“To the outside world, the Cotis were thought to be a people out of myth, out of legend, filled with magic and an unusual harmony with the land, a culture whose example of peace was far more influential than the hollow words of politicians. Lately, though, there have been fractures in their society, the outside world infecting them with modern ideals-”
“Thanks for the history,” Frank said, cutting him off. “But what does the tattoo on Jack’s arm say? We don’t have time to waste here.”
Killian finally looked up toward Jack, pausing as he gathered his thoughts. “It talks about fate and destiny as if it was part of nature, part of the winds. Some kind of prayer for the dead, some kind of myth, ancient, that I don’t understand.”
“That’s it?” Jack asked.
“No.” Killian paused again, his steely academic facade cracking just a bit with foreboding. “The main topic of this mehndi-like tattoo is… It says you shall die at dawn, on the first day of the seventh month, killed by an enraged man who has lost everything he loves.”
“What kind of bullshit is that?” Frank spat out, angry. “You’re going to die tomorrow?”
“Relax,” Jack said.
“Relax, my ass. What about today? Didn’t you die earlier this morning? Where’s the mention of that? How about the weather? Any mention of the weather on his arm there, Doc?”
Killian’s eyes locked with Jack’s. “I take it the report of your death in the paper this morning has everything to do with this?” Killian paused, academia slipping away to be replaced with genuine concern. “Someone has given you a warning… and as you have already experienced, someone is trying to kill you, Jack.”
Jack rubbed his shoulder, wincing as his hand touched the wound. He turned to Frank.
“Well,” Frank said, looking at the tattoo, “that was a waste of time.”
“If they were after me, why not just kill me, ensure that I was dead on the riverbank? And why would someone take the time to scribble a warning on my arm? Why not just wake me up and tell me?”
Killian looked between the two friends, pointing at Jack’s arm. “I can assure you, with the intricacies, the time it took to write this, the author was sending a very deliberate message.”
Killian finally released Jack’s arm.
“And you don’t remember who did this to you?” Killian continued. “The complexity, the detail, This was not done in haste. He wrote this for a reason. I don’t know if it’s a warning, a reminder, or something to frighten you away…”
The room fell silent as Jack absorbed the man’s words.
“Tell me you’re not buying this shit,” Frank finally said.
“I don’t know what I believe right now,” Jack said. “But after what happened this morning, after what I’ve seen today…”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Look, I don’t believe it, but say… just say it’s true, and I don’t find Mia in time…” Jack let the supposition hang in the air.
“We’re going to find her,” Frank said. “And we’re going to find her well before dawn tomorrow.”
Jack rolled down his sleeve, covering up the words as if to make their prophetic declaration disappear from sight and mind and also to remove any chance of it coming to pass. But as much as he was skeptical, as much as logic told him there was no such thing as fate, fear welled inside him. It wasn’t for himself-he had no fear of death- it was for Mia. If he was to die tomorrow at dawn, he had less than eighteen hours to save her.
CHAPTER 17
As Jack stared at his arm, pondering the fateful words, he couldn’t help shaking his head at the irony. So often in life, we hear predictions about tomorrow’s weather, next week’s championship game, or who will win the Oscar, and more often than not, those predictions, while not coming to pass, do have a shadow of truth. Through either random chance, analytical review, pure statistical odds, or just plain dumb luck, the modern-day soothsayers sometimes hit the mark, not always on target but with a semblance of accuracy.
In ancient Greece, it was the oracle of Delphi, the Middle Ages had Nostradamus, the early twentieth century had Rasputin, and for the last hundred or so years, there were astrologists, tarot card readers, and palmists, who preyed on the weak who were in search of hope and some way to make sense of their lives.
And with the tattoo, the mehndi piece of artwork on his arm, there was a semblance of truth to the prediction. The truth was just as dire; it was just that the timing and the cause of death were wrong.
Jack had had a nagging pain in his hip, something he ascribed to when he got hit by a pitch in a baseball game back in May between the DA’s and the mayor’s offices. While uncomfortable, it was nothing more than an inconvenience that would occasionally send a sharp pain through his body. He was actually proud of the injury, thinking it was like a war wound, as Deputy Mayor Brian McDonald’s pitches were known to reach ninety miles an hour. While the curve ball cut its arc quicker than Jack had anticipated, knocking him to the ground, he was able to walk to first despite the pain and the oohs and ahs of the sympathetic crowd.
But ten days ago, when he finally mentioned it to his doctor and friend Ryan McCourt, he had him come in for an X-ray just to be sure there was no permanent damage.
When Ryan got the X-ray back, with Jack sitting in the embarrassing half-gown on the table, he examined it on the light wall for all of two seconds before ripping it down. As he turned to Jack, a grave shadow fell over his face.
Within ten minutes, Jack was being run through an MRI machine for a full-body scan. Blood was drawn, urine requested. He was poked and prodded as a team of doctors came forth discussing the results.
Ryan sat him down and suggested that he call and ask Mia to come meet them. But Jack would have none of that. He suspected where this was going the moment he saw his friend’s face looking at the first X-ray.
Jack told him just to give him the news. He could deal with the treatment and would much prefer to have some time to formulate how he would break it to Mia and the girls that Daddy was sick but not to worry, that they had medicine and he would soon be on the mend.
But as Ryan sat down across from him, laying his hand on Jack’s shoulder, he couldn’t hold back his emotions.
Ryan told him that it was cancer and that it had long since spread, taking hold in his liver, his pancreas, and, worst of all, his brain. The disease had yet to manifest itself outwardly, but the most troubling tumor was pressing on an area of his cerebral cortex and could possibly affect his memory, cause him to hallucinate and become delusional, or interfere with a host of other higher brain functions.
Feeling as if he had been hit by a train, Jack walked out of Ryan’s office.
That was ten days ago. Since then, he had reformulated time and again how he would tell Mia, how he would find the words of assurance and hope that everything would be all right, even though he knew it wouldn’t. He had arranged for the girls to go to his mom’s for a week and had every intention of telling Mia of his prognosis when they arrived home. But when he took her in his arms, as she whispered in his ear about how much she had missed his touch, how much she needed him, his heart broke. The news could wait. They needed this time together. He made subtle hints about her staying focused in the moment, about turning off the phone and the BlackBerrys, finding uninterrupted comfort in the here and now, for he knew there would be no next year, next summer, next Christmas.
He had put up a facade not only to Mia but also to his friends, those at work, his campaign, even his mother. He had seen the devastation on her face when she thought he had died that morning and knew she couldn’t handle news like that again.
Jack had no idea how to tell the world that he was dying. He was so good at dealing with other people’s pain and suffering, being the voice of wisdom and reason. He had always been the shoulder to cry on, but now he did not want to reverse that role.
The doctors said they could begin chemo and radiation, but it would only forestall death, not prevent it or
