Eli (5 page)

As best as he could tell, they came from every background—the rich in their shorts and polo shirts, the poor in jeans and cutoffs, teens in halter tops and swimsuits. He noticed a large number of Hispanics, and by their dress and leathered faces he guessed many of them to be migrant workers. He guessed something else as well. He had not returned to the seventies. There were no painted VW vans, no flower children. Just contemporary people with contemporary cars, soccer mom vans, and the occasional RV.

In the distance he heard thunder rumble.

“You say, ‘I’m religious, I believe in God, I’ll be saved from the coming wrath.’ Who are you kidding?” the young man hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 29

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shouted. “God can raise up religious people from these very stones! And saying you believe in God isn’t going to save you!

It’s what you
do
, not what you say! Standing in a garage screaming, ‘I’m a BMW!’ does not make you a BMW! You’ve got to prove it! You’ve got to bear the fruit!”

Someone in the crowd started to shout, but he cut him off.

“Save me your doctrines, your pious theologies. Walk the walk! Bear the fruit! Do not be like our esteemed leaders.

Those who go to religious services Sunday, then continue their adulterous affairs throughout the week. Turn! Change!

Do an about-face, or you’ll be good for nothing but firewood!”

Thunder again rumbled in the background. Conrad glanced up. The storm was quickly approaching. He still wasn’t sure where he was, though the desolate hills, the mountains, and the smell of sage made it clear he was out West. Central California, he guessed, maybe Eastern Washington.

The people had heard the thunder as well. Some were stooping down, gathering their things. Others had already started toward the makeshift parking lot—a flat area just off a single-lane ribbon of blacktop that snaked its way into the hills. For every intent and purpose, it appeared that Conrad was back in his own world. But he knew better. He remembered the accident. Vividly. He still suspected that his own world consisted of doctors, drugs, and hospitals. He suspected it. But for whatever reason, he was no longer experiencing it.

“Who exactly do you claim to be?” an angry man shouted from the crowd. Conrad turned to Ned, who was already zooming in for a close-up as Horton repositioned his mike.

The speaker was a distinguished gentleman with gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. “Where do you come from? What is your training?”

“I am nothing!” cried the young man. “Just a voice shouting in the middle of nowhere!”

“Are you the Messiah?” a young mother with a baby called. “The one we’ve been waiting for?”

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“No! I’m not even worthy to mow his lawn or empty his garbage. I’m only baptizing you with water, but when He comes, He’ll baptize you with fire and with the Spirit of God!

He will look into your hearts and read them. He will separate you, saving the good and throwing the rest into the fire that burns forever!”

As if on cue, lightning lit up the sky, followed by clapping thunder that echoed through the hills. The wind grew stronger. The storm was arriving. More people turned and gathered their things, preparing to leave.

“Hey, Connie!”

Conrad looked down and saw Gerald McFarland, a heavyset, balding man with soft, pudding jowls. He was a news producer/reporter for the Eternal Broadcasting Network, the country’s largest religious network. As usual, he was all grins and good ol’ boy charm.

Conrad felt relieved to see someone else he recognized.

They’d both entered the profession at about the same time and, over the years, had become friendly rivals—McFarland reporting with his religious bias and Conrad with his hopefully more objective outlook (though he knew there was no such thing as perfect objectivity in their business). McFarland had always struck Conrad as a strange mixture of grace and ruthless ambition. One moment the man was all care and compassion, like he was your best friend, the next he’d be stealing a story right from under your nose. Conrad knew that the man’s beliefs were sincere. In fact, one teary night at a bar, when Conrad and his first wife were separating, McFarland had almost gotten him to consider God.

Almost.

But there was something about McFarland’s “schizophre-nia” that made Conrad nervous. He knew the rules when dealing with other competitors . . . there were none. In TV

journalism, it was every person for himself and that was okay, because everyone understood it. Everyone but McFarland.

Was he your friend or your rival? Was he interested in your hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 31

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soul or your story? No one knew. And, as near as Conrad could tell, sometimes neither did McFarland.

McFarland shouted up to him. “Don’t tell me . . .” The wind had picked up, whipping and snapping Conrad’s clothes, drowning out some of McFarland’s words. “. . . is of secular interest, too?”

Conrad yelled. “What?”

“You here on business or pleasure?” McFarland shouted.

“Pleasure?” Conrad yelled.

“Didn’t you see her?”

“What?”

“Suzanne’s here . . . thought maybe you came because of Suzanne.”

Conrad’s heart quickened. He hadn’t seen her in five, maybe six years, not since Julia’s wedding. “Suzanne?” he shouted. “Here?”

“Yeah, got some nice shots of her being baptized.”

Conrad blinked. What was she doing here? Sure, she’d always been the religious type, but—

There was a brilliant flash of lightning, followed by an explosion of thunder.

“Listen,” McFarland shouted, “I’m no rocket scientist, but I wouldn’t be standing on top of that knoll in this storm!”

“Yeah.” Conrad nodded. “Thanks!” He slid down the hill to join McFarland. Giant drops of rain began plopping as he zipped up his nylon windbreaker.

“I’m heading out of Sea-Tac tomorrow morning,” McFarland said. “Any chance of getting together and sharing notes on this guy?”

Conrad didn’t know how to respond. Tell him he had no idea who the kid was? That he hadn’t the slightest clue where they were or how he got there? No, somehow he suspected that might be a bit more sharing than McFarland had in mind.

He settled for something a little more vague. “Let me check what Ned has first.”

McFarland nodded. “Right.” He turned and shouted over his shoulder, “I’m staying at the Plaza.”

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Conrad nodded. “Got it.”

The storm had arrived in full force. Now everyone was racing for their cars. Well, almost everyone. When Conrad looked back out to the river, he saw the young man still standing there. He was no longer shouting and he barely noticed the weather. Instead, his eyes were glued to another fellow about his age wading toward him from the opposite bank. The young man had left his shirt on the shore, revealing an upper torso that was lean and somewhat muscular. His features were dark, his hair casual. As he approached he appeared to be a good three, maybe four inches taller than the first young man.

Conrad watched as the two met and exchanged words.

Then the new arrival slowly knelt until he was chest deep in the water. He was obviously preparing to be baptized. Not that it appeared necessary. Thanks to the rain, both were already soaked and dripping. The first young man knelt beside him, put his hand behind the newcomer’s head, and lowered him backwards into the river.

More lightning strobed across the sky—directly overhead this time, followed by loud, ominous thunder. And, as the young man rose from the water, coughing and wiping his eyes, a most remarkable thing occurred. A bird—Conrad guessed it to be a dove by its brown and white markings—

appeared in the sky against the black clouds. It descended, flapping its wings, struggling against the wind. Both men saw it and rose silently to watch. Another gust of wind pushed the bird back, but it would not be deterred. It pressed harder, working the currents this way and that, until, at last, with fluttering wings it landed gently upon the second youth’s bare shoulder.

In surprise, Conrad wiped the rain from his eyes. But when he looked back, the bird was gone, as if it had never been there. More lightning lit the scene, immediately followed by an explosion of thunder, loud and long. At least Conrad thought it was thunder. But in the midst of the pounding roar, there were what almost sounded like . . . words.

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Phrases, really. Three of them. Booming, reverberating, as if part of the thunder. He was sure it was an illusion, just the way the thunder echoed off the gullies and river. Still, they were so clear, so distinct:

YOU ARE MY . . . BELOVED SON AND . . . I AM PLEASED . . .

Conrad glanced back at the crowd. Several of them had heard something as well. Many had stopped and were looking back.

Conrad turned toward the river. The two men now stood, locked in an embrace. When they finally separated, the new arrival took the other’s shoulders, spoke something, and then without another word turned and headed for the opposite bank, away from the parking lot, away from the crowd. The rain fell harder—blowing and slanting. But through the sheets of water and thick grayness Conrad saw the young man arrive on the opposite shore, stoop to pick up his shirt, and start toward the distant hills.

v

Julia stepped into the ICU visitor’s area. It appeared mod-ern and comfortable. The burgundy carpet with its gray, geo-metric designs was cheery without being obnoxious. The abstract paintings of mountains and rolling hills on the wall were soothing. Not far away sat the room’s only occupant, an attractive brunette—long, carefully styled hair, high cheek-bones, full lips, a figure that was slim where fashion dictated it to be slim and voluptuous where it was to be voluptuous.

She looked to be in her thirties . . . but recognizing the tight, shiny skin and other signs of cosmetic surgery, Julia guessed her closer to mid-forty. At the moment she was immersed in the latest Danielle Steel novel.

“Roseanne?” Julia asked.

The woman looked up, then broke into a smile that was the perfect mixture of pleasure and sympathy. As she rose she extended her hand and spoke. “Julia . . .”

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She sounded Latin, and why not. Julia’s mother was mostly Irish, her first stepmother had been Italian, and the woman after that was Swedish. It was about time her father broaden his tastes to the Southern Hemisphere.

“I am so sorry,” the woman said as they shook hands.

Julia gave a tight smile and nodded. She couldn’t help noticing the carefully applied mascara that showed absolutely no trace of running or smearing from tears. Not that it should.

After all, they’d been divorced for nearly twelve weeks.

“How is he?” Julia asked.

“From when we spoke last night, no difference I am afraid.”

Julia nodded as she took note of the woman’s wardrobe—

her silk blouse, diamond necklace, jade earrings, calfskin pumps. She obviously knew how to spend money . . . which may explain why she was willing to travel all the way out here from L.A. on a Sunday morning. Of course, Julia immediately felt guilty for the thought. She knew nothing of this woman, nor of her relationship with her father. Besides, they’d barely divorced. And knowing her father, it was doubtful that he’d yet taken the time to cut the woman out of his will . . . which could be the very reason she’d gone to all this effort to—
Stop it!
Julia chided herself.
Stop it this instant!

“Ernesto and Beatrice, they will be here soon.”

Julia frowned. “Who?”

“My children.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

“They loved your father very much. He had been such a good man to them.”

Julia wasn’t sure how much of the response was sincere and how much was performance—though she didn’t appreciate hearing her father already spoken of in past tense. Still she felt herself nodding. “Yes,” she said, “everybody loves him.”

Roseanne continued to nod. “Yes, we loved him, very, very much.”

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Julia prepared to sit on the sofa across from her when the woman asked, “Do you not wish to see him?”

She glanced up. “Pardon me?”

“Your father. You want to see him, don’t you?”

Halfway between sitting and standing, Julia rose. “Well, yes. Certainly.”

“Just go to that phone, over there.” Roseanne pointed to a white phone on the wall.

“Right,” Julia nodded. “Of course.” She walked toward the phone.

“Dial 423,” Roseanne explained. “Tell them you want to see Conrad Davis and that you are one of his children.”

Actually, she was his only child, but Julia let it go as she reached for the receiver. She dialed the number and explained to the voice on the other end who she was. A moment later there was a soft buzz. She pushed open the door, turned to thank Roseanne, and stepped inside.

Just ahead and to her right stretched a long nurses’ station. To her left were the patients’ rooms, each separate and cordoned off from the hall by sliding glass doors, most of which were open. Nearly all contained sleeping or unconscious patients hooked up to various life supports. Julia resisted the temptation to look in on them, partially out of respect for their privacy and partially because she was afraid one of them might be her father.

As she approached the nurse behind the counter she noticed her head was feeling a bit light. “Excuse . . .” Julia cleared the raspiness from her throat and tried again. “Excuse me?”

The nurse looked up from a chart.

“I’m Conrad Davis’s . . . I’m his daughter.”

The woman nodded and pointed toward the far end. “Mr.

Davis is over in number four.”

“Thanks. Do I just, uh . . .” Her mouth was unusually dry.

“Do I just go in and see him, then?”

The nurse nodded.

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Julia felt perspiration breaking out on her forehead. “I mean, I don’t have to wear a mask or anything like that?”