by Bill Myers
It made no difference. The point is, everyone was positive Heylel was good — the books, the counselors, Eric, the specialists Katherine had insisted be flown in to examine him, the Cartel, everyone. Everyone … except Katherine. Because, despite the overwhelming evidence, she still found something unsettling about the times Eric would give up control of his voice and become a channel for this entity to speak through.
Still, Heylel was always courteous, never abusive, and he always offered brilliant counsel. A counsel that the Cartel had grown more and more dependent upon. A counsel that this semi-secret organization of international bankers, politicians, and world leaders was using for the betterment of all.
And yet …
Katherine pushed back her son’s damp hair and kissed him on the forehead. He did not pull away. She tried to lift him from the bed, but those days had long passed. He was far too heavy. Instead, she helped him to his feet and gently guided him toward the door.
“Come stay with me,” she said softly. “Just for a while.”
She was pleased Eric didn’t resist as they headed for the door. God or no god, this frightened boy was going to spend the rest of the early morning hours with his mother.
Brandon bolted up in bed. He sat there for several seconds, catching his breath, waiting for the last of the nightmare to fade. It was always the same one. The one where he stood before the altar of his father’s church confronting a giant serpent head. As always the vaporous specter had floated above the aisle, just a few feet before him. As always, it had opened its tremendous mouth in preparation to devour him. And, as always, Brandon stood terrified, staring helplessly into its throat, seeing a whirling vortex of human faces, fiery apparitions that twisted and distorted, faces screaming in agony as they swirled around and around, spiraling down into an endless abyss.
The vision was horrifying. It always was.
So was the wind. The fierce, screaming wind that tugged at him, trying to draw him into the mouth. As in the other dreams he had spun around to grab hold of the altar, hoping his grip would somehow prevent him from being sucked into the throat, from joining those thousands of tortured, screaming faces.
The nightmare didn’t come often, but when it did, it always left him cold and shaken. The reason was simple. It was identical to the confrontation he had actually had in his father’s church over a year ago. Only, in that confrontation, his grip on the altar did not hold. The encounter had been fierce and excruciating. It had taken his father’s life, and it had nearly destroyed his own.
But tonight, there had been another difference. As he clung to the altar, he had noticed some sort of crescent moon and five-pointed star carved into the wood. The image seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. And, even now, as the last of the nightmare faded, the moon and star continued to linger in his mind.
He turned to the clock radio on his nightstand. It read 2:39. He wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, he was certain of that. He pulled off the damp sheet that still clung to his body, snapped on the light, and sat on the edge of the bed. Scattered on the floor around his feet were the remains of yesterday’s newspaper. There were the usual headlines about the recent crash of the Tokyo stock exchange and fears that Wall Street and NASDAQ were following. Another article spoke of the masses of people starving from the drought. There was also something about the rapid spread of a new virus they’d nicknamed “Scorpion.” Latest estimates were that 1.3 million of the world’s Semite population, mostly Jews and Arabs, were already infected, and it was going to get a lot worse before it got better. Finally, there was another article on the progress Lucas Ponte and the Cartel were making toward world peace.
But yesterday’s headlines were of little interest to Brandon now. Now, his eyes were drawn to a pile of sketches on the dresser across the room. Sketches made by Gerty Morrison before she’d died. No one had taken the old woman seriously when she lived, but the prophecies she had given regarding Brandon and Dr. Sarah Weintraub had proven eerily correct, down to the tiniest detail. Still, the past prophecies were nothing compared to the ones she claimed were yet to be fulfilled. The ones insisting that both he and Sarah were the two end-time prophets mentioned in the Bible.
Of course, it took more than one woman’s predictions to get them to take such a claim seriously, no matter how accurate those predictions had proven in the past. And God seemed only too happy to oblige with further evidence … such as the words of other so-called prophets spoken over his mother when she was pregnant with him … and the demoniacs who always screamed whenever he or Sarah entered their presence … and the results of the paranormal tests Sarah had run on him when they’d first met … and the showdown between heaven and hell that had killed his father and nearly taken his own life.
There was, however, one further piece of evidence, perhaps stronger than all of the others combined: the emergence of Brandon’s own prophetic gifts. And, just as importantly, his newfound ability to heal the sick.
If God was trying to make a point, he’d certainly gone out of his way to do so. Yet, at the same time, he was frustratingly silent when it came to any details on the how or the when.
With a heavy sigh, Brandon rose from the bed and shuffled toward the pile of sketches. Many of them were detailed drawings Gerty had made of him at pivotal moments in his childhood. The fact that she had never seen him during this time made them even more compelling. But the last sketch was the one he and Sarah had found the most unsettling. He riffled through the pile until he found it. It was a sketch that featured both of them together. Their hair was cut short and they stood side by side in an ancient walled city. And hovering directly in front of them was the vaporous snake head of his dream. Its mouth was opened wide, and it was poised to devour them. But equally disquieting was that the serpent was held at bay by what looked like flames of fire … spewing from Brandon’s mouth.
Brandon stared at the sketch a long time before setting it back down on the dresser. Then, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out, he glanced back at the time.
It was now 2:43.
He headed back to bed. He shut off the light and stared up at the ceiling. It was doubtful he’d be able to sleep, but he needed to try. After all, today was going to be a busy day. Busier than most.
Today, in just eleven hours and seventeen minutes, he and Dr. Sarah Weintraub were to become husband and wife.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
“SARAH, YOUR VEIL, IT’S all — here, let me straighten it. Sarah, tilt your head this way. Sarah!”
Dr. Sarah Weintraub obeyed and leaned forward.
“A little more. Now please, please pay attention.”
She stood just outside the sanctuary doors as the wedding coordinator flitted about making last-minute adjustments to her gown, her veil, or anything else that the poor lady could fixate over. But Sarah didn’t mind. The elaborate wedding had mostly been for Brandon’s mother. Which was okay. It seemed a small price to pay to comfort a woman who had lost her daughter, her husband, and was now about to lose her only son. Of course they would stay in touch with her, try to meet her needs. But as the clinic continued to grow and word of Brandon’s healing ministry continued to spread, time for any personal life was becoming less and less of a reality.
Some thought the wedding came too quickly. Others were sure it wouldn’t last. It would be hard enough to begin a life amidst the growing famine, the panic sweeping the world over this new virus, and the current financial calamities. But add to that the fact that Brandon was four years her junior, and many were certain that the couple was asking for marital disaster.
Although the other issues were of concern, the age difference was inconsequential. It didn’t bother Brandon and it certainly didn’t bother her. In fact, Sarah found him less self-absorbed and ego-driven than most men twice his age. Not that he didn’t have his moments, but over the past year Brandon Martus had become the most compassionate and sensitive man she had ever met. And, best of all
, much of that compassion and sensitivity was directed toward her.
There were other differences, such as their backgrounds and their education. Brandon grew up in this Indiana farm community and was lucky to finish high school. Sarah was West Coast born and bred and held her doctorate in neurobiology. If ever the term “opposites attract” applied, it would have to be to these two.
But there was that prophecy in Revelation … and the mound of evidence that indicated they just might be the two end-time prophets who would prepare the world for the return of Jesus Christ much as John the Baptist had prepared it for his first coming. Of course most of that was subject to interpretation, which proved to be a major source of disagreement between the two of them. She never understood why Brandon insisted upon taking every word so literally, while she, although admitting that the two of them might somehow be used, saw the prophecies as more spiritual and symbolic. The truth of the matter was, nobody knew for certain. Not even Gerty. But, at the very least, from what they could tell, the two of them were to work together as a team. And what better way to be a team than to be husband and wife?
Oh, and there was one other detail that carried weight in their decision for matrimony …
They loved each other. Fiercely. They were absolutely committed to one another, regardless of the odds.
Sarah peeked through the glass in the sanctuary door. She could see Brandon standing before the altar, incredibly handsome in his tuxedo.
For her, the attraction had been instant, love at first sight. Yes, there was his long black hair and those muscular shoulders. And yes, there were those killer gray eyes which could still make her stomach do little flip-flops. But that was just the wrapping. Because inside, inside was a heart not only full of kindness, but a heart full of her. What had he said the night he’d proposed? “You’re the missing piece I’ve been looking for all of my life … you’re what fills my hollowness.” The words had made her cry then and they almost did now. She knew that whatever the future held, despite graying hair, wrinkled skin, or sagging body, he would always be there for her. Always. And she would be there for him.
Of course there were a few other obstacles to overcome … like the forces of hell trying to destroy both of their lives. For Brandon it had been a showdown in this very church, a confrontation with what they believed to be a manifestation of Satan himself. For Sarah it had been a violent collision that sent her flying through a pickup’s windshield. If it hadn’t been for Brandon’s intervention at the hospital, one of the first times he’d put his healing powers to use, she would not be standing here today. And, except for a nasty scar running across her forehead and down to her right jaw, she was as good as new.
Actually, better. Because, in the process of praying to heal her body, Brandon had healed her soul.
“Get ready, Sarah. The prelude is almost done …”
Sarah glanced up at the wedding coordinator who was pulling open the doors in preparation for the wedding party processional. She gathered herself together and threw a look at her father. The poor guy appeared more nervous than she was. She leaned over and whispered, “It’s okay, Dad — everything will be all right.”
He gave what was supposed to be a reassuring smile and patted her arm with his cold, damp hand.
As a little girl she had never seen much of her father. But she did inherit his love for medicine, and even more importantly, she inherited his drive to be the best. If Sarah had learned one thing from her father, it was that success had little to do with brains or beauty and everything to do with ambition and hard work. Although it could be a plus, the ambition had created terrible problems for her in the past, and on more than one occasion it had proven to be her Achilles’ heel. Still, as time passed and her love for God increased, she had learned how to deal with it and for the most part kept it under control.
She looked back at her father. He was a good man, full of understanding. Despite their Jewish roots, he made little protest over her conversion to Christianity. “If it’s what you want, if it’s really what makes you happy, then it’s fine by me,” he had said. But there was no missing his resigned shrug and quiet afterthought. “Still, I suppose it’s best your mother isn’t alive to see it.”
If he was tolerant about his daughter’s change of faith, the good doctor was anything but pleased over his future son-in-law’s disposition toward miracles. He did not spend all of that money sending his baby to graduate school to have her marry some backwoods faith healer. That’s why he had come a week early. And that’s why after several days of carefully examining the clinic’s work — both Brandon’s healing of the sick, as well as Sarah’s medical evaluations of those cases — he grudgingly admitted that there was something going on. Of course Sarah had tried to explain that “something” in terms of her new faith, but the subject fell on impatient and increasingly hostile ears.
The wedding party was in place, and the music began for Sarah’s entrance. She stepped up to the doors. Now she was able to look over the entire church. More accurately, as they rose to their feet, the entire church was able to look over her. She felt her face growing warm. Some of it was from excitement, some of it was her self-consciousness over the scar. Funny, Brandon had tried repeatedly to erase the scar, but had never succeeded. Neither of them was sure why. And, oddly enough, it was the only thing that made the normally self-confident Dr. Sarah Weintraub just the slightest bit insecure.
Still, this was their day and she would not be intimidated. As her father escorted her into the sanctuary, Sarah cranked up a smile and made a point to look as many people in the eye as possible. Most were friends and family of Brandon — a definite hometown advantage. Only a few belonged to her. But there were also dozens of patients who had become friends — men, women, children who had entered the clinic doors with severe injury or disease, some diagnosed as terminal, but who now stood perfectly healthy, anxious to share this day with them.
Of course, there were the others. The skeptics, the stone throwers … and the media. These were the people on the clinic’s “Win Over” list. The list had been Sarah’s idea, and she kept it regularly updated. She loved Brandon and respected him more than any person alive. And as his gifts increased, his mercy and compassion followed suit. But it took more than mercy and compassion to run the clinic. With the addition of three full-time staff members and the purchase and leasing of medical equipment, along with Brandon’s insistence that they only accept donations — “It’s God’s work, Sarah, we can’t charge them for what God is doing” — it was all they could do to keep their heads above financial water.
Common sense dictated that they had to increase their donor base by increasing their exposure. The more people they won over, especially the skeptical and influential members of the media, the greater their exposure, and the greater their exposure, the greater their chances of avoiding fiscal suicide.
And they were making progress. In fact, just yesterday, Sarah had been contacted by Jimmy Tyler Ministries. They had invited the two of them to fly out to L.A. and sit on the platform during some upcoming, nationally televised event. Because Tyler was one of the leading televangelists in the country, and owner of GBN, the Gospel Broadcasting Network, his endorsement alone could make or break the clinic. Sarah had worked long and hard courting their interest, and now they were finally coming around. But what type of event was it, and how could they best utilize it to fit their —
Stop it, Sarah chided herself. Stop working. This is your wedding day, for crying out loud.
But old habits are hard to break. Before she knew it, she was again scanning the crowd, making mental notes of those who had shown up for the event and those who —
“You!” A wizened old man suddenly leaped in front of her, bringing her to an abrupt stop. As he pointed at her, he turned to the crowd and shouted, “Behold … the whore of Babylon!”
Murmurs rippled through the congregation as the organ music came to a halting stop.
Sarah stood paralyzed, unsu
re of what was happening, what to do. She threw a helpless look at Brandon, who stood equally as shocked.
The old man continued. “She who shows her ankles to foreigners.”
The murmuring increased. Suddenly, the man’s hand shot up to Sarah’s veil. Before she could stop him, he’d grabbed the lace and ripped it aside. She gasped along with the rest of the church as he tore it away.
“Behold!” He jabbed his finger at her scar. “The mark of the beast! Proof of her iniquity —”
“That’s enough!” Brandon’s voice cut through the air with authority. He’d recovered from the initial shock and moved toward them.
The old man spun to him and practically hissed. “What have you to do with us, servant of the Most High?”
A cold chill rippled across Sarah’s shoulders. She’d seen this type of confrontation before, at the clinic, and she knew what was about to happen. But before Brandon could respond, her father moved in. He reached for the man’s shoulder, trying to grab his arm.
But the old-timer spun around, driving his elbow deep into her father’s belly. He gasped and doubled over.
“Daddy!”
“That’s enough!” Brandon repeated. His voice brought silence to the commotion. “Leave us.”
The old man seemed to hesitate.
“I order you to go.”
At last he found his voice. But it was smaller now, a false bravado of what it had been. “You may think you have authority … but not forever. Your day will come.” He pointed back to Sarah. “The day of destruction will come for you and your harlot. Very soon, victory will be ours.”
“Go!”
“Our business is not yet —”
That’s when Brandon’s two friends, Frank and Tom Henderson, suddenly appeared, each grabbing one of the fellow’s arms. And that’s when Frank deftly landed two lightning quick blows to a kidney, making sure it would be a while before the old codger interrupted any more weddings.
