A Reluctant Messiah

by Edward Nicholls

  On a small end table next to the bed was an old electric typewriter with a sheet of paper lying beside it. Mike picked it up and read the message:

  LUCIFER EVIL INCARNATE GOD OF ALL THAT IS UNHOLY I HAVE SEEN HIS FACE THE END IS NEAR THE ANTICHRIST WALKS AMONG US I HAVE BEEN LED ASTRAY AND FORSAKEN MY CONGREGATION I TOO HAVE BETRAYED THE MASTER AS JUDAS ISCARIOT HAD BETRAYED HIM I FEEL HIS DESPAIR LORD JESUS CHRIST MY SAVIOR FORGIVE ME FOR WHAT I MUST DO

  RAYMOND DAVIES

  In his mind's eye, Michael saw the priest lunging at him from a hidden closet, razor-edged dagger glistening in his hand, insanity in his eyes. A mad zealot determined to rid the world of the Antichrist. His body froze, his heart pounded audibly in his chest, his throat tightened. The note dropped from his hand as his body twitched involuntarily. He spun a half turn, raising his left arm instinctively in a protective block. Now it was reality that shocked him.

  Michael was now facing the bathroom. His eyes were immediately drawn to the gaping hole in the ceiling, four panels of acoustical tiling knocked from their frame, exposing the serpentine network of pipes and plumbing fixtures that snaked above, the sturdiest serving as the priest's cursed Judas tree.

  In the reflective image in the mirror on the wall he saw the priest — a bed sheet thickly knotted in a noose around his neck. His eyes were open, staring into the mirror, bulging, as if ready to leap from their sockets.

  Michael turned and ran through the doorway. He slammed the door behind him and headed into the hallway with no direction in mind. He dashed down the long corridor like a sprinter on his last lap. Without slowing, he tried to negotiate the turn at the end of the hallway but the sweep was too wide. He slammed into the wall, bracing himself and instantly pushing off; he lost his balance and stumbled to the carpet, sliding, friction burning his elbows. He rolled onto his back, grimacing in pain. As he looked up, he saw an EXIT sign and below it a door leading to the stairway. Climbing to his knees and no farther, he snatched the knob with both hands and twisted as the weight of his body pushed the door open. He fell again, onto the cold tile floor and rolled into the corner away from the door, watching it close behind him, the hydraulic mechanism making it do so ever so slowly.

  He panted, motionless except for the rising and falling of his chest. As he regained his composure, he felt embarrassed by his reaction. As a physician, surely he would see some grizzly sights. But the surprise was too profound.

  *****

  Cheryl arrived shortly after Mike's phone call, having already showered, eaten and dressed. She was not one for primping, her natural beauty not needing the complements of makeup and jewelry. Her tight fitting jeans and blue silk blouse were offset by a thin, white cloth belt, which she knotted around her slim waist. Her sandy brown hair tumbled down her shoulders in large rolled curls as she slipped on her high-healed shoes. Her compact gray umbrella exploded like a mushroom cloud from the crack she allowed as she inched out of the car, swaying like a dancer to avoid the puddles.

  Mike was watching from the window above and stood at the opened door as she stepped to the second floor landing. She let the umbrella slip into a large ceramic pot in the hallway and threw her arms around him, squeezing him tightly then kissed him long and deep.

  "Welcome home! It feels like weeks since I last saw you." She held up a bottle of wine as she stepped into the apartment. "Let’s party!"

  "He hung himself. The fuckin' guy hung himself."

  "Who?"

  "The priest. I told you I was gonna see a priest this afternoon. He fuckin' hung himself."

  "Whoa, easy Mike! Slowdown."

  "Remember on the phone this afternoon I told you a priest wanted to see me."

  "Yeah, Davis —"

  "Davies, Father Raymond Davies." Mike handed the now mangled business card to Cheryl. "Well, I went over to his hotel and he's hanging in the fuckin' bathroom like a slab a' meat."

  "You're kidding!"

  "I wish I was."

  "This is getting heavy, Mike," she said, trembling.

  "Heavy ain't the word. Crazy, it's fuckin' crazy. He left a suicide note and everything. Something about me being the Antichrist and him betraying Jesus like Judas did. Can you imagine that? Off the deep end."

  "Did you tell anyone about it?"

  "Who? No, I shot right home and been trying to calm down as I waited for you."

  "Don't you think you should call the police? Somebody must have seen you there. You're not exactly inconspicuous anymore."

  "You're probably right, but what do I tell 'em?"

  "Just what you told me. You went over there and found him hanging. Do you have the note?"

  "No, I guess I dropped it."

  "Well, just send 'em over. Better yet, why don't you call this guy Collinsworth? He's the one that's running the show, right? He should know what to do, a big shot like him."

  "Yeah, you're right. I'll make the call now." He hesitated, choosing his words, then walked from the room, fumbling his cell phone.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  "You want some of this wine?" Cheryl called out.

  "Is it cold?"

  "Pretty cold."

  "Okay, pour me a glass, I'll be in in a minute."

  "And Mike," she called out again. "When you tell the story, how about deleting the expletives. Show a little class, huh. And the word is hanged. He hanged himself."

  The call was a short one and Mike seemed relieved as he walked back into the room. He picked up the glass of wine.

  "Boy, I'll tell ya, that guy's as cool as a cucumber. Thanks for calling, Mike. I'll take care of everything. Didn't phase 'em in the least."

  "Well it's not exactly Benghazi. He's probably got his hands full, this is a piece a' cake."

  "Umm...." Mike sat on the couch and took a sip of wine. "Ya know, babe, I've been thinkin'. I really jumped down your throat last Sunday when you mentioned Corrine. You know, about Barbara Stillwell and Dateline Washington. But the more I think about it — and in light of what's going on — it might not be such a bad idea. I don't know what I'll talk about but I kinda like the idea of people knowing I'm around in case something happens to me."

  "Getting a little paranoid, huh?"

  "Well, something like that."

  "I'll see what I can do. I'll call her now if you want."

  "Good, the sooner the better."

  Chapter 4

  Klieg lights would be much too bright for the occasion, all involved agreed. Gaffers, lighting technicians and electricians were flown in from proximal WKDC sister stations in hurried secrecy. The assembled panel of experts was in agreement on only one thing — proper lighting was essential. Its scientific application, in conjunction with its visual art form, was one of the most powerful subliminal techniques in the film industry. Done properly, it could aid in altering the viewer’s mood from ecstatic joy to tear-filled empathy, but improperly it could strain the viewer’s belief.

  Working under the pressure of time, an agreement was finally reached. Five 8,000-watt tungsten filament lamps would be staggered to form a parabola around the front of the stage for general illumination. Depth, dimension, and the relative shapes of surrounding objects were deemed unimportant; the audience's attention would hopefully be riveted elsewhere, thus requiring only minimal rear and side lighting.

  The producer ended the predawn production staff meeting. "We’re live in less than an hour. We’ve got only one chance to get this right. Kapeesh?"

  Thousands of feet of cable and gaffer tape snaked across the floor of Studio Four as stagehands and members of the production staff jostled in and out of one another's way.

  With the problem of linear distortion corrected, the HD Studio Lens was attached to the central Sony BVP900 camera with full capabilities for the secondary and backup Steadicam units. No filters, refractive lenses or optics of any kind would be used. Authenticity was paramount.

  Mike arrived two hours before broadcast time for makeup and briefing on basic camera etiquette. N
one of the actual questions, which would be asked, were discussed. This made him uneasy but the personable attitudes of Miss Stillwell and her entire staff had a certain calming effect. Thirty seconds to go. Mike sat rigid but comfortable to the left of a small table containing a pitcher of ice water and two glasses on a metal serving tray.

  Ten...nine...eight.

  "All quiet on the set," the Technical Director bellowed.

  Seven...six...five.

  The turret of the BVP900 tripod spun.

  Four...three...two.

  "And...cue Barbara." A finger was pointed.

  "I'm Barbara Stillwell, good morning and welcome to Dateline Washington, Thursday, March 19, 7 A.M. Our top story today is a personal one.... This past century has given us —among other mysteries to ponder — two enigmas in the form of Theresa Neumann, a German and Francesco Forgione, known to the world as Padre Pio, an Italian. They were living stigmatists, bearing the mark of the nails and their phenomenon remains to this day unsatisfactorily explained by modern science. Today we will be speaking to a man whom some are now calling a living saint. He is an American, his name is James Michael Flagg and we'll be speaking to him in just a moment. Stay with us."

  The camera panned and retreated; the screen now included Michael. The effect was dazzling.

  "Cut to local station break then commercial deck one." Again the Technical Director's voice sounded, lacking its previously nervous tone. "Beautiful.... Perfect!" It was working.

  *****

  Beads of sweat dripped onto the canvas exercise mat as Stephen Collinsworth completed his second set of push-ups. He exhaled in three sharp bursts then swung his body around into a squatting position to begin his sit-ups. He laid back momentarily, letting the bright artificial rays of the sunlamp warm his naked body.

  "One." His stomach muscles tightened in ripples, then relaxed.

  "Two."

  The phone in the living room rang a third time as he slid the glass panels shut and entered the room. He slipped the protective goggles from his head and wiped the perspiration from his hands and face; draping the towel over his shoulders, he picked up the receiver.

  "Yes."

  "Steve, this is Tom. Looks like we got trouble. Flagg's on Dateline Washington."

  "What!"

  "I had a couple of guys outside his house. A WKDC limo pulled up a few hours ago. Outside of out and out kidnapping, there was nothing they could do. I had them stay with him but they couldn't get near him in the building. Figured it was a preliminary interview, next thing we know, he's on the air."

  "Shit," he whispered into the phone. "Get to Langley, it's going to be a busy day."

  *****

  Barbara Stillwell was willing to temporarily forego her negotiated number of close-ups to share the screen with her career-making guest.

  "Welcome back," she said. "In my opening comments I mentioned two stigmatics or stigmatists, Theresa Neumann and Padre Pio. These two manifested wounds resembling and corresponding to those that Jesus Christ is said to have suffered at the crucifixion: bleeding from the wrists, their feet and their forehead. The forehead representing the crown of thorns." She looked up from her notes. "The Catholic Church tends to dismiss the phenomenon and chooses not to intervene. Will you tell us, do you show any similar signs?"

  "No I don't, not at all," Mike said.

  "Then tell us what you know about your phenomenon."

  "Actually I don't know much at all. I've been tested by the government —"

  "The government has conducted tests on you?"

  "Yes, I've been in Langley for the past couple of days."

  "Langley, Virginia! Are you saying that the CIA has been conducting tests on you?"

  "No, no, completely different building…. I think. It's a big place they have there. Same compound, different building. I don't know the name of the agency. It wasn't mentioned and the building was nondescript, kinda plain."

  "A clandestine quasi-governmental agency? And why do you suppose they were chosen to test you?"

  Mike flinched at her choice of words. “I’m not even gonna try and guess… it’s the government. Langley. Er, McLean…. I don’t know." He shrugged. "I guess they have the best equipment for this sort of thing. Whatever this sort of thing is."

  "Let's get back to your phenomenon for a moment. You seem reluctant to call yourself a Messiah."

  "I am…." Mike's hand trembled as he took a sip of water. "Reluctant I mean. No, I mean I'm not a Messiah. I am not."

  "Before we take another station break, would you perhaps admit, at least, to being a messenger for the new millennium?"

  Michael paused and looked away from Miss Stillwell then directly into the camera. "I guess all I need is a message then," he said.

  *****

  Collinsworth laid the receiver back down and walked to a large wooden, hand-carved valet and removed the hanging robe. He covered his naked body and stared blankly into the bedroom at his sleeping wife. The room seemed to close in on him. A foul, bitter taste lined his mouth as he swallowed. He snapped on the television set as the telephone rang again. The woman's voice on the other end was melodic, the message was not.

  "Mr. Collinsworth," she trilled.

  "Speaking."

  "The President wishes to speak to you, hold on please."

  "Hello, Stephen."

  "Good morning, Mr. President. How are you, sir?"

  "Steve, do you have your television set on now?"

  "No, sir," he lied, "but if it's in reference to Mr. Flagg, I'm aware —"

  "You're aware. I certainly hope you're aware. Correct me if I'm wrong here but wasn’t I clear that this was to be kept under wraps until someone from my office authorized it?"

  "Well yes, Mr. President, I —"

  "Dateline Washington isn't what I'd call under wraps. This'll be nationwide by six o'clock news time. Some of the radio stations have already picked it up.... I authorized a panel of clergymen in the hope that it might aid in your determination but I specifically stated that there were to be no statements released to the press until I'd received your report. The weak rumors circulating were easy to ignore but we're talking nationwide television by tonight. Now, I want you and your report in my office in one hour, and Steve, it had better be good."

  *****

  With the interview completed, Michael was eager to get back home. He had done what he had set out to do. Cheryl walked beside him, her arm wrapped tightly around his waist, down a long, brightly lit corridor in the television studio. A dull drone of telephones could be heard ringing incessantly in the background. They turned at the end of the hallway and saw Corrine running toward them. She was puffing lightly, not because of a long run, but because her shoes were not designed for walking. She clamored to a halt.

  "There you are!" she screeched, "Mike, do you hear that? The telephones?"

  "Telephones? I thought I had tinnitus," Mike said.

  Corrine's face crinkled, as if in pain. She stared at him blankly. "Huh?"

  Cheryl poked her elbow into Mike's side. "Don't tease, Michael."

  Corrine snapped from her trance. "They're for you. Well, really about you. They're ringing off the hook. I was just talking to one of the station operators. People are calling from all over Washington. They want to know more about you. Where you live. How they can get in touch with you."

  "Terrific. Not exactly what I had in mind."

  "You're big, Mike, real big."

  "I just wanna get home now. Thanks for everything Corrine, I appreciate it."

  "Oh, Barbara has a limo waiting around back for you two. You'll have to take the freight elevator; security locked the front door. Crowds are forming already. This is far out!"

  "Yeah, real groovy," Mike said. "Let's go, Cher."

  *****

  In less than two hours the thin crowd outside of Mike's house thickened and spilled into the street. Some were screaming, many jabbing placards into the sky, chanting. The pushing and shoving was minimal but the f
evered pitch worried Michael.

  "Mrs. Mullen's gonna throw me out of here on my butt. They're tearing up her lawn. Look at this." Mike pushed the curtain aside and looked out.

  "The End is Near." He read the placards aloud. "False Prophet. Look at that one, Mike Flagg for President. These fuckin' people are crazy. I wonder how they found out where I live so quick?"

  "Come on, you have a landline; you're in the phone book. You don't need a PI license to figure that out."

  "Yeah, boy, I'll tell ya, my mind’s certainly been elsewhere lately."

  "That's understandable," she said.

  "Hey, I'm sorry about bustin' Corrine like that this morning but I can’t help it, she cracks me up."

  "Yeah, she is pretty funny. But she does come in handy at times. Besides, I like her."

  "Ya gonna stay over tonight? If we can break through the crowd, I'll drive you to work tomorrow."

  "I have some vacation days coming, I think I'll take a few now. They'll get along without moi for a while."

  "Great, I'll make a something to eat."

  *****

  Later that same evening a white Chevrolet van pulled up in front of Michael's house. Four men, three of whom measured well above six feet tall with muscular builds and the fourth, smaller but sturdy of stature, emerged. All were dressed in finely tailored suits, the smaller man clutching a briefcase in his hands. The three easily cleared a pathway through the crowd for the fourth. On Mike's second floor landing, the man knocked sharply on the door, swinging it opened without waiting for a reply.

  "What the —" Mike bolted from his seat on the couch.

  "Good evening, Mr. Flagg, I'm Craven." The man offered a handshake.

  "Craven?" Mike said. "I'd say you're downright bold!"

  "No, Craven's my name, Timothy Craven. President and Founder of Managerial and Organizational Systems. I apologize for my abrupt entrance but in our business, time is money."