Free Chosen by Paula Bradley Page B

messaging beep. When the prerecorded greeting finished, she said, “It’s Mariah. I’m on my way to the church.” No time for pleasantries: Frannie would make it or not.
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    Peter watched Mariah exit her car in the church parking lot as a white BMW came roaring down the street, tires squealing as it took the turn into the lot. The car fishtailed as Frannie pulled up next to Mariah’s car then slammed on the brakes. They both ran up the steps to the landing where Peter waited.
    One glance at Mariah’s face was enough to make him unlock the door quickly. Her pupils were dilated, her cheeks bulged (evidence of tightly clenched teeth) and her breath whistled through her teeth. She followed him past the reception area and down the hallway that led to the sanctuary, her sense of urgency contagious.
    Peter flipped on the center stage lights. With excitement and apprehension filling him, he sprinted up the short flight of stairs, heading for Michael’s lectern. When he was within two feet of it, he turned just in time for Mariah to grab his arms in a tight, uncompromising grip.
    Peter jerked forward then felt as if he was being stuffed into a funnel. Maybe I’ll come out thinner and taller he thought wildly, the silly thought a means of stemming hysteria. He remembered Michael’s description of this phase of the Finding , but words could not explain the sensation of a huge vacuum cleaner sucking out his blood, bones, and organs.
    Instinct caused him to try to wrench free. Even though he topped Michael by five inches and outweighed him by forty pounds, he was held just as immobile.
    While Peter was too focused on these physical sensations to notice what was happening to Mariah, Frannie missed nothing. Even though she was stunned, she remembered the small tape recorder in her handbag. She yanked it out as her index finger jabbed the record button.
    As Peter jerked and grunted in measured intervals, Mariah looked like she was being walloped. Sometimes she staggered backward, sometimes she lurched forward, but she always maintained an unshakable grip on him. Sweat bathed her face as her eyes locked on Peter’s.
    A low growl rumbled in Mariah’s throat. She shook her head then said in an expressionless voice, “Not ... working. Need ... more.”
    Her eyes swiveled in Frannie’s direction. In her excitement to observe the phenomenon, Frannie had moved close to Mariah on the right side.
    A speculative look lit Mariah’s heated gaze, and her eyes narrowed. With a lunge, she grabbed Frannie’s left arm with her right hand, then slammed Frannie against Peter.
    And with the bone-jarring contact, the connection was complete.
    Frannie experienced only ten seconds of the wrenching, draining sensation before she felt warmth spread throughout her body. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Peter’s facial spasms cease and felt him relax through the solid contact she made against him.
    Frannie surrendered to a sense of euphoria where she attained an unprecedented level of peace. In this semi-trance state, tension was replaced by something that felt strong, supportive. I wish I could bottle this and sell it she mused.
    She was brought back to reality, however, when she heard Mariah begin to speak. Although she couldn’t make out the words, they sounded Middle Eastern, at least some of them. The rest was a bunch of nonsensical sounds.
    Peter drifted—gently, peacefully—on a cloud of tranquility, and something else. In the back of his mind he remembered Michael’s words—“Like our souls were intertwining”—as he experienced the “filling up” sensation. Minimally aware of Frannie pressed against his shoulder and Mariah’s hand still clutching his arm, Peter Martin surrendered to this magnificent sensation.
    He heard Mariah begin to speak and forced himself to concentrate. He’d been waiting for this part of the Joining , having shared in Michael’s wonder and exhilaration ... and he was not disappointed. Tears of joy welled