The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone

really isn't surprising that he should be able to perform miracles, is it?'

'Tommy, are you people running around advertising that Garth is the Messiah?'

'No. Even if we wanted to do that, Garth wouldn't permit it.'

'Because he doesn't believe it himself.'

'What Garth says and does is proof of who he is. Many people have already come to realize the truth, and their numbers will grow. Do you totally discount the possibility of miracles, Mongo?'

'In the sense that you mean the word, yes.'

'Why?'

'Because I had to take science courses, beginning in grade school.'

'What about the existence of God?'

'I don't know what you mean by 'God.' If you mean a kindly old fellow who periodically sends one of his offspring to earth to do magic tricks, the answer is no. The notion of divine intervention is a very old superstition, as old as our species. In its various manifestations down through the ages, the business of looking for, and finding, messiahs has caused us a lot of grief.'

'That doesn't mean it couldn't happen.'

'It's silly on the face of it.'

'How do you explain Garth's impact on people?'

'How do you explain the impact Jim Jones or Adolf Hitler had on people?'

'Are you comparing your brother to mass murderers?'

'I'm saying that I have no way to explain why all of us occasionally think and behave in an irrational manner. I can't explain why people believe the things they do, or why they react to certain people the way they do. If somebody like you, who's intelligent and well educated, begins touting miracles and messiahs, what can we expect of people who aren't as intelligent and well educated?'

'But you don't understand,' Tommy Carling said softly. 'Garth really is the Messiah. When that sinks into your head, you'll feel the same joy and sense of wonder the rest of us feel. And your life will be changed forever.'

'If this Harry August tells you he was totally blind and Garth made him see again, he's bullshitting all of you. You tell him I said that when you see him.'

There was a soft knock on the door. Carling rose from behind the desk, walked across the office, and opened it. In the doorway stood the nun and the scar-faced man with the long, greasy black hair and dark glasses.

'Excuse me,' the woman said, curtsying slightly in my direction. 'I hope we're not interrupting anything important. Harry and I just wanted to meet Garth's famous brother.'

Carling opened the door wider, stepped aside, then turned to me. 'Mongo,' he said evenly, 'perhaps you'd like to deliver your message to Harry in person.'

15

I put Sister Kate in her late thirties or early forties. The hair that peeked from beneath the tight white band securing her black cowl was red. She had a sculpted face, with bright green eyes, high cheekbones, and a full mouth which was now set in a pleasant, expectant smile. She wore no makeup. Aside from her nun's cowl, the rest of her clothing was strictly secular; the green jacket over a Mets sweat shirt, jeans, and sneakers. She was a handsome woman, with an unmistakable, no-nonsense air of authority: I certainly wouldn't want to skim money from any outfit whose books she was auditing, and the fact that all the money and goods that were swirling around Garth at the moment were being properly accounted for made me feel slightly better.

The feelings Harry August stirred in me weren't quite so benign or reassuring. As far as I was concerned, despite his misshapen face, he had 'phony' written all over him. His greasy hair and generally unkempt appearance made him an eyesore in a place where the watchword seemed to be cleanliness; obviously, he wasn't taking advantage of the shower facilities at the rear of the building. He was unshaven and looked thoroughly grubby. His facial features were twisted horribly out of shape by scar tissue which ringed both his eyes and radiated up over his forehead, down over his cheekbones. One milky brown eye was permanently tugged half shut by the scar tissue. I stared back into the one fully open eye of the 'blind man' responsible for getting my brother on the front page of The National Eye.

'Pleased to meet you, Dr. Frederickson,' the nun said in a low, pleasing voice. 'I'm Sister Kate, and this is Harry August.'

'You could have met me a lot sooner, Sister,' I replied coldly, 'if somebody in this organization had extended me the courtesy of picking up a telephone and calling me to let me know where my brother was.'

Sister Kate looked inquiringly at Tommy Carling, then back to me. 'Then I must apologize for all of us, Dr. Frederickson,' she said in the same mild, disarming tone. 'Not all of us were aware that you didn't know; I guess we all just assumed that Garth had been in touch with you.'

'You assumed wrong.'

The nun's silence and slightly downcast eyes comprised a most eloquent response; other people shouldn't be blamed for failing to do something that should have been my brother's responsibility. She had a point.

'There's something you wanted to say to me, Frederickson?' Harry August asked, peering at me with his one good eye.

'I have nothing to say to you, Mr. August,' I replied sharply. I was feeling colder, angrier, increasingly helpless and frustrated. 'I came here for one simple reason-to see my brother. I believe I've outstayed my welcome, and I'd appreciate it if one of you good people would tell Garth that I was here. Now you'll have to excuse me.'

'Garth is here, Mongo.' My brother's head and broad shoulders suddenly appeared in the doorway, framed by the nun and Harry August. Sister Kate and August moved aside at the sound of my brother's voice, and I could see that Marl Braxton was standing next to Garth. Behind them, crowded in a semicircle, were a number of tough- looking young men, all dressed in green jackets. 'Welcome.'

'Hello, Garth.'

'You look well, Mongo,' Garth said evenly as he and Marl Braxton entered the office. The stony-faced young men remained outside-as if standing silent vigil. From Garth's tone and manner, one would have thought that no more than a day or so had passed since we'd last spoken. He didn't seem at all surprised to see me; indeed, his expression seemed oddly blank to me.

'Hi, Mongo,' Braxton said to me, his tone curiously flat.

'Hello, Marl,' I said curtly, then turned my attention back to my brother. 'Garth, I'd like to talk to you alone.'

'Why alone, Mongo? All of us here are like a family.'

'Not my family.' I paused, watched as Marl Braxton leaned close to Garth and whispered something in his ear. Garth shook his head, smiled thinly, and made a deprecating gesture with his hands. I continued tightly, 'Have you got something to say, Marl?'

Now Braxton shifted his gaze to me. 'I've told Garth that I believe you may have been marked by God as a warning, Mongo,' he said evenly, the expression on his face curiously bland. 'I mean no offense.'

'Marked?'

Slowly, Marl Braxton lifted his hand and pointed his index finger at my forehead. 'That scar may have been put there by God as a warning to Garth's followers to be wary of anything you do or say. I've told Garth that I'm not sure it's a good idea for him to be alone with you.'

I glared back into Marl Braxton's impassive face for a few moments, then bit off what I wanted to say as I reminded myself that Braxton was a certified madman. 'Do you honestly believe I would do anything to hurt my brother, Marl?'

'You have been marked.'

'Garth, do you believe that?'

'No,' my brother replied matter-of-factly. 'Garth doesn't believe you'd ever try to hurt him, and Garth doesn't believe you've been marked by God. There is no God.'

'Everyone around here seems to disagree with you. They not only believe in God, they believe you're His