2013: Beyond Armageddon (12 page)

Mordecai shook his head sadly. “I don’t know. Itzhak Rabin tried, remember? He signed the Peace Agreement. The so-called Oslo Accords. He got assassinated for his trouble.” The memory triggered a flare of anger. “But we
can’t
give up. Even though, at this moment, I want to. My faith is shaken, too. I want to shake my fist at God and tell Him to show Himself, to prove that He can save us. But I know it is foolishness to wait for a Messiah, for a day that may never come. God or no God, it is up to us. And we cannot give up. The future of both our peoples is being destroyed. Norah’s death cannot have been in vain.
We
must do something.”

“Yes, we must.” In the dying light they stood before the lone olive tree. The sobbing was quite distinct now, although no one else was around. And no cat. “Do you hear that?”

“Yes.”

The pathetic sound seemed to come from the tree itself. They walked around it, inspecting its massive trunk, looking up at its fluttering canopy of silvery leaves, gauging its sprawling root system.

“Look at this,” Mordecai said. Hassan heard an urgency in his voice. He was pointing at a spot on the trunk of the ancient tree. The sobbing was loudest there. Hassan leaned close to inspect it.

A few inches apart, two thin parallel streams of what looked like water trickled down the bark and disappeared into the earth. The tree itself seemed to be weeping.

“Is it possible?” Hassan said. He heard the awe in his own voice.

“That this is the tree from which Judas hanged himself? And that the ghost of Judas is somehow condemned to weep here for all eternity?”

“Yes.”

“But how could no one else have seen or heard this for two thousand years?”

The sobbing seemed to vibrate within Hassan’s soul. He looked back up the Mount of Olives, and was suddenly overwhelmed at the thought of the millions who had died fighting for this land, even to the point of killing the Son of God who had been sent to save them.

Mordecai waited for an answer with an almost desperate look on his face.

“Perhaps Norah’s death has opened our eyes and ears like none before us,” Hassan said. “Perhaps we have been chosen to see this.”

“Why? Why us?”

“Why not us?”

“But… there must be a simpler explanation for this phenomenon.”

“What other explanation could there be?” Hassan said. “That someone has somehow installed a tape recorder and a couple small hoses inside the tree, and is remote controlling them for our benefit and ours only?”

Mordecai laughed uneasily at the foolishness of the notion. He tried to think, but the raw despair of the sobbing was unbearable. Hassan had to raise his voice to be heard.

“If we truly believe that some greater power controls things, then clearly we are witnessing a miracle. Performed specifically for us.” He put a hand on Mordecai’s shoulder. “I see it as a cry for help.” Hassan thought for a moment. “Have you heard about this Mayan prediction that time will end this year?”

“How could I not? It’s all over the news, the Internet, everywhere.”

“The world will not end, we both know that. But the attention of virtually the entire human race will be focused on that single moment, perhaps more intensely than on any of the countless apocalyptic predictions that have come and gone. What I see in all the speculation is people longing for one cosmic moment, when the minds of all decent human beings will think as one brain with one thought: the time has come for us to stop destroying ourselves. It is time to choose the path of hope over the path of despair. I’m sure you’ve heard the famous quote: ‘The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.’”

Mordecai nodded.

“The timing will never be better. We must do something, my dear friend.” He looked up the Mount toward Norah’s grave. “Not only so that her death will not be in vain.” He gestured toward the trails running down the tree, then spread his arms to indicate the land all around.

“Somehow we must stop the endless stream of blood and tears. By all that’s holy, thousands of years of suffering are enough.”

Washington, D.C. October 9

After lingering briefly with the mourners, Zeke had hurried to the hospital to pick up Leah. She’d waved away the wheelchair. She was walking fine. A little weak, but fine. Even so, when they reached the front door he picked her up and carried her across the threshold.

“Welcome home.”

“It’s great to be here.”

“Come on. I’ll fix us some lunch.”

“I’m going to take a shower while you do that. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“You got it.”

He followed her up the stairs, ready to catch her if she fell. He watched nervously as she got into the shower, then pulled off the inch-square bandage over her heart. A pink welt with a few stitches was all that was left of the wound.

“It’s healing well,” Zeke said.

Leah nodded. “The stitches will fall out by themselves. The doctor said eventually you’ll never be able to tell it was there.”

They exchanged a quick glance. Zeke knew they were both thinking the same thing: the scar inside would never go away. He wanted to get in the shower with her, just to hold her, but this wasn’t the time. He gently kissed the pink welt and left to make lunch.

On the way to the kitchen he stopped in his office to check his answering machine. There were nine messages. He listened to each one just long enough to see who it was and if it was urgent.

The third one was from Reese. He let it play all the way through.

“Just wanted to let you know me and my family are here for you and Leah. You two take as much time as you need, don’t worry about the gym. If you need anything whatsoever, call me and I’ll take care of it. I got your back. We love you both.”

Zeke wiped his eyes, fast-forwarded through the rest of the messages and headed into the kitchen.

Leah walked in just as he finished putting the sandwiches on the table. The shower had washed away some of her hospital pallor. Her long dark hair had regained some of its luster, and a hint of color had returned to her cheeks. She wore her familiar blue terrycloth robe with the red roses embroidered over the pocket. Zeke hugged her. “God, you look beautiful.”

“You too.”

They held the embrace, then sat at the small kitchen table. “Nothing fancy,” Zeke said. “Baloney and cheese sandwiches and chips.”

“Perfect. I have been longing for a potato chip.”

“You came to the right place.”

Between bites Zeke said, “Reese left a message, offering us any help we need. Wanted to let us know him and his family love us.”

“They’re the best.” Through tear-blurred eyes she added, “I love them too.”

They finished lunch and went into the living room. Leah laid back on the sofa and used Zeke’s lap as a footrest. He gently massaged her feet.

“What day is this?” she asked.

“Tuesday. October 9. Not quite a week.”

“The week from hell.”

“More than you know.”

“What do you mean?”

Zeke regretted having said it. He didn’t want to get into all that now. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Tell me now.”

“Later,” he said. “It can wait. Everything can wait.”

He rubbed her feet until she fell asleep. He began to doze, waking up periodically to stare at her, always with the same thought.

She was all he had left.

Zeke fixed an elaborate salad for dinner. When they finished eating Leah said, “Tell me what you were going to tell me, Zeke.”

“Come on. I need to show you something first.” They went into Zeke’s office. He pulled up a chair so she could sit beside him at his desk. The scroll translations lay before them on the desktop.

“The night of the shooting, you remember I went to see my old college professor, Dr. Connolly?”

She nodded.

“He was in bad shape. Dying. When I left him that night I called 911 to have someone come get him. Once you were finally stabilized at the hospital, I called them again to see how he was. It turned out he was dead when the ambulance got there.”

“Ah, Zeke. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Zeke made a slight shrug. “It’s sad, it’s always sad, but it was his time. He was pushing ninety, and it seemed like he wanted to go. Anyway, he was a genius on ancient language. These are his translations of two ancient scrolls he gave me. The scrolls themselves are in the safe. I’ve skimmed the translations. I got the gist, but my mind isn’t really up to it now. I don’t want you getting bogged down in them, either. There’ll plenty of time for that later. But you should at least look them over before we have this conversation.”

She became immersed in the translations, finally looking up at Zeke. “I know that experts pick these things apart for years, but just taking them at face value, they’re mind-boggling. A warning from God’s personal scribe. And Lot was the one whose wife turned into a pillar of salt, right?”

“Right. Let me put it all in context.”

He told her everything he and Connolly had discussed.

“So Lot’s scroll could lead to Satan and Hell?”

“Dr. Connolly thought so. I told him I’d look into it. I haven’t yet, but I will, when I’m up to it. For now, let me just tell you what’s happened since I got the scrolls. I hadn’t had them for an hour when that scumbag started shooting in the Bipartisan.”

He rushed past that raw wound to tell her the rest: the vision outside her hospital window, the voice on the phone saying “you are mine,” Michael Price calling to say he would be questioning his family’s killer. He told her about the night in the jungle so she would fully understand how bizarre that was. The Army had sworn him to secrecy, and until now he had told no one, but she needed to know absolutely everything she was getting into. No secrets.

“Dear God,” she said when he finished. “What happened at the restaurant is bad enough, but for you to have gone through something like this twice.” She cast an uneasy glance toward the safe. “You think maybe the scrolls had something to do with what happened? That this whole thing about the Devil might be real?”

“I’m trying not to, but I can’t ignore it. Dr. Connolly believed the scrolls were cursed, and a lot of bad, strange stuff has happened since I got them.”

“So you’re thinking that maybe you’ve been chosen to try to track down Satan. Is that where we’re at?”

“I don’t know. Dr. Connolly tried to make that case, but I didn’t buy it. I’ll have to read the translations more thoroughly, read his notes, do a lot of research. After that it’ll be time for some soul-searching. But all that’s for later. Right now I just want us to be together, to help each other get through this. The rest can wait.”

“That’s what I want, too.”

“We’ll just stay in, let the world spin without us for a while. I stocked up on groceries, so we’re good there.”

“Perfect.”

“There’s just one thing I need to go out for.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m meeting Michael Price tomorrow morning. After he dropped that bomb on me, I felt like I had to. After that it’s just you and me.”

She nodded. “Tonight I’d just like to get a good night’s sleep. But tomorrow night, you know what I’d like to do?”

“What?”

“Watch
It’s A Wonderful Life
.”

A feeble smile forced its way through his pain. “I can set up the home theater Dad gave me.”

Her grip on his hands tightened. “Pick up some Raisinets while you’re out, to go with the popcorn.”

“I will. And some Kleenex.”

Zeke thought about “voices” the next morning as he stood in the bitter cold staring at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

Michael Price claimed he’d heard one that night in the jungle. The madman at the Bipartisan said the voice of Satan made him do it. No matter how hard Zeke tried to keep an open mind, he’d always come to the same conclusion: hogwash.

Until now. Father Connolly had specifically warned about voices, and he’d heard one yesterday morning when Price called: “You’re mine now.”

But he’d been half asleep. It could have been part of that bizarre dream. It struck him that he was having a lot of bizarre dreams lately.

Whatever. He needed to clear his mind for this meeting. When he’d gotten back from Nam, one of the very first things he’d done was come here. He’d vowed that if he ever saw Price again, he’d make him come to the Wall and confront
these
voices. It was a day Zeke never thought would come, and now here it was.

He went to a granite bench and sat. The cold shock to his rear made him wish he’d dressed more warmly. In the wake of the murders he’d lost all track of time, but now he remembered. October.
And it’s this cold.

Figuring out the day took a minute of mental gymnastics. Wednesday. The sky looked liked snow again.
Jesus
.

When he’d gone to his parents’ house to pick out clothes for them to be buried in, he’d taken his dad’s aviator jacket as something to remember him by. He was wearing it now, but it wasn’t getting the job done. He jammed his hands in the pockets, wishing he’d worn gloves.

Two men walked in front of the Wall, looking at the names. One was older, the right age to have been in Vietnam. The other could be his grown son. They wore dark suits under their overcoats, probably on the way to work. The older man pointed to a particular name, and the younger man nodded. In their contemplation Zeke saw a nation coming to terms with the embers of its still-smoldering grief.

He looked at his watch. Almost nine. He’d gotten there early to look around and prepare himself mentally.

A man came walking briskly in his direction, a large Styrofoam cup in each hand. He was well-dressed: expensive-looking black wool overcoat, dark suit, perfectly-tied tie that looked like silk, brightly shined black loafers. Was it him? He was the right size. Had the same no-nonsense athletic walk.

He’d be in his late fifties now, but the smooth, handsome face hadn’t changed much. Zeke noted the time. Nine on the dot. Michael Price sat down beside him and held out one of the cups. “Coffee?”

Zeke hesitated. He didn’t want anything from this man, but he’d been wanting a cup of coffee, had been wondering if he had time to find a street vendor and get back by nine. He took the cup.