The Warrior (32 page)

He sighed, then shoved his fingers through his hair. “Who knew it would be so hard to find just one man? I've always sensed his soul and come close to catching up to him a couple of times, but it's never happened.” Then he shrugged. “I always know when the body dies again. Then I'm left to wait until I feel the soul has been reborn before I can hope again.”

“So you're saying my father has that soul?”

“Over sixty years ago, I felt it happen…that it had been reborn. Then I felt the connection again when we first met. In fact, at first I thought it was you.”

Alicia suddenly shivered. “You mean if I was that soul, you would have killed me?”

“Right where you stood, in front of that fancy little BMW, beside Marv's Gas and Guzzle, without batting an eye.”

The blood ran out of her face so fast John thought she would faint. He regretted her reaction, but not his answer. He'd sworn to tell the truth. And so he waited.

Nearly five minutes passed before Alicia could speak. When she did, he knew he was lost.

“Is that all of it?”

“Pretty much.”

“Bottom line…you're five hundred and twenty-nine
years old, on a quest through eternity to find the reincarnated soul of the man who killed your people and your wife, and you're telling me that's my father. You also can't age, and you can't die. Is that about it?”

He nodded.

Alicia struggled to maintain a semblance of calm. She took a deep breath and almost managed a smile.

“John…I have to tell you…you are an amazing man. You have saved my life more than once. I've witnessed your bravery on behalf of others and at risk to your own well-being. I don't understand how your body heals itself, but I do know that you make love to me like a god. For the first time in my life, I was truly happy, despite the fact that my father still wants me dead.”

He watched her, waiting for the “but” he sensed was coming, and he wasn't wrong.

“But…it has come to my attention that, while you are still all of the things I just mentioned, you are also, my darling, as mad as a hatter. You need help. Lots of help, from someone who knows more about mental illness than I do. I'll stick by you. I'll go with you. I'll do anything you want or need to help you get well.”

John's heart sank. While she hadn't run away, she had still withdrawn. She thought he was crazy, and he couldn't blame her. But it didn't change the fact that the bond that had been between them was gone.

He nodded once, then slapped his legs lightly, as if to say that was that, and stood.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He paused. “I won't run out on you, but I don't think I want to be around you anymore…at least for now.”

He walked out without looking back, and Alicia was
shocked that he somehow maintained an air of having been betrayed. The longer she sat, the guiltier she felt.

“It's not my fault,” she muttered. “He's the one who's nuts.”

But the silence ate at her, until she finally got up and went to find him, shocked to realize that night had come unannounced.

She looked through all the rooms before trying the terrace. She walked out into the darkness, didn't see him and was about to go back inside when she saw motion from the corner of her eye and looked up.

It was a falling star.

She paused, thinking to herself that she hadn't seen one of those in ages. She stared at it for a moment, watching—waiting for it to burn out. But when it didn't and instead kept flying through space, coming closer and closer, her interest turned to shock, then disbelief. This must be a meteor—and if it didn't stop, it looked like it would hit out in the desert.

“John!” she cried, wanting him to see this. But he didn't answer and didn't come. “John! John! You have to come see this!” she cried. But she was still alone.

The light continued to come closer and closer until it was so bright it lit up the desert. At that point Alicia realized John was standing at the far end of the yard, watching it, too. She started to go to him, but then the light was upon them. It centered on John, bathing him in a glow so bright that she lost sight of him. The more time that passed, the more convinced she became that she, too, was losing her mind. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until the light suddenly shifted and started toward her.

She tried to run, but her feet wouldn't move. Fear unlike anything she'd ever known swept through her, and when she tried to scream, found herself unable to make a sound. And so she stood, expecting to die in flames.

The light was on her, then in her. What she thought would kill her instead left her calmed—waiting for what she knew would be a message. It came in the form of an old Indian man with braids so long they dragged on the ground, wearing a robe of rainbow-hued feathers that fluttered in a breeze she didn't feel.

When he smiled at her, she wanted to fall at his feet, but he reached for her instead. He didn't speak, but she understood she was to hold out her hand. This had to be a dream. Any moment she would wake up, and find herself back inside and in bed. But she didn't wake up, and when she held out her hand, she felt him drop something in it. She wanted to look down, but her gaze was locked onto his face.

Then he spoke only one word.

“Believe.”

He closed her fingers over the object he handed her, and right before her eyes, he disappeared. Between one blink and the next, the light and the dream and everything she thought she'd been seeing was gone.

“Wow. That was weird,” she said in a voice she hardly recognized.

As she spoke, John walked out of the darkness and up onto the terrace. He walked past without even looking at her and went on into the house. He'd been out there the whole time, and he must have heard her calling, but he hadn't answered. Hadn't cared. The ache in her heart was growing with each passing minute. She
started to follow him into the house, when she realized there was something in her fist.

The hair rose on the back of her neck.

Impossible.

That old Indian had been a dream, and so had the thing he'd put in her hand. So if it had been a dream, what was she holding?

She ran into the house, slamming the door behind her, and turned on the lights. Everything in the kitchen looked the same. The same stainless-steel appliances. The same turquoise-colored dishes in the cupboard. John's sunglasses lying on the counter beneath the phone.

She closed her eyes and took a slow, shuddering breath, then slowly opened her fingers and looked down.

For a moment she couldn't think. Didn't know why the object looked so familiar. Then she remembered and let it fall onto the table as she screamed and jumped backward in disbelief.

Suddenly John was in the doorway. She pointed at the table. Her voice was shaking; her eyes were rounded in shock.

“Where did that come from?” she cried.

John walked over to the table and picked it up. “What is it?”

“My mother's brooch. Sweet Jesus…my mother's brooch.”

She kept hearing the old man's voice, telling her to believe. But how could she believe something this impossible?

“Pretty,” John said. “But what's the big deal?”

The big deal?
Alicia wanted to laugh but was afraid if she let loose it would come out as a scream.

“The big deal is…I gave her the brooch the Mother's Day before she died. And I pinned that same brooch on her dress the day of her funeral. It was buried with her. It's supposed to be six feet underground in a Boston cemetery.”

“So?”

This time she did scream. “But it's not!”

“What did the old man tell you?” John asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know about the old man? How do you
know?
Are we dreaming the same dreams again?”

“It wasn't a dream. And he always comes in a light, and he always comes with a message.”

She was hearing his words and trying to deal with the fact that what she'd seen outside hadn't been a dream. It had been real. There really had been an old Indian who'd given her the brooch.

“What did he say to you?” John repeated.

“‘Believe.' He said for me to believe.”

John waited. “And still you do not. What is there left to say?”

“I don't know.
I don't know.
This isn't right. It isn't real. This can't be happening.”

He sighed. “You sound like a broken record, Alicia. Get out or get over it.”

Even though they hurt, the words were the slap in the face she needed. “He talked with you first.”

“Yes.”

“And he always brings a message?”

“Yes.”

“What did he tell you?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“That's not fair!” she cried. “You told me you would answer any question I asked.”

“Yet you have rejected me and my answers. Why should I waste my time?”

“John. Please. I'm sorry.”

“You're not. But I suppose it doesn't matter.” He started to walk out again, then something seemed to occur to him, and he stopped and turned. “Alicia…do you believe in God?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“Not ‘of course.' Many people don't.”

“Okay…sorry. Yes, I do believe in God.”

“Do you believe in angels?”

Her answer was a bit slower in coming, but still as positive. “Yes. Why?”

“
Why?
Yet another question. But I'll tell you why. If you believe in God and angels, why won't you consider the possibility that angels appear to mortals in many forms?”

“I didn't say that,” she argued. “I just said I believe in angels…although I've never seen one.”

“But you did. You saw one tonight and immediately rejected him with your own mind.”

Suddenly she realized where he was going with this. “That old Indian man was a hallucination…or something. He was not an angel.”

“You doubt my word,
and
you're prejudiced. You may have learned things about me tonight you didn't like, but it works both ways. I'm learning things about you, as well, that disappoint me greatly.”

“That's not fair. I'm not trying to make you believe outrageous things. And just because I won't accept your crazy story, that doesn't make me prejudiced.”

“You
are
prejudiced, Alicia. You rejected what you saw just because it didn't appear as some glorious being dressed in white, with huge white wings and a ridiculous gold halo over its head.”

His words were more powerful than any slap to the face might have been. What if he was right? What if she
had
experienced a miracle tonight? She dropped into a chair, staring at him without speaking. Her thoughts were spinning. Her heart ached for this horrible ugly wall that was now between them. Then she remembered that he'd ignored her question. If this was true, what message had he been given?

She got up and moved toward him, stopping when they were close enough to touch.

“If I ask you one more question, would you answer it?”

He shrugged. “It appears that where you're concerned, I've become a glutton for punishment…so why not? Ask away.”

“You said the…uh, angel in the light always brings a message.”

“Yes.”

“So if my message was to believe, what was the message he gave to you?”

He laughed. It was a short bitter sound that struck at the core of all she was.

“He told me that you would break my heart. So take comfort in his words, because my message has already come true.”

He glanced down at the brooch one last time, then walked out of the room.

The pain in his voice had been sickening. Knowing
she was the cause of it was even worse. But how could she reconcile herself to this madness?

She picked up the brooch, clutching it to her heart as she stumbled to her room. By the time she reached the bed, she was sobbing. She crawled up onto the mattress, rolled herself up in a tight ball of misery and cried herself to sleep.

 

Dieter was in Austria. A simple walk down familiar streets, hearing the language he'd learned first at his mother's knees, made him weak with relief. He'd done it. Escaped the FBI's net, thanks to an angry woman named Isis and a set of fake papers that got him a berth on a Russian ship. It had taken the better part of a week to get here, but now that he'd arrived, he was anxious to reconnect with the boss. The sooner they began a new life, the better.

He'd rented a room in a small bed-and-breakfast, and paid for a week, hoping it would take no longer than that to finish the work Richard wanted of him, so then they could settle down in their new life. But for now, he was just looking for the nearest bar. He wanted a good, dark German beer and some kielbasa on rye. Maybe with a big smear of sharp, whole-grain mustard on the rye, and a big dill pickle on the side. Just the thought of it made his mouth water.