The boy did not turn to look back but faced the dark void of night with his immutable blank stare. It broke the prior’s heart to treat one of God’s creatures harshly, so harshly that he was likely condemning the child to a freezing death. And not an ordinary child but one with an extraordinary gift that, if Paulinus was correct, came not from the depths of Hell but perhaps from the realm of Heaven. But Josephus was an obedient servant, his first allegiance to God, whose opinion on this matter was not apparent to him, and his next allegiance to his abbot, whose opinion was clear as a windowpane.
Josephus shuddered and closed the gate behind him.
The bell rang for Vespers. The congregation assembled in the Sanctuary. Sister Magdalena held her lute to her chest and basked in her victory over Josephus, whom she scorned for his softness.
Paulinus’s mind swirled with theological ideas about Octavus-whether his powers were gift or curse.
Josephus’s eyes stung with salty tears at the thought of the frail little boy alone in the cold and dark. He felt intense guilt at his own warmth and comfort. Yet Oswyn, he was sure, was correct on one notion: the boy was indeed a distraction from his duties of prayer and servitude.
They waited for the shuffling steps of the abbot, which failed to materialize. Josephus could see the brothers and sisters shifting nervously, all of them keenly aware of Oswyn’s punctuality.
After a few minutes Josephus became alarmed and whispered to Paulinus, “We must check on the abbot.” All eyes followed them as they left. Whispers filled the Sanctuary, but Magdalena put a stop to them with a finger to her lips and a loud shush.
Oswyn’s chamber was cold and dark, the untended fire nearly spent. They found him curled and bent on his bed, fully dressed in his robes, his skin as cool as the room air. In his right hand he clutched the parchment upon which his name was written.
“Merciful God!” Josephus cried.
“The prophesy-” Paulinus muttered, falling to his knees.
The two men mouthed quick prayers over Oswyn’s body, then rose.
“The bishop must be informed,” Paulinus said.
Josephus nodded. “I will send a messenger to Dorchester in the morning.”
“Until the bishop says otherwise, you must lead this abbey, my friend.”
Josephus crossed himself, digging his finger into his chest as he made the sign. “Go tell Sister Magdalena and ask her to begin Vespers. I will be there shortly, but first there is something I must do.”
Josephus ran through the darkness to the abbey gate, his chest heaving with exertion. He pushed it open and it squeaked on its hinges.
The boy was not there.
He ran down the path, frantically calling his name.
There was a small shape by the road.
Octavus had not gone far. He was sitting quietly in the frigid night, shivering at the edge of a field. Josephus tenderly picked him up in his arms and carried him back toward the gate.
“You can stay, boy,” he said. “God wants you to stay.”
JUNE 25, 2009. LAS VEGAS
Will started flirting at sea level and was still going strong at 34,000 feet. The flight attendant was his type, a big shapely girl with pouty lips and dirty-blonde hair. A wisp of it kept falling in front of one eye and she was constantly and absently brushing it aside. After a while he began to imagine lying beside her naked, brushing it aside himself. A little wave of guilt inexplicably washed over him when Nancy intruded into his thoughts, proper and reproachful. What was she doing mucking up his fantasies? He willfully fought back and reverted to the stewardess.
He had followed standard TSA security procedures for checking onto the US Airways flight with his service weapon. He was preboarded in coach and had settled into an aisle seat over the wing. Darla, the stewardess, immediately liked the looks of the brawny guy in a sport coat and khakis and draped herself over the cross aisle seat.
“Hey, FBI,” she chirped, knowing as much because of the security procedures he’d undergone.
“Hey yourself.”
“Get you something to drink before we get invaded?”
“Do I smell coffee?”
“Coming up,” she said. “We’ve got an air marshal in 7C today, but you’re way bigger than he is.”
“You want to tell him I’m here?”
“He already knows.”
Later, during the beverage service, she seemed to lightly brush his shoulder or his arm whenever she passed. Maybe it was his imagination, he thought as he drifted to sleep, lulled by the low rumble of the engines. Or maybe not.
He awoke with a startle, pleasantly disorientated. There were green crop fields stretching to the horizon so he knew they were somewhere over the middle of the country. Loud angry voices were coming from the rear near the lavs. He undid his seat belt, turned around and identified the problem: three young Brits spanning a row, drinking buddies in full lager-lout mode, getting prelubed for their Vegas holiday. Ruddy-faced, they were gesticulating like a three-headed monster at a willowy male flight attendant who had cut off their flow of beer. As alarmed passengers looked on, the Brit nearest the aisle-a taut bundle of muscle and tendon-rose up and stood eyeball-to-eyeball with the crew member and shouted emphatically, “You heard my mate! He wants another fuckin’ drink!”
Darla quickly moved up the aisle to assist her colleague, deliberately seeking out Will’s eyes as she flew by. The air marshal in 7C held his seat, standard operating procedure, watching the cockpit, on guard for a diversion. He was a young guy, blanched with nerves, sucking it up. Probably his first real incident, Will thought, leaning into the aisle, studying him.
Then, a sickening thud, skull on skull, a Glaswegian kiss. “That’s what ya get, ya fuckin’ bastard!” the assailant screamed. “Ya want another one?” Will missed the act but saw the aftermath.
The head butt opened the attendant’s scalp and knocked him yelping to his knees. Darla involuntarily let out a short shriek at the sight of flowing blood.
The air marshal and Will rose as one, locked onto each other and started to perform like a team that had drilled repeatedly together. The marshal stood in the aisle, drew his weapon and called out, “Federal agents! Sit down and place your hands on the seat in front of you!”
Will showed his ID and slowly advanced toward the rear holding the badge above his head.
“Oh what tha fuck is this, then?” the Brit called out as he saw Will closing. “We’re just trying to get our hols started, mate.”
Darla helped the bleeding attendant to his feet and led him forward, scooting by Will, who gave her a reassuring wink. When he was five rows from the troublemakers he halted and spoke slowly and calmly. “Take your seat immediately and place your hands on top of your head. You are under arrest. Your vacation is over.” Then the staccato punctuation mark, “Mate.”
His friends implored him to back off but the man would not stand down, crying now with rage and fear, cornered, his jugulars distended purple. “I will not!” he kept repeating. “I will not!”
Will pocketed his badge and unholstered his gun, double-checking the engaged safety. At this, the passengers became terrified; an obese woman with an infant started blubbering, which started a chain reaction throughout the cabin. Will tried to erase the drowsiness from his face and look as badass as possible. “This is your last opportunity to end this well. Sit down and put your hands on your head.”
“Or what?” the man taunted, his nose thick with mucus. “You going to shoot me and put a hole through the bleedin’ plane?”
“We use special ammo,” Will said, lying through his teeth. “The round’ll just rattle around inside your head and turn your brain into pudding.” An expert shot who had spent his youth picking off fox squirrels in the Panhandle brush, at this range he could place a round anywhere he wanted within a few millimeters, but it would exit, all right.