The Messiah

by Vincent L. Scarsella

  Pantera’s followers who had lived at the Grassy Creek compound—those true believers who had renounced their former lives—found their way back into those lives. A few settled on street corners in various cities, waiting for the next messiah. Many who had attended Pantera’s rallies and sermons wondered how they had been so easily duped. What had they been thinking?

  In short, life returned to normal without the Messiah.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  He Is Risen

  By mid-November, Constantine had made his way back up to Buffalo. He’d grown up in the nearby Rochester suburb of Penfield before graduating from Binghamton University with a bachelor’s degree in history, joining the CIA, and then succumbing to the Network’s recruitment pitch while on assignment in London. He decided it would be fitting to start his ministry in the same place where Pantera had started his Enlightenment Tour.

  He also knew his money would go a long way in western New York, where property values had never experienced a bubble and had only modestly increased over the years. Even in the hippest parts of Buffalo, housing was relatively cheap.

  Constantine quickly found an upper two-bedroom, furnished apartment for reasonable rent in a bulky, drafty old clapboard house only a few minutes’ drive from downtown. The house had been built around the turn of the twentieth century on a narrow side street lined with tall mature trees with thick, gnarled trunks whose roots had years ago cracked open the sidewalks and asphalt driveways. Constantine paid cash to the landlord, a lawyer who lived in the suburbs, for the first and last months’ rent and a security deposit and he moved in on November 15th.

  For a few damp, cold days after that, he wandered the streets in that neighborhood, planning what had now become his life’s work—the establishment of a religion based upon Cristos Pantera’s teachings. He hoped and prayed that in the coming years or decades—or maybe even centuries—that those teachings would at long last bring down the Supremacy.

  Part of the plan, of course, was to write his “gospel”—the Book of Jude. Just as Chief Bradley had suggested

  As Constantine began composing the gospel, he wondered what had become of his colleagues in Pantera’s inner circle. Since his release from Network captivity, he had not heard from any of them. An article in The New York Times dated two weeks after Pantera’s purported death wondered where his closest disciples—Amato, Renata Singh, Stu Goldstein, for instance—had gone and why they were laying low. Though Constantine speculated that they were likely staying out of public view to avoid the Supremacy’s wrath, he decided to try and find them, ease their concerns and ask that they unite with him to spread Pantera’s message.

  Using his Facebook group page, Constantine put out a call to his fellow disciples asking them to contact him, providing his email and mailing addresses. But for a time, they remained silent, still hiding out or unwilling to speak up.

  Who could blame them for being afraid and laying low? They had seen what the puppet-masters were capable of. Their leader was dead and they might be next on the list of the secret ruling powers who would not abide interference with their control over humanity. But Constantine knew that the Supremacy did not believe they posed a danger. The head of their mission had been cut off. They were, without Pantera, no longer a threat.

  Finally, Constantine gave up trying to reach them and instead concentrated in finishing the Book of Jude. By early February, he was almost finished when he received a letter that, for him, changed everything.

  Two old, tattered black mailboxes, one for his upper apartment and one for the lower, were attached by rusty nails to a shingle next to the side door of the house. Mail delivery came regularly just after two in the afternoon, and Constantine went down the narrow stairwell at around three to pick up his mail, usually consisting of credit card offers, insurance and store circulars, and various other solicitations. But on that day in early February, among two or three mundane items, he found a plain white envelope with his name and address typed in the center. There was no return address.

  Back inside his kitchen, Constantine tossed the regular solicitations onto the table and immediately tore open the flap of this envelope with his name and address printed across the middle of it. Inside the envelope, he found a single folded sheet of plain white paper. He quickly unfolded the sheet and found a message typed in large font across the middle of the page:

  HE IS RISEN!

  Part Six

  The Church of Cristos

  Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.

  - Matthew 28:19-20

  Christianity did not originate among the lower classes in Judea. It was the creation of a Roman imperial family, the Flavians.

  - Joseph Atwill, Caesar’s Messiah: The Roman Conspiracy to Invent Jesus

  After the true Church of Cristos was established, based upon His words and deeds, and upon the Word of God, promising, if followed, entrance into the Kingdom, the false one came to proclaim Him Son of God.

  - Book of Jude 24:14-15, Testament of the Church of Cristos

  Chapter Fifty

  The Council of Binghamton

  Shortly after Constantine received the mysterious letter, a few of Pantera’s other disciples finally began surfacing on Facebook pages, blogs, and websites, each with their own slightly different interpretation of Pantera’s message. Constantine also finally received an email message directly from one of them—David Cantor, the former social worker from Cleveland. The email included Cantor’s cell phone number, and Constantine immediately gave him a call.

  “Watch what you say,” Cantor warned him.

  “I know,” Constantine said. “Let’s get together with the others.”

  After two weeks of reaching out to them, Constantine, Cantor, and the other members of the inner circle arranged a meeting in a hotel near Binghamton, New York. In total, including Constantine, eight members of Pantera’s former inner circle showed up: Cantor, Jonathan Walsh, Mohammed Atti, Ken Baker, Myra Kearse, Luke Morgan, and Miranda Siminski. None of them had heard from Renata Singh, Nick Amato, Richard Avery, Stu Goldstein—or, of course, Pantera.

  The meeting went on for over two hours, during which they agreed to form a new religion, or Church, in furtherance of Pantera’s ministry. With little debate, they selected the name, “The Church of Cristos.”

  After spending some time debating the Church’s message, they reached a relative consensus and hammered out a uniform catechism of sorts. In later years, this meeting became known as the Council of Binghamton.

  Their final task was to select a leader of the new Church, its first “pope.” To Constantine’s surprise, the others quickly elected him and decreed that his title should be “Minister.”

  “Minister Jude,” Cantor said as he stood and patted Constantine on the back, followed by polite applause of their fellow disciples.

  Finally, they quieted, and Constantine nodded, feeling humbled and blessed as well as determined.

  “It shall be our purpose to transform the world,” he said, “as if Cristos Pantera was still with us. Which, through this spirit, he is and shall always be.”

  “You got that right, bro,” Ken Baker said, and the others nodded and mumbled agreement.

  After a moment, Constantine said to them, “There are some things you all should know.”

  First, he told them what Chief Bradley had confirmed—that Stu Goldstein had betrayed them.

  “Why’d he do it?” Myra Kearse asked.

  “For money?” Atti pronounced. “After all, he is a Jew.”

  Constantine glared at Atti and told him, “Please, none of that, Mohammed.” Then, he looked around the room at the others. “Why’d he betray the Master? He lost faith in the man and his message.”

  He looked around at them for a few moments, smiled, then added, “There is something
else.”

  As they turned to him, Constantine told them something else Chief Bradley had confirmed—that Renata Singh was pregnant with Pantera’s child.

  “The bloodline lives on,” Cantor said, smiling, and the others exchanged smiles as well.

  “And last but not least,” Constantine added. “There is this.”

  They all watched as Constantine opened his metal briefcase and withdrew a folded single sheet of paper. He unfolded it and showed it to them.

  “I received this in the mail last month,” he told them. “There was no return address.”

  “He is risen?” Atti frowned and looked around the room.

  “I take it none of you is responsible for this,” Constantine said.

  They collectively shook their heads.

  “One of our missing comrades, then?” Luke Morgan asked.

  Constantine shrugged and said, “Perhaps.”

  “Risen as in, risen?” Atti asked. “Back from the dead.”

  “Resurrected,” Constantine said. “At least, what someone wants us to believe.”

  “Maybe it’s part of a scheme?” Kearse said after a moment. “The others, maybe they’re faking it. Pretending his resurrection.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t die,” suggested Cantor.

  “Or maybe he truly is the Son of God,” Morgan said.

  That quieted them for a time until Cantor looked at Constantine and asked, “Now what, Minister? We have our Church. What’s next?”

  “Next?” Constantine repeated. “We spread the Word of God.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The Book of Jude

  The moment Director Margolis rose from his chair, Lord Winston held up a small, thin, one hundred and thirty-seven-page paperback and displayed it to the other twenty-six members of the Supremacy Council. Spread across its cover was the iconic photograph of Cristos Pantera standing with his arms and eyes upraised to the heavens, wearing his pristine, long white robe with his glistening hair flowing over his shoulders.

  Across the top of the cover, in thick black letters, blared the title:

  THE BOOK OF JUDE

  Being the Gospel of Cristos Pantera by His Disciple, Jude Constantine

  What Lord Winston did not have to tell Gregor Margolis, or the other members of the Supremacy Council gathered at Steinvikholm Castle on the vernal equinox for its biannual meeting, was that The Book of Jude had been the number one New York Times bestseller for two straight weeks.

  “I believe, Director Margolis,” Lord Winston said, “that your intelligence report should start with the impact of this book. Is it a threat to the Supremacy?”

  “I had intended to start with it, Chairperson Winston,” Margolis said, remaining calm and poker-faced as always, holding back his anger over his old friend’s theatrics. Holding up that book! There was simply no need for that. Had Lord Winston forgotten that all had ended well and there was no longer a threat to their control?

  Margolis turned to his colleagues and said, “Our analysts project minimal impact. The book’s initial popularity and impact will eventually wane and its effect will ultimately be negligible. In short, a gospel or several gospels about an inspirational man can never replace the man.”

  “And what of the church, this Church of Cristos?” Lord Winston asked. “I understand it has been gaining converts, spreading.”

  “The creation of the church in his name was expected,” Margolis responded, “but it’s far from becoming a threat. Its head, the so-called Minister Constantine, once again, is a poor substitute for his church’s namesake.”

  “What is your explanation for this Constantine?” interrupted Assad Bin Laden. “Yet another of your agents gone astray?”

  “My only explanation,” Margolis said with a shrug, “is that Cristos Pantera was a charismatic man with extraordinary appeal. Have you watched the film clips? They are all over You-Tube. And Constantine’s Book of Jude presents a compelling interpretation of his message.”

  “You sound as if you could convert, Director,” Bin Laden commented with a laugh.

  Margolis glared at the Arab for a moment before Terrence Middleton asked, “And what of the rumors that he’s not really dead?”

  Margolis turned to him and said, “That’s all it is, a silly rumor spread by his faction. I assure you, he is dead.”

  “Hung himself,” said Middleton dryly.

  “But there was something about the body,” Lord Winston broke in, “a claim that it was taken, lost.”

  “Did you say lost?” a member from the other end of the table asked.

  “Lost?” Someone else asked.

  Reddening, Margolis looked that way and answered, “Yes, lost. Another baseless rumor, nothing more. The claim is that it was taken from the prison morgue. Stolen by sympathizers, and then replaced with another. And that body was the one cremated, not his.”

  “And what about the sightings?” asked J. Gordon Grant. “The Internet is rife with such reports…”

  “Those stories come from Pantera’s camp,” Margolis cut him off. “Another lie.”

  “Sounds like the same MO as Jesus,” Middleton said. “Yes?”

  Margolis acknowledged the parallel with a shrug.

  “That such rumors persist is disappointing,” said Lord Winston. “And, if true…”

  “Neither story is true,” snapped Margolis.

  “Disastrous,” Middleton said.

  “Well, there is another possibility,” said Grant.

  After a moment, everyone was looking at him.

  “He rose from the dead,” Grant said with a smile. He obviously thought it was funny, but no one laughed. There was nothing humorous about it. The chamber went silent, and his smile quickly faded.

  “Have the others been heard from?” Lord Winston asked. “Other than the ones who met with Constantine in Binghamton, New York some weeks ago.”

  “Well, Goldstein, of course,” Margolis said.

  “The traitor,” Lord Winston said. “Of course, him. I mean the others? His mother, that woman, Renata Singh—another of your wayward agents—the biker, and one more, according to your report.”

  “No,” Margolis said, “we have yet to find them.”

  “And she’s with child,” Bin Laden said. “His child.”

  Margolis gave a disagreeable nod.

  “So what happens now, Director?” Lord Winston asked. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Yes,” Margolis answered, “one that requires the Council’s approval. It’s been outlined in my report.”

  “Please summarize it,” Lord Winston said. “The day grows long.”

  Margolis looked at Lord Winston, nodded briefly, then turned to his colleagues. “Our plan is exactly what was done with Jesus,” he explained. “Turn Cristos Pantera into a superstition, another Son of God. Just like Paul of Tarsus did. And then take advantage of the need of the masses for myth and immortality. Our analysts tell us it has a high probability of success.”

  After a moment, Middleton raised his arms and started clapping.

  “Bravo, Director,” he said. “Bravo!”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The House of Salvation

  At around two o’clock on a warm weekday afternoon in late summer about a year and a half later, a black BMW sedan pulled into the parking lot next to an opaque two-story glass building on Orange Blossom Boulevard in Kissimmee, Florida. A large sign that ran along the entire length of the building, in black letters three feet high against a white background, read:

  THE CHURCH OF CRISTOS

  Below the name was an epigraph in script:

  The House of Salvation

  After parking in the mostly empty lot, the driver’s door of the BMW opened and out stepped a tall, good-looking man no more than thirty years old in a crisp, black suit with striking jet-black hair, intense blue eyes, and sharp, chiseled features. After looking up at the sign, he grimaced, then strode forward with a glum expression across the parking lot toward the ent
rance to the church.

  The automatic glass doors slid open as he approached. As he entered a wide vestibule, he heard the John Lennon song “Imagine” piped in from speakers somewhere up in the ceiling.

  An arched doorway led from the vestibule into a spacious hall with perhaps fifty rows of aluminum benches separated by a wide aisle leading to a large altar. A painting of Cristos Pantera, in his white robe with his hands raised to the heavens, dominated the back wall behind the altar.

  The man found a college-aged girl seated at a squat, wooden desk at the archway leading into the church. She wore an ankle-length, watercolor sundress and blue headband, and her long, dark brown hair was braided into old-fashioned pigtails. Various pamphlets and a pile of The Book of Jude paperbacks occupied the top of the desk.

  She looked up and smiled amiably as he approached.

  “Welcome to the Church of Cristos,” she said in a soft, airy voice. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Minister Constantine,” the man said gruffly. His stern face was all business, his eyes boring down on her.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the girl asked, holding her smile despite the visitor’s petulant attitude. “The Minister sees no one without an appointment.”

  “Tell him I’m here on behalf of Lester Bradley,” the man said. “He’ll want to see me.”

  The girl frowned, thought a moment, then reached for a cell phone on the top of her desk. She pressed a contact number, and a moment later was speaking with Jude Constantine.

  “Sorry to bother you, Minister,” she said. “This is Sally… Yes, thank you. I have a gentleman out here. He wants to see you. Says he’s here on behalf of…”