by Robert Ryan
“Before I go,” he said, “I have to ask you something. You said at one time you wanted to lead an expedition to try to defeat Satan. But you also said you don’t believe any human can defeat him; that you’d need some kind of divine intervention, some assistance from God. How exactly did you hope to attain that? If I were going to confront Satan—on his home turf, no less—I’d need something more concrete than hoping God would show up to bail me out.”
The old man found some final reserve of strength and pulled himself into an alert and upright position.
“Believe me, I thought about that long and hard. I could never escape the conclusion that defeating Satan in Hell is beyond the capacity of Man alone. The ultimate Evil could only be defeated by the ultimate Good. Meaning God. Enoch’s scroll confirms this. But you’re right: you can’t go down there with nothing but hope. So I decided that, if I ever did it, I would take the most sacred relics I could get my hands on. It would be like taking portable bits of God’s power with me. But I’m not a naïve fool, either. I know that’s no guarantee of anything. That’s why I emphasized the need for faith. You have to believe that there is a God, and that He will be there for you in the final showdown. After all, it’s his final showdown, in a battle that’s been brewing since before the beginning of time. You’re just the point man. If you don’t believe He’s going to be there, you have no chance. At least that’s how I see it.”
His speech was punctuated by frequent small gulps, as though he were hiccupping up what was left of his life. It pained Zeke to continue, but his own life might be on the line, too.
“And how were you going to obtain these relics?” he asked. “My first thought is that the Vatican would have had the best ones, but you had burned that bridge.”
“True. But the Vatican would never give up their prized relics anyway. No, I had another connection, but I never pursued it. An ex-colleague of mine on the faculty at Catholic University. He was a layman, but he was more zealous about Catholicism than any of the clergy I ever knew. His specialty was eschatology—the branch of study having to do with the end of the world. That inevitably includes speculation about Judgment Day, the Second Coming, the Messiah, those types of things. He ate, slept, and breathed it. His courses were usually the most popular. When the new millennium was approaching, he told me he couldn’t maintain his academic neutrality any more. He believed the end was near and wanted to do something to pave the way for the Second Coming.”
Zeke waited an agonized moment for him to catch his breath, which did not seem a certainty. He still had the useless oxygen tubes in his nose. Zeke wanted to tell him that it might help his breathing to take them out, but before he could say anything the ex-priest went on.
“So he quit and moved to Jerusalem. It turned out he was quite rich, had made some clever investments. Occasionally I would get a call from him, telling me about his latest acquisition. The rarest of finds: pieces of the Crucifix, the Crown of Thorns. It’s virtually impossible to prove the authenticity of those things, but his stories were always quite convincing. His plan was to buy up anything remotely associated with Christ, thinking that if he got enough Jesus relics, their combined power might bring Him back. Whatever the case, if I had ever gone through with my plan, he’s the one I would have contacted.”
“Do you still have a way to reach him?”
“He gave me his number, but I’ve never used it. The last time we spoke he was getting himself worked up again about 2012. He had retreated to some hidden lair and sounded like he was fashioning himself into some kind of latter-day John the Baptist. He used the word Forerunner to describe himself. John the Baptist was called that, because his mission was to pave the way for the Lord.”
It sounded far-fetched, but if it came to that, it might worth checking out. “I’ll take his number,” Zeke said, “just in case.”
The old man nodded at his personal phone book on the table. “It’s in there, under U. Anthony Unger.” Zeke copied the number. “My notes on the scrolls are in a briefcase on that same shelf in the closet. Take it with you also.”
Zeke set the briefcase beside the jar at the door, then went to the recliner. He crouched and wrapped both of his large hands around one of his friend’s small ones. “This has been a most interesting evening. I will be in touch soon. Are you sure you’re all right staying here by yourself?”
Father Connolly appeared to be at peace. “I will be fine—now. I thank you from the bottom of my soul for coming, my dear Ezekiel. You will never know how much.”
Zeke gave the small hand a final affectionate squeeze. “Good night, Father. You take very good care of yourself.”
The fallen priest gave a small nod and Zeke left.
Zeke started the car and looked at the clock on his dash. Six-fifteen. His family and Leah were waiting at the Bipartisan, probably laughing and having a good old time.
Zeke sped away. He could use a drink and some happy faces.
Maybe he would make a quick stop at that florist near the restaurant and get Leah some flowers.
By the time he reached the corner he had called 911 to send an ambulance for his dying friend. In another part of his mind, he knew he’d never see Father James Connolly alive again.
Inside the cottage, the only sound was the old man’s raspy breathing, the precursor of the death rattle. In his hands he held his priest’s collar. With enormous effort he’d gotten it from a box in his closet.
He collapsed deeper into the recliner, his chest heaving erratically as he gasped for air. Even as he suffered the agonies of death he felt thankful.
Thankful Ezekiel had not asked more questions.
Thankful he hadn’t had to describe the hideous faces in his nightmares.
Thankful he hadn’t had to dredge up the worst memory of all:
The tongues.
He felt a horrible shame for not telling his beloved pupil the fullness of the evil the scroll had brought him.
Finally he heard the long-awaited rattle of death escape from his throat, and for him the nightmare was over.
For Ezekiel Sloan, it had just begun.
BOOK TWO
The Awakening
Thus saith the Lord God:
An evil, an only evil, behold,
is come.
Ezekiel 7:5
CHAPTER 7
Jericho. The West Bank. October 5
The sudden mental image brought a pang of foreboding that made the café owner put down his espresso and lean back in his chair. He had been trying to muster the energy to get up and lock the doors one last time when the startlingly clear vision had popped into his head.
Tarik hadn’t thought of the priest in years. Now, suddenly, he saw him lying dead in a chair. Next to him on a table was the jar that Tarik would never forget. The cursed jar with the scrolls.
For several seconds the vision lingered, so vivid it felt like Tarik was in the room with the priest. Why would such a thing pop into his head? Was it a premonition?
He remembered the guilt he had felt for selling a holy man something that might bode him ill. How long ago had that been? His tired old brain wasn’t up to doing the math. Sixty years, at least. Alone in his café, he had been sitting by the front window thinking about his life, about how the threat of terrorism had killed his once-thriving business. So much for the 1993 Oslo Accords. So much for U.N. resolutions.
He tried to think of happier things. Since 1950 he had made the Oasis a place where visitors from all over the world—even America—could feel safe, could come and relax on their tour of the Holy Land. He smiled at the memory of many lively discussions about the nearby Mount of Temptation, where the Devil supposedly tempted Jesus in the wilderness. Often the discussions had turned into shouting matches, with several different languages being yelled at once. The notion that Satan could defeat God had almost started more than a few fistfights. Thank Allah for Hassan.
His son had worked in the Oasis from the time he was a boy until he went away to colleg
e. Always big for his age, even as a very young teenager he had never hesitated to walk into the middle of a heated discussion and ask everyone to calm down. Invariably everyone did. Not just because of his size. Although Hassan was always polite about it, there was never any doubt that he meant business. He was fearless. He got that from his mother.
Tarik let his gaze drift around the room, savoring the memories, and thanked Allah for allowing an Arab to have a good living in what was essentially a Jewish town.
It had been a good run, but since turning eighty several years ago his body had been giving out. It was finally time to close up for good. Only six customers for lunch, but what bothered him much more was that not a soul had stopped in for breakfast. The Oasis had been the place to have breakfast for years.
Tarik ran his gnarled hand through what was left of his white hair. After all these years his conscience would still not leave him in peace. For the ten thousandth time that nagging voice reminded him that he had abandoned his tribe and fled with the money from the scroll. Months after his thievery, gnawing guilt had made him risk being seen to go back into Jerusalem and check on the priest, only to find he had stolen the scrolls and—like himself—disappeared without a trace.
Tarik made a dismissive little wave and drank the last of his espresso. Ancient history. Again he tried to convince himself that the scrolls weren’t really cursed, that he had just been a naïve young man who believed too much in the superstitions of his tribe.
Tribe. He glanced down at himself in a suit and tie. Money had taken him a long way from his tribe. Unwilling to share with them his ill-gotten gains, he’d Westernized his name to Tarik Waheed, drifted north and become a businessman. And a good one. The Oasis had survived decades of turmoil to become an institution. He consoled himself that he had instilled in his son a tolerance and understanding of the different cultures of the world. His favorite times had been sitting in this chair, holding court, looking out at the street, savoring his good fortune, feeling as though it had all been worthwhile. And through it all, inside him had beat the heart of a Bedouin.
Tarik finished his espresso while making a last feeble effort to convince himself that premonitions and curses were superstitious nonsense, but he could not shake the uneasy feeling. He’d had it that night in the doorway, the last time he’d seen the priest.
I hope the scrolls brought the priest fame and fortune.
With a sudden overpowering sorrow he knew he had been kidding himself all these years. A priest does not pay that much of his Pope’s money for two scrolls and then steal them and disappear. Something very bad must have happened. Tarik knew—had always known—that the scrolls had cost the priest much more than money. They had cost him his faith.
Which meant they had cost him his soul.
The Bedouin looked at the suit he wore and realized they had done the same to him.
These last few years had been the worst. His dying business had forced him to find another source of income to keep it alive. Once again he had turned a blind eye to his principles and become a middleman in the antiquities market. Bedouin sold archaeological artifacts to him, and he in turn sold them to the Palestinian who had a thriving market in the Muslim Quarter of Jerusalem. Tarik knew the goods were stolen, and that his Arab friend’s hatred of Israel and the West meant some of the proceeds would help to fund terrorism. He had rationalized it away by telling himself that a man had to look out for himself and his family first, and that he was helping his Bedouin kinsmen do the same.
He could rationalize no more. It was all over.
He gazed into the bottom of his empty espresso cup. Many Greek customers over the years had told of their custom of reading the grounds to predict the future.
The Bedouin stared long and hard into the thick black sludge. He saw no answers, only the quicksand that was his life.
CHAPTER 8
Washington, D.C. October 5
Leah glanced from their booth at the Bipartisan toward the loud macho posturing at the bar. Happy hour on a Friday. The weekend warriors were five deep, alcohol and testosterone stoking their bloodlust as they got louder and louder about which football team’s ass was going to get kicked. Some of the women were right in there with them, laughing and sizing up the big manly studs. She was so glad to be out of all that.
Hurry up, Zeke. It had been fun going over strategy for his surprise birthday party tomorrow, but she wished he would hurry. The longer they were here the more it took away from their romantic evening.
She looked at the happy faces at her table. Hank and Rita Sloan across from her, Zeke’s sister Valerie beside her. She felt a familiar pang of sadness at how much happier she felt with Zeke’s family than she had ever felt with her own. Her parents had divorced over twenty years ago and still couldn’t be in the same room together. Her sister had never recovered from their incessant arguing and had become an alcoholic. Leah hadn’t spoken to any of them in years, didn’t even have their addresses.
Hank told the waiter to bring the second round of their two-for-one cocktails. Leah watched Zeke’s father with admiration. He was a large man, aging gracefully with a full head of nicely cut white hair. He and Rita were high school sweethearts. They had the kind of loving, comfortable relationship she hoped she and Zeke would have.
The waiter brought the second round and Hank held up his glass. “Hey, this is a happy hour, right? Let’s take a minute to count our blessings. First and foremost, thanks for our health, our love, all the good things that have happened to us along the way.”
They chimed their agreement and drank.
Hank held his glass up again. “Speaking of good things happening along the way, here’s to Leah. We couldn’t have wished for a better wife for Zeke. I guess since you’re technically a wife-to-be, I’d like to take this occasion to semi-officially welcome you to our family. Have you two set a date yet?”
“No, but I’m thinking we will this weekend. I know he’s ready, and so am I.”
Still holding up his glass, Hank said, “We love you, kiddo.”
“Yes,” Rita echoed softly, eyes shining with emotion. Leah heard Valerie sniffle beside her and started to laugh.
“Jesus Christ,” Hank said. “You people will cry at a good steak.”
In the year she and Zeke had been dating, Hank had used that line many times, and it was funny every time. Leah loved being part of a family that wasn’t afraid to express their emotions. Such a refreshing change from her own, where everybody always kept everything inside, except for the constant explosions of anger by her parents. She couldn’t remember ever hearing the word “love.” With Zeke she heard it every day.
Hank went on. “Let’s see if we can get through this without getting thrown out before Zeke even gets here, all right?” He held for the laugh, then proposed another toast.
“Here’s to Zeke. He’ll be… pushing fifty tomorrow. We thought we’d never get that boy married.”
Leah smiled and blushed. Rita, sitting to his left by the window, gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. “Hank.”
“Ouch, woman.” He rubbed the spot with comical exaggeration, then looked at her tenderly. “He turned out to be a pretty good kid, didn’t he, sweetheart?”
“He was always good.”
Hank shrugged an apology to Leah for doting on their son. “I know all parents say that, but she’s right. Even when he was real little you could see it. Most little kids scream bloody murder when you try to take their toys, but Zeke would come over and give it to you, like he wanted you to have it. There was always some charity drive going on—you know us Catholics—and Zeke always led the class in selling cookies, raffle tickets, whatever. Then he couldn’t wait to be an altar boy. He almost became a priest, until he discovered girls. Did you know about that, Leah?”
“What? That he wanted to be a priest, or that he discovered girls?”
Rita elbowed the side of his bicep.
“What? I don’t mean to be crude, but if he’s still a
virgin at his age—”
“Dad.” Valerie’s face was red.
“He’s right,” Leah said. “Pushing fifty and still a virgin might not exactly be ideal husband material. And yes, Zeke did tell me about the priest thing. He applied to the seminary at Catholic University but changed his mind. The girls thing.”
Hank held up his glass. “Thank goodness he chose girls, or we wouldn’t have you.”
Rita’s eyes welled up again. Hank saw it and wiped his hand over his face and looked away. “You people are embarrassing. We’ve barely finished one drink. I’d hate to see how you get when you’re really sloshed.” Warm laughter once more enveloped the table.
Rita said, “I was just remembering how close we came to losing him. And you. Both at the same time.”
“I guess Zeke told you about that, too,” Hank said.
Leah nodded. “He was hit by a car and you were shot down in Vietnam, right?”
A cloud came over Hank’s face. “December ’72. I was co-pilot on a B-52. The so-called Paris Peace Talks had fallen apart, and we got orders to bomb the bejeezus out of North Vietnam, help them make up their minds. The Christmas Bombings, they became known as. Our plane got shot down. I was lucky. The cease-fire was signed a month later, and we were released in February. Operation Homecoming.”
“Thank God,” Rita said. “It took a couple weeks before they could tell me you were still alive. The Christmas from hell.” She caressed his arm where she’d hit it before. “For you much more than me. You ended up at the Hanoi Hilton with a broken leg.”
“The Hanoi Hilton,” Hank said. “Those were some first-class accommodations.”
“Zeke told me about it,” Leah said. “Hoa Lo, right? One of the worst places for a POW.”
“It wasn’t nice. It was a 19th-century prison built by the French. It still had a guillotine in it, although I don’t know if it was ever used on any of us. They’d take you in and show it to you, though, make you think you were next. They whacked my broken leg a few times, probably why it didn’t heal right. Put a little hitch in my giddyup.”
