A Reluctant Messiah

by Edward Nicholls

  "Yes, get away," Mike said. "I would like that. If you could leave directions with Jennifer. Thank you."

  Collinsworth sketched a map, explained it and was gone.

  Seated behind the wheel of his car, he snatched a cell phone from the dashboard and dialed.

  "Yeah, it's me...my cabin, tonight. Make it look like a hunting accident."

  He removed the SIM card, pocketing it, then wiped the phone with his handkerchief and tossed it to the pavement.

  Chapter 18

  Jennifer swerved the jeep off the dirt road and into a clearing in front of the cabin. The structure was built more as a second home, fully equipped with most utilities and comforts, but Collinsworth rarely used it as such. It was his hideaway, an escape from the rigors of Washington. A secluded spot to unwind, to hunt, to think. Only once had he been able to convince his wife to join him. The quietude would be a nice change, he had told her, but without cell phone reception she felt caged. He had his weapons and his prey as companions. She preferred neither. He never insisted again and enjoyed his time alone during hunting season.

  With their weekend gear piled in a corner of the cabin's main room, Mike immediately settled in an easy chair while Jennifer busied herself unpacking and quietly touring the cabin alone. He was silent the entire trip, deep in thought about the police interview this morning, and she knew not to pressure him. He would confide in her when the time was right.

  It grew dark in the forest early, the fading sunrays unable to filter through the thick treetops. A cool wind blew lightly and was powerless to move the mighty tree arms. Jennifer found the piercing calm unsettling but Michael — who was sinking deeper and deeper into the cushioned chair and his own disturbing thoughts — found it comforting. She was worried by his silence and would have preferred his arrogant scolding for unattended details. She snapped on a small ornate desk lamp that sat on an end table in the cabin's largest room and it splashed an eerie light about that drew shadows from the darkness.

  "Breathe blue, Saint Michael, I am humble in —"

  "No, no, Jennifer, that's not necessary." She noticed his eyes glistening as she approached him, tears forming, even through the wire-framed eyeglasses. He lifted himself from the chair and approached her outstretched arms.

  "I've been such a fool," he whispered.

  As she reached to embrace him and before the "no" could leave his lips, he quickly spun her about. He would later reflect on the consequence of his actions, for it had saved his life.

  At that exact moment a loud crack broke the silence. A window at the front of the cabin shattered, spitting splinters of glass about the room. Michael felt warm fluid splash up against the back of his hand. Warmth, but no pain. It was Jennifer’s body and not his own that received the slug. He felt relief and disgust simultaneously.

  Another human sacrifice for the sainted Michael. God, what is going on? What is happening?

  The force of her limp body thrown against him caused them both to tumble to the carpet knocking over the fragile desk lamp. The only light in the cabin, the only light for miles and it was extinguished. Darkness sucked in like air into a vacuum.

  The shards of broken glass that clung to the thick shag carpeting sliced into Michael's hands as he inched his way across the floor to the rear of the cabin. The adrenaline that coursed through his system acted both as a stimulant and a depressant. He did not feel the pain.

  He was dizzy and weak. Visions twisted through his brain; he was spinning, a whirlpool drawing him under. He had the strength to fight back but somehow it felt so comforting, so desirable. The swirling visions began to coalesce into concrete shapes; forms and faces emerged. He saw the face of his mother, smiling down from a rocking chair as she tossed a rubber ball toward him on the carpet. His father's tireless arms snatching the curved steel bars of the merry-go-round for one more turn. Then the face of Cheryl, her shimmering auburn hair framing her sharp, tanned features. The face and memories he tried so hard to push from his mind these past months. They comforted him now. They were so desirable.

  They were laughing, holding hands as they walked the white, sandy beach. Only one month together but never again strangers. How gloriously insane love can be, the fear and uncertainty of the approach and the laughing absurdity of the realization. The unreachable beauty and yet he could reach her. The specialty of being human and finding the goddess is human too, knowing that she desired his touch as much as he desired hers.

  The sun, the water and the earth was kind to them that day, their bodies gently exchanging the sensations of the warmth and the coolness. The cove where they finally embraced — that special cove where new lovers feel certain to be the first to enjoy its open privacy.

  Another shot rang out.

  Michael rolled over onto his stomach and began crawling to the rear of the cabin. Unaware, he began speaking aloud:

  "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.

  Blessed art thou among...."

  His eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. The room in which he found himself was smaller, less cluttered, than the one where the dead girl lay. In the center was a table that seemed out of place. Michael squinted and inched closer. Felt. Felt topped. A pool table, of course – the game room. Mike scanned the walls and moved quickly to the far end of the room. He found what he was looking for – the gun cabinet. He ran his fingers up the smooth glass- fronted case; it was unlocked. Collinsworth was a hunter and Michael would use the hunter's tools to aid the hunted.

  He snatched a rifle from the cabinet, slipped it under his left arm and then hesitated. Was it a lone gunman outside? Should he blockade the door to the main room and defend himself from within? No! Fear and flight. He had to get to the main road! Fumbling through the cabinet he grabbed a 9mm pistol and jammed it into his belt.

  More chemicals began flooding areas of his brain, sparking latent instincts.

  But other areas began shutting down. Fear does that. It steals our logic.

  He darted through the rear door like a shooting star. Oblivious that he was a lighted target.

  He wasted no time heading into the forest. A thin sliver of moon curled up from under the Cimmerian cloud-covered sky and spilled its light down, enough for Michael to get his bearings. His halo, an unintentional beacon for the hunter, useless to the hunted. He skillfully darted between the thick jagged bushes and tall still trees, but soon he was winded, his chest aching. Fear kept him moving awhile longer but he needed rest. He crouched down trying to muffle his heavy breathing. As he laid the rifle down to wipe his sweating palms he heard the rustling of bushes. He quickly snatched it back, aimed it in the direction of the sound. And squeezed the trigger. Click...click, click, click.

  A deer bounded by.

  "Shit. Goddammit." Michael tossed the rifle into the bushes. How stupid could I be? No hunter — no one — especially a professional like Collinsworth would leave loaded guns in an unlocked cabinet. "Goddammit."

  He reached for the pistol in his belt then jerked his hand away. A bludgeon, maybe even a bluff, he let it remain and stood to continue his flight.

  A branch snapped behind him!

  He dove to the ground rolling for cover behind a boulder to his right. He lay motionless and the eternity he waited finally passed. No other sounds came. He crouched behind the boulder, there was no movement and he continued ahead.

  The forest thickened into clusters of huge fir trees. He knew the access road could not be much more than another mile or so. God, an eternal mile. He continued ahead slowly, the soft, damp earth giving way under his feet. Then he saw it. He was sure. A flash of light in the distance. The headlights of a passing automobile!

  Another snap. This one from above.

  Michael quickly raised the 9mm pistol, stretching it at arm's length.

  "I gotta gun! I gotta gun!" he screamed.

  It happened too quickly.

  He felt the weight crash down on his shoulders, knocking him to the ground. His assailant s
prung to his feet, regained his balance and was standing above him as Michael looked up. The strap of a high-caliber hunting rifle was slung over his left shoulder and a handgun pointed down at Michael.

  "Hey, Glowboy. Nice try. How far did ya think ya'd get?" The assassin's camouflaged fatigues blended well with the surroundings. The greasepaint that blackened his face made the whites of his eyes appear to be dancing in a dark void.

  "You stick out like a pregnant babe on a beach," he said. "I could've cut ya down a mile back but I wanted to look you in the eyes. I never saw a saint face to face before."

  "Wait!" Mike pleaded.

  "No, you wait." The assassin crashed the butt of the pistol against Mike's jaw and a crimson rivulet trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  "Fucker," Mike shouted, startling the stalker with his arrogance. "Why, you motherfucker? What did I ever do to you? Who are you? Who sent you?"

  "Motherfucker, huh? A saint who talks in tongues. Let's just say you're one big pain in the ass for some people."

  "Who? For who?" Mike demanded.

  "It doesn't really matter now, kid. Looks like you’ve run outta miracles. Say hello to your maker."

  The assailant leveled the pistol at Michael's head.

  "Oh, I almost forgot, it's supposed to look like a hunting accident." He shoved the pistol into his belt, clicking the safety, and slipped the rifle from his shoulder. "Levitate thyself, Glowboy, and run your ass off."

  "No. If it doesn't look like an accident — maybe, just maybe — they'll trace it back to you." Mike glanced down at the ground, then quickly back up, staring into the eyes of the stalker. "Shoot me now, cocksucker!" he screamed.

  The man's eyes widened in contempt. He threw the stock of the rifle against his shoulder; taking aim his finger touched the trigger.

  A harsh sound of moving air whistled through the trees filling the clearing like a clap of thunder. Then, the sickening sound of the death rattle from the killer’s throat. His face contorted, his eyes circled in their sockets for their last look at Michael as blood streamed from the corner of his mouth and he fell to the earth, dead.

  "Michael! Are you all right?" The voice was distant and labored.

  The flash of light! Peri’s car? Tension slowly drained from his body.

  "Peri? Peri, is that you?"

  Mike stood and headed in the direction of the voice, Peri reciting the letters of the Greek alphabet as a beacon. Fifty yards from where the dead man lay, he found Pericletus clumsily trying to free a snagged pant leg from a thicket of bushes. A crossbow in one hand, his head was encased by a helmet that extended to cover his eyes with an opaque goggled shield. Mike managed a nervous laugh.

  "On your way to a masquerade?"

  "Oh this," Peri said, tapping the helmet. "Electro-optics. I wouldn't go out at night without it. I designed it myself."

  "Glad to see you, Peri."

  "Good to see you too, Michael."

  *****

  The two made good time back through the forest guided by Peri's aided vision and Mike's common sense knack for avoiding obstacles. Peri’s car was parked opposite the Jeep in front of the cabin and, as he reached for the door handle, he turned to his young friend.

  "That man back there, did you know him?" he asked.

  "Never saw him before."

  "He's with the Agency, you know."

  "Collinsworth's man?"

  "Uh huh, he's been to Coveport before, I don't recall in what capacity, but I do recognize him."

  "Why would he wanna kill me?"

  "I don't know. Maybe his file will shed some light on the subject. We’ll check it back at Coveport. You seem a little shaken, why don't you ride back with me."

  Mike sighed. "Yeah, I'd like that," he said.

  "I'm sorry about your friend inside. I have a cell phone in the Rover. We can alert the police on the way to Coveport. They're sure to have a lot of questions for you but that can wait until tomorrow. You need some rest right now."

  "More questions,” he muttered. Then, “thank you, Peri."

  "By the way, you may be wondering why I showed up here. I got the directions from your maid, Sister Lucy, I believe she called herself."

  "Yes...Lucy."

  "Well, my friend, I found the cause of your halo."

  PART THREE

  A BYWORD AND A HISSING

  What happens to the hole when the cheese is gone?

  Bertolt Brecht

  Chapter 19

  "Shampoo."

  "Shampoo?!"

  "Shampoo."

  "Shampoo?"

  "That's it."

  "That's it! How?"

  Mike squeezed a stiff tumbler of Scotch between his hands, his trembling mixing the drink and ringing the ice cubes around the rim of the glass. He crouched on the edge of his chair hanging more on Peri's words than the seat itself.

  "Well actually it was shampoo and rain water. Couldn't happen without the two. The rain water was the catalyst."

  "Shampoo and rainwater?"

  "Uh huh. You see, you could've showered till the cows come home and nothing would have happened. Fluoridated water neutralizes the process. We had a drought for three months if you recall, no rain. I checked with the Weather Bureau; it rained the night of March 14th for the first time in three months. You first noticed the effect on the morning of March 15th. You obviously got caught in the rain that Saturday night."

  "But...but that sounds preposterous!"

  "I agree, but so does rain water melting statuary and monuments that have stood for centuries. Preposterous yes, but it's happening all over the world. It's killing fish and bird life; it can eat through an inch thick metal cable if combined with bird guano. Sulfur dioxide...sulfuric acid. You did manufacturer that shampoo yourself, didn't you?"

  "No...yes, I mean… I don't know. I used to but that was so long ago. Cheryl put the nix on it...Cheryl." Mike slumped deeper into his chair. "I wonder how she is?"

  "She's fine. Let's get back to your shampoo. I've managed to isolate most of the ingredients. You've got some weird stuff in there. How'd you come up with the formula?"

  "I honestly don't know, a little of this and a little of that. I'd experiment – something to beat the frizzies, something for highlights, something to detangle — I don't know, why do they put oxygen interceptors in Slim Jims?"

  "To ensure stability."

  "What? It’s rocket fuel?"

  "It's food… for shelf life. You're not going to blame a stick of beef jerky on your condition now are you?"

  "Are you sure about this? I mean it sounds —"

  "I still have some cultures in the lab that are glowing like the dickens if you'd care to have a look."

  "No, no that's okay, it's just that —"

  "The Lord works in mysterious ways."

  Peri's statement hurled Mike back to reality. The last six months had been a nightmare. The Lord works in mysterious ways. The holy man. The sainted. Blessed Saint Michael — a byproduct of bizarre technology run amok. Four people dead because of me. No, five. Dammit, I should've died. Half the world believing in a joke, a fraud. People's lives twisted and mangled because of the fluke — a chemical fluke.

  "Dammit, I should've died."

  "Easy. Don't be so hard on yourself just yet. The worst is yet to come. You need to get a grip. I'll help you with what I can. You may have noticed that the effect has lessened somewhat; it has on the samples. In fact, it'll be gone completely and not too long from now, if my calculations are correct."

  "Then it's not permanent."

  "Hardly. There was quite a buildup of the chemical deposits on the shafts that I clipped, but in less than a month, I'd say, you'll be back to normal."

  Mike looked down and shook his head. "Normal," he said. "Bad word for a freak like me. I don't mean physically, I twisted a lot of lives around with this ridiculous notion that I was something special."

  "You are something special, we all are. Some of us just let it get out of hand. People
chose to believe what you told them — choice, Mike — free will. You did affect a lot of lives but self-pity isn't going to help now. In a month's time people will want to know what's going on. You have to make a decision now. How are you going to let them know? Self-pity will only cloud your judgment. You'll have to let them know because surely, somehow, they'll learn the truth."

  Mike was almost afraid to ask. "Does anyone else know now?"

  "Just Cheryl."

  "Cheryl." He felt his chest tighten.

  "I promised her I'd let her know as soon as I found out anything."

  "Boy, she sure did get mixed up with a class A asshole...damn."

  "Self-pity again."

  "Yeah...how is she? Cheryl."

  "Fine. That's a wonderful woman, an honestly caring person."

  "That she is. And I might as well have flushed her down the shooter. I tossed her away like a scrap of chewed meat. Has she...has she asked about me lately?"

  "We've both been getting our information on you from the media. You didn't seem too interested in the non-converts of the world since your release from the hospital."

  "Yeah...yeah I guess not. How'd she react when you told her? Did she...did she laugh?"

  "Quite the contrary. Like I said, that scrap of chewed meat is a very caring human being. She's vulnerable; she's hurt badly. But she's a strong one, a survivor."

  "She's pulled me out of more than one jam, she's tough all right. I hope to God she can forgive me, though I don't know why she should. I didn't mean to hurt anybody with this. I don't know why but I really thought there was something to this color breathing, I think I still do. Have I gone mad?"

  "Probably not. There may be something to it. The problem is that when something becomes a self-serving enterprise people end up getting hurt. You may not have wanted it to happen that way but it’s the law of unintended consequences. Self-service is a game of a lot of take and not too much give and the little give is just to enable you to take some more. It feeds that part of us that needs to be fed. Being fed is healthy; being overfed is not. Men sometimes become beasts."