Original Son

Chapter 9
Part 9

---

Chapter Description: Revelation.

---

“And may Jesus heal...”

The solemnity of the church service vanished when the doors opened wide and a squad of uniformed officers marched wordlessly up the far sides of the New Life sanctuary. Heads turned one by one until the entire congregation gradually lost interest in the pastor’s sermon. A clamor arose among the confused churchgoers as they pointed and whispered to their neighbors.

Pastor Leary leaned back and mumbled something to the youth pastor seated behind him.

Detective Harris, who led the brigade into the sanctuary, calmly stepped onstage and closed in on the pulpit.

“What is this?” Pastor Leary grumbled, insulted. “You can’t interrupt our service just like...“

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law...” Harris rolled of the Miranda warning in an unaffected monotone.

“Officer Harris, I demand to know what’s going on here. You can’t just barge in during a service,” Leary said, begrudgingly allowing two muscular cops to fasten handcuffs around his wrists.

“...You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you...”

“This is madness!” Leary suddenly lost all preacherly pretense. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Harris?”

“My job, Mr. Radner. Can I call you Vincent? That is your real name, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leary spat as the officers escorted him down the center aisle past row after row of distressed parents and children. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Conversations grew louder as the atmosphere changed from bewilderment to concern to fear. Some immediately made for the exits, as if frightened of being implicated somehow, while others worked to quiet their restless infants and toddlers. Even amidst the commotion, some children remained blissfully ignorant of the operation, swishing their legs back and forth in their seats. Ignoring the vacuum produced by Leary’s unscripted exit, the other church leaders stayed tucked behind the pulpit while a flurry of rumor and gossip swept through the increasingly chaotic scene.

Outside, Detective Harris pushed Leary’s head down and situated him in the squad car. “Comfy?”

“Screw you.”

“My, how Christian of you,” Sam replied, closing the door and taking his spot in the driver’s seat. “We’re headed you downtown, Mr. Radner. Don’t worry, our officers will handle your congregation.”

“That’ll be all, boys. I’ll take it from here,” Harris said, waving the remaining officers back to their vehicles. Inside a mute Leary stared into his lap, denying Harris even the victory of eye contact. The intensity of his silence told the detective he was mentally planning his testimony.

Back at the New Life, officers herded the fretful congregation back into the sanctuary, which now resembled a disorganized storm shelter.

“We ask that you stay put for just a little while...”

By this time, ninety percent of the youth had been reduced to five years old or younger. This made for a minor circus, as parents worked diligently to hush their irritable children. The youngest - originally middle schoolers or high school freshmen - now caused the most commotion, having long shed their sense of decorum. A group of parents even created a mock changing area along the last pew. Among them was Sharon Summers, already busy pulling her daughter’s filly blue dress up and removing a soiled diaper.

“I just changed Candace an hour ago and now look,” Sharon complained, eliciting a round of sympathetic grumbles. Having their babies back may have been a miracle, but few welcomed the accompanying odors with such rhapsodic enthusiasm.

“Officer, some of us want to go home,” Cheryl Tanner said, bouncing a six-month-old child on her arm. “Kennedy needs a bottle and I was just about to leave when...“

“Ma’am,” Officer Johnson said gently, corralling the woman back toward her seat, “it’ll just be a little longer. We want to make sure everyone is accounted for.”

“I don’t understa...“

“If you could.”

Pastor Leary sat stony silent during the remainder of the squad car ride. Detective Harris kept an eagle eye on the unresponsive passenger via rear view mirror, constantly checking for any hints of impending resistance. Sam grinned, enjoying a small moment of satisfaction at apprehending such a duplicitous biblethumper. No ordinary, unassuming preacher sported a novel-length FBI file. Mr. Radner had a long story to tell - and Sam intended to force every last detail from his lips.

Once they arrived at the station, Sam escorted the pastor through the back entrance and into an austere, blue-lit interrogation room housing a bare wood table and two rusted metal chairs which screamed like banshees when pulled across the floor.

“Sit,” he said. Leary complied, a wicked sneer still coloring his face.

Detective Harris spun the opposite chair around and leaned his foot on it.

“So, Mr. Radner. I’ve read your FBI file from cover to cover. Great read by the way,” he said nonchalantly, pulling a pack of gum from his shirt pocket and sliding it neatly between his teeth. “The first twenty pages were boring as hell, but it picked up toward the middle.”

Sam offered the pastor a stick. “Sugar-free. No?”

Harris continued. “During the past two weeks I’ve mapped your movements over the last ten years, traced your finances, the month-long trips to Cairo, and tabulated your various aliases. With all due respect, you’ve had more names than Prince, Mr. Radner. But what say we get down to brass tacks, mmm? I’m not a big fan of bullshit. So let’s have a nice, honest chat about who the hell you are.”

Unblinking, Leary leered at the officer.

“According to my research you once worked for the CIA. Black ops, covert operations. Fancy shit. You were also employed as a bio-chemist at one point in your illustrious career, is that right?” Harris asked, expecting no reply and receiving none.

“The CIA fired you in March of 2002, just as the president’s war on terror moved into full swing. Seems like your skills as a translator - you do speak fluent Arabic, do you not? - might have come in handy. So why would the CIA hang you out to dry, Mr. Radner?”

Harris allowed the uncomfortable silence to engulf the room, before slamming the pastor’s file down hard on the desk.

“Just what the fuck did you think you were doing at New Life Church?”

Sam placed his hands on the cold table and leaned in close. “Hundreds of kids, Mr. Radner, hundreds. You slipped them all something. I don’t know how the hell you did it, but you took hundreds of kids - young adults - and subjected them to something. All the while telling their parents it was God, a miracle, a blessing from the Lord, whatever. Who gave you the right...“

“You have no fucking idea,” Radner growled.

Sam pulled back, not anticipating the pointed retort.

“Do you even have the slightest clue what you’re dealing with?” Vincent snarled. “I care more about those kids than anyone in this whole goddamn town. I put my life on the line for them. You want to know who I am? I’m one of those guys you never hear about on the evening news. One of those nobodies who protects this nation from threats you can’t even begin to imagine.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“As we speak, Detective Harris, terrorists in Jordan, Pakistan, Iran, you name it, are plotting attacks against this country. Every hour of every day. My job was to help the United States government disrupt those lines of communication and destabilize regimes that threaten this country,” Radner explained, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes to menacing slits.

“We needed a massive targeted distraction, a development that would spark unrest in the Middle East. The CIA hired me in 1997 to work on a synthetic compound they were developing, a serum that altered cellular structures and appeared to reverse the aging process.”

Struggling to remain stoic, Sam absorbed the unbelievable words coming from Mr. Radner’s lips. “But there’s more, isn’t there?”

“These Muslim fanatics, they really believe this shit. About Allah and the seventy-two virgins in paradise. I knew, if we could convince them of an honest-to-god miracle, if we could sneak this substance into their homes and mosques, we could shape that region. We could influence policies. We could...“

“Play God?”

“Protect our interests, Mr. Harris. Do you have any idea how much influence we would wield with a tool like that?”

“But the CIA fired you, didn’t they?” Harris interrupted. “You had this formula and you went apeshit, didn’t you?”

“No, I was protecting...“

“Bullshit. You went against orders.”

“I followed orders...“

Sam put his fist down. “You failed psychiatric examinations. You covered up mishandling of the drug.”

“It had to be utilized.”

“So you got canned, lived off the grid for a year, and decided to test out your little theory here at home,” Harris filled in the blanks. “On innocent kids.”

“I had to prove its effectiveness. Just look. The whole community fell for it. They think God intervened, they believe...“

“They’re kids, Mr. Radner!” Sam yelled. “You took harmless everyday teenagers and young adults and turned them into little children. College students, with boyfriends and girlfriends, plans, futures. You used them like guinea pigs in some twisted chemical experiment. People have rights, Mr. Radner. The right to grow up.”

“My work could save lives. Who wouldn’t want another chance at childhood...“

“Your work has ruined lives,” Sam corrected him. “How about we force feed you some of this miracle drug and turn you into a kindergartener? That sound like fun?”

“National security depends on this. That formula, Detective, is the new nuclear bomb.”

“You tell me I don’t understand what I’m dealing with. I’ve got a town full of toddlers and infants who’ve been robbed of their rightful ages, used as pawns in some unauthorized mass drug trial. I think you’re the one who needs a lesson in restraint, Mr. Radner,” Harris barreled through his speech without pausing for breath. “You think I don’t know how a real, working youth serum would alter the international landscape? Of course I do. Did you ever stop to think how terrorists might use that compound if they could manufacture it? I don’t think I have to tell you.”

“We were working to safeguard...“

“Safeguard? You drugged an entire congregation in broad daylight,” Sam countered, spitting his gum into the trash. “You took a sanctuary full of well-meaning believers and transformed their kids right in front of them. Did you seriously imagine no one would catch on?”

Radner licked his lips and smirked.

“There’s a reason they call churchgoers ?sheep,’ Detective. All I did was give them what they wanted - something miraculous, something only God could deliver. Their precious children, their babies, gurgling and cooing in their cribs. It’s the opiate of the masses, Mr. Harris. And if people must persist in believing in ghosts and angels and gods and devils, well, we’ll use their faith to our advantage... if that’s what it takes.”

“You’re sick.”

A cruel smile crawled across Leary’s face. “Oh, it gets better.”

***

Yearning for a cigarette, Detective Harris slumped into the breakroom chair. He rubbed his eyes and ran his hands through his sweaty hair. The incessant hum of the vending machines only intensified his headache. It’s not every day one learns information that could unravel the very fabric of society. Scenarios of mass regression played out like Michael Bay disaster movies in his brain. New York City, London, Moscow. Without killing a single person, terrorists or rogue nations could bring world financial centers to a standstill. Harris maneuvered a steaming sip of coffee carefully into his mouth while pondering the staggering scientific and cultural implications of Radner’s formula. Jesus, what about boomers becoming the babies? he mused. A novel solution to the social security problem.

“Sam?” Kendra said, cracking the door and knocking softly.

Seconds elapsed before Sam awoke from his stupor. “Yes?”

“Visitors again. Can I send them in here?”

“Sure, send them in,” Sam replied, straightening his hair with his hands. The last forty-eight hours showed on his unshaven face. With barely three hours rest and the fate of the world dangling like Damocles’ sword, Sam’s body was running solely on caffeine and adrenaline. Food and sleep preoccupied him. I picked the wrong week to go vegetarian.

Moments later Lesley Shelton appeared in the doorway, still clinging to a wadded-up tissue.

“I’m sorry to bother you again,” she said meekly, “but I heard you arrested Pastor Leary this morning.”

“You heard right,” Sam said, discarding the wrapper from his daily protein bar. “And I couldn’t have done it without Jim’s help. He squeezed more info out the FBI than...“

“Yes, well,” Lesley continued. “There’s been...“

Before Mrs. Shelton finished her sentence, a shaggy-haired boy with braces rounded the water fountain. Sam immediately recognized Brad, though he’d undergone a marked growth spurt since their last meeting, gaining six inches in height and colonies of acne on his cheeks.

“This must be Brad,” he said, mustering a friendly neighborhood cop smile. “You’ve gotten taller there, buddy.”

Trailing Brad, however, was another young boy wearing an oversized shirt and an embarrassed simper. Sam’s coffee hit the table.

“I wanted you to see him,” Lesley explained, grabbing the boy’s hand. “The doctors say he’s... he’s stabilized as a...” she spoke in between deep breaths, “a pre-adolescent.”

Astonished, Sam studied the young face of his former partner. With prominent ears and big brown eyes, Jim couldn’t be more than eleven years old he decided. The resemblance to his son was striking now that their ages had come within such close proximity. Only it was Brad who currently enjoyed the advantage in height and maturity.

“Say hi, honey.”

“Hi,” Jim said, with not even the slightest crack in his voice.

“Lesley, I don’t know what to say,” Sam mumbled. “It’s just...unbelievable.”

“The doctors said he’s... he’s about twelve years old. I brought along an old yearbook though and well, it’s probably closer to eleven. Sixth grade,” she explained as calmly as she could.

Sam watched Jim, now barely grasping onto the middle school age bracket, as he explored the break room with his son. He’d hoped the effect wouldn’t drain his partner of so many years. Maybe Lesley could have managed a teenager, a husband sporting some small evidence of puberty, but the serum left no trace of that; Jim was every bit a child.

“It was the water,” Sam volunteered.

“What?”

“Leary’s secretary offered us water before we met in his office. I neglected to drink mine, but I’m afraid Jim...” Sam’s attention wandered back to the rosy-cheeked little boy. “Well, you know. Lesley, I’m so sorry. I should have spoken up.”

“I guess...I’ll have to raise him,” she sniveled, eyes growing glassy again. “Like another son. Jim... Jimmy maybe. Come here, Jimmy. Hold my hand.”

Her former spouse obeyed, returning to her side and smiling up at her like a child looking to his mother. Lesley couldn’t decide whether or not to smile back.

***

Detective Harris arrived at New Life just as the congregation began trickling out the front entrance. Briefly locking eyes with Patricia Kessler, he mimed a tip of the hat. Glancing down into her stroller, Sam wondered how many years the formula had robbed from its young passenger. Many once-proud parents appeared disillusioned cradling their regressed offspring in their arms, as if the magic had been zapped from their little miracle story. Others wore defiant expressions as they fastened their kids’ seatbelts. I guess that’s why the call it faith, Sam thought.

Inside, police tape guarded the sanctuary stage exits. FBI agent Roger Larson approached the detective with an outstretched hand and a glint of concern etched on his face. Credentials always came first.

“Hi, I’m Agent Larson, FBI.”

“I can see that,” Harris said, taking no time to study the badge.

“Our men are combing Mr. Radner’s office and the adjacent choir room. If you’ll follow me...”

The two men wove a path through the clog of blue uniforms shuffling back and forth across the pews. Stepping over the yellow tape Harris had two more hands to shake before launching his own private investigation in a small offshoot from the church’s kitchen. Five minutes of probing yielded the find Sam was after: the silver communion trays used to dispense the weekly shots of holy grape juice.

Close by Harris retrieved what looked like a recipe binder. Flipping through the pages, however, he discovered more than potluck favorites.

“Mr. Larson,” he called, motioning for an audience, “you might be interested in this.”

Larson took his time. After all, some two-bit local detective wasn’t running this show anymore; he was.

In the meantime Harris stumbled upon a series of typed pages beginning with the heading “Phase I.” Pupils widened as he scanned the document. Bullet points were marked off in red ink. He turned the page.

“Phase II,” he whispered to himself, soaking in the contents. He reached the last line and froze. His stomach sank.

“Oh my god.”

 

---