The Last Day (13 page)

The eyes were bold and dark and unwavering. The nose was prominent, Romanesque. The cheekbones high, the jawline strong. The dark hair was of medium length and splayed wildly in the wind.

There was a wrath-of-God intensity here. An intimidating, anguished, judgmental sternness. Yet, while the brow was furrowed, the eyes were almost sorrowful. The lips were parted and full. This was a youthful face, but there was an aged wisdom to it. It was noble, intelligent, authoritative.

“Holy shit!” Hunter exhaled. “There's a Messiah figure for you!”

And Feldman had to agree.

25

Brookforest subdivision, Racine, Wisconsin 6:17
P.M
., Monday, January 3, 2000

M
ichelle Martin had her family gathered about her in the family room in front of the TV. She was not about to watch yet another fearsome WNN special without the maximum amount of emotional support she could muster.

Beside her on the sofa was Tom, her husband of twenty-six years. He was a large, placid, heavy set man with thick wire-rimmed glasses that magnified his serene blue eyes twofold, the by-product of a lifetime crunching numbers at the local bank. Seated on the floor at his feet was Tom Junior, a big-boned boy of seventeen, his dad all over again, less the weight and glasses.

On Mrs. Martin's opposite side was her daughter, Shelley, in a baggy University of Wisconsin sweatshirt. Twenty years of age, fresh-faced, she resembled her mother in both appearance and nervous temperament. Sprawled at the edge of the couch with his head in the daughter's lap was the family dog, a medium-size, lop-eared animal of mixed lineage.

All sat motionless, staring mesmerized at the TV.

“Mr. Krazinski says this young boy is the Herald of the Second Coming!” Mrs. Martin whispered. “He says the boy will summon the archangel Gabriel, who will announce Christ to the world!”

“Old Krazinski is as unbalanced as his checkbook,” Tom Senior snorted sardonically. “He was overdrawn at the bank six times last month.”

“Yeah,” the son snickered. “He says aliens have been stealing his Social Security checks!”

“Shhhh!” the daughter complained, “they're going to run the Messiah tape now!”

The room quieted as the haunting video appeared on the TV and the strange sequence of events at King David Square unfolded in a grainy, surreal black and white.

When the report reached its climax and the distorted image of the Messiah's face began its slow magnification and refinement the final image filling the screen was so spectral, so bold, so powerful and overwhelming, neither Michelle nor Shelley Martin could contain themselves any longer.

While father and son could only stare spellbound and wide-eyed at the apparition on the TV in front of them, the mother and daughter—and millions like them all across the world—swooned and fell upon their knees, enraptured before the Face of God.

The dog yelped and bolted from the room.

26

Ben-Gurion apartment complex, Jerusalem, Israel 10:41
A.M
., Tuesday, January 4, 2000

F
eldman was sleeping well past his intended wake-up. He was having another dream. This time, he was skating out on a huge body of water, all by himself, racing along at a rapid clip with powerful, sure strokes of his long legs. It reminded him of winters at Ohio State when he used to ice-skate with friends on the large pond near his dormitory.

Only in his dream, it was warm and balmy and the lake wasn't frozen. He was skimming across the surface of an open sea—the Sea of Galilee. Although he'd never been here before, somehow he knew. He was heading for shore. Skating on his bare feet. The wind in his face, the sun glowing brilliantly above. It was exhilarating. Skidding sideways, spinning, turning, sliding, magically flinging himself across the swells. Until he almost casually sensed the presence of a rising wave behind him. Dark, ominous, rumbling and surging toward him.

He straightened out his heading and quickened his pace toward the shoreline. But the wave was growing, towering behind him, gaining on him. It was a tidal wave! A tsunami!

Feldman was tearing frantically over the swells now. He dared not look back. He need not look back, because he was now engulfed in the dark shadow of the wall of water and enveloped in a deafening roar. He was scant yards from the shore and safety when the deluge crashed down on him, rolling him, twisting him in his bedclothes.

He sat up with a start, breathless, sweaty, but so relieved to be rescued that he broke into a smile.

Until he noticed the clock on his nightstand. He'd wasted precious hours of the one day he had available to spend with Anke.

27

The Vatican, Rome, Italy 6:06
P.M
., Tuesday, January 4, 2000

H
is Eminence Alphonse Bongiorno Litti, one of the pope's trusted cardinal advisors, depressed the massive bronze lever of a huge, carved-mahogany door and entered the resplendent anteroom of the Papal Palace Apartments. Awaiting him in large, overstuffed, seventeenth-century French settees, were Pope Nicholas VI and Antonio di Concerci, prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith of the Catholic Church in Rome.

Litti was an affable-looking, unimposing man, five feet eight inches in height, olive-skinned, heavyset, in his late sixties. His large brown eyes were naturally sad, burdened by prominent dark bags, separated by a protruding nose. His hair was a wiry salt-and-pepper. The click of his heels on the marble floor attracted the attention of di Concerci, who looked up, nodded briefly at his approaching colleague and returned to paperwork he and the pope were examining.

Di Concerci, on the other hand, was large of frame, but agile, elegant and deliberate in his movements. A vigorous seventy-one years of age, he had a long, dignified, face, with high cheekbones and deep-set, penetrating, dark brown eyes. His white hair was full and wavy underneath his bright red cardinal's skullcap.

Too late for di Concerci to notice, Litti returned the nod in an equally reserved manner, and greeted his pontiff with a respectful, “Your Holiness.”

“Buona sera,
Alphonse,” Nicholas acknowledged and waved him to the empty chair on his right.

“You look tired,
Papa.”
Litti noted with concern Nicholas's surprisingly pale and drawn appearance.

The pontiff managed a thin smile and patted his associate's arm reassuringly. “These are tiring times, Alphonse.”

As was their custom, an acolyte delivered cognacs to the room in long-stem glasses. Nicholas accepted his glass, but immediately set it upon the intricately carved ivory coffee table before him. He placed his elbows on his armrests, his chin in his left palm, and focused on one of the sculpted figurines whose heads supported the tabletop. “Do we have a full damage assessment from the tremor?” he asked.

“Yes, Holiness,” Cardinal Litti replied. ‘Nothing more than the fresco in the chapel and the High Altar in the basilica.” Litti was referring to Michelangelo's
Last Judgment
on the rear wall of the Sistine Chapel, and also to the main altar of St Peter's Basilica.

“Have you inspected the damage personally?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“The crack in the fresco is about two and a half meters long, perhaps three centimeters across at its widest. Deep, but surprisingly not a structural problem. The altar, however, has split entirely in two, but did not collapse. The weight of the two marble slabs against one another managed to hold it upright. As a precaution, we've temporarily shored it up in the middle.”

“That is the extent?”

“That's all that the engineers and I have been able to discover.”

The pope fell silent and leaned back in the massive chair, pressing two fingertips of his left hand to his cheek. “So what do you make of all this, Alphonse?”

The cardinal didn't know quite how to answer. He was not comfortable in di Concerci's presence, an acute conflict of personalities having established itself many years before. He took a sip of his drink and stalled, searching for a noncommittal response.

“Don't make it difficult for me tonight, Alphonse,” Nicholas pressed gently. “I want you to speak your mind.”

Litti took a sideways glance at the pope's face and perceived an earnestness he could not disappoint. “I find it very peculiar, all of this, Holiness,” the cardinal had to admit. “From the strange events in the Holy Land to the tremor here in Rome, I confess, I feel a certain preternatural quality at work here.”

He waited for some sort of reaction from either man before continuing, but di Concerci was looking away toward the window, and Nicholas had resumed his fixation on the figurine. Not wishing to be difficult tonight, Litti continued.

“I simply cannot reconcile as coincidence the timing and location of the storm and quake in Bethlehem, Holy Father. Not to mention the appearance of this Messiah figure, or all the alleged miracles:

“Or even the odd occurrences here at the Vatican— the conspicuous crack in the chapel wall, appearing, of all places, in the image of Michelangelo's
Last Judgment.
Extending from the feet of the triumphant Savior in the sky down to the earth where the souls of the resurrected dead are being judged. With no other visible fractures elsewhere in the mural.

“And then the High Altar of the basilica, foot-thick marble, splitting cleanly and precisely in the middle. With far more delicate objects nearby completely unaffected!”

Deliberating over the totality of these seeming miracles, Litti's voice softened to a faint, reverent whisper. “Holiness, I believe the Church must examine these circumstances seriously and with great care. With every assumption that most, perhaps all, of these extraordinary events are true signs from God!”

Litti fell silent and the pope allowed a considerable interlude, displaying no reaction to the cardinal's position, but continuing his unblinking introspection.

At length, and without altering his gaze, the pope asked his prefect, “And your analysis, Antonio?”

Di Concerci rose slowly from his chair, took several steps toward the large leaded-glass window near him, and looked out over the broad expanse of St. Peter's Square at the multitude of millenarians below. He spoke without turning. “While I can fully appreciate Cardinal Litti's impulses, and I'll grant you, these events are certainly peculiar, I must take a more pragmatic posture,
Papa.
”

Litti could feel his face reddening. This was precisely why he had wished to defer his comments until after the prefect's. Litti had never understood the pontiff's regard for this man.

Di Concerci turned and moved around to Nicholas's side, to the subtle exclusion of Litti. “I agree that these events are worthy of examination,” he continued, “but not with the assumption that they are signs from God. Throughout the past century, Holy Mother Church has correctly approached all such alleged miracles and signs with deserved skepticism. And that approach has served us well. In this particular instance, there are any number of alternative explanations that
do not
invoke divine intervention.”

This last statement finally reengaged the pope. He examined the prefect's stolid face.

Di Concerci continued his argument. “That a quake could occur here coincident with one in Bethlehem is not so implausible. The entire Mediterranean, after all, is one giant tectonic basin. Perhaps one quake triggered the other.

“It's also a well-documented, scientific fact that electrical storms can be generated by, and often accompany, such geological disturbances as volcanoes and earthquakes.

“Then, there is also the feasibility that these quakes, both here and in Bethlehem, were the result of a deliberate well-orchestrated scheme. An elaborate plot involving underground explosions detonated by certain millenarians desperate to preserve their cults and insure themselves against embarrassment.”

Litti could not contain a short derisive laugh. Di Concerci paid him a forgiving, tolerant look and posed a question. “Cardinal Litti, can you demonstrate beyond any reasonable doubt that the damages to the chapel and basilica were not man-made?”

The cardinal would have liked nothing better than to muzzle his rival, but he had no effective defense to this challenge. Instead, Litti countered with a pointed question of his own. “How then, di Concerci, do you explain the transformation of the invalid boy at the Well of David? The fissure that opened at his feet along his path to the temple? The many miraculous cures experienced by hundreds of afflicted bystanders at the very stroke of the millennium? Surely you cannot so easily dismiss these phenomena!”

Di Concerci was ever composed. “I must confess, Alphonse, I found the dramatic television newscasts of the so-called Messiah quite impressive, too. But then I had to let reason take hold. Much of what was reported must be discounted as speculation and hearsay, greatly magnified by impressionable witnesses and an opportunistic media. What substance remains is still vulnerable to scrutiny.

“For example, the question of the boy Messiah: given the great emotions and expectations these millenarians have invested in a Second Coming, would it not be inevitable that at least one of them might succumb to some sort of messianic manifestation? This is a common psychological disorder even in the most normal of times.

“Or, more likely, could all of this have been simply a grand, elaborate hoax? Perhaps the boy was never afflicted at all. A well-coached impostor. What better mechanism than a new Messiah to guarantee extended life for an otherwise doomed religious fringe element?”

Di Concerci's supreme self-assurance was gnawing at Litti, who saw through the prefect's conscious efforts to appear reasonable and wise in front of Nicholas. “But the fissure?’ Litti objected. “The many people cured of substantiated ills? You cannot rationalize away everything, di Concerci!”

“I'm sorry, Cardinal Litti, but did you not notice that the alleged fissure at the well was undetectable in the night video? It was only visible in daylight, in video taken many hours later. Plenty of time for the Samaritans to trench an artificial opening. Or perhaps the fissure was constructed prior to the boy's presumed transformation, with everything simply a cleverly executed special effect.