrast to the blemishless white of the others, was colored bright red; they shone like pools of blood in the candlelight.

  The first was a napkin-like cloth on which the cross had been embroidered in gold: the maniple. This he kissed and wrapped about his left forearm, praying that it might serve as a shield against temptation.

  The second was the stole, a scarf-like cloth whose ends were each embroidered with a cross. He kissed the crosses and then draped the stole about his neck, praying that the robe of immortality might someday, by the grace of God, be restored to him. He crossed the two ends over his chest and then tucked them into the cincture.

  The third was the chasuble, a poncho-like garment he pulled over his head.

  Thus accoutred, he resembled nothing so much as a priest.

  Which, indeed, he was.

  But of a very special kind.

  Still on the bed were the remaining items of his investiture.

  A vial of holy water.

  A sheathed dagger.

  A pistol.

  The priest kissed the vial, raised it high, and murmured a blessing. Then he slipped it into an interior pocket of the chasuble.

  He brought the sheathed dagger to his lips, then slid the blade free and blessed it in a similar fashion before returning it to its sheath, which he clipped to the left side of the cincture beneath the chasuble.

  Finally the priest lifted the pistol, a silencer-equipped .45. He quickly checked the clip, repeated the blessing a third time, and then slid the pistol into a holster that had been sewn into the stole. This item was one he had never had occasion to use in his work, nor did he anticipate hav
ing to do so now. But it was best to be prepared. Should he be interrupted, the pistol could prove indispensable, both in his own defense and, if necessary, as a final means of evading capture. In such dire circumstances, he had received special dispensation to end his own life, the taint of mortal sin removed from the act, it being considered martyrdom rather than suicide.

  Lastly, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a new pair of black socks and black sneakers.

  Then he dropped to his knees once more and prayed again, silently, for long moments. This was not required, but he felt the need of further self-discipline. Later, he would add to the scars on his back.

  After a time, he stood, picked up one of the candles, and carried it to a closed door. He opened the door and entered a small bathroom.

  The candlelight, which was the sole source of illumination, revealed a bathtub filled with water that glimmered as if with crystals of ice. Lying there, submerged up to the neck, was a young boy, perhaps six or seven years old. He was wearing sneakers, shorts, and a T-shirt that bore the name and symbol of the Chicago Bulls. His limbs had been tightly bound. He was gagged and blindfolded, his sandy blond hair plastered to his forehead. His skin had a distinct bluish cast.

  “Dominus vobiscum,” murmured the priest. The Lord be with you.

  The boy did not stir. He seemed to be unconscious.

  The priest set the candle down on the edge of the sink, then squatted beside the tub and pressed two fingers to the boy’s neck; a pulse came back slow and faint as the trembling of a butterfly’s wing.

  Hypothermia had set in.

  Good.

  He did not want the boy to suffer unduly.

  The boy’s name was Charlie Vance. He was a high potential.

  Of course, it was best to identify high potentials before they were born. Or, failing that, as early in their lives as possible. The older they grew, the more dangerous they became, for the powers of the Antichrist would manifest themselves more and more as the years went by, until the boy, whoever he was, came into his full inheritance of evil. At that point, he would be beyond the power of the Congregation to stop. Beyond all earthly power. So it was of the utmost importance to identify and neutralize high potentials early on, while they were still vulnerable. And for the most part, the Congregation did this effectively, despite occasional errors and oversights . . . and the interference of the heretics known as Conversatio, deluded, dangerous fools whose obsession with the false and pernicious doctrine of the second son was only opening the door wider than ever for the entrance of the Antichrist into the world.

  The priest was one of those assigned by the Congregation to correct its errors and oversights: high potentials who, for one reason or another, had slipped through the cracks, avoiding detection until later in life. Like the Vance boy. The priest had received this particular assignment five months ago. No name, no information beyond a radius of three hundred miles around Chicago. Somewhere within that area, his nameless superiors felt certain, based on patterns revealed by confessional analysis, a high potential lurked. The priest did not know what those methods of analysis were, nor did he care to know. Did the dagger in the hand ask why it struck? Did the bullet in the gun inquire as to its target?

  It had taken him two months to narrow the search to the suburb of Elmhurst. And another three months to establish himself in the area, to become familiar with the local children and their families, and, finally, to conclusively identify the Vance boy as his target. Then he’d set in motion the chain of events whose culmination was about to take place.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” he intoned, kneeling on the hard, damp tiles of the bathroom floor and making the sign of the cross above the boy. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

  He took out the vial of holy water, kissed it, and laid it on the edge of the tub. Then he raised the dagger to his lips and placed it, still in its sheath, beside the vial.

  “Judica me, Deus,” he said softly, head bowed, “et discerne causam meam de gente non sancta: ab homine iniquo et doloso erue me.”

  A thrill shot through him at the Latin words, like a powerful ancient spell. Judge me, O God, and distinguish my cause from an ungodly nation: deliver me from an unjust and deceitful enemy.

  He took the vial, opened it, and sprinkled holy water over the boy’s forehead. The drops ran down the alabaster cheeks like tears, but still the boy did not stir. The priest sealed the vial and replaced it within his chasuble.

  Then he picked up the knife in both hands and raised it above his head.

  “Jube, Domine, benedicere. Dominus sit in corde meo et in labiis meis: ut digne et competenter annuntiem Evangelium suum. Amen.”

  Cleanse my heart and my lips, almighty God, who cleansed the lips of the prophet Isaias with a live coal. In your mercy, deign to cleanse me so I may be worthy to proclaim Your holy Gospel: through Christ our Lord. Amen.

  He drew the blade from its sheath and set the empty sheath down carefully on the edge of the tub.

  “Per ipsum, et cum ipso, et in ipso, est tibi Deo Patri omnipotenti, in unitate Spiritus Sancti, omnis honor et gloria.”

  Through Him, with Him, in Him, all glory and honor are Yours, God, almighty Father, in the unity of the Holy Ghost.

  He set the sharp edge of the blade to the boy’s smooth throat. Only then did the boy move faintly, with a barely perceptible shudder. A soft moan escaped his lips. The priest paid no notice.

  “Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”

  World without end.

  And with one swift and sure stroke, it was done, as if the boy in the bath had been the bull whose image he bore on his T-shirt, now vanished beneath a billowing red cloud.

  “Amen.”

  The sacrifice successfully completed, the priest cleaned the blade with holy water and then returned it to its sheath. Then, moving with the same slow and grave deliberation with which he had conducted the entire procedure, he cleaned himself, removed his vestments and packed them away, and dressed himself for the last time in the nondescript clothes of his current disguise. For his next assignment, he would be someone else.

  After a final check of the room, he took out his cell phone and punched in a series of numbers, then pressed send. Fifteen minutes from now, after he was safely gone, the clean-up crew would arrive, a group of Congregation priests who specialized in turning the aftermath of the ritual he had just performed into a gruesome murder scene, one that could only have been perpetrated by a crazed serial killer. Thus would the attention of the police and the media be diverted. He smiled grimly to himself, thinking of how surprised people would be if they realized just how many of the murders and abductions ascribed to serial killers and sexual deviants were in actuality the work of men like him, priests sworn to celibacy and consecrated to God, who took these sins uncomplainingly upon their shoulders for the sake of the world’s salvation, just as the Savior had done.

  CHAPTER 7

  2001

  Lisa sat in front of her computer, looking over her eBay account and sipping her morning coffee as she listened to Ethan playing happily in the living room. It was funny; her home business was just a cover, a reason to visit eBay and other sites so often without arousing the suspicions of anyone—or anything—who might be monitoring their Internet usage. Yet to her surprise, she’d found that she genuinely enjoyed the work of buying and selling collectibles. Even more surprisingly, she was good at it. The business had become so profitable that it had evolved into a full-time occupation. She’d turned the guest room into an office, and, much to Gordon’s annoyance, had made the garage her stockroom.

  Gordon’s engineering job at Garmin had proved to be another unexpected success story. Over the last four years, the small company had grown by leaps and bounds, and Gordon’s responsibilities had grown with it. The stock options he’d received as part of his compensation package upon first joining the company had doubled, then tripled, then quadrupled in value, leaving them, at least o
n paper, very well off indeed. They’d bought a new house, another car, and of course the best of everything for Ethan.

  Ethan was a joy: a lively, intelligent, imaginative boy who was curious about everything and as quick to laugh as he was slow to cry. He was popular with other children, and showed no sign of being other than an ordinary boy . . . with one exception: He had yet to suffer a single day of illness. While the neighborhood kids were going through the normal array of childhood sicknesses, Ethan remained uninfected. Even his cuts and bruises seemed to heal more quickly than those of the other kids . . . though Gordon said that was just Lisa’s overactive imagination at work.

  “Don’t you see?” he told her once. “You want him to be the second son so badly that you’re seeing signs of it everywhere, whether they exist or not.”

  But it seemed to Lisa that Gordon was the one who was fooling himself. Lisa knew that she would love Ethan no matter what, but she still prayed every night that he would turn out to be the one they had been awaiting for so long: the Son of man. But it was as if Gordon had already decided that Ethan wasn’t the second son and so shut his eyes to any evidence to the contrary. In fact, she sometimes wondered if he had forgotten that they were not what or who they appeared to be. That more was involved here than just their own happiness.

  Or no, not forgotten. It was more like he’d been seduced by the artificial life they were leading in Olathe, as if he preferred that life, comfortable yet false, to the dangerous and uncertain reality that lurked behind it. She couldn’t entirely blame him. She felt the same temptation to close her eyes and pretend that the Congregation wasn’t out there looking. In a way, their very success at blending in to the community was itself a danger. She hosted a book club every week with other young mothers she’d met through day care and was a regular at the monthly Small Business Association meetings. Gordon was a deacon in the Methodist church they attended and helped coach Ethan’s pee-wee soccer team. They had made friends. All of which made it easy to let their guards down. To coast. Gordon still filed his weekly encrypted reports, but it was a habit now. A routine.