Soon (14 page)

At the monthly event where the regional governor bestowed various awards, Paul sat on the platform with his father-in-law on his left and Bob Koontz on his right.

Following nearly a dozen awards to athletes, young people, and citizens’ groups, the governor said, “We have saved our most prestigious honor for last. In March, Dr. Paul Stepola, an operative with the National Peace Organization, was severely injured in the line of duty, requiring skin grafts for his burns and costing him his sight. He was charging into a fire set by terrorists, giving no thought for his own safety, to rescue one of Gulfland’s most prominent citizens. An explosion nearly killed him.”

Beside Paul, Ranold stirred, as if jutting out his chest. Then when his father-in-law was introduced and asked to bring Paul to the lectern, he could feel the older man quiver.

“For valor in the face of danger, it is my great honor to present to Dr. Paul Stepola the Pergamum Medal.”

Paul heard cameras clicking and basked in the applause and cheering. Ranold led him back to his chair, where Paul listened to the governor finish the festivities with a ten-minute speech on the supremacy of the state. He concluded: “For generations the world lauded people, personalities, individuals. Some were deified. We should rejoice that we live in a world that has evolved intellectually to where we recognize that the state reigns. Long live the United Seven States of America! Long live the Columbia Region! Long live the free state!”

After the festivities Ranold took Paul’s arm and steered him to the Rose Garden. It was as if Ranold wanted to be seen with him, to show him off.
So it was never the letter at all. He really thought I
had proved myself.
Still feeling useless, Paul marveled again at the new respect his injury had kindled in his father-in-law.

“I don’t think it ever impressed me how this place smelled,” Paul said. “I can point to the flowers from here, just from the fragrance. Tell me how the rest looks.”

Ranold didn’t answer except to say, “Oh, good.” Then he pulled Paul close and whispered, “There’s someone here I want you to meet.”

He moved ahead a little too quickly, and Paul nearly stumbled. He was just regaining his balance when Ranold introduced him. “Paul, here’s a rising star at the Washington NPO bureau. Agent Balaam has been coming on strong with the Zealot Underground task force.”

A large bony hand gripped his. Paul was astonished when the voice was a woman’s. Her warm breath hit him full in the face, so she had to be at least his height.

“Congratulations on your award, Agent Stepola.”

“I’ve come to appreciate Agent Balaam for the creative interventions she’s come up with to cripple the leadership of our local Christian terrorists.”

“Interventions?”

“You wouldn’t believe how much ground that movement has gained,” the woman said. “Your Gulfland fires, I’m sorry to say, have helped them recruit.”

My Gulfland fires?

“So we’ve been training our sights on the heads of local cells. In some cases we’ve sent a signal that it’s unhealthy to be a Christian.”

Paul hated her voice.
Am I threatened that she’s a woman? jealous
that she’s working when I can’t? envious that she’s Ranold’s protégé?
No, it was her smug self-satisfaction that got under Paul’s skin.

“This will make you feel good,” Ranold whispered. “Last week we had an accident at Asclepian Zoo. An after-hours visitor on some kind of a drug trip happened to climb the wrong fence and was killed by a giant python.”

“That’s horrible,” Paul said.

“Normally it would be, except in this case it meant one less terrorist. The occasional well-timed accident can be a very effective tool. This one’s thrown a scare into plenty of believers, according to our moles.”

“We’ve got operatives planted at both the Smithsonian and the Library of Congress,” Ms. Balaam said. “It won’t be long before we get a grip on the terrorist cells there. They’re not going to gain a foothold.”

“See, Paul, there will definitely be work for you in the agency,” Ranold said, “whether or not you regain your vision. The battle is heating up. These people have been proliferating right under our noses.”

Despite the law, despite the dangers . . .

On the way to the airport, as planned, Straight took Paul to the Dover Inn, one of Paul’s favorite lunch places. Paul waited on a wooden bench while Straight parked. He smelled Angela before he heard her—rainwater and lavender.

She took his hand. “I’d have recognized you anywhere,” she said.

He was struck by the lyrical quality of her voice. “What would you have done if I had not been the only blind man here?”

“Well, this is the first time I’ve seen you in wraparound shades, but the rest of you is memorable enough.”

The three enjoyed a casual lunch, laughing and reminiscing about Angela’s father. She discreetly waited to bring up the letter until it was time to leave for the airport and Straight had gone to get the car. “Here’s that ink sample,” she said. “Though I don’t suppose you’ve been able to do much more with that memorial project since you’ve been hurt.”

“No, but I’ve been giving it a tremendous amount of thought. I really appreciated your analyst’s report. It opened my eyes—pardon the expression.” Angela giggled and brushed his hand. Paul turned up his palm and clasped hers. “That’s probably my first blind joke. But seriously, it’s been a great morale booster, as well as a pleasure, to be with you today.”

“The pleasure is mutual. It’s been a while since I’ve been out to lunch with an attractive man.”

“I want to tell you something.”
What am I doing?
“Is there anyone within earshot or am I talking too loudly?”

“There’s no one nearby. I’m the only one who can hear you.”

“This is highly irregular for me,” Paul said, “but I just want to mention that government agencies sometimes scrutinize their own backyards just as closely as they do the general public.”

“Is that right?”

“Some even plant moles at places like the Library of Congress. A subversive cell would have difficulty thriving too close to Big Brother.”

Angela sounded amused. “So if I’ve been using my lunch hour to plot the overthrow of the government, I’d better be careful—is that what you’re saying?”

“Well—”

“Don’t worry.” She gave her musical laugh. “Here comes your friend. Hi, Mr. Rathe!”

14

PAUL DECIDED ADRENALINE
must have kept him going through his first full day out of the house. Waiting for takeoff in a first-class aisle seat next to Straight, he was exhausted and claustrophobic. It didn’t help that Straight mentioned the plane was full. Paul turned down a preflight drink and sat with his chin tucked to his chest, trying to doze. His reverie was interrupted by an announcement that weather in Chicago would delay their departure.

“Daley International is experiencing heavy thunderstorms,” the captain reported. “So, folks, let’s just relax. We want to see which way the front’s going to move. Then we’ll file our flight plan and get cleared for takeoff.”

Relax?
Paul felt his pulse and respiration increase. He tried to slow them by rehashing the visit in his mind—the awards ceremony, Ranold’s pride, meeting that up-and-coming Washington agent in the Rose Garden—but that just boosted his anxiety. His fear returned, and he had to stay focused—on Angela’s fragrance, her voice, her touch
. Keep calm. Have faith.

But what was faith? Paul couldn’t deny the New Testament was having an effect on him. Jesus urged people to have faith, to believe in Him. Most atheists chose to believe He was a fictitious character, but Paul’s professors had been more generous. They allowed that He was a historical figure and perhaps a wise teacher, but needless to say, they scoffed at any claims of deity. He couldn’t be the Son of a God who did not exist.

And yet Paul had found Jesus’ teachings revolutionary, His pronouncements paradoxical. If you want to be exalted, humble yourself. If you want to be rich, give your money away. If you want to lead, serve. Somehow Paul was finding it harder and harder to dismiss the man as just a teacher. He claimed to be the Son of God, said He was sent by His Father and would return to His Father. He also said He would come back. The letters of the apostle Paul argued for the real reasons behind His death on the cross and treated the Resurrection—long since decried by skeptics—as historical fact.

Could it be? Paul had a vague recollection of a truth postulated by C. S. Lewis, a twentieth-century atheist scholar turned Christian. Something about how Jesus had to be one of three things: a liar, a lunatic, or who He claimed to be. You couldn’t have it two ways. You could not call Him a wise teacher unless you believed His claim to be the Lord of all.

Again Paul found himself playing at the edges of belief, ruminating on the what-ifs. His own father had clearly been a believer. Paul thought he knew enough of his dad’s character through his mother’s recollections. She never said he was stupid. And Paul knew beyond doubt that Andy Pass had been no intellectual lightweight. But when Paul allowed himself to consider that Jesus might have died for his sins, he found himself over-whelmed with grief.

Was he a sinner? He had been unfaithful to his wife. He had lied. He had been selfish, caring more for himself than for his family. He had killed people. The weight of it was too much. He did not remember suffering guilt before; he hardly even knew what it was.

Until now. He wanted to shake himself back to reality, to get out from under the awful shame by reminding himself that these were myths, fairy tales. Maybe this project, this new study for the sake of his NPO mission, had been a terrible mistake.

The plane had sat on the runway for more than an hour, making Paul even more agitated. He couldn’t mention any of this to Straight. Besides, from the sound of his breathing, the big man was dozing.
Must be nice
. Delays were unusual in the age of supersonic travel. Paul decided on a walk in the first-class section, counting the seats to keep his bearings.

The Smithsonian’s old National Air and Space Museum was Angela’s sons’ favorite place to visit. They spent many rainy Saturdays marveling at the Wright brothers’ boxy spruce-and-muslin plane—which the pilot had to fly lying flat on his belly—and the ancient
Spirit of St. Louis,
with its gas tanks up front so Lindbergh had to peer through a periscope to see ahead. At least the first manned spacecraft from eighty years before had windows so the astronauts could see where they were going. Angela’s favorite flying machine was the scarlet Breitling Orbiter balloon, the first to fly nonstop around the world just before the turn of the century, about six years before she was born.

She made her way past the quaint moon-rocks display and upstairs to the Albert Einstein Planetarium, which still boasted the old-fashioned Sky Vision shows. The shows made her sons impatient, accustomed as they were to the Spacetime Astronomy Center’s telescope turrets, made of powerful magnifying lenses that seemed to thrust you physically into the cosmos. But she loved the digital-projection surround-sound system that was state of the art before the war, which gave the illusion of flying through an outer space echoing with dramatic music and swirling with supersaturated colors.

She bought a ticket for the three o’clock show and chose a place in an empty section. At that hour on a weekday, the theater was only half full—mostly tourists, she guessed. The magical star field was projected on the ceiling—inaccurate, they knew now, but still fascinating. It was no wonder that, from earliest times, human beings had looked for God in the heavens.

A couple entered, taking seats on each side of her. The three clasped hands and, as the powerful bass line of the soundtrack boomed, shared a silent prayer.

Angela whispered, “There may be a bust soon. That death at the zoo may be the beginning of a purge.”

“Who’s behind it?” the woman said. “Balaam?”

“I don’t know. But they’ve infiltrated.” Angela revealed Paul’s oblique warning.

“This guy pops up and warns you out of the blue?”

“He served under my father. He was in Washington to receive an award for being injured in the line of duty.”

“He’s got to be NPO. Angela, you need to get out of town. They may be watching you because of your father, but clearly you’re on their radar. Even this could be some kind of a trap, to see who you’ll try to warn.”

“I doubt that, but it makes sense for me to leave.”

“Get your kids and head out today,” the man said. “We’ll handle the school and work arrangements and make sure Detroit is ready for you.”

“And the book-drop operation . . . ?”

“Maybe we should hold off awhile—just till we see what this heat seems to be about. Whenever it’s safe to move, don’t worry about your part of it. We’ll get it covered.”

“Didn’t they know it was raining in Chicago?” a man asked as Paul paced the aisle. “Why did they let us board? If this were a normal plane instead of a two-hundred-seater, a storm wouldn’t hold us up. I’m never flying one of these puddle jumpers again.”

Others joined in, griping and me-tooing. The chorus of complaints drove Paul back to his seat. Straight had roused.

“What time is it?” Paul said. “People are talking like we’ve been here for hours.”

“Just after four,” Straight said. “Not so late. Funny, it’s already getting dark. We’re in for some rain here too.”

“I hope not.”

The captain came back on. “Folks, thanks for your patience. Our storm in Chicago is moving toward Detroit, but another weather system is coming from the south. Our best bet is to get going and outrun it. We’re cleared for takeoff.”

The passengers, including Paul, clapped and cheered. Maybe he could forget his private torment.

While Paul was in Washington, Jae had decided it was time for him to move back upstairs with her. Since he’d come home from the hospital, he’d been set up in the den. He’d learned to master the first floor and could even find his way out into the yard and back. But he’d made no effort to attempt the stairs and rejoin her in their bedroom.

When Jae had broached the subject, he had protested that he was still up and down all night, dozing an hour or two, then waking and listening to his discs until he could get back to sleep. He didn’t want to disturb her, he said. She had been reluctant to ask again. A second no would be humiliating.

Better to present Paul with a
fait accompli
. She knew moving his things might be provocative, but it would also give her a chance to see what kind of a stand Paul would take in their marriage.
I want to see what’s coming—if we have a next step.

Jae threw all Paul’s bedding and clothing in the washer. She heaped his toiletries and medicines in a basket. On the end table was the disc player that had defeated her in the hospital, along with the tidy stack of discs. Where was the box for the New Testament set? It was raining hard outside, making the den so dark she had to turn on the lights to look for it.

She finally found it on the floor under the skirt of Paul’s favorite armchair. There she also came upon a note crumpled and soft from fingering, from Angela Pass Barger. Her eyes skipped over it in horror. Impossible! How could her blind, seemingly helpless, definitely depressed husband have met a new woman, corresponded with her, and made a secret plan to meet her in Washington? And right under the nose of Jae’s father?

No wonder Paul wanted Straight to go with him. He must have been Paul’s accomplice all along. Who else could have read him the note? It amazed Jae that she had been so naive and accepting—waiting on Paul hand and foot, enduring his mood swings and angry outbursts, defending his temper to the children. All the while she had hoped he was coming to terms with his blindness, he had been trolling the waters of a different future.

It was the same old story, Paul and his other women. And he always acted like her jealousy was crazy. She dumped out the basket of medicines and toiletries on the end table, too angry even to force tears. She had already cried enough for a lifetime.