Flee The Darkness

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  The preacher reverently closed his Bible, then bowed his head. “Heavenly Father,” he prayed, his deep voice simmering with barely checked emotion, “hear us now. We know that the whole world is under the control of the evil one. But we also know that the Son of God has come and given us understanding so we will know him who is true. Jesus Christ is the true God and eternal life. Keep us close to him as the days grow short. In his holy name we pray. Amen.”

  A woman stood and turned to face the small congregation. As the preacher came out from behind the counter, she—his wife or sister, certainly— nestled under his arm and began to sing. The others joined in, and something in the lyrics tugged at Lauren’s heart. She had sung this song, too, years ago when she visited church with her mother . . . before poverty forced them out of their home and into government housing projects. Her mother had no use for God after their reversal of fortune.

  The flower vendor leaned toward Lauren’s ear and whispered in a husky voice. “I am sorry the service is nearly finished. I believe you would have enjoyed it.”

  “Why do you meet here?” Lauren whispered back. “Aren’t there churches in Brussels?”

  “Not so many English churches.” The woman shrugged. “The merchants in this alley speak English, and they enjoy worshipping together.” The gold in her brown eyes flickered as she smiled. “The Lord drew me to this place, just as he drew you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. . . .” Lauren’s voice trailed off as she listened to the singing. The music acted as a balm; she felt as though something inside her was easing, almost as though she had suffered from a chronic pain that was now being assuaged.

  The song leader’s clear soprano voice rang out above the others and spoke directly to Lauren’s heart. “Redeemed and so happy in Jesus, no language my rapture can tell. . . .”

  So happy in Jesus. How many truly happy people did Lauren know? Only one—Victoria Stedman. Even in the face of sorrow and grief, even under constant and critical scrutiny, Victoria Stedman displayed a persistent joy while Lauren had yet to find real happiness or contentment. She loved working for the president and Mrs. Stedman, but had she ever found peace?

  She felt herself drowning in a wave of confused thoughts and feelings, and one frantic thought rose to the surface—escape.

  She took the flower vendor’s hand and offered her most diplomatic smile. “Thank you for inviting me. I really have to get back. I have to meet a friend.”

  “You will come again?”

  “Perhaps.” Lauren turned and put her hand on the doorknob, then leaned back. “You meet here often?”

  “Every day, at lunch. We would be happy to have you join us.”

  “Thank you.”

  The haunting melody followed her out onto the street as Lauren slipped through the doorway and threaded her way through the vendors’ carts.

  “Lauren!” Daniel lifted his hand to his mouth and yelled. She was hurrying down the side street, a bouquet of flowers in her hand, but she turned at the sound of his voice, a smile of relief breaking across her face.

  Daniel hurried toward her. “Hey, what’s your rush? You looked like somebody just propositioned you.”

  “Nothing like that.” She gazed at him with a bland half-smile. “Where’d you go?”

  Daniel scratched his cheek, then pointed down the road. “I thought I saw a Jewish man—a young guy, and I hoped he’d know this orthodox rabbi I met, but it was a false alarm. I mean, I never found either one of them.” He looked back at her, and noticed that her face was pale and drawn. “What’s wrong? You look a little upset.”

  Lauren pressed her lips together, then nodded as if she’d just decided something. “I just attended church.”

  “Church?” Daniel thrust his hands into his pockets and looked around. “I didn’t think there were any churches around here.”

  “It wasn’t a real church—an official church, I mean. The people met in one of those storefront shops—a bookbindery, in fact. One of the flower ladies saw my cross and invited me in.”

  For the first time Daniel noticed the gold cross dangling against the creamy cashmere. “So—you wanted to go?”

  “I went, but just for a bit. I was curious, that’s all.” She paused for a moment and looked away, then shivered as a cold gust of wind blew down the street and rattled the street signs.

  “It was strange, actually.” She watched a stray sheet of paper blow across the street, and her eyes seemed to water in the wind. “They sang a song I haven’t heard since I was a girl, but my mother used to sing it— ‘Redeemed. His child and forever I am.’” She frowned. “At least, that’s how I think it goes. It’s been a long time.”

  “You used to go to church?” Daniel took her hand and they began to walk.

  Lauren nodded. “When I was a kid—before the hard times set in. Mom had no use for a God who would desert us, so she stopped going to church entirely when we had to move to the projects. When she died, I told the funeral director to perform a short civil ceremony. I knew Mom wouldn’t want anything religious.”

  Daniel said nothing for a moment but guided her around an elderly couple out for a leisurely afternoon walk. “You never told me how you met the Stedmans, you know. I thought you might have been friends through your mother.”

  “Heavens, no.” Laughter floated up from her throat. “I met Jessica Stedman first—I was working for a caterer in Raleigh, and we catered this big shindig at the senator’s house. I didn’t know who Jessica was—I just noticed that one girl at the party wasn’t enjoying herself at all. She hid out in the kitchen most of the time, and we started talking while everyone else was having fun around the pool.”

  Daniel noticed that the color had risen in Lauren’s cheeks; either the wind was chilling her or she was self-conscious about discussing her past.

  “Jessica and I made a real connection that day, and the next thing I knew she was inviting me over for girlfriend-type things. We went to movies together; we laughed and talked. When she told me she was going to Sweet Briar College in Virginia, I told her I’d dreamed of going to college but that my mother couldn’t afford it. Then out of the blue Sweet Briar offers me a full scholarship, based on my grades and Senator Stedman’s recommendation. Jessica and I were roommates, sorority sisters, as close as two girls could be . . . right up until the day she died.”

  A group of rosy-cheeked children ran by, leaving a trail of laughter along the sidewalk. Daniel waited until they had passed, then dared to ask the question uppermost in his mind: “Were you there . . . at the accident?”

  “No.” She looked at him, her eyes soft with pain. “I had to study, and Jessica . . . well, she was hanging around with some people who were really into the party scene. She went out to Smith Mountain Lake with a group of guys from Lynchburg College. The next thing I knew, someone from her father’s office was calling to tell me that Jessica was dead. They said I should put all her things in a suitcase and not let any reporters into the room.” Her faint smile held a touch of sadness. “Then Mrs. Stedman came to the dorm, and I helped her get Jessica’s things together. And Victoria hugged me, and we both cried, and—”

  Her voice broke. Daniel put his arm around Lauren’s shoulder and squeezed it in quiet sympathy. “And you’ve been close to the Stedmans ever since,” he finished for her. “I understand.”

  She nodded her head slightly, then looked up to the blue sky as if seeking comfort from heaven itself. Silvery tracks of tears marked her perfectly oval face.

  “It’s okay, honey.” He pulled her closer and whispered into her hair. “Let me take you home now. And thank you for a wonderful Valentine’s Day.”

  NINETEEN

  9:16 A.M., Monday, February 15, 1999

  DANIEL STEPPED OUT OF THE HOTEL LOBBY AND BLINKED IN THE BRIGHT WINTER sunlight. He had canceled three appointments to free a block of time for his interview with the old Jewish rabbi because he could not stop himself from thinking about the man. Some rational, detached part of his br
ain kept repeating that the old man might be one of those dangerously odd people attracted to celebrities, but intelligence and determination had gleamed in the rabbi’s eyes. Furthermore, in the entire winding length of Daniel’s memory he could not recall a single kidnapping or assassination by an orthodox rabbi. Murder and its attendant publicity were very unorthodox.

  The old man was a mystery, and Daniel had to see him.

  He dredged that admission from a place beyond logic and reason; but once having admitted it, Daniel found it easy to clear his calendar, set his work aside, and dress for a winter walk through Brussels.

  The day was cold, but bright; the sun jabbed brilliant fingers of light through cracks in the aging hotel awning. Daniel had requested a taxi from the concierge, and after a few moments, a black and white cab pulled up at the curb. Daniel slid into the back seat, read the rabbi’s address from the card, and settled back to watch the city slide by.

  His mysterious contact lived in what appeared to be a middle-class section of the city. Tall apartment buildings rose behind skeletal trees that lined the street. At one intersection a jackhammer crew busily shredded a sidewalk.

  The taxi jerked to a halt outside a peach-colored apartment complex. “This is 93745 Rue Blaes, monsieur,” the driver said, tossing Daniel a glance over his shoulder. “The fare is four hundred francs.”

  Daniel counted out the proper fare, added a generous tip, and stepped out of the cab. A reeking fog of diesel and gasoline fumes hung over the boulevard, and Daniel saw that the apartment complex was composed largely of concrete and glass. Rigid and unimaginative in design, the building testified that Brussels’ modern builders cared more about housing its nearly one million inhabitants than creating beauty.

  Daniel followed a curving stone pathway into a courtyard, then looked for an elevator and found none. He groaned. As he had suspected, Yacov Witzun’s apartment was located on the fifth floor.

  A series of concrete steps divided the center of the U-shaped building. Daniel took a deep breath and began to climb, hoping that the morning would prove profitable. He didn’t want to climb five flights just to pacify a religious lunatic.

  A couple of minutes later, Daniel caught his breath, then knocked on the rabbi’s door. A moment passed, the door opened, and Daniel found himself staring into eyes that gleamed like glossy volcanic rock.

  “Rabbi Witzun?”

  “God is good.” The old man reached for Daniel’s hand, then fairly pulled him into the apartment. As he took Daniel’s coat, he said, “I prayed you would come. I knew you would come.”

  Daniel found himself standing in a crowded parlor, filled from floor to ceiling with books. The rabbi, or someone close to him, had constructed what Daniel always thought of as “student shelves”—long pine planks supported by stacks of bricks. But if the rabbi had skimped on shelving, he had obviously spared no expense on his library. Gilded, leather-bound books, most of them with the worn look of rare editions, lined the shelves and overflowed onto a husky oak table in the center of the room.

  The rabbi did not wear his coat now but moved through the apartment in a long-sleeved white shirt with his prayer shawl around his neck. A heavy set of keys jangled from a chain at his belt and clicked against his legs as he bade Daniel come in and have a seat at the table. Seen indoors, without his wide-brimmed hat, he appeared younger than he had on the street. His hair was still thick and heavy; his long beard was only lightly sprinkled with gray.

  “Can I offer you some refreshment? Coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Daniel took a seat in one of the high-backed wooden chairs at the table.

  “Are you certain?”

  Daniel hesitated. Lauren hadn’t specifically mentioned whether refusing a Belgian rabbi’s offer would constitute bad manners, but Daniel had a suspicion that his refusal might offend this particular Belgian rabbi.

  “All right. Some tea, please.”

  The rabbi’s lids slipped over his eyes. “Very good. I shall have tea, too.”

  He walked slowly toward the kitchen, leaving Daniel alone in the front room. The place smelled of leather and old books, a cozy, warm scent that reminded Daniel of his father.

  A memory played in his head like a film shining on the backs of his retinas. The sounds of running water in the rabbi’s kitchen faded, for Daniel was on the floor in his father’s study, surrounded by books and plastic models of navy fighter jets.

  He rose to his knees and reached for one of the jets, but his father gently moved his hand away from the fragile model. “When you’re older, Danny boy,” his father said, his voice calm and low, “then they’ll be yours. Just like all my books will be yours.”

  Daniel sank back to his heels, his eyes widening at the prospect of owning such treasures. The books were nice, he was certain, for his father held a different one every night. His eyes would skim the pages in a regular pattern, halting occasionally as he reached for a pencil to scribble something at the edge of a page. But it was the thought of owning his dad’s jets that made Daniel’s heart turn over—

  Abruptly Daniel pulled the plug on his memories. After his father’s death, the jets and the books had gone into boxes that Daniel never reopened. The models, in fact, had been donated to Goodwill, and he had given all but one of the book boxes to a local library, where blue-haired ladies sold them ten for a dollar to raise money for a new addition.

  The rabbi came back into the room, a steaming mug in each hand. “Do you care for milk or honey?”

  “No, thank you.” Determined not to be a bother, Daniel accepted the mug and took a perfunctory sip. The rabbi settled himself in a wide wooden chair at the end of the long table, then lowered his eyes to his mug.

  Silence sifted down like a snowfall.

  “I read about you in the newspapers.” The rabbi’s voice, though quiet, had an ominous quality. “I read about many things. And I see how the pieces are coming together, like bits of glass in a mosaic.”

  “What pieces?” Daniel placed his mug on a coaster, then rested his elbow on the table. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

  “Let me show you.” The rabbi pulled a thick, leather-bound volume from a stack of books in the center of the table. He opened the back cover, then flipped through the pages from right to left.

  “I am reading from the Mishneh Torah.” He looked up, and his eyes caught Daniel’s. “You are familiar with Talmud and Torah?”

  “Only slightly,” Daniel admitted, feeling suddenly ignorant.

  The rabbi smiled. “The Talmud is a collection of ancient rabbinical writings, the Mishnah and the Gemara, the basis of our religious authority. The Torah, strictly speaking, is the Pentateuch, the first five books of the Hebrew Scriptures and your Christian Bible.”

  While the rabbi ran his finger from right to left over the page, Daniel lifted his mug and took another sip of the fragrant tea.

  “Here.” The rabbi tapped the page. “In the fourteenth volume of the Mishnah Torah the great rabbi Moses Maimonides declared, ‘In the future the King Messiah will arise and renew the Davidic dynasty, restoring it to its initial sovereignty. He will rebuild the Temple and gather the dispersed remnant of Israel.’”

  Daniel lowered his mug, then rubbed his temple in thought. “The Messiah will build the temple? For years I have heard that some religious Jews are planning to rebuild it. I recall a CNN report several months ago on the subject, and the reporter said that many of the gold and silver objects used in temple sacrifice have been newly constructed and are waiting in Israel.”

  The rabbi shot him a twisted smile. “You listen, then, to news about Israel?”

  “Of course.” Daniel laughed softly. “Who can ignore it? Sometimes I think the world revolves around Jerusalem.”

  The rabbi snorted with the half-choked mirth of a man who rarely laughs. “Ah. Yes. Well.” He intertwined his fingers and rested his hands atop the open book. “A number of other ancient sources, including the Zohar and the Rosh Hashanah, d
eclare that the temple will be built by the Jewish people just before the coming of the Messiah.”

  “Perhaps both statements are true.” Daniel lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Often the truth is found in combining two truths, rabbi. Perhaps the Messiah and the Jewish people will build the temple together.”

  “That,” the rabbi held up a slender finger, “is precisely what drove me to talk to you, Mr. Prentice.” He reached under another stack of books and withdrew a plain manila folder, then opened it. From where he sat Daniel could see that the folder contained several newspaper clippings and photocopied reports.

  “Are you aware—”the rabbi lifted one report and slid it over the polished table—“that your associate Mr. Romulus has begun secret negotiations with leaders of the PLO to allow the Jews to rebuild the temple on the Temple Mount? It will have to be built, of course, next to the existing Muslim Dome of the Rock.”

  “No, I didn’t know.” Daniel examined the article before him. A headline ran across the top of the page—“Temple Mount: Classified Report.” A black-and-white photo of a smiling Adrian Romulus and a man identified as Abd al Bari, servant of Allah, dominated the page. The first paragraph reported that Adrian Romulus, a European negotiator, had spent several days in conference with al Bari, an Islamic leader, at the Romulus estate in Paris. In the interest of peace, the PLO and the Muslims were willing to consider allowing Israel to rebuild the temple on the Temple Mount and to allow Jerusalem to be recognized as Israel’s capital. The price for this startling concession would be Israel’s surrender of the territory of the West Bank and Gaza, as well as the return of the Golan Heights to Syria.

  “I should think you would be delighted by this news.” Daniel pushed the photocopied report back to the rabbi.

  “The few rabbis who are aware of this development strongly support Romulus.” The rabbi took the article and stared at it with deadly concentration. “But I cannot forget something written twenty-five centuries ago in the Book of Zerubbabel. The writer refers to a false messiah by the name Armillus. He is also known by the name Romulus.