by Bill Myers
“Shooting?” Sarah asked.
“Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Some majnoon just shot Chairman Ponte. Over at Temple Mount. Gunned him down in cold blood.”
“What’s the kid doing!”
“Somebody stop him!”
“Eric!” Katherine cried. She struggled to move, but she was pinned to the pavement by a security guard. “Eric?” He had tackled her to the ground when the shooting had started. Now she was fighting to catch a glimpse of her son through the running feet and fallen bodies. “Eric!”
“Somebody grab the kid!”
They’d been a hundred yards north of the Dome of the Rock when the shot rang out. A single bullet fired by a sniper across the courtyard. Katherine had been standing so close to Lucas that she’d actually seen blood and bone explode from his chest. Now he lay eight feet away — the front of his body soaked in blood, his eyes fixed open in a death stare.
But she could not find her son. “Eric!”
They’d just left the stage, fifty yards from the newly opened East Gate, and were strolling toward the site of the temple groundbreaking. That’s when the shot had been fired.
“Let me go!” It was Eric. She recognized his voice immediately. “Let me go, I can help!”
There was a scuffle. She caught a glimpse of Eric’s trousers and shoes.
“Eric!”
“I can help him. Let me —”
“Let him go.” It was a member of the Cartel. The secretary general.
“But, sir —” a guard protested.
“Let the kid go.” The command was firm and unwavering. “Now!” And then a little more reflective. “Let’s see what he can do.”
“Okay, everybody,” another guard spoke up. “Step back now, let’s clear the area.”
Instantly, the weight came off Katherine. Another guard was helping her to her feet. Now at last she could see the whole picture. There was Lucas lying on the ground in a widening pool of blood, and standing directly above him was her son … safe. The relief was immeasurable.
“Eric!” she called. “Eric!”
But he didn’t hear. Instead, he stared down at the lifeless body.
“Everyone stand back.” Security continued moving the crowd. “Give us some room
here …” She felt hands around her arms, pulling her back with the rest of the crowd.
“But I’m the boy’s mother. I’m — Eric!”
It did no good. She was pulled back fifteen feet until she became part of the perimeter surrounding Eric, the secretary, and the body. She watched breathlessly as Eric slowly lowered to his knees. She knew how much he loved the man, and she’d give anything to be by his side to comfort him. But when she looked at her son’s face, she saw no tears. She saw no emotion at all.
Eric gently took Lucas’s right arm, which had fallen across his abdomen, and stretched it out onto the stone pavement. He did the same with the other arm. The crowd grew still. In the distance an approaching EMS vehicle could be heard. Eric reached down and straightened one leg and then the other. Then he rolled the head forward until it faced up. Finally he reached down to the staring eyes and closed them.
A gentle breeze stirred through the courtyard. News cameras adjusted for better positions. Everything became absolutely silent.
Still on his knees, Eric lifted one leg over the body until he was straddling it. A faint murmur rippled through the crowd. Then, ever so carefully, he stretched out and lowered himself directly on top of the body — chest to chest, arms to arms, legs to legs.
The murmuring increased. Security started to move in, but the secretary repeated his order. “Leave him.”
“But, sir —”
“Watch.”
Eric took a deep breath and lowered his head. He put his mouth directly over the man’s mouth, face to face, lips to lips … and then he blew. It was a type of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but one like nobody had ever seen. Eric exhaled completely, then turned his face to let the air escape from the corpse’s lungs. He took another breath and repeated the process. The crowd began to fidget, a couple voiced concern, but Eric paid no attention.
Katherine watched. She wanted to cry out his name, but she knew he would not respond. He took a third breath and blew it into the mouth of the body. The crowd grew more restless.
Then, ever so faintly, the fingers of Lucas’s left hand began to twitch — once, twice. A moment later, those of his right hand started to move.
Katherine looked on in astonishment.
Suddenly the right foot jerked. Then Lucas’s entire body convulsed. Then, at last, he began to cough.
The crowd whispered and buzzed in amazement.
A moment later Eric crawled off of the body, and a moment after that, Chairman Lucas Ponte opened his eyes.
Sarah stared at the medical chart, not believing what she saw. Blood pressure, ECG, respiration rate, everything about Lucas was normal. He wasn’t even running a temperature.
She turned to the physician who’d let her take a look at the chart. “What about the chest wound?”
“What chest wound?” he asked.
“It’s all over the news. Eyewitness reports. A bullet tearing through the chest. Lots of blood.”
“The reports are wrong.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“There is no chest wound. There is no wound of any kind.”
She searched his face.
He shifted uncomfortably and repeated himself, “There is no wound. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She nodded, then motioned to the chart in her hand. “May I look at this another moment?”
“As you wish.” He turned and exited past one of the two sets of security guards stationed at either end of the long ICU bay. The room was designed for nine separate beds and ICU stations, which was still only a fraction of those available in the new emergency wing at Mount Scopus Hospital. But today it was cordoned off with only two occupants … Chairman Lucas Ponte a few beds over, and directly at her side, young Eric Lyon.
Both were sleeping. And why not? Raising someone from the dead is probably just as exhausting as being raised from the dead. The thought gave Sarah little comfort as she turned back to Lucas’s chart. Against Brandon’s advice she’d insisted upon rushing to the hospital. He’d accompanied her as far as the waiting room. But having no security clearance, he was now sitting out there with Katherine sipping lukewarm Nescafe.
Sarah flipped through Lucas’s chart until she reached his EEG, the measurement of the brain’s electrical activity. This was her specialty. If there was any abnormality she could probably spot it. But she was not prepared for what greeted her. According to the chart, Lucas Ponte was registering the exact same delta waves that Eric displayed whenever Heylel had entered him. In fact, their patterns appeared absolutely identical. A fist-sized knot formed in her stomach.
“Quite a coincidence, isn’t it, Doctor?”
She looked up to see Ponte, across the room, wide awake. “Lucas …” She took a step toward him, then caught herself. She wasn’t entirely sure why. “You gave us quite a scare.”
“I gave myself quite a scare, Dr. Martus.”
It was the way he spoke. Something about how he used her name. She did her best to cover the uneasiness. “You’re not feeling any pain? No side effects?”
“Not a thing. Well, except my vision seems to have been slightly affected. Still, at my age, spectacles become a reality sooner or later. They want us here for overnight observation, but I guarantee you we’ll be out of here by nightfall.”
“It’s … amazing.”
“Yes, it is. So you see, Doctor, your husband is not the only one who can perform miracles.”
The knot tightened. She unconsciously reached for the newly healed skin on her wrists. “You know … what happened?”
Lucas smiled. “Yes, Doctor, I know everything about you.”
There was that phrase again, that tone. She glanced d
own at his chart.
“It really is quite remarkable, isn’t it?” he said. “For two entirely different people to have identical brain waves?”
“You’ve seen this?”
“No, as I have said, my vision seems to be suffering slightly. I asked them to test it. What do they have it down as?”
She looked back at the chart. It read 20 – 400. “They have you down as —”
“20 – 400, yes.”
She looked up, startled. “How did you … ” She slowed to a stop. He was grinning, but not at her. He was looking just beyond her. She quickly turned and was startled to see Eric now sitting up in the bed beside her. He was busy reading the chart in her hands.
“Eric,” she said, “how are you feeling?”
“Just fine, Dr. Martus.”
She felt a slight chill. Something wasn’t right, something about the voice. She continued. “That was quite a feat you pulled on the Temple Mount.”
“Yes.” Eric smiled and pushed up his glasses with his little finger. “But it wasn’t me, Doctor. You of all people should know that by now.”
The chill grew deeper. She forced herself to continue. “I was just telling Lucas how remarkable all of this is. I mean, to go through that kind of trauma with virtually no side effects.”
“Except for my vision and those brain waves,” Lucas corrected.
She turned back to him. “I still don’t understand. If you can’t read the chart how did —”
“A hundred and sixty over a hundred!” Lucas interrupted. “That’s ridiculous, I’ve never had blood pressure that high!”
Sarah glanced down at the chart. Sure enough, that’s what they’d written down, 160/100. She looked back up. “How did you know, if —” She came to a stop.
The grin increased. She slowly turned back to Eric. Once again, he’d been reading the chart in her hands. She spun back to Lucas, whose grin broadened, almost menacingly.
“That’s … that’s not possible,” she stuttered. She turned back to Eric, who wore the identical grin.
“What’s that, Doctor?” Lucas asked.
Her breathing came harder. She started backing away.
“What’s that, Doctor?” Eric asked. It was a different voice but the same.
She turned back to the boy. He was gloating in delight. So was Lucas. It was a game. It had to be. The two of them were playing some sort of game.
“What’s that, Doctor?” Now it was Lucas.
She bumped into a bed table on wheels, nearly knocking its contents to the floor, then she turned and started for the door.
“What’s that, Doctor?” She didn’t know who it was that time. She didn’t care. All she knew was she had to get out of there. She had to breathe. She broke past the guards, through the doorway, and out into the hall.
“Brandon … Brandon Martus!”
Brandon turned from his conversation with Katherine and looked across the milling crowd of press and security that filled the waiting room. Tanya Chase’s honey blonde hair emerged through the faces. She was pushing the wheelchair of an old man.
“Look who I found!” she called.
At first Brandon didn’t recognize him.
“It’s Reverend Tyler,” she exclaimed as they pulled up to his side. “You remember Jimmy Tyler.”
Brandon stared at the man. He’d put on a good fifteen years … and had lost twice that many pounds. He was hunched over and drawn, and when he looked up at Brandon his eyes were full of pain and helplessness.
Brandon dropped down to his side. “How are you, sir?”
The old man gave a hacking cough, then motioned to the back of his hands and the back of his arms, indicating their sensitivity to touch.
“It’s Scorpion,” Tanya explained. “He’s come down with the virus.”
Brandon nodded. He knew the symptoms. First came the nausea and fevers, then the sensitivity to touch. Next the lining of his blood vessels would start to leak, followed by his organs bleeding, filling his stomach and intestines. Eventually blood would begin seeping out of his nose, mouth, eyes — every orifice in his body. Slower than Ebola, it was just as deadly, and because of its more leisurely pace, it was even more torturous.
Tanya continued. “I told him what you’ve been up to, about the video we made. And he’s agreed to broadcast it, in its entirety, on his network.”
“That’s great,” Brandon said.
“In fact,” Tanya said, “Jerry’s over at the station right now, editing the piece.”
Brandon looked from her back to Tyler. “Thank you,” he said gently.
The old man shut his eyes and nodded, accepting Brandon’s gratitude. It was clear he wanted to bury the hatchet. But as Brandon started to rise, he grunted and motioned for him to remain a moment. Brandon stooped back down. With more grunting and pantomime, Tyler pointed to Brandon, then to himself, and then up to heaven. It was clear he wanted Brandon to pray for him. He motioned to the back of his hands and his arms. He wanted him to pray for his healing.
Brandon nodded, only too happy to oblige. He reached toward the old man, who greedily took his hands into his. That’s when Brandon felt the check. Something wasn’t right. He wanted to pray over Tyler, but somehow he shouldn’t. He looked at the old man. It made no sense. Tyler’s eyes were full of pain and sorrow — and there was no mistaking his contriteness. So why couldn’t Brandon pray?
“No, not yet.” The command resonated in his head.
Why? Brandon asked.
“His repentance is not real.”
I don’t understand.
He waited for further clarification. But none came. The command had been given. Brandon looked back into the old man’s eyes. They were brimming with tears of thankfulness. But slowly, sadly, Brandon had to withdraw his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m … sorry.”
The withered hands reached out to his, trying to pull them back, his eyes filling with growing fear and confusion. The expression broke Brandon’s heart. He could clearly see the man was repentant. But he had his orders and regardless of how unreasonable they seemed, he would not disobey. “I’m sorry,” he whispered softly.
Suddenly the man’s countenance shifted. His eyes flashed with anger. He coughed, clearing his throat, and before Brandon could rise, Jimmy Tyler spit a mouthful of phlegm into his face. Brandon winced but did not move. Instead, he looked at Tyler. The man seethed with rage.
Now Brandon understood. There was no repentance here. No contriteness. There was only the desire to stop the pain, to end the Lord’s discipline. And wanting to stop God’s discipline is a far cry from wanting to repent.
But even now, Brandon was filled with compassion. A Bible verse came to mind. He didn’t know where it was in Scripture, but he knew it was from the Lord. And, despite its apparent harshness, he knew it must be said. Because, past the harshness was God’s love, his infinite yearning to touch and save his child.
As gently as possible, Brandon spoke, “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only he who does the will of my Father who is in heaven.”
Tyler stared at him, his anger hardening to hate.
But there was more and Brandon continued. “Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and in your name drive out demons and perform many miracles?’ Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!’ ”
Brandon searched the man’s face, looking for any trace of humility. There was none. Then, quietly, tenderly, he added his own postscript. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m so very sorry.” Slowly he rose to his feet, wiping off the spittle with his sleeve.
“Are you okay?” Katherine asked.
He nodded. “Yeah …” He turned back to Tyler, but the man had already grabbed the wheels of his chair and started rolling himself through the crowd.
Brandon, Tanya, and Katherine watched silently as he disappeared into the mob.
&n
bsp; “I don’t understand,” Tanya said. “It would have been the perfect solution. Jimmy would have gotten his healing, you would have gotten your broadcast, and God would have reached the world with his message. Everybody would have won.”
Brandon shook his head. “Everybody, but Jimmy …”
“What?”
“God is as concerned about the one lost sheep as he is the ninety-nine.”
“Brandon … Katherine?”
He turned to see Sarah working her way through the crowd. Even then he noticed how drawn she looked.
“What’s the matter?” he asked as she arrived. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She nodded, a little out of breath.
“Are they still sleeping?” Katherine asked.
Sarah shook her head.
Brandon repeated, “What’s wrong?”
She turned to Katherine. “Eric, your son’s eyesight … do you know what it is?”
“His eyesight?”
“Yes, the prescription for his glasses. What’s his eyesight?”
“Not great, but —”
“What is it?”
“Uh, 20 – 400, I think. Why?”
If Sarah was pale before, she turned absolutely white now.
“What’s wrong?” Brandon repeated. “Sarah, what is it?”
She glanced around.
“Sarah?”
“We’ve got to talk,” she answered quietly. “In private.”
“Back at the hotel?” Katherine asked.
Sarah shook her head. “No.” She glanced at the security and the press milling about. “We’ve got to talk someplace where we won’t be recognized and where we won’t be heard.”
CHAPTER 18
IT HAD BEEN BRANDON’S idea to meet at the home of the old Palestinian woman. Actually, he hadn’t even thought about her until he’d stuffed his hands into his pockets and pulled out the card she’d given him with her address. But as soon as he saw it, he knew that was the place.
She lived in the Palestinian village of Silwan, just south of the Mount of Olives. The flat-roofed buildings made of ancient stone and rubble stood two, sometimes three, stories high. They were packed tightly beside each other and clung to the steep hillside. Directly to the west lay the Hinnom Valley, once called Gehenna. According to
