In the rush of a busy Roman street, it was unlikely anyone would notice the encounter, much less hear the short bark of the shot. And Asher doubted that an assassination gun had been used in more than forty years—the authorities might even conclude that Santos Justus had suffered a heart attack.
The thought of murder was like a rock dropped into the quiet pool of his heart, sending ripples of anguish in all directions. But what else was he to do? God had allowed him access to Santos Justus, and Justus had spurned the gospel. If Asher did nothing, Justus would rise to power and begin a bloody inquisition unlike anything the world had ever seen. The barbarity of Hitler’s ovens would pale in comparison to the guillotines of the Antichrist, and no one would be able to buy or sell or work without swearing allegiance to him and accepting his mark on the hand or forehead.
And all who did so would be consigned to eternal torment.
Though his hands were slick with sweat, Asher’s mind had sharpened to an ice pick’s point. He alone could stop Justus and secure a reprieve for the earth.
He wiped his right hand on the leg of his trousers, then carefully screwed the firing chamber back into the hollow tube.
THIRTY-ONE
CLAUDIA.
Darkness pressed against my open eyes, as if I were swimming underwater. An instant of sheer black fright swept through me—had someone come in through the window? Had I remembered to lock the door? But as I lay in bed with my head off the pillow, my body tense and rigid, I heard only the dull rumble of traffic outside my closed window.
I let my head fall back to the pillow and sighed in relief. The day had been stressful, the walk home long and thoughtful. I had not seen any sign of Asher at Pincio Gardens, and since the gardens were well north of his apartment and only a few blocks from mine, I had walked home, taken a hot bath, and eaten a pizza strewn with arugula.
I closed my eyes and patted my stomach. The arugula must not have agreed with me.
I turned onto my side and stretched out, willing myself back to sleep. I had just withdrawn into that vague grayness between wakefulness and sleep when I heard the voice again, as insistent and unfamiliar as before: Claudia.
I sat up, clutching the sheets to my chest. “Who’s there?” I whispered, peering into the darkness. I could see nothing but the neon glow of the electric numbers on the alarm clock: 12:15. My glands dumped such a dose of adrenaline into my bloodstream that my heart contracted like a fist, but still I saw nothing in the blackness. I heard a dull thump overhead and looked up, then someone upstairs flushed a toilet and the pipes in the wall began to sing.
The twins. They were romping around, bedeviling their mother, and refusing to go to sleep. Nothing unusual; nothing to worry about.
I closed my eyes and felt my shoulders relax. I must have been more stressed than I realized if every little sound had the power to spook me.
I lay down again, but this time I pulled the spare pillow to my chest and hugged it, then pulled the blanket up to my earlobes with my free hand. On the off chance I was wrong and an intruder had entered my room, maybe he’d just take my laptop and wallet and leave. As long as I played possum, he wouldn’t bother me.
If there was someone.
But there wasn’t.
After lying awake for what felt like an eternity, I drifted into a shallow doze in which memories of the day mingled with inchoate fragments of dreams. I saw Asher standing before Justus, Justus’s angry face and blazing eyes, the gardens upon the hillside, the vast panorama of the city lit by the orange rays of the setting sun. A little boy stood beside me, and I heard his mother call, “Samuel!” and then suddenly it seemed to me that the city itself was aflame, the ancient walls burning in an orange and scarlet conflagration, and Justus was there, thirty feet tall, standing with one foot on the rooftop of the Global Union headquarters and another on the nondescript office building next door. “I am not a lunatic,” he bellowed, his uplifted fist piercing the swirling gray clouds overhead. “I am the Antichrist!”
Hatred radiated from him like a halo around the moon while ambition, stark and vivid, glittered in his eyes. Watching him from my bench in the garden, all I could feel was fear, growing and swelling like a balloon in my chest. A scream rose in my throat, but I clapped my hand across my mouth, choking it off—
Claudia.
Drowning in my nightmare, I swam upward toward the soft and insistent voice, finally crossing the void between sleeping and waking. When I opened my eyes this time, nothing in the room had changed. I felt so grateful to be in a safe and secure place that tears of relief flooded my eyes.
Then I remembered. Samuel.
The name stirred the nearly forgotten memories of a shadowy night in my childhood. I was spending the night at my grandmother’s house, sleeping in the room where the big brass bed reminded me of a jail, and something flew past the window and sent shadows racing across the wall. I screamed, and Grandmother came running, then held me close to her heart while she soothed my fears and combed her fingers through my hair. And then, while I breathed in the whisper of rose sachet and felt her cool hand upon my brow, she told me the story of a little boy who heard noises in the night and decided God was calling him. The boy’s name was Samuel, and the third time he heard the voice of God, he said, “Speak, LORD; for thy servant heareth.”
And God spoke to him.
A cold shiver spread over me. I sat in the stillness for a moment, then cautiously brought up one hand and peeled the covers from my chin. The room was silent, the numbers 1:16 were glowing in the dark, and nothing had changed . . . except my willingness to face the unknown and unlikely.
“Speak, Lord.” My voice emerged as a hoarse croak, crusty with swallowed apprehension. “For thy servant heareth.”
I can’t really describe what happened in the next moment. The voice wasn’t audible, and nothing changed in my physical surroundings, but suddenly I knew God was speaking to my heart in a way he never had before. The air beside my bed stirred with the inaudible vibration of angel wings, and my heart thrilled to know I was a beloved child, entrusted with a command. I had been given a simple task, and when I lay back down to sleep a moment later, I knew I would obey.
Once the sun rose, I had to find Asher as soon as possible. He would need me.
THIRTY-TWO
A DELIVERY TRUCK GRUMBLED BY ON THE ROAD OUTSIDE ASHER’S window and he sat bolt upright, as wide-awake as if he’d just been given an intravenous dose of pure caffeine. For an instant he felt as though the events of the previous day had been nothing but a dream, then he lowered his feet and the cool kiss of the tile floor established reality. He glanced across the room. The assassination gun rested on the bureau, visible even in the gray shadows of dawn.
Asher slid his feet into slippers and pulled his robe from the foot of the bed, shivering as he belted it around his waist. Raking his hands through his hair, he walked through the front room and foyer, then opened the door and saw his newspaper on the carpeted floor.
He lifted a brow. If God had not wanted him to proceed, it would have been a simple thing to prevent the delivery of the newspaper he planned to use as a prop.
Asher stooped, picked up the paper, and closed the door, then made his way to the kitchen. He tossed the paper onto the counter and switched on the coffee maker, then leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, staring at the floor.
It all might end today. This cozy little existence, this link in a chain of lifetimes, might be shattered by sunset. His plan would end in one of several possible results: He would either succeed and be caught, fail and be caught, or succeed and escape to be captured later. In this modern world, technology virtually guaranteed punishment, and if by some miracle Santos Justus lived, he would know that Asher had approached and pointed a weapon at his face. So this would almost certainly be Asher’s last morning in this quiet kitchen.
A niggling fear wormed its way through the crowded thoughts in his mind. Was it even possible for Justus to be killed? A careful s
tudy of Scripture seemed to indicate that the Antichrist would be a mortal man, and all of the other possible antichrists had died easily enough after falling from leadership to corruption. But perhaps the power of evil guarded Justus’s life even as the power of God guarded Asher’s.
The muscles of his forearm hardened beneath the sleeve of his robe. Guarded or not, he had to make this attempt. In all the years since his repentance, he had never knowingly lied or stolen or committed harm to anyone, but this situation demanded action. Always before there had been room for doubt, but yesterday Asher had seen honest fear in Justus’s eyes when he spoke the name of Jesus. Why would a man fear the Savior unless he had already sold his soul to il diavolo?
Asher took a deep breath in an effort to steady his erratic pulse. He would take action, but this time he had more to fear than an execution squad. After his first death experience, he had learned to endure pain, knowing it would soon pass into the oblivion of time and forgetfulness, but Italy had not executed a prisoner since 1947. The government had abolished the death penalty in 1994, so if Asher was captured and sentenced for attempted murder, he would remain in prison for life. And if the Lord should delay his coming . . .
“Half of forever,” he whispered, the room swimming before his eyes, “is still forever.”
He reached out and braced himself against the edge of the kitchen counter, his anguish almost overcoming his resolve. His life had been endurable only because he always managed to find his way back to freedom. How could he endure an immortal lifetime behind bars? And what could he do in prison when evil assumed authority and God sent tribulation and judgment upon the earth? Asher earnestly hoped to join the other believers in the Rapture, but he had no guarantee that he would be included in the ingathering. Somehow, in the deepest part of his soul, he had always felt unworthy of inclusion. He was a sinner, the lowest of the low, and though he had spent nearly thirty mortal lifetimes trying to do penance for his crime against Deity, could anything atone for his sin?
Asher pressed his hand over his face in a convulsive gesture of resignation, then slowly sank to his knees on the tile floor. For a long moment he knelt there, his forehead pressed to the sharp edge of the countertop, his fingertips clinging to the rim of a drawer.
He swallowed, his throat raw with unuttered shouts and protests, then beat his fist against his chest, resigned to the irony of his situation. If he was successful today, he might buy time, perhaps another entire generation, for a world lost in spiritual darkness.
If he had to spend the remainder of his forever in prison, he would. He would pay the full price for his sin and bear whatever he had to bear.
He could do no less.
THIRTY-THREE
I SLEPT SOUNDLY, THEN WOKE AT SIX. FOR A MOMENT I LAY IN A QUIET cocoon of anguish for Kirsten, then a more recent memory hit me like a punch in the stomach. Asher, wherever he was, would need me today.
I slipped out of bed, staggered to the shower, yanked the hot water on, and grabbed one of the towels from the rack. As the hot water pipes groaned, I dashed back into the bedroom to pull a pair of black slacks and a matching turtleneck from a bureau drawer, then locked myself in the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I stood before the mirror, dressed and with a towel on my head. I finished applying my makeup in a couple of deft strokes, then unwrapped my hair, tousled it with my fingertips, and blew it dry.
Asher needed me.
The thought kept running through my brain like some sort of commercial jingle. I didn’t know why he needed me, or where I was supposed to find him, but the urge to locate him grew more intense with each passing moment. I don’t know how to explain it—if you’ve ever felt the same thing, you’ll know what I’m talking about, but I’d never felt anything like it before.
As I grabbed my red cardigan from the back of a chair and ran for the door, I knew Kurt would say I had joined my Italian friend in his delusion. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” I muttered, closing the door behind me.
It was a cold day, but a bright one, with the sun pouring buckets of yellow light onto the Roman streets. Obeying a sudden impulse, I hailed a cab and told him to drive me to the Piazza della Rotonda, which meant I’d exit right across the street from Asher’s hotel. I glanced at my watch. It was now 7:30, and the sidewalks were already clogged with pedestrians. Cars and motorcycles jammed the streets, and the silence I had enjoyed only an hour earlier had vanished.
I leaned back against the cab’s vinyl upholstery and tried to force my confused thoughts into order. What might Asher do now that Justus had turned him away? I knew he was upset—his abrupt disappearance yesterday had proved that. I had tried to call him last night, but he never answered his cell phone. Which meant he had either left it someplace or he was steadfastly refusing to answer its continual chirping . . .
We had reached the piazza. “Please stop here.” I leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder, then tried my request in Italian. “Ah—si fermi qui, per favore.”
The driver flashed me an obliging grin, then thrust out his hand for the fare. Too anxious even to count out the right change, I pressed a handful of lire into his palm and slid out the door, joining the pedestrians in the piazza. I stood for a long moment, slowly turning to examine the tables and benches where dozens of men and women were enjoying their morning espresso. I didn’t see Asher.
Obeying that insistent inner urging, I sprinted across the piazza and entered the lobby of the Sole al Pantheon. A trim young woman in a navy blazer looked up as I approached the reservations desk. “Is Signor Genzano in?” I asked, panting to catch my breath. “Could you ring his room, please?”
She lifted a brow, probably wondering why Signor Genzano would want to entertain a breathless American at this early hour, then moved to the telephone. After a moment, she came back to me. “Signor Genzano does not answer. Would you like to leave a message?”
“No, grazie.”
I turned from the desk and pressed my hand to my brow, thinking. Asher left abruptly yesterday, so he might not even know he had been officially dismissed. In any case, he hadn’t had a chance to clean out his desk, so he might be walking to Global Union headquarters even now. The offices did not officially open until nine, but perhaps he had gone to work early, hoping to catch Signora Casale and plead for his job . . .
I knew the personnel director often arrived before the office officially opened. Justus and Reverend Synn did too, in order to avoid the mass of adoring employees. A security guard would let them in, but for a moment or two they would have to wait outside on the piazza . . .
Perhaps Asher hoped to confront Justus again.
The five-block walk to Global Union headquarters had never seemed so long. I set out at a quick pace, zigzagging through the crowd while I scanned the people in front of me, hoping for a glimpse of Asher’s dark head. But nearly every man on the street had dark hair, and most wore navy trench coats just like Asher’s . . .
I had just rounded the corner and stepped onto Via delle Botteghe Oscure when I saw him. He was sitting on a bench across the street from Global Union’s glass entrance doors with a white foam cup in one hand and a rolled-up newspaper under his arm. He seemed relaxed and content to wait for nine o’clock.
Relief flooded my soul, and I slowed my steps to catch my breath. At least a hundred yards remained between us, but with the curve of the road I could keep my eye on him, and there was no sign of Signora Casale, Justus, or Synn. So if Asher had planned another confrontation, I would have time to talk to him and make certain he planned to proceed in a reasonable manner.
I smiled at my fears. Asher was one of the gentlest people I knew, so why was I concerned? He would laugh when he saw me, and then I’d have to try to explain why I had rushed over here like a dog after a rabbit.
A long blue car with tinted windows swept around the corner and passed me, then slowed to a stop outside the building. The driver stepped out and took a moment to lift his arms in a sleepy str
etch, and I recognized the lanky figure of Angelo Mazzone, Justus’s driver.
My heart leaped uncomfortably into the back of my throat. Lengthening my stride, I lifted my hand, waving to catch Asher’s attention. But Asher had lowered his cup to the bench, and now he was standing, the newspaper moving from under his arm into both hands, one hand supporting the far end, the other working at the edge near Asher’s body.
Something was wrong. Asher never wore this determined look, and his hands were usually loose and limber, not taut and mechanical.
Panic rioted within me. By some miracle my feet kept moving even as my lips parted to call his name, but Asher didn’t turn. Staring at the car, he moved toward the door Angelo had bent to open. In a moment he would be within inches of whomever rode in the backseat—
I let out a tiny whine of mounting dread as Angelo began to open Justus’s door, then Il Presidente himself stepped out, looking to the left, and then Asher was upon him, the newspaper only inches away from Justus’s face . . .
I experienced a moment of empty-bellied terror, then stopped in midstride and screamed. The sound rose and echoed down the street, overpowering the rush of the moving cars, the blare of horns, and the puttering noises of the motor scooters, and suddenly Justus, Angelo, Asher, and about a thousand other Italians were staring at me. Justus wore a look of complete surprise, marked by the hint of fear, but Asher stared at me as if he’d never seen me before. Silence sifted down like a snowfall for a profound instant, then Angelo’s gaze dropped to the newspaper in Asher’s hand.
Before I could draw another breath, Asher lay facedown on the pavement, his arms twisted behind his back. The Global Union security guard flew from the building and picked up the fallen newspaper, revealing not the gun I had feared, but an odd green stick.
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