The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [209]
Silence. He stared at the mirror. There—Mary had missed a lock of hair. It stood out. He picked up the brush, but his hand trembled. More hairs strayed from formation, falling out of line. He would have to call Mary back.
More, spoke the Voice in his mind. I want more.
The brush slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
“I can't,” he murmured. “The police are getting suspicious. I received a phone call from an officer yesterday. A Sergeant Otero.”
The men of Duratek will deal with this Sergeant Otero. The end of all things comes soon. You have nothing to fear, as long as you are faithful to me.
Carson clenched the arms of the chair. “I have always been faithful to you.”
Yes, so do not fail me now, when my time is close at hand. A great battle comes, the likes of which this world has never seen. Soon my servants will open the way for me, and when they do, I must have an army to march at my side.
There was a pause, a blessed silence. Then, The Angels of Light come. Have more people for them to take. Do not make them take you instead.
A roaring sound filled his ears, and he leaned over in the chair. Nausea clenched his gut, and his head spun, as it always did when the Big Voice was done talking with him.
When the dizziness had mostly passed, he sat up and turned the chair toward a closed-circuit television in the wall. It displayed a camera shot of the half-full auditorium; his flock was already gathering. He fumbled for a remote control and pressed a button.
The scene on the TV changed, showing another view of the auditorium: smiling people, their faces expectant, hopeful. No, they looked as though they were loved, as if they would be missed. That wouldn't do. He couldn't risk more interest from the police, no matter what the Big Voice said. Carson pushed the button again, and again.
He stopped. Now the TV showed a pair of unshaven men in mismatched clothes sitting near the back of the auditorium: a small, pudgy, bald fellow whose face was wrought into a permanent glare, and a gaunt man, perhaps Native American, his face placid, his big hands folded in his lap.
Carson set down the remote control. Relief washed through him, and he shut his eyes. Those two fellows, he spoke to the darkness inside his mind as he pictured the two homeless men. Take those two.
His eyes opened. That was it. Ones with hearts of iron would approach the two in the audience, would tell them they had been chosen for a special meeting, and would lead them away. They wouldn't resist; no one ever did. After all, who wouldn't want to meet an angel?
Carson lifted a fluttering hand, trying to smooth his mussed hair back into place, but he only made things worse. Sweat beaded his makeup; it was beginning to run. Mary would have to powder it. Yes, he had to call for Mary.
Carson reached out, but instead of picking up the phone, he opened a drawer. Inside was a large envelope. He opened it and pulled out a sheet of film. He held it up to the lights that surrounded the mirror.
It was an X ray. He could see his spine, his ribs, his heart, and the pale outlines of his lungs like the wings of an angel. Only one of the wings was marred by a dark blot.
The doctors had first detected it a year ago. They told him they had to do a biopsy, that the rate at which it was growing suggested it was malignant. He had told them no, that it was up to God to heal him. However, each time he went to the doctors, the blot was larger—a shadow reaching out to replace his own heart. God had not healed him. Soon, God would call him home.
Or would God cast him down into the fiery pits of Hell for what he had done?
Forgive me, he prayed. Not to the Big Voice, but to something purer, more distant. Please forgive me. Show me how I can redeem myself before you take me.
No answer came to him, but the silence was as sweet as a benediction. Man's mortal ears were not fit for the voice of God. He knew that now, if he knew anything at all.
Another knock at the door. “Ten minutes, Mr. Carson.”
He bent down and picked up the hairbrush,