The Blood of the Lamb

by Thomas F Monteleone

  The most interesting aspect of the speech lay within Peter. For the first time, he was fully aware of how much he derived from his listeners, his followers. What had previously been a wholly subconscious transformation was now so evident it could not be ignored. The essence of their souls, their most primal life-energies nourished him. He knew that now. From the people he drew his power. They radiated; he collected. He was like a satellite dish, an earth station, gathering a signal and refocusing it. It was the perfect symbiosis. He fed their needs, their dreams; they gave energy back to him in a form which he could use and re-process and re-emit. It was like a psychic nitrogen cycle—an unbreakable food chain for the soul.

  As he finished speaking, Peter could sense a powerful charge building in the atmosphere above the prairie. The crowd was like a giant battery, storing up current, waiting to be discharged. When he finished with a quiet, humble blessing, they shattered the silence with lusty approval, but he knew that was not the release, the outflow, he sensed within them.

  No, he thought, relying on his growing sense of intuition. That would come later.

  BOOK FOUR

  “And when the thousand years are expired, Satan shall be loosed out of his prison, and shall go out to deceive the nations which are in the four quarters of the earth.”

  —Revelations 20:7-8

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Colorado Springs, Colorado—Windsor

  * * *

  October 24, 1999

  Marion sat alone in her hotel room. On the night table a single lamp fought against the darkness, illuminating a bottle of California zinfandel and a hotel glass sanitized for your protection. The door was locked, but she knew he could get in if he really wanted to. She wondered still if there was anything beyond his reach…

  Leaning against the headboard of the queen-sized bed, legs stretched out, she struggled to put into words the events she had witnessed earlier in the day. Her laptop computer tottered on her knees as she forced herself to write. If she was going to get this one on the air, she was going to need a lot of preparation.

  No way could she wing this, not after what she’d seen, after all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. World events, and personal ones, had shaken her to the core of her soul.

  She gulped down a mouthful of wine, looked at the empty screen and blinking cursor, and tried to reconstruct everything she had witnessed and experienced.

  The Mountain Rock Ninety-Nine Refugee Aid Concert had been tilting around the clock for almost seventy-two hours. One after another, the top names in the music business took the stage and nailed their most famous tunes. The crowd filled the grazing pasture, overflowing to the outer reaches of Tim Vernon’s ranch. Pre-concert attendance had been estimated at around 200,000, but once the show was rolling no one doubted that the figure flirted with a half million.

  It’s said history doesn’t really repeat, but comparisons to the phenomenon at Woodstock were inevitable. Despite the heavy media coverage, and the implicit suggestion that something unpleasant was inevitable, there were no incidents. Sure, there was plenty of nudity and sex, but violence and aggression, even political posturing, simply didn’t have tickets to the show. It was a beautiful testament to the integrity and purpose of the massive concert. Mountain Rock was a small piece of history in the making. It was the kind of event of which, many years later, millions of people would claim to have been part.

  The first signs of trouble appeared late Friday afternoon, when rumors of food shortages worked their way through the crowd like ripples in a still pond. Suppliers simply hadn’t prepared for the size of the crowd. That, plus the large percentage of the audience who hadn’t thought to provide for themselves, meant tens of thousands of people were growing hungry. All the sharing and goodwill in the world wasn’t going to get everybody fed.

  Tim Vernon was growing concerned. Going without food for a day or two wouldn’t kill the concertgoers, but it might make them irritable and crazy and there might be trouble.

  “How about organizing a food run?” Vernon asked Sammy Eisenglass when the two of them met in the office of the control-room trailer. The sun was westering near the horizon, ready to slide behind a range of low mountain peaks.

  Sammy chuckled behind his ever-present mirror shades. “A ‘food run’? Where to? The local grocery store or the corner Burger King?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Hey, Timmy-boy! We’re talking about chow-time for half-a-mill! As my grandparents used to say: that ain’t chopped liver!”

  “I was just thinking that maybe we ought to do something.” Vernon shook a Marlboro from a crumpled pack, lit it.

  “Yeah, right,” said Sammy, grinning. “Even if we organize a chopper lift or a convoy or something, who the fuck is gonna pay for it!?”

  “Well,” said Vernon, “maybe we could just ask people to donate their time, or their—”

  “Or their helicopters?! Right, Timmy…sure!” Sammy laughed openly. “I mean, think about it—we’re running a charity event, for Christ’s sake, and we’re gonna ask for more fuckin’ charity to keep it from turning into the biggest food riot in history! That’s ripe, man. That’s really ripe.”

  Tim Vernon exhaled absently. “Well, what’ll we do? You have any suggestions?”

  Sammy smiled. “Sure I got one—forget about it! One day without croissants and zinfandel ain’t gonna kill ’em.”

  “That’s not all, though,” Vernon continued, staring out the trailer window into the growing night. He liked the peacefulness of the desert at eventide; sharing it with a paramecium like Sammy Eisenglass scarred the experience like a diamond on glass. “I guess I saved the worst for last…”

  “What? What else, for Christ’s sake?”

  “My wells are pushed to their limits, the Arkansas River’s a little too far off to help, and the porta-pots are already full.”

  Sammy shrugged. “So…”

  “So we’re not talking about croissants and zinfandel anymore.” A strong, clear, female voice cut through the small room.

  Both men turned toward the office threshold, where Marion was standing. Neither of them had heard her enter, and her voice had plainly startled them. Looking at her, Tim Vernon visibly relaxed; Sammy tried to act like he hadn’t been spooked at all. But she’d heard most of their conversation.

  “Hey, look, pretty lady,” said Sammy, “old Rancher Tim here didn’t say we’re outta water yet.”

  “Are we?” She looked at Vernon, noticing his graying beard and shoulder-length hair.

  “Not yet, but it’s just a matter of hours, I figure.”

  Marion stepped closer to the table. She could feel Sammy’s fondling gaze behind his shades; he was such a slug, she didn’t take much notice. “Mr. Vernon, why didn’t you foresee this sooner?”

  It was Vernon’s turn to shrug. “We’ve been through some fair droughts out here, and the water’s always been enough for us. I had no idea how many people would show up, and even less how much water they’d be using. Even so, my system’s the best—I figured it could handle the demand. But it’s been incredible, I can tell you that.”

  “What’s the worst-case scenario?” she asked.

  “If the water runs out by midnight? I figure by noon tomorrow, the climate being what it is, people should be getting pretty thirsty.”

  “Have you warned them to start conserving?”

  “Sure. Every act’s been telling ’em since early afternoon. Even so, I’m figuring the water to run out tonight—sooner without lots of conservation.”

  “Great. Just great. How dangerous is this?” Marion glared at Vernon and Eisenglass.

  “Dangerous is a relative term,” said Vernon, rubbing his beard pensively. “Some people won’t be too bad off. Others could get uncomfortable pretty quick—especially the kids. Lotta people brought their kids—just like the hippies used to…”

  “What about Peter?” asked Marion. “Does he have any suggestions?”

  “I told him ab
out everything right off,” said Vernon, “but he don’t seem too concerned. He said we’ll find a way to take care of everything.”

  “Somebody’s got to do something,” Marion continued. “It’s possible we can get some help from the National Guard or local authorities.”

  “The good ole ‘local authorities,’” said Sammy, still smiling and leering. “I love the language of you journalists.”

  “It loves you too,” said Marion, sarcastically. Then, to Tim Vernon: “Good luck, I’ll check back with you in the morning. If anything happens tonight, call me at the hotel.”

  When Marion stepped out into the crisp, still, Colorado night, the deep blue of the sky comforted her like a familiar blanket. The air shimmered and shook from the waves of music resonating across the pasture land. Music, music, music. Its ghostly echoes would live on for a long time in the memories of the people who heard it—and the audio and video recordings.

  Too exhausted to listen any more, Marion climbed into her RX-7 and drove back to the Clarion Hotel in Colorado Springs. She was tired but not sleepy. She needed some relaxation—maybe a drink.

  She wondered about Peter. He loved music, and was no doubt still hanging out backstage, absorbing the whole experience like a dreamy kid in a magic shop. She wondered if he was aware of how critical the food and water problem might become, and more importantly, if there was anything he might be able to do to help.

  When she got back to her room, her phone’s message light was flashing. Punching the right keys patched her into the hotel’s digital switchboard. There were the usual calls from various TV affiliates, the networks, Charles Branford, but the final one caught her completely off her guard: Surprise! It’s Daniel. I flew in around six. If you get back before it closes, I’ll be in the bar.

  Daniel Ellington had stayed in St. Louis to continue managing the Foundation. What was he doing here?

  Marion headed for the atrium bar, where a tired-looking woman in an evening dress played tired old songs on the baby grand. The bar area teemed with patrons; she didn’t see Daniel in the crowd until he called her name above the general din.

  He was seated at a low table by the window-wall, wearing a light gray suit and an executive’s tie. An almost-empty bottle of Whitbread’s Ale stood on the table beside a partially-filled pilsner glass. She’d never seen him out of his “religious fatigues,” as he called his basic black outfits, and he looked handsome and stylish. Nobody would have nailed him as a priest.

  “Dan, you look terrific,” she said, slipping into the chair opposite him. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  Dan smiled and shrugged. “Seemed like it would be a little more exciting than St. Louis. Never been to Colorado before, so I figured, why not? Besides, I wanted to see how Peter is doing with the big crowd.”

  Marion shrugged. “He seems okay. He’s very caught up in the concert. So are Billy and Laureen.”

  “How’s her pregnancy coming along?” Dan smiled sheepishly, looking very much like a little boy for a moment. She was a real sucker for that kind of look, a weakness that had gotten her in trouble all her life. “It seems like a while since I’ve seen anybody.”

  “Laureen’s doing great. The last three weeks she’s gotten much bigger, but she isn’t having any trouble getting around.” Marion shook her head. “I don’t know much about babies or pregnant women, but I’d say she’s right on schedule and doing well.”

  “Has she been to a doctor lately?”

  Marion shook her head. “No. We’ve been so busy. Peter said she’s fine, and Laureen trusts him more than she would a doctor, anyway.”

  “He’s an obstetrician now, too?”

  She shrugged. “No, but he says he gets these ‘feelings,’ you know?”

  Daniel nodded. “Yes, and I’m starting to wonder what it all means.”

  A waitress materialized, asked if Marion wanted anything. After ordering a glass of the house wine, she looked back at Dan and found that he was obviously admiring her. The glow of several beers warmed his cheeks, and he smiled with an easy candor.

  She wasn’t in the mood to discuss theology. “Why didn’t you go out to the concert site?”

  “To tell you the truth,” Dan said, “and I guess I’d have trouble saying this without a few drinks in me—I really came here because I missed you.”

  His words had less impact than he might have suspected. Dan’s attraction was something Marion had sensed some time before, something she’d chosen not to acknowledge. It had never become an issue.

  Now what did she do?

  She said, finally, “I know what you mean. I missed you too.”

  The waitress reappeared, set down a glass of wine, and once again slipped away into the crowd.

  “You have?” Dan leaned forward, unable to hide his surprise.

  “Well, the three of us had been together for so many months,” she said. “This is the first time we’ve been apart.”

  Dan nodded. “Yeah, but that’s not what I mean, Marion.”

  She sipped her wine, looked at him over the rim of the glass. “I know it’s not…”

  Dan leaned closer to her, sincerity building in his handsome features. “Marion, I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling. It’s just that, well, I was back there, by myself, and I realized that I was thinking about you more and more. Every day.”

  Marion said nothing, just nodded when he paused.

  “…and then I realized: being away from you was driving me up the walls. I’ve really gotten used to being around you.”

  “Thank you, Dan,” she said, wondering if that was an appropriate reply. He was pouring his heart out, and she had no idea how to handle it. She gulped her wine, wishing for a refill.

  “That’s not all,” he said, then finished the last of his Whitbread’s.

  “I didn’t think it would be,” she said. She manufactured a fairly good imitation of a natural, comfortable smile, feeling even more nervous.

  “I’ve never felt this way about a woman before,” said Dan. He paused to clear his throat and signal the waitress for another round. “I don’t even know if this is the way you’re supposed to feel.”

  “Dan…” She wanted to tell him it was okay, that she understood what he was trying to say, but he pushed on.

  “I know…I know what you’re going to say, about me being a priest and all that, but I can’t help it, Marion, I’m falling in love with you.”

  Without thinking, she reached out and took his hand. His grip tightened instantly. “Oh Dan, I don’t know what to say, really.”

  He shook his head, tried to smile and did a bad job of it.

  The waitress swooped in to replace their drinks, which both of them reached for as though parched. An almost palpable mist of awkwardness surrounded them.

  “I don’t even know what it’s really like to fall in love with someone,” he said. “All I know is what I’ve seen in movies and read in books.”

  “Falling in love is different for everyone, Dan.”

  “You’re not upset, then?”

  “Upset? No, I’m flattered. And more.”

  “More?” he said with some effort. “What do you mean?”

  She squeezed his hand, which had started to tremble slightly. “Don’t ever be ashamed of how you feel, Dan. Feelings aren’t always things we can control. They’re a basic part of us.”

  “I feel better letting this out. God, I can’t believe how much better…” He sipped from his glass. “Marion, it was getting so bad, I couldn’t stand to be alone in St. Louis. I made up my mind to get on the next plane, get as drunk as I could, and just tell you everything…”

  She smiled, more genuinely this time. He had no idea how charming he could be, which was in turn, part of his charm.

  “…And you did it very well,” she said.

  “I did?”

  “Definitely.” Marion took a more moderate swallow from her glass. Her moment of desperation had passed. She felt calmer. There was a ce
rtain freedom between them now that Dan had aired his pent-up emotions. “In fact, Dan, I don’t ever remember a man ever telling me such things in such a nice way.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel good.”

  “No, I’m not. You can’t imagine how refreshing it is to listen to a man talk without giving you a lot of the bullshit, without all the slyness, the innuendo.”

  “I…I don’t know how to do that,” he said, sounding like a little boy again.

  “No, and thank God for that.”

  He held her hand tightly. “That’s the other thing that’s driving me crazy!” he whispered harshly. “My whole identity, my whole place in the world, is dissolving. I know I shouldn’t feel like this, but…”

  “But what?” she prompted him. “It’s okay. Just let it out.”

  “A long time ago I took a vow of celibacy. That’s not something you do easily—at least for me it wasn’t. Sure, there were plenty of guys in the seminary and later, during our first teaching assignments, who didn’t pay it much attention, but dammit, I always did.”

  Marion could only nod as he rushed to get out what he was feeling and thinking.

  “I was taught if you’re going to do something worthwhile, you’ve got to do it right, or don’t do it at all. You know what I mean?” He let go of her fingers, nervously rubbed his lower lip with the back of his hand.

  “Of course, Dan.” The wine coursed through her like a river breaking up at its delta. The blond, muscular man across from her was looking better and better to her.

  “Well, I’ve pretty much always believed I’ve done the right thing. I’ve never regretted going into the priesthood, for instance.” He paused, finished off his glass of ale. “Being a Jesuit has been a tremendous experience for me. But—”