Eli (7 page)

He did his best to change the subject, to try for small talk.

“You look . . . you look good,” he said.

“You too.”

He shrugged. “A little grayer and thinner on top.”

“It gives you that wise, distinguished look.”

“Yeah, well, we both know better than that, don’t we?”

Her smile broadened.

Refusing to let the uneasiness between them return and intrigued at how real everything appeared, he continued to play along. “So, how’s Julia? And Cody—he’s almost four now, right?”

“Five,” she corrected. “And the perfect angel . . . when he’s not being the devil. You knew she and Ken separated, didn’t you?”

Conrad frowned. “No, I didn’t know that.”

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“Almost six months now.”

A familiar sorrow crept in. Even in this world, Julia was having her problems. And with his sorrow came the guilt. Not because he hadn’t known of the separation. How could he?

He’d not spoken to his daughter in years, had never even seen his grandson. No, it was from something much deeper. “You think they’ll work it out?” he asked.

“With our bullheaded daughter?” Suzanne almost laughed. “I’ve got my doubts. If there’s any working out, I’m afraid it will all have to be at Ken’s end. But I’m praying.”

Conrad nodded. “Good . . . good.” Looking for another change in subject he motioned toward the young man. “So you found another guru, I see.”

Suzanne took the barb graciously and turned to the group of people encircling the man. “Not another one, Connie. This one’s the real thing.” There was no missing the quiet admira-tion in her voice. “What Eli has been doing these past several months, his teachings, the miracles . . . I think we’ve finally found him, Connie. I think we’ve finally found the Messiah we’ve been waiting so long for.”

Her words surprised him. After all, she’d been a devout Christian since her twenties. “What about Jesus?” he asked.

“Don’t tell me you’re throwing all that away?”

Her response was an even greater surprise. “Who?” she asked.

“You know,” he repeated, “Jesus?”

She frowned as if not recognizing the name. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure who you—”

She was interrupted by a loud commotion. They turned to see excitement rippling through the crowd surrounding the young man.

“What’s going on?” Conrad asked.

Suzanne’s face brightened. “Probably another healing.”

Before he could respond, she took his hand. “Come and see.”

As she led him through the group, Conrad instinctively searched for Ned and Horton. Just as he suspected, his crew was right where the action was, capturing it all on tape.

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The young man was speaking to an older, scruffy-looking fellow in a plaid shirt and slightly dirty jeans. His face was leathery and his neck was crosshatched from years of work in the sun. His right arm was covered in shiny, uneven scar tissue. Below it, his right hand hung shriveled and useless.

“That’s Brian Tuffts,” Suzanne half-whispered. “A farmer from here in Oregon. Lost the use of his arm in some sort of fire.”

The crowd had grown very quiet as the young man—what had Suzanne called him? Eli—wrapped both of his hands around the old-timer’s elbow. He was smiling at Tuffts, encouraging him not to be afraid. But it did little good. The man’s eyes were as big as saucers.

“It’s okay,” Eli said. “The heat you’re feeling is only natural.”

Tuffts tried to nod. But what was not natural was seeing the healed muscle and new pink skin appearing directly under Eli’s hand. The old man began to tremble. Sweat appeared on his forehead. But Eli continued speaking words of encouragement while slowly moving his hand along the arm. As he did, more and more new skin appeared . . . everything, down to the tiniest detail, down to the bulging blue veins and new hair follicles.

The crowd watched in silent awe.

Conrad glanced over to Ned. Good, he was getting it all. If this was some sort of parlor trick they’d be able to examine it more closely in the editing.

Eli was down to the hand now, holding it in both of his own. After several seconds he slowly released it. The crowd gasped. Like his arm, Tuffts’s hand was perfect . . . though as pink as a newborn’s. Eli finally looked up to the man with a grin.

Tuffts could only stare, speechless, his eyes brimming with tears. He looked from his hand to Eli, then back to his hand, then to Eli again.

“Sorry about the color.” Eli shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to work on the tan yourself.”

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The group chuckled, both at the comment and as a way of releasing tension. Then, suddenly, the man came to life. He threw his arms around Eli and hoarsely cried, “Thank you!

“Thank you, thank you!”

Eli smiled, doing his best to endure the fierce bear hug, and trying to return it.

Suzanne turned to Conrad and asked quietly, “So what do you think?” Her voice was thick with compassion, her own eyes glistening with emotion.

“Amazing.” Conrad cleared his throat. “I mean if that’s real, it’s incredible.”

Suzanne smiled. “Oh, it’s real,” she said. “He does this sort of thing three, four times a day. Sometimes it’s the blind, sometimes the deaf. Yesterday he healed a quadriplegic.”

Conrad looked on, his reporter’s instincts telling him to reserve judgment.

“And it’s not just physical healings,” Suzanne said. “See that guy over there?” She motioned to a huge man—a biker type complete with shaved head, black leather vest, and chains. A large gold swastika dangled from his neck. Tattoos covered his forearms and shoulders, so dense that it was impossible to see any detail, except a paisley print of blues, greens, and an occasional red. “Will Patton,” she said. “Member of the Aryan Brotherhood. He followed us down from Tacoma. Sweetest man you’ll ever meet.”

“I bet.”

“He is.”

“As long as you’re not black or gay or Jewish.”

“Oh, really?” She smiled that smile of hers and motioned to the crowd. “They don’t exactly look like your blond, blue-eyed Germans to me.”

Conrad looked out across the ball field. He had to agree.

There seemed to be a fair number of blacks, Hispanics, and other minorities. For the most part everyone appeared to be middle to lower middle class. He turned back to Suzanne.

“And Eli?” he asked. “I suppose you’re going to tell me he’s Jewish, right?”

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Suzanne’s smile brightened. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“Hey.” A pleasant voice spoke from behind. Conrad turned to see Eli approaching—his coal-black eyes sparkling with pleasure, while at the same time gently probing. “My name’s Eli,” he said. “You’re a friend of Suzanne’s?”

“Uh, yes, we, that is—”

“We used to be married,” Suzanne explained, “a long time ago. Conrad Davis, meet Eli Shepherd.”

The two shook. Eli’s grip was firm, his hands somewhat rough and callused.

“That was quite a stunt you pulled over there,” Conrad said.

Eli’s sparkle did not disappear. “By the looks of things you and your crew have it all on tape.”

“Probably.”

“And if I’m lucky I might be able to make some late-night filler piece.”

Conrad smiled at his candidness. “If you’re lucky.”

Eli grinned and pretended to quote a headline. “‘Con Artist Fools Hundreds, film at eleven.’” There was no malice in his eyes, just good-natured bantering.

Conrad couldn’t help smiling back. “That’s how it works.

Of course if you’re the real deal, well, now, I’d have myself quite a story, wouldn’t I?”

“At least worthy of Jerry Springer.”

Again Conrad smiled. Despite himself, he was beginning to like this kid. “Suzanne says you do that sort of thing all the time.”

Eli said nothing, but looked over to the crowd and the game that was just starting. “The world’s full of sickness, Conrad.” The sparkle faded slightly from his eyes. “Unfortunately, most of it is not physical.”

“And you think you can change that?”

Eli turned back to him. “I came into the world
to
change that.” He held his gaze. For the briefest moment Conrad wasn’t sure he could look away, even if he wanted. Sensing hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 48

48 his discomfort, Eli’s smile reappeared. “It was good talking with you, Conrad.” He patted him on the shoulder and started to pass. “But my team’s up to bat and ol’ Jake’s at the plate.”

He motioned to the burly man he’d thanked earlier for the use of the RV. “The poor guy’s about zero for forty right now, so I think he could stand a little coaching. I hope we can talk again.”

“Me, too,” Conrad said. “Oh, and about that tape.” Eli turned. “If what you’re doing is the real McCoy, I could get you some quality exposure.”

“Thanks.” Eli grinned. “Don’t need it.” Then on second thought he added, “But if it’s good for you, feel free. In fact, the sooner, the better.”

The response surprised Conrad. “Why? What’s the hurry?”

“I’m afraid neither you nor I have that much time left, Conrad Davis.” With that, Eli turned and headed toward the backstop.

The comment left Conrad uneasy, as uneasy as when their eyes had first connected. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but if there was the slightest possibility that this Eli was who he thought he might be . . . considering Endo’s theory, considering what he’d seen and heard at the river baptism, considering what he’d experienced in that seventies motel laundry room . . . then was there also a chance that Eli knew who
he
was, and where he’d come from? No. Conrad shook his head.

Such things were not possible.

“Hey, Jake,” Eli called as he approached the backstop.

“’Sup?” Jake shouted, throwing a look over his shoulder, then taking a few practice swings.

“If I were you, I’d keep my eye open for a high lob, outside corner.”

The big man turned to him. He coughed then spit.

“What?”

“The next one’s going to be on the outside corner.”

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“Come on, Eli!” It was the pitcher. He was about the same age as Jake, with the same ruddy features, but with a good fifty pounds less bulk. “That ain’t fair.”

Eli chuckled. “Throw what you want, Robert. I’m just trying to even the odds a little for big brother here.” Turning back to Jake he repeated, “Watch for the high lob, outside corner.”

Jake scowled and took a couple more practice swings.

“But he knows you told me.”

Eli shrugged. “It’s your choice. I’m just making a suggestion.”

Jake looked back at Eli again, obviously sizing him up.

Then, turning, he gripped the bat, crouched down, and got ready to swing.

Up on the mound Robert turned the ball around and around in his glove. Then he rolled his head and squinted at the plate. Apparently this was all part of his pitching ritual—

more for superstition and luck than expertise and concentration.

“Come on, Jake!” one of the kids from his team cried. “Lay into it! Rip a good one!”

Conrad watched. Obviously, no one knew for certain what Robert would throw to his brother. Still, given Jake’s batting average and the amount of muscle and flesh that he had to move, the big guy needed all the help he could get. But the fact that Eli had broadcast it for everyone to hear made an outside lob anything but likely. Or did it?

After finishing his ritual, Robert finally tossed the first pitch of the game.

Anticipating an outside corner lob, Jake stepped forward.

He guessed correctly. He took a hefty swing, grunting like a wounded beast, and to everyone’s astonishment, he connected.

The bat cracked and the ball sailed high into the sun.

His teammates clapped and cheered. So did those in the bleachers. So did Eli.

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And Jake? Jake stood, absolutely mesmerized, watching the ball slowly arch over the right field fence and roll to a stop in the farmer’s field.

“Run, Jake!” a boy on his team cried. Others joined in.

“Run, Jake! Run!”

But Jake did not run. Instead, he turned to Eli who continued to watch and grin from behind the backstop.

“Run!” By now his entire team was shouting. “Run, Jake!”

Realizing he still held the bat, Jake dropped it to the ground. It rang with a metallic clunk. But instead of heading for first, he started toward the backstop.

“Run, Jake!” By now the crowd had taken up the cheer.

“Run!”

But Jake did not hear. Instead, the big man lumbered around the backstop. Eli met him, laughing and slapping him on the back—until Jake threw his arms around him in a monstrous, life-threatening hug. By now everyone was laughing and cheering. Even the other team. Even Conrad. Because, whatever gift Eli may or may not have, and regardless of his seriousness of purpose . . . there was a playfulness about him.

A love that was contagious.

v

“Dad, you promised. Daddy . . .”

The nurse had been kind enough to track down something for Julia to eat . . . a little toast and some orange juice. Her head had quit spinning, and now she sat all alone in the room, just her and her father. Eventually, she knew, they would ask her permission to pull the plug. What legal procedure they would follow, she hadn’t the foggiest. But that was okay. Right now there was only the rhythmic hiss of the respirator, the green glow of the monitors above him . . . and her memories.

“Sweetheart, not now, I’m expecting a very important
guest to be coming over.”

“But you said I could. You promised.”

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He looked so small in the bed with its crisp, white sheets.

So lost and vulnerable. The thick, hairy arms—“ape-man”

arms she used to tease him—the ones that had carried her, had wrapped around her in the backyard hammock, protected her during scary movies . . . now they lay unmoving with IV

needles stuck in and taped like he was some lifeless object.

His four-day beard had not been shaved, and there were still a few tufts of graying hair on the back of his neck that the ER