Elijah's Chariot (The Forgotten Children Book 1) (13 page)

Sean
swallowed hard, then looked away trying to gain control of the trembling he
could feel in his chest. Finally, he asked, “What do I do when summer gets
here?”

Kevin
smiled faintly at his son. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m going to need you
to find a way to get to your sister. I’m not sure if you’re going to be able to
find a lot of pilots waiting around that still take Visa or MasterCard, but you
should be able to figure out a way.”

The
faint wind had quieted down and the street was completely silent now. Kevin
looked into Sean’s face, at his red cheeks and the bright green eyes staring
back at him.   

“It
doesn’t matter how long it takes you, you make sure you can get there safely,
if at all possible and you give it your best shot to find her, okay? You’ve
just got to do whatever it takes for you two to be together, okay?”

“I
will, Dad.”

Sean
and his father spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon hauling
boxes and cans of food back to the hotel. Kevin put most of it in the trunk and
backseat of the car, along with some extra coats, boots and shirts that they’d
found in one of the walk-in clothing stores at the marketplace. None of the
stores had any sleeping bags or cots – Sean hoped that he wouldn’t need them on
his journey.   

During
most of the time that they were carrying supplies to the car and hotel, Kevin
told Sean stories. Stories about his college and graduate school days, how he
hated high school, all of his favorite professors and some of his best
classmates. He told him about some of the trips to Las Vegas and San Francisco
and New York that he’d been on with roommates and friends, the different hotels
he’d been to and the shows he’d seen. Before and during dinner, they played
chess with a portable set they’d found at the marketplace. In between moves,
Kevin talked a lot about the first few years of his and Cindy’s marriage, what
it was like living with a woman compared to male roommates and how the heating
and electricity in one of their earlier apartments had kept going out one
winter. 

He
also talked at length about the months before Sean’s birth, how his mother had
been so calm and reassuring the entire time while Kevin ferociously read every
book about childbirth and early childhood development that he could find. He
wanted to do it all right, he said, to make sure that Sean was raised and
taught properly from the beginning so that he would have every opportunity in
life. Kevin talked about Sean’s reactions to Elizabeth when she was first born,
how he had to learn not to play roughly with her, how he couldn’t say her name
for the first year or so and just called her “Izbet.” 

Many
of the stories Sean had heard before, especially those about his upbringing and
Elizabeth. But throughout his father’s telling of his many life experiences,
Sean was aware of a difference in tone and style than had been used previously.
His father was telling them less as he would to a thirteen-year old, but more
as he would to someone his own age. Kevin talked for hours as he would to an
observer or biographer, sparing most of the more intimate details, but
highlighting several amusing anecdotes of which Sean suspected his mother would
not have entirely approved.   

Sean
found the entire story time very funny, listening to his dad describe the first
time he’d ever been drunk at a party, certainly something he’d never mentioned
before. He found himself wondering exactly why his father was doing it – was it
so that Sean would remember him and his life as they really were, as he had
lived it all? Or, was he recounting his life experiences just as a way of
remembering them himself, a last review of everything he’d ever done, the good
and the bad. Finally, Sean stopped wondering and just listened to his father,
watching his eyes light up at memories of his first Christmas with Cindy and
laughing with him about how he learned to fasten diapers securely. 

By
ten o’clock, they had both quieted down and were quite exhausted from the day’s
activities. They’d played several games of chess – Kevin had won almost every
time, except for a couple in which Sean suspected he’d made errors on purpose.
They were both lying on their backs on Sean’s bed. Kevin reached over to the
nightstand and picked up a couple sheets of handwritten paper. He laid them on
the bedspread between them. 

“I
wrote this out last night. I’ve already told you most of it, today and probably
a hundred times before, but, you know, I wasn’t sure when everything was going
to happen. So, I just thought I’d put it on paper. You can have it to read or look
at, whatever. Whenever you want. Just my thoughts on life and such.”

Sean
nodded and patted the pages.

“I’m
not sure when my time will come, but probably soon. There doesn’t seem to be
many people my age left around. Plus,” Kevin said, looking out the window into
the cold night, “I had this dream last night. About your mother. I don’t know
where we were, I wasn’t aware of anything else going on around us, but I saw
her standing there, just looking at me. She didn’t say anything, just stood
there kind of smiling at me, like everything was all right.”

Sean
fumbled with the blanket corner in his lap, folding it over his hands and
unrolling it again. “Was it like Heaven or something?”

“Your
mother believed in Heaven. I suppose that if it’s there, then she… then that
would be the kind of place where she’d end up.”

 Both
father and son sat for a few minutes in silence. Kevin brought his hand up to
his forehead and massaged his aching head. “I’ve always kind of wanted a Viking
funeral,” he said with a small smile. “Like in that one movie we saw – what was
it? You know, where they send the grandpa’s body out on the boat in the ocean
and shoot an arrow that lights the little boat on fire. That would be going out
in style – noble, manly and everything.”

Sean
nodded. His eyelids were starting to get heavy. He’d had a headache earlier
that afternoon, but it had gone away by the time they were ready to eat dinner.
He leaned against his father’s shoulder. 

“Sean?”
Kevin whispered. 

“Yeah?”

“I
– I always did what I thought was best for you. Your whole life, I just wanted
the best for you. And for your mother and Elizabeth. Anything I did, whether
good or bad, was for you guys,” he said softly. 

“I
know Dad,” Sean said as he scooted closer to his father and closed his eyes. 

- -

Sean
didn’t remember what time he awoke during the night, but he’d found that he was
lying in his bed, his head resting on his father’s arm. Even with the blanket
over him, he was a little cold, so he moved closer to his dad. As he lay there
in the darkness, he could tell that his father was cold and still. Sean pressed
his head against his silent chest and held it there for a long time, past when
the tears came and long after they had dried. He finally fell asleep again
holding his father’s body in his small arms.

- -

Sean
awoke late the next morning with a splitting headache. They’d forgotten to
close the curtains again and diffused sunlight filtered into the room stabbing
his eyes. He pulled the blanket up over his head and managed to sleep for a
while more before getting up to look for some aspirin and a glass of water. 

He
pulled a box of crackers out of the stash that they had amassed the day before
and sat at the foot of his bed, looking at his father’s body. The eyes were
closed, he lay on his back. He looked as though he were asleep, but there was
no shine from his face or movement from his chest. Not even the occasional
twitch or muscle spasm. That’s not really him, Sean thought. He left during the
night. He left to find Mom. 

Sean
dragged in some of the supplies from Thompson and Rohrstadt’s room, including
the firearms and ammunition. He arranged everything in a large pile in the
corner near the window. He wanted to move it all downstairs and put it in the
car for his trip, but every few minutes the waves of pain in his head grew so
bad that he couldn’t see. He lay down on the floor a couple of times as he was
walking around the room and curled up until the flashing spots went away. 

He
slept again for what felt like a long time, but when he awoke the sun streaming
through the window made it look like it was only a few hours later. Checking
the date on his watch, Sean was surprised to discover that it was Saturday
already – he’d slept for more than twenty-four hours straight. 

The
light coming in the window was a different color, more red and orange. He could
hear the wind blowing against the building outside and wondered if it would
snow that night. His mind reached back to Pasadena, how warm it was during
April there, how spring was real and actually happened. Nothing here in Moscow
seemed real to him. It wasn’t supposed to snow in April. The airport wasn’t
supposed to close and people weren’t supposed to die and leave the streets
empty and quiet for days. And your father wasn’t supposed to call home and find
out that your mom had died. 

Elizabeth!
Sean thought. He crawled out of the bed and reached for the phone on the
nightstand. He dialed the number with the country code that his father had
written down for him. The line was a little weak, but he managed to get it to
ring steadily after a few tries. There was no answer. He wasn’t sure what time
it was in California, but he thought that, no matter what, Elizabeth should
still be at home. But, she never picked up. How am I ever going to find her, he
thought, if she’s left the house and gone somewhere? How long is it going to
take me to get to America? 

He
lay back down on the bed and pulled the blanket over himself. The presence of
his father’s body so close comforted him, but he didn’t look at it. He told
himself again that it wasn’t his father, that he’d gone somewhere else. Sean
closed his eyes tightly and relaxed his head back into the pillow, wishing the
dull aching away and trying to clear his mind of all thoughts of Pasadena and
his house and the cold and rifles and boxes of food. 

On
Sunday morning, Sean awoke early. The clock on the nightstand said 6:15 a.m.,
but he thought it must be wrong. He felt completely rested – he never felt that
way when he had to wake up that early in the morning. Propping himself up on
his elbows, Sean looked around the room, trying to recall when he’d fallen
asleep and what he’d done the day before. Vague memories of his headache came
rushing back, along with the recollection of the stale crackers he’d eaten.
Suddenly, he realized that he was very hungry. 

The
clear cellophane of the package came away easily and he pulled out a triangular
shaped, flaky, fruit-filled pastry. He washed it down with a few gulps from a
carton of milk as he sat on the bed, taking a brief mental inventory of the
supplies in the corner and the food that they’d loaded into the car downstairs.
They’d estimated that he should be able to last for a month or so on what
they’d collected. His father had said that that should be more than enough time
to find somewhere safe to stay for a few weeks while the weather warmed up. 

He
glanced over at his father’s body on the bed beside him. It was so still. It
didn’t even really look like him as the face was turned away. Sean stared for
several minutes at the body, picturing his father’s animated gestures once
again, the excitement and laughter in his voice on his last day as he was
relating his life stories. That’s who he was, Sean thought, as he wiped the
tears from his eyes. That’s who he was to us and that’s who he’ll always be. 

Sean
pulled the blanket up over his father’s head, tucking it in all around the
body. As he collected the letter that his father had written for him, his eyes
raced over the first few lines before they began again to fill with warm tears.
He placed the letter on top of his clothes in his suitcase. 

It
didn’t take him long to move everything into the car downstairs. They’d only
put enough food in the room to last for a few more days. The food, medical
supplies from the Embassy safe house, his suitcase and the extra clothing
filled up the trunk and much of the backseat. He carried the rifles and
handguns with their ammunition down and put them in the front seat. Sean wasn’t
exactly sure what he’d need them for – he assumed that all of the Mafia guys
they’d run into had also died or would in the next few days. But, his dad had
wanted him to take everything “just in case.” He’d been sure that Sean would be
able to handle the weapons safely mostly because of his Rifle and Shotgun merit
badge training, but also because of the quick, impromptu lesson on the dangers
of firearms while they’d been carrying supplies over from the market. Sean
tucked a handgun into the inside pocket of his coat – just in case. 

Sean
slammed the black car door shut. Just as he did, he thought he heard a car
engine somewhere further up the street. He looked out of the carport area in
front of the hotel, to the market and metro station across the street. Nothing
stirred. He waited for half a minute before turning to go upstairs for one last
check to make sure that he’d grabbed everything – and to say goodbye to his
father one last time.

Halfway
through the lobby of empty armchairs, plush couches and coffee tables filled
with magazines, he heard a crash of glass from further back in the hotel. Sean
froze next to a tall, skinny white lamp, trying to hold his breath in order to
catch any other sounds. His heart leapt when he heard the second crash. This
one was a little louder than the first – the sound of glass exploding against
something. 

There
was a long hallway leading straight back into the hotel to the left of the
elevators. It was fairly wide and had thick carpet and large plants in ornate
brass pots between the several sets of double doors. 

Sean
stood unmoving, staring down the hallway. He was fairly certain that the sound
had come from one of the sets of doors. Maybe it’s that guy we saw a couple of
days ago, he thought. Maybe he dropped something. Or threw it. 

He
continued toward the elevators and pressed the call button, eyeing the entrance
to the hallway as he waited. The elevator doors opened, but Sean didn’t step
inside. He was leaning back so that he could see further down the hall. Finally,
he walked over to the hallway entrance and peered carefully to the doors at the
end. It was well lit –  a lamp was fastened to the wall every few feet. 

Suddenly,
he heard what sounded like metal utensils banging together from one of the
rooms ahead. He walked quickly to the next set of doors, put his hand on the
large, brass handle and paused – there weren’t any more sounds coming from
inside. Sean took a deep breath and slowly turned the handle and pushed the
door inward. 

The
room was smaller than he thought it would be. There were padded chairs stacked
against the walls and a couple of intricate chandeliers hanging overhead. Light
came from only one of the chandeliers – half of the room was hidden in shadow. 

Again
he heard the chinking of glasses from further down the hall. After another
quick glance, he closed the door and hurried down to the next set of doors.
Hand on the handle, he sucked in a deep breath and pushed the door open. 

This
room’s layout was much the same – chairs, chandeliers. Except all the lights
were on, shining down on a large table, set up in the middle of the room.
Chairs were arranged around the table which was covered with a thick white
linen tablecloth. Plates, utensils and glasses were set at each place, but only
a few of the seats were occupied. Sean quickly counted three people sitting on
the side closest to him, their backs to him and maybe three or four more on the
other side. 

They
were all slumped down in their chairs or hunched over on the table, their faces
and hands on the plates, curled around glasses or clutching at some piece of
food. In fact, the table was loaded with food spread out on white porcelain
dishes and large, shiny metal saucers. There were candlesticks, some still
burning, and at least a dozen bottles of wine and other types of alcohol. Most
of the food didn’t look very fancy – mostly the frozen type of stuff that he
and his father had been able to find in the market across the street. But,
there were the remains of a chicken or turkey on a large, intricately decorated
saucer in the center of the table. 

Sean,
still standing at the door with his head poking inside, jumped at the sound of
a dull butter knife being dragged across the linen tablecloth. He didn’t see
any of the three people in front of him moving, but he wasn’t sure about the
others on the opposite side of the table. With a quick glance over his shoulder
he stepped into the room. 

As
he walked closer to the table, he could see that the faces of the people on the
other side of the table were pale. Some of their mouths hung open, their frozen
eyes wide. He recognized the man who had come through the lobby a couple days
before, but he wasn’t wearing his black rabbit fur hat anymore. His hair was
thin and gray, collecting mostly at the sides of his head which was cradled in
his plate. 

Sean
saw a small hand clutching a silver butter knife jab at something on the table.
He put his hands on the back of one of the large wooden chairs and looked past
the bodies closest to him to see a toddler sitting in the lap of a woman. The
woman had graying blonde hair and was dressed in dark, drab clothing, a dark
red scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. Her head was resting gently on one
shoulder, swaying with the motion of the young child sitting at her lap.

Estimating
his age at two or three, Sean watched as the boy stretched forward with the
knife trying to reach a pastry that sat on a plate in the middle of the table.
It was the last one left, the crumbs of its companions littering the face of the
white porcelain plate. The boy’s large blue eyes turned toward him and he
opened his mouth to grunt as he made another lunge toward the pastry. 

Sean
stood at the edge of the table staring at the six adult bodies still in their
chairs. He could see a pile of suitcases against the wall on the other side of
the table. There were some blankets and pillows spread out on the carpet around
the room. Each of the people, four men and two women, were wearing a suit or
dress. One of the older men had a row of old war medals pinned to the lapel of
his jacket. Their plates had scraps of food, remains of their feast. Several
glasses half-drained of wine and vodka sat around each person’s plate. One of
the men on Sean’s side of the table clutched a large bottle of pills in his
calloused hand. 

The
little boy threw the butter knife across the table where it hit an empty glass
bottle before thudding onto the carpeted floor. The toddler cried out in
frustration, pounding his little fists on the table. His hair was blond and
curly at the ends. He was dressed in a little, buttoned-up shirt and dark
pants. 

Sean
stood still glancing around at the six bodies as the boy wiggled in his seat.
It looked like he was caught between his mother’s legs and the table. He made
an angry whining sound before reaching out his hand again toward the pastry. 

His
little fingers expanded and contracted, spreading away from his chubby palm as
he tried to reach the flaky, buttery treat. The pastry sat on the edge of the
plate closest to the boy, only five or six inches away. Suddenly, Sean felt a
pressure building inside his head and an intense rushing of blood in his ears.
All of his attention was immediately brought into focus on the boy’s
outstretched fingers, the pastry and the short distance between them. The
pressure increased, concentrating at the front of his skull and behind his
eyes, to the point where his knees started to shake and he had to grip the
chair in front of him for support. It felt and sounded like a powerful wind was
rushing through his head and he felt a pulling sensation as if everything
around him was being expanded and contracted at once. He was staring helplessly
at the little boy reaching out across the table, when he saw the pastry move. 

One
corner of it turned toward the little boy. For a split second the pressure in
his head and the deafening rushing sound in his ears abated. The toddler
continued to stretch his hand out to the pastry,  grunts of frustration coming
out of his tightened mouth and tears collecting at the corners of his eyes.
Then, the wall of pressure, like a compact boulder leaning on the inside of his
forehead, resumed forcefully and Sean watched as the pastry flipped over off
the plate and slid over four inches of tablecloth into the boy’s outstretched
hand. 

As
suddenly as it had started, the pressure in his head and rushing in his ears
were gone. Sean exhaled sharply, his lungs feeling like they’d been about to
burst. He stared in disbelief as the blond boy quickly pulled the pastry to his
mouth and took a large bite. He stared back at Sean, smiling as dark, red jelly
ran down the side of his cheek. 

Sean
looked around the room, blinking to make sure that he was fully awake,
wondering if he was about to die, wondering if this is how it was for his
father, for his mother right before they’d finally gone. But, his head didn’t
hurt at all. There was no residual pain left from what he’d experienced. In
fact, it hadn’t been painful at all – just the most extreme and concentrated
sensation he’d ever had. It reminded him of what he’d felt in the RKA control
room when Jerry had hit, but it was much more intense this time, and, somehow,
more focused. 

The
toddler was halfway through the pastry when both he and Sean jumped at the
sound of a thundering crash from down the hall. Sean ran toward the double
doors that he’d left ajar as sounds of shattering glass, splintering wood and
the gunning of a car engine echoed through the hotel. 

Sean
stepped out into the hallway to see a black BMW slam into one of the couches in
the lobby. The pink couch flipped onto its back, sending cushions flying out
onto the floor. The large front doors to the hotel were completely gone and the
entire lobby was covered in tiny chunks of glass and pieces of wood from the
tables and chairs through which the car had just plowed. 

The
car reversed to the left, then shot forward to the right, smashing through a
long, glass coffee table in front of another set of chairs. Sean had trouble
seeing who was driving the vehicle because of the tinted windows, but it looked
as though there were several people inside. He slipped back into the room and
shut the doors securely behind him. 

The
little blond boy had finished the pastry and was licking jelly off his fingers.
Sean ran around to his side of the table and lifted him off the dead woman’s
lap. The car engine revved again, but was quickly cut short by a loud crunch.
Sean thought he heard excited yells from the car. 

He
carried the boy a few feet toward the back of the room and set him down on the
floor. Sean quickly gathered up a pile of blankets and dumped them behind some
chairs that were sitting a few feet away from the wall. He pulled some of the
suitcases in front of the chairs and then picked up the boy again and took him
behind the makeshift hiding place. Sean ducked under the blanket, covering
himself and the toddler, lay down on the floor and listened. 

The
car backed up, switched gears, then sped forward again, racing over the carpet.
Sean heard it tearing down the hallway, the engine’s hum sounding very strange
as it bounced off the wood walls. There was a dull ripping sound as the driver
slammed on the brakes. The car doors opened and boyish cries and screams echoed
through the hallway.