A Reluctant Messiah

by Edward Nicholls

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Warning

  Quote

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE -- GENESIS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  PART TWO -- BEAR WITNESS TO THE LIGHT

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  PART THREE -- A BYWORD AND A HISSING

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  EPILOG

  A Reluctant Messiah

  A Novel by

  Edward Nicholls

  Copyright 2014 Edward Nicholls

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relationship whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. The characters have not been inspired by any individuals known or unknown to the author, and all incidences are purely fictional.

  WARNING: Contains violence and adult language.

  It is indeed harmful to come

  under the sway of utterly new

  and strange doctrines.

  Confucius

  PROLOGUE

  SLINKING FROM TONGUES THAT WOUND

  No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,

  All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.

  Thomas Moore

  Come O'er the Sea

  Michael was in heaven now and he hated the fact that he would have to go back out into the real world. The leaves would be changing soon and locals were predicting a spectacular year — the best in a decade — and they seemed to know about that sort of thing. He would love to stay here, lying on the pillow-soft earth, watching as the brilliant yellows and reds burn themselves into this so-blue Vermont sky. But the reporters were coming more frequently now.

  He had grown a beard – and not a bad one at that – his first. Much nicer than a few of the locals, their patchy tufts crying out for the glint of a blade. His was full, and the little gray amused him – it was fully earned. His hair was longer now too, almost to his shoulders. He hoped that this didn't make him look like a mad prophet. That could mean trouble.

  He was praying more often now. Not the prayers of his youth, not the ones that at year's end began to sound a lot more like a Christmas list than a talk with his Creator. No, these were thankful prayers, thankful that his life had been spared, thankful that he had come to his senses.

  There were prayers for the souls of the recently departed too; five of whom he knew for certain that he was at least partially responsible for. And others perhaps — a despondent few that may have taken their own lives as a way to fill the present void. He prayed for their souls.

  Then there were the thankful prayers for his average looks. He was sure glad that he was average looking; he could blend in more easily — a chameleon — faceless to the masses. It would have to be a small town though, not New York. And definitely not Washington, DC.

  That's where the reporter was from today: the Washington Post. He was happy and a little surprised that he was able to convince the man so easily. "No, sir, just taking a vacation…. No, haven't seen anybody that looks like that around here." The reporter left his business card. That's how he knew he was from the Post. But Michael used it as kindling in the cabin's potbellied stove.

  He hated to leave, but there would be many more reporters to follow. He knew that now. He grabbed the last few pieces of luggage and then he heard her voice, calling his name. The same voice he had heard in his dreams these last few months. How was it that she was able to forgive him for all that he had done? She must be a saint — or perhaps an angel — surely heaven-sent. He tossed the bags on the luggage rack and tied them down with a frayed nylon cord. He would love to stay and watch the colors. But he couldn't.

  He had to leave heaven now.

  PART ONE

  GENESIS

  ... Has he light? He must bear witness to the light, and always outrun that sympathy which gives him such keen satisfaction, by his fidelity to new revelations of the incessant soul.... Has he all that the world loves and admires and covets? He must cast behind him their admiration and afflict them by faithfulness to his truth and become a byword and a hissing.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  Compensation (1841)

  Chapter 1

  "Mr. Collinsworth, the call you’re expecting, line one, sir."

  The woman’s voice was distorted, as if carried a long distance instead of the twenty or so odd feet from the outer office. Stephen Collinsworth pressed down on the intercom button harder than was necessary. He was not amused. For a brief moment he was unaware of his guests.

  "Thank you, Ms. Vilmar, and would you please do something about this intercom. We may as well be talking through two paper cups attached by a string."

  "Yes, sir," she said, "the repair team is on its way."

  He removed his finger from the intercom and pushed the flashing button on the telephone console.

  "Good morning, Your Eminence."

  "Good morning, Mr. Collinsworth. I must apologize for the delay. Air traffic was slow out of da Vinci airport."

  "I see," Collinsworth said. His concern was genuine. "Is everything in order now?"

  "Yes, it’s all been taken care of. My chauffeur assures me that we will be in your office in no more than thirty minutes."

  "I understand, that’ll be fine. The others are already here," he added.

  "Please pass my apologies on to them, they must be as anxious as I am."

  "Yes, I'm sure they are. Is there anything else, Your Eminence?"

  "No, sir, that's it." The cardinal's English was precise, American-accented.

  "Good, then we'll be expecting you soon. Goodbye, Your Eminence."

  "Goodbye, Mr. Collinsworth."

  He replaced the phone in its cradle and looked at the three men seated before him in the room.

  To his immediate right, sat Father Raymond Davies of the First Church of Christ, Methodist, Atlanta, Georgia. Frail and lanky, Davies was a frayed bundle of nerves in constant motion. He raked his fingers through his thinning hair and slid his eyeglasses back in place. Despite an otherwise solemn exterior, a perpetual cloud of cigarette smoke circled his head. Collinsworth assessed the group as Davies sucked deeply on his cigarette and rustled the papers in his hands.

  To Father Davies’ right, garbed in the traditional cassock, sat Father Daniel DeVries, Director and Coordinator of Religious Affairs for the Episcopalian Archdiocese of Albany, New York. Smaller than the others — but not by much — DeVries hid a surprisingly muscular build beneath his loose fitting clerical robe.

  Stephen Collinsworth stood from behind his desk and approached the third man in the room, Rabbi Elliot Gross, of Temple Beth Shalom, New York. The rabbi had saved the morning with his good-natured joking, becoming fast friends with the other clerics but Collinsworth refused to acknowledge his assistance and remained cold and aloof.

  "Gentleman, the cardinal will be here shortly. He asked that I apologize for his delay." He hesitated briefly, taking in the nods of acceptance from the ministers. "As you know, the President has assured complete cooperation in this matter and I have been instructed to assist you in any way I can…. If I may speak frankly, I am far from what one would consider a religious man. My duties here are strictly in a governmental cap
acity and if the President had not insisted on this meeting himself, I think a great deal of time could have been saved. I, in no way, mean to cast any aspersions on the Head of State; however, I do believe that this meeting is a bit premature." He scratched his graying temple and then tapped the dottle from his pipe into the ashtray already cluttered with cigarette butts.

  "Has the media been notified?" Father Davies asked.

  "No, once all the tests have been completed on Mr. Flagg, an official statement will be released to the press.”

  "Why us?" the rabbi asked.

  "Again, it was the President's personal wish that members of the clergy be invited. It's more — how shall I put it — in an act of good faith that the request was made. I don't have the particulars but I believe it was a lottery of sorts. Please understand that you have not been called here because of your various expertise in the religious community. The Agency is quite confident that the scientific community will find a reasonable explanation for this phenomenon. It's a way of satisfying your curiosity in the matter and trying to answer any questions you may have. Perhaps we can postpone any further questions until the cardinal arrives. Feel free to look over the reports that I've given you, I trust they will be self explanatory."

  Back behind his desk, Collinsworth again spoke into the intercom. "Miss Vilmar, will you please bring in some more coffee for our guests."

  *****

  Sheets of cold, March rain sliced their way to the Virginian pavement as His Eminence Enrico Cardinal Bonifazio stepped from his limousine to the shelter of an umbrella held by his chauffeur. He turned up the collar of his raincoat to shut out the dampness and walked cautiously, avoiding the puddles forming in the courtyard below.

  The billowing gray rain clouds above promised a sunless day. The forecast of a fifty percent chance of precipitation had turned into one hundred percent rain and the predicted six mile an hour wind from the east was blowing in at eleven miles an hour from the west. Stray pedestrians cursed DC meteorologists, by name, for the soaking spray, as they dashed for shelter from the downpour.

  The auxiliary building was much the same as the main structures in the compound. The shoebox shaped slabs, designed by functionalists, lacked any hint of aesthetics. The Lego-like stack-upon-stacks left cultured eyes moist with sorrow for the loss of Old World charm.

  The cardinal was escorted to the canopy and brushed off the rain that had fallen on his overcoat. The chauffeur would wait, his attendance unnecessary.

  The cardinal swung open the huge glass door and stepped into the foyer of the building. The artificial zephyr of the building’s temperature control was a comfort from the damp, stinging bite of the weather.

  An armed, uniformed guard stood from behind a desk positioned to the left of the glass door. The cardinal handed him a single piece of ID, which was sufficient, the black-clad, M4-toting cadre of security officers having done the heavy lifting at the gates leading to the main entrance.

  “Wear this at all times, sir,” the guard said, handing the cardinal an ID badge bearing a large orange V and the words “Visitor Escort Required.”

  A second armed security officer approached the two. “Follow me, please,” he said, motioning to the elevator.

  “Can we take the stairs? I can use the exercise… long flight,” the cardinal asked.

  The second officer nodded as the cardinal followed him, the cardinal having a decided disinterest in the occasional arrangement of photographs and plaques that decorated the walls. He was eager to get on with the matters at hand.

  The cardinal's erect posture and confident stride added to the illusion of his youthfulness. So too did the thick crop of coal-black hair that crowned his head with not a single gray strand to blemish the effect. His steel-gray eyes were hooded by a permanently furrowed brow that gave one the impression he was in constant thought. Handsome, bearded and at fifty-eight, still flat-bellied and athletic in movement, only the scarlet patch on the base of the collar of his clerical robe would deter advances from the opposite sex, or in some cases, act as a greater challenge.

  Once on the third floor the officer motioned to a door. “Have a good day, sir.” He turned and walked away.

  The only door in sight not having a white-on-black plastic NO ADMITTANCE sign was stenciled in gold — STEPHEN COLLINSWORTH, DEPUTY DIRECTOR.

  The cardinal gave one short rap on the glass pane and swung the door open, startling the secretary.

  "Hello, Cardin...uh...Your Eminence. A pleasure to meet you."

  "The pleasure is mine, my dear."

  Not knowing whether to genuflect and kiss his ring or extend a dignified handshake, she simply smiled politely.

  "I've been instructed to send you right in." She motioned to the door leading to the inner office.

  "Thank you." His face lit up with a smile as he turned the knob.

  The door closed slowly behind him as Miss Vilmar followed him with her eyes. She turned and pushed a filing cabinet drawer closed with a sigh. "What a waste." He was not the wrinkled, white-haired man she had expected.

  *****

  Collinsworth made the obligatory introductions and again his crackling voice sounded from the box on his secretary's desk.

  "Miss Vilmar, I'll need you in the theater, bring your notepad.... Gentleman, if you'll follow me please."

  He stood from behind his desk, tugged the rumbled lap from his trousers and walked toward the rear of the room as the others hesitantly followed suit. Miss Vilmar stepped into the room clutching a steno pad and took a place in line directly behind Cardinal Bonifazio. At the entrance to the theater the cardinal stepped aside and gestured Miss Vilmar to enter first, with an unspoken after you. Smiling, she did so, as the cardinal scanned her body, pausing, careful not to linger.

  And so gallant too.

  The men seated themselves on the floor-mounted, straight-backed chairs, with Collinsworth taking the ostentatious, black leather swivel seat in the center of the room. He pressed the talk button on the communication console in front of him as Miss Vilmar seated herself to his left and snapped on the low watt lamp fastened to her desk.

  "Okay, Charlie."

  The lights in the recessed sconces dimmed, and a shaft from the projection's booth sliced through the smoke already thick above Father Davies’ head and splashed its image on the screen.

  Collinsworth spoke in conversational tone. "The first set will be slides, followed by a short film on some of the tests."

  Click.

  "The residence of one James Michael Flagg," he continued in a low monotone as he glanced down at the computer tear sheets in his lap, judiciously omitting details he found unnecessary. No point in giving away too much information.

  Click.

  "Parents, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph E. Flagg. Deceased. The result of an automobile accident on November fourth, seven years ago. Mother’s maiden name, Mia Givenrith. Mr. Flagg is an only child."

  Click.

  "Miss Cheryl Eaton. Mr. Flagg's female companion for the past three and one half years. Age, twenty-three, five feet ten and three quarter inches tall, one hundred and fourteen pounds. Sandy brown, shoulder length hair, brown eyes. Currently working as a multilingual translator for a manufacturing firm headquartered here in Washington."

  Click.

  "Charlie, run it through to the last frame," Collinsworth spoke into the console. A dozen slides of various buildings and faces flashed quickly onto the screen and then retreated.

  "Gentleman, these few slides we're skipping over would be of limited interest to you, I'm sure. They're schools, teachers, neighbors, etc.... Ah, here we are." The clicking of the projector ceased, leaving the face of a young man smiling down at the occupants of the room. The Deputy Director leaned back in his chair.

  "James Michael Flagg. Prefers to be addressed by his middle name. Age twenty-five, born April sixth, 1:56 A.M., Washington, DC. After the death of his parents at age eighteen, with no other living relatives, Mr. Flagg took a job at a local pharmacy to
finance his education. With the aid of grants and government loans — which he fully expects to repay — he graduated Georgetown University cum laude, with a major in chemistry and a minor in biology. He is pursuing a medical career and I've supplied each of you with a copy of his first semester grades. He is a straight A student. This photograph was obviously taken before the phenomenon occurred. Mr. Flagg is six feet, two inches tall and weighs one hundred and eighty pounds.... Charlie, roll the film now." His machine-gunfire monotone paused for a beat.

  "Gentleman, I’d just like to add —"

  "Mr. Collinsworth?" A metallic voice shrieked from a speaker in the rear of the theater.

  "Yes."

  "This is Fraser in Spectrum Analysis. I tried reaching you in your office but I wasn’t —"

  "What is it, Fraser, get on with it."

  "Yes, sir. We've completed all the tests on Michael...er...on Mr. Flagg and I want to —"

  "Very well, Fraser, send him right up."

  "Yes, sir."

  Collinsworth pivoted his chair to face the clergymen.

  "This is the chance you've all been waiting for. I'd like to finish this with a footnote — off the record — you may take it as you wish. Mr. Flagg has, on a number of occasions, exceeded his limit of alcoholic beverages. His language is, let's say, somewhat unrefined. He is not a regular churchgoer and he is very, very heterosexual. Pardon my frankness, but with a lady friend like Miss Eaton, I believe that's understandable."

  There were a few stickers from the ministers and Miss Vilmar flushed red.

  "We're quite aware of the weaknesses of the flesh, Mr. Collinsworth. After all, that's the business we're in." Father DeVries was the spokesman.

  "Yes, of course, the point I'm trying to make is that Mr. Flagg is quite an ordinary human being."

  *****

  The film was still running when the rear door of the theater opened.