Broken Souls (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 2) (11 page)

As they approached the edge of the crowd at the base of the stairs, Mara leaned toward Ping and whispered, “I didn’t think to bring the Chronicle with me. You think that is going to be a problem?”

“The detective said he was here largely to observe and to see if he could learn anything. I think we’ll be fine if we do the same. I can’t imagine we would need it.”

The crowd tightened around a man with wavy shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair and a full unkempt beard to match. He wore jeans, a linen shirt buttoned up the front to the collar and a tweedy-looking vest that hung open about his torso. Behind him stood a woman of the same age, about fifty or so, with long gray hair that reached down to her waist, held behind her head with a loose band of crocheted yarn. She dressed in that burlapy natural-fibers look that Mara associated with her mother and her flower-power hippie friends from the ’60s. However, this woman didn’t have the mellow peacenik demeanor that usually came with the package; she looked fearful.

Standing next to Bohannon, Mara sensed him tensing up. She stretched up on her toes to get a better view. She could see the man and his wife, but she couldn’t make out the people in front of the couple.

Ping, a good inch shorter than her, said, “What’s going on? I can’t see.”

Mara tapped Bohannon’s shoulder. “Bo, what’s happening?”

He tilted his head but didn’t turn his eyes away from the front of the crowd. “I’m not sure. It looks like he’s having an argument with someone.”

From the front of the crowd came a high-pitched scream, “He’s got a knife!”

Bohannon lifted a crutch and used it to push the people in front of him out of the way, and then hopping on one crutch to move forward. “Step aside, Portland Police. Let me through.”

Ping said, “Detective, maybe it would be better to call for help.”

“No time for that,” Mara said. “Come on.” She grabbed Ping’s elbow, stepped into the parted crowd behind Bohannon and quickly moved forward. The detective stopped without warning, and Mara slammed into his back.

“Sir, you need to drop the knife,” Bohannon said.

A wild-eyed bald man, wearing camouflage pants and a brown sweater, stepped away from the front of the crowd and turned around. In one hand he carried a book, a Bible, and in the other he brandished a small knife. He raised the book in front of him like a shield and pointed the knife at Bohannon, more like an accusation than a threat.

“I cannot allow this heresy to continue!” the man yelled, spit foaming at the corner of his mouth. “This false prophet is trying to lead the people into Babylon, into a land of confusion and apostasy! He only heals your bodies to lull you into a sense of complacency so that whore can steal your soul for Satan!”

Denton Proctor held up his hands and said, “Man, I told you. We are only here to help make people better. We are not here to preach or discuss religion at all. We only want to help.”

“Apostate! You lie. I will not allow you to take these souls.” He waved the knife in an arc at the crowd, jumped up on one of the curving brick steps and moved toward Proctor. Looming over the would-be healer, the man yelled, “Leave this place, or I will smite you in the name of our Lord Almighty!”

Bohannon handed a crutch to Mara and said, “Hold this and stand back.”

“What?”

The detective held out his plastered leg and hopped toward the man on the stairs. Now three feet away, standing between the man and Proctor, Bohannon rested his crutch on his shoulder like a baseball bat, holding it by the narrow end while the armrest hung over his back. “Sir, please drop that knife and come down from there,” Bohannon said.

“Not until this man is cast from here!” He held the book to his chest and waved the knife toward them.

Bohannon lifted the crutch, reared back and pivoted with his hips, swinging it upward, striking the man’s wrist with a loud crack and sending the knife flying eastward across the plaza. The man fell to his knees, dropping the Bible and grasping his wrist with a keening howl that momentarily stopped traffic in the square.

Bohannon’s swing continued to follow through with enough momentum to twist him around, pivoting on his one good leg and sending the crutch careening up the sweeping staircase. Upon completing his wobbling pirouette, the detective lost his balance and toppled over, the side of his head striking the brick ledge in front of him.

The crazed man continued to whimper as Mara and Ping ran to help Bohannon. When they got to his side, he was not moving and a pool of blood was expanding around his head. Ping knelt over him and did a cursory examination.

Mara looked panicked and pulled out her phone. “I’ll call 9-1-1 and get an ambulance.”

“I think you need to stop the bleeding first,” Ping said, locking eyes with her.

“I can’t stop—”

“Time, Mara. Stop Time. Long enough to get help,” Ping said.

Mara blinked absently for a second, trying to understand what he was trying to tell her. Then it came to her, and she focused on Bohannon’s white face. The halo of blood around the detective’s head stopped expanding. Mara’s hand holding her cell phone hung limply to her side as she concentrated. Without taking her eyes from him, she slowly, almost slurringly, said, “Take the phone. Call for help.

Ping reached up for the phone from where he was crouched next to Bohannon. His hand passed through it. At that instant, Mara flickered momentarily, disappearing for less than a blink of an eye. Ping tried again and grasped the phone. He looked up and said, “Are you okay?”

“Get help. I can’t do this for very long,” she said, flickering once again.

Ping tapped the phone twice, but before he could hit the final number, Denton Proctor put a hand on Ping’s arm and said, “Let me help him.”

Ping stepped out of the way, and Denton Proctor leaned over and placed his hands on either side of Bohannon’s head. Proctor’s torso blocked their view of Bohannon’s face, but after a moment they saw his leg, the one in the cast, move. The other leg raised up, bending and placing his foot flat on the ground. Then they heard him speak.

“What are you doing?” Bohannon said from behind Proctor’s torso.

“Shush, relax for a minute,” Proctor said.

Mara let go, stopped concentrating and walked around to the other side of the detective’s prone body. She noticed a crack running along the side of his cast. Bohannon stared up at her wide-eyed, flushed. Proctor’s eyes were closed, and his hands emitted a faint yellow glow on the sides of Bohannon’s head.

“Are you okay?” Mara asked Bo.

“I think so. This feels a little strange, but I don’t think he’s hurting me,” Bohannon said.

“Be quiet. Almost . . .” Proctor said and tiredly opened his eyes. “There.”

“There what?” Bohannon asked.

“There, you should be better. But sit still for a few minutes. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and you’re probably going to be light-headed for a bit.”

Proctor walked over to his wife, and she pointed to the crazed man in camouflage pants clutching his wrist and whimpering, squatting on the wide brick step above Bohannon, next to an open Bible fluttering in the wind. Nodding, Proctor walked over to the guy and wrapped his hands around the man’s fractured wrist. After a moment, the man snatched up his Bible and pulled away. Pointing with his newly mended wrist, he yelled, “Get thee behind me, Satan!” and ran up the wide sweeping stairs, between two columns that adorned the edge of the square and disappeared into the foot traffic on Yamhill Street.

Below, Bohannon sat up. The crowd had gathered to watch the events in silent horror, then broke out in applause. The detective had enough wits about him to blush and to hope there were no television cameras around.

The corners of Melanie Proctor’s eyes crinkled with kindness as she walked over, carrying an old athletic bag, to where Bohannon sat on the bricks. She knelt next to the detective and set down the bag. From it she took a bottle of water and a towel, and wiped at Bohannon’s head. He was a mess. Blood had matted his hair and was beginning to dry on the side of his face. But he didn’t seem to be in any pain.

He pulled back from the attention, and the movement caused the cast to open and fall away from his leg. “You don’t have to do that,” Bohannon said to Mrs. Proctor. He looked up to Mara. “Could you fetch my crutches for me?”

Mara jogged up the wide stairs to retrieve the crutch Bohannon had tossed during the altercation.

“I don’t think you will be needing your crutches anymore,” Melanie said, continuing to wipe at Bohannon’s head. She tilted her head toward her husband who had returned to the gathering. “He usually does a thorough job of fixing up people.”

Bohannon persisted in pulling away.

“Young man, stop fighting me. I am trying to clean you up so you won’t scare people away. You don’t strike me as the type who wants to be making a scene now, are you?”

Bohannon relented. “No, but it’s obviously a scratch, so I’d like to get my crutches and get going.” He leaned forward in an effort to get up, and a wave of nausea swept over him.

“Don’t be silly. It was much more than a scratch. You were bleeding out before Denton got to you, although I get the feeling that young lady may have helped out. I’m not sure why though,” she said.

Mara returned with the crutch and stood next to Ping. “Here you go,” she said, holding out the crutches.

Melanie ignored the offer and said, “The two of you get on that side of him and help me get him to his feet. He’ll probably be dizzy for a little while. Let’s walk him over there and sit down for a spell.” She nodded to a spot on the curving steps toward the center of the square several yards away from the gathering. “We can finish cleaning him up, and he can get some air.”

Ping and Mara took his arm. Melanie counted to three and said, “Okay, now stand.” Bohannon rocked forward, favoring his good leg but could not lift himself even with three assistants. Melanie paused and stood back to assess the situation. She bent over, grabbed the fractured cast that still clung to Bohannon’s leg, broke it completely in half and tossed the pieces behind her. “Now this time I want you to use both legs, got it?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” Bohannon said.

“Give it a shot. I’m not calling an ambulance for you when you’ve got two perfectly functional legs.”

Bohannon glanced up to Ping, who nodded and said, “We’ll be here to give you balance, just in case.” The detective allowed them to take his arms, and he gingerly tried to lift himself on both legs, expecting pain to shoot up his thighs any second. The pain never came. Some stiffness, yes, but no pain. Relief swept across his face as he realized he was carrying his own weight. After a moment, he took a jolting step forward and wavered as dizziness swept over him.

“Slowly, your legs aren’t your biggest problem at present,” Melanie said as she walked him over to the spot on the stairs away from the crowd. “Now sit down, and let me finish getting that blood off you.”

Mara looked at the pieces of broken plaster sitting on the bricks and glanced back at Bohannon’s exposed pasty-white leg because his pants leg had been sliced open to accommodate the cast. “That’s amazing. He not only healed his head but his leg as well.
Un
real.”

“Do you understand the process by which he accomplishes this healing?” Ping asked.

Melanie looked up from her ministrations and said defensively, “It’s not my place to explain Denton’s gifts.”

“I meant no offense, Mrs. Proctor. I too was a passenger on Flight 559, so I’m aware of the incongruencies that you and your husband must have experienced since the crash. I was interested in understanding if the healing was a biochemical process or something a little more ephemeral.”

Melanie looked surprised. “So you are like us? Not really from this place, even though you recognize some aspects of it?”

“That’s correct. I too crossed over from an alternate realm during the incident on the plane.”

She finished wiping Bohannon’s head and said to him, “And you? Were you on the plane?”

“No, not me. I’m me, not an alternate me,” he said, rolling his eyes and glaring at Mara. “I’m starting to sound like you now.”

“It’s a little disconcerting when you end up talking about this stuff in everyday conversation like it’s normal,” Mara said, smiling.

“You were on the flight?” Melanie asked.

Mara nodded. “But I was born here, in this realm.”

“So the flight didn’t affect everyone? Denton and I had discussed seeking out other passengers, but part of us thought that maybe we were brought here to help people. I guess we aren’t so special after all.”

Ping said, “Oh, I would not underestimate the uniqueness of your position, even if all of the passengers crossed over. Mara is the only exception that we have encountered, and, because of the circumstances that triggered these events, I suspect she may be the only person from this realm who actually survived the crash.”

“The others did not survive, our—what would you call them?”

“Our counterparts,” Ping said. “No, they did not survive. I probably should be more careful about discussing that.”

Melanie put the cloths she used into the athletic bag, pulled out a granola sports bar and another bottle of water, and handed them to Bohannon. “Eat this. It will help you get some of your energy back after losing all that blood.”

“I was wondering if perhaps we should get him checked out at a hospital,” Mara said.

“If it will make you feel better, by all means, but I think you’ll find that, in a few minutes, he’ll be better than new,” Melanie said.

“No hospital. I’m fine,” Bohannon said.

“Well, let’s sit here for a while and watch Denton do his thing. It is quite remarkable, you know.”

* * *

Denton Proctor stood before the crowd of about fifty people and said, “If one of you has an ailment you would like help with, please come closer, and I will do my best.”

A large woman—with a red rash that ran up from the neckline of her dress, wrapped around her throat and marred the left side of her face—stepped forward within the crowd and said, “What exactly is it you do, mister?”