The Second Coming

by John Heubusch

  “We must have that boy, Giancarlo. I will crown him myself as the true Vicar of Christ if that is what it takes to rescue the faith and save my Church. But first you must bring him to me.”

  Chapter 42

  London

  Bondurant set his cup of coffee down on the front page of the tabloid and, for the first time since he’d seen the newspaper the day before, allowed himself to laugh at the photo that nearly jumped off its cover.

  The picture, a large black-and-white photo that splashed over the front of London’s Daily Mirror, was of Bondurant and a topless Khan on the beach at St. Bart’s. For readers of the Mirror, the image it captured was of two famous star-crossed lovers caught on camera in a romantic moment as they gazed toward the sea. For Bondurant and Khan, the photo stirred very different meanings and memories.

  The Mirror headline that accompanied the photograph said it all: “Scientists Take a Holiday: Bare Breasted in St. Bart’s.” The prized photo of the world-famous Khan alongside her new scientist boyfriend had been taken by enterprising paparazzi. Both Bondurant and Khan had turned off their cell phones since the paper was published the day before to avoid the dozens of calls from supposed “well-wishers” who’d now left voice messages about the attractive but nonexistent couple’s plight.

  Bondurant looked up from the pages of the tabloid to the view outside; it was a scene designed to impress. Khan’s apartment had a magnificent view of downtown London that encompassed the old and the new—the London Eye, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, and the muddy River Thames—as far as he could see. Khan’s home was a secluded and trendy two-floor flat with a grand outdoor balcony that overhung the Thames.

  Reading the story over again, Bondurant knew a single word in the article used to describe his relationship with Khan was loaded with all the wrong implications. The story, in describing the two, read: “Khan, bisexual and not normally known for long-term affairs, has carried on with seldom seen dashing anthropologist and author boyfriend Bondurant, leading some to believe there’s some ‘there’ there. Khan has been known to devour her male mates, much like the female praying mantis known for decapitating and often eating her loves alive.”

  Khan, barefoot, freshly showered, and dressed for the day, brought to the table a tray with more hot coffee and cream, jam, some croissants, and a pack of Gitanes to smoke.

  “It’s good to see you’ve regained your sense of humor,” she said. She’d overheard him laughing at the article. Bondurant had been in no mood to chuckle when he first saw the story the night before, but he’d lightened up. He’d reminded himself of what he’d often heard about the British tabloid press, that today’s news wraps tomorrow’s fish and chips.

  Bondurant watched Khan as she set down the breakfast tray and poured him more hot coffee with a splash of cream. She stared at the view from the window, and Bondurant took the opportunity to take in Khan as well—her smell, her grace, her movements, her stunning features. But “boyfriend” was wrong. She’d remained a friend, not a lover, since they met. He figured it would be impossible for anyone, including Domenika, to believe, given how he’d treated—even mistreated—women before. But Domenika, even though they were now far apart, had changed him in deep and important ways. While they’d had their troubles, Domenika was still his only love, and to Bondurant, his integrity was everything.

  “There’s something in that story that requires some real reflection and perhaps just a bit of conversation. I’d like to see if you agree,” Khan said. She finished buttering a croissant and, after applying a light coat of jam, slid it onto Bondurant’s plate. “It says here that you’re my ‘boyfriend.’ ”

  Bondurant shook his head and reached for his coffee to take a long sip in order to stall as he searched for a good response.

  She always found a way to get straight to the point of what mattered. Sometimes he liked it. Sometimes he didn’t. But it always sped things along.

  “It also says you decapitate and eat your mates. Does that go for friends as well?”

  “Not all of them,” Khan said with a smile. She leaned over the breakfast table and playfully dabbed a small amount of butter and jam from the croissant she’d prepared onto Bondurant’s lips. “But this is your chance. Now or never. Would you like to be my boyfriend, Jon?” She placed one bare foot on the chair beside him, and in the process revealed one of her shapely tan legs to the top of her thigh.

  “I think I—I think I—” Bondurant said. He’d never lost the shyness that took him at the age of twelve.

  “You think, you think. You think about your Domenika, right?” Khan said. She moved around the table and sat next to him. She stroked the back of his hand. “Jon, you haven’t seen her for weeks. You’ve survived. And I’ve left you alone. But,” she said as she tapped on the newspaper spread before them, “inquiring minds want to know. Would you like to be my boyfriend?” She licked her forefinger and used it to wipe away a speck of jam at the corner of his mouth.

  Just then, her home phone rang, almost as if on cue.

  “That’s odd,” Khan said. “That phone never rings.”

  “Ignore it?” Bondurant asked, although he fully welcomed the interruption.

  “I’ve got my hands full,” she said. She’d already left his side and carried a breakfast tray toward the kitchen. “Can you get it? Whoever it is, as you can see, I’m not at home.”

  Bondurant made his way to the pantry, where the cordless phone sat on a counter. He picked it up.

  “Hello? Khan residence,” Bondurant said. He felt odd.

  “This is the Khan residence? Shakira Khan residence?”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Actually, this is a bit of a long shot, but I’m trying to reach Dr. Jon Bondurant. Would Dr. Bondurant happen to be there?”

  “You’ve reached him. That’s me,” Bondurant said. He knew immediately that something was wrong. “Who am I speaking to?”

  “Oh, thank God we’ve found you. This is Dr. Jon Bondurant?”

  “It is,” he said.

  “Dr. Bondurant, I’ll be brief. This is Dr. Kenneth Hepps. I’m with the Pediatric Neurosurgery Division at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore.”

  “Yes, yes, I know the hospital,” Bondurant said. He watched as Khan slowed her steps through the kitchen and set down the breakfast tray.

  “I’m afraid your son, Christopher, has had to be admitted to the hospital, Dr. Bondurant,” Dr. Hepps said. Bondurant’s face went pale. He pressed the receiver hard against his ear to make sure he caught every word.

  “What exactly is the problem, Doctor? Is Christopher all right?”

  “We’re investigating that right now,” Hepps said. “Christopher was admitted to the hospital last night, and we’re running several tests. He’s been in and out of consciousness several times since he was admitted.”

  “All right, then, I’m on my way,” Bondurant said. He looked at Khan, who had wrapped her arm around him reassuringly. “We’re on our way.”

  “I think that might be best,” Hepps said. “He’s asked for you several times, and I’m certain the family would appreciate having you here.”

  “The family?” Bondurant said. “I’m the family. His mother, Domenika, is she there? Is she there with Chris?”

  “Yes, she is,” Hepps said. “She asked if I might help track you down. You are her husband, is that correct? She said that you were. Is that the familial relationship?”

  Khan had left the room. Bondurant figured she was already upstairs packing their bags.

  “I’m Christopher’s father,” Bondurant said. “I’m Domenika’s husband. I’m family. Do you hear? And I’ll be there right away.”

  Chapter 43

  Geneva

  Meyer looked down the imposingly long table in the sleekly appointed, high-tech conference room of the new Demanian Church headquarters toward Hans Jr., who sat at the other end. He shook his head.

  The size of Meyer’s council had become unwieldy. Th
irty-eight church elders who had gathered in Geneva sat in high, red leather chairs on either side of the polished ebony table. A dozen decanters of ice water and an assortment of expensive crystal glassware dotted the table. Legal pads and pens, all adorned with the Demanian Church logo, sat like place settings in front of the trustees.

  Each of them represented a region of the faith, which now reached every corner of the globe. Meyer had visions of an eventual territorial consolidation and a smaller ruling council, but that was a topic for another day. There were more important issues to cover before the daylong meeting concluded, one in particular that Meyer knew he could no longer avoid. As he watched the boy take his place for the first time at the opposite end of the long table—Hans Jr.’s first outward sign of challenge to his rule—Meyer knew the game was on.

  The room was dark except for the glow of the massive projection screen high on the wall behind Meyer. It showed a colorfully illustrated map of the world. Every one of the tiny red spots scattered across the atlas on all seven continents represented a Demanian Church facility. Given that there were thousands dotting the globe, it was impossible to count them all. The title of the slide revealed the newest estimates of the church’s total congregation: “One Billion and Counting.” The number of Demanian faithful worldwide had grown to rival the size of the Catholic Church. The council had reason to celebrate.

  But Meyer knew that most of the elders gathered were also aware that the impressive numbers of Demanian converts disguised a particularly vexing problem for the future of their faith. On a cash-flow basis, the church was nearly broke. While its physical assets rivaled those of any organized religion on earth, the number of new church and stadium construction sites required to accommodate the dramatic influx of converts had exceeded the church’s projections twofold.

  Capital requirements to fund the cost of these new facilities, in addition to the recently launched television studios, an international university, five more critically needed DNA repositories, and three church-related resorts, were enormous. The Demanians’ banks knew that nearly every project under way was over budget. The new headquarters in Geneva, a magnificent cathedral with offices like no other building in the world, would take another two years to complete. Its cost alone topped ten billion dollars. Contributions tithed from the earnings of the faithful—ten percent of their gross income—had grown substantially but not quickly enough to keep up with building needs. The elders needed to make a decision: increase the percentage of mandatory tithing from its members, or resort to Plan B.

  Meyer felt secure that he knew which way the council would vote. Surveys conducted in the past few months had revealed vehement opposition among the faithful to an increased tithe from ten percent to fifteen percent. The question for the council came down to whether it had the stomach to proceed with the alternative plan Meyer had secretly devised. Meyer knew there was no choice but to test the council’s resolve.

  “Elder Yeung,” Meyer called out to his chief financial officer, who sat halfway down the table from him. Yeung was also the church’s regional chairman for eastern Asia. “If you would, present the particulars of the alternative plan.”

  “Certainly,” the man answered. The moment he stood, a fresh slide appeared on the screen before the group. It contained a list in three columns that included the names of almost one hundred people. “This is the list of the proposed deceased we have previously circulated. I presume you’ve read it before. It’s in the packets of confidential material provided to all of you.”

  Several of the elders nodded. All of them, including Hans Jr., had their eyes fixed on the screen.

  “As you are all obviously aware, the alternative method by which we propose to more quickly accumulate the funds required to meet our cash shortfall involves triggering the estate-gift mechanism of a select number of our wealthiest faithful,” Yeung said. “Those with net worth in excess of one hundred million dollars.”

  “ ‘Proposed deceased’? You mean to kill them to get their money,” the elder from Australia interrupted.

  “If you want to put it so bluntly,” Yeung said. He removed his glasses, and his eyes scanned the assemblage for dissenters. Meyer had told him he thought there would be little opposition to Plan B.

  “How else would it be possible to access the church’s half portion of their estates upon their passing? There must first be a passing,” another elder at the far end of the table said.

  “Before we move to a vote,” another elder near Hans Jr. said, “may I ask how the church plans to eliminate these faithful? I presume we’re planning to take care of their immediate families upon their deaths.”

  “The majority of these people are over the age of sixty,” Meyer said. He could tell it was time to steer the conversation in the right direction. “We will ask for volunteers from among all those on the list. For those who courageously come forward, we will guarantee them a space near the front of the line for resurrection.”

  “How much of an advantage is this for the average volunteer?” an elder asked.

  “Given the billion Demanian faithful accumulated thus far,” Yeung said as he pointed to a bar graph that appeared on the screen, “volunteering will ensure their chance for cloning, and rebirth will be accelerated by approximately five years. For many, particularly the elderly on the list who come forward, it will be well worth the price to recapture their youth and live again so soon.”

  “And for those who don’t volunteer?” another asked.

  Meyer shook his head over the consternation. He was anxious for a vote and the end of discussion. As for how those on the list who refused to volunteer would be treated, he would reluctantly leave that up to Galerkin. The Russian stood right outside the conference room, prepared for his orders should the vote to approve Plan B succeed. Meyer estimated that the number of those on the list who might resist volunteering would provide enough work to keep Galerkin busy, incompetent though he may be, for quite a while.

  “As for their demise,” Meyer said, “we have those plans in hand. The council need not concern itself with the details. Depending on how many refuse to volunteer, we foresee the process taking several months. As much as a year.”

  “A year?” an elder asked, sounding startled.

  Meyer ignored him. “And as for the families of those who go unwillingly,” he continued, “I would make a motion before this group that those unfortunately sacrificed for this important cause be second behind the volunteers to be cloned when the laws of their countries of origin allow. The church will count them as true martyrs. Once they’re cloned, they will be repatriated to their families with the full honors they deserve.”

  “I second the motion,” one of the elders called out. “Let’s vote.”

  “The motion being seconded,” Meyer said, “I move that—”

  “Excuse me,” Hans Jr. called out. “I want to talk.”

  The entire group of elders turned toward the eight-year-old at the end of the table. As he leaned back in his chair, his face was barely visible above the tabletop, even with the pillow he sat on. He rarely spoke up during such sessions, but when he did, every ear leaned in. Meyer hadn’t a clue what the precocious boy had on his mind now, but as of late, the child had been difficult to manage.

  “I don’t like it that only the richest must die for the church to succeed,” the boy said. “They are of use to us.”

  “What do you mean?” another elder asked.

  “I mean they have lots of money. They tithe each year. It’s a lot,” Hans Jr. said.

  “He has a point,” an elder said.

  “Is there a list of all the converts I’ve saved?” the boy asked.

  “Of course,” Yeung said. “As you know, it numbers more than a hundred thousand people now.”

  “We should start with a list of those I’ve helped who were once Christian,” the boy said. “Give me their photos.”

  “Just their photos?” Yeung asked.

  “Yes. I need to reco
gnize them,” the boy said.

  “And then?” Yeung asked. “We need thirty billion dollars of net worth immediately. That’s a lot of people.”

  “Get me their photos. Whatever number it takes. They will be gone tomorrow,” the boy said with finality.

  The room went perfectly still, as quiet as a church. Meyer watched as Hans Jr. rose and stood at his place. The boy scanned the room full of elders as if searching for a sign of weakness among them.

  “Listen: If they didn’t expect something like this to happen someday, then they shouldn’t have made a deal in the first place,” Hans Jr. said.

  Meyer looked intently into the boy’s eyes as if to discern what darkness lay behind them.

  “I like that better than a year’s wait to get all the funds we need,” one elder chimed in. “It seems such a torturous amount of time to wait.”

  “I want three things in return,” Hans Jr. said. He returned Meyer’s glassy stare from the other end of the table.

  Meyer braced himself for the demands that might come next from the boy. He’d long ago determined that this clone-child of the Shroud was by no means descended from Jesus Christ—and the boy’s newfound scheme was only the most recent proof.

  “First, I want the monster man fired,” the boy said.

  While many of the elders looked around them, clueless about the meaning of the demand, Meyer knew exactly what Hans Jr. meant. It was clear the boy had despised Galerkin for years, and it was a cheap price to pay for the boy’s helpful intervention. Meyer would place all the blame on the child anyway once he met with his Russian assassin to break the news outside the room.

  “Fine,” Meyer said without hesitation. If Galerkin would not be needed to eliminate those identified as part of Plan B, he had little use for the assassin anyway. “Consider him gone. What else?”

  “I want to convert more Christians,” Hans Jr. said. “Only Christians now.”

  Meyer had no problem at all with targeting Christians, and the Catholic Church in particular. As of late, the Church in Rome had debilitated itself through its own actions, so much so that its faithful were already leaving in droves.