“Explain!” Grant shouted. “You know the Issa texts are one of the most important biblical finds ever.” The calm anticipation of seeing his mentor had vanished. He felt the anger boiling inside him. He didn’t even try to cool it.
“Look”—the professor’s voice quivered—“why don’t we sit here and discuss this, before we draw any conclusions.”
Watching Billingsly lick his lips and fidget with his hands, Grant replayed the events of the past month in his mind, starting from their first visit with the professor in his Emory office. The extent to which he’d been betrayed by his mentor struck him like a blow to the gut. He placed the bag on the coffee table and collapsed onto the sofa.
Kristin must have made the same connection. She sat next to Grant and said, “You betrayed us from the beginning. Didn’t you, Professor Billingsly?” The word professor came out of her mouth more as an anathema than as a professional title. “The premature release of the Issa texts Grant emailed to you was no accident.” She jabbed a finger in his direction. “And how else in the debate could Brady have known about Grant’s academic past?”
“How could I have been so naïve?” Grant ran his fingers through his hair.
Casting his eyes to the floor, Billingsly mumbled, “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh come on, Harold.” Brady settled his frame into the armchair across the coffee table from the sofa where Grant and Kristin sat. “You understood the dangers of these texts, the damage they could do to the faith of millions of people around the world. We can’t have the Savior of the world, the one true path to God, fumbling around in India, finding himself through other inferior religions. Believing such a thing devalues Jesus, removes his unique divinity. It destroys our religion. When you and Jennings first spoke about this heresy, you agreed that the documents were not authentic and should be left alone.” A Cheshire cat grin spread across his face. “I wouldn’t have expected anything different from my ghostwriter.”
“Ghostwriter?” Grant’s jaw dropped. “You wrote Why Is God So Angry?”
“And he’s working on the sequel as we speak,” Brady said, while Billingsly studied the floor. “He’s becoming a very wealthy man. After all, the costs of keeping up this lifestyle”—Brady gestured to the room around them—“are quite high, especially since the money he inherited ran out.”
Grant glared at his mentor. “You sold me out for money?”
“It’s not like that,” Billingsly pleaded. “I wrote the book before you even left on your first trip to India. You, better than anyone, know how I was screwed over for the dean’s position at Emory. After all the years of hard work, all the papers I published in obscure academic journals, all the departmental politics I endured, I deserved that job!”
“But you wrote a book playing on the fears of the country by misinterpreting the Book of Revelation—a book written in reaction to the Roman destruction of the Temple in seventy AD and the harsh suppression of the Jewish revolt. You know that Revelation was never meant to be a prediction of events two thousand years later.”
“Grant, it was a unique opportunity. My career has reached a dead end. Through these books, I can reach an audience of millions. Yes, the premise may be dramatized, but the underlying message that the only redemptive path is found in Jesus is just as valid.”
“But, Harold, look at the consequences. That lunatic Tim Huntley chased us around the world. He murdered Kinley, Deepraj, and Razi!” Grant turned to Brady. “A parishioner of yours.”
Brady paled but spoke confidently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Then another disturbing thought occurred to Grant. “Kinley’s riddle that sent us to India and to the Taj Mahal—Huntley never would have decoded that himself. Even though he’d hacked my email, he needed help.” He glared at his professor. “I shared our interpretation of the riddle with you before we left!”
“I swear I didn’t know that anything like that would happen!” Billingsly’s voice became high-pitched, and he was sweating profusely now. “When William Jennings called me to help, we only planned to cause you a little embarrassment at the debate, so that you would give up the quest.”
“And the documents would be forgotten, just like they were when Nicholas Notovitch discovered evidence of them a hundred years ago?” Grant said.
“Exactly. But when you returned to retrieve them ... Honestly, I never knew about the murders. Nothing at all! We just wanted the texts to disappear.”
“Keeping the truth from people is in their best interest?” Kristin blurted. “You’re an academic!”
“What is truth?” Billingsly cried. “No matter how many documents turn up in desert caves or forgotten monasteries, we will never know what really happened two millennia ago. How we respond to Jesus today matters more than the specific events of his life two thousand years ago. You need to see how the people in the reverend’s congregation are strengthened by their faith—the joy it brings them, the comfort it supplies in times of difficulty. Do you want to take that away by telling them that the basis for everything they believe is wrong?”
“These texts don’t invalidate people’s experience of Christ today,” Grant said. “If anything, they provide a more spiritual insight into Jesus and the practices which led to his, and maybe to our own, spiritual awakenings.”
“A man who woke up to the divinity that is inside us all,” Kristin said, making eye contact with Grant. “A mystical but not supernatural Jesus.”
Billingsly shook his head. “The stories of Jesus’ virgin birth, the miracles he performed, his physical resurrection are all central to his divinity. Without these Christianity doesn’t exist.”
“Harold, during our journey I came to a new understanding.” Grant leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Why should the spark of the divine the apostles experienced when they were in the presence of Jesus disappear with the death of his flesh? And if Jesus and his followers could experience the divine directly, why can’t we too? The kingdom of God here today, within and around us, to paraphrase the Gospel of Luke.”
As the words came from his mouth, Grant realized the effect that Kinley, Deepraj, and Razi had had on him. Religion was not about belief in certain historical facts; it was about experience. The Bible that he’d resisted for much of his adult life as superstitious and nonfactual had now taken on a different character for him. It spoke to an experience of a people in a particular time to the divine, an experience that he was also beginning to sense.
“New Age doublespeak!” Brady bellowed. “I knew it during our debate. First you outsource Jesus’ spirituality to India, and now you hijack his divinity.”
Grant stood. “I didn’t expect to find you here today, Reverend, and I certainly don’t expect to convince you of my views, but these texts will be released and studied.”
He held a hand to Kristin. “Come on, we’re going to Emory.”
“I don’t think so,” a voice from behind him said.
CHAPTER 58
CASHIERS, NORTH CAROLINA
GRANT TURNED TOWARD the voice and his mouth went dry. A balding man in a dark blue suit advanced into the room. He pointed a revolver with a pearl handle and a silver barrel at Grant’s chest.
Brady bellowed from behind Grant, “Jennings, what the hell are you doing here?”
Rather than answer Brady, the man spoke to Grant and Kristin. “Mr. Matthews and Ms. Misaki, I presume?”
“Who are you?” Grant asked.
“William Jennings, director of operations for New Hope Church.”
Grant then recognized the man who had accompanied Brady at the debate. But today the dour-looking Jennings had narrow eyes that darted around the room. The gun quivering in his hand brought a cold sweat across Grant’s body. Not again, he thought.
Then he realized who Jennings really was. Billingsly had said a few minutes earlier that Jennings was the one who’d called him before the debate. Brady also had seemed genuinely surprised when Grant mentioned Huntley�
��s name. Jennings was the mastermind behind all the suffering Grant and Kristin had seen.
“You sent Tim Huntley to hunt us down in India and Bhutan!” The words flew out of Grant. “A man who never hesitated to torture and kill to obtain these texts.”
“I never told him to kill anyone. He was just supposed to destroy the books.”
“You used that wacko?” Brady bellowed. “The one who sent me the crazy emails?”
“God presented us with a useful tool when we needed it. I was just following through with his will.”
“But you never told me!”
“Brian, you’ve never enjoyed the details of how I operate the church, and this needed to be handled delicately.”
“But you made it possible for him to carry out his violence!” Grant yelled, ignoring the gun that was pointed at him. “How is this ‘turning the other cheek’ to your enemies?”
“I don’t need some disgraced student quoting the Bible to me.” Jennings’s voice rose an octave. “God’s destruction of the sinful and unfaithful did not end in the Old Testament. In, um, Matthew, chapter ten, Jesus ... Jesus himself said, ‘I come not imposing peace. I impose not peace, but the sword.’ The violence we will see at Armageddon will make the events you experienced look like a nursery school playdate.”
While Jennings didn’t have Brady’s smooth delivery, Grant saw that the true architect behind the tragedies was just as well versed in scripture. He also couldn’t help but think of the familiarity of Jennings’s response to his father’s philosophies. But on this occasion, Grant allowed the memory of his father to pass over him. I am the one present, here and now.
He had to think of a way to talk Jennings down. But after all he’d been through, he found himself scanning the room for anything he could improvise into a makeshift weapon just in case. The table in front of him held only the duffel bag containing the heavy box of ancient books—not even an ashtray to hurl. Then a four-foot-long iron rod with a pointed end caught his eye: a fire poker leaned against the stone fireplace. But it was a good eight feet away.
“Come on!” Kristin said, perched on the edge of the sofa as if she were a lioness prepared to spring forward and grab her prey by the throat. “In Varanasi, I heard Tim Huntley on the phone with someone when I was his prisoner. It was you, wasn’t it? You must have known how violent he was.”
Grant took a step toward the fireplace and turned his body so that he now faced Jennings, the sofa where Kristin and Billingsly sat, and the armchair containing Brady.
Jennings smirked. “Honey, great men must make great sacrifices at times. God did not put me on this earth to sit quietly and contemplate the nature of my existence. He put me here to be his agent of change. Just as the reverend was sent to be the voice of his gospel, I was sent to ensure that this voice of God’s”—he pointed with a free hand to Brady—“will be the one to deliver millions to salvation. In a war there will be casualties. Just like there were at Sodom and Gomorrah, just like there will be on the hills of Armageddon, and just as there were in India and Bhutan.”
This man is as crazy as Tim Huntley was, Grant realized. He glanced toward Brady, who for once seemed to be speechless as the events unraveled before him. The reverend’s eyes were wide and his mouth agape as he watched his second in command take over the room. Grant took a step backward toward the fireplace.
“My only mistake in using Huntley,” Jennings continued, “was in trusting that he would actually accomplish his mission. Sometimes to get a job done properly, you must do it yourself.”
Jennings advanced further into the room toward Brady. The gun swung back and forth between Grant and Kristin. But unlike their confrontations with Huntley, the weapon didn’t linger on either one of them. Huntley was a trained professional; Jennings wasn’t. Grant decided that as soon as he had an opening, he would take it. He stepped closer to the fireplace.
Jennings pointed to the duffel and then to Professor Billingsly. “Do some good and toss that bag of heresy into the fire.”
Grant’s pulse pounded in his ears. As afraid as he was for their lives, he couldn’t let the texts be destroyed, not after the price that had been paid to bring them here.
“Why don’t you put the gun down, William.” Brady finally found his voice. “Don’t make the situation worse than it already is.”
“Oh, the situation is already bad.” Jennings licked his lips. The gun shook in his hand. “I’m going to have to finish what Huntley should have done in Bhutan.”
Grant swallowed and wiped his palms on his jeans.
“No!” Billingsly shrieked. “There won’t be any killing in my house.”
“They know too much,” Jennings said. “It’s the only way we can be sure of our future—of the future of God’s message.”
“No, if you just destroy the books, they won’t be able to say anything credible,” the professor pleaded. “Remember, they were already disgraced once; everyone thinks they lied about the texts.”
Grant was only five feet from the fireplace. If he lunged, he could grab the poker, but he wasn’t sure he could make it to where Jennings stood by Brady’s chair before Jennings pulled the trigger.
With a grunt, Brady pushed himself out of his chair so he was standing next to his number two. “When you arranged this meeting, you specifically said you didn’t need to be here. Billingsly and I had things under control. We were explaining to these two the dangers of the texts, just as you said I should.”
“They would never have voluntarily given them up.”
Grant backed closer to the fireplace. Four feet.
“Well, then,” Brady said, “we show the world that the texts are obvious forgeries or written by later authors long after the events. It will continue to be a PR bonanza for us just like the debate was.”
“What if the texts actually date from the first century?” The tension in Jennings voice betrayed the strain he was under. “Anyway, the time for explanations has passed. We’re in a heap of trouble.”
“Trouble?” Brady asked.
“Grant and Kristin would’ve figured out that Billingsly leaked the texts to the media as I asked him to do, that he provided the information about Grant’s past before the debate to me, and that he gave me the translation of the Taj Mahal riddle, which I provided to Huntley. The FBI would be knocking on our door within days.” Jennings wiped his brow with his free hand. “I used church funds to fly Huntley to India and then to charter a plane to get him to Bhutan. I’ve covered our tracks up until now, but we can’t afford either the texts or these two to surface.”
“What is this craziness!” Brady bellowed. “If you’ve done things you shouldn’t have, you need to repent.”
“It’s gone too far for that. The church, everything we’ve planned will be destroyed.”
Grant inched closer to the fireplace. No one noticed his movements in the escalating argument. He could almost reach the poker.
“The church has overcome adversity before.”
“Brian, this morning the bank called in our loan. We’re in violation of the financial covenants; our cash reserves aren’t sufficient to pay our debt service. The New Hope Community is on hold for now.”
“How did that happen? It’s God’s will that New Hope be built! You’ve dropped the ball on this, William.”
“My fault!” Jennings face reddened. “For too long, I’ve overlooked your shenanigans: the ego, the hypocrisy, the outlandish expenses. I fooled myself into believing those were necessary compromises in pursuit of the greater good—the growth of the church. You do have an amazing gift from God, one that I could only dream of, but you’ve become intoxicated on your own charisma.”
Once again Brady was rendered speechless by his subordinate. After a moment of silence, Brady reached out and grasped Jennings’s arm, the one holding the gun. “It’s over, William. Let’s walk outside.”
“It can’t be over!” Jennings cried. “You don’t understand. Everything I’ve done—my whole life—has
been for you, for the church, for God!” He tried to jerk his hand away from Brady, but the reverend must have gripped his arm tightly, because Jennings stumbled forward. They struggled over the gun.
Grant reacted immediately. He swiveled and lunged for the iron poker hanging by the stone fireplace.
The gunshot exploded the moment he turned his head from the men. His ears ringing, but the cool iron now in his hand, Grant pivoted toward the action. Both Jennings and Brady stood facing each other. Neither moved.
Grant noticed the dark circle of the bullet’s exit wound spreading outward on the back of Brady’s suit jacket. When the reverend slumped to the ground, Grant surged forward. He closed the gap in three quick strides. Jennings’s eyes darted from the crumpled body to the gun. He had the look of a wild animal caught in a trap.
The shooting provided the distraction Grant needed. He raised his weapon with both hands and raced within striking range.
Jennings’s face hardened as he looked up. He now pointed the gun straight ahead—at Kristin, sitting on the sofa. Jennings glared at her, hatred and desperation in his eyes, as if she were the one who shot his boss and friend.
He doesn’t even know I’m here, Grant thought.
Grant tensed his muscles for the strike, and then time slowed to a crawl. He swung the poker in a downward arc, but the iron wouldn’t move fast enough. Grant knew what was coming, and he knew that he would be a fraction of a second late in preventing it.
He saw the spark of a flame and the wisp of smoke erupt from the silver barrel of the gun. Before the echo of the shot dissipated, the iron rod in Grant’s hands cracked on Jennings’s outstretched forearm. The bone shattered on impact, causing his wrist to hinge upward. The gun dropped, landing softly on Brady’s body. Jennings sank to his knees. A howl arose from deep inside his chest.
Grant leaped on him. The poker in his hand still rang from the impact.
Having learned his lesson with Huntley in Bhutan, Grant kept his attention on both of Jennings’s hands as he searched for the gun with his peripheral vision. He found it lying inches from Brady’s body. Grant dropped the poker and grabbed the gun. He cocked the hammer with his thumb, trained the polished barrel on Jennings’s torso, and then rose to his feet. Ignoring Grant and the gun, Jennings stared at his broken arm, which he now cradled with his good arm.
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