Goldstein had purchased a pearl white 1978 Ford Pinto station wagon, with 118,000 miles on it, for $2,900.00 from a guy in Statesville who had advertised it on Craigslist.
It had an automatic transmission with a V6 engine, working AC, and an ugly brown vinyl interior.
“A bargain,” he had told Pantera. “A collector’s item. And after you use it to get to DC, it’ll be worth ten times as much.”
By the time Pantera’s caravan of two RVs and fifteen buses left at sunrise on October 2nd for Washington, DC, led by that very same Ford Pinto station wagon, word had come from Spartacus Rex that the expressways leading into the city were clogged with cars, vans, buses, and RVs transporting thousands upon thousands of followers to a burgeoning tent city spreading out along the full length of the National Mall.
Rex also gleefully reported that their initial estimate of five hundred thousand attending the Kingdom Rally had been way too low, and that the figure would be closer to a million. A million! And perhaps more. All to see Cristos Pantera—all anticipating his call to radical and irrevocable change, to something new, transformative. In short, the Kingdom Rally promised to be a truly historic event. The whole world would be watching, waiting for the Master to get up on a stage constructed at one end of the Mall and ignite the revolution.
To proclaim himself King of the World.
Those of Pantera’s worshippers who had already arrived at the ever-growing tent city along the National Mall waited in cheerful anticipation for what was to come. They sang and swayed to songs from the 1960s about peace and love and change and they were using the peace sign again as evidence of the great transformation that they sensed was about to come. Even some of the DC cops sent to keep order had joined the revelry, themselves in awe after having seen this preacher on TV and knowing that they were witnessing something beyond special that might just change things forever.
Word soon spread among those gathered at the National Mall that the Messiah had left his farmhouse compound in Grassy Creek and was on his way to join them. Figuring the five-hour ride or so of travel from there to DC, it was expected that he and his disciples would arrive between one and two that afternoon.
Then, the Master would take center stage overlooking the multitude—the thousands upon thousands of admirers and followers stretching out to the horizon before him—and preach the sermon that would put things right and change things forever.
For the most part, those attending the Kingdom Rally that morning were on the young side. But, all age groups were well represented, indicating that Pantera’s appeal was universal—proof that dissatisfaction with what constituted a meaningful life crossed all generations.
Those attending the rally were being, and would continue to be, watched by a number of Network operatives who had infiltrated the gathering. Their observations, video recordings, and reports were passed on to Chief Bradley, who passed them to Director Margolis who, in turn, communicated them to Lord Winston. Each of them waited with hot anticipation for the execution of the masterstroke plan that would silence once and for all this false prophet, this wannabe Messiah, and put an end to this latest challenge to the Supremacy’s control.
Pantera had invited Renata Singh, Amato, and Constantine to ride with him in the Pinto. He insisted on driving, and Renata took the front passenger seat while Constantine and Amato squeezed into the back.
Constantine dozed off shortly into the trip. When he woke up about half an hour later, he noticed that Renata and Amato were asleep. Pantera was staring forward, doing the speed limit of 70 MPH along Interstate 77. After a moment, he glanced up into the rearview mirror at Constantine.
“You’re up,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” Constantine whispered as he leaned forward against the back of Pantera’s seat. “Can’t sleep anymore. Too excited.”
He looked out the window at the landscape flowing past and considered his life. A year ago, he had been overseas in Singapore, searching for a banker kidnapped by some rogue anarchist group. Once that job was finished, he was sent to Berlin to find and snuff out a radical Islamist cell. In the middle of that job, he had been called back to the States and given this odd assignment. And then, his life had changed. He had been transformed in a surprising and unexpected way. He was reborn. He had become a Citizen of the Kingdom of God.
“Still feel good about it?” Pantera asked him, as if he had read Constantine’s line of thought. “The choice you made. You can still get out of it, you know. Return to your old life.”
“Yes, Master, I do,” Constantine whispered. “So very good.” Then, he asked Pantera, “And you? You still feel good about this, your mission?”
Pantera laughed quietly and said, “I’ll let you know tonight.”
“What happens then?” Constantine asked. “After your resurrection?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I appear, then just as quickly disappear. Go into hiding. They won’t let me sell it for very long. I think it’s best to do what Jesus likely did. Showed himself for a while, preached, then left for parts unknown and became a mythic figure. And the myth formed after I come and go, if played right, will continue to awaken and change hearts and minds until someday, the Kingdom of God will come to pass.”
He let out another short laugh and said, “That is my dream, anyway. My hope.”
“Without you, can that really happen?”
“It will have to,” Pantera said, “because they won’t let me make it happen.”
“Where will you go?” Constantine asked. “I mean, afterwards. Where do you hide?”
Pantera smiled and said, “Where will I go? Why, up to Heaven, of course.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Revisiting the Plan
As expected, the caravan led by Panera’s Pinto got caught up in traffic on I-66 about 10 miles outside DC. As the occupants of the cars crawling forward came abreast of the funny-looking pearly white Pinto wagon and saw that the Master himself was driving it, they smiled and waved at him and his passengers.
“Look at them,” Pantera said warmly as he smiled and waved back.
“They’re loving you, Master,” Amato laughed from the backseat.
Following these sightings, word spread to the massive tent city that had sprung up across the National Mall that the Master was close, less than an hour away.
At one point as they stopped and started, Amato suddenly turned to Constantine and asked, “Jude, can you go over the plan again? I mean, we really gonna be able to pull this off? I keep thinking of all the things that could go wrong.”
“You worry too much, Nick.” Renata swiveled around and glanced back at him. “Everything’s set. Right, Jude?” As she turned to Constantine, he saw doubt in her eyes. She still didn’t trust him. She still wondered about his motives, whether he was really “born again.”
But it was true. Everything was set. From the time they had hatched the plan in the farmhouse kitchen early in the morning nine days ago, everything seemed to have fallen into place. All systems were go.
The first thing Pantera had done after that meeting was call Spartacus Rex and let him in on the plan. After all, he was essential to pulling it off. And as expected, Rex was very much enthused, especially for the prospect of promoting a resurrected demigod—even if only for a few days. He promptly put into gear everything needed on his end to help make it happen.
“After your resurrection,” Rex had told Pantera, “what about a tour? The Resurrection Tour.” He laughed as he considered that. “The crowds for that—can you imagine! You think the crowds were big for Enlightenment, you ain’t seen nothing yet. I can see the billboards now, with you standing on a cloud looking down at us peons and it’ll say, in big bold black letters, ‘The Resurrection Tour—Be Born Again!’” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “For real. Makes me want to wet my pants.”
“We’ll see, Spartacus,” Pantera had replied. “The powers-that-be are not going to be too happy if we pull this off. But we’ll see what we can
do to help the ministry, and you, make some money out of this.”
Rex suddenly lowered his voice, serious now, and said, “You have to believe me, Master. That’s not the only reason I’m in on this.”
Pantera smiled and said, “I know it isn’t, Spartacus. I’ve known that all along.”
Rex had obtained the ambulance and actors who’d play the paramedics that were to go up on stage and secure Pantera after he’d supposedly been shot. Over several hours, under Rex’s direct supervision, they rehearsed rushing Pantera off a stage, into the ambulance, and then speeding away from the National Mall to a warehouse in a fairly new industrial park. Rex had arranged for Pantera to hide out there until the dust settled, when he could pop out as a resurrected demigod.
“It’ll be fine, Nick,” Pantera chimed in as he glanced left out the window and waved to another group driving alongside the Pinto. They had slowed again to crawling speed. “Once we arrive at the stage, Jude finds the patsy and stands by him. Once I take the stage, Jude will shoot me—with blanks of course. Then, I stagger, break open the blood pill, and fall. That’s when the fake paramedics rush the stage and whisk me away to a waiting fake ambulance and then to a warehouse in some nearby industrial park.” He swiveled back and glanced at Jude. “That pretty much it, Jude?”
“Pretty much,” Jude said. “Once I pull the fake kill shot, the Network agent assigned the task will take down the patsy who’ll be fingered as the assassin. And off I’ll go to join the others.” He laughed and added, “Piece of cake. And three days later, the Master rises from the dead.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Hosanna!
About three miles out from the National Mall, just before I-66 and old US 50 merged and crossed over the Potomac River into Washington, Constantine noticed that Pantera’s followers had lined up along the shoulder of the interstate. By the time their caravan crossed the Potomac River into DC, the crowd along the shoulder of the highway, and then along Constitution Avenue, extended ten to twelve rows deep in what now resembled a parade route.
As the Pinto crept forward, Amato said, “Hear that?”
The chant had started somewhere behind them along I-66, and now it could be heard down among Pantera’s followers all the way from those lining the route to those who had already arrived at the tent city on the National Mall.
After a few moments listening to the chant, Amato laughed and said, “Yes! That’s it!”
“Yes, I hear it, too,” Renata whispered. “Listen to them. It’s wonderful.”
Then Constantine heard it.
“Hosanna!” They were chanting, shouting, singing it out. “Hosanna!”
“Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!” the chant went on and on and on. It was a song right out of the 1970s musical Jesus Christ Superstar!
“Hosanna, hey sanna, sanna sanna ho…”
The chanting and singing accompanied them the rest of the way down Constitution Avenue to where they took a right turn onto 17th Street NW, and it grew stronger and louder after Pantera parked the Pinto along the street across from the stage, with the RVs and buses parking in a row behind him.
The “Hosanna!” chant finally tapered off and stopped altogether as a collective, anticipatory gasp overcame the enormous sea of now over one million followers, men and women and children of all ages, races, sizes, and ethnicities. But for a time, Pantera remained in the Pinto. As he lingered there, shouts started rising out from the crowd, some indecipherable, but others clear—“Master!” and “Cristos!”
The stage overlooking the massive audience loomed to the left of the Pinto, a roughly thirty-five-foot-long metal structure with a triangular canopy. Its aluminum floor had been raised up about 10 feet off the ground on specially designed steel struts.
Constantine looked over to the rows of people lined up in front of the stage, all turned to face them now. He was surveying the crowd, working to spot the Network’s patsy—and perhaps the Network operative assigned to neutralize him after Pantera had been shot.
“Master?” Amato said. “They’re waiting.”
But Pantera did not move. He stared forward, seeming gripped by stage fright. After a moment, Constantine realized it wasn’t that. In the next few minutes, Pantera’s life and his life’s work would change irrevocably. He would become a demigod.
“Cristos,” Renata said, as if waking him from a daydream.
Pantera looked over at her with a sick grin. He nodded briefly, then looked back at Constantine and Amato. Finally, he drew in a breath and looked forward again.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Here we go.” There was another sigh, and then he swiveled left, pulled the handle, opened the door, and stepped out of the car.
As he emerged, a tidal wave of approval began rising from the multitude gathered on the National Mall infield—slight at first, it grew into a ravenous crescendo, an enduring, deafening roar that shook the ground.
The Messiah had come!
Chapter Forty-Five
Best-Laid Plans
Spartacus Rex was waiting in the middle of the stage in front of the band that had been playing various rock songs the last hour or so to keep the waiting multitude occupied and in high spirits. As Pantera stepped out of the Pinto and the crowd’s slow recognition grew to a thunderous roar, he skipped up the metal stairs and strolled across the stage toward Rex, his pristine white robe and long, glistening brown hair flowing magnificently behind him.
As Pantera approached, Rex held out his arms and they hugged briefly. Rex handed over a miniature headset that Pantera placed in his left ear, with the mic winding around to his mouth. Then, Rex turned to the massive crowd stretching out for miles before them, shouting into his mic, “Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, I give you…your Messiah!”
The crowd’s roar surged again as Rex gave a brief bow to Pantera and walked off the stage. In the next moment, Pantera turned to the crowd and looked out at them for a time; then, with a smile, he lifted his arms to the heavens in his iconic pose. As had happened with that gesture in past appearances, everyone in the crowd raised their arms toward the heavens with him. It seemed impossible, but their roar of approval went several decibels higher, shaking the ground again. Then, as Pantera brought his arms down and stood beaming before them, the crowd lowered arms and quieted momentarily.
In millions of homes around the world, people watched with rapt attention.
After a time, starting from somewhere near the front of the stage, the cheering evolved once again into that singsong chant, “Hosanna! Hosanna! Sanna sanna, ho!”
And on and on it went.
“Hosanna! Hey, Sanna, Sanna, Sanna, Hey, Sanna, hey, Sanna, ho, Sanna! Hey, CP, CP you’re alright by me, Sanna hey, Sanna hey, Sanna ho!”
Finally, after some moments of chanting, Pantera smiled and raised his arms, waving at the crowd to settle them down.
In accordance with the plan, while Pantera was walking across the stage toward Spartacus Rex, Constantine was making his way from the Pinto to the infield section just below the stage. He had some difficulty edging his way through the packed crowd, trying to take everything in as he hunted for the patsy and Network agent. Panic began to well up within him as he realized how difficult it would be to find two random people in this throng. His attempt to find them was hampered somewhat as some in the crowd recognized him and bowed or nodded deferentially, or slapped him on the back or reached out to shake his hand before moving aside as he slipped past them to the left side of the stage.
Constantine glanced anxiously up at the stage as Pantera raised his arms and the crowd raised theirs, renewing their roar. By the time they had restarted the “Hosanna!” chant, he still hadn’t spotted either the Network agent or lone nut. Either something had changed or he had missed them. Well, as they say, he scolded himself, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
Pantera finally managed to quiet the crowd. It seemed as if someone had pressed the mute button in the middle of a blaring rock song. After the
thunder of cheering just moments ago, the sudden quiet produced an eerie sense of time and space stopping along the entire length of the National Mall—and perhaps everywhere else on the planet.
During that sudden hush, Constantine peered more closely at the faces of the crowd around him, desperate now to find that damned Network agent and the fall guy. But still, no one fit the bill.
In the next moment, he felt the gentle prick of a needle thrust into his left buttocks. He spun around and caught a glimpse of the small man who had been grinning and cheering behind him. Two seconds later, he collapsed. As he fell in a heap onto the soft ground, those around him thought that, like so many others that afternoon, he had been overcome by the excitement of being in the presence of the Messiah.
The man who had pricked him knelt by his side, and leaned toward him. “Traitor,” he whispered into Constantine’s right ear before quickly moving off and disappearing into the crowd.
Chapter Forty-Six
Arrest
With the crowd quieted, except for a shout-out here and there, Pantera stepped forward. He thought of what was coming—Constantine raising his rifle and shooting him. He had already reached into the side pocket of his robe and grabbed hold of the small capsule filled with fake blood that, as they had rehearsed so many times over the last few days, he’d break on his chest once he saw the flash from Constantine’s gun.
Moments earlier, as the crowd wailed the “Hosanna” chant, he had spotted Constantine edging into position about thirty feet in front of the stage. He’d had a concerned look as he kept glancing around at the crowd. But then, after Pantera had looked away for only a moment at the imposing sea of people stretching at out least a mile from the stage—all waiting for his latest words of wisdom and call for ultimate change—he had looked down and could no longer see Constantine. Where had he gotten to? There was a commotion near the stage, over where he had been. Someone had fallen and was being attended to. Something had definitely gone awry.
The Messiah Page 17