Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [15]
Before I can say anything, Gordon grips the armrest and pulls himself to his feet. As he struggles to get himself upright, I have a fear that he might fall over. But he regains his balance before I can react.
“It’s a comfortable couch,” he explains, “but if I sit too long, I can’t get up.” He takes slow and measured steps to the fireplace and removes the poker from its stand. With his back to me, he slides the mesh curtain aside and prods the spent logs with the implement until there’s a cavity in the center and the flames find fresh purchase. The task done, he returns the poker to its stand but does not turn around.
“You didn’t ask me to come here just because of two Bible verses,” I say. Now that I think about it, it makes sense that a man like Gordon would have done his research before initiating this sort of project. He knows something, and this piques my interest.
“I’ve spent a good many years in this pursuit. It’s only been recently, however, that my search has taken on a heightened sense of urgency.” He places a hand on the mantel and turns so that he can see me. I realize, then, that I’m looking at a man who is not just ill. He’s dying.
His eyes, though, are alive with flame—with purpose.
“You’d be surprised at what I’ve discovered, Jack.”
I would have to be a fool not to realize why he’s so interested in the remnants of a dead prophet. His own mortality is catching up with him and, like all men, he is searching for something to save him from his fate.
“Even if the bones are real,” I say after a long pause, “and that’s a big if—what makes you think they possess any kind of power?”
“Because the power of God does not fade over time, Dr. Hawthorne,” he says, absolute certainty in his voice. “The bones are as alive with healing energy today as they were the day the Israelites tossed their friend’s carcass on them.”
It is a claim I cannot argue. How does one contest against another man’s blind faith?
CHAPTER 4
I wake up with sweat on my face and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I hate planes. I’ve always thought I have some inner-ear thing that brings me just south of ill on anything prone to unexpected movements. Planes, roller coasters, and big-city taxis all produce the feeling.
I look out the window but all I see is the thick cloud cover separating me from terra firma. My watch tells me it will be another hour before we start our descent into the Venezuelan capital—an hour to either sort through or ignore the mixed feelings I have about returning to a place I once knew well. On one hand, it feels good to be moving. For the first time in years I feel as if I’ve taken a step toward something. Still, there’s a part of me that is not convinced this is a significant change in momentum. I tell myself that this job does not constitute a return to my pre-teaching profession. This is a short-term business deal, after which I will return to Evanston and go back to the serious matter of molding young minds and flirting with Angie. What belies that line of reasoning, though, is the tingle at the back of my neck that I only get when I’m excited about something. And when I’m eating Lemonheads. And I have to admit that I feel more energized than normal, especially considering that I’ve spent most of the day in cabs, airports, and planes of dubious mechanical soundness.
Through a break in the clouds I see the ocean as a patch of darker blue. I came near to growing up on boats, and the sea has been a comforting image for me for as long as I can remember. My dad was a nautical spirit trapped in the body of a skinny, bespectacled inventor. I don’t know how many patents he held, but there was more than enough money for him to be able to launch the boat when the weather