The Christ Clone Trilogy - Book Three: ACTS OF GOD (Revised & Expanded)

by James Beauseigneur

  Decker felt as though his heart had stopped. He wasn’t certain of precisely what Christopher intended, but it seemed he was saying there was hope that he might see his family again. He couldn’t speak.

  “Decker, there’s no reason for you to accept death! You haven’t lost Elizabeth forever! She’s alive! She has already been born again!”

  “What are you saying?” Decker asked, his voice trembling as he choked back tears.

  “Elizabeth is alive. Can’t you feel it?’ he asked. “She was born again just months after you lost her.”

  Decker couldn’t breathe. Tears formed in his eyes and it was all he could manage to ask, “But where is she? Can I see her?”

  “Not yet,” Christopher answered apologetically. “But you will.” The tears now rolled down Decker’s cheeks and he did nothing to stop them. “I can tell you a little about her, though. She’s twenty-two years old and lives in New Brunswick.”

  Decker wept in both joy and pain. “How long have you known? Why didn’t you tell me? Why can’t I see her?”

  “Decker, she wouldn’t know you.”

  Decker’s sudden hope now seemed lost. “Will she remember me?” he pled, certain Christopher’s answer would be no.

  Christopher smiled. “Yes, Decker. She’ll remember you. Even now she knows there’s something missing from her life. In a few years — it’s impossible to say exactly when — she’ll go through past life therapy and remember who she was in her previous life. Then she’ll remember you.”

  “And . . .”

  “Of course, Decker!” he confirmed. “She’ll come to you. How could you believe otherwise?” Decker couldn’t contain himself. “Decker,” Christopher added, “there are some things that are stronger than death.”

  Decker’s cheeks ached. “She’s twenty-two? I’m old enough to be her grandfather.”

  Christopher started to laugh, but this time he didn’t hold back. It was a joyous laugh. “Decker, when you’re going to live forever, you don’t let a little thing like fifty years get in your way!”

  Decker started to laugh along, though his eyes were still filled with tears. “No, I guess not,” he agreed. “Besides, I guess I’ll seem a lot younger by then.”

  “Then you’ll take the communion?” Christopher asked.

  “Of course! I’ll go right now!”

  “I doubt you’ll find a clinic open this late. You’ll have to wait until morning.”

  Decker struggled through his tears to read his watch and nodded. “What about Hope and Louisa?” he asked.

  “One day they’ll remember you, too,” Christopher smiled. “Soon, Decker, perhaps twenty years, all the veils will be lifted and all of Humankind will remember who they were in all of their past lives. And then they’ll understand just how really connected each of us is to one another. Many will find that their enemies in one life were their dearest friends in another. And in that day, when they know who they were, they’ll begin to understand who they truly are.”

  “Can you tell me about . . .” Decker hesitated to ask.

  “It’s all right, Decker. Who do you want to know about?”

  “Can you tell me about Tom Donafin?” He wasn’t sure how Christopher would feel about his continued interest in the man who had assassinated him.

  Christopher smiled, not at all upset. “He was reborn last year to a family in Paraguay.”

  Decker tried to thank Christopher, but words failed him.

  “It’s all right, Decker. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?”

  Decker nodded.

  As he was about to close the door behind him, Christopher went after him to give him a hug. With tears in his eyes, Christopher said, “I’m sorry I didn’t realize how you felt. I’m just glad we’ve got this worked out now and that you’re going to take the communion. I need you, Decker. I don’t know how I could get along without you.”

  Decker left the building in a euphoric daze. Suddenly his whole life . . . his whole eternity had changed. He had something worth living for . . . something worth living forever for.

  “That’s him in the gray suit,” whispered one of the men who stood waiting in the shadows. Decker was nearly skipping, totally lost in joyous thought and unaware of their presence as they emerged. He struggled to get away, but the two men overpowered him. The chloroformed rag, though old-fashioned, was effective.

  Chapter 7

  Petra

  Wednesday, June 2, 4 N.A.

  The wilderness of Jordan

  Decker sat quietly in the back seat of a dirty four wheel drive vehicle, his hands and feet firmly tied, bouncing with each bump in the road. As the two men in the front seat, both KDP, spoke to each other in Hebrew, Decker observed everything, trying to memorize each characteristic of the Jordanian wilderness. After eighteen hours in their custody without sleep, he was exhausted, but if an opportunity presented itself, he would need to know every feature of the terrain to make good an escape.

  The early afternoon rays of the sun beat down with blistering heat, and Decker thought back to his escape from Lebanon twenty-three years earlier. While it was true that when he fled Lebanon he was badly malnourished, he wondered which was worse, being malnourished or being old. Of course, he lamented, attempting flight by foot over this wasteland at his age would cause rapid dehydration and starvation to accompany his advanced years. It was hard not to be pessimistic, even though he knew discouragement was probably the worst impediment to his chances of getting out alive.

  It was bitter irony that his life should be placed in jeopardy at this particular time. Had he been kidnapped an hour earlier, he would have considered his life of little consequence. Only moments before his abduction, he had told Christopher that when his time came, he would welcome death as rest. But that was before he really understood, before he learned that Elizabeth was alive. Now more than anything — more than ever before in his life — he wanted to live.

  [Photo Caption: Village of Wadi Musa, Jordan]

  Passing the ruins of the ancient stepped village of Elji and the more recent but no less deserted village of Wadi Musa, where only scattered bones remained of the murdered population, Decker scanned the horizon for any sign of their ultimate destination. In the distance the desolate jagged slopes of Seir, a rocky chain of mountains stretching from the Dead Sea to Akaba, rose above the gray stony wilderness. Looming above the rest of the range was the mountain Jebel Haroun, said to be the burial place of Moses’ brother, Aaron. It was another twenty minutes before they reached the mountains, and it became evident that this was the end of their journey.

  “We have to walk from here, Mr. Hawthorne,” said the KDP riding shotgun, as the driver pulled to a stop and turned off the engine.

  Decker looked around but found only a rocky path through barren cliffs. The driver pulled his seat forward and cut the bonds on Decker’s feet so he could get out. This was still not an easy task with his hands bound. Furiously Decker surveyed his surroundings for any avenue of escape. If he was going to make an attempt, this might be his only opportunity.

  They walked a short distance and Decker heard voices. They weren’t alone. Coming around a jagged rise he saw them: dozens of people, mostly men and many of them KDP, walking with them toward the mountain. There was no chance to flee — Decker’s captors never left his side and, except for the path before and behind them, there was nowhere to go but up the rocky slopes.

  The path soon brought them along the bank of a small stream — the Ain Musa, or Spring of Moses. Looking to his right, Decker was startled by the unexpected form of three square stone pillars, each about four feet wide, the tallest of which rose twenty feet above its base. They had not been erected there, but were cut from the solid stone, carved right out of the mountain. This clearly wasn’t the work of nature but rather of some ancient craftsmen. Rounding another bend, they came upon a scene even more unexpected. Carved into the white stone face of the mountain were two large facades that looked like buildings — weath
ered by thousands of years, one above the other like layers of a cake. The upper was dominated by four stone obelisks with a door in the middle. The lower was far more ornately designed, perhaps Roman or Hellenistic in style. In addition to a door, there was a rectangular window near the facade’s leftmost corner.

  [Photo Caption: Siq (passage) to Petra]

  The stream and the path they followed brought them at last to a narrow, shallow fissure in the mountain’s side with walls about twenty feet high. Just beyond the entrance were faint remnants of what could only have been a man-made arch, though it had long since collapsed. A small channel had been cut into the rock along the foot of the left wall of the gorge, and the water of the stream diverted through it. The path continued on, sloping slowly but constantly downward as the rock walls rose steadily higher, passing long straight stretches and then winding through narrow turns, until the rock palisades loomed as much as four hundred feet above them. From time to time they passed stone monuments, wall carvings, and niches cut into the stone, as well as steps leading up and away from the path. These might provide a place to hide but they offered no real chance of escape.

  At places, the passage opened up wide enough for bushes and even a few trees to grow, but each time led into a narrower opening. Along a few short stretches, the path was marked by paving stones from some ancient civilization. The color of the rock, which had been bleached-white before they entered the gorge, now ranged from pearly white to yellow gold to red to grayish pink.

  [Photo Caption: Al Khazneh (“The Treasury”) as seen from the Siq]

  Decker was beginning to tire. Then finally, around a turn, at the narrowest and darkest point through the passage, he saw the most curious of sights, yet it was strangely familiar: a large baroque Greek temple styled building cut into the side of the mountain. Scanning his memory, he recognized it finally from an old movie and now understood where he was. As they exited the fissure — called the Siq — they came into a deep wide canyon. Decker’s captors allowed him to rest there a moment and he couldn’t help but take in the magnificence of the monument. It was beautifully preserved, cut deep into the mountain’s face with perfectly formed columns, ornately carved capitals and pediment, and towering 120 feet from its base to its pinnacle. The color of the rock appeared a beautiful rosy red as it reflected the sun.

  [Photo Caption: Amphitheater carved in stone]

  Continuing on again, they passed numerous additional ancient facades cut into the canyon’s walls. The most ornate were tombs, but many others appeared to have been carved as homes — a purpose that they now served to a new set of residents. A little farther on they came upon a Roman-style amphitheater, large enough to seat four or five thousand people. The canyon grew slowly wider and soon it emptied into an immense valley spreading out for several miles — a huge basin, surrounded on all sides by jagged topped mountains. The massive cliffs were predominantly red but had alternating patches of black and white and yellow stone, and everywhere the sheer slopes were dotted by magnificent stone facades.

  On the floor of the basin were tens of thousands, probably even hundreds of thousands of tents, and scattered small wooden structures housing a whole city of refugees.[58] Unlike the barren landscape outside, here, between the tents and on nearly every patch of open ground were fruit trees and well-tended gardens, lush with produce waiting to be picked.

  “Welcome to Petra, Mr. Hawthorne,” one of the KDP said, as Decker took in the sight.

  Ahead he saw a single wooden building about fifteen feet wide by twenty-five feet long, which could best be described as a cabin with a small porch off the front. That being the only nearby structure with walls of anything more substantial than canvas, Decker assumed it to be his destination, the place where he would be imprisoned pending whatever action the KDP had in mind. This assumption was reinforced by the six large men who now took up positions around the periphery of the building — obviously the guards who would terminate his exodus should he attempt to flee. The two KDP brought him to the front door.

  The inside of the cabin wasn’t at all what he had expected: It looked more like a rustic vacation home than a jail. Upon entering and looking around, he half expected to see fishing rods or deer antlers on the wall. The first room was a combination kitchen and sitting room that ran the full width of the building and about ten feet deep. The sitting room had two old but recently recovered chairs, a coffee table, and a couch. The kitchen, which was separated from the sitting room only by the placement of the furniture, was furnished with a gas stove and a small refrigerator.

  Decker scanned the area for knives or any other kitchen implement that might make a good weapon, but saw nothing more intimidating than a spatula and a large wooden spoon. In the center of the kitchen area was an empty space bordered by two straight backed wooden chairs with padded seats, where it looked as if there had recently been a table. Slumped over in one of the chairs with his feet propped up on the seat of the other sat a man with reddish blond hair. He was asleep. On his lap was a decades old copy of Mad magazine in Hebrew. Decker noticed that he didn’t have the mark of the KDP.

  “Charlie, wake up!” one of the KDP said. “Your guest is here.”

  The man sprang from his chair, though it was clear he wasn’t yet fully awake.

  The other KDP cut the bonds from Decker’s hands. “I know you won’t believe this,” he said, as he pocketed his knife, “but I sincerely regret having to bring you here.”

  Unable to do more under the circumstances, Decker just glared, and after a moment the two KDP were gone.

  “Welcome to Petra,” the other man said as though he really meant it.

  “So, are you my jailer?” Decker demanded.

  The question caught the man off guard. “I’d, uh, prefer not to be described that way, but I guess I can’t blame you for thinking so.” The man’s disposition was disarming, but Decker would not so easily surrender his indignation. “Well,” the jailer said uncomfortably, “your room’s right over here.” He pointed to a door behind them. “It’s not the King David,” he said, “but it’s better than most in Petra.”

  The jailer opened the door and motioned for Decker to follow. With six guards outside and hundreds of miles of wilderness all around, resistance seemed rather futile. Besides, from the looks of it, this wasn’t the most uncomfortable dungeon he had ever been sentenced to. Inside the room was a metal framed bed, a table (which looked to be the size of the empty spot in the kitchen), two chairs that matched the two in the kitchen, and a dresser. The room was light and pleasant, with windows facing east and west. The curtains were made of colorful Israeli cloth that matched the chair seats and bedspread. Off the back of the room was a bathroom and a closet, in which hung three pairs of pants and four or five shirts that Decker guessed would be his size. They obviously planned to keep him here for a while.

  “This is where you’ll be staying,” the jailer said. And then turning to leave he added, “I’m sure you must be hungry. If I had known when you’d arrive, I’d have had a meal waiting. I’ll be back just as soon as I can put something together for you.”

  True to his word, the jailer soon returned with a tray that included a few slices of baked apple and small portions of beans and squash. The main course of the meal was a bowl of some type of porridge made of a sweet white flake. In his years at the UN, Decker had eaten foods from every country in the world, but he had never tasted anything quite like this. After eating, he lay on the bed, and despite his concern about his situation, slipped off to sleep.

  He was awakened around 7:00 p.m. by a knock at the door. In protest he didn’t respond, and after a moment, the knock was repeated. When he still didn’t respond, the visitor came in uninvited.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hawthorne.” The speaker was a large man, over six feet tall, and strong, though in his mid sixties. His thick curly hair, now gray with age, still held a trace of color, revealing that it had once been jet black. On his forehead beneath the curls was the blood red
insignia of the KDP. “I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said.

  “Why have you brought me here?” Decker demanded as he stood to face his kidnapper.

  “Only to talk with you,” the man answered calmly as he sat down at the table.

  “You mean to brainwash me, don’t you? The way you did to Tom Donafin!” Decker watched for any reaction, and though there was none he continued. “That’s right! I know what you did to Tom!” Tom had told Decker that he knew Saul Cohen and the KDP: It was only logical to conclude that it was they who had convinced him to assassinate Christopher. “Well, it’s not going to work. Not this time!”

  “Mr. Hawthorne, I assure you, no one brainwashed Tom Donafin.” Decker was surprised that the man so freely admitted his familiarity with Tom.

  “Oh . . . well,” Decker sputtered in feigned contrition as, still standing, he put his hands on the table and leaned over toward the man. “You’ll forgive me if I think you’re a liar!”

  “If you wish.”

  “Or, if you think that by holding me, you can manipulate Christopher Goodman, you’re not only mistaken, you’re stupid.”

  The man shook his head at each of Decker’s conjectures. “I only want to talk with you,” he repeated.

  “I have a telephone! I read my email! The address is right there on the webpage!” Decker snapped. The man started to respond, but Decker cut him off. “You think that the UN Security Forces are just going to overlook the fact that you’ve kidnapped the Director of Public Affairs?”

  “You travel frequently in your job, Mr. Hawthorne. No one holds your leash. I suspect it may be several days before anyone is sure you’re actually missing.”