Chris Jordan - Torn

His eyes, set deep beneath a jutting, simian brow, are strangely, compellingly beautiful. Old and deeply wrinkled, but nevertheless beautiful, although I couldn’t say what color. Not blue or green exactly, but somewhere in that range.

“Take a good look,” he encourages me, attempting a smile with his misshapen mouth. “I’m used to it. Arthur used to say I was the ugliest creature on earth, and he loved me for it.”

“Arthur Conklin.”

“Himself.” He nods, looking somehow both wise and tortoiselike. “Our founder and my one true friend.”

“Your one true friend stole my little boy,” I remind him, getting to my feet.

He shakes his head. “No, never. Absolutely not. Arthur would never have done such a thing. Not when his mind was his own, and certainly not now. There are other forces at work. Dangerous, greedy people who will stop at nothing.”

“Who?”

“If you’ll take a seat and try to relax, Mrs. Corbin, food will be brought in. You must eat-you’re shivering from hunger-and then I’ll try to explain exactly what’s going on and what we’re going to have to do to get your son back.”

Ordinarily I’m not big for scrambled eggs, but when Eldon and his bookend wife scuttle in with a tray of food, the smell of eggs and buttered toast makes me ravenous. Side of home fries, small dish of warm, cinnamon-tinged applesauce, more of the amazing toast slathered with jam. I probably consume enough calories to last a week. As my visitor predicted, the shivering stops and my head seems to settle firmly upon my shoulders.

The homely man is Wendall Weems, and if Arthur Conklin is the pope of the Rulers, then he’s the cardinal who serves as the Vatican Secretary of State. Or, that’s how he’s begun to describe himself.

“Though that’s actually a terrible analogy,” he concedes, sipping from a glass of water as I mop up the last of the scrambled eggs. “The Conklin Institute is not a religious organization. Far from it. In all of Arthur’s writings there is no mention of God or soul, or of any necessity for a spiritual life, or indeed of a promised afterlife. For which, by the way, he has been branded an atheist, a charge I consider profoundly unfair as well as beside the point. In his many works Arthur has never denied the existence of a supreme being-he has simply never chosen to discuss the possibility. Spirituality and the prospect of eternal life are outside of his purview. Instead he concentrates on improving the human mind by rewiring the way we process thoughts. That’s the essence of what we do-teach people to control their thinking. We’re all about self-improvement.”

“I thought Rulers were all about making money.”

“A misperception,” Weems responds, sounding utterly reasonable. “Once raised to the next level, a Ruler’s improved brain power will almost inevitably result in the acquisition of substantial wealth. We would say that wealth flows toward Rulers as magnetic waves flow through a charged device.”

“So Rulers are all about magnets?”

He smiles, looking almost impish in his homeliness. “You mock us, Mrs. Corbin, but that’s okay. You haven’t been brought here for some sort of grand conversion to our way of thinking. No, no. For you this is not the road to Damascus. It is the road to being reunited with your little boy.”

“And you’ll help me do that?”

“Absolutely,” he says, bathing me with the warm light of his beautiful, ancient eyes. “That’s my mission.”

The people Weems insists are my hosts join us at his invitation, still looking slightly nervous. He presents them to me as if we’re being introduced for the first time at a business meeting, or a Chamber of Commerce get-together.

“Haley Corbin, these two courageous individuals are Eldon and Missy Barlow. Eldon is a brilliant gameware designer with many patents, and Missy is, if I may say so, brilliant at managing their resources. The point is, at my request they took a great risk bringing you to sanctuary in their own home, and the circumstances were such that you may have felt threatened at the time, unfortunately.”

I snort. “They knocked me out and put me in a dog kennel.”

Weems studies me, not unkindly. “Would you have accompanied them willingly?”

“No way.”

He leans forward, which increases the curve at the top of his spine, making him look almost hunchbacked. “There were indications that your life was in immediate danger-it still is, by the way-and we had no time to lose,” he says. “Had the Barlows not taken action, it is entirely possible that you would already be dead.”

Eldon and Missy nod in unison, seconding that opinion.

“Yeah? Who wants me dead?”

Weems clears his throat, makes a little smile. “Evangeline, Arthur’s second wife,” he says with some measure of distaste. “Her loyal faction, her followers.”

“Jed’s stepmom wants to kill me? Why?”

“There is an unfortunate situation developing in our little community. You are the mother of Arthur Conklin’s only grandchild, therefore you threaten Evangeline’s dominance.”

“Because of Noah?” I say, recoiling. “But that’s insane! You people steal my son, make it look like he died-and somehow it’s my fault?”

“Not at all. You are entirely blameless.”

“So you admit it’s your fault.”

“Not me, nor those I represent,” he responds, sounding endlessly patient. “As I mentioned, my great friend Arthur Conklin is incapacitated. A series of strokes have so damaged his mind that he suffers from dementia. He is dying, Haley, and his wife wants to seize control of the organization.”

“Let her. Why would I care who’s the boss of your cult or community or whatever it’s supposed to be?”

“We’re not a cult,” pipes up Eldon Barlow, looking to Weems for approval.

“Unfortunately, Evangeline is a force beyond my control,” Weems admits, looking a little shamefaced. “She represents a small but ruthless faction who believe that our founder has mystical powers. If she has her way, the institute really will become a cult that worships Arthur as a kind of god. For the last few years, since Arthur’s decline began, this group has gained traction because Evangeline claims to speak for her husband. In effect, she puts words in his mouth, and that can only work as long as he remains alive. She has taken extraordinary, and in my opinion, exceedingly cruel steps to keep the poor man alive, including a number of transplants. In the past few years, against all rational medical advice for a man his age, Arthur has received a new heart, a new kidney, and a partial liver. Now his poor body is failing, and nothing more can be done to prolong his agony. It’s a matter of weeks, perhaps days. That’s why Evangeline chose this moment to kidnap your son. She believes, or professes to believe, that Noah will in effect become the reincarnation of Arthur. And of course she will continue to speak for him. Your son will become, if she has her way, a sort of puppet under her command. Which is why she wants you to vanish from the face of the earth.”

I feel faint, and must look it, because Weems quickly hands me a glass of water.

“I know it’s a lot to absorb,” he says apologetically.

When the dizziness passes I tell him, as forcefully as possible, “You really want to help me get my son back? Call the police. The FBI. If this woman has done what you say, she’s a criminal. Criminals can be arrested.”

Weems sighs, and for the first time he looks uneasy, as if he’s not comfortable with what he’s about to say. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Mrs. Corbin. If a phone call to the authorities would free your little boy from her clutches, I’d make the call, believe me. But you’re talking about Conklin, not Kansas.”