The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  Justus retreated inside the car as the guard pulled a gun from his coat and used both hands to point it at Asher’s head. Angelo sat on Asher’s back, trembling with fear and adrenaline. Like a man stricken with Tourette’s, he shouted the same Italian profanity over and over again.

  I sank to the sidewalk and braced my back against a stone wall, gulping air to fill my starving lungs with oxygen. I deliberately averted my eyes from the scene to my right, not wanting to believe what I had just witnessed.

  Asher had tried to kill Justus. I didn’t know what sort of weapon that green stick was, but from the bodyguard’s anxious expression, I knew it might be lethal. And, if not for my scream, Asher just might have accomplished what he set out to do today.

  “Is this why you sent me here, God?” I covered my eyes with my hand, then peered through my fingers toward the blue sky. “Did you want me to stop Asher—or prevent him from trying? Was I too late?”

  There was no answer, no quiet voice, but after a moment I heard the pulsing wail of sirens in the distance. The police would arrive at any moment, and though the scene was confused with screams and shouting, soon someone would remember what had happened . . . and they might want to talk to me.

  What could I tell them? Nothing. They wouldn’t understand—or believe—a single word of the true story.

  With an effort, I roused myself from the numbness that weighed me down and stood. Turning away from the hubbub on the sidewalk, I retraced my steps and left Asher alone.

  The natives say a man isn’t a genuine Roman if he hasn’t done time in the Regina Coeli. The institution with that stately name is a prison located on an embankment of the Tiber River. The ancient complex is situated between the silver river and the green slope of the Janiculum Hill—a beast between two beauties. Though the “Queen of Heaven” jail once served as a monastery, little has been done to preserve its original lofty intention. The street vendors who hawk souvenirs on the river embankment assure me that the prison cells lack heat, adequate ventilation, and modern conveniences. It is, they say, shrugging, a place of punishment after all.

  For three days I stood outside the stone bastion, waiting to see the man I considered a friend. The first day I stood across the street on the Via della Lungara for more than an hour, just summoning the nerve to approach the forbidding fortress. When I finally did grasp my slippery courage and enter the main office, I was told I would have to wait until the staff psychologist had completed the prisoner’s mental evaluation. I flinched at this, imagining the psychologist’s horror if Asher volunteered his complete history, but I later learned it was Asher’s choice of weapon, not his background, that signaled the need for a psych consult.

  On Sunday, the third day of my vigil, I met Ricardo, the espresso vendor who operated a stand outside the prison. Ricardo had a cousin who worked in the system, and through the family grapevine I learned that the weapon used in the attempt to assassinate Santos Justus was a type of gas gun not seen in Italy since World War II. The alarmed authorities were keeping Asher Genzano under strict guard with a “no visitors” policy until they were certain the Italian Mafia had not decided to resurrect an old and sadistic weapon.

  After recovering from the shock of this news, I was not surprised Asher had used a World War II–era relic. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had tried to wield a medieval sword or an ancient spear. I was astounded, however, that he had tried to commit murder.

  After thanking Ricardo, I lowered my head and walked away from the depressing sight of the jail, wanting to put as much distance between it and me as possible. Sadness pooled in my heart, an acute despondency I’d never felt before. Until this point, everything in my life seemed to have a concrete reason and/or a rational cure—I was depressed because something bad had happened; I was elated because things were going well. Never before had my unease sprung from such unearthly causes. I wasn’t even certain I ever would feel better— weren’t Christians supposed to suffer?

  Find Vittorio Pace.

  There it was again, that insistent, inaudible voice. Suddenly Signor Pace’s little stone church seemed the only solid reality in a nebulous world. I looked up, struggled to think where I was on a city map, then stepped to the curb and lifted my arm to hail a cab.

  The cab driver wasn’t familiar with the Rome Baptist Church, but eventually we found the place off the Piazza San Lorenzo. I paid the driver and stepped out of the car, noticing that the church looked smaller and a bit run down in the bright afternoon light. The wooden door was unlocked, so I lifted the iron handle and stepped inside.

  I expected to see people—after all, it was Sunday—but it was nearly fourteen o’clock, so I assumed the worshipers had gone home. The interior was as plain and simple as I remembered, but I saw no sign of Vittorio Pace. I paced up and down the aisle and called his name a couple of times, then stood still and heard the rumble of a masculine voice from outside the building. Following the sound, I stepped through a side door that led to a small courtyard.

  To my astonishment, the church courtyard seemed exclusively devoted to cats. Except for a winter-bare tree in one corner, any plant life that had existed in the walled space had long surrendered to the feline occupants. At least a half-dozen cats sat atop the stone wall, their front paws tucked neatly beneath their breasts, their tails swinging lazily into empty space. One of them, a yellow-eyed beast that must have weighed at least twenty pounds, turned to stare at me as I slipped through the doorway, but Signor Pace stood with his back to me. He was pulling pieces of white meat—chicken, I suppose—from a plastic bag and dropping them into ceramic bowls in the center of the courtyard. At least a dozen scrawny cats crouched around the bowls, sharing their feast in surprising harmony, and others were leaping from the wall to join their fellows.

  “Fate piano, lasciate un po per gli altri.” I wasn’t sure what he said, but Signor Pace spoke to the cats in soothing tones. “Rufio, stai sempre a litigare?”

  I smiled at the scene and leaned against the doorframe, content to wait until Signor Pace had finished his work. He had told me he was one of the volunteers who fed the homeless cats of Rome, but I hadn’t realized just how many cats depended upon him for their daily meals. I took a brief head count and came up with forty-two, but in the constantly shifting diorama I could have missed another dozen.

  A black-and-white tuxedo cat brushed against Signor Pace’s legs, then plopped down on the ground and exposed his belly. “Ah, Stash, vuoi la pancia grattata?” Signor Pace emptied the last of his bag, then stooped to rub the cat’s stomach. “E come sono oggi le pulci?”

  “He behaves just like a dog,” I called, startling several of the animals.

  Signor Pace turned, then a smile gathered up the wrinkles by his ancient mouth. “He may think he is a dog,” he answered as the cat rolled back to his feet and slunk away. “He is certainly one of the leaders of this group. Look how he waits for the others to eat.”

  He wadded the plastic bag in his hand, then came toward me. “I was hoping to see you again, signorina. Are you well?”

  “Very well, thank you.” I transferred my gaze from the cats to the elderly minister. “I thought a lot about what you told me the other night. And I want you to know that I understand now. And I am happy to call myself a Christian.”

  “God be praised.” His expressive eyes searched my face, reaching into my thoughts. “I am happy for you, my daughter. But something tells me you have come for a different reason today.”

  I cast my gaze downward, a little startled by his discernment. Reverend Pace was in the wrong line of work; he could make a fortune in jury consulting.

  I told him the truth. “I have come on behalf of a friend in trouble. He has an unusual story, and I hope you can help me help him. I don’t know anyone else who would understand, because his trouble is . . . well, it’s spiritual.”

  Signor Pace gave me a look of faint amusement. “Shall we go inside? Your friend sounds interesting.”

  “He is more
than interesting, Vittorio.” I turned to follow as the minister opened the door. “He’s downright unbelievable.”

  “My friend,” I began after we had seated ourselves on the front pew, “has made a life’s work out of watching for the Antichrist—you know, the evil leader who will rise in the last days.”

  “I know about the Antichrist,” Signor Pace said smoothly, with no expression on his face. “But he will not be revealed until after the believers have been taken from the earth. It will be as it was in the days of Noah—the righteous preached repentance, the faithful were delivered, and judgment fell upon those who did not heed the warning.” A twinkle of sunlight caught his eye as he glanced up at me. “If your friend has trusted Christ, his concerns about the Antichrist are pointless. All believers will be gone by the time the Antichrist rises to power.”

  “He thinks,” I spread my hands, “that if the man who will be Antichrist is removed, God will postpone his decision to take the believers.”

  The minister’s face contorted into a brief grimace of disbelief. “But how can anyone know who the Antichrist is? There are many who oppose the things of God, and they are all anti-Christ—”

  “He believes the Antichrist will be Santos Justus.”

  Signor Pace recoiled from my steady gaze and tried on a smile that seemed a size too small. “I can understand his concern. There are many who worry about Justus. The man has gained considerable power in a short period of time, and his influence is spreading throughout the world.”

  “My friend tried to kill Justus three days ago. He is now awaiting trial in Regina Coeli prison.”

  The minister stared blandly at me. Only a tiny unconscious twitch of his eye revealed his surprise.

  “The man I saw on the news—that is your friend?”

  I nodded.

  “And did you have anything to do with this, my daughter?”

  I had expected the question—the police had asked me the same thing two days before. In the barest possible terms I told the investigating officer that I had been walking to Global Union, saw a man in a trench coat approach Justus with what looked like a weapon, and screamed. I volunteered nothing about my relationship with Asher, and the investigator didn’t ask for further details. When the case went to trial, though, I knew he’d be back with more questions.

  “No, Vittorio, I had nothing to do with it—in fact, I think I may have saved Signor Justus’s life. Three times in the night before that morning I heard a voice calling me. When I finally listened, I knew I was supposed to find Asher as soon as possible.” I looked down at my hands, which trembled despite my resolve to remain calm. “I couldn’t stop Asher, but I screamed loud enough to distract Signor Justus. So Asher did not kill him.”

  Signor Pace leaned back against the wooden pew, a frown puckering the skin between his dark eyes into fine wrinkles. “Perhaps you should give me the entire story.”

  “The story is almost unexplainable, signore. I would not believe it myself, except—well, sometimes I can’t believe I do believe.”

  The grim line of the minister’s mouth relaxed as he folded his hands. “I deal with the unbelievable every day, signorina. Now— begin at the beginning and tell me everything. I will make no judgments until you have finished.”

  After a long pause, I drew a deep breath and forbade my voice to quiver. “It all began when I took a job for Global Union and met Asher Genzano . . .”

  An hour later, thick shadows had begun to stretch across the church. I finished my tale, ending with a simple question: “Can you believe God would allow a man to live two thousand years?”

  Signor Pace sat in silence. He had not interrupted once during the telling, nor did he seem inclined to react quickly. He simply sat there, his eyes unfocused, his mouth set in a straight line, his forehead wrinkled in thought. Finally he looked up with a burning, faraway look in his eyes. “Long ago I learned never to predict what God can or cannot do. He can do whatever he pleases. You, however, must go to your friend and give him the truth. He has been laboring under a lie.”

  I blinked in surprise. I had expected doubts and arguments, not an outright command.

  “But I don’t know what to tell him. I’ve only been a Christian for three days!”

  “You are the one God has chosen to minister to him.” Vittorio’s pale gray eyes lifted to meet mine. “Would you refuse God?”

  “But . . . I’m unworthy. Unqualified. Asher knows so much more about the Bible; he can quote it chapter and verse. So how am I supposed to give him truth?”

  “I will teach you some things you need to know. And when you enter the prison, don’t worry about what to say. Just say what God tells you to. Then it is not you who will be speaking, but the Holy Spirit.” He uttered these words through a confident smile. And though I did not find much comfort in the words, his quiet, certain manner soothed my spirit like a balm. Without asking, I knew I was listening to a man who had staked his life upon the Word of God and found that it completely satisfied.

  We spent another hour together, Vittorio teaching while I listened, and by the time I left the church I felt I could do the same.

  On Monday, the fourth day following Asher’s arrest, the prison officials allowed me to visit him. A uniformed guard led me into a large, windowless room filled with air that had been breathed far too many times. He gestured to a small, wooden table with a red line painted down the center, and I sat in the wooden chair on one side. A moment later another guard led Asher in, and something in my heart twisted when I heard the metallic chink of the fetters on his ankles.

  He smiled as he shuffled toward me. “It was good of you to come,” he said, lowering himself into the wooden chair. “I wasn’t sure I would have any visitors.”

  “I’ve been trying to get in for four days. They said you had to talk to a psychologist first.”

  Asher shrugged. “I tried to tell him why I did it, but he wasn’t really interested. He just wanted to know about the gas gun.”

  I nodded, wanting to say more, but not knowing quite how to begin. I knew why he was here, and I understood the desperation that drove him to attempt murder. In the past four days I had come to understand many things I suspected even Asher himself did not know.

  Asher leaned forward, dropping his manacled wrists upon the table. “I have heard things in this prison.” His eyes cut a glance from left to right, as though he expected someone to jump out at any moment and silence him. “Two days ago I shared a cell with a man from Florence who had just returned from New York. He was imprisoned here for drug smuggling, but as we talked he bragged that the authorities had no idea of his true crime.”

  I hadn’t come to talk about criminals and drug smugglers, but something in Asher’s furtive manner piqued my interest.

  “He confessed something to you?”

  Asher looked at me then, his smile strained, his eyes hard and wary. “This man—his name is Carlos—went to New York to commit a murder. He followed his victim from his workplace in Manhattan, then dragged him off the subway and killed him in a dark alley.”

  Hot as it was in the stuffy room, I felt a sliver of ice begin to slide down my spine. I stared at Asher as thoughts I dared not utter aloud began to assemble in my head.

  Asher’s burning eyes held me still throughout a long, brittle silence. “Can you guess who sent him?” he finally asked, the question underlined with a delicate ferocity that made it abundantly clear that he expected me to know the answer.

  “N-not Santos Justus,” I stammered.

  “No. Darien Synn. Carlos did not know him by that name, of course, but he described the man, and the description fits Synn perfectly. And the timing was right. Carlos killed the man during the first weekend of November, which is when your friend died—”

  “No.” The word came from my mouth reflexively, in the same way I’d seen a hundred mothers insist that their sons couldn’t possibly have committed the heinous crime for which they had been indicted . . . but I knew Asher was tellin
g me the truth. The pieces fit. I had spoken to Synn about leaving Rome on November 2; I had even emailed Rory and asked him to find a case that would require my presence back in the States. Synn had read my e-mail, then sent someone to New York to remove my secretary. Synn had visited my Manhattan office, and he knew that without Rory, I had no other associates to look after my interests. Finally, by holding my passport and sending me to Brussels, he had guaranteed I wouldn’t bolt for New York on the next available flight.

  Asher opened his mouth to speak again, but I held up my hand, needing a moment more to organize my thoughts. “Have you said anything to anyone?” I asked, finally meeting his gaze. “I want justice for Rory. And I want Synn exposed.”

  Asher’s dark brows slanted in a frown. “I have not spoken to anyone in authority. And I want to be careful—when they do send me in to face the magistrate, I do not want it to appear that I am offering the information in an attempt to lessen my own sentence.” His face furrowed with contrition. “I am willing to pay the full price for my crime, even if I must spend the next thousand years in prison.” A melancholy smile flitted across his features. “I will be the marvel of the prison community.”

  The sight of that sad smile gave me courage. “Asher,” I began, glancing down at my hands, “I’ve something to tell you, and I don’t know where to begin.”

  An expression of weary resignation settled upon his face. “You’ve come to say you’re leaving Rome.”

  I shriveled a little at his expression. “No, Asher, I won’t leave until your case is settled. Though I’m no longer employed by Global Union, I want to stay for your sake. I’ll help your lawyer prepare your case, I’ll stay through the trial . . . and then I’ll go home.” Like an old wound that ached on a rainy day, the mention of home reminded me of Kirsten. “I’ve had a bit of bad news since we last talked—my sister lost her baby, a little boy. She was eight months pregnant and in a car accident, and the trauma . . . well, it was an accident. So I’ll go home and help her when I can.”