2013: Beyond Armageddon (7 page)

He looked at his own frail hands, then to Zeke.

“If the scroll is Lot blowing the trumpet—and he says as much—then cursing it would be Satan’s way of keeping it from being heeded. Certainly I did not heed it. So passing the scroll on to you is me trying to get the blood off my hands. Satan might also have enjoyed the potential for inflicting suffering on anyone who defied the curse.”

It sounded like a stretch. Zeke tried to keep the skepticism off his face.

“By the way,” the professor went on, “that passage about the watchman is in the book of Ezekiel. I know you said your name had something to do with being an athlete, but the coincidence is interesting, don’t you think?”

“Sure—‘coincidence’ being the key word.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it. Have you read the book of Ezekiel?”

“Being a Catholic with that name, I almost had to.”

“Then as you know, it’s essentially a conversation between God and Ezekiel. Ninety-three times He refers to Ezekiel as the Son of man. He does that in no other book except Daniel, and then only once. Of course, in the New Testament, Son of man refers to Jesus, while in Ezekiel, many Biblical scholars say God is only emphasizing the prophet’s humanity. Still, it’s quite compelling, don’t you think?”

“Not really. Ezekiel was a prophet, for God’s sake. I can’t even handicap a horse race good enough to cash a show ticket. And you still haven’t answered the question.”

“I don’t have the answers, Ezekiel. Just a hypothesis, which I think is a good one. The only way to get definitive answers is to undertake this quest. And succeed. Then you can ask Satan, Lucifer—whoever, whatever he is—face-to-face, and you will have paved the way for His return. Remember the famous passage from Malachi, the last book of the Old Testament? It was another of my lectures: ‘Behold, I will send my messenger, and he shall prepare the way before me.’”

“I do remember that passage. Most Biblical scholars think Malachi was talking about John the Baptist.”

“Perhaps. They’re guessing like the rest of us. Their guesses are just more educated.”

The old man collapsed into his recliner again, sorely taxed by more talking than he had probably done in months, maybe years. After several deep breaths he went on.

“I see your skepticism, Ezekiel. And I don’t blame you. The idea of a literal Satan skulking around, responsible for the evil that men do. It flies in the face of everything we know of human nature, of all the theories so carefully worked out by demigods like Freud and Jung. But factor this into your thinking. The safe, the
easy
thing to do is dismiss the idea as hogwash. Believing is much more difficult. It will bring you scorn. But if we do not believe there is such a thing as evil we are doomed. Beaudelaire said it best: ‘The Devil’s deepest wile is to persuade us that he does not exist.’”

Dr.—Father—Connolly closed his eyes. Zeke looked at the jar looming by the door, then around the room at the devastation it had caused. The priest’s most chilling words echoed inside Zeke’s head:

“Satan himself was warning me…he would keep my soul in Hell…keep my soul in Hell…keep my soul in Hell…”

Father Connolly had never been one to accept any idea without subjecting it to rigorous intellectual scrutiny. But shut up like this for years, alone, tormenting himself over a stolen scroll… Zeke couldn’t imagine a person
not
hearing voices in this hellhole.

He shook his head, an involuntary twitch against the professor’s theory. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life on a patently absurd wild goose chase. But what if Father Connolly were right? Zeke forced himself to at least consider his notion that some divine destiny had brought them to this moment.

His mind went immediately to the voice he’d heard that day in the emergency room. Had it been God reaching out to him? Was the scroll his way of reaching out again through Enoch? God’s messenger? Zeke closed his eyes and tried to conjure up those lost twelve minutes. A few words bubbled up from the depths of his unconscious.

“…bless and keep you, Ezekiel…supreme test…Messiah…”

Voices. He stared at the jar.

That night in the jungle, Price mentioned hearing the voice of God. “Not your god,” he had said. Zeke had wondered about it ever since. Had Price heard the voice of Satan?

A feeling deep within him stirred. It was the compressed ball of rage he kept locked away in the darkest chamber of his heart. The memory of that night was its fuel.

He had felt a shadow stalking him that night. Had the Archenemy pulled the trigger?

The question couldn’t be answered. Even if it could, he saw no way to launch an archaeological expedition. He would be getting married soon. And Leah couldn’t get that kind of time off—not that she’d want to. Zeke focused on the essentials of the situation.

To refuse would be to deny his friend’s dying wish. He owed Father Connolly this much. Just taking the scroll wouldn’t hurt anything. He wouldn’t make any promises, that’s all.

“I will take the scroll. And I will look into it.”

The man who called himself James Connolly opened his eyes and smiled, a much more pleasing and contented smile now. A peaceful smile. “I have known for years that if anyone could do this, you were the one.”

Zeke wasn’t about to get into a drawn-out debate about Fate and Destiny and being Chosen. For both their sakes this conversation needed to be ended. The priest’s failing body and Zeke’s brain had been pushed to their limits. The hot stale reek of tobacco and beer and death was like a hand jutting up from the grave to smother him. He needed fresh air badly. But now that he had agreed to take the scroll, there was one more crucial bit of information he needed to help him decide what to do with it later. He didn’t want to tax Father Connolly any further, but as much as possible he had to know what he was getting himself into.

“Before I go,” he said, “I have to ask you something. You said at one time you wanted to lead an expedition to try to defeat Satan. But you also said you don’t believe any human can defeat him; that you’d need some kind of divine intervention, some assistance from God. How exactly did you hope to attain that? If I were going to confront Satan—on his home turf, no less—I’d need something more concrete than hoping God would show up to bail me out.”

The old man found some final reserve of strength and pulled himself into an alert and upright position.

“Believe me, I thought about that long and hard. I could never escape the conclusion that defeating Satan in Hell is beyond the capacity of Man alone. The ultimate Evil could only be defeated by the ultimate Good. Meaning God. Enoch’s scroll confirms this. But you’re right: you can’t go down there with nothing but hope. So I decided that, if I ever did it, I would take the most sacred relics I could get my hands on. It would be like taking portable bits of God’s power with me. But I’m not a naïve fool, either. I know that’s no guarantee of anything. That’s why I emphasized the need for faith. You have to
believe
that there is a God, and that He will be there for you in the final showdown. After all, it’s
his
final showdown, in a battle that’s been brewing since before the beginning of time. You’re just the point man. If you don’t believe He’s going to be there, you have no chance. At least that’s how I see it.”

His speech was punctuated by frequent small gulps, as though he were hiccupping up what was left of his life. It pained Zeke to continue, but his own life might be on the line, too.

“And how were you going to obtain these relics?” he asked. “My first thought is that the Vatican would have had the best ones, but you had burned that bridge.”

“True. But the Vatican would never give up their prized relics anyway. No, I had another connection, but I never pursued it. An ex-colleague of mine on the faculty at Catholic University. He was a layman, but he was more zealous about Catholicism than any of the clergy I ever knew. His specialty was eschatology—the branch of study having to do with the end of the world. That inevitably includes speculation about Judgment Day, the Second Coming, the Messiah, those types of things. He ate, slept, and breathed it. His courses were usually the most popular. When the new millennium was approaching, he told me he couldn’t maintain his academic neutrality any more. He believed the end was near and wanted to do something to pave the way for the Second Coming.”

Zeke waited an agonized moment for him to catch his breath, which did not seem a certainty. He still had the useless oxygen tubes in his nose. Zeke wanted to tell him that it might help his breathing to take them out, but before he could say anything the ex-priest went on.

“So he quit and moved to Jerusalem. It turned out he was quite rich, had made some clever investments. Occasionally I would get a call from him, telling me about his latest acquisition. The rarest of finds: pieces of the Crucifix, the Crown of Thorns. It’s virtually impossible to prove the authenticity of those things, but his stories were always quite convincing. His plan was to buy up anything remotely associated with Christ, thinking that if he got enough Jesus relics, their combined power might bring Him back. Whatever the case, if I had ever gone through with my plan, he’s the one I would have contacted.”

“Do you still have a way to reach him?”

“He gave me his number, but I’ve never used it. The last time we spoke he was getting himself worked up again about 2012. He had retreated to some hidden lair and sounded like he was fashioning himself into some kind of latter-day John the Baptist. He used the word Forerunner to describe himself. John the Baptist was called that, because his mission was to pave the way for the Lord.”

It sounded far-fetched, but if it came to that, it might worth checking out. “I’ll take his number,” Zeke said, “just in case.”

The old man nodded at his personal phone book on the table. “It’s in there, under U. Anthony Unger.” Zeke copied the number. “My notes on the scrolls are in a briefcase on that same shelf in the closet. Take it with you also.”

Zeke set the briefcase beside the jar at the door, then went to the recliner. He crouched and wrapped both of his large hands around one of his friend’s small ones. “This has been a most interesting evening. I will be in touch soon. Are you sure you’re all right staying here by yourself?”

Father Connolly appeared to be at peace. “I will be fine—now. I thank you from the bottom of my soul for coming, my dear Ezekiel. You will never know how much.”

Zeke gave the small hand a final affectionate squeeze. “Good night, Father. You take very good care of yourself.”

The fallen priest gave a small nod and Zeke left.

Zeke started the car and looked at the clock on his dash. Six-fifteen. His family and Leah were waiting at the Bipartisan, probably laughing and having a good old time.

Zeke sped away. He could use a drink and some happy faces.

Maybe he would make a quick stop at that florist near the restaurant and get Leah some flowers.

By the time he reached the corner he had called 911 to send an ambulance for his dying friend. In another part of his mind, he knew he’d never see Father James Connolly alive again.

Inside the cottage, the only sound was the old man’s raspy breathing, the precursor of the death rattle. In his hands he held his priest’s collar. With enormous effort he’d gotten it from a box in his closet.

He collapsed deeper into the recliner, his chest heaving erratically as he gasped for air. Even as he suffered the agonies of death he felt thankful.

Thankful Ezekiel had not asked more questions.

Thankful he hadn’t had to describe the hideous faces in his nightmares.

Thankful he hadn’t had to dredge up the worst memory of all:

The tongues.

He felt a horrible shame for not telling his beloved pupil the fullness of the evil the scroll had brought him.

Finally he heard the long-awaited rattle of death escape from his throat, and for him the nightmare was over.

For Ezekiel Sloan, it had just begun.

The Awakening

Thus saith the Lord God:

An evil, an only evil, behold,

is come.

Ezekiel 7:5

Jericho. The West Bank. October 5

The sudden mental image brought a pang of foreboding that made the café owner put down his espresso and lean back in his chair. He had been trying to muster the energy to get up and lock the doors one last time when the startlingly clear vision had popped into his head.

Tarik hadn’t thought of the priest in years. Now, suddenly, he saw him lying dead in a chair. Next to him on a table was the jar that Tarik would never forget. The cursed jar with the scrolls.

For several seconds the vision lingered, so vivid it felt like Tarik was in the room with the priest. Why would such a thing pop into his head? Was it a premonition?

He remembered the guilt he had felt for selling a holy man something that might bode him ill. How long ago had that been? His tired old brain wasn’t up to doing the math. Sixty years, at least. Alone in his café, he had been sitting by the front window thinking about his life, about how the threat of terrorism had killed his once-thriving business. So much for the 1993 Oslo Accords. So much for U.N. resolutions.

He tried to think of happier things. Since 1950 he had made the Oasis a place where visitors from all over the world—even America—could feel safe, could come and relax on their tour of the Holy Land. He smiled at the memory of many lively discussions about the nearby Mount of Temptation, where the Devil supposedly tempted Jesus in the wilderness. Often the discussions had turned into shouting matches, with several different languages being yelled at once. The notion that Satan could defeat God had almost started more than a few fistfights. Thank Allah for Hassan.

His son had worked in the Oasis from the time he was a boy until he went away to college. Always big for his age, even as a very young teenager he had never hesitated to walk into the middle of a heated discussion and ask everyone to calm down. Invariably everyone did. Not just because of his size. Although Hassan was always polite about it, there was never any doubt that he meant business. He was fearless. He got that from his mother.