The Devil's Heart

She glanced at him.

'I have the same feeling.'

Flight 127 came in and emptied its load of passengers. Sam knew no one on the flight. Sam and Nydia sat in the now deserted arrival area, looking at each other, questions unspoken in their eyes.

'Son?' the disembodied-sounding voice came from behind the young couple. Sam was conscious of a burning sensation in the center of his chest.

They turned, looking around. No one was in sight. Nydia dug nervous fingers into Sam's forearm. 'Son? Was that what that voice said?'

'Easy now,' Sam attempted to calm her. His own nerves were rattled.

'Sam?' she said. 'Look on the table in front of us.'

Sam slowly, almost reluctantly pulled his gaze to the front. A manila envelope lay on the low table. 'That … wasn't there a second ago.'

'I know.'

Again, they looked around them: the arrival area and the corridor were deserted. They both stared at the envelope.

Sam touched the packet. It was cold to the touch. He picked it up and carefully opened it. A picture and several sheets of paper. The picture was of his father. Sam looked at the 8 x 10 for a long moment, then handed it to Nydia. 'My dad,' his words were charged with emotion, spoken in a husky tone.

'I can see where you got your good looks,' she said. 'He was a rugged, handsome man. Sam? Who put the envelope on the table, and who was that who spoke to you? And where did he go? Sam, there was no one within shouting distance.'

There was a slight grimace of pain on Sam's face.

'Sam?'

'I don't know the answer to any of those questions, Nydia. But I'll tell you this: when that voice spoke, my chest started burning. It's just now going away, but man, did it hurt for a few seconds.'

'Your chest?'

'The skin on my chest. Right in the center.' He looked around them: no one in sight. Sam unbuttoned his shirt, hearing Nydia's gasp as his T-shirt came into view. 'Relax, I'm not going to strip.' He tried a grin. 'At least not here.'

'That's not it, Sam,' she said, her voice tiny. 'Look at your T-shirt; the center of your chest.'

He looked down: the fabric was burned brown. In the shape of a cross. The cross Sam wore. His father's cross.

Nydia reached out, pulling up his T-shirt. The cross had burned his skin, leaving a scar in the shape of a cross. Sam touched the red scar; it was no longer painful, even though he could see it was burned deeply.

Sam unfolded the pages and almost became physically ill. The handwriting was unmistakably his father's scrawl. Sam had seen it many times on old sermons.

'Sam? You're as white as a ghost!'

'I … think that's what just spoke to me. My father wrote this.'

The young man wiped his suddenly blurry eyes and once more looked at the writing, reading slowly, Nydia silently reading with him.

Son—Writing is difficult for me, in my condition. Want to keep this as brief as possible, but yet, there are so many things I must say to you and the girl.

'How … ?' Nydia said, then shook her head, not believing any of this.

I have watched you, son—whenever possible—grow through the years. Tried to guide you—help you—as best I could. Nydia, too. The girl beside you, not the Nydia I … knew. Like that time you got drunk in your mother's car and passed out at the wheel. That was a close one, boy.

'I'm the only person in this world who knew about that,' Sam said.

Nydia said, 'In this world, yes.' She looked at the young man, wondering why she said that.

Give the cross you wear around your neck to the girl. Do it, son, without delay. Time is of the essence.

Sam removed the cross from his neck and handed it to Nydia. 'Put it on,' he said. He could see she was, for some reason, softly crying.

No one will be able to remove that cross from her. No one. I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt, but … well, you must have faith.

Now then, a cruel blow for each of you, for I know your thoughts: Nydia is your half sister.

'Oh, my God!' Sam said.