The Doomsday Prophecy

by Scott Mariani

  It took another forty-five minutes of painfully slow progress to reach the farm. They walked inside the gate and followed a dusty path between run-down timber outbuildings towards the house. Ben rested against a fencepost while Zoë hovered uncertainly in the background and Alex approached the farmhouse. One window was boarded over and the porch steps were worm-eaten and supported on bricks.

  She thumped on the door. ‘Hello? Anybody around?’ There was no answer. She stepped back from the house, gazing up at the windows, then shrugged back at Ben.

  The sun was hot and high above them now, and he shielded his eyes from it as he scanned around the farmstead.

  Then he saw the body.

  The old man was lying in the long grass a hundred yards from one of the horse paddocks. Ben and Alex hurried over to him. She kneeled down next to the limp figure in the worn-out jeans and red check shirt and felt for a pulse. ‘He’s alive,’ she said. Ben fetched a pitcher of water from the nearby paddock and splashed some of it on the old man’s face. He groaned, blinked and tried to sit up. His hair and beard were long and white, and his face was tanned to leather. He winced in pain and grabbed his ankle. Ben saw that it was badly swollen.

  ‘Damned colt there pulled me off my feet,’ the old man said, pointing. In the paddock, a young chestnut looked up from his grazing and gazed across at them, trailing his lungeing rope from his halter.

  ‘Don’t try to talk,’ Alex said to the old man. ‘We’ll get you in out of the sun.’

  They helped the old man up the broken-down porch steps and into the farmhouse. The house was cool inside and smelled faintly damp. Through a shady hallway was a sitting room with wallpaper hanging off the walls and a low couch that looked as if it had been there since the fifties. They laid him down. Ben wiped the sweat out of his eyes and gently peeled back the old man’s trouser leg. ‘Looks to be just a bad sprain,’ Alex said, peering down at it.

  ‘Mighty glad you folks turned up,’ the old man said. ‘Don’t get a lot of visitors out here.’ His wrinkled eyes focused on Ben’s bloody shirt, but he said nothing. He extended his hand. ‘Riley Tarson’s the name.’

  ‘Ben Hope. This is Alex.’

  Zoë had wandered into the house, standing idly watching from a distance.

  ‘What about this little lady?’ Riley asked. ‘She got a name?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ben said. ‘Trouble.’ He eased off the old man’s boot, then turned to Alex. ‘I think I saw some comfrey growing outside in the yard. You know how to make a decoction? That’ll help ease the swelling.’

  ‘No need,’ Riley said. ‘Ira keeps a jar of some damned Indian potion on the kitchen shelf.’

  ‘Ira?’

  ‘He helps out on the farm. Ain’t here, though. Rode out two days ago to chase up a missing steer. Not been back since.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find the jar,’ Alex said. Zoë trailed after her.

  Riley eyed Ben carefully. ‘You’re a little out of your way, mister. It’s my guess you’re no ordinary travellers.’

  ‘You guessed right,’ Ben said.

  ‘And I guess that chopper earlier was out looking for you. Right about that too?’

  Ben said nothing.

  Riley’s old face creased into a grin. ‘I know what them helicopters are. I got no love for no G-men.’

  ‘They’re CIA,’ Ben said quietly. ‘They’re looking for us.’

  ‘I have no problem with that, son. If you was fixing to harm me or rob me, you’d have done it by now. I don’t know your business, and the less I know the less I have to tell. A man’s actions is all I care about.’ Riley grunted. ‘Now, the sonofabitch in the helicopter, he came down low while I was lying there in the dirt. Saw me and just smiled and flew off. If you hadn’t showed up, I wouldn’t have made it through till morning. So you ask me to pick sides, I won’t be picking his and that’s for sure.’

  Alex came back into the room, holding a big jar full of greenish lotion. Ben examined it. ‘That’s comfrey, all right,’ he said. ‘It’ll help.’ He smeared it over the swollen ankle, then immobilised the foot with the cushion, rolling it carefully around and strapping it up with tape. ‘You need to rest up a while,’ he told Riley.

  ‘You don’t look too good yourself,’ the old man said. ‘I seen gunshot wounds before.’

  Ben felt suddenly faint again. The old man’s lips were moving, but all he could hear was a rumbling echo in his ears. The room began to spin, and then he was dimly aware of Alex’s cry as he crashed to the floor.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Consciousness came and went. Like a slow-motion strobe effect, there were periods of blackness where he drifted and floated for what seemed like eternity. In between were bursts of sound and light and activity. He was dimly aware of climbing the stairs, an arm around Alex’s neck as she supported him. Then a room. A bed. The feel of crisp sheets against his skin. Blood on white cotton. Alex bending over him, her face looming large, concern showing in her eyes. He blacked out again.

  When he opened his eyes, the red light of dawn was creeping across the wooden floor of the unfamiliar room. He blinked and tried to lift his head off the pillow. His shoulder was freshly bandaged. There was pain, but it felt different.

  He felt for the ring around his neck. It was gone.

  He looked around him. He was in a large bedroom, simple and traditional. In stark contrast to the downstairs, the room was clean and tidy, as though it was never used. He was in a brass-framed double bed, covered with a patchwork quilt. There was a wash basin in the corner, and on the wooden rocking chair next to his bed were fresh clothes, a blue denim shirt and clean jeans, neatly folded. Carefully placed on top of the clothes was the gold wedding ring with its leather thong.

  Alex was next to him. She was slumped across the bed, her tousled hair across the quilt, one arm draped over his legs. He wondered how long she’d been watching over him before she gave in to sleep.

  She stirred and opened her eyes, looking directly at him. She seemed to have that ability, which he’d only seen in wild animals and trained soldiers, to go from a dead sleep to a state of perfect alertness, with none of the yawning puffy-eyed waking-up stages in between. She smiled and sat up on the bed. She’d changed out of her woolly jumper and was wearing a farmer’s chequered shirt a size too big and knotted at the waist.

  ‘Welcome back to the land of the living,’ she said.

  ‘You did it?’

  She nodded. ‘I had to go in deep, but it came out clean. It didn’t hit any bone. It flattened a little but didn’t mushroom. No fragmentation.’ She reached for a tin cup on the bedside table and rattled it. He looked inside at the crumpled bullet rolling around in the bottom. It looked small and innocuous now.

  ‘You saved my life,’ he said. ‘That’s twice now. I have some catching up to do.’

  She took the cup from his hand and pressed cool fingers gently to his brow ‘You’re still burning hot. Get some rest.’

  He lay back against the pillow. ‘We have to get moving.’

  ‘Not for a few days. Riley says we can stay here as long as we need.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Sleeping. He’ll be fine.’ She smiled. ‘He seems to think you and I are an item.’

  ‘Where’s Zoë?’

  ‘She has a room down the hall. She’s tired, Ben. You need to go a little easier on her.’

  ‘I could kill her.’

  ‘She feels bad.’

  ‘She ought to.’

  She stroked his forehead, brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. Outside, the dawn light was brightening. He could hear horses neighing in the distance, and a dog barking. ‘I should go and see to the horses,’ she said. ‘Riley won’t be up for a while yet.’

  ‘Stay a minute.’

  She smiled again. ‘OK.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘You were dreaming a lot,’ she said. ‘Last night. You were feverish for a while.’

  ‘Was I?’


  She nodded. ‘You were talking in your sleep again.’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘You were talking to God.’

  ‘I don’t have a lot to say to him.’

  ‘You asked for his forgiveness, Ben. Like it really mattered to you. What happened? What did you do that you want to be forgiven for?’

  He rolled over away from her.

  ‘I want to help you,’ she said.

  He glanced back at her. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just do.’ She smiled. ‘I kind of feel I know you now. I undressed you and put you into bed. I’ve been up to my elbows inside your shoulder pulling that bullet out of you. Your blood all over me. I’ve packed your wound and patched you up. Bathed you and sat here half the night mopping sweat off you. So why won’t you let me help you with this? It’s good to talk, right?’

  ‘Bad things have happened,’ he said. ‘Things I don’t want to talk about.’

  ‘Bad things happen to everyone.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘It’s not your fault Charlie died,’ she said. ‘I know you blame yourself, but it’s not fair. You didn’t know what was coming. You were only trying to help your friend.’

  He was about to reply, then shut his mouth.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe you should see to the horses now. Just don’t stay out in the open too long. The helicopter might come back.’

  She smiled. ‘You can’t get rid of me that easily.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘About Charlie. Maybe it wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  He closed his eyes.

  ‘Tell me.’

  After a long pause, Ben said quietly, ‘I can’t.’

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  As the morning rolled by, Ben could feel his strength slowly returning and his impatience mounting. He lay on the rumpled sheets reading his Bible, working through all the facts in his head.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Slater. Who was he? Not an agent. Not a cop. He wasn’t a warrior like Jones. He was a leader, an organiser, a brain. Obviously a man with considerable power at his fingertips. One of the movers and shakers. A politician, maybe, but not a prominent figure – Alex had never heard of him. Perhaps one who preferred to stay in the shadows, working behind the scenes. And one who, for some reason that was still a complete mystery, was politically interested in Clayton Cleaver and, by extension, politically threatened by Zoë’s ostraka discovery.

  Religion and politics. Cleaver was aiming at governorship, but he was still only small potatoes in the larger game. What if someone else, someone far higher up the ladder, someone with much more to gain or lose, had a stake in this too? Votes and power were a big motivator, worth killing for.

  But some inner voice told Ben there was something else to it. Did political ambition alone explain how Slater, or the forces he represented, was apparently able to hijack CIA resources to enable his plans? There was something bigger going on.

  And as Ben leafed through the Bible on the pillow next to him, that thought kept returning in his mind and chilling his blood.

  After a while he couldn’t bear the inactivity any longer. Just after midday he got to his feet, feeling a little woozy but much stronger. He was wearing only a pair of shorts. Alex’s dressing was tight around his chest and shoulder.

  He picked up the ring and hung it back around his neck. Walked over to the window and looked out at the farm buildings and paddocks, the sweeping prairie and the mountains in the background.

  Something caught his eye. In one of the barns, among old farm implements and junk, was the rusting hulk of an ancient Ford pickup truck. He gazed at it for a moment, then nodded to himself.

  He went to the wash basin and splashed cold water over his face, then walked back over to the bed and pulled on the jeans that had been left out for him. They fitted well, and he wondered whose they were. Not Riley’s, not with a thirty-two-inch waistband. He remembered the old man had mentioned a helper, Ira. He pulled on the shirt that had been left out too.

  The aroma of coffee was floating up from downstairs, and someone was moving about down below.

  Ben ruffled up his hair in the mirror and made his way down the wide wooden staircase.

  He found Alex down in the big farm kitchen, standing at an old cylinder-fed gas stove, frying strips of bacon in a battered pan. She turned in surprise as he walked in. ‘I was just about to bring you something to eat.’

  ‘What other US political figure uses the Bible as a campaign platform?’ he asked.

  Alex stared at him for a moment. ‘You mean, apart from a President who said God told him to go to war with Iraq?’

  ‘Lower down the scale,’ he said. ‘Someone working hard to make it to the top.’

  ‘There are a thousand evangelical political wannabees out there,’ she answered. ‘Some are bigger than others. But I can’t just pluck one name out of the hat. Why are you asking about this all of a sudden?’

  ‘It’s nothing. Just thinking. Probably way off the mark.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be up so soon.’

  ‘I feel a lot stronger.’

  ‘You look it. But you can’t just spring up like a jack-in-the-box. You should rest a while longer.’

  ‘I’m not going back to bed. There’s a truck out there. Looks old, but maybe it’ll get us out of here. I’ll give Riley double what it’s worth, so he can replace it with a better one.’

  ‘Nice thought,’ she said. ‘But we’re not going anywhere in that, at least not yet. I already tried it. Battery’s all right, but the starter motor seems to be gone.’

  ‘A doctor and a mechanic,’ Ben said.

  ‘Make good coffee too. Want some?’

  ‘Love some.’ He gratefully accepted a mug from her and took a sip.

  ‘I made French toast, too. And some bacon and beans.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘You don’t have French toast where you come from?’

  ‘I only know Irish toast,’ he said. ‘That’s regular toast, soaked in Guinness.’

  ‘Try some. It’s fried bread with sugar.’

  He sat down at the table and ate. ‘Where’s her ladyship this morning?’

  Alex jerked her thumb upwards. ‘She won’t come out of her room.’

  ‘Riley?’

  ‘He’s stubborn, like you,’ she said. ‘He’s limping around out there tending to the animals. Tough old bird. Told me he was a marine once.’

  ‘Vietnam?’

  ‘Korea,’ rasped a voice. They turned. The front door creaked open and Riley hobbled into the kitchen, his gnarled hand clutching a stick. ‘Something smells good.’ He lowered himself stiffly into his chair at the head of the table. Alex passed him a piled plate and he muttered a few words of Grace before he dug into it. The three of them ate in silence for a while, then Ben mentioned the old truck in the barn.

  ‘If you can get it going, it’s yours,’ the old man said. ‘Tell you what, you dig real deep in the back of that old shed, you’ll find another truck there under a tarp. Engine gave out years back, but I reckon the starter on that one’s still in good shape. Might be worth a try.’

  ‘We’ll check it out.’

  Riley reached across and took a bottle from a nearby cupboard. It was filled with clear liquid. ‘I always have a drink after a meal. Care to join me?’ He popped out the cork and sloshed some into three mugs. He took one for himself and slid the other two across the table. ‘Mighty good stuff,’ he said. ‘Distilled it myself.’

  Ben sipped it. It tasted about twice the strength of Scotch. ‘Reminds me of poteen. Irish moonshine.’

  ‘Knowed a guy who ran a ’69 Dodge Charger on it,’ Riley muttered.

  Ben watched him appreciatively. He was a tough old man, but with a good heart. ‘I wanted to thank you for letting us stay here. There was no need to give up your bedroom for me. I’d have been happy with the barn.’<
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  Riley scratched the white bristles on his chin and smiled sadly. ‘That’s Maddie’s old room. I don’t go there much. She’d have wanted you and your lady here to use it.’

  Ben and Alex exchanged glances and didn’t reply. Then the door creaked open and they all turned to see Zoë standing there uncertainly.

  ‘Pull up a chair, miss,’ Riley said.

  Alex stood and went over to fetch the pan from the stove and a fresh plate. ‘Come and eat something, Zoë.’

  Zoë looked subdued as she sat at the table and picked at the food that Alex pushed in front of her. Ben ignored her. Riley finished his food, licked the plate with relish and drained the last of his moonshine. ‘That was darn good.’ He leaned back in his chair and took out a battered pack of Lucky Strikes. Ben accepted one, and they lit up.

  Zoë glanced over at the cheap plastic phone that hung on the wall in the corner of the kitchen. ‘Ben,’ she said sheepishly, ‘would it be OK for me to call my parents?’

  Ben was about to say no, but before he could speak Riley cut in. ‘Phone don’t work, miss,’ he said. ‘Been gathering dust there for the last two years. Never paid the bill. Maddie, she used to call up her sis once in a while. But I never much liked talking on that thing anyway. I like to look a person in the eye when I talk to them.’ He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. ‘Nearest phone’s at the Herman place,’ bout nine miles west across the ridge there.’

  Zoë turned to Alex. ‘What about your cellphone?’

  ‘You won’t get reception up here,’ Riley said. ‘Hermans don’t get it neither.’

  ‘Fine. Then I’ll go to the Herman place,’ Zoë said. ‘Is there a horse I can borrow?’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Ben warned her.

  Just then, the sound of hooves in the yard made him turn to look out of the window. Through the dusty pane, a bronzed young guy with glossy black hair and a denim jacket was dismounting a tall grey horse and tying it up to a rail.

  ‘That’s Ira,’ Riley said. ‘Must have found that steer.’ He rose from the table and hobbled outside to join the young guy.