Reborn ac-4 Read online

  And now this.

  "But this is different, don't you see? This came to me, I didn't go after it. Look at the whole picture, Carol. I was a foundling, less than two weeks old when the Jebbies literally found me on the steps of the orphanage. All the scene needed was a snowstorm howling around me to make it a perfect cliché. No trace of my biological parents. Now, twenty-six years later, a man I never knew, never even met in my entire life, names me in his will. A famous man. One who may not have wanted his name touched by scandal back in the forties, which is a long ways away in time and temper from the hippies and free love we've got today." He stopped and stared at her a moment. "Got the picture?"

  She nodded.

  "Good. Now tell me, hon, given those facts, what is the first explanation that comes to your mind when you try to figure out why the rich old man names a foundling in his will?"

  Carol shrugged. "Okay. Score one for you."

  He smiled brightly. "So! I'm not crazy!"

  His smile always warmed her. "No, you're not."

  The phone rang.

  "That's probably for me," Jim said. "I called that law firm earlier, and they said they'd get back to me."

  "About what?"

  He gave her a sheepish look. "About who my real… uh, biological father is."

  She listened to his end of the conversation and sensed his frustration when he couldn't get any information out of the lawyer on the other end. Finally he hung up and turned to her.

  "I know what you're going to say," he told her. "Why is this so damn important to me? What does it really matter?"

  Her sympathy for him was mixed with confusion. She wanted to say, You're you. Who you came from doesn't change that.

  "It wouldn't be the first time I've asked," she said.

  "Yeah, well, I wish I could drop it, but I can't."

  "You let it eat at you."

  "How do I explain it? It's like having amnesia and being alone on a ship drifting over the Marianas trench; you drop anchor but it never hits bottom, so you go on drifting and drifting. You believe that if you knew where you came from, maybe you could get some idea where you were going. But you look behind you and it's all empty sea. You feel cut off from your past. It's a form of social and genetic amnesia."

  "Jim, I understand. I felt that way when my folks were killed."

  "It's not the same. That was tragic. They were gone, but at least you had known them. And even if they had died the day after you were born, it would still be different. Because you could go back and look at pictures of them, talk to people who knew them. They would exist for you, consciously and subconsciously. You'd have roots you could trace back to England or France or wherever. You'd feel part of a flow, part of a process; you'd have a history behind you, pushing you toward someplace far ahead."

  "But, Jim," she said, "I never think of those things. Nobody does."

  "That's because you've got them. You take them for granted. You don't think about your right hand much, do you? But if you'd been born without one, you'd find yourself wishing for a right hand every day."

  Carol moved close and slipped her arms around him. As he hugged her, she felt the tension that had been rising begin to recede. Jim could do that. Make her feel whole, complete.

  "I'll be your right hand," she said softly.

  "You always have been," he whispered back. "But I've got a feeling that this is it. Soon I'm going to know for sure."

  "I guess you won't need me anymore then," she said, putting on an exaggerated pout.

  "That'll be the day! I'll always need you."

  She broke away. "You'd better. Otherwise I'm sending you back to St. Francis!"

  "Christ!" he said. "The orphanage! Why didn't I think of that! Maybe we won't have to wait till the reading. Maybe we can find a connection there now!"

  "Oh, Jim, we've been through those records a thousand times at least!"

  "Yeah, but we never looked for any mention of Dr. Roderick Hanley, did we?"

  "No, but—"

  "Come on!" He handed her her coat and went to the front closet for his own. "We're going to Queens!"

  4

  Emma Stevens waited impatiently inside the employee entrance to the slaughterhouse. It was a small, chilly foyer, silent but for the ticking of the time clock. She rubbed her hands together, one over the other in a continuous circular motion. It helped to generate warmth, but she felt she would have been doing the same even if it were July. The anxiety jittering through her seemed to have given her hands a life of their own. What was taking Jonah so long? She had sent word that she was here. She hadn't wanted to disturb him at work but had been unable to restrain herself any longer. She had to talk about this. Jonah was the only one who would understand. Why wasn't he coming out?

  Emma glanced at her watch and saw that it had been only a couple of minutes. She took a deep breath.

  Calm yourself, Emma.

  She stared out through the small, chicken-wired window in the outer door. The employee parking lot looked almost deserted compared to how it had been before the layoffs. And now there was talk of the slaughterhouse closing down for good by the end of the year. What were they going to do then?

  Finally she could wait no longer. She pushed through the door, went down the short hall, then through the door that opened into the slaughterhouse proper. She stood transfixed as a freshly skinned side of beef—steaming in the cold, dripping red—sped by her, wobbling and twisting on its chain as it rolled along the overhead track. Another followed not far behind. The smell of blood, some old and clotted, some still warm from the throat, filled the air. And faintly, in the background, the uneasy lowing of the cows waiting their turn in the pens outside.

  Suddenly Emma looked up and Jonah was there, dressed in a big rubber apron, gray overalls, black rubber gloves, and snow boots, all splattered with blood and hair and bits of gore. He stared down at her. He had just turned fifty but he had the lean, tautly muscular frame of a much younger man. Clear blue eye and rock-hard features. Even after thirty years of marriage, the sight of him still excited her. Except for the black felt patch over his left eye, he could have been an older version of that American actor they had seen last year in one of those Italian-made Westerns.

  "What is it, Emma?" His voice was as rough-hewn as his face, his Southern accent thicker than hers.

  She felt a flash of annoyance. " 'Hello, Emma,' " she said sarcastically. " 'It's so good to see you. Is anything wrong?' I'm fine, thank you, Jonah."

  "I've only got a few minutes, Emma."

  She realized how he must be fearing for his job, and her annoyance faded. Luckily it was hard to find anyone who wanted to take over Jonah's duties in the slaughterhouse, otherwise he might have been out of work for months now like so many others.

  "Sorry. It's just that I thought this was too important to wait. Jimmy heard from some lawyers today. He's named in the will of that Dr. Hanley who died in that plane crash last week."

  Jonah stepped to a nearby window and stared through the grimy glass for what seemed like a long time. Finally he turned and gave her one of his small, rare smiles.

  "He's comin'."

  "Who? Who's coming?"

  "The One."

  Emma suddenly felt weak. Was Jonah going to start talking crazy again? He was a strange one, Jonah. Even after all these years Emma really didn't understand him. But she loved him.

  "What are you saying?"

  "I've sensed it for more than a week now, but it was so faint, I wasn't sure. Now I am."

  Over the years Emma had learned to rely on Jonah's premonitions. He seemed to have an extra sense about things. It was uncanny at times. Sometimes he even seemed to see things with that dead left eye of his. The most memorable instance was back in 1942 when he had sensed that the baby they were to adopt had arrived in the St. Francis orphanage.

  It came back to her in a flash. A windy January morning only a month or so after the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor. The sun had been blinding, pour
ing from the sky and reflecting off pavements wet with melting snow. Jonah had been frantic. He'd had another of his visions during the night then too. It was the one he had been waiting for, the moment he said they had been preparing for by moving to New York City.

  Queens! The vision had showed him where he had to go in Queens. They had to be there first thing in the morning.

  How Jonah trusted those visions! He guided his life by them—both their lives. Years earlier a vision had prompted him to move them both from Missouri to New York City, to start new lives there, pretending to be Catholics. Emma hadn't understood any of that—rarely understood much of what Jonah was about—but she had gone along, as always. He was her man; she was his woman. If he wanted her to forsake her Baptist faith, well, fine. She'd never practiced it anyway.

  But why become Catholic?

  Jonah had never shown the least bit of interest in any religion since she had met him, but he had insisted that they register in a Catholic parish, go to church every Sunday, and make sure they were well known to the priest.

  She found out why on that January day in 1942. When they pulled up to the St. Francis Home for Boys, Jonah told her the child they had been waiting for lay within. And when they went inside to apply to adopt an infant boy, they stated they were lifelong Roman Catholics.

  No one could prove different.

  The child he wanted had been left there the day before. Jonah had carefully inspected the infant boy, especially his hands. He seemed satisfied that he was the one he had been waiting for.

  They suffered through the home inspections, the background checks, and all that rigmarole, but it paid off. Finally they were the proud parents of the child they named James. That boy was the best thing that ever happened to Emma Stevens. Better even than Jonah, though she loved her husband dearly.

  And so she trusted those visions as much as Jonah. Because she never would have had Jim without them.

  "So the famous Dr. Hanley was his father," Jonah said, mostly to himself. "Interesting." Then he turned to Emma. "It's a sign. It has begun. Our time is coming. The One is beginning to accrue wealth and power to his name. It's a sign, Emma. A good sign."

  Emma wanted to hug him but refrained because of the gore that covered him. A good sign—that was what he had said. As long as it was good for Jimmy. A welter of varying emotions swirled around her. She began to cry.

  "What's wrong?" Jonah said.

  Emma shook her head. "I don't know. After all these years of wondering when… or if… to finally have him know who his real parents are…" She sobbed again. "I don't want to lose him."

  Jonah removed a glove and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  "I know how you feel. It won't be too long now. Our reward is coming."

  There he went again, talking in circles.

  She clutched his hand with both of hers and prayed that nothing would take her Jimmy away from her.

  Two

  1

  "Father Bill! Father Bill!"

  Father William Ryan, Society of Jesus, recognized the voice. It was Kevin Flaherty, St. Francis's six-year-old town crier and tattletale. He looked up from reading his daily office to see the little redheaded fellow running down the hall at top speed.

  "They're fighting again, Father Bill!"

  "Who?"

  "Nicky and Freddy! And Freddy says he's going to kill Nicky this time!"

  "Just tell them I said to stop fighting immediately or it will mean the Bat for both of them."

  "There's blood, Father!"

  Bill sighed and snapped his Breviary closed. He'd have to deal with this personally. Freddy had two years and about forty pounds on Nicky, with a bully's temperament to boot. It sounded like Nicky's mouth had brought him a pack of trouble again.

  As he strode from his office, he picked up the dreaded red whiffle bat from its place in the corner by the door. Kevin ran ahead, Bill walked quickly after him, hurrying but trying his best not to appear so.

  He found them in the hall outside the dormitory section, encircled by the rest of the boys in a shouting, jeering group. One of the onlookers glanced up and saw him approaching.

  "It's Big Bad Bill! Beat it!"

  The circle evaporated, leaving the two combatants wrestling on the floor. Freddy was atop Nicky, raising his fist for another blow at the younger boy's already bloody face. When they saw Father Bill, they suddenly forgot their differences and joined the others in flight, leaving Nicky's glasses behind on the floor.

  "Nicholas! Frederick!" Bill shouted.

  They skidded to a halt and turned.

  "Yes, Father?" they said as one.

  He pointed to a spot on the floor directly in front of him.

  "Get over here! Now!"

  They approached and stood before him, looking at their shoes. Bill lifted Nicky's chin. The ten-year-old's normally misshapen face was bruised and scraped. Blood was smeared over his left cheek and chin and still trickled slowly from his left nostril.

  Bill felt the anger rise in him. It flared higher when he lifted Freddy's chin and saw that the older boy's round, freckled, blue-eyed face was unmarked. He had an urge to give Freddy a taste of his own medicine. Instead he forced himself to speak calmly through his tightly clenched teeth.

  "What have I told you about bullying people?" he said to Freddy.

  "He called me a dirty name!" Freddy said, his lower lip quivering in fear.

  "He knocked my books out of my hand!" Nicky said.

  Bill said, "Now wait a—"

  "He called me a scrofulous!"

  Bill was struck dumb for a second. Then he turned to face the smaller boy.

  "You called him what?" he said, biting his cheek. It was all he could do to keep from laughing. This kid was too much! "Where did you hear that word?"

  "I read it in a book once," Nicky said as he wiped the blood from his nose onto the sleeve of his white shirt.

  Once. Nicky never forgot anything. Anything.

  "Do you have any idea what it means?"

  "Of course," he said offhandedly. "It's a tuberculous condition characterized by chronically swollen glands."

  Bill nodded vaguely. "Right."

  He had known little more than that it was some sort of disease, but he couldn't allow Nicky the slightest hint that he might be one up on him. The kid could be a terror if he sensed that.

  Bill lifted the red whiffle bat and slapped it softly against his left palm.

  "All right. You guys know what's next. Frederick, you call out the troops while Nicholas retrieves his glasses."

  Freddy blanched and ran toward the dorm doors. Nicholas turned and picked up his thick, black-rimmed glasses.

  "Aw, they broke again," Nicholas said, holding up the left earpiece.

  Bill held out his hand. "Give it to me. We'll fix it later." He slipped them into the side pocket of his cassock. "For now, get over by the wall and wait for Freddy."

  Nicky gave him a look, as if to say, You're not really going to do this to me, are you?

  Speaking in a low voice, Bill said, "Don't expect special treatment, Nicholas. You know the rules, so you take your lumps just like everybody else."

  Nicky shrugged and turned away.

  Is this why I joined the Jesuits? Bill thought as he stood in the middle of the hall and fought to keep his personal frustration from turning into anger at the boys. Playing nursemaid to a bunch of wild kids was not the future he had envisioned for himself.

  No way.

  The writings of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S.J., had directed him to the Society. Bill had already known he had a vocation for the priesthood, but he found de Chardin's work of such staggering intellectual scope that he knew he had to join the order that had produced such a mind—the Society of Jesus. The Jesuits were giants in both the religious and secular spheres, striving for—and achieving—excellence in all their endeavors. He had wanted to be a part of that tradition, and now he was.

  Sort of.

  The Society was chang
ing as rapidly as the Church itself— and the world around them all. But he was cut off from most of that here.

  Well, this wouldn't last forever. Repeating that thought over and over in his mind was the personal litany that got him through each day here at St. F.'s.

  Prefect of Discipline—that was his title. What it really meant was that he played nursemaid and father figure to the residents of one of the last Catholic boys' orphanages in New York.

  Me, a father figure! That was a laugh.

  Bill looked up and saw the residents of St. Francis, two and a half dozen boys between the ages of six and thirteen, arrayed before him in the hall. Freddy had already taken his place next to Nicky near the window. All were silent.

  Showtime.

  This was an aspect of his position as prefect of discipline that Bill particularly disliked. Wielding the Bat. But it was a tradition at St. F.'s. There were rules of conduct here, and it was his job to enforce them. If he didn't, the place would quickly degenerate into anarchy.

  As much as he would have liked to try it, he knew democracy wouldn't fly here. Although most of its residents were good kids, some of them had been through a child's version of hell and were pretty tough cases. Given free rein, they would turn the home into a little corner of hell. So there were rules that needed to be strictly and evenly enforced. And someone had to do the enforcing. Every boy knew where the lines were drawn, and each one knew that if he stepped over those lines he risked a date with the Bat. And in the rule against fighting was the understanding that no matter who had started it, both combatants would be punished.

  "Okay, guys," he said to Freddy and Nicky. "You both know what to do. Drop trow and assume the position."

  They both reddened and began loosening their belts. With excruciating slowness, they dropped their dark blue uniform trousers to the floor, turned, bent over, and grabbed their ankles.