The Last Day (11 page)

“Good, you made it!” Hunter's voice came from somewhere out of the darkness inside.

Before the door shut and enveloped him in temporary blindness, Feldman spied Hunter seated at a small table next to a very attractive young woman in glasses. She wore a pin-striped business suit with a scoop-neck blouse. Her intelligent face was framed with a straight dark, banged hair style cut at the nape of the neck and set off with the perfect makeup of a runway model. Behind her was a wall of flickering TV monitors.

His eyes adjusted quickly to the blue light.

“Jon,” Hunter began, “let me introduce you to Erin Cross, WNN's expert on Middle East religious history and antiquities, and Robert Filson, senior news editor, who you just met.”

Feldman smiled and shook hands. Robert's was soft, damp and weak. Erin's was cool and firm. As she stretched across the table to Feldman, the low-cut neck of her finely tailored blouse effected a rather unavoidable presentation of cleavage.

“It's a pleasure to meet the famous Mr. Feldman,” she said in an interestingly textured voice, smiling, her dark lipstick contrasting sharply with her milk-white skin.

A phone on the wall lit up and Hunter warned everyone to ignore it. “It's Bollinger again,” he snorted impatiently. “We'll fill him in when he gets here, but no more interruptions for now.” He snatched the plug from its socket.

Filson arched an eyebrow, but Hunter was oblivious and launched immediately into his explanation. “Last night, after I dropped Cissy off, I went back to headquarters to work on a few things. Like everyone else, I guess the weight of all this wasn't sitting well with me and I wanted to review the footage we shot at the beginning of the quake. I was trying to pinpoint the location of that lightning storm when these guys and their teammates”—he gestured to Erin and Filson—“showed up a little after daybreak.

“They've got a ham radio in here, and on their ride up from Cairo they got a report out of Turkey about the epicenter of the quake being here at Bethlehem, exactly where I'd figured on a map to be the site of that electrical storm.”

Feldman interrupted. “Well, where's all the damage around here? I didn't see a thing coming in, and Jerusalem's a mess.”

“That's the least of the weirdness,” Hunter replied. “Once we connected both the lightning storm and the quake to Bethlehem, we made the unanimous decision to check things out. And it's paid off. Big. Look at this.” He gestured toward a monitor and everyone turned.

“This is selected footage from a bunch of stuff we shot earlier this morning here in King David Square,” Hunter explained. “We're in the process of editing it down right now.” He picked up a remote control from the table and started a video clip. “Okay, now take a look at monitor C.”

There appeared on the screen the remains of an old, rock-walled enclosure, about waist-high, rectangular, approximately fifty meters long by twenty-five meters wide.

“This is an archaeological
tel
known as David's Wall,” Hunter explained, using a Hebrew term for “excavation site” that he'd picked up earlier from Erin Cross.

Feldman did not quite understand, but he didn't want to interrupt.

“David's Wall is about a stone's throw from here on the west side of the plaza,” Hunter went on. “There are all kinds of excavations going on around this area.”

The camera turned a corner and arrived at an open entranceway into the enclosure. Isolated in the middle of the courtyard was a water-filled cistern carved from solid rock, about two meters in diameter, from which people were carefully ladling water into jugs and bottles and miscellaneous containers. “Okay, now we're inside the wall,” Hunter narrated, “and you're looking at the ancient, sacred Well of David.”

Feldman had been expecting something with a little more drama to it, and he shifted impatiently in his seat. But Hunter was not to be rushed.

“Erin,” Hunter addressed the young woman at his elbow, “tell Jon about the well.”

Erin, who had perhaps the best posture Feldman had ever seen, turned her swanlike neck toward him and smiled coquettishly. “I'd be happy to. Mr. Feldman, both the wall and well are the oldest historic landmarks in Bethlehem, dating back to about the year 1000
B.C.
The well still supplies potable drinking water to the residents here. Legend has it that three thousand years ago, a young shepherd filled his goatskin with water from this well and went off to watch the army of the Israelites do battle against Philistine invaders.

“This shepherd boy, who was born in Bethlehem, whose name was David, and who would later become the greatest king of ancient Israel, supposedly drank the water from this well before engaging and slaying the Philistine giant, Goliath.”

Hunter interrupted. “Not a bad little anecdotal beginning, eh?” He beamed, self-satisfactorily. “Now look at monitor E, Jon.”

With the punch of a button Hunter brought up a wide shot of the common. The camera was looking east, away from the well. Standing about thirty-five meters directly across from the entranceway of David's Wall was a large, partially excavated mound in which a flight of stone steps had been exposed. The steps led up to a flattened area at the top of the mound on which the remnants of massive stone columns could be seen.

Feldman surmised that these were the remains of a once-magnificent structure, like much of Israel, its glory days long behind it. He could see little else with the hordes of millenarians swarming about it.

Erin continued her archaeology. “These are the ruins of the ancient Israelite Temple of the Messiah,” she said, “almost as old as the Well of David. Built by King David, legend has it, to anticipate the coming of another great ruler who would also drink the waters of this well.”

Hunter turned back to Feldman. “Last night, according to hundreds of eyewitnesses—and we've interviewed dozens of ’em—during the storm and earthquake, an incredible event took place here.

“At the time, there were only a couple thousand people around these shrines, primarily overflow from the capacity crowds at Manger Square. The crowd here was mostly under the control of a millenarian order known as the Samaritans. The Samaritans’ deal was to set up paid trips to Bethlehem for sick and invalid people from all over the world, with the idea that the poor suckers could get cured at the Second Coming.”

Hunter leaned toward Feldman and placed his hands palm down on the table. “So, among the Samaritan followers, there's this one crippled Bedouin boy of about fourteen or fifteen. Supposedly, the kid and his parents were picked up in the desert by a group of Samaritans traveling up from the south. The boy was brought to David's Well yesterday on a stretcher, all bandaged up, he couldn't walk or feed himself, couldn't see, hear or speak. Or so everyone swears, anyway.”

Feldman was hoping this wouldn't turn out to be some sort of religious miracle story.

“After they baptized him,” Hunter went on, “he and his family stayed near the Wall of David for the evening ceremonies and the boy just lay there on his stretcher, apparently sleeping.

“Later in the evening, remember, the storm came up. Close to midnight, there was a lot of lightning and wind—it never did rain though—but everyone scrambled for shelter near the buildings around the sides of the plaza. That's when several people noticed that someone had forgotten the boy.”

“They'd left him lying out in the storm?” Feldman gasped, incredulously.

“Yeah. Apparently with the sacred hour of midnight approaching and in the throes of the storm, everyone panicked. As the lightning got really bad, a number of people saw him illuminated out there, but before anyone summoned the courage to go out and get him, he suddenly stood up, shook off his bandages, walked into the enclosure, calmly drew water from the well and drank it. Then, with everybody yelling for him to get the hell out of the open, he began to walk slowly toward the old temple.

“Meanwhile, there was a big countdown to midnight going on from a large part of the crowd that didn't notice what was happening with the boy. But he just kept on walking, right up the steps, turned around at the top and raised his arms high.

“Then a shout went up celebrating the new millennium, yelling and cheering, and suddenly there was this shock of electricity. A bolt of lightning must have struck really close. Everyone claims it hit the boy and radiated out into the square. At the same time, as if the lightning set it off or something, the earth began to shake and you can see what happened.” Hunter brought up monitor G, which delivered a tight zoom on the base of the well.

Feldman saw the beginnings of a jagged fissure on the ground. The camera followed it away from the well, the fracture yawning as much as a foot wide in some places as it wandered along.

“They claim the ground just opened up as you can see here,” Hunter explained, “from the well clear to the base of the temple, up the steps, splitting them all the way to the top, right between the feet of the boy.

“And you see what's carved there on the top step?” Hunter could hardly restrain himself. The camera continued to travel along the fissure, up the stairs to close in tightly on the very last riser.

Worn, but clearly visible, were ancient Hebrew letters carved into the face of the step. The first two letters were bisected by the very end of the fissure, but were still legible, if indecipherable, to Feldman.

“Exactly where the boy was supposedly standing.” Hunter leaned forward and touched the screen with his forefinger. “There, that's the ancient Hebrew word for ‘Messiah,’ right, Erin?”

“Correct,” Erin confirmed. “The letters read right to left. The Hebrew pronunciation is ‘Moshiach.’ ”

“And to top it all off”—Hunter slapped his hands on the table—”there were over two hundred and fifty alleged infirm and handicapped people present who now claim to have been cured of their afflictions when the lightning struck. I tell you it's voodoo, Jon, but it's perfect. We've got a follow-up to end all follow-ups! The climax everybody's been looking for!” He sat back, luxuriating. “We've got ourselves a genuine, bona fide Messiah figure!”

Erin Cross anted up additional support. “I have to tell you, Mr. Feldman, it looks pretty good. We talked to a lot of people here who claim to hive been cured of everything from cancer to blindness. And some of the evidence is rather convincing. It'll make for a sensational feature.”

Feldman had sat silent through most of this, elbows on the table, chin resting on the heels of his thumbs, fingers laced and pressed against his mouth. But his eyes had betrayed a growing fascination.

“This is completely incredible, Breck,” he finally whispered. “Absolutely unbelievable. This boy, where is he? Have you seen him? Have you spoken with him?”

“No,” Hunter admitted. “The Samaritans are hiding him, protecting him they say. We don't even know if he's in Bethlehem anymore. But we're working on it.”

Filson, who'd added nothing to the conversation so far, finally contributed. “That presents a nice element of mystery to all this, of course,” he said in the flat voice of a third-generation accountant. “But without the boy, we lose the crux of the story. And we lose our scoop if and when some other network finds him first. I think we should sit on this development and allow ourselves more time to find the boy. Otherwise, we risk putting every other newshound on the scent.”

Feldman and Hunter exchanged glances. It was unclear whether Filson was attempting to assert himself or simply offering his opinion. But while they didn't yet know what authority Filson might or might not exercise over this operation, they were not about to let an interloper threaten the momentum.

“I've enough confidence in our team to move forward with this story right away,” Feldman replied in a straight, certain tone. “Particularly with the addition of your two crack WNN teams.” He was patronizing Filson, but Filson, apparently, was unaware.

“Not to worry, Filson,” Hunter assured him, “we've got the manpower, the nose and the inside track to get the job done.”

They didn't wait for an approval. As they rose from their chairs, Feldman clapped Hunter soundly on the back. “Brilliant work, buddy. Now, why don't you show me around outside and tell me how you see us putting this story together.”

Erin rose with them, and Filson, who appeared to have an objection, finally closed his mouth and said nothing.

Hunter grinned at Feldman. “All this is starting to make that ol’ presidential election look a tad tame, now isn't it?”

Feldman just smiled.

By the time a furious, anxious Bollinger and his crew arrived with the second Cairo team, Hunter and Feldman had worked out the sequence of shots and storyline for the newscast. Rather than allow the fuming bureau chief any sort of explanation, they simply sat him in front of a monitor along with as many of the crew as could squeeze into the RV, and played him a rough cut of their newscast.

With Feldman providing live commentary, the videotape methodically unveiled the entire bizarre tale. The final segment of their story focused on the beneficiaries of the miracles alleged to have occurred when the lightning struck. Especially poignant was one series of photos showing a paralyzed young girl from southern Alabama, the victim of a car accident some years before. The selected photographs showed the wreckage of the car in which she was injured, shots of her in a body cast and in a wheelchair.

And now, after the events of Millennium Eve, she was seen slightly older, her fresh face beaming as she walked haltingly on two wasted, but obviously functioning legs. The joy and religious rapture of her parents was extremely moving. Entirely convincing.

To counter any end-of-the-world misinterpretations this ‘’miraculous” happening might have fostered, Feldman had crafted a secular ending to the story. A positive message of hope and faith, and the extraordinary power of the mind to heal. A refreshing optimism that disavowed the Samaritans’ claims of miracles and the arrival of a new Messiah. But Hunter had insisted the story close with a slow zoom into the chiseled word “Moshiach.”

There was a momentary pause in the cramped RV, then a growing murmur of amazement, followed by an outburst of applause that included even Filson. Feldman bowed, extended his arms toward Hunter and deferred to his associate, who accepted the praise with a gratified grin.