The Overseer Read online

  Dominik pulled on a jacket he’d taken from one of the closets and zipped it as he walked away.

  Hannah knew something wasn’t right.

  She couldn’t have explained how, but something had changed. The smell—the pungent aroma that had been rising from below— suddenly seemed to vanish, replaced by something else.

  Then she recognized the smell that had been. And her eyes went wide as she realized what the new smell was that had replaced it.

  Greenish smoke slithered up from the cracks around the attic hatch. The smell was foreign—not like campfire smoke with its earthen richness, but the putrid scent of melting plastic and burning synthetics.

  Then the floor started to get warm.

  Fire travels up, she thought. Heat rises. Smoke rises. There was nowhere further up to go. She was at the tip of the spear.

  She turned to the window, tugging at the boards that covered it—the rain smacking down just beyond.

  The amount of smoke doubled in seconds, filling the attic with an acrid cloud. No fire yet. Just smoke. Her eyes stung, pinpricks stabbing at her tear ducts. Hot tears slid involuntarily down her warming face. It was all happening so fast. It reminded her of the fire safety videos she’d seen in elementary school, depicting how a cigarette in a trash can could send a house into an unrecoverable blaze in less than two minutes.

  Arson could work so much faster.

  She hacked and coughed, fingers digging into the boards, pulling at the wood. She lifted her foot, giving a solid kick that split the boards, crushing the glass beyond. Hannah grabbed the loose pieces and pulled them free, revealing the window.

  Street light poured in through the rapidly thickening smoke. Rain tapped at the spiderwebbed glass. The whole window was little more than a slit. Less than six inches. She would never fit. It had been boarded up purely to keep light out.

  Her lungs seized, fighting to keep out the dark haze. Her body convulsed with a violent cough. Heat permeated her.

  Hannah coughed once more, then lifted her leg, jamming her heel into the tiny window, sending beads of glass splashing outward. It wasn’t big enough for her to get out, but it was big enough to let a little air in.

  She shoved her face to the opening and pulled in a lungful of the chilled air beyond. Then she pulled the jacket off her back and put it to her mouth. She crouched down, moved back into the prisonlike room, and searched for the trapdoor. Found it. Her hands worked at the latch, pulled. Nothing. There had to be some way to get out.

  The blurring of her vision worsened, tears and smoke clawing at her eyes.

  She coughed. Her body felt heavy and unwieldy. She tried to adjust her body with her right arm, but all the strength seemed to be slipping out of her. Fighting hurt so much. Moving sapped her energy. The searing floor suddenly seemed welcoming. Her body started to relax, curling into a ball. The unrelenting stinging in her eyes suddenly seemed unbearable.

  Her eyelids shut.

  The attic suddenly seemed far away. Her mind slipped into silence. The kind of silence she could try so hard to cultivate in times of trouble now seemed so easy. Everything that seemed to worry faded, and rather than doing she was simply…

  Being.

  She could feel the past again.

  Before it had been such a horrible place. When others had lived here. When family pictures and Christmas ornaments had been stored here in cardboard boxes. And then the old occupants moved out and others moved in—the ones who had perverted this place to be something else. Rolling carpet over the plywood, not bothering to nail it to the rafters.

  Hannah’s eyes snapped open, and she stumbled toward the window for a life-saving breath of cool air. Then she dropped to the floor and grasped at the carpet, pulling the shaggy covering loose. She reached for the floor, pulling at the boards, only to realize that she was standing on the edge.

  Hannah moved and gave another pull—the heat was overwhelming. The plywood pulled away, clattering to the side as she tossed it.

  Rafters—a few feet apart—partitioned themselves between sections of pink insulation. It looked like cotton candy, she thought.

  Her hesitation lasted only a second, and then she jumped, feet first toward insulation.

  The world seemed to freeze.

  Then her body crashed through the billowy pink insulation, smashing through the thin layer of sheet rock, and she felt herself hurtling through the gray smoke toward the carpet one floor below.

  She landed with a thud, losing her balance as her body slammed into the wall.

  The heat enveloped her, blasting at her like a furnace, smoke stabbing at her eyes. Hannah looked up and saw the window at the far end of the hall. She pulled her jacket tight against her face and rushed forward, trying to stay low. Moments later she was at the window, the glass fogged over with a greasy black smear from the heat and smoke. Then she saw the gas can, tossed at the floor below it, fire clinging to the outside wall where gas dribbled down.

  A kick could break the glass—but glass shards would slice her leg to unrecognizable ribbons if she tried. She took a smoky breath and reached for the can with her jacket, grabbing the handle. Her body swung, then released the metal container.

  The smoke-fogged glass exploded outward and skittered across the sloping roof that covered the back porch.

  She threw herself through the window—arms and legs catching on the fragile teeth of glass that remained, her body landing on glass shards that pricked her skin. She rolled uncontrollably down the roof, then slammed into the soggy grass below.

  Hannah looked up at the blazing house—bleeding, burned, and weak.

  Her eyes fluttered shut, only to open again after several minutes, and she found herself on the other end of the yard, farther from the flames. She was looking up at a man with long dark hair, in a black coat. Rain rolled off him as he said something to her. His lips moved, but she didn’t hear anything.

  And then the world faded to black.

  Chapter 2

  MONDAY MORNING. HOLDING a latte, John Temple stared out the window, looking down across the city of Manhattan.

  Somewhere just below were the famed Fifth Avenue and West Thirty-fourth Street. John wondered what the people on the street were doing. Thinking. Saying. He wondered how long it would take him to get down to street level and find a bench where he could sit and watch the world passing in its busy flurry. Mothers, fathers, businesspeople, small children in strollers, drivers honking and yelling. A glorious mess of humanity.

  “What are your thoughts, Mr. Temple? John?”

  He turned his head back to the conference table, looking at the people in business suits staring at him. Half a dozen of them. The members of the Domani in their sharp suits and streamlined appearance, the members of the Ora with their brightly colored and textured ties, and Jerry Kirkland, the only member of the Prima in attendance, wearing earth tones. It was hard not to stereotype orders that were so distinctly different. Often they wore their lapel pins when they were feeling more obvious about their affiliations—blue triquetras for the past-seeing Prima, gold for the present-seeing Ora, and red for the future-seeing Domani, for whom Domani Financial was named and operated by.

  “Uh…” John tried to think of a way to cover. “I’m sorry; I missed your question. What were you saying?”

  They stared at him for a moment, knowing full well he had been daydreaming again.

  He adjusted his suede jacket worn over a blue T-shirt. There had been discussion about his ideas of professional dress, and this was the best he could bring himself to do—even if he was underdressed compared to the dozen or so suits in the room.

  John had spent his adult life trotting the globe doing part-time missions and relief work. He wasn’t used to office life. He was used to digging wells and building sheds, planting churches in foreign countries. But that life was over now. Part of his work now put him in charge of Domani Financial—venture capital and investment. Putting people with money with people with needs. John’s lon
gtime friend Vince Sobel—dark suit, perfectly sculpted hair, bright red tie—spoke up. “We’re in trouble, John.”

  “The economy’s bad.” John shrugged. “Everybody’s in trouble.”

  Vince cleared his throat, looking side to side, almost apologetic to his colleagues. “Did you hear what I said about the SEC?”

  John rolled his eyes. “Sure. I heard that. They’re like the FCC or something, right?”

  Shoulders seemed to sag across the conference room as trained professionals finally let their disgust with John show through. “No,” Vince explained. “The Securities and Exchange Commission.”

  John covered up his ignorance with a sip of latte. “What about them?”

  “We’re being investigated by them.”

  “So?” John rebuffed, casual as ever. “We have nothing to hide.”

  Vince seemed to wince under the pressure of a reply he obviously didn’t respect. “Do you remember when that telecommunications giant went bankrupt last month?”

  “Sure,” John agreed. “You guys said they were going under, so I had you pull all the stock before we lost everything.”

  “Do you remember that we advised against pulling all of it?” Vince asked.

  “Yeah.” John blinked. “But with all these companies going broke we’ve got to save our money somehow. We’d have lost a lot of money if I hadn’t told you to yank everything.”

  “In the short run,” Vince conceded. “And do you remember the automotive manufacturer that tanked?”

  “Sure.” He nodded. “I had you pull everything out of that investment.”

  “And do you remember us advising against that one as well?” Vince asked, prodding as if John were a child.

  “Yeah, but I saved a lot of money for us that time too.” John smiled. It pleased him to think that he was finally getting past his dislike of people being focused on making money.

  “And then there was the investment firm earlier this week.”

  “I know,” John acknowledged. “You guys said not to pull everything because it might look bad, but you remember how much money we saved.” John looked at one of the accountants across the table. “It was somewhere in the millions, wasn’t it?”

  The accountant nodded.

  “See?” John said in his own defense. “I knew that keeping us financially afloat so that we could continue to fund missions was the best thing for everyone—so as Overseer I gave the order.”

  “Yes.” Vince accepted his explanation with a forced smile. “Devin Bathurst did appoint you as Overseer. And we’ve obeyed your position of authority as Overseer. But it’s more complicated than that.”

  John looked up. “How so?”

  “We found out those investments were going under because members of the Ora and Domani were able to predict what was going on with those companies before they tanked.”

  “And?”

  “And…” Vince cleared his throat. “As a result of receiving that information by means of visions from God, we have no documentation regarding why we dumped those stocks.”

  John sat back, bored with all the financial mumbo jumbo. So what if they had some problems with record keeping? Why would the Securities Executive Council, or whatever they were called, have a problem with that? “Seriously, I don’t see the problem, guys,” John replied.

  “It looks like insider trading,” someone said from across the room, firm and unapologetic.

  John blinked. His body froze. The term was scary to say the least. He remembered something about Martha Stewart and jail time. “But it’s not insider trading,” he replied slowly. “They can’t prove that it is.”

  Vince closed his eyes slowly in a decidedly defeated look. “We can’t prove that it’s not. Intuition is the only way to explain those investments away. What are we going to tell them? That God told us a telecommunications giant was going under?”

  “People get lucky,” John suggested. “Intuition can be a crazy thing.”

  “Once?” Vince replied sternly. “Maybe. Twice? Probably not. By number three, there’s a distinct pattern—and our competition in the investment world has noticed.”

  “Noticed what?”

  “That every time they lost their shirts on an investment, we miraculously—literally miraculously—got out of those investments unscathed. They’re jealous, they’re angry, and they’ve contacted the SEC and the IRS.”

  “Then it’s just angry competition making unfounded accusations,” John replied, trying to blow it all off. “Right?”

  Vince tapped his fingers anxiously on the boardroom table. “We got a call this morning from the Wall Street Journal. They’re doing a piece on the investigation. By this time tomorrow the entire financial community will know we’re being investigated for serious white-collar crimes. From Internet chatter alone we’ve already had several major investors pull their money—and good luck attracting new investors once this hits the presses.”

  John looked at the table and let out a long breath. This was more serious than he had previously realized. “So, it’s a PR problem? We can deal with this. We’ll just have to pull together a team to—”

  “There’s also the IRS,” Vince interrupted.

  “Why are they involved?” John asked, confused by all the business concepts being thrown in his direction.

  “The SEC and the IRS are often a package deal, and the IRS is very interested in our charitable contributions.”

  “The missions money?” John asked. “That’s tax exempt. Why would the IRS care about that?”

  “Because,” Vince explained, obviously trying not to lose his temper, “we have millions of dollars in deductions from ‘charitable giving’ that’s going to members of the Firstborn. People we have relationships with.”

  John shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “The money is tax exempt and going right back into our own community. It looks like we’re hiding and laundering assets.”

  A frown formed on John’s face. “But we aren’t hiding money. The money is all accounted for.”

  “True,” Vince said with a nod. “But the IRS has contacted us and said that they are considering auditing us and that they may freeze our assets while they do so.”

  “But the money is still ours, right?” John asked. “We’ll get it back when they’re done, won’t we?”

  Vince was silent for a moment, rubbing his temples with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “That could take a very long time, and as long as they’ve frozen our money, it’s as good as gone. We can’t pay the rent for this office, the staff that runs it, or even the active missions you’ve got going.” A choked sigh came from Vince. “We’re as good as bankrupt until they’re done. And if they find anything, we’re looking at fines, penalties, and fees. Combined with the blow to our reputation, we are faced with the very real possibility of actually going bankrupt.”

  John sank back into his seat. He let his gaze wander to the right—toward the window, into the city beyond. His eyes closed, and he heaved a sigh, trying to breathe slowly as his heart weighed down under the news. “How did this happen?”

  Vince waited a moment before speaking. “You didn’t listen to us. We tried to warn you that this was going to happen. We tried; we really did. But you gave orders as Overseer, and we did what you said.”

  The room was silent for a moment more.

  The phone in the middle of the table rang. John waved to someone, and they hit the button, turning on the speakerphone.

  “Mr. Temple?” a receptionist said from the other end of the line.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a call for you regarding Hannah Rice. They say it’s an emergency.”

  Chapter 3

  THE WORLD WAS a globular white, shifting in focus from thick blobs of impenetrable haze to a thin membrane, veiling a crisscrossing grid beyond.

  A deep sleep, not wanting to let go, wrapped its fingers around her, cradling her in a warm embrace. It was as if she had been pull
ed beneath the surface of reality, her barely aware consciousness bobbing on the surface like a rubber duck on a storm-tossed ocean—a moment of dizzying lucidity followed by a sudden plunge back into the depths.

  Her world was nothing for a moment—then she bobbed to the surface of reality again, reminded that somewhere in it all she was real.

  It might have been ten minutes or maybe several hours— possibly a day—but the warm cradle of unconsciousness seemed to vomit her from its cozy depths, spitting her—exhausted— onto the shores of waking life.

  Hannah stared at the ceiling, lying on her back—wherever here was.

  The grid of the ceiling came into focus—the metal separators between porous ceiling tiles. An involuntary groan bubbled up from somewhere in her chest. Her eyelids—which felt more like lead than flesh—exerted themselves against their own weight to open, and her body shifted a fraction to the side. The surface beneath her crinkled—the sound of shifting plastic.

  Her eyes, the only part of her that seemed to move without a concentrated effort, listed to the side. There was a window to her left—the sun glowing against the white curtains that were pulled shut. Her eyes continued their journey to the left, and she knew where she was.

  A bag filled with clear fluid hung from a metal rod. An IV, with a twisting tube that hung lazily, moving from the clear liquid to the back of her left hand.

  She was suddenly aware of her body. Not so much her limbs, but the sensations of aching pain that seemed to cleave to her like a glove, giving definition to her physical form in the same way a vacuum-packed bag gives definition to its contents.

  Hannah lay on her back for several more minutes, suddenly feeling very warm.

  Then, just as she had been ejected from the unreal world of sleep, exhaustion seemed to evaporate.

  “Hello,” an elusive voice said.

  Hannah turned her head to see the speaker—a man sitting in the corner, dressed all in black, dark curling hair dangling unceremoniously around his face. Despite the light in the room he seemed to melt into the only sliver of shadow in the room. She didn’t reply; instead, she looked around the room to see if there was any chance he was addressing someone else. There was another bed to the right—but it was empty. The door, leading out toward a nurses’ station, was half shut.