Suddenly everything seemed to happen at once.
The blinding flash of light. The deafening explosion. The debris.
They tumbled down the remaining stairs as rubble rained from the sky. Sirens blared as they both fell unconscious.
*****
The headline in the morning London Times read: Kevlar Saint Cheats Death Again. Three splinter al-Qaeda groups claimed credit for the blast and Stephen Collinsworth reassigned his London man, code name, Dumbo, to a field position in Beirut.
*****
Saint Michael refused medical treatment, Sister Jennifer attending to their minor cuts and scrapes.
The cottage was rather small, the size of Sister Jennifer's bathroom in her suite at The Langham, but it suited her just fine. The four rooms and a bath were perched near the steep coastal cliffs of northern England. A few tastefully framed photographs, by a local photographer, hung strategically throughout the living room, the largest room in the cottage. The stone and mortar walls retained their natural color indoors but the exterior was bleached white by the sun and salt air.
Sister Jennifer sat in an overly large cushioned chair. Judging by its size and the width of the structure’s only door it was crafted inside the cottage. It was positioned for a clear view of the cliff's edge, several hundred meters from the cottage door
*****
The coldest summer in memory brought chilling winds in from the North Sea. Sister Jennifer stoked the fireplace and napped intermittently in the chair as Saint Michael used the circling seagulls for target practice. The 12-gauge shotgun that was left by the proprietor at Saint Michael's request was a joyful diversion from his own pearl-handled Webley.
The birds soared and shrieked, unharmed by his drunken attacks. He shrieked too, mocking the birds and proclaiming superiority. He laid the rifle down and stepped to the edge of the cliff. Stretching his arms straight out to their sides, he looked to the birds circling above and then to the waves crashing so very far below him.
"I am Saint Michael...I cannot die...I am..."
"Saint Michael."
The sweet timbre of her voice pierced the shrill call of the gulls, the ruffling of his garment against the wind and the dashing of the surf below. She knew a shout would jar him and her controlled cadence and tone lulled him from his thoughts of flight.
"Come inside now," she said. "It's too cold to be playing out here."
He suddenly felt the chill and they walked back to the cottage.
*****
Europe was having a love affair with Saint Michael — in his absence.
From Monaco to Milan, from palaces to penthouses, celebrations were in full swing, each participant hopeful in anticipation that the guest of honor would honor the guests with his presence.
The groves in the Gardens of Versailles came alive to the sounds of Bach, Mozart and Haydn accompanying the full play of fountains. The Neptune Basin was lit from above by fireworks and from below by the sprouting illuminations of the fountain lights becoming a fantasy of fire and water. Fountains gushing upward in liquid blades. Watery tongues licking the sky, spraying phantasmic rainbows of bubbles and light. Dancers caught in the dream of colors.
Beech and cherry, oak and ash, all part of the orderly forest that flanked the Grand Canal and all stretching their limbs to support the tens of thousands of lights that were strung about them. The globes that covered them in more colors than a Big Box of Crayola Crayons, as one tabloid reported, offering further proof that the soiree was in honor of the "color breathing saint."
Successive waves of waiters marched the full seventy-three meter length of the Hall of Mirrors, their cocktails flowing as abundantly as the fountains in the gardens below them. "I met him in London," a partygoer lied. "He's much taller and much more handsome than the media would have him."
"Was that before that dreadful explosion?"
"Oh yes." She paused long enough to trade her empty champagne glass for a full one. "He was staying at our country home at the time."
“Will he be here this evening? I hope so."
A tuxedoed gentleman joined the group. "I understand he's still in London, scheduled to be photographed at The Blue Rooms Studio tomorrow A.M.”
"The Blue Rooms, how marvelously appropriate."
"I heard from a credible source that he was caught in flagrante delicto with Pippa Middleton —"
The French Government insisted that the festivities were nothing more than their annual film retrospective and homage to Jerry Lewis but by evening’s end it was clear that neither Saint Michael nor Monsieur Lewis would be in attendance.
*****
Two days passed with no ammunition and he wondered why they were there.
"Sister Jennifer, did I tell you that all is not well in the colonies?"
"Yes, you did say all is not well."
"Did I tell you that I'm needed back there?"
"Yes, Saint Michael, you did mention that. Is it now?"
The haloed man's sighed. "Yes, I'm needed now."
"Thy will be done. Breathe blue, Saint Michael."
"Breathe blue."
Chapter 15
A few birds, bored with the aviary, were gathering nest parts and assembling at the turret to the left of the entrance to Coveport. The blue sky was patched with an occasional cottony puffed cloud, the wind chugging it across like a tired freight train. With the weather warmed, several sparrows from seasons past joined the others at the turret, the busy chirps becoming a cacophony of caws and shrills that filled the morning air.
Cheryl envied their freedom but would not exchange her emotions, even the painful, for a set of wings; they too had their predators. She slipped her arm through the strap of her purse and plunged her hands into the pockets of her lightweight, satin jacket, wrapping it around her torso.
Peri answered the doorbell himself and Cheryl, declining breakfast with a palm to her stomach and a sour face cued him not to insist.
"I'm just the opposite, when I'm nervous, I shovel it in," he said.
Cheryl forced a smile. "Guess I'm just lucky, huh?"
"I suppose. What can I do for you?" His concern was obvious and genuine.
"Well, it's more than getting it off my chest, I've done that. I've spoken to everyone that I know that knows Michael and it's the same story. Either forget him or he'll snap out of it. It's not that I mind clichés, they all mean well, I'm sure. But I'm just trying to understand what's going on."
"Lord knows it isn't easy."
"You said it. I guess I kinda feel guilty. I suggested that he milk this thing for all it was worth. That was before the murder attempt. He's changed so much; it scares me. The few times I've spoken to him since, it's like talking to a stranger. He's into some kind of color breathing scam."
"Scam?"
"Well...I don't know, isn't it?"
"I've been in Finland for the past few weeks. I was briefed on his ongoing situation yesterday and considering his earlier near death experience, even without speaking to him directly, I'm inclined to think that he believes that what he's doing is right."
"It seems like...I don't know, maybe."
"It's very common for someone going through the experience to have a marked change in attitude. With the fear of death no longer present, some feel almost superhuman, others eager for the final moment again — not in a morbid sense mind you — more like a quiet anticipation. As for color breathing, there's validity in that too."
"So I'm told. I have an armful of books in the car. I never even heard of it before."
"Quite ancient actually, I've written a book on the subject myself."
"You?"
"Indeed, The Color of One Hand Clapping."
"That's yours! I have that one, the librarian recommended it as one of the best on the subject."
"It was published under a pseudonym, Stephen Crichton. Crichton was a giant in the court of Henry the Sixth. Servant, royal security, general deterrent to the overly ambitious. Considering my physical sta
ture, and wanting the narrative to have an almost egotistical feeling of conviction, I put myself in the boots of a giant. Besides, most of my colleagues are quite hostile when it comes to the fringes of pseudoscience. I like to think of myself as an ignorant peon with a great deal to learn. You have to keep an open mind if you're going to learn."
"So you think there's something to this color breathing that Michael's involved with?"
"There's certainly something to the powers and therapeutic properties of color, yes. Put a rowdy in a room painted with the proper shade of pink and he will most certainly mellow. There's a great deal we still need to know but the evidence is there for serious study.” Peri took a sip of tea. “I think the fact that Michael has a halo is not only convincing people that what he is saying is true but it's reinforcing his own belief. Our first concern should be finding the cause of the halo; the other pieces may fall into place.”
"You seem convinced that there is a cause."
"As sure as I am that tomorrow will come. Considering my talks in Finland last week on the greenhouse effect, I'm probably more sure of this." Peri chuckled and his belly quivered. "It's on my list of priorities now that I'm back."
"I feel better already." Cheryl smiled as she stood clutching her pocketbook. "You'll let me know if anything comes up?"
Peri put his arm around her with a reassuring squeeze. "You'll be the first to know, I promise."
Chapter 16
Two Secret Service agents arrived at the Georgetown ashram at around ten o'clock that evening. They were let in through the side entrance by Sister Audrina and proceeded throughout the building with an array of electronic sensing devices. They swept through, room by room, and being satisfied with their findings, positioned themselves strategically at the rear and side entrances, the others already being manned.
The President arrived twenty minutes later and met Saint Michael in the ashram's library where the staff had laid out coffee, soft drinks and some light snacks.
"Finally we meet, Michael." The President helped himself to a cup of coffee.
Edwin Everett Sporter was a rather handsome looking man, a cross between the boyish good looks of the homecoming queen's date for the senior prom and the ruggedness of the foot soldier, both part of his past. The most popular President in decades, his talents were legendary: he could play classical piano, had an above-average singing voice, and spoke several languages; he taught dancing as a college freshmen for fun and spending money and could juggle six, and sometimes seven, plates and balls at the same time. He was, in short, up to the task.
Saint Michael remained on the leather sofa mumbling more to himself than to the President: "I am Saint Michael...I am Saint Michael."
"Yes, yes, of course you are. My apologies, Saint Michael."
"You may be seated," the haloed man said.
"I’m sorry I was unable to speak to you directly when this appointment was made . I don't know if anyone mentioned the reason for my visit?"
"No!" Saint Michael had assumed the obvious.
The President sensed his dismay. "Aside from my wanting to meet you personally, of course, there are others that would like the same privilege and have been unable to get an audience. They somehow felt that I might have a better chance of convincing you. Do I have a better chance, Saint Michael?"
"Who? Who do you speak for?"
"Well, Saint Michael, to list them all individually would take some time and a better memory than I have. That is, all the people that have asked me to throw in a good word for them."
The President reached for his coffee cup, almost spilling it, the room lights being dimmed to near blackness. In spite of the darkness, he could see Saint Michael beaming with delight.
"There are quite a few members of Congress and the Senate but the group I represent here tonight is The General Assembly of the United Nations. They would prefer it to be at their headquarters in New York City but are flexible and willing to compromise, as is any good deliberative body."
Saint Michael had been awake for barely three hours and yet he staggered when he stood. "Yes, yes of course, New York City. It's been awhile."
The President saw this as the gap to close the sale.
"Well then, fine, Saint Michael, I'll take that as a yes. It's been a pleasure." He politely made his exit.
*****
Saint Michael summoned Brother Timothy to the Red Room where he was receiving a massage from Sister Ellen and Sister Anne. The room was awash with color; track lights along the ceiling burned their rose-colors into the crimson walls and reflected off of the plumes of incense smoke filling the room with a mystical glow. The Good Brother began to back out of the room when he saw the three naked bodies sprawled on the red, body-length pillows that covered the room's floor. Saint Michael called him back.
"Brother Timothy, did you know that the President of the United States paid me a visit this evening?"
Sister Ellen and Sister Anne rolled Saint Michael over onto his back and continued the massage, Sister Anne now using her mouth. And tongue. And teeth. Timothy looked away, fighting his now constant nausea.
"Yes! Yes," he screamed, then caught himself. "The President of the United States."
"He came to see me, you know, and brought a number of invitations."
"Naturally his people were very protective and very closed-mouth, is there something you wanted me to know?"
"Of course there’s something I wanted you to know. Do you think I called you in here for the entertainment?"
The two girls looked at Timothy and giggled.
"I'm sorry, Saint Michael, I am humble in your presence."
"I'll be giving a speech at the United Nations in New York City and I want you to make the arrangements." Sister Ellen rolled Saint Michael over again and mounted him; her hips began a looping motion.
"And Brother Timothy," the haloed man continued. "You're getting extremely slack lately. I expect you to do something about that soon."
Timothy Craven stared a soulless stare. "Yes...soon. Very, very soon."
Chapter 17
MICHAEL FLAGG'S EXECUTOR
FOUND DEAD—SUICIDE SUSPECTED
The telephone call that brought Michael to Craven's Georgetown home was abrupt: "Saint Michael, it's imperative that I speak to you now." He did not wait for a reply, simply stating his message and hanging up. He was correct to assume that this approach would insure the arrival of the arrogantly inflamed god-man.
The method, as was the note he would leave, was simplicity itself — a .38-caliber stainless steel Ruger. He would load all six cartridges, knowing that one would be sufficient. He scrawled a brief note on the pad by the phone, unzipped the canvas bag and removed a pistol. He would clean the instrument, despite the fact that it was cleaned after each use. He had time to kill.
Jennifer double-parked in front of the townhouse, Saint Michael insisting the reprimand would be swift. The haloed man bounded up the stairs, two at a time, reasoning that the rise in blood pressure would intensify his seeming rage.
He twisted the brass handle and flung the door open.
The gun was already in place, squarely to his temple and Craven squeezed the trigger as Saint Michael stepped into the room. A splash of blood stained the wall and began to trickle down as the rocking chair toppled over and Craven's body fell to the floor, a pool forming quickly around his head. Mike vomited as he watched the life jerk from Craven's twitching limbs. He rushed toward the body but knew nothing could save him. He vomited again, then wiping his mouth and face on his shirtsleeve, he sat on the arm of the sofa and wept.
*****
Michael stumbled, zombie-like down the sidewalk for two full blocks as Jennifer followed alongside calling across the empty front passenger seat of the Rolls before pulling into a parking space ahead of him. She trotted back and stood to block his mindless stagger.
"Saint Michael! What's wrong?"
He didn't answer.
"Please get in the car, I'll drive us home!"
"You drive, I'll walk."
"Please, it's ten miles," she pleaded.
"You drive, I'll walk."
"Please, Saint Michael."
"You drive, I'll walk."
The dialog continued in this tone for long minutes, penetrating only Jennifer's consciousness. She ceded and coasted alongside of him as his inner radar guided him home.
He had found the note and now kneaded the crumpled paper in his pocket into a damp ball, his fingers lubricated by his sweating palm. "I wanted you to be the first to know. I am no more. I have not been since we met." It was signed "The Demon." Mike had telephoned the police, stating that he had found Craven dead and gave his name as Mike Flagg adding "medical student" afterward without realizing it. He neglected to mention the note and the police agreed to interview him later at his estate.
It was nearly midnight when they reached the gates of his estate and he opened the car door as if Jennifer had just appeared to squire him about. Both were silent for the short ride through the grounds until at the door, he said simply, "I'll be in the study."
*****
For the next eight hours, except the few that he lapsed into unconsciousness, Mike's motions mimicked a mechanical toy — cognac to snifter, snifter to mouth, one dazed state substituted for another.
The sunrise and the doorbell woke Jennifer from the couch.
An empty Hennessy bottle slipped from Mike's hand and bounced to the rug, joining its companion, as she entered the study.
"There's a gentleman to see you, a Stephen Collinsworth. Shall I tell him you're not accepting guests?"
"No, I'll see him."
*****
"...so I figured with the speech coming up, you might want to get away for awhile...some quiet thinking. I use it for hunting but I don't have any plans for the weekend, you're welcome to it."
A Reluctant Messiah Page 9
