Blessed Child by Ted Dekker Page B

week?”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œMonday?”
    â€œNo, when was the poll taken?”
    â€œCame out this morning, taken last night. How about Monday?”
    â€œCome to the press conference Wednesday. I promise you I’ll give you the leadoff.” He turned and strode for the limousine and then looked back. “And if you think ten points is something, stick around, honey. We’re going to redefine blowout. You can quote me on that.”
    Roberts’s gaze lingered. Even the media in all of their supposed unbiased neutrality couldn’t resist Crandal’s charm. He stepped after the man quickly.
    â€œAnd the report on Tempest?” Crandal asked.
    They were alone now, with only the chauffeur in possible earshot. Roberts spoke quietly. “Like clockwork. The news has it as another African border skirmish, but the guerrillas penetrated all the way to Debra Damarro.”
    â€œThey find anything?”
    â€œNo.”
    He paused. “The monastery?”
    â€œLeveled.”
    â€œNo survivors?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGood. Tell them not to get carried away over there.”
    â€œThere’ll be the typical posturing for another month, but they’ve already started pulling back.”
    â€œGood.” Crandal turned one last time and lifted his arms in his patented victory sign. “It’s amazing what you can get away with when you have the power, isn’t it?” The band was playing and the chants were still full on, but a fresh cheer rose above the din and Crandal smiled wide. He was getting to like the feel, and truth be told, Roberts wasn’t hating it either.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Crandal suddenly thundered his war cry, startling Roberts beside him. “Power to the people.”
    Yes indeed. Power to the people .

5
    Day 0

    T HEY BROUGHT THE BOY INTO THE U NITED S TATES on Saturday, flying American Airlines from London. The International Office of Migration arranged the short-notice tickets through regular evacuation agreements with the Peace Corps and the INS.
    Late September in Southern California felt warm, considering the season. They rented a Yellow cab for the trip to Pasadena, where Jason would keep the boy until his processing Monday morning.
    Caleb had hardly spoken since their departure from Ethiopia, and when he did, it was usually in Ge’ez, in an off-the-cuff reaction. He spoke a few times in Amharic in response to questions put to him in Jason’s or Leiah’s broken Amharic.
    Approaching Addis Ababa near midnight Thursday, he had awoken from a long sleep and entered his first modern city. He had shaken his head repeatedly as if doing so would wake him from a dream. They had driven directly to Bole International Airport and caught a flight to London on Ethiopian Airlines at six Friday morning, but the few short hours in the large city, albeit Third World, were enough to send Caleb into a tailspin.
    Watching the boy’s unblinking stare as they wound their way through cluttered highways, Jason found it hard to imagine what it must be like, seeing for the first time such strange wonders. It gave the term culture shock new meaning. Leiah and he had agreed to let the boy discover the new world on his own, offering explanation only when he asked.
    By the time they boarded the DC-9 that would take them to London, Caleb’s stare had become glazed. His mind had retreated into some familiar place where things made sense. He slept most of the first leg. The London airport was his first exposure to mass modernization, and he took it in with a dumb stare. Even when Jason asked him what he thought of this new world, he said only, “Dehan,” nice, in a small, meek voice and looked around as if bored by it all.
    The flight over the Atlantic and the United States on the Airbus was surprisingly quiet, and Caleb had slept through most of it. They exited the 210 freeway at 10:00 P.M. and pulled into Jason’s driveway on