The Illumination (5 page)

 

 

On a normal Sunday morning, the Radiant Light of Heaven sanctuary vibrated with the energy of a thousand voices raised in praise. The Reverend Ken Mundy knew how to bring his flock surging to their feet. All eyes were fastened on his homely, heavily jowled face, supersized on the screen suspended from the vaulted ceiling. It was a face of sincerity, a face of passion, a face flush with the conviction that the End of Days was near.

It was the same face, the same message, seen on videos every Sunday in the five Radiant Light of Heaven churches scattered throughout Florida, Georgia, Texas, and Michigan. He'd managed to gain an impressive following, despite the fact that the media had branded his church a cult and Mundy himself misguided. The entire mainstream Christian world had disavowed him, his message, and his tactics.

And those narrow-minded fools would disavow my plan, as well, if they knew of it.

Fools. The majority of Christian leaders in the United States—across the world—were passive, misguided fools. They were content to wait, to merely build alliances with the Jews, to pray and prepare themselves for the End of Days. Not one of them had the vision or the courage to be proactive.

But he did. He had not only the vision but the resources. His was a small but mighty cadre of believers. Where mainstream
evangelical preachers could reach millions on an average Sunday, he reached only a few thousand.

But he didn't need a massive following—not when he already had power, money, clout, and the courage to take action.

Waiting patiently at the podium, he looked out at the camera crew, makeup artist, and director preparing to videotape his weekly sermon, then back at his notes. Only those who knew him best—his wife, his attorney, and his closest ally, known to the inner sanctum as the Sentinel—would have recognized the exhilaration humming like harp strings through his soul.

On the surface was a gloss of composure and assurance as thick as the pancake makeup that had dried on his cheeks, but beneath the smooth equanimity there pulsed an energy that would light up this entire church compound if he could plug it into a socket.

Even as he stared intently into the rolling cameras, to meet the eyes of his unseen followers—even as the first words of his sermon resonated through the hall—Mundy wasn't present mentally. He was focused on a time in the not too distant future when all he'd worked for had been realized.

He was envisioning himself in the Holy Land, preaching from a different podium, preaching from the heart of Jerusalem.

Preaching from the Third Temple his followers would build.

A vision had told him that the Rapture was at hand—the ascension of the believers was near. The time of Tribulation foretold in the New Testament was coming—Jesus' return to face off against the Antichrist in the final battle between good and evil.
Armageddon
. Finally Jesus would reign over a world at peace for one thousand years, before delivering it to His Father.

And then all those who had called him a fringe lunatic, a cult leader, a deluded bigot would finally have to accept the truth. He was the only one who had known Armageddon was at hand.

“Ken”—the director's voice snapped him from his reverie—“give us the last three lines one more time. We had a little problem with camera two.”

“Should I pick it up from ‘And on that day, all of our work
and our prayers' . . . ?” Mundy asked, shifting his weight to his other hip.

“That'll do it. Another two hours to edit after that, and it'll be a wrap for this week.”

The taping finished, Mundy headed toward the boardroom at the rear of the low-slung office building adjacent to the church. He greeted the church secretary with a smile and a wave as he yanked off his tie, then he shoved his passkey into an imposing mahogany door. It opened into a long hallway that was plush with sculpted carpeting that silenced his footfalls as he hurried to the soundproofed, private boardroom only a chosen few were permitted to enter. Only his inner sanctum, the Sons of Babylon, were privy to the plans and preparations that went on here.

The Sentinel was waiting for him, leaning back in a club chair, restlessly rustling the pages of the
Wall Street Journal
.

“Has anyone else seen the picture?” Mundy demanded, slinging his navy suit jacket across the leather chair.

“Not a soul.” The Sentinel smiled as he snapped open his briefcase and pulled out a photograph.

Mundy's spirits soared.

The Sentinel never smiled.

Reaching for the glossy image, Mundy's stomach pumped with adrenaline. He stared at the 4 × 6–inch print and gaped at the famed golden talisman he'd only ever attempted to imagine, and felt the room slant.
Good God, it was real. It was beautiful. It was true.

He couldn't wait to see the miracle hidden inside.

“Just as it was described in the Scroll of Daniel.” The Sentinel leaned in closer, his sharp gaze fixed on the full-color image of the jeweled eye. “The Light is coming home.”

“Not if we can't ensure its safe passage.” Perspiration mottled the front of Mundy's shirt as a thousand fears raced through his head. He knew how crucial it was that the Light come to
him
. In the wrong hands . . . He shuddered to consider the consequences. “Where is it now?” he asked.

The Sentinel pushed himself to his feet. The stubble bristling across his jaw annoyed him. He took pride in his appearance,
and he hadn't even shaved today. But there hadn't been time. Weariness clung to him like a wet suit, but he had no time for weariness either. If the prize dropped out of sight again, if they lost the trail, the ancient prophecy would never come to pass in his lifetime.

Without the Light's power and presence, the Sons of Babylon would fail to inaugurate the Rapture. And they were
this close
to raising the Third Temple and to filling it with the Light.

For it was foretold in the Scroll of Daniel that the Light would reappear on earth and shine forth from the Third Temple. And Mundy knew the Light was the key—the all-important precursor to the End of Days.

“It's being taken care of even as we speak,” the Sentinel told Mundy, with a calm that belied his inner tension.

“Barnabas.” Mundy never lifted his gaze from the photograph.

“And I'd like to alert Derrek that we might need him for backup.” The Sentinel watched the reverend's brow furrow, and he headed off the coming argument with a raised hand. “Ken, this is too crucial to be left in the hands of one man. Even Barnabas.”

Mundy traced the talisman in the photo. “I've no objection to alerting Derrek—but Barnabas needs no one's help.”

For a moment they both pictured the fresh-faced young man full of ferocious faith. An anticipatory smile curled the corners of Ken Mundy's full, friendly lips. He could almost smell the fires of the final days.

He thought back to the first time he'd shown Barnabas the model of the future Third Temple. The seventeen-year-old youth leader's eyes had glowed, as if he'd just been anointed by the Holy Spirit itself. The boy had seen it clearly, seen it all: the unfolding of the Rapture, the ascension of all true believers, the beginning of the End Times.

Even then the boy understood the essential role the Third Temple would play in setting the stage for the greatest moment in history—Armageddon, the final battle between good and evil.

On the spot, Barnabas had handed over his pizza delivery tip money, pressing even the loose change into Mundy's palm with the promise to help raise the temple any way he could—even if it meant building it with his own two hands.

He'd been a skinny kid back then, fatherless since he was a toddler, but in the intervening years he had built himself up. He'd followed his basketball coach's weight-lifting regimen religiously, until his muscles had doubled, tripled, and quadrupled on his once slight frame.

Barnabas seemed to possess boundless energy, despite the drains of school, work, church, and caring for his mother, who'd battled cancer and died two weeks short of his college graduation.

Mundy saw himself in Barnabas's struggles. He'd survived childhood hardships of his own—the least of which was growing up without a father. So throughout the travails of Barnabas's youth, Mundy had continuously reassured him that God would provide.

Just as God had provided for Mundy. Now, in Barnabas, He had provided a tireless disciple whose commitment to the Church was as strong as his body.

“Barnabas could have his hands on the Light any time now,” the Sentinel said.

Mundy didn't answer. He was transfixed by his own thoughts, by the excitement churning through his blood. Within a matter of days he, too, might be holding the Light in his hands, God's creative power at his fingertips. Mundy stared at his palms. He never would have imagined that one day he, a poor, humble boy from Tennessee, would hold the light of creation, wielding it in the name of the saved.

The discovery of the Scroll of Daniel among the ancient scrolls found at Qumran had provided a miraculous glimpse into the biblical past. Daniel, the prophet who served in Balshazzar's court and interpreted the king's dreams, had been privileged to see the Light. Experts were still deciphering parts of the Scroll, but had already uncovered Daniel's meticulous description of the unique Light created by the word of God at the
dawn of time. Daniel had written that God's Light would reappear in the world when it was most needed, in the darkest of days. It would resurface to illuminate the path of the Messiah.

For Jesus.

And he, the Reverend Ken Mundy, founder of the Radiant Light of Heaven Church, creator of the secret Sons of Babylon, scorned by the mainstream Christian community, a man who walked a lonely path like his Savior had, would be the one to hold it aloft.

The Sentinel guessed at the thoughts simmering in Mundy's mind. How many hours had the two of them worked, planned, and prayed together for this moment? For a goal that none of Mundy's devoted congregants yet knew anything about—just as they remained in the dark about how much of their weekly offerings their pastor regularly diverted to fund this glorious mission.

Even the wives and children of the Sons of Babylon knew nothing about the task for which Mundy had handpicked these men—to raise the Third Temple in Jerusalem, to rebuild the Jews' holy edifice that was destroyed for the second time in the year
A.D
. 70. To deliver the predestined place where Jesus would unite the world in the one true faith.

“The Light is almost home.” The Sentinel snapped his briefcase closed and met Mundy's hope-filled eyes. “Pray that no one else realizes it has surfaced.”

Mundy tucked the photograph deep into the left breast pocket of his suit as they started together for the door. “I'll spend the rest of the night speaking to the Lord, asking him to guide Barnabas's hand.”

 

 

“I'm sorry, Mr. —” Lita Smith glanced again at the security badge clipped to Rusty Sutherland's shirt pocket and offered a rueful smile. “Mr. Sutherland. But Dr. Landau left for lunch not five minutes ago. You must have crossed paths at the elevator.”

Rusty cocked his forearm to check his watch. He'd been on the go for more than sixteen hours and was falling off his feet. Not to mention the fact that he had a family waiting, a family he hadn't seen in months.

“Can I leave something for her, then? I just got back from Iraq, and I'm dropping off a gift from her sister.”

The young assistant, who sported spiky red hair and rings on every finger, glanced down at the pouch he pushed across the reception desk. “Oh! From Dana?” A warmer smile. “I know Dr. Landau is counting the days until her sister gets back.”

She stood up and reached for the pouch. “Sure, I'll put it right on her desk.”

Rusty thanked her wearily and trudged back toward the elevator. The Simon and Garfunkel refrain, “Home . . . homeward bound . . .” circled in his head. His steps quickened as he crossed the lobby.

But as he stepped toward the curb to hail a cab he was nearly knocked sideways by a jogger plowing into him.

“Whoa, sorry. Are you alright? I guess I wasn't looking where I was going . . .”

Rusty blinked, trying to clear his head. He felt woozy suddenly, with a strange warmth rushing through his body, like he'd just tossed back half a dozen shots of tequila on an empty stomach. The husky kid who'd collided with him was staring at him in concern. He couldn't have been more than twenty-four or twenty-five, clean-cut, his brown eyes sincere and worried.

Rusty tried to speak and couldn't. He swayed, and the young man gripped his arms.

“Sir, are you alright? Let me put you in a cab.” With that the brawny, blond-haired kid's arm shot up, his finger signaling toward the stream of oncoming traffic.

A haze filmed Rusty's eyes, but blinking didn't clear his vision. Why couldn't he speak? He felt himself being eased into a cab, but with a curious sense of detachment, as if he was watching from someplace outside of himself.

He was thirsty, and he was sweating.

I'm going to be sick.

He heard the young man give the cab driver an address, but he couldn't make out the street. Home. He wanted to go home. He had to get to the train station. He tried to tell the cabbie to take him to Grand Central Station, but all that came out was an unintelligible croak.

“He's in bad shape, man. But I'm his sponsor. I'll get him to his AA meeting.”

What the hell is he talking about?

Rusty could see the door handle; he just couldn't reach it. His hand felt too heavy. His eyelids were heavy, too. He fought against the enveloping darkness but felt himself slipping deeper into its suffocating spell.

And then he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't hang on any longer.
Darkness.