Eli (38 page)

Nineteen was the current count, nearly a third of them infants.

Conrad had seen this type of unrest before—as a student reporter back in Chicago, during the ’68 Democratic Conven-tion, just before the riots broke out. And he was nervous. Even though there were only forty or fifty people, and even though somebody had had the good sense to station a guard at the top of the courthouse steps as a reminder that no disorder would be tolerated, those things did little to ease Conrad’s fears. This gathering was a tinderbox of outrage that, if not defused, would eventually ignite.

Earlier he’d tried contacting the sheriff’s department, using his press credentials to get more information. But as soon as he’d mentioned his name, their attitude seemed to change—almost as if they’d been alerted that he might call.

“Excuse me . . . excuse me, aren’t you one of Eli’s followers?”

Conrad recognized the voice and turned to see Gerald McFarland shoving a microphone into Jake’s face. Of the group only he, Jake, and Trevor had shown up outside the courthouse.

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“I . . . uh . . .” Jake looked at the camera, startled, then at the small group gathering around it. He coughed slightly. “I’ve heard him speak, if that’s what you mean. At the City of God, when he was at the fountain.” He swallowed.

“No, no,” McFarland insisted, “haven’t you been on the road with him?”

More people turned in his direction. A few exchanged hushed words.

Jake shook his head. “No, you got me mixed up with somebody else.”

But McFarland was ruthless. He knew that Jake was part of the group, had seen him a number of times. “No, I’m sure you were with him.”

Other people began to approach, straining to listen. Jake’s eyes darted to Conrad, then to Trevor.

McFarland continued, “In fact, I think we’ve got footage, back in Texas when you—”

“I said I don’t know him, so I don’t know him, all right?”

He swore to further make his point. “I’m here to see what’s going on, just like the rest of you.” He pushed past McFarland and the camera. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He entered the crowd of onlookers, which parted slightly for him to exit. He’d only taken a half-dozen steps before the courthouse clock began to chime. Conrad glanced up. It was nine o’clock. He turned back to Jake. Instead of slowing or even turning, the big man had lowered his head and picked up his pace.

Conrad watched sadly. He knew exactly what the big guy was feeling—had felt it himself. Was still feeling it. Hadn’t he also betrayed Eli? Maybe not here, but what about the night of the arrest? How was he any different from Jake? Or Keith, for that matter. Granted, he’d not sold Eli for cash, but he’d still denied him. Like Jake, like Keith, like the rest of the group, he’d still betrayed him. Would it ever stop? This waf-fling weakness? This cowardliness of giving in to the world’s ways and refusing Eli’s? Would he ever—

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His thoughts froze. What on earth? There, at the foot of the courthouse steps, he saw Julia. She was sitting, but not on the steps. Instead, she sat in a yellow molded chair. And beside her . . . was a bed. A hospital bed with someone in it.

What was going on? What was she doing here? He closed his eyes and reopened them, but she was still there. Her head was bowed slightly and, although he couldn’t be sure, it looked as if she was crying.

Confused and concerned, he started toward her. But he’d barely taken a step before another voice called to him.

“Connie . . . Hey, Conrad?”

He turned to see Leo Singer, his rival from
Up Front
magazine. And there, trailing behind him, were Ned Burton and a soundman. They were obviously here to cover the story.

After his initial surprise came the resentment . . . and the realization. Burton had always been Conrad’s cameraman. Not Singer’s. But now, here the two of them were, a team. Leo was in, Conrad was out. It was as simple as that. Funny, he’d almost forgotten how expendable he was.

He turned back toward Julia, but she was no longer there.

Neither was her chair. Nor the bed. He frowned and turned to search the courtyard.

“You okay, buddy?” Singer asked.

Conrad continued to look, but saw nothing.

“Connie?”

He turned back to them. “Yeah, uh . . .” He caught Burton’s eyes and they exchanged nods.

“So how you been?” Singer asked. “Getting all that rest you so desperately needed?”

A sizable portion of Conrad wanted to punch him in the face, but he managed to exercise restraint.

“Did you hear the news?” Singer continued.

Conrad scanned the courtyard one last time for Julia but with no success. “What news is that?” he asked.

“It just came in a minute ago. Preliminary results indicate that the same materials used to make the bomb at the City of hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 297

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God were used in the bomb that blew up your guy’s trailer in Montana.”

Conrad turned to Singer. He now had his full attention.

“What?”

Singer nodded. “That’s right.”

Conrad felt a wave of relief wash over him. “So we’ve got proof that it’s some sort of conspiracy, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they’re the same materials, then whoever blew up the RV also planted the bomb at the City of God.”

“Uh, not exactly.”

“What do you mean?’”

“Actually, the theory being floated is that the bomb that blew up that RV was in your boy’s possession.”

“Meaning . . .”

“Meaning it was an accidental explosion from the bombs that he and his followers were making.”

Conrad felt himself growing cold. “What?”

Singer shrugged. “That’s the story. Of course there’s no confirmation yet, but—”

“So you haven’t reported it?” Conrad couldn’t hide the urgency in his voice.

“Of course not. Not till we get it confirmed.”

Conrad looked uneasily at the people milling about the courtyard. There were a dozen more since the last time he’d checked. “Good,” he said, “because if word got out . . .”

“I know, I know,” Singer nodded, also looking over the group. “Unfortunately, just because we’re not in the business of reporting rumors”—he threw a glance toward McFarland—

“doesn’t mean others aren’t.”

Conrad spun toward McFarland. He got the message.

Loud and clear. He pushed past Singer—“Excuse me”—and started across the courtyard toward McFarland. “Gerry!

Gerry!”

If Singer had received word, chances are that McFarland had too. And, knowing his style, let alone his agenda, it was hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 298

298 doubtful that he would be quite as discerning in separating fact from fiction. “Gerry!”

A crowd was gathering around him, listening intently as he interviewed a black mother holding her child.

“What?”
she practically shouted at McFarland as Conrad approached. “Are you sure?”

McFarland nodded. “The report was released moments ago. So as a mother, tell us—how does that make you feel?”

He shoved the mike back into the angry woman’s face. The expressions of those listening showed equal outrage. Murmuring and unrest swept through the crowd. Immediately, Conrad knew. McFarland had already struck.

The match inside the tinderbox had just been lit.

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C H A P T E R

S I X T E E N

“KEITH!” CONRAD BANGED ON THE PEELING DOOR OF THE MOTEL

room. “Keith, open up!”

No answer.

“Keith!” He knocked again. The kid’s car was in the parking lot. He had to be there. “Keith!”

Going to see him had been a last-minute decision, when Conrad couldn’t get through to Dr. Kerston’s people, when suddenly all ties had been severed. But they would listen to Keith. They’d have to. And they’d have to realize how dangerous it was for Eli to remain in the courthouse. Any minute, that crowd could go off. And when they did, no solitary guard stationed up on the steps could stop them. Reinforcements had to be brought in. And quickly.

“Keith!” More banging. More silence . . . except for the strange ditty going around inside Conrad’s head. It had started on the drive over. A nursery rhyme. One that he hadn’t heard in years.

Jesus loves me, this I know,

For the Bible tells me so.

It was the weirdest thing. And even weirder was the fact that he couldn’t seem to shake it.

299

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Little ones to Him belong,

They are weak but He is strong.

He stole a look over his shoulder. No one was in the parking lot—just Keith’s car and the battered Toyota Travis had loaned him. Without hesitation he crossed to the window, slipped off his shoe, and bashed it through one of the panes.

The brittle glass shattered effortlessly, one of the advantages of a cheap motel. He reached in, unlatched the lock, and pushed up the window.

“Keith?”

He shoved aside the sun-rotted drapes and stuck in his head.

The boy was on the bed, slumped against the back wall.

His chest was soaked in blood.

“Keith!” Conrad lifted himself into the window, trying to avoid the shards of glass. He wasn’t entirely successful; something caught his Dockers and he heard them rip as he crawled through.

“Keith!” He started toward the bed—then stopped, suddenly seeing the splattered blood on the wall and the open wound in the back of the young man’s head. In his hand he held a .32 caliber Beretta. But he was still breathing. Conrad could see his chest moving, hear little gurgling sounds from his throat. He headed for the phone on the nightstand, scooped it up, and quickly punched in 911. The first two tries were unsuccessful; then he remembered to dial 8 for an outside line.

“911,” a voice answered.

“I need an ambulance at Twin Pines Motel on Cumberland Road. There’s been a shooting. Severe head wound, lots of blood.”

“You say there was a shooting?”

“Yes, at Twin Pines Motel. Hurry, he’s still breathing, but barely.”

“Can you see him from where you are?” the voice asked.

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“Yes.”

“Is he in the room with you?”

“Yes,” Conrad answered impatiently.

“Now, by shooting, what exactly do you—”

“Just get out here!” Conrad slammed down the phone.

“Connie . . .” It was Keith’s voice, barely audible.

He scrambled onto the bed. “I’m right here, buddy, I’m right here.”

“Tell him—” Keith coughed a moment, wracking his entire body.

“Shhh.” Conrad wanted to hold him, but was unsure how.

“Take it easy, you’ll be okay.”

“Tell him . . .” He coughed again. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“Save your strength, don’t talk.”

“No.” Keith tried to shake his head. “They’re moving him.”

“Eli?”

He tried to nod.

“Where?”

The gurgling grew louder. It was more difficult for him to speak. Yet he forced out the word. “Atlanta.”

“Good—that’s good, then.”

Keith shook his head. “It’s a setup. He’ll never make it.”

More coughing, then a deep, unsettling breath that brought gagging and the vomiting of blood. Conrad recoiled, but the blood splashed onto his pants anyway, immediately soaking through. He felt his stomach turning, but did his best to ignore it.

With great effort, Keith wheezed out the word, “hijacking . . .” He took a shuddering, gasping breath, underwent another set of wracking coughs, and ended with the whispered word, “. . . lynching.”

Before Conrad could react, Keith’s hand rose, reaching out for something, anything. Conrad gave him his own hand. The hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 302

302 boy clung to it desperately. “Tell him ...” He pulled Conrad’s hand closer to his face. “Tell him I’m sorry.”

“He knows,” Conrad whispered, his throat aching with emotion. “He knows.”

The fact seemed to give Keith comfort. He released his grip, then lowered his hand back to the bed. Conrad stared down at it, his vision blurring from tears. The kid took a deep, ragged breath. And then another.

“Keith?”

The boy did not respond.

“Keith, hang in there, buddy!”

But there was no answer—just a long, slow exhale that ended in a faint, gurgling wheeze. He did not breathe again.

v

“Why won’t he let go?” Julia asked as she stared down at her father. His breathing had grown louder, more uneven—

sometimes choking, sometimes gasping, sometimes stopping altogether. Then there were the muscle spasms and convul-sions. “Why does he keep hanging on?”

“I don’t know,” her mother whispered hoarsely from across the bed. “He’s always been a fighter.”

Julia looked up at her. The woman’s face was streaked with tears, her hair disheveled. These hours were definitely taking their toll upon her as well. Outside, Julia noticed that the sun was just setting, filling the ICU cubicle with a tranquil, pink glow. It reminded her of the beautiful sunsets that had filled their living room, back in Pasadena.

“Mom?” She cleared her throat.

Her mother looked up.

“Do you remember on my birthday, do you remember when he was teaching me to ride my bicycle? Over at the park on Devonshire?”

Her mother nodded.

Suddenly Julia felt embarrassed. “I know it’s stupid to bring this up, but . . . do you remember when he let go of the bike and I crashed so hard?”

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“Yes.”

“Did he ever . . . did he ever tell you why he let go?” Suddenly she felt emotion welling up deep inside her again. She did her best to keep it under control. “I mean, one minute he’s beside me, promising he’ll never let go . . .the next, he’s broken his promise and I’m crashing into the ground.” She looked back down at the bed. “It’s just a little thing, but I never, I never understood why he let go. I mean, after he made such a big deal and promising and all.”

“He didn’t let go.”

Julia looked to her. “What?”

Her mother shook her head. “No. At least not on purpose.