The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  Asher clamped his jaw tight and stared into the distance. “Fortunate baby,” he murmured.

  I couldn’t believe I had heard him correctly. “Fortunate?” I whispered, my mood veering sharply to irritation. “How can you say such a thing?”

  Asher returned his gaze to me. “He never had to endure the pain of life. He went from the womb to the arms of God.”

  “He never felt the joy of life, either,” I snapped. “He never laughed; he never fell in love—”

  “He never wept,” Asher countered, his expression clouding. “He never held his dying wife in his arms and felt himself powerless to save her.”

  “So this is about you.” I lifted a brow and crossed my arms. “You know what your problem is? You’re angry with God. You think he’s punishing you, so you’re ticked off, but you won’t admit it.”

  “I am not ticked off!” His brown eyes bored into mine, narrowed with fury. “I know I deserve my fate, and who am I to question God? But I cannot feel sorry for a child who will never have to endure what I have endured. I never weep at funerals, and I would rejoice to see death approaching in any form whatsoever. But I cannot. Because until I see Jesus, I have to remain here and suffer the lot of all mortals over and over again.”

  Our heated conversation had drawn the guard’s attention. He peered in our direction, then pulled himself off the wall and took two steps toward our table. In a unanimous and silent conspiracy, Asher and I lowered our voices.

  “I didn’t come here to argue with you,” I said, shaking my head. “I came because I think I’ve found an answer for your . . . situation.”

  Hoarse laughter rose from Asher’s throat. “I’ve tried everything, Claudia. Unless you have Jesus waiting in the clerk’s office, I don’t think you can solve my problem.”

  “Just hear me out, OK?” I bit my lip, then took a deep breath and dived in. “I suppose I should start with the morning I saw you on the street with Justus. I was there, you see, because I knew you would need me that morning. It’s hard to explain how I knew—I heard something that was almost, but not quite, a voice in the night. I tried to ignore it, but finally I realized the Spirit of God wanted to speak to my heart. And when I listened, Asher, I knew I had to find you as soon as I could. That’s why I was running toward you that morning . . . and why I called out.”

  His face changed, the mask of resignation shattering in surprise. “You heard—”

  I held up my hand, cutting him off. “God wanted me to stop you. And I’m very glad I did.”

  Asher stared, his lips parting slightly. “Why would God speak to you?”

  “I don’t know why he does what he does,” I pressed on, “but I know I’m his child, and he’s been leading me for the last few days. I paid a visit to a friend, a minister named Vittorio Pace. I asked him about many things, and I’d like to share some of his thoughts with you. The first and most important truth is this—you are not being punished, Asher. There is no condemnation for those who have trusted Christ Jesus.”

  His expression didn’t change for a moment, then my words fell into place. He lifted a brow and looked at me as if I were a naive child. “Then tell me why I am alive. If God is not punishing me with immortality, who is?”

  I slid my hands over the table until my fingertips kissed the edge of the red center line. “Perhaps God is not punishing you, Asher, but showing you mercy. Do you recall the story of the woman who covered Jesus’ head with rare perfume and washed his feet with her tears?”

  A flash of humor crossed his face. “Remember her? I met her when she traveled to Jerusalem and tried to speak with Lady Procula. She had been a village prostitute, but after the resurrection she became an ardent believer.”

  “Do you remember what Jesus said about her? Her sins—which were many—had been forgiven, so she showed the Lord much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only a little love.”

  Asher tilted his brow and gave me an uncertain look.

  “Think about it.” I lowered my voice. “You feel you committed a severe sin and consequently earned a severe punishment. But God is rich in love, Asher, and to you he has extended a severe mercy. Don’t you see how kind, tolerant, and patient God has been with you? Can’t you see how merciful he has been in giving you time to turn from your sin?”

  A cold, congested expression settled on his face. “My sin? I have turned from it. I turned from it scores of lifetimes ago, and since then I have done nothing but sacrifice myself in order to do God’s work. I have studied, and worked, and allowed my body to be humiliated and tortured—”

  “Stop.” I shivered with a chill that had nothing to do with the weather outside. I knew very little about the Bible, but Vittorio had opened the Scriptures and explained several things in simple terms— enough that I now knew where Asher had erred in his thinking.

  Ignoring the tight place of anxiety in my heart, I fixed Asher in my gaze. “Listen to yourself, Asher. You have worked; you have labored; you have sacrificed. Don’t you see? You have tried to do everything yourself, and you have neglected the gift of God. It is by grace that we are saved through faith—and we do nothing to earn it. It is the gift of God. You turned from your sin, but you did not turn to Jesus.”

  He closed his eyes, literally blocking me out. “How could I go to him with empty hands? I struck the face of God, Claudia! In pride and audacity, the very sins of Satan, I cursed Christ!”

  “Asher,” my voice trembled, “suppose you do encounter the Antichrist and he rejects your testimony. Suppose the Lord then comes for the believers—what will happen to you?”

  I strained to hear his soft answer. “I don’t know.”

  “Everyone else who accepts Christ is assured a place in heaven.” The words formed a traffic jam in my throat, battling each other to get out in the short time I would be allowed with Asher. “I look forward to his coming because I have no fear for the future. You, on the other hand, are working to prevent his coming. You say this is because you want to give others a chance to accept the gospel, but could it be that you’re only fooling yourself? What will happen, Asher, when God moves and you realize you are not the referee and timekeeper? What will you do when you stand before God after pouring out the riches of your lifetime in an effort to avoid facing him again?”

  Silence stretched between us, broken only by the hush of cars moving on the road outside. A change came over Asher’s features, a sudden shock of sick realization.

  “Do you realize what you are saying?” he whispered through stiff lips. “If you are right, for a lifetime of lifetimes I have worked and suffered and labored. Now you say I only have to trust? I can’t. It would be easier for me to abandon my body than to abandon the purpose I have devoted years to following . . .”

  As his words trailed away he pressed his hands to the tabletop, sliding them forward until our fingertips touched. “Claudia, this is the most grievous news you could have brought me.”

  “No, Asher.” I gentled my voice. “It is the most wonderful news. Signor Pace showed me a verse that says God has every right to exercise his judgment and his power, but he also has the right to be patient with those who are the objects of his judgment and fit only for destruction. You recognized Jesus as the holy Son of God. You saw that his Word was true. But you never trusted him for your salvation, Asher. You strove to earn his forgiveness. And though you labor until the end of time, you can never earn salvation. It is a gift. It is free. It flows from mercy, not self-sacrifice.”

  He looked away, his chest heaving in a dry, choked way, but he did not weep.

  Hoping I had struck some responsive chord, I continued: “You once shared with me a verse about the Lord waiting for people to repent before his return. Perhaps he has been patient for your sake all these years. He does not want you to perish, so he is giving you time to repent.”

  Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and slowly spilled from the ends of his lashes. “Believing in grace is one thing,” he whispered, a note ha
lfway between disbelief and pleading in his voice, “living it is quite another.”

  “Exactly.” Ignoring the guard’s stern glance, I slid my hand forward until my fingertips overlapped his, covering him with my prayers as I did so. “God is waiting for you, Asher, with his arms outstretched. His mercy is rich and available . . . whenever you’re ready to accept it.”

  A deep silence filled the room; even the sounds of traffic outside seemed to fade. “Can it be,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to meet mine, “that I am the world’s greatest fool? To have seen what I have seen, and yet not understand the meaning of it all—”

  “Millions of people never see with spiritual eyes.” I gave him an abashed smile. “I know I never would have, if not for you. You opened my eyes, Asher. You were stronger than I could ever be, and your labors were not in vain. You have to believe that.”

  He shot me a half-frightened look. “But what I did to Justus—or what I almost did. That was not a godly act, but I could see no other choice.”

  “You were operating under your own authority. You failed to trust God . . . and Signor Pace assures me that God has matters well in hand. He alone knows when the world will end; he alone knows who the Antichrist will be. We are not to run about searching for him. We are only to trust . . . and point others to grace. That’s our calling, Asher. And that’s what you did for me.”

  I would have said more, but the guard came to our table and rapped upon it with his knuckles. Reluctantly, I released Asher’s hands and watched silently as he stood and turned to leave. His posture was bent, his shoulders hunched as though he carried the guilt of the world.

  Tears came in a rush so strong my shoulders shook. Dear God, show him the truth. Show him the riches of your miraculous grace.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  WORKING OUT OF MY RESIDENZA, I SPENT THE NEXT TWO DAYS TRYING to find a lawyer who would represent Asher. Though he could well afford to hire any lawyer he chose, Asher seemed to have no interest in his defense. I had a terrible suspicion that he might plead guilty at his hearing. A guilty plea could only result in confinement, possibly for the rest of his life, and for Asher I could think of nothing worse.

  Better to have him declared mentally incompetent than to have him locked up for life. I dialed Kurt’s office, knowing that he already knew enough about the case to write a letter about Asher’s mental state.

  I had just hung up after leaving a message with the answering service when the phone jangled beneath my hand. Thinking it might be Kurt, I snatched it up before it had even finished ringing.

  “Signorina Fischer?”

  The Italian accent and female voice surprised me. “Yes?”

  “Il Presidente would like to meet with you this afternoon, if possible.”

  I took a quick breath of utter astonishment. “Signor Justus wants to meet with me?”

  “Can you come to his office? At fourteen o’clock?”

  I glanced at my pocket watch. I would have less than an hour to make myself presentable—and for what? Did he intend to grill me on my association with Asher, or did he need me for another spy mission?

  I cast about for a reason to refuse but remembered what Asher had said about Synn and Rory. Justus might know about his director’s murderous methods, but perhaps he did not. In either case, I might be able to gather some useful information for the police. “I’ll be there,” I told the woman.

  Thankfully, the hour of the appointment didn’t leave much time for worrying. I took a quick shower, slipped into a wool skirt and sweater, then hurried out the door. I made it to Global Union headquarters with only five minutes to spare.

  Maura Casale greeted me in the lobby. “I am so glad to see you,” she said. After giving me a quick hug, she stepped back and gave me a swift appraisal. “And what is the meaning of those dark circles under your eyes?”

  “I haven’t been sleeping well,” I answered, letting her escort me through the security checkpoint. “I’ve been trying to find a lawyer for Asher Genzano. No one seems to want his case.”

  “We’ve heard everything, of course.” She led the way to the elevator, then pushed the button for the seventh floor. “Il Direttore keeps us informed. I was amazed when I heard the news. Signor Genzano seemed such a quiet, steady man—”

  “He is.” I met her gaze, determined that she understand the truth. “He wouldn’t act without a reason.”

  She stared at me, uncertainty creeping into her expression. “You think he had a valid reason to kill Il Presidente?”

  “I really can’t say, signora.” I glanced up at the flashing numbers above the elevator doors. “But I trust all will be made clear at his hearing.”

  I trust. If she only knew how desperately I was trusting God to set things right. Never had I felt less convinced about the outcome of a trial, and never had I cared more.

  The doors opened. Signora Casale remained behind as I stepped onto the seventh floor. I flashed her a farewell smile, then moved through the marble lobby toward the secretary’s desk. How long had it been since I stood here with Asher? Only a week, yet it felt like a lifetime ago.

  “Signorina Fischer.” The bottle-blonde behind the desk smiled, but her expression held only a trace of its former warmth. “Il Presidente is waiting for you. Please go in.”

  I felt my stomach sway as I approached the wide wooden door. I gave a tentative knock, then heard Justus’s clipped reply: “Entrano!”

  He was seated behind his desk, but he looked up when I came through the doorway. I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed— a signal of nervousness—then he pasted on a smile and stood, extending his hand as if I were a long-lost friend. “Signorina Fischer! I am so pleased you could find time to come see me!”

  Shock caused my greeting to wedge in my throat, but Justus didn’t seem to care. “Come, have a seat,” he said, guiding me to the leather sofa in the corner of the room instead of the guest chairs before his desk. The move spoke volumes. “Can I get you anything? White wine? Espresso?”

  “No, thank you.” I felt like a windup doll moving to a preset program, but I sank to the couch as gracefully as I could. “I don’t need anything.”

  “Fine.” Still smiling, he lowered his graceful frame into the chair next to the sofa, then draped one arm over the padded armrest. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve asked to see you.”

  I lifted a brow, mutely acknowledging the truth.

  “Actually”—He glanced away for an instant, and I marveled at the discreet sign of nervousness. I had never noticed any of the usual signals of unease in Santos Justus’s body language, yet now he was displaying an entire gamut of the most obvious—crossed legs, aversion to direct eye contact, fidgety fingers . . .

  “You are here, signorina,” he said, looking back to me, “because I wanted to thank you. Your shout distracted my assailant the other morning, and I am convinced you saved my life. If not for you, well”—he made a vague dismissive gesture with his hands—“I would not be here. So I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and I apologize for my harsh words during our last meeting. Now I understand that you brought Asher Genzano into my office to demonstrate his instability. I did not give you an adequate chance to explain, nor did I fully consider the depth of his insanity.”

  He laughed, but I heard a note of hysteria in his voice.

  “And so, signorina, I am offering you my deepest apologies and a new offer to work for Unione Globale. In order to make amends for my rush to judgment, I would like to hire you at double your most recent salary and extend your contract for another twelve months.” His extraordinary eyes blazed and glowed as he smiled. “Please say you’ll work with us, signorina. We need you. And we are prepared to make your name great.”

  His last words chafed across my soul. My name did not deserve to be great. Neither did Santos Justus’s.

  “I appreciate the confidence you have placed in me,” I answered, taking charge of the conversation with quiet assurance. “But I will not work for
you, Signor Justus. I have promised to see that Signor Genzano receives a fair trial. I am his friend, you see.”

  Justus blinked, his features hardening in a stare of disapproval. “You would defend that madman?”

  “He is not what he appears to be.” I looked away and smiled, thinking of my enigmatic friend. “Like you, he harbors a wealth of secrets.”

  “Secrets.” Justus’s voice grated in the silence. “Tell me, signorina— do you really believe what Genzano said? Surely you don’t believe I am the pawn of the devil.”

  “I can’t read your heart, Signor Justus, just as you can’t read Asher Genzano’s. But I do think you ought to take a closer look around your organization. After Asher’s hearing, I intend to bring the murder of my associate in New York to the attention of the Italian police. I believe they will find a link between Global Union and Manhattan.”

  I stood, leaving him stunned and silent in his chair, then moved out of the office toward the lobby. The secretary snapped her gum in farewell as I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button.

  I visited the jail after my appointment at Global Union, only to find that the visitors’ entrance was locked. I stomped about in frustration for a moment, then caught the attention of Ricardo, the espresso vendor across the street. He waved me over.

  “Can I help you, signorina?” he asked, a gleam in his eye. “Perhaps you want to get word to a prisoner inside the Regina Coeli?”

  I raked my hand through my hair, amazed that I had forgotten that most Roman business takes place outside established operating procedures. In Rome, it doesn’t always pay to follow the rules—it’s usually more important to have friends in appropriate places.

  I opened my purse and fumbled for the small notebook I always carried. “Could you get word to Signor Genzano? I am trying to find someone to help him.”

  “Genzano?” Ricardo’s brows flickered. “I know the name. He is on the list for tomorrow.”

  My stomach went cold. “What list?”

  “The transport list. They are taking him away tomorrow.”