The Blood of the Lamb

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “You mean about Christ?”

  “That, and the Second Coming. If you’re the Messiah, what’s supposed to happen next? The end of the world?”

  “Daniel, I don’t know. I swear I don’t!”

  His friend smiled ironically. “Some messiah you are.”

  “I thought you said this wasn’t funny.”

  “It’s not, but I am starting to feel a little silly.”

  Peter looked through the blinds at the expanse of people gathered around the Winnebago. He felt responsible for all of them; he wanted to lead them as they wished to be led.

  “What’re you thinking?” asked Daniel.

  “That even though I’m not sure about much, I know those people out there need something. And for now, at least, that something is me.”

  “Are you sure, Peter? It’s a lot of responsibility—more than you had in Brooklyn.”

  Peter shrugged. “I don’t have a choice. I feel their need, Daniel, don’t you see that?”

  “I guess I do…”

  Looking through the blinds, Peter saw Marion Windsor, talking to a small band of casually but stylishly dressed people—obviously media. With his consent, Marion had orchestrated his explosion upon the national scene. She was an amazing woman, who reached him in a way totally new. After spending his entire adult life denying himself one of the most basic, natural drives, it was hard to acknowledge, much less justify, his feelings and desires.

  But he wanted to try.

  “Listen,” said Daniel, interrupting his thoughts, “I’m sorry if this sounds like I’m attacking you, Peter, but this whole adventure’s getting to be too much for me. I mean, sometimes I feel like I’ve hooked up to a runaway train.”

  “So do I, Daniel. Believe me.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” asked Daniel.

  “Billy! Lemme in!”

  Unlocking the door, Daniel opened it just wide enough to let Billy filter in. A press of bodies surged behind him, people calling Peter’s name, waving their hands. The urgency in their collective voices was palpable. Peter knew he had to go speak to them soon.

  Billy slipped in, then threw his weight against the door to help Dan close the portal.

  “Man,” Billy said, “this is amazing! Look at this!” He waved a thick stack of envelopes. “More money! We’re going to be rich, man!”

  “Give that to me, Billy,” said Peter. “I told you before: we keep only what we need to continue. Everything else we give to the poor. Everything.”

  “Man, they love you out there, Peter.” Billy was extremely animated as he piled his cargo on the table. “I never seen nothin’ like it.”

  Peter looked at Daniel and sighed. “I’m going to have to talk to them.”

  “Again?”

  “It’s what they want. It’s what they need.”

  Peter opened the door. An early autumn breeze touched his cheek; the crowd erupted, cheering and applauding. They reached out, trying to touch him, and he responded by smiling and shaking as many hands as he could reach. This was not the mindless adulation of fans—these people radiated warmth and love. It gushed from them in curling, crashing waves. And still their eyes burned with the fire of pure need.

  The pressure of the crowd almost lifted Peter off the ground as he made his way to a pickup and climbed into the truck bed. As he began to speak, he noticed Marion and the media types on the edge of the crowd. She watched him as intently as everyone else, though she’d heard his message before. The emotions Peter felt from her were unlike those of first-time listeners.

  His message was simple, basic. He spoke of humankind’s common brotherhood, their need to love one another, to bond together and work toward their communal destiny of meeting the one true God. Peter claimed he was only a messenger, an instrument through which God had chosen to work. He didn’t want their attention or their gifts or their money. He would use only what he needed to continue traveling through the country and help the world witness the glory and power that was God’s. Despite his Roman Catholic training, he attempted to keep his sermon as non-denominational as possible, guided by the reactions of his listeners.

  In fact, during this address, Peter found himself making reference to the possible dissolution of all organized religions. This was a minor chord sounded in a great symphonic movement, and Peter was almost surprised to hear himself speak so, but he did not call back the words. And if many in the crowd missed the veiled references to the need for a single unified church, others would seize upon the notion with vigor.

  Peter had begun to think that it didn’t really matter what he told his audiences. They were always so receptive, so prepared to accept whatever he wanted to tell them. In his early speeches he had tried to be careful not to say anything offensive. But as he grew more facile, more confident, he realized he could tell them whatever he wished. The crowds were willing to, if not immediately believe, at least consider his ideas seriously.

  As he continued to talk to the midwestern masses who surrounded his truck, wrapped in their sweaters and plaid jackets and Cardinals baseball caps, he could detect individuals in the crowd who brimmed with skepticism, doubt, even outright hostility. Peter smiled inwardly. It was refreshing to know that his influence was not absolute.

  He was also fascinated by the gradual changes in some of his other abilities—or talents, as Daniel continued to call them. He could now tell when someone, or something, was approaching him, even if his back was turned, or if a physical barricade such as a wall or a house was between them. It was like having a personal radar station operating in his head at all times. In addition, he was becoming acutely aware of how people were feeling, as if he possessed an internal barometer that measured emotions. When he concentrated on this, his mind would attribute colors and tones to emotional or psychological states of mind.

  It was clear to him, although he hadn’t shared this with his friends, that he was still becoming.

  Becoming what?

  Peter smiled to himself. Now that was an interesting question, wasn’t it?

  THIRTY-TWO

  Richview, Illinois—Windsor

  * * *

  November 26, 1998

  “He does have an effect on people, doesn’t he?” asked Marion rhetorically.

  She stood at the trailing edge of the crowd, elbow to elbow with Charles Branford, the venerable anchor of CBS News. Flanking her, on the opposite side, stood Mary Chin, the number two on NBC. Marion had just finished interviews with honchos from CNN and ABC, and she was feeling very confident. Her initial video segments on Peter had been extremely well received by all the networks. They all liked her look and her style—and of course the content of her stories was simply sensational.

  To be surrounded by some of the biggest media personalities in the world was a testament to what Peter had already done for her. And the most beautiful part, she thought to herself, was that going public benefited everybody—her career, his welfare, the people who obviously needed him so desperately.

  “It’s an incredible situation,” said Charles Branford as he walked down a gentle slope to his limo, followed by an entourage of aides and sycophants. “We’ll be following the whole story closely from here on out.”

  “As long as Peter is willing to cooperate,” she said, smiling her best smile at him.

  Branford paused, ran a hand through his perfectly cut, silvering hair. He had the classically American angular features of a New England fisherman. Marion could not help being impressed with his sheer presence. His clothes were expertly tailored, his manners impeccable. His baritone voice accented by the slightly flat, midwestern, broadcast-standard English, he was the embodiment of everything identified with style in America. A television critic once said of Charles Branford: “When he frowns, you know things are damned serious; when he smiles, you feel like your grandfather’s about to reach in his pocket and hand you a ten-dollar gold piece.”

  Marion agreed. Charles Branford was the Wa
lter Cronkite of his age. He commanded the respect of just about everybody and he’d earned the reputation of being fair and honest in a business that was anything but.

  “Yes…if Peter continues to cooperate,” said Branford knowingly. “And I’m sure you have some influence over him in that regard, Ms. Windsor.”

  She smiled. “I hope so, Charles.”

  He reached his limousine, started to climb in, then stopped and looked back at her. “You’re very shrewd, Marion. I imagine you’re looking for a spot at one of the networks…?”

  Marion knew this was no time to be shy. She looked him straight in the eye and stopped smiling. “If you were in my position, wouldn’t you?”

  Branford nodded. He looked away for a moment, then pulled a business card from his breast pocket and gave it to her. “Good answer,” he said. “Let’s keep in touch.”

  “I’ll be talking to you soon,” she said.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Windsor.” Branford and his companions slipped into the car and the door sealed them in behind opaqued windows. She smiled at the blackness, knowing he was still looking at her.

  As the limo pulled away, Marion thought about Branford. Usually she could tell when a man was leching after her, but lately, her early warning system was fritzing out on her. She could get absolutely no reading on Peter Carenza, and Charles Branford was so cool, so unflappable, she had the feeling she could dance naked in front of him and his expression wouldn’t vary.

  Well, it hardly mattered. As far as Marion was concerned, she was definitely in the driver’s seat on this one. If she wasn’t in line for a network gig after blowing the lid off this whole dog-and-pony show, Marion would be extremely surprised. All of them—Branford included—could cover Peter’s public appearances. But if they wanted the inside story, if they wanted the man behind the miracles, they would have to come to her.

  And what about her…? Did she want Peter Carenza, the man?

  She felt herself grinning as she walked back toward the Winnebago. Good question, that. Well, journalists were supposed to ask penetrating questions…

  She almost laughed out loud at her little private pun. Peter was still speaking. The word preach had always carried pejorative connotations for her; she had a difficult time thinking of Peter as a preacher. Something about his style, his rapport with his audience, elevated what he did to an art form. The chemistry he generated between himself and his listeners was special indeed. You didn’t need to be a student of sociology or religion to sense the profound effect Peter had on his audiences. He seemed to be converting them to his way of perceiving the world, and Marion was certain most of them would remain converted.

  The sun’s light and warmth were less than a memory by the time things settled down at Affholter’s farm. The crowds, though thinner and less vociferous at night, were still persistent. Peter had ordered everyone back to their homes, but even more tents and campsites had materialized in a nearby pasture. Like Billy and Laureen, many wanted to join Peter’s convoy.

  Marion had never witnessed such an outpouring of love and devotion. Peter handled it as well as any politician she’d ever seen, and better than most movie and rock stars.

  It was close to midnight as Marion sat at the kitchen table organizing her notes on a laptop. She’d begun to think her daily journal might form the basis of a book someday. Of course, the idea of writing something long enough to be a whole book daunted her. Still, she kept her notes up to date. She could always hire a ghost-writer.

  After an evening spent reading, Daniel Ellington had finally turned out his bunk light and fallen asleep. Peter had been outside, by their campfire, since they’d finished their late dinner. It had been such a busy day, Marion had hardly spoken to him. Maybe now would be a good time, she thought as she folded up her laptop and replaced it in her leather attaché.

  Exiting the vehicle, she found him sitting by the fire in a lawn chair. The intensity of his stare, though directed at the flames, was almost frightening.

  “Good evening, Father Carenza,” Marion said softly. She pulled up a chair.

  He looked up at her after a moment’s hesitation, as if she’d snapped him out of a trance. His complexion was a deep tan in the warm firelight. Dressed in jeans, flannel plaid shirt, and an L. L. Bean fishing vest, he looked fashionably rugged.

  “Funny,” he said, looking back at the fire as he spoke, “but I feel very comfortable being called ‘Father’ by everyone but you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. From you it sounds…awkward.” Peter flashed her a quick glance. His eyes were dark as chestnuts.

  “I’m sorry; I was just kidding,” she said. “I won’t do it anymore.”

  “No need to be sorry. I wasn’t offended—it’s just that hearing you call me ‘Father’ puts a barrier between us. An artificial barrier. And I don’t like that.”

  She smiled, reached for his hand, as if to break down any barrier that might have been growing up between them. He flinched slightly at her touch, more a galvanic response than anything muscular, but didn’t withdraw his hand.

  They sat without speaking for a moment. Marion looked up at the autumn sky, thrilled by the splendor of the stars. Living in New York, she tended to forget how bright the sky was. Sometimes, with the smog and the ambient ground-light, she felt lucky to see the moon.

  “So many stars…” she said softly.

  “And every one a sun, possibly with worlds around each one. Some scientists say there could be a million places just like this one,” he said. “Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”

  She sighed. “Sure is—especially when life is so complicated you barely have a chance to think.”

  “I know what you mean.” Peter left his chair to hunker down by the fire. Picking up a stick, he pushed some of the coals under the remaining logs. “I hope I’m doing my part to make things a little easier for most people.”

  “They love to hear you talk,” she said.

  “They seem to…” He looked at her; his eyes seemed so wet and deep, they were like wells drilled into the earth.

  Marion had never known a man as striking as Peter. He was like a stylized hero-type from the cover of a historical-romance novel. He was just too damned good to be true, but there he was, kneeling at her feet, playing with the fire like a twelve-year-old kid.

  “They love you. And I don’t blame them,” she said, the words slipping out before she thought to stop them.

  He looked at her with an expression that was quite unreadable. “Marion, what are you trying to say?”

  She flushed; her pulse jumped. It was time to jump—or back off forever.

  “I guess I’m saying that I love you too…that I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  Her words echoed in her mind, and the longer he remained silent, staring at her, the more embarrassed she became. For an instant she felt a schoolgirl urge to jump up and run away from him.

  His gaze remained unwavering as he searched her eyes, her soul. “Do you really mean that?” he asked finally.

  She nodded, throat tight.

  He looked away, into the flames. “What you’re telling me isn’t really a surprise, you know.”

  “Has it been that obvious?” She smiled, absently rearranged her hair.

  He shrugged. “Maybe not to anyone else, but I sensed it pretty strongly.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said, suddenly taking her hand in his, holding it tightly.

  Marion didn’t know how to read his expression or his words. How could a man who seemed so open suddenly become so opaque, so inscrutable?

  He continued to look into her eyes, to hold her hand. A whisper of memory passed through her and for a single frame of time she was fifteen, sitting with Jamie Falcone in his father’s Oldsmobile. Jamie had looked at her, held her hand—just as Peter was doing. There was an innocence in his actions, a sweetness so rare…Marion could feel her heart soaring.

  It was crazy. Unreal
. She couldn’t fight the sensation.

  “Peter,” she said after what seemed a very long time, “what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, smiling gently. “I’m not exactly an expert on this sort of thing. I haven’t even held a girl’s hand since I was in high school.”

  “Oh Peter…”

  Before she could reconsider her actions, she pulled him close and kissed him. It was an awkward moment; he fumbled to embrace her, bringing her down to the ground with him. She teased him with her tongue, lightly licking his lower lip, but he didn’t respond.

  “I don’t know what to do!” His words were rushed, his shock and excitement clear.

  “Just love me,” she said. He held her close. She could feel waves of heat radiating from him. His scent, his pheromones…she’d never wanted a man like she wanted him now.

  “Marion,” he said, pulling back to look into her face. His lips moved again, but he could not speak.

  She said nothing, just kissed him, more languidly now, more confident. This time, he responded. His tongue touched hers, producing an almost electrical shock. Desire churned in her. She wanted him to rip her clothes away, to press her bare skin to his. She just plain wanted him.

  Moving closer to him, drawing strength from his heat, she could feel his penis growing rigid beneath his jeans. His hands were pressed to her back.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked in an urgent whisper.

  “Stay here!” she said, gently pulling away from him. “I’ll be right back.”

  Before he could respond, she ran across the field to her Mazda, digging the keys from her pocket, and opened the trunk. Pulling a down sleeping bag from the array of outdoor gear, she closed the lid and returned to the campfire.

  “Come,” she said, taking his hand, pulling him to his feet.

  They moved beyond the fire’s light and she unrolled the down bag. He watched her with a doubtful expression.

  “Here?” he asked.

  “Why not? Nobody’s around. It’s a beautiful night…”