paused, and seemed to survey the lights of the city again. “So big I can’t bear it …”
An upcurrent from the Plaza below lifted and ruffled the fringe of fair hair. Gabriel leaned forward slightly and looked down. Macbeth held his breath and sensed the two cops next to him do the same. Pete Corbin moved forward then checked himself.
Then, unexpectedly, Gabriel stepped back: off the parapet and away from the edge. Father Mullachy looked across to Corbin with an expression of undisguised triumph.
“Better get a blanket,” the sergeant told the younger cop and started to cross the roof. In the meantime, the young priesthad taken a step towards Gabriel and placed his hand reassuringly on his naked shoulder.
“Everything’s going to be fine, my son,” said Father Mullachy.
“You don’t understand, Paul,” said Gabriel and his voice was suddenly clearer, more determined. “We are becoming. We are becoming.”
“We are becoming what?” the priest frowned.
Macbeth realized he had seen it first. Everyone else was involved in his allocated role while Macbeth was simply an observer. And he observed. He observed the sudden shift in Gabriel’s demeanor; he observed the sudden animation in the until then emotionless face and gestureless body.
“You see, Father Paul,” said Gabriel, “all your life you’ve been asking the wrong question. You’ve been asking
who
God is. There is no who. There is no who or what or where. The truth is knowing
when
God is. I know when God is. We are becoming … We are becoming …” Gabriel, smiling, stepped forward and embraced the young priest in a bear hug. “Come and see …”
By now, Corbin was running towards them, the two cops and Macbeth behind him. They all froze as Gabriel, his arms still locked around Mullachy, hurled himself and the priest sideways.
The low crenellated parapet that edged the roof caught both men mid-calf and they toppled sideways over the edge and out of sight: Gabriel silent, Mullachy screaming in primal terror.
6
JOSH HOBERMAN. VIRGINIA
Josh Hoberman sat in the back of the black car and felt sick.
As they cruised along the long track to the road, he watched the dark velvet of the trees swallow up his home and douse the porch light he had forgotten to switch off. The track to the main road was unpaved and Hoberman had bought an SUV to make the daily trip from his home to the rail station where he made the thrice-weekly commute to his clinic in DC. The rest of the week he worked at home, in isolation. The Crown Vic’s suspension evened out the bumps and ruts in the road into gentler lunges and lurches, and the turbulence was mirrored in Hoberman’s gut.
“Where are we going?” he asked Roesler, who sat in the rear with him, the other two agents suited, silent ciphers in the front. Why had they sent three agents?
“I guess you’re going to DC, sir, but I wouldn’t know for sure,” said Roesler with the same perfunctory politeness. Hoberman realized that to Roesler he was a package for delivery, nothing more. “We’re only taking you as far as Culpeper airbase. You’re being picked up by helicopter there.”
“To go to Washington? It’s only an hour and a half by car …”
“I really don’t know where your final destination is, Professor Hoberman. I guess they’ll be able to better inform you at Culpeper.”
They were on the main highway now and Hoberman sat back in the leather and reflected on the nature of inherited memoryand cultural memes. Hoberman was a Jew collected in the middle of the night by armed government officials who wouldn’t tell him where his final destination lay; the grandson of a long-dead Jew collected in the middle of the night by armed government officials who wouldn’t tell him where his final destination lay.
The rest of the half-hour journey was silent other than when the suit in the front seat made a call to say they were ‘nearing rendezvous’. Hoberman was only mildly surprised to
An upcurrent from the Plaza below lifted and ruffled the fringe of fair hair. Gabriel leaned forward slightly and looked down. Macbeth held his breath and sensed the two cops next to him do the same. Pete Corbin moved forward then checked himself.
Then, unexpectedly, Gabriel stepped back: off the parapet and away from the edge. Father Mullachy looked across to Corbin with an expression of undisguised triumph.
“Better get a blanket,” the sergeant told the younger cop and started to cross the roof. In the meantime, the young priesthad taken a step towards Gabriel and placed his hand reassuringly on his naked shoulder.
“Everything’s going to be fine, my son,” said Father Mullachy.
“You don’t understand, Paul,” said Gabriel and his voice was suddenly clearer, more determined. “We are becoming. We are becoming.”
“We are becoming what?” the priest frowned.
Macbeth realized he had seen it first. Everyone else was involved in his allocated role while Macbeth was simply an observer. And he observed. He observed the sudden shift in Gabriel’s demeanor; he observed the sudden animation in the until then emotionless face and gestureless body.
“You see, Father Paul,” said Gabriel, “all your life you’ve been asking the wrong question. You’ve been asking
who
God is. There is no who. There is no who or what or where. The truth is knowing
when
God is. I know when God is. We are becoming … We are becoming …” Gabriel, smiling, stepped forward and embraced the young priest in a bear hug. “Come and see …”
By now, Corbin was running towards them, the two cops and Macbeth behind him. They all froze as Gabriel, his arms still locked around Mullachy, hurled himself and the priest sideways.
The low crenellated parapet that edged the roof caught both men mid-calf and they toppled sideways over the edge and out of sight: Gabriel silent, Mullachy screaming in primal terror.
6
JOSH HOBERMAN. VIRGINIA
Josh Hoberman sat in the back of the black car and felt sick.
As they cruised along the long track to the road, he watched the dark velvet of the trees swallow up his home and douse the porch light he had forgotten to switch off. The track to the main road was unpaved and Hoberman had bought an SUV to make the daily trip from his home to the rail station where he made the thrice-weekly commute to his clinic in DC. The rest of the week he worked at home, in isolation. The Crown Vic’s suspension evened out the bumps and ruts in the road into gentler lunges and lurches, and the turbulence was mirrored in Hoberman’s gut.
“Where are we going?” he asked Roesler, who sat in the rear with him, the other two agents suited, silent ciphers in the front. Why had they sent three agents?
“I guess you’re going to DC, sir, but I wouldn’t know for sure,” said Roesler with the same perfunctory politeness. Hoberman realized that to Roesler he was a package for delivery, nothing more. “We’re only taking you as far as Culpeper airbase. You’re being picked up by helicopter there.”
“To go to Washington? It’s only an hour and a half by car …”
“I really don’t know where your final destination is, Professor Hoberman. I guess they’ll be able to better inform you at Culpeper.”
They were on the main highway now and Hoberman sat back in the leather and reflected on the nature of inherited memoryand cultural memes. Hoberman was a Jew collected in the middle of the night by armed government officials who wouldn’t tell him where his final destination lay; the grandson of a long-dead Jew collected in the middle of the night by armed government officials who wouldn’t tell him where his final destination lay.
The rest of the half-hour journey was silent other than when the suit in the front seat made a call to say they were ‘nearing rendezvous’. Hoberman was only mildly surprised to
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