The Sign (45 page)

“Are you getting this?” she asked Roxberry. He was back at the studio, anchoring the coverage.

“You bet.” His voice crackled in her earpiece. “Keep it coming.”

She watched as the reverend kept the priest’s hand firmly cocooned inside his own cupped hands and whispered some words into his ear. The priest seemed surprised by what he was saying, then he nodded hesitantly, as if out of courtesy.

Darby turned to the audience, raised his arms, and flapped them down gently in a quieting gesture. The crowd took a moment to settle down, and when they finally quieted, the stillness was eerie. A combination of anticipation and foreboding was palpable. Then one of Darby’s assistants handed him a microphone and he raised a hand to the crowd.

“Brothers and sisters in Christ,” he announced in his barrel-organ voice, “greetings in the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord, to you all, and thanks for coming out here with me to greet our very special visitor, Father Jerome.” He stretched the
o
in Jerome, like a game announcer, and got a wildly raucous reply from the crowd.

“Now as you know, tomorrow is a very special day. Tomorrow is Christmas Day, a special time of celebration for us all, and yet . . . and yet, this year, a time of pause, a time when we must bow our heads humbly and think about these troubled, testing times we’re in, think about what we could have done to make things better and what the future holds for us. And up until a few days ago, I was troubled. I was bothered and I was distressed. I was finding it hard to remain hopeful. And like many of you, I’ve been praying. I’ve been praying for God to spare our great nation. To spare it from the judgment we certainly deserve for our many trespasses, like the killing of millions upon millions of pre-born children. I’ve been praying for God to be merciful with the millstone we deserve to have hung around our necks for our sins. For allowing our scientists to experiment with stem cells and colliders. For allowing our living children to be exploited by the deviant anarchists who now control public education and Hollywood. For tolerating those who would like to do away with Christmas altogether. And when a great nation like ours is going through troubled times such as these, when a great nation like ours is on its knees, the only normal and natural and spiritual thing to do is what we, as good Christians, should be doing all the time: calling upon God. Calling upon him for guidance and for revival.” He paused and let his somber words sink into the crowd, who went silent except for the scattered “Amen” and “Bless the Lord,” then he sucked in a deep breath and beamed a kindly smile at the mob.

“Well guess what? I think God heard our prayers,” he bellowed out, to a chorus of “Hallelujahs” and “Amens.” “I know he heard our prayers. And I believe he’s sending us a lifeline. A lifeline to help lead a nation and a world that are nearing moral collapse and perhaps even World War
III
. A lifeline in the form of a pious, deeply spiritual man, a man who has devoted his entire life to the selfless pursuit of helping his fellow man. So I ask you all to please join me in welcoming the good Father Jerome to our great state of Texas,” he boomed, triggering an even more tumultuous uproar.

Father Jerome cast his eye across the crowd, taking it all in silently. He glanced over at Gracie. She was standing next to Dalton, her mike poised in front of her, but she wasn’t saying anything. She recognized the same confused, worried look on the priest’s face, the one she’d seen on the roof of the
qasr
before the sign had appeared. He seemed clearly uneasy with everything that was happening.

Darby put his arm around the priest and oriented his attention back at the crowd. “Now I have a special request for Father Jerome, and I hope you’ll all join me in this, as it’s an invitation from the heart, from the heart of Texas and from the heart of the entire nation.” He turned to Father Jerome, and said, “I know you’re tired, and I know you’ve been through some heady days, but I’m here to ask you, on behalf of all these people and on behalf of the whole country—will you honor us with a special service tomorrow?”

The crowd whooped its approval in a crescendo of claps and cheers. Darby raised his hand to quiet them, then turned to Father Jerome, moving the mike right up to the priest’s mouth and awaiting his answer. Father Jerome looked into his eyes for a beat, then gave him a nod and mouthed, “Of course.”

“He said yes,” Darby bellowed, and the crowd went nuts again. He raised his hands again to calm them, and said, “And you’re all invited. Every one of you,” pointing at the crowd. “Spend the day with your loved ones. Enjoy those turkeys and ring out those carols. And at six in the evening, come on down to the stadium at Reliant Park. We’ve got room for all of you.” He beamed, and the crowd erupted into even louder cheers.

Darby waved to acknowledge his audience and put a guiding arm behind the priest for the best photo op he could have asked for, then herded him away from the crowd toward the hangar to their right.

“We’re moving away from the crowd now,” Gracie told Roxberry as she and Dalton followed, continuing their live transmission. “We seem to be headed for”—she heard the chopper’s engines whining up and saw its blades start to spin—“We’re headed for a chopper, Jack. Father Jerome is about to be choppered out of here, which is probably the only way out right now. I guess we’re going to lose our connection, but we’ll keep rolling the camera and get the pictures over to you as soon as we land.”

They all piled into the helicopter—Darby, two of his assistants, the priest and the monk, Gracie, and Dalton. Less than a minute later, the chopper lifted off the ground, swooped around for a rousing pass over the crowd, and straightened out on a direct trajectory to the city, the two news choppers trailing in its wake.

Houston, Texas

M
att was leaning forward, his eyes fixed on the wall-mounted plasma screen in the FBO’s executive lounge at Hobby Airport. Rydell was also there, watching it with him. He had arranged the night flight from Boston, borrowing a jet from one of his dotcom buddies. It had dropped them off in Houston before continuing onward to Los Angeles, whisking Rebecca off to the relative safety of an old friend and a big city. At Hobby, Rydell had arranged for them to have exclusive use of the fixed base operator’s facilities, figuring it made sense to hang back at the airport and figure out what their next move would be before going into the city proper and risking exposure. Then they’d sat back and watched.

The live coverage cut away from Grace Logan’s feed and segued to the network’s fixed camera at the edge of the airport, and the sight of the chopper taking off deflated Matt. He’d been hoping to see the sign show up over the false prophet, and to take its appearance as a sign that Danny was close by. It hadn’t happened, but that didn’t stop him from scrutinizing every corner of the screen, looking for anything suspicious right until the feed switched over to the aerial view from one of the trailing choppers and cut him dry.

Matt slumped back into the sofa, dropped his head back against it, and shut his eyes. “Reliant Stadium,” he said. “That’s where the Texans play, isn’t it?”

Rydell was already on his BlackBerry. “Let’s see what the weather’s like tomorrow.”

“Why?” Matt asked.

“The stadium’s got a retractable roof. If it looks like it’s not going to rain, they’ll have it open—which they’ll need to do if they’re planning to put a sign up over him.”

Matt kept his head back, staring at the ceiling. He sucked in a deep breath. “Tomorrow, then,” he said.

They sat in silence for a moment, thinking ahead, trying to let some clarity back into their minds. Matt stared up at the ceiling. He felt a burgeoning optimism. He was getting closer to Danny, and he’d made it alive so far. The continuation of neither of which was a given, not by any measure.

“It’s not going to be easy finding Danny,” Rydell added. “The stadium’s huge.”

Matt frowned. He’d been thinking of something else. “Maybe we won’t have to.” He glanced across at Rydell. “Drucker told you he wanted to talk, right?”

“Last I heard, he was in D.C.,” Rydell told him. Then something occurred to him. “Unless he’s here. For all this.”

“Call him. Tell him you’re here if he wants to talk. And tell him to get his ass down here if he isn’t here already.”

Rydell weighed it. Seemed to like it, but with a slight reticence. “He’ll suspect something’s up.”

Matt shrugged. “He’ll still want to meet with you, and that’s something we can control. We’ll pick the place. We can be ready for him. Besides, it’s not like I’m juggling ten different options here.” He played it out one more time, then nodded, going for it. “Make the call.”

“You sure?” Rydell asked.

“Get him down here,” Matt confirmed. “I think we’d both like to hear what the bastard has to say.”

River Oaks, Houston, Texas

The area around Darby’s house was entirely sealed off by the police. Running a perimeter four blocks out on three sides, their barricades were blocking all access except for residents. The back of the house looked out over the golf course, and access to the club was also now under strict police control. Officers and dogs patrolled the greens, on the lookout for overzealous believers and angry fanatics. The governor also had the National Guard on standby, should the need for more manpower arise.

The chopper set down in the parking lot of the country club, and its occupants were shuttled across the golf course to their host’s mansion under police escort. News vans crowded the edges of the cordon, a long row of white vans and satellite dishes. Throngs of hysterical worshippers were massed against the barricades, clamoring for Father Jerome to come out and talk to them, desperate for a glimpse of the Lord’s envoy. A couple of whackos had infiltrated their ranks and were blathering away with incoherent speeches about the imminent end of the world, but more common were the scattered choruses of hymns and carols that could be heard across the neighborhood.

Gracie and Dalton were shown to a room on the ground floor of a guest house that abutted the main building. Brother Ameen was in an adjacent room. Father Jerome was given a cosseted guest suite on the second floor. The plan was for them all to remain at the mansion until the big sermon at the stadium the following evening.

Ogilvy, who was in town, had asked for continual updates live from inside the Darby estate. Gracie and Dalton had given the network’s viewers a tour of the compound, but hadn’t managed to get a word from Father Jerome, who was resting in his suite and had asked not to be disturbed.

After Gracie signed off, Dalton checked his watch and said, “I’m off to the airport to get the skycam and the rest of our stuff. I might pick up some fresh clothes if the mall isn’t mobbed. You need anything?”

Gracie chortled. “An alternate reality?”

“I’m not sure Gap sells those, but I’ll see what I can do.” He smiled.

He wandered off and left her. She went back to the room, where she collapsed on the bed. It had been a brutal few days, and there was no end in sight. She managed to tune out for all of three minutes before the phone rang.

She fished out her BlackBerry, but it wasn’t the one that was ringing. She burrowed deeper into her bag, saw the soft blue glow of another screen, and pulled it out. It was Finch’s phone.

She eyed it curiously. The caller’s ID was flashing up. It said Gareth Willoughby. It wasn’t a name she recognized at first—then it clicked. He was the producer of the
BBC
documentary.

She took the call.

Willoughby didn’t know Finch had died. The news took him by complete surprise. He told Gracie he didn’t know Finch and said he was just returning his call.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, then Gracie said, “I guess you must be glad they finally agreed to let you go up there and talk to Father Jerome, huh?”

Willoughby sounded confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if they hadn’t said yes, or if you hadn’t kept on insisting . . . who knows what would have happened. I know we probably wouldn’t have flown out to Egypt.”

Willoughby wasn’t getting it. “What are you talking about? They came to us.”

His statement pricked Gracie like a dart. She straightened up. “What?”

“They came to us. I mean, yes, we were there. Making the documentary and all that. But we didn’t go looking for him. We had no idea Father Jerome was even there.”

Gracie was having trouble reconciling this with everything she’d assumed. “So how’d you end up meeting him?”

“Well, it was just one of those serendipitous breaks, I suppose,” Willoughby said. “We were filming there before heading out to Saint Catherine’s in the Sinai. That was our original intention. Not the Syrians’ monastery. We were at Bishoi at the time, you know, the other monastery near there?”

“I know the one,” she told him.

“Well, Bishoi’s story, the whole thing about him chaining his hair to the ceiling so he wouldn’t fall asleep. It’s the kind of rather wonderfully creepy detail that adds a bit of spice to this kind of show. And while we were there, we were buying supplies from this small shop and we bumped into this monk from the monastery of the Syrians. We got chatting, and he told us Father Jerome was up there in one of their caves. Acting rather bizarrely. As if he were possessed, only in a good way. Which was really timely for us.”

“Hang on a second,” Gracie blurted, trying to make sense of his words. “I thought everyone knew Father Jerome was there.”

“No one knew.”

“We looked it up,” Gracie objected. “It was there.”

“Of course it was—
after
we filmed our program,” Willoughby corrected her. “That’s when it hit the wires. Nobody knew he was in Egypt before we got there and wrapped our piece. He was on his ‘sabbatical,’ remember. They wouldn’t say where he was. We thought he’d died at one point. And if you think about it, it was all rather fortuitous, in more ways than one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we wouldn’t have met that monk in the first place if it hadn’t been for our commissioning editor at the
BBC
. That’s what I’m really grateful for.”