The Omen (17 page)

They went by cab to a Hilton hotel, then bought lighter clothing in the men's shop downstairs. It was hot in the city, the sun's rays amplified by the concrete, and Thorn's perspiration soaked into his bandage, bringing fresh pain to the wound under his arm. It was discolored and still draining; as Jennings saw him changing clothes, he suggested they see a doctor. Thorn refused. All he wanted was to find the man Bugenhagen.

It was dark by the hour they were ready. They walked the streets of the city, passing time until their search could begin. Thorn was weak and perspiring freely; they stopped at an outdoor cafe, ordering tea in the hope he would regain his strength. They had little to say to one another now; Jennings was restless, discomforted by the lifeless silence of his companion. As his eyes wandered idly over the activity of the streets, he caught sight of two women watching them nearby.

"You know what we need," he said to Thorn. "To get our minds off everything."

Thorn followed Jennings' gaze, spotting the women who were now heading for the table.

"I get the one with the moles," said Jennings.

Thorn eyed Jennings with revulsion; the photographer stood politely offering the women a seat at their table.

"Speak English?" Jennings asked, as they settled in.

They merely smiled, an indication that they didn't.

"It's nicer that way," said Jennings to Thorn. "All you have to do is point."

Thorn's face filled with disgust.

"I'll be at the hotel," he said.

"Why don't you wait and see what's on the menu?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Might be very tasty," smiled Jennings.

Thorn realized then what he meant, rose and walked away.

"Don't worry about him," Jennings said to the girls. "Anti-semitic."

On the street, Thorn looked back at Jennings. Seeing he already had his hands on them, he turned away, walking off into the night.

He wandered aimlessly, his grief washing over him like a wave. The pain throbbed beneath his arm and the night sounds were alien; he felt that if death were to suddenly take him, it would not be unwelcome. He passed a nightclub, and the doorman grabbed his arm, attempting to persuade him to come inside. But Thorn kept moving, unhearing, unfeeling, seeing the streetlights through blurred eyes. Far ahead people were filing out of a synagogue and as Thorn approached, he saw the doors were open, and he silently entered. The Star of David was illuminated on an altar, biblical scrolls beneath it encased in glass. Thorn approached until he stood before them, alone in the echoing silence.

"Can I help you?" asked a voice from the shadows, and Thorn turned to see an aged rabbi emerging.

He was dressed in black and walked in an arthritic crouch, his small, boxlike hat defying gravity as it stubbornly clung to his head.

"This is the oldest Torah in Israel," he said, indicating the scrolls. "It was unearthed from the shores of the Red Sea."

Thorn regarded the man; his aged eyes, clouded with cataracts, were filled with pride.

"The ground beneath Israel is filled with history," the old man whispered. "A pity we must walk on it."

He turned to Thorn now and smiled.

"Are you visiting?"

"Yes."

"What brings you here?"

"I'm looking for someone," replied Thorn,

"That is why I came here, too. I was looking for my sister. I didn't find her." The man smiled. "Perhaps we're walking upon her, too."

A silence passed and the man reached up, flicking out a light.

"Have you ever heard the name 'Bugenhagen'?" asked Thorn.

"Is it Polish?"

"I don't know."

"He lives in Israel?"

"I believe so."

"What does he do?"

Thorn felt foolish and shook his head.

"I don't know."

"It is a familiar name."

They stood for a time in the darkness, the rabbi pondering it, as if on the verge of recall.

"Do you know what an exorcist is?" asked Thorn.

"An exorcist?" smiled the old man. "You mean with the Devil?"

"Yes."

The rabbi laughed and waved his hand at Thorn.

"Why do you laugh?" asked Thorn.

"There is no such thing."

"No?"

"The Devil. There is no such thing."

He moved off into the darkness, chuckling as though he'd heard a joke. Thorn glanced again at the scriptures, then exited into the night.

Jennings returned early the following morning and spared Thorn any conversation about his exploits the night before. His only gesture of acknowledgment came as he urinated with the bathroom door open; he was urinating into his hands and washing his genitals with the urine. Catching Thorn's expression as he watched him perform this strange and repulsive ritual, he said,

"Taught me this in the RAF. It's as good as penicillin."

Thorn closed the door and waited impatiently for Jennings to dress. He was disgusted to be in the company of this man. But he feared being alone even more.

"Let's go," Jennings said, grabbing his camera bag. "I got us on a tour to the digs when I came in this morning."

They traveled on a mini-bus with ten others through the old city of Jerusalem. There they stopped at the Wailing Wall where the tourists disembarked and greedily took pictures. The commercialism even here was grotesque: vendors moving through the crowds of wailing Jews, shouting over them as they hawked everything from hot dogs to plastic replicas of Christ up on the cross. Jennings bought two such crucifixes, hanging one about his neck, giving the other one to Thorn.

"Put it on, old boy. Might need it."

But Thorn refused, irritated by Jennings behaving as though he were on a joyride.

The trip into the desert was less amusing. The tour guide recounted the recent history of warfare between the Arabs and Jews, pointing out the Golan Heights were most of the major battles had raged. They rumbled through the village of Daa-Lot where a group of Jewish schoolchildren had been massacred by Arab terrorists, and then the tour guide told how another group of terrorists had been captured and killed, their bodies trampled to pulp by schoolchildren in return.

"Now we know what all the wailing's about," muttered Jennings.

Thorn refused to respond and they rode the rest of the way in silence.

When they finally reached the archaeological digs, the tourists were hot and tired, complaining as the tour guide pointed into the roped-off area and explained the work being done. Beneath their feet were King Solomon's quarries, an intricate system of ditches and canals that possibly stretched to Jerusalem, some sixty miles away. Somewhere within the system were the ruins of an ancient city, believed by many to be the site where the Bible itself was created. Text had already been recovered, carefully preserved in pottery and cloth, that reflected stories closely following those in the Old Testament. The dig was an ambitious project, for no one knew exactly where the city lay; it was being uncovered, not with earthmovers but inch by inch, with pick and brush.

As the guide rambled on, Jennings and Thorn sought out some of the archaeological students, but gleaned little information. They were unfamiliar with the name "Bugenhagen," and all they knew about the city of Meggido was that many centuries ago a violent upheaval had caused it to sink into the earth. It was an earthquake, possibly a flood, for they had found snail shells here, far from any known body of water.

Thorn and Jennings returned to their hotel, then moved through the marketplaces, asking everyone and anyone if they had heard the name "Bugenhagen." The name drew a blank, but they pressed onward. Thorn was now desperate and his strength was ebbing; Jennings did most of the legwork inside shops and factories, checking out phone books, even visiting the police.

"Maybe he changed his name," Jennings sighed as they sat on a park bench, the morning of the second day. "Maybe it's George Bugen. Or Jim Hagen. Or Izzy Hagenberg."

The following day they moved to Jerusalem, taking a room in a small hotel there. Once again they moved through the populace, searching for someone who had heard the foreign-sounding name. But it was still no use. They could go on like this forever.

"I say we give it up," Jennings said as he gazed out across the city from the veranda of their room.

It was hot inside and Thorn lay on his bed, bathed in perspiration.

"If there's a Bugenhagen here we haven't a chance in hell of finding him. And for all we know, he doesn't even exist."

He moved inside, rummaging for a cigarette.

"Hell, that little priest was on morphine half the time, and here we are taking his word as gospel. Bloody good thing he didn't tell you to go to the moon or our asses would be freezing right now."

He sat heavily on his bed, gazing across at Thorn.

"I don't know, Thorn. It all made sense before, but now it seems crazy."

Thorn nodded and moved painfully into a sitting position. His bandage was off and Jennings winced as he caught sight of the wound.

"That thing looks bad to me," he said.

"It's all right."

"It looks infected."

"It's all right," Thorn reiterated.

"Why don't I find us a doctor?"

"Just find that old man," Thorn snapped. "He's the only one I want to find."

Jennings was about to reply when he was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. He moved to it and flung it open, casting his eyes upon a beggar. He was a small man, an Arab, aged and naked from the waist up, his eager smile accentuated by a gold tooth as he nodded with exaggerated courtesy.

"What do you want?" asked Jennings.

"You look for the old man?"

Jennings and Thorn exchanged a quick glance.

"What old man?" asked Jennings cautiously.

"They tell me in the marketplace you look for the old man."

"We're looking for a man," Jennings allowed.

"I take you."

Thorn rose with effort, his eyes locking with Jennings.

"Hurry-hurry," urged the Arab. "He say you come right away."

They traveled on foot, moving through the back-streets of Jerusalem in hurried silence, the small Arab leading the way. He was surprisingly swift for a man of his apparent age; Thorn and Jennings struggled to keep up, almost losing sight of him as he plunged into the crowds of a marketplace, emerging at the top of a wall on the other side. He was amused by their fatigue, always keeping twenty yards ahead of them, winding fast through narrow alleys and archways, smiling like a Cheshire cat when they finally caught up with him, gasping for breath. They had apparently reached the end of their journey, but it was a brick wall; Jennings and Thorn were suddenly afraid that they had been tricked.

"Down," said the Arab, as he lifted a grating, gesturing for them to climb in.

"What the hell is this?" asked Jennings.

"Hurry-hurry," the Arab repeated through his grin.

Thorn and Jennings exchanged an apprehensive look, then followed directions; the Arab replaced the grating after entering behind them. It was dark within; the Arab lit a torch, moving quickly ahead of them. He descended downward and they could make out in the dim light a slippery staircase made of rough stone. The street drainage had created a thick coating of brown algae that stank and made movement hazardous. They stumbled as they moved downward, but once on solid ground, the Arab surprised them by taking off at a sprint. They tried to run but could not get traction on the slick stones beneath them. The small man sped away, his torch becoming a mere pinprick of light in the distance. They were in near darkness, the tunnel narrow and confining, the walls almost touching them on either side. It was like a massive drainage canal, or irrigation ditch, and Jennings realized they could well be traveling the intricate system of ancient quarries described by the archaeologist at the digging site in the desert. Solid stone and darkness engulfed them as they moved blindly forward, their footsteps echoing throughout the tunnel ahead and behind. The torchlight had disappeared completely now, and they slowed, realizing they were alone. They could not see one another but felt each other's closeness by the sound of their labored breathing.

"Jennings . . ." Thorn panted.

"I'm here."

"I can't see . . ."

"That bastard . . ."

"Wait for me."

"No choice," replied Jennings. "We've hit a solid wall."

Thorn groped forward and touched Jennings, then felt the wall in front of them. It was a dead end. The Arab had disappeared.

"He didn't pass us going the other way," said Jennings, "I can tell you that."

He lit a match and it illuminated a small area around them. It was like a tomb; the rock ceiling seeming to press downward toward them, its crevasses wet and crawling with roaches.

"Is it a sewer?" said Thorn.

"It's wet," Jennings observed. "Why the hell is it wet?"

His match went off and they stood in darkness.

"This is arid desert. Where the hell's the water coming from?"

"There must be an underground source . . ." Thorn mused.

"Or holding tanks. I wouldn't be surprised if we're near the underground quarry. They found snail shells

out there in the desert; it's possible there was a body of water that filled it up when the earth caved in."

Thorn was silent, his breath still labored.

"Let's go," he panted.

"Through the wall?"

"Back. Let's get out of here."

They began to feel their way back, their hands sliding along the moist rock wall. Their progress was slow, and without vision each inch seemed like a mile. Then Jennings' hand hit an open space.

"Thorn?"

He took Thorn's arm and pulled him up close behind him. Beside them was another corridor leading off at ninety degrees from the one they were on. They had apparently passed it before, unnoticing, in the dark.

"There's a light down there," whispered Thorn.

"Probably our little Gandhi."

They moved into it, groping slowly forward. It was not another avenue of the drainage canal, but a cavern; boulders were strewn in their way, the walls jagged and spearing outward at unexpected points from the side. Feeling their way carefully, they crept forward, beginning to make out the shape of what lay ahead. It was not a single torchlight but a fully illuminated chamber, its shadowy shape containing two men who watched and waited for them as they slowly moved forward. One was the Arab beggar, his extinguished torch held loosely at his side, the other was an elderly man garbed in khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirt, resembling the archaeologists they had seen at the digging site on the desert floor. His face was serious and drawn, his shirt plastered to his body with sweat. Behind him they could see a wooden table stacked with piles of papers and scrolls.

Jennings and Thorn climbed upward, across a threshold of jagged rocks to enter the cubicle and stood there, dumbfounded, squinting against the sudden onslaught of light. The chamber was lit with dozens of

hanging laterns, the shadowed walls betraying the vague contours of buildings and stone stairwells molded directly into the rock. The ground beneath their feet was hardpacked mud, but in patches that had been worn down by dripping stalagtites, they could make out the shape of cobblestones that once lined an ancient street.

"Two hundred drachma," the Arab said with his hand outstretched.

"Can you pay him?" asked the man in khaki shorts.

Thorn and Jennings stared at him; the man in shorts shrugged as if in apology.

"Are you. . . ?" Jennings was interrupted by the man's abrupt nod. "... You're Bugenhagen?"

"Yes."

Jennings eyed him suspiciously.

"Bugenhagen was a seventeenth-century exorcist."

"That was nine generations ago."

"But you . . ."

"I'm the last," he replied abruptly. "And the least."

He moved behind his table and, with effort, sat down; the light from his table lamp revealed a complexion so pallid that it was almost transparent, the veins seen clearly beneath his temples and balding skull. His face was taut, and it was bitter, as though he had no taste for what had to be done.

"What is this place?" asked Thorn.

"City of Jezreel, town of Meggido," he replied without expression. "My fortress, my prison. The place where Christanity began."

"Your prison. . . ?" asked Thorn.

"Geographically, this is the heart of Christianity. So long as I remain within, nothing can harm me."

He paused, regarding their reaction. They were apprehensive, even dubious, and it showed on their faces.

"Can you pay my runner, please?" he asked.

Thorn dipped into his pocket and sorted out some bills; the Arab took them and immediately disappeared from where he came, leaving the three confronting

each other in silence. The room was chilled and damp, Thorn and Jennings shivering as they gazed at their surroundings.

"In this village square," Bugenhagen said, "Roman armies once marched, and old men sat on stone benches whispering rumors of the birth of Christ. The stories they told were recorded here," he said, pointing, "in this building, painstakingly written down and compiled into books we know as the Bible."

Jennings' eyes settled upon a darkened cavern behind them, and Bugenhagen followed his gaze.

"The whole city's here," he said. "Thirty-five kilometers north to south. Most of it passable except for recent cave-ins. They keep digging up there, creating cave-ins down here. By the time they get here, it will all be rubble." He paused, pondering it sadly. "But that's the way of man, isn't it?" he asked. "Assume that everything to be seen is visible on top?"

Thorn and Jennings stood silent, attempting to digest all they were seeing and hearing.

"The little priest," said Bugenhagen. "Is he dead yet?"

Thorn turned to him, jarred by the memory of Tassone.

"Yes," he replied.

"Then sit down, Mr. Thorn. We'd better get to work."

Thorn was reluctant and held his place; the old man's eyes moved to Jennings.

"You'll excuse us. This is for Mr. Thorn alone."

"I'm in this with him," replied Jennings.

"I fear not."

"I brought him here."

"I'm sure he's grateful."

"Thorn . . . ?"

"Do as he says," replied Thorn.

Jennings stiffened with insult.

"Where the hell am I supposed to go?"

"Take one of the lamps," said Bugenhagen.

Jennings reluctantly did as told. Glancing angrily at Thorn, he lifted a lamp from its ledge on the wall and moved off into the darkness.

An uncomfortable silence passed, the old man rising from behind his desk and waiting until the shuffling sounds of Jennings' footsteps had faded.

"Do you trust him?" Bugenhagen asked.

"Yes."

"Trust no one."

He turned and rummaged through a cupboard cut into the rock, withdrawing a package wrapped in cloth.

"Should I trust you?" Thorn asked.

In answer the old man returned to the table and opened his package, revealing seven stilettos that glinted against the light. They were thin and ivory-handled; each handle was carved into the form of Christ on the cross.

"Trust these," he said. "These are all that can save you."

In the caverns behind them, the air was still; Jennings moved through in a half-crouch beneath the low and uneven rock ceiling, gazing with awe into the circle of light shed by the lantern he held in his hand. Within his view were artifacts embedded in the hard-packed walls, skeletons half buried in rock that seemed to reach out from the outlines of gutters and steps that once fronted the ancient street. He moved onward, drawn deeper into the gradually narrowing tunnel.

In the cubicle far behind him, the lights had dimmed; Thorn's eyes were filled with fear as he stared down at the table. Before him the seven stilettos were planted firmly upright, forming the sign of the cross.

"It must be done on hallowed ground," whispered the old man. "The grounds of a church. His blood must be spilled on the altar of God."

His words were punctuated with silence as he studied Thorn, making certain he understood.

"Each knife must be buried to the hilt. To the feet of the Christ figure on each handle . . . planted this way, to form the sign of the cross."

The old man's gnarled hand reached in and, with effort, unstuck the knife in the center.

"The first dagger is the most important. It extinguishes physical life and forms the center of the cross. The subsequent placements extinguish spiritual life, and should radiate outward, like this . . ."

He paused, assessing Thorn's expression.

"You must be devoid of sympathy," he instructed. "This is not a human child."

Thorn struggled to find his voice. When it came, it sounded alien, hoarse and uneven, reflecting his distress.

"What if you're wrong?" he asked. "What if he's not. . ."

"Make no mistake."

"There must be some proof . .."

"He bears a birthmark. A sequence of sixes."

Thorn's breath quickened.

"No." he said.

"So says the Bible, do all the apostles of Satan."

"He doesn't have it."

"Psalm Twelve, Verse Six. 'Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the Beast, for it is a human number, its number is six hundred sixty-six.' "

"He doesn't have it, I tell you."

"He must have it."

"I've bathed him. I've studied every inch of him."

"If it is not visible on the body, you'll find it beneath the hair. Was he not born with a great deal of hair?"

Thorn recalled the first time he ever saw the child. He remembered being struck with the sight of its thick, glorious hair.

"Remove it," instructed Bugenhagen. "You'll find the mark hidden beneath."

Thorn closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands.

"Once you begin, do not hesitate."

Thorn shook his head, unable to accept it.

"Do you doubt me?" asked Bugenhagen.

"I don't know," Thorn sighed.

The old man sat back and studied him.

"Your unborn child was killed as predicted. Your wife is dead . . ."

"This is a child"

"You need more evidence?"

"Yes."

"Then wait for it," said Bugenhagen. "Be satisfied that what you are doing must be done. Or else you will do it badly. If you are uncertain, they will defeat you."

"They. . . ?"

"You said there was a woman. A woman who cares for the child."

"Mrs. Baylock . .."

The old man sat back, nodding with recognition.

"Her name is B'aalock. She is an apostate of the Devil and will die before permitting this."

They fell silent; footsteps were heard in the cavern behind them. Jennings gradually materialized from the darkness, his face filled with bewilderment.

". . . Thousands of skeletons . . ." he whispered.

"Seven thousand," Bugenhagen responded.

"What happened?"

"Meggido was Armageddon. The end of the world."

Jennings walked forward, shaken by what he had seen.

"You mean . . . 'Armageddon' has already been?"

"Oh, yes," replied Bugenhagen. "As it will be many times again."

He unstuck the knives and meticulously wrapped them, handing the package to Thorn. Thorn wanted to refuse, but Bugenhagen thrust them upon him, their eyes locking as Thorn rose.

"I have lived long," said Bugenhagen on a trembling voice. "I pray I will not have lived in vain."

Thorn turned away and followed Jennings into the darkness where they had entered. He moved forward in silence, turning back only once to see the distant chamber. It was gone. The lights had been extinguished and it had melted into darkness.

On the streets of Jerusalem, they moved in silence, Thorn gripping the cloth package tightly in his hand. His mood was dark and he walked like an automaton, oblivious to his surroundings, his eyes fixed rigidly ahead. Jennings had tried to question him, but Thorn refused to speak. Now, as they entered the narrowed sidewalk of a construction area, the photographer hurried to keep up behind him, having to shout over jack-hammers as his frustration grew.

"Look! All I want to know is what he said! I've got a right to know, don't I?"

But Thorn continued doggedly forward, his pace quickening as though trying to outdistance him.

"Thorn! I want to know what he said!"

Jennings moved into the street, grabbing Thorn by the arm.

"Hey! I'm not just some bystander! I'm the one who found him."

Thorn stopped, glaring into Jennings* eyes.

"Yes. You are, aren't you? You're the one who's been finding all of this."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're the one who's been insisting on all of this! You're the one who's been feeding this into my brain. . . !"

"Now wait a minute ..."

"You're the one who took those photographs ..."

"Hold on . . ."

"You're the one who brought me here ..."

"What's going on."

"I don't even know who you are"

He wrested his arm from Jennings' grip and turned; Jennings grabbed him again.

"You're going to wait a minute and listen to what I have to say."

"I've listened to enough."

"I'm trying to help you."

"No more!"

They glared into each other's eyes, Thorn shaking with rage.

"To think I've actually been listening to this! Believing this!"

"Thorn . . ."

"For all I know, that old man is just some 'fakir' peddling his knives!"

"What are you talking about?!"

Thorn held up the package in his trembling hands.

"These are knives! Weapons! He wants me to stab him! He expects me to murder that child!"

"It's not a child!"

"It is a child!"

"For God's sake, what more proof . . ."

"What kind of a man do you think I am?!"

"Just cool off."

"No!" Thorn shouted. "I won't do it! I won't have any part of it! Murder a child? What kind of a man do you think I am?"

In an explosion of anger he whirled, hurling the package of knives far beyond him where it hit a wall and bounced into an alley. Jennings paused for an instant, looking hard into Thorn's raging eyes.

"Maybe you won't," he growled, "but I will."

He turned and Thorn stopped him.

"Jennings."

"Sir."

"I never want to see you again. I disassociate myself from all of it."

With his lip curled, Jennings moved quickly into the alley, searching for the package of knives. The ground

was filled with litter, the air ringing with jackhammers and heavy machinery as he kicked rubble aside, spotting the small package at the base of a garbage pail ahead. Hurrying to it, he quickly bent over, failing to see the arm of a huge crane as it swung high overhead, pausing for just an instant before letting loose the huge pane of glass held tightly in its grip. It sliced downward with the finality of a guillotine, catching Jennings just above the collar, neatly severing his head from his body before exploding into a million flying pieces.

Thorn heard the impact, then the sounds of screaming, as pedestrians ran from all directions toward the alley where Jennings had disappeared. Following them, he pushed through the crowd to where the body lay. It was decapitated, blood pumping outward in a weak, pulsating movement as though the heart were beating still. A woman standing on a veranda overhead pointed downward and screamed. The head was in a garbage pail, staring upward to the sky.