by Bill Myers
“And …”
He looked at her. She was staring up at him, searching his face. He’d never been good at hiding things from her. This was no different. Finally, he confessed, “I’m scared, Sarah.”
“I know.”
“I mean, it’s one thing to dream up all these clever plans, but to actually go through with them …”
She nodded.
“In just a few hours I’m supposed to go up onstage, in front of the whole world, and have some sort of showdown with the Antichrist? Who are we kidding? I still don’t have the faintest clue about what I’m going to say or do. At best I’m just going to wind up looking like the world’s biggest jerk.”
She took his hands and answered quietly, “What does it matter? As long as you’re dead in Christ, what does it matter what you look like?”
He looked at her, appreciating what she was trying to do, but it didn’t work. He broke from her and turned to resume his pacing. “Those are just words. They sound real good in theory, but this isn’t theory. This is reality. And tomorrow’s reality is that I’m going up there battling the most evil force in the world, and I’m not the slightest bit qualified.”
“You’re right, you’re not. You never have been.”
He looked back at her.
“But isn’t that your strength, Brandon? Hasn’t the key to everything you’ve done so far been your weakness? Think about it. Hasn’t your success been knowing you’re unqualified, knowing that the only way you can possibly succeed is by relying on God?”
“This is different.”
“How?”
“It … just is.”
“Why … because it’s bigger?”
He tried to answer, but could not.
She stepped closer. “You keep talking about dying — about letting the old man die and letting Jesus rule. That’s all well and good. I mean, that’s really important, but I think you’ve missed something even more important.”
He waited.
“You’ve missed faith, Brandon. Without faith you’ve got nothing, without faith you are nothing. Yes, be dead, yes, let Christ rule … but then have the faith that he will rule.”
“You don’t think I want that? You don’t think I’ve been trying to believe?”
Her answer was soft. “Then maybe … you should stop trying.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means dead people don’t try.”
She was beginning to make sense, in an odd sort of way. And she was starting to break through. “What am I supposed to do about all of these fears, about all these emotions?”
She approached him, looking up into his face. “Let me tell you what a good friend once told me about emotions. He said they’re like children. We can enjoy them when they’re good, but we don’t have to let them rule our house.”
Brandon gave her a look.
She reached out her hands and rested them on his waist. “It’s not a matter of emotion, my love. It’s a matter of choice. Just as you chose to die in Christ … you have to choose whether or not to believe.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple … it’s not easy, but it is simple.”
He closed his eyes for a moment and then sighed. “For a scientist, you’re a pretty good theologian.”
She smiled. “I have a pretty good teacher.” She snuggled into him and he wrapped his arms around her. She was right, of course. But how had she done it? How, in just a few seconds, had she managed to calm the storm? The woman was amazing. He’d almost forgotten how amazing.
She said nothing more but simply rested her head on his shoulder and waited. It felt good holding her like that. Natural. Like she always belonged. Pressed against him, he could feel her warmth, and with that warmth came the assurance. He could do anything with her there. Anything at all. He took a deep breath of the night air and slowly let it out. She snuggled in closer.
“It’s getting late,” he said.
“Yes.”
“We should be heading back.”
“I know.” Then, looking up at him, she held his gaze for a long moment. He felt a strong impulse to kiss her. He reached down and brushed the hair from her face.
“What about you?” he whispered.
“What about me?” she said, tilting back her head, lifting her face closer.
“We keep talking about my death in Christ … what about yours?”
She gave no answer but closed her eyes and raised her mouth to his. He lowered his head and their lips found one another.
When they parted he looked back down at her. “Well?”
“I’m working on it,” she said as she pulled his mouth back to hers. “I’m working on it.” They kissed again longer, slower.
When they had finished, Brandon looked down at her. She smiled, and it made him warm all over. Without a word they turned. Still holding one another, they headed back down the path toward the gate. And there, walking in the moonlight, through the garden, for the first time that Brandon could remember, he felt like they were truly one.
Tanya had spent much of her professional life around remote television setups, and she wasn’t the least bit surprised to see that everything for tomorrow’s shoot was state of the art. After all, Ryan Holton was in charge. The equipment and trucks were parked along a narrow road that ran parallel to and a mere twenty feet from the Eastern Wall. It was a typical arrangement: a boxy-looking generator truck to supply the electricity, a semitruck whose long trailer served as the production center, and the miles and miles of black cable. What was not typical was the scaffolding that carefully suspended the cable, preventing it from touching the thousands of graves packed tightly along the outside of the wall.
It had always amazed Tanya that such a location had been chosen for a cemetery … until she learned the method behind the madness. Tradition claimed that Jesus Christ, upon his return, would enter through the large Golden Gate in the center of the wall. This explained why in the seventh century the Moslems had sealed it up with stone. Then, as an added precaution, they had buried their dead directly in front of it. After all, the Law said a priest could not walk over the grave of a human, and since Jesus was a priest, and since there was nothing but wall-to-wall graves in front of the gate, it was obvious in their minds that they had efficiently blocked the second coming of Jesus Christ.
The blue and white production trailer was lit by two self-contained quartz lights on either end. Besides various storage bays underneath, the trailer had three separate doors leading to three separate rooms. The front room was where the director, technical director, and production assistant sat. Before them would be rows and rows of monitors along with a switcher to change cameras and an effects board. This is where Ryan would call the angles and direct the show. Behind him and just slightly higher was the sound engineering room. Here the sound technicians would sit, checking levels and watching the broadcast over the director’s shoulder through a pane of glass. And finally, at the back, was the VTR, or videotape replay, room. This was where the show would be recorded and where the prerecorded tapes would be dropped in and played on Ryan’s cue.
It was this last room that Tanya needed to enter and discreetly place her two edited tapes. She’d not heard from Sarah and had no idea what if any progress she’d made with Ponte. She’d put a call in to Ryan, but he was not available. She’d left a fairly detailed message on his service but knew that it would be unlikely she could see him before the show. So, as far as she could tell, prepositioning the tapes for the VTR operator was her next best option.
A single guard with an M-16 was posted outside the trailer. He didn’t look Israeli but appeared to be part of the international coalition … which meant he might be easier to con. Gripping the plastic shopping bag that held the tapes, Tanya took a brief breath and stepped out of the shadows toward the trailer. She walked with what she figured to be the right sense of purpose and professional boredom.
The guard heard her and
turned.
“Good evening,” she said, nodding.
“I.D. please.” He sounded American, from the south. He tapped his chest indicating where her crew I.D. should be hanging from her neck.
“It’s right …” She looked down, then feigned surprise at its absence. “That’s funny, it should be …” She pulled aside her jacket to look. “Oh great …” She glanced back up, pretending to be flustered. “I left it back in his van.”
“Van?”
“Yeah, Ryan Holton’s.”
“The director?”
“Yeah, it got in our way when we were … I mean to say, he took it off when, we, uh …” She ran her hands through her hair, pretending to be even more embarrassed. She caught a flicker of amusement crossing his face. Good, it was working. “Look,” she said, “if anybody found out about us, I’d probably lose my job. But he’s kind of nervous, you know preshow jitters and everything, and, well hey, a girl’s got to do what she can to get ahead … if you know what I mean.” She dropped off, pretending to fidget some more. “Look, if you’ll just let me deliver these two tapes for him, I’ll be on my way.”
He shook his head in amusement.
“What?”
“You showbiz people, you’re all alike, ain’t you.”
She looked up through her bangs and smiled. “Yeah, I guess we are.”
“Let me see in the bag.”
She crossed to him and opened it. For the briefest moment she thought of leaning forward and distracting him a bit further — after all, she was wearing her favorite V-neck pullover — but something inside said no. Something about Brandon and what he’d been saying.
After checking the tapes, he motioned her toward the trailer. “Go ahead.”
She gave him another smile. “Thanks.” She crossed to the aluminum steps leading to the VTR room, climbed up them, and entered. It was small, almost claustrophobic. Two chairs faced a narrow desk which faced various rows of monitors. On the side wall hung cables and patch cords. The rear wall consisted of a dozen tape machines with two metal racks holding videotapes. These were the tapes to be dropped in during tomorrow’s broadcast.
For some unknown reason, a wave of uneasiness crept over her. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because in just a few hours this tiny space would be responsible for influencing the entire future of the world. A sobering thought. But it wasn’t her first. She would always remember the confrontation she’d had with a congressman in Washington when she’d first started out. He’d openly ridiculed her choice of profession, and when they were alone in the elevator she got in his face with one of the best sound bites of her life. “Listen, congressman,” she’d said, jabbing a finger at him, “you folks may legislate what the people want, but we tell them what they want.”
It was true back then, and it was just as true today … and tomorrow.
Pushing aside her uneasiness, Tanya unfolded the plastic bag and reached for the first tape. It was the one she’d just finished editing over at Channel Two, the speech Brandon had delivered with such conviction at Laodecia. As she pulled it out of the bag, she noticed her hand shaking.
“What’s the matter with you, girl,” she scolded herself. “It’s just a segment.” But she knew it was more than that. She knew that if played, this single tape could change the entire outcome of the broadcast.
She turned toward the metal tape rack and riffled through the tapes, looking for the ideal place to put it. They would be positioned in the rough order Ryan would call them. She hesitated, then decided to put the speech in the fifth or sixth position, well after the logos and intros, but not too far into the show.
That’s when she heard the voices. Men talking, outside.
She froze, listening carefully, but she couldn’t make out the words. She knew it wasn’t the crew. They wouldn’t be called for three or four more hours.
Her heart began to pound.
Quickly, she pulled the other tape from the bag, the montage of Brandon’s travels through Turkey. She hadn’t had time to view it, but she trusted Jerry. Despite their differences, despite his annoying habits and ever-present ambition, he was good.
Suddenly the trailer vibrated as heavy feet moved up the steps. Tanya reached for the rack, trying to drop the tape in somewhere, anywhere … when the door quickly opened.
“Hold it right there, please.”
She stopped, hand in midair.
“Turn around slowly, if you do not mind.”
Tanya obeyed. As she turned toward the door she squinted, trying to make out details of the silhouette standing there.
“Ms. Chase? Tanya Chase?”
She continued to squint. “Who’s asking?”
“What is that you have in your hand?”
“Oh, this?” She referred to the tape. “I was just putting this back where I —”
“May I see it, please?”
“Sure.” She handed him the tape. That’s when she saw the dull glint of light reflect off what looked like a silencer. Her mind raced as she did her best to sound calm. “What’s all this about?”
The figure turned and handed the tape outside, to someone just out of sight. “Is this the one you edited?”
Another voice read the label. “‘Brandon Martus, Turkey montage,’ that’s the one.”
Tanya immediately recognized him. “Jerry … is that you?”
“Good.” The first figure nodded and retrieved the tape.
“Jerry!”
“You gave us a scare, Ms. Chase,” the silhouette said. “Mr. Jerry has worked very hard on that for us. We were afraid you might have misappropriated it.”
“Worked … for you?” She tried to see past him. “Jerry, what is this about?”
“Please, go ahead and put this back where you had it.”
Tanya took the tape. “What do you mean, ‘worked for you’?”
“Please …” The gun motioned toward the rack.
Tanya turned and dropped the tape into the second shelf, wherever there was room. Knowing the best defense was an offense, or at least a belligerent attitude, she tried to turn the tables. “Now, tell me, exactly who are you and what is Jerry Perkins doing —”
There was the faintest flash from the muzzle of the silencer, a muted zip-thud, and a roaring explosion inside her chest. The force was so powerful that it threw her back into the wall. She tried to gasp, but for some reason she could not breathe. Her chest raged with fire and she clutched a handful of patch cords before she slid to the floor. There was another flash. But this one brought no pain as it slammed her body hard into the floor. If she could have breathed, she would have cried out. The room was already growing bright white. She was losing consciousness.
“What did you do?” It was Jerry’s voice, screaming in protest, but sounding very, very far away. “What did you … No, don’t. What are you doing? No, please. We had a deal! Please, for the love of —”
She heard two more zip-thuds … and then there was nothing. By now the whiteness was everywhere and her eyes were unbelievably heavy. She had to close them, just for a moment. No, she was a reporter, she had to see what was happening. She could no longer hear Jerry, she could no longer hear anything. And her eyes, they were so heavy. She would close them, just for the briefest moment. Slowly … she lowered her lids … just for a second … only for a second.
Rose-colored moonlight spilled through the window and onto Eric’s face as his mother watched him sleep. He was always so peaceful when he slept. There was no sign of the explosive anger or the violence. There was no sign of Heylel. Just the sweet, tenderhearted child she had once known.
She remembered one day when he was six and she had dropped him off at day care — how, after she’d kissed him good-bye, she had watched him from the car. She remembered how his little body stood at the foot of the stairs, lunch box in hand, staring up at the huge house before him. How badly she wanted to jump back out and race to him, scooping him into her arms, explaining that she had made a mistake, that h
e was too young, that she’d never let him go. And she remembered how he had turned, giving her a brave little smile, more for her sake than his, and started up the porch steps, never looking back again.
The thought brought tears to her eyes. It always did. Over the years she’d gradually given up hope that she could ever find peace and happiness. Those days had come and gone. But not for Eric. His whole future lay ahead of him. That’s why she’d invested so much into him, providing every opportunity she could afford for him. She thought if she could draw the line and stop the suffering with herself, letting him enjoy peace and goodness, then her life would have had some purpose.
That had always been her hope. And looking down at the sweet, innocent face before her, that hope was almost revived. Almost.
In the next room sat the vial of Versed and the syringe Sarah had given her before leaving — plus another full vial Katherine had stolen after Sarah had left. Two cc’s would be all that was needed to sedate Eric to the point of cooperation. It would still allow him to walk, if she helped support him. Any more than that could be dangerous. By Katherine’s estimate, she now had twenty cc’s.
There were many important decisions she’d have to make in the next few hours. But right now she was too exhausted. Not that she’d be able to go to sleep. But, at least for now, she could curl up in the armchair across the room and watch her child in the moonlight. Here, she would muse and smile over memories of what he had been … and here, she would silently weep over what he would never be.
The walk from the Garden of Gethsemane to the old woman’s house was only twenty minutes, and no matter how slowly they took it, it was coming to an end far too soon. There were so many issues Sarah wanted to discuss and catch up on, but they’d all have to wait. All but one.
“Brandon … I want to go up on that stage with you tomorrow.”
He slowed to a stop. They were less than fifty yards from the door. “Are you crazy?”
“I think it’s important.”
“Why?”
“I’ve always let you stand up and take the heat. I’ve always hid in the background and let you be the one to get the beating.”
