Mariah reached for objectivity, satisfied she came across as obliging and humorous; nevertheless, it was obvious she had nothing more to tell him than what she had told the Feds. Her confusion was genuine. The majority of people glued to their sets fell in love with her, believed her, and sympathized with her predicament, according to the polls.
Something new had been added: for the first time in her life, she possessed a poised and unashamed attitude. Prior to this, she never allowed herself to be the center of attention, more comfortable in the background. She had to admit she at least looked confident and unafraid.
The Visitation was never mentioned. The audience didn’t need any more ammunition than they already had.
After the ordeal with her family, telling her friends about her psychic gift was easy. Most were left with a sense of unease and fear. They tried to be supportive—“What’s happened doesn’t matter, we love you.”—but they were justifiably afraid and nervous about their own safety and privacy.
They had cause. Within minutes after the show, the news hounds ran them to ground, probing for dirty laundry. In the days that followed, many ethical journalists advanced Brokaw’s style and circumspection, but the bottom-feeders were unprincipled, doing everything within their power to edge them out.
When the first pass (her closest friends) yielded nothing sensational, they dropped down to level two: those who knew her more casually. While they could not find any indication of drugs, cults, or children born out of wedlock, they did uproot the idiots who made up fantastical stories just to get their fifteen minutes of fame.
So they burrowed down to the third strata: Childhood acquaintances that either could not quite place her or just remembered a cheerful kid who asked a lot of questions; old boyfriends (juicier, but nothing extraordinary); parents of friends; and teachers. Frustrated at the lack of a lurid past, they insinuated that maybe Ms. Carpenter was controlling the minds of everyone they spoke to.
If they thought pulling information out of her friends was tough, they were chatty gossips in comparison to her family. No one refused to talk to them (Mariah asked them to comply so it wouldn’t look like they were hiding anything) but nobody said anything of value. Even her extended family at the church had little to say. One constant theme ran through all the interviews: everyone was flabbergasted.
Mariah was glad when Thomas agreed to watch the special with her, especially surprised when he seemed flattered. Halfway through the segment he had reached for her hand; she had not pulled it away, drawing comfort from the warmth and support he offered. She could see him out of the corner of her eye as he peaked at her throughout the show.
The special was almost over when the phone began to ring. She glared at it, hoping a hostile look would make it stop. When it didn’t, she yanked the plug out of the wall.
When Brokaw signed off with a promise of more to come at a later date, Thomas retrieved the remote control and pressed the “off” button. “Talk to me, lady,” he said, his low, seductive voice making her pulse race. Meant to reassure, it fell short of its goal; it was, however, better than the silence.
“Well, it’s begun.” She cleared her throat. “I guess I could get an unlisted phone number, but too many people know where I live.” She cocked her head and gave him a roguish smile. “Does that offer to be your roommate still stand?”
He grinned and leered at her. “Anytime, babe. I’ll even give you a whole shelf in the medicine cabinet and, if you’re especially nice to me, maybe half a bureau drawer!”
She giggled. This man, with his sense of humor, made her life seem a little less intimidating. The smile evaporated, however. “Thanks, Thomas. I wish I could, but I can’t run away from this—from me. With Frannie guarding me like the crown jewels, I should be fine. I mean it, really.” The bravado in her voice wavered. “I’ve got to try and maintain as normal a life as possible and hope that, in a couple of days, someone does something so outrageous that it takes the heat off of me.”
He hugged her so she missed the skepticism in his eyes. Thomas wondered if even a presidential assassination could supplant this news.
Over the next several weeks, Mariah’s life became surreal. At Michael’s suggestion, she got call forwarding on her phone service and sent her calls to the switchboard at church.
One call was from Elliott & Shanks, a public relations firm. Their specialty was crisis management, devising strategies for keeping ahead of ugly stories and reshaping the ones that got reported. The firm’s representative even offered to field calls and craft messages for free. Mariah knew they were not being charitable: as their client, she would give the firm massive exposure, and attract high-paying celebrities and institutions.
She declined their offer. Her life was complicated enough without people in her face telling her what to do.
The volume of calls to the church switchboard increased, and another operator was brought in to handle the overflow. Esther Geronimo, a warm and friendly mother figure, began to weed out those “irritating pains in the rear porch” that called to do nothing more than harass. Mariah was grateful. She returned only those calls from relatives and friends, and the few professional people she wanted to speak to. All the calls were recorded so the inevitable death threats could be turned over to the police.
She was the main topic of conversation at work. It was obvious, the way everyone clammed up when she came into sight. They attempted nonchalance, but were unsure how to treat her. Thank heavens Ben didn’t have that problem. He was, of course, still convinced it was God working through her so he accepted, without reservation, what had happened.
People found out where she lived. The police roped off access to her apartment complex so she and her neighbors could get in and out. Mariah knew the residents complained: she felt guilty about the streets being nearly impassable. Most of the crowd wanted a glimpse of “the Real Deal” as she was labeled by one tabloid rag.
Frannie became insistent that she move to a safe house where she could be protected from the crowds, but Mariah stubbornly refused. She had already lost her privacy; the minute she gave in, she would lose the only thing she valued more: her freedom.
It was inevitable, however. The crowds began to frighten her as they reached out to touch her. Some begged her to find someone they loved; some fell on their knees in their belief she was the Second Coming. She tried to tell them that they were looking for God in the wrong place, but they convinced themselves that Christ would continue to perform miracles through her.
Money poured into the church from all over the world in her name. Some of it was spiritual donations from those who wanted to do something in the face of this phenomenon. Others sent money as a down payment to find missing loved ones, as if that were the criteria. Michael set up an account in her name, but Mariah wanted no part of it, and told him to do whatever he wanted with the money. He was reluctant to spend it; he did not want to offend those who had sent it by using it for other than what it was intended.
Blogs erupted, some with positive aspects of her achievements, other with bizarre confirmation that she was an alien abductee. Chat lines popped up overnight, the academic and technological forces dissecting what had happened in terminology foreign and esoteric. There were websites of devotees who fawned over her like fanatical sycophants. The dark side waded in to bluster about eliminating her before she became so powerful that she would rule the world. Entrepreneurs salivated over big bucks: one sold a tee shirt with a picture of her with Jesus, with the banner “Two Carpenters” on the back; restaurants named sandwiches after her; beer mugs, lipsticks, cat toys and bogus paraphernalia they said belonged to her found their way into respectable retail stores.
And still the insanity grew. Conventions were organized. People showed up in outlandish outfits that they were told she wore. Strands of hair purported to be hers were sold in lockets as good-luck charms. Mariah dolls had red hair stuck to the scalp, shiny spots of artificial sweat dappled on the face and neck, and eyes that nearly bulged out of their sockets.
Software developers announced soon-to-be-released video games with Mariah Carpenter, the heroine, battling everything: aliens, Kung Fu evil doers, mutants, zombies, and vampires. There was even one game under construction that pitted her against government agents when she turned rogue and began to come after the President.
The knowledge that she would have to capitulate and move came the night she flew out of the apartment complex, her heart rate back to normal after a blacksmith had cleaved her chest on his anvil. The driveway was clogged with people meandering around, while others sat on the lawn, singing and praying. She took one look at their adoring faces and lost it.
“I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS! GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY!” The words, blasted in that thunderous voice she could only affect when in the throes of a Finding, were sufficient to scare the bejabbers out of everyone. They lurched to their feet, scrabbling and trampling each other to get out of her way. Mariah ignored them as she yanked open her car door, snapped on her seat belt, and revved up the motor. She was on her way to the church and had no time to worry about their feelings. The paparazzi that kept a constant vigil at her place tried to plow through the crowds to get to their vehicles, but she lost them before she hit the on-ramp to the highway.
When she arrived at their special room, Michael was in his accustomed place talking to Frannie while Thomas fiddled with some new lights. They froze when she entered then noted, with relief, that she appeared strong and healthy. In complete control for the first time, she waited until Thomas finished.
Frannie caught her eye and smiled. Mariah nodded, her face expressionless. She then exchanged what she thought was a warm look with Thomas, although he frowned. However, she felt calm, almost relaxed.
Mariah walked behind Michael and placed her hands on his shoulders. Thomas hoisted his camera onto his shoulder and turned to face her. He smiled tentatively, but what he saw when he brought her into focus made the smile die on his lips.
He barely got out a “Ready” when Michael slumped. He never stiffened and Mariah didn’t jerk from unseen blows. She took in a deep breath then exhaled slowly. A grimace replaced the smile: her eyes were hard, cold and focused.