by Sam Bourne
Will was struggling to stay standing. The room was beginning to turn. His lungs seemed to be emptying of air. He could only manage a few words. 'This is madness.'
'You think this is madness? Do you have even the first idea of what's going on here?'
'I think you're murdering the righteous of the earth.'
'Well, I wouldn't use those words, William. I surely would not. But I want you to look more widely, to see the whole picture.' It was a tone Will had never heard before, or not until an hour ago at any rate. It was the voice of a strict teacher who expected to be obeyed. Whatever electronic voice distortion had been used in the Chapel at the convention centre, it had not concealed this tone: the authority of the Apostle.
'You see, Christianity understands what Judaism never could: what the Jews stubbornly refused to understand. They did not see what was staring them in the face! They believed that, so long as there were thirty-six just souls in the world, all would be well. They took comfort from the idea. They did not realize its true power.'
'And what is its true power?' It was Rabbi Freilich.
'That if these thirty-six men uphold the world, then the opposite must be true! The instant the thirty-six are gone, the world is no more.' Monroe Sr turned back to face his son. 'You see, that didn't interest the Jews. They thought if the world ended, then that would be that. It would all be over: death, destruction, the end of the story. But Christianity teaches us something else, doesn't it William? Something glorious and infinite! For we Christians are blessed with a sacred knowledge: we know that the end of the world spells the final reckoning. And now we discover that all we have to do to make that happen — to make absolutely sure that happens — is to end the lives of thirty-six people.
'If we can do that before the Ten Days of Penitence are complete, the true Judgment Day will be upon us. It's as simple and beautiful as that.'
Will could not quite believe these words were coming from his father's mouth. It was a mismatch, as if he had become a ventriloquist dummy for a madman. With dread, Will realized that maybe this was the real William Monroe. Perhaps the father he had known was the fake. He forced himself to speak. 'And why would you want to bring about "the true Judgment Day"? Why would you want this final reckoning?'
'Oh come on, William. Don't play the fool. Every Sunday school child in Christendom knows the answer to that. It's all there in the Book of Revelation. The end of the world will bring about the return of Christ the Redeemer.'
Will rocked on his heels, as if the words themselves were a physical force. 'So you're trying to bring Christ back into the world by killing thirty-six innocent people?' Will was conscious of the gun pointed directly at him. 'And these men are not just innocent. They are men of remarkable goodness.
I know that for a fact.'
'Don't look at me as if I'm some common murderer, William. You must see the genius of this plan. Only thirty six. Just thirty-six men need die. You should read the scriptures, my son. It was assumed that millions would have to lose their lives in the battle of Armageddon, the final conflagration hastening the Second Coming. The dead piled on the dead, oceans of blood. "Every island fled away and the mountains could not be found".
'But this avoids all that. This finds a new way to paradise, via a path neither strewn with bones, nor drenched in tears.' Will's father was closing his eyes. 'This is a just, peaceful way to bring about heaven on earth. Think of it, William: no more suffering, no more bloodshed. The Messianic days, brought about by the sacrifice of only thirty-six souls. That's fewer than die every minute on the roads; fewer than die needlessly in house fires or train wrecks. And those deaths are for nothing. But these — these lives are given so that others, the rest of humanity, may live forever. In paradise.
Isn't that what these righteous men would have wanted? 'And these were not brutal murders, William. Each one was carried out with love and respect for the blessed soul within. We gave them anaesthetic so they would feel no pain.
Of course, sometimes we had to disguise what we were doing.
Sometimes that meant a more violent end than we would have liked.' Will thought of Howard Macrae, stabbed and stabbed again, so that his death might look like a gang killing.
'But we tried to give them a measure of dignity.' Will remembered the blanket laid over Macrae's corpse. The woman he had interviewed a thousand years ago in Brownsville — Rosa — had insisted that the only person who could have done that was the killer himself, and it turned out Rosa was right.
His father was still talking, his voice softer now. 'Imagine it, William. Let yourself imagine it. A world without war. A world of peace and tranquillity, not just for now or next week, but for ever and ever. And you could make all that a reality, not by the sacrifice of millions but by sacrificing three dozen righteous souls. If you could do that, William, wouldn't you do it? Wouldn't you have to do it?'
The Apostle stopped preaching, letting his words hang for a while. Will could feel his head aching. All this talk of the end of days, of the second coming, of redemption and Armageddon, was too vast. It seemed to engulf him. Out of nowhere, an image of his past floated before his eyes. He was six years old, jumping the waves on a beach in the Hamptons, clinging onto his father's hand. But now there was no hand to hold.
Everything rational told Will his father had lapsed into a kind of insanity. How long he had been like this, Will had no idea. Perhaps ever since he started following Jim Johnson at Yale. But insanity was what it was. An international killing spree to bring back Jesus? It was certifiable.
But another voiced tugged at Will. It certainly sounded crazy, but the evidence was hard to deny. The Hassidim of Crown Heights yearned for Messiah; so did Christians the world over. Could all those hundreds of millions of people be wrong? A world without violence or disease, a world of peace and eternal life. His father was a clever, serious man his intellect was as formidable as any Will had ever known.
If he believed the truth of this prophecy, that this might really bring about heaven on earth, was it not gross arrogance for Will to insist he knew better?
Besides, it was too late to save the righteous men themselves.
At least thirty-five of them were dead; that damage had already been done. And the decoding of ancient texts finding these men by converting letters into numbers and then numbers into co-ordinates on the map — all that sounded loopy, but it had been vindicated. Those men were indeed righteous. Will had seen that for himself. Could he be so sure that he was right and his father wrong?
Suddenly Laser Eyes was gesturing at his watch, pressing Monroe Sr to hurry. 'Yes, yes. My friend is right. We have so little time. But Will, it's important you know something.
How I worked it out, how I understood that Beth is the mother of a tzaddik.' Will flinched. The word sounded strange, unnatural in the mouth of his father.
'Because I saw the beauty of it. The pattern. Don't you see it, Will? None of it is a coincidence, none of it. Not the stories you wrote for the newspaper, not this.' He gestured towards Beth. 'Not you, not me. It's not a coincidence at all. The rabbi here can tell us all about that. You'd call it beshert, wouldn't you, Rabbi? "What is meant to be." Destiny.
'Time is running out, William. And it's time for you to face your destiny. You've been chosen for this holiest of roles.
Don't you see how perfect it is? How God wants to end everything the way it all began? It started with Abraham and the request God made of him. You know what God wanted Abraham to do, don't you William?'
Will swallowed hard. Cold realization seeped through his veins. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. 'To sacrifice his son.'
'Exactly. To sacrifice the son he and his wife had wanted for so long.' Monroe Sr turned to the blue-eyed man, who suddenly produced a long, gleaming knife. Will's father handled it gingerly. With respect.
'That's why it has to be you, William. Abraham was willing to slay his beloved Isaac merely to prove his faith. But I'm asking you to do this for the sak
e of every human being that ever lived, including all those now long dead. Let them rise again, William! Let the Kingdom of heaven reign on earth!'
Will's nervous system seemed to flood with rage. 'And would you do it. Dad? Would you murder your own son?
Would you murder me to bring about the end of the world?'
'Yes I would, William. I would do it in a heartbeat.'
Will needed to sit down, to close his eyes. He felt dizzy.
Suddenly, just on the edge of his field of vision, he could see a haze of movement. It was the woman, charging towards Laser Eyes with some kind of stick: Will realized it was a loose wooden upright, pulled from the banister. With barely a turn, the man aimed his gun directly into the woman's face.
He shot twice, sending a cascade of blood and bone across the room. The body slumped to the ground. There was a second or two of silence. And then Will could hear and feel Beth behind him, moaning. His own hands were trembling.
'We need to act fast, William. We cannot tolerate any more delays. The Almighty has designated a time and even a person to take this last step. The time is now and the person is you.'
Will guessed there could only be a couple of minutes to go. Outside he could hear a chorus of voices, now swelling.
Avinu Malkeinu Chatmeinu b 'sefer chaim…
All Our Father, Our King, seal us in the book of life…
Even muffled by the walls, the intensity of their plea was unmistakable. He did not understand the words, but he knew their meaning. They were praying, in the fifty-ninth minute of the eleventh hour, for salvation.
The blade was glinting now, as bright and fierce as the flame in his father's eye. He spoke calmly, but his eyes were on fire. 'Take this knife, Will and do what is right. Do what God has commanded you. Now is the time.'
Will glanced at the rabbi, who finally spoke, his voice querulous.
Will saw his face was splattered with the blood of the woman who had been murdered in front of them. He seemed to be panting. 'Your father is right, Will. This is the moment for you to act. That is what God himself, in his wisdom, has given to us all: free will. He gives us choice. And now this choice is yours. You must decide what to do.'
Will gave one last look at his watch. If he could just spin this out a few moments longer…
But the next second took the decision away. With a cry of 'Enough talk!' Laser Eyes aimed his gun towards Will, his eye squinting as he took aim. Will could see that the gunman's real target was not him at all: he was shooting at Beth and the baby she was carrying.
Uselessly he held up his hands to cry, 'No!' But the word barely came out. Instead, Will felt himself shoved from the side. As he toppled over, he heard first one gunshot, then another — and saw the falling, almost flying, figure of Rabbi Freilich. The rabbi had leapt up and pushed Will out of the way, smothering Beth with his own body. The rabbi had made his own decision: to take the bullets aimed at Will's unborn son.
Will seized the moment, charging at Laser Eyes, rushing at his gun hand. The man squeezed the trigger, but he had been knocked off balance: the shot went through the glass of the street-facing window. Will had to get the gun from him. But now he could see his father, the blade bright in his hand, moving towards the corpse of Rabbi Freilich — looking for Beth.
Finding a strength he had never known, Will was now gripping the assassin's gun arm, trying to pull it behind his back: the Nelson arm-lock he had learned at school. The man began to squeal, his hold on the weapon weakening. Will got a finger on the handle, but it was not enough. With one eye, he could see his father had nearly pulled Freilich free: in a matter of seconds, he would be able to plunge the knife into Beth.
Will wanted to pull away from Laser Eyes and stop his father but he knew it would be no good: he would be shot before he had crossed the room. He had to get the gun. He gave one more pull on the man's arm in a desperate attempt to wrench the pistol away, but it did not work. The gun did not fall from his hand. Instead the assassin instinctively tightened his grip, inadvertently squeezing the trigger.
Will heard the noise and looked down at his hands, expecting to see them blown away. He was covered in blood but, he realized a second later, it was not his own. Laser Eyes had shot himself in the back.
Now there was a clear line of sight to his father, who had briefly turned away from his task at the sound of the gunshot.
For a moment, Will caught his eye. He turned back, his face flushed, as he finally shoved Freilich's lifeless body to one side. He raised his knife high, ready for the plunge into Beth's stomach.
Will flew at him, the same rugby-tackle motion his father had taught him perhaps twenty years earlier. It knocked the older man down, away from Beth but still with the knife in his hand. Now Will was on top of him, staring straight into his face.
'Get off me, Will,' he rasped, his neck muscles engorged.
'We have so little time.' His father's strength shocked him. It took a supreme effort to keep his arms pinned to the floor; his own wrists were straining. Monroe Sr's neck was swelling with the effort to throw Will off. And still he kept the knife in his hands.
Suddenly, Will felt a new pressure. His father was using his knees to spring Will off him and it was working; Will was being pushed back. With one more kick, he threw Will off and jumped to his feet. Still with knife in hand, he took three purposeful strides towards Beth, who was now backed against the side wall.
Will could see his father draw back his hand, ready at last to stab Beth's womb. But Beth grabbed Monroe Sr's wrist with both hands, using all her strength to push it back. The knife hovered for a second — held in suspension by the equal strength of a true believer's desire to bring about heaven on earth and a mother's determination to protect her unborn child. The two forces were a match for each other. Will realized he had seen this fire in his wife's eyes once before: it was the same feral determination he had glimpsed in his dream. Then too Beth had been defending a child from terrible harm.
Now the man's greater muscle began to show. His hand was advancing, the knife cutting wild arcs in the air, just in front of Beth's belly. The blade made contact — scoring a deep gash in the cloth of her skirt.
Will was filled with a sudden hot burst of adrenalin, the adrenalin of the truly desperate. Staggering towards the slumped body of Laser Eyes, he uncurled the assassin's fingers, still rigidly gripping the weapon, and wrenched the gun away.
Standing parallel with Beth, he aimed precisely at his father's head and squeezed the trigger.
EPILOGUE
Six months later
Will always liked the office ritual of a cake. A group email would go around the office, or at least one part of it, announcing that someone was marking a birthday, celebrating a landmark anniversary or, most often, leaving.
These little ceremonies — a speech from the department head, a response from the honoree — always gave Will a warm pleasure. Mainly it was because he was still new enough to the Times to enjoy the sense of membership of a grand old institution — and these occasions ladled out that sentiment by the bucketload.
'Farewell to Terry Walton. 4.45 at the Metro Desk.' It hardly mattered that Will was no fan of Walton's; it would still be fun. Not that he had seen him much in the six months since everything happened; Walton had scarcely been around.
Maybe he was winding down for his retirement or the job running a local paper in Florida or whatever else it was he was going to do next.
Six months. It felt longer. Everything about that week felt long ago, even far away — as if it had happened on a distant planet or in a different age.
He had had so many hard conversations, the hardest with Tom, at his bedside, explaining why exactly he had taken a bullet. There was no good reason, Tom had concluded, coolly logical even in the intensive care ward. Just as there was no good reason why the bullet had missed his heart by a few inches, lodging in his shoulder bone instead. 'If I'd been shorter, I'd be dead,' Tom had said, woozily. 'Or do I mean taller? You see wh
at I mean? There is no logical reason for any of it. We live in the absence of reason.' After that, he had fallen back to sleep.
TO and Will visited him often in those first few days, but neither of them was guest of honour. That place was reserved for Beth. When she walked in, Tom managed a wide beam, rather than a watery smile. She bent over for a mini-hug and told him he had helped save her life and the life of her child.
He said: 'Any time.'
Will had had to recount the events of that night and that week over and over again. First to detectives and lawyers, explaining that he had killed his father in defence of himself, his wife and his unborn son — an account that was soon born out by forensic examination of the house in Crown Heights and subsequent inquiries into the Church of the Reborn Jesus. The police could also see the terrible fate that had befallen Rabbi Freilich and Rachel Jacobson. Both Will and Beth spent hours reliving that dreadful night, giving statement after statement, until they were exhausted.
When they were on their own, Beth described how she had been well treated, how Mrs Jacobson had mothered her in that house — constantly apologizing for her captivity, promising that soon all would be explained. Beth had been first scared, then furious and finally desperate to get word to Will that she was safe. But, she said, she never once doubted that she would survive. The Hassidim swore they would not harm her and for a reason she had never quite understood, she believed them.
So they went together, Will and Beth, to the funerals of Rabbi Freilich and Mrs Jacobson which, following Jewish custom, were held quickly, as soon as the coroner released their bodies. There were huge crowds, perhaps three thousand for Rabbi Freilich, a mighty show of collective grief.
Only then did Will appreciate Freilich's position among the Hassidim: he had been their surrogate father, guiding them ever since they had lost their Rebbe.
A handful of people at the funeral approached Beth, making a small bow of their head as they came close. Will understood they were showing respect not to her or him, but to their unborn child, destined to be one of the lamad vav.