Chapter 43: Beware the White Rabbit

Spencer

I had never had children of my own, and – having lived alone since my husband died – wasn't prepared for a teenager invading my space. I must say, though, given my – admittedly limited – knowledge of modern teens, Phoebe was a comparative delight to have around. Helpful when there was something to do; quietly unobtrusive the rest of the time. She wasn't addicted to television or loud music, preferring to sit quietly and read when there was nothing more pressing to do. She was up at five the first morning, asking if it would be okay if she joined me in my morning exercise routine. She then read her bible – every morning – for an hour, followed by five or ten minutes of prayer, which she began by thanking God for me and all of my help in this time of uncertainty, and always ended with a prayer for someone named Jimmy; that God would keep him safe, grant him wisdom and discernment, and lead him through the many trials he faced. I didn't ask.

The routine was the same until one morning, just after she began praying, she stopped suddenly, and was silent for a few minutes. Suddenly her head came up, and she turned to look at me.

"I need to see him," she said.

"You need to see who?" I asked, confused.

"Elliott Bastion, I need to see him, today, as soon as possible."

"Elliott Bastion?" I said, shocked. "Why in God's ... I mean, why would you want to see him?"

"Because I have to forgive him," she said.

My first thought was that I must have heard her wrong, but there was a clear sense of urgency about her, as if this were a matter of great importance. Call me callous, but – now that he was behind bars – nothing that had anything to do with Elliott Bastion tipped my 'give-a-shit' meter anywhere near 'urgent'.

"Phoebe, he slaughtered your family – not personally, but he's admitted to being behind it. He had people hunting for you to finish the job. Why would you possibly want to forgive him for that?"

"I know all that Missus Spencer, but I was in no danger; God had already arranged for my safety, long before I ever left that house. As for why I need to forgive him, because God commands it of me."

I'm sorry, but I've just never really understood the whole Christian obsession with forgiveness. But ... this wasn't about me, and I knew how important it was to her, and – after all she'd been through – if it would help her to put it behind her, I would go along. Maybe it was one of those closure things the psych staff always babbled about.

"Okay," I said. "I'll call when we get to the office and see if we can get an appointment to see him. Don't get your hopes up, though, okay? These things take time; they have to be cleared through channels, and that may take a while. If things go well, we can probably get in to see him sometime tomorrow."

"Today," she said, shaking her head. "It has to be today; tomorrow will be too late. Please Missus Spencer, I have to see him today."

Well hell!

"Phoebe, what's going on? Why the sudden rush?"

"I don't know," she said. "I only know that I have to see him, today, as soon as possible."

That urgent sound in her voice was getting worse.

"Okay," I said. "No promises, but I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, Missus Spencer. I knew you would understand."

"I never said I understood; I just said I'd do my best."

"I know you will," she said with a smile. "You can't help yourself, it's the way He made you."

"You are a very strange girl, Phoebe; do you know that?"

"I like you, too," she said, bouncing to her feet and coming over to hug me. "Thank you, for everything."

A very strange girl.

It turned out Bastion was already being interviewed, so, if we didn't mind waiting, it would be possible to see him before they returned him to his cell. I was surprised at where they had him for the – as they put it – interview. This wasn't one of the usual places a prisoner would have access to for a meeting with his lawyer – or even the DA. Still, it was in a secure area, and there were guards around; depending on whom he was meeting with, there may be a guard in the room with him, a suggestion our escort confirmed.

"Yes Ma'am, there is a guard in the room with them. This far out, there is usually an officer in attendance at all times, sometimes more than one. I'll have to talk to them when whoever it is is finished, to let them know we need to see the prisoner before he's returned to his cell.

Whoever it was had to have a lot of pull to get him here, rather than one of the normal rooms.

Did I say pull? I almost wet myself when the door opened and Sandra Atkins walked out. She seemed a little preoccupied, not even looking around, just glancing at her watch and making a bee-line for the exit. What the hell was she doing here? Our escort went to check with whomever had been left behind with Bastion, returning a few moments later.

"Right this way, ma'am, he's still secure, but we'll both have to remain with you during your interview; I hope that's not a problem."

"No problem, officer, she just wants to talk to him."

Bastion was seated at a table at the far end of the room; there was a cup of water on the table not far from him, so, whatever Atkins was up to, they had been at if for some time. Most likely Bastion had been allowed a free hand to drink with, but now both hands were once more secured to the shackles near his waist. The guard who was attending him stood close behind and looked like he hoped Bastion would try something.

I'm not sure what kind of reaction I was expecting from Bastion when he first saw Phoebe, but it certainly wasn't 'no reaction at all'. He had been hunting her down, after all; I don't know what it was he was afraid she might know, but he had definitely not been taking chances. He had to at least suspect that she was the catalyst to his downfall. Even I didn't know why she was so important, only that David – and Sandra Atkins – had felt she was important enough to hide and protect. 'Protect' I could understand; she was an innocent victim of circumstances far beyond her control, and she was a child; what else is our job if not to protect people like her? But hiding someone is an expensive and risky job. Still, I would have expected some kind of reaction out of Bastion.

Phoebe followed me quietly; the guard escorting us followed close behind her. It was a good sized room – not an interrogation room at all, but more of a conference room – with three tables placed cross-ways and six folding chairs at each of the first two. The last table only had one chair opposite Bastion, the other five having been removed to create a clear space, mostly as a security precaution, but also to make room for the larger chair he was secured to. If it had been anyone else but Atkins, I would have been surprised. I stopped Phoebe as she started to move towards the single remaining chair.

"This is close enough, Phoebe," I said, laying my hand on her shoulder.

"It's okay," she said, looking up at me, "he can't hurt me, but if it will make you more comfortable..." She moved back to take a seat on the far side of the second table.

"Elliott Bastion... ," I said, flipping my ID open so he could see it, "Special Agent Dominique Spencer, FBI Las Vegas; I believe you already know Phoebe."

He didn't answer, simply nodded an acknowledgment and turned his attention back to the girl. He was obviously shocked to see her, but still...

She didn't even return his gaze; much less speak to him. Granted, I didn't know her, but it still struck me as being out of character. I'm not sure what I had expected, but so far this whole thing was a study in anti-climax; once seated, Phoebe bowed her head over her folded hands and began to pray silently. The guards and I exchanged questioning glances, and all I could do was shrug at their unspoken questions. I had no more idea what was going on here than they did. She stayed like that for a good five minutes before whispering "amen" and raising her head to look at Bastion.

"I forgive you," she said and then rose as if to leave. When I looked back at Bastion for his reaction I almost fell over.

His expression was haggard and worn, and I could see wet patches on his jumpsuit as if he had been perspiring heavily for some time, and he was crying. Not so much crying as weeping softly like you do when you're watching one of those tearjerker movies and you don't want anyone else to know that you're crying, too. There were tear tracks down his face that I would swear weren't there a moment before. In fact, I would swear this wasn't the same man who had been there before.

What the hell had just happened here? And how had I missed it?

Elliott

I was genuinely sorry for what I had been forced to do to Sandra. Not all of it, of course; call me selfish, but after so long, that last part was rather a nice treat. The fact that it was her doing it... ? Well, one could not but appreciate the irony after all these years, but I really had hoped it wouldn't come to that. It was his fault, though; he had left me no choice. By raiding my files, he had removed the last bit of evidence I had available to convince her that I was speaking the truth, and she had to believe. This way was better, actually, because when she finally realized what I had done, I was certain that she would believe me, and then the hunter would become the hunted.

I was surprised when she left and a second guard appeared. I had been preparing myself mentally for the tedious walk back to my cell. If you've never had to shuffle along taking six-inch steps – like a child taking baby steps in a game of "Simon Says" – while the people escorting you take normal strides, then you have no idea how ridiculous – and embarrassing – it is. The new guard whispered something to my escort, who then began what, I assumed, would be the processes of preparing me for the long shuffle back to my cell. My free hand was once more secured, but then, instead of releasing the sections that bound me to the chair, he re-checked to make sure they were secure before stepping back against the wall. I was still wondering what was going on when the door opened again and the other guard re-entered, holding the door for a woman I didn't know, and ... Oh my god ... it couldn't be ... crap!

What do you say to someone whose death you had ordered when the attempt fails and you then come face to face with them? I had never even considered the possibility, so – naturally – I was at a complete loss for words. What would she say to me, the man who had ordered the murder of her last remaining family? The man who had used her cousins to try and seduce her into joining a life that I knew went against everything she believed in? I braced myself for the worst. Not that she would scream obscenities and epithets, but the accusations alone – coming from her – would be hard to take.

Phoebe had surprised me from the moment we had met – even before that, actually. My first prodding attempts at exploring her met with failure, but it was a different sort of failure than I was used to. Normally, if a person is resistant to my gift, I get a sensation akin to hearing static from a radio. In either case, the subject does not realize what has happened; not the first time at least. As I had learned in my earliest attempts, once exposed to its effects long term, the subject would recognize an attempt to reestablish control. With her, though, it was like hitting a wall, as if the probe simply stopped short of reaching her. Later, when I actually touched her, it was like touching plastic-wrapped food; you could see it, feel the warmth or cold through the covering, but no matter what you did, you couldn't – quite – touch it.

Now she surprised me again as she simply bowed her head and began to pray.

Suddenly the room exploded in a light so bright, so intense, that it seemed to burn everything else out of existence. My eyes shut of their own accord, my head turning and my arms automatically coming up to shield me from the glare. Even that did not seem to help, as the light seemed to pass through them unhindered to sear my tortured retinas. It was then that I realized what I had just done. My hands were chained to my waist; how could I have... ?

Bracing myself, I opened my eyes and found myself, not shackled to a chair in a prison conference room, but cowering in the corner of a room that seemed to be made of that same pure white light. Before me was the girl, still in her praying position, but now kneeling rather than sitting, and behind her was a ... being was the best description I could come up with. Whatever it was, I couldn't bear to look at it long enough to even consider details.

Before I could even really take it in, a voice spoke into the space. She wasn't speaking, but it was still somehow her voice, and yet ... not. It didn't even seem to be coming from her; rather it was just ... there.

"Christian Allen Wallace, what have you done?"

Despite my confusion – and yes, I will admit, fear – I felt somehow compelled to answer.

"I don't... ," I began, my voice seeming to catch in my throat, "I don't understand."

"You were given a gift – a great gift – with which you could have accomplished so much good in this fallen world ... behold..."

Suddenly the room was gone, and I was in a stadium, surrounded by thousands, tens of thousands of believers, there to hear me speak. It changed again, and I was in a room with a man I did not recognize but still somehow knew to be the President. Again, and I was leading a group of volunteers in prayer, commissioning them to travel halfway across the country to help flood victims rebuild their homes and their lives ... Again and again the vision changed, each showing me a hint of a possibility of what might have been...

" ... but instead you chose to squander it on your own selfish lusts..."

In rapid succession, visions of the young girls I had abused over the years played out before me. And not just the girls, but the parents I had blackmailed into using – and allowing others to use – their daughters.

" ... piling evil upon evil upon evil with no end in sight. Corrupting and destroying everything and everyone you touched along the way..."

Then came the visions of punishment, as I sought to use fear and intimidation to control the group, and finally, death. One by one, in graphic detail, the deaths of everyone who had died either by my hand or on my orders. My two girlfriends from college, Carmen and Monique; the father brutally beaten to death in the Clark County jail; the scene of Carl Andrews sneaking quietly through a suburban home, slitting the throats of the two sleeping girls and watching intently as they coughed, choked, and died; the same Carl Andrews, placing the hands of the girls' mother on the knife he had used to murder her daughters, and then – his hands on hers – shoving it into her heart. I seemed to stare out of his eyes as he stared into hers, watching the last spark of life fade away. Even the two girls that Carl had kidnapped, raped, and murdered before I gathered him to my flock. Somewhere in the back of my mind, my pride told me I was saving more innocents by taming him to my need, rather than letting him continue on his own whim. In that instant – watching the vision – I knew that pride for the sin that it was.

Then I was shown all of the people that my mysterious young adversary had had to kill in order to stop me; apparently those deaths were on my head, too. I watched the nightmare that had driven Carl Andrews over the very brink of sanity, causing him to shoot down his partner, and then watched as his own vision killed him. I saw the 'accidents' that claimed my faithful. On and on it went: right through the vision of me pulling the trigger over and over again as I slaughtered my helpless board members; then the visions of their wives taking their lives when they heard the news; every life that had been snuffed by my word, deed, or action. And with the visions came the guilt and remorse I should have felt all along, until finally...

"Stop!" I cried. "How can you know these things?"

The girl lifted her head to look at me, and I could not hold back the scream at the sight of her face. It's not that she was suddenly hideous, or even scary; it was still her face, except for the eyes. The barest glimpse of those eyes burned me to the core of my existence. In those eyes I saw the totality of my sin, shining from her innocent face to condemn me. I was in agony, sure that the very flesh was melting away from my bones. But that was as nothing compared to the pain in my chest, where I felt as if my very heart would burst. So deep was my grief and shame that I felt as if I would rather die then and there than live another moment with what I had done. I tried to look away, but those eyes held me in a vice-like grip, helpless and hopeless in the face of my own sin. The nightmares of the past week paled to insignificance in comparison.

An eternity later – as suddenly as it had begun – it was over. I was back in the conference room, and she was simply praying once more. A moment later she lifted her head and said, "I forgive you."

No sweeter sound had I heard in my life than those three words, and I wept at the sound of them. Silently, for I had no strength left to express the emotions running through me. The experience had left me utterly exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally. My jumpsuit clung to me as if I had been running a marathon in it, though that was purely impossible given my restraints and location.