End of Days

by Frank Lauria

  All in keeping with the Dark Destiny. Which is soon due, Mabel reflected. The signs were at hand.

  “No big deal actually,” Christine told her, trying to minimize the trauma. “Just somebody in my subway car turned to porcelain and … shattered.” Her bravado dissolved in tears.

  Mabel drew her close, comforting her.

  “I’m so tired of this,” Christine sobbed, voice muffled inside Mabel’s embrace. “What’s wrong with me? Why do I see things? Why am I so different?”

  Mabel Rand knew, but couldn’t reveal the exciting truth. “You don’t know how special you are,” she crooned. That much was true. Christine had been chosen. “You’re better than everyone else … remember that.”

  “I don’t want to be better—or worse,” Christine said desperately. “I just want to be normal. With a normal life … and a boyfriend.” She began to sob again. “A real boyfriend … just like everybody else.”

  “You’ll have to be patient…” Mabel said, rocking her gently. “All good things will come your way. You’ll see.”

  “How long do I have to wait?” Christine said vehemently. “I’m almost twenty-one. Every time I even start to get close to a guy … something happens to him. Car crash … skiing accident … drowning. I swear, sometimes I think God wants to keep me a virgin.”

  Not God, Mabel thought, holding her close.

  * * *

  The haunting, stilted melody from the music box drifted in the background as Jericho studied the leather-bound Bible. He found what he was looking for in Revelations 20:7.

  When the thousand years are ended, Satan shall be loosed out of his prison …

  Jericho closed the Bible and reached for his shirt.

  It was late when Jericho arrived at St. John’s Church on Central Park West. The edifice was in disrepair and when Jericho entered he saw the scaffolds beneath the stained-glass windows. The place needed an overhaul. The chapel looked like it hadn’t been used in years. Except for the votive candles flickering in front of the altar, there was no sign of life.

  But as Jericho neared the altar, a figure appeared out of the shadows and began distributing prayer books along the pews.

  The priest was tall, with short gray hair. He had sharp features and wore steel-rimmed glasses. When he had finished his preparations, he approached Jericho and gave him a regretful smile.

  “I’m sorry … we’re closed.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Thomas Aquinas.”

  The priest peered over his glasses at Jericho. “I’m Father Novak. Thomas was my friend and my colleague. Whatever happened this morning was not his doing.”

  Jericho shrugged. “Really? There was no one else on that fire escape.”

  Father Novak glanced at the cross above the altar. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand getting shot,” Jericho snapped. “I don’t like it.”

  Suddenly nervous, Father Novak stared at him. “He was shooting at you?”

  “He was shooting at my client. I just got in the way.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  Father Novak’s question had an urgent tone. Jericho brushed it aside. “That’s privileged information. Why would a priest try to kill someone?”

  “How long have you been drinking?”

  He caught Jericho off guard. Father Novak smiled. “It’s easy to smell. I’m fourteen years sober.”

  “Good for you,” Jericho said coldly, trying to regain control of the interview. “Was your friend and colleague working for someone?”

  “Maybe he was working for God.”

  Jericho snorted. “So God ordered a hit on an investment banker?”

  Father Novak’s sharp features became flinty. “There’s an awful lot you don’t know,” he said, voice laced with contempt. “You think you’ve seen everything? There’s a whole world you haven’t even dreamed of. Thomas saw it. And it destroyed him.”

  Jericho remembered the garish horror inside Thomas’s refuge. “I’ve seen a lot…” Jericho conceded. “But nothing that would make me want to cut out my tongue.”

  “Wait a few days.”

  The answer chilled Jericho’s skin. “What happens in a few days?”

  Father Novak looked at him intently. “Do you know anything about a girl?”

  Jericho’s chiseled features revealed nothing. “What girl?”

  The priest continued to study Jericho’s face as if weighing how much he could be trusted. “Tell me something … Do you believe in God?”

  “Maybe once. Not anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  “We had a difference of opinion. I thought my wife and daughter should live. He felt otherwise.”

  Father Novak seemed unmoved. He glanced at his watch as if anxious to leave. “Perhaps it’s time you renew your faith.”

  This interview has definitely gotten out of hand, Jericho thought ruefully. “This girl you were talking about … is she in trouble? Does she need help?”

  “You can’t understand,” Father Novak said sadly as if addressing a child. “You don’t know how. Now if you’ll excuse me, our hands are pretty full here.”

  He turned away, clearly dismissing Jericho.

  “I have more questions,” Jericho said lamely.

  Father Novak paused and shook his head. “I know, but if you can’t believe in God, what makes you think you can understand his adversaries?”

  “So now I have to believe in God to solve a crime?” Jericho asked as the priest moved behind the altar rail.

  “I assume you can find your way out,” Father Novak said over his shoulder.

  Jericho walked slowly toward the large doors, his brain churning with confusion. One thing was clear. The girl was the key. Whoever she was. And Father Novak was hiding something. On impulse Jericho turned and followed the priest into the vestibule behind the altar.

  But when Jericho entered, the room was empty. There was no Father Novak—and no other exits.

  He saw something move in the corner of his vision. A thick wall tapestry billowed slightly. Jericho crossed the floor and pulled the heavy fabric aside.

  The tapestry concealed a narrow doorway. Inside was a circular stairway leading down to darkness. After a moment’s hesitation, Jericho started down the stairs.

  At the bottom of the stairway was a light. It came from a room at the end of a dark corridor. As Jericho moved toward the light, he heard voices. Then he saw them.

  There were dozens of people in the stone chamber beneath the altar, all priests and academic types. They were gathered around desks and tables, reading various scrolls and translating texts. All were bent to their tasks with an urgent zeal.

  Like a religious sweatshop, Jericho observed, trying to minimize the fear strumming his taut belly.

  In the center of the room was a shriveled old woman, babbling in some strange tongue, her voice rising and falling. A number of priests attended to the woman. They wiped her face with wet towels, and put liquid nourishment to her lips. One of the priests moved aside, and Jericho saw the woman’s arms were outstretched.

  He also saw the shiny red blood streaming from open wounds on both her palms.

  Father Novak examined the woman briefly, sharp features drawn with anxiety. “How many have received the stigmata?” he demanded, looking around.

  “She’s the third this week,” a young priest offered.

  “Then he’s almost here.”

  Suddenly the old crone bolted upright, her eyes bulging—and she screamed. Her clawed, bloodied hand pointed directly at Jericho as she jabbered wildly.

  Jericho froze, pinned by the amazed stares of the people in the chamber. “What is she saying?” he asked in a strangled voice.

  Father Novak shielded her from view. “Get out!” he shouted. “Forget what you’ve seen here.”

  Jericho held his ground. “What drove Thomas insane?”

  Father Novak hurried across the room and took him by the arm. “There are forces at work
here you simply cannot comprehend,” he scolded.

  You got that right, Jericho thought, fear and confusion circling his brain. He shoved the priest aside and backed away.

  Once outside he took a deep breath and began walking, comforted by the normal city traffic. Yellow cabs, young lovers, street vendors, panhandlers, drunks, operagoers, artists, store clerks, bartenders; all flowed around him like healing water, washing away the clammy dread clinging to his skin.

  I must find the girl, Jericho kept repeating like some perverse mantra. But all he had was a picture. He recalled Father Novak’s hushed words. “Then he’s almost here.”

  The priest was right, Jericho didn’t understand what he had fallen into. But one thing he knew for certain. Time was running out.

  * * *

  In New York City, ConEd worked around the clock.

  Charlie liked the night shift: no traffic, no gawkers, just the cool, peaceful sewers. His partner Phil liked it, too. Phil was a whiz at paperwork, especially when it came to overtime. Between the two of them, they had it made.

  This job seemed simple enough. A manhole had popped a few hours before, most likely a methane buildup in the corridor. But it was too hot for methane. Charlie was sweating profusely minutes after descending into the swampy darkness. His mask filtered the foul odor, but he had no protection against the stifling heat.

  Exhausted, Charlie slogged over to the nearby gauge.

  “Whatcha got there, Charlie?”

  Phil’s voice echoed down the sewer tunnel as Charlie peered at the dials.

  “I dunno,” Charlie muttered, watching the quivering needle. “Pressure’s climbing off the gauge.”

  Charlie wasn’t really worried. Faulty gauges were common enough. And if the methane buildup went over the top, he always had his mask.

  Charlie was an optimist.

  A skin-searing flash blinded him—but he never heard the blast. A fiery geyser spewed up through the sewer, incinerating him instantly. Up on the street, Phil ran, but he couldn’t escape the second blast directly in front of him. Trapped, he pulled down his mask and ran headlong between the two columns of fire rising up like the gates of hell.

  Hell or heaven, he didn’t make it. The flames reached out for him and pulled him back.

  One after another, the manholes blew, erupting like white-hot volcanoes that consumed Phil’s bones and melted glass windows. The roaring pyrotechnics immediately drew a crowd, but not one of the onlookers noticed the opaque shape that slipped through them like an unholy wind.

  The time was at hand.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was more like a ripple than a definite shape. But its cold energy was quite palpable. Pedestrians shivered as it passed, not knowing why. It moved swiftly, drawn by its own yearning to be complete … whole … to fulfill its monstrous destiny.…

  The green-eyed man liked to think of himself as a realist.

  Not in the best of condition, he conceded, checking his image in the mirror. But his hand-tailored suit richly enhanced what nature had neglected. The discreet gold Cartier watch and ruby ring hinted at his power. And power was the strongest aphrodisiac.

  Stronger than the coke and champagne he was slipping Henry’s wife, the man mused, dabbing his face with a paper towel. The man surveyed himself in the men’s room mirror. He looked rich, he looked powerful, and he looked like the cold, ruthless son of a bitch he was.

  There was a rattling at the bolted door as if someone needed the restroom. Let them suffer, the man thought. A restaurant of this quality should have private facilities for its select clientele. He’d have to speak to Pietro about it.

  Anyway, after the attempt on his life that morning, he wasn’t about to unbolt the door until he was good and ready. The man took a deep breath. It felt good to be alive.

  He went over his agenda for the evening. First he would talk a bit of business with Henry over dinner. Then later, he would make love to Henry’s wife, Tina. Essentially fucking Henry twice, he gloated.

  The door rattled slightly.

  A shapeless ripple drifted through the door, silently twisting with a deep, yawning hunger.

  Still gazing into the mirror, the man didn’t see anything but himself.

  With incredible force, the ripple snapped the man’s spine, lifting his body off the floor and jerking his neck back so that his bulging eyes were gaping at the chandelier.

  The violent shock seemed to hold him aloft for an agonizing second, then evaporated, dropping his limp body to the cool black tiles.

  * * *

  Pietro’s restaurant had the unmistakable aroma of good food and money.

  The elegant leather banquettes were filled with well-groomed diners sporting opulent jewels and lots of arrogance.

  The kind of crowd I love, the green-eyed man exulted as he emerged from the men’s room. He stood for a moment and took a deep breath. He felt great.

  Henry and Tina both smiled as he approached. Despite a recent lift, Henry looked his sixty-seven years, making his twenty-six-year-old wife seem like a high-school cheerleader.

  But the man knew Tina was no cheerleader in bed. There she was an ageless priestess of the sensual arts. And he was suddenly famished for her flesh.

  “So tell us—what happened this morning.” Henry asked when he joined them in the booth. “Can’t believe somebody tried to shoot you.”

  The man ignored Henry. Instead, he leaned over and put his mouth on Tina’s surprised lips, kissing her as deeply as she had ever been kissed. At the same time he slid his hand down the front of her dress and cupped her breast.

  Some of the diners at nearby tables began to stare.

  Tina pulled her head back, breathless. She looked at him, mouth half open. He smiled and caressed her pink nipple.

  “Come with me,” the man said softly.

  Henry’s disbelieving gasp became an animal growl of rage. But as Henry started to rise, the man turned, pale green eyes blank and intense. Slowly, Henry sat down. Tina didn’t try to remove the man’s hand. Nor did she resist. She gazed at him in rapt silence, as if seeing him for the first time.

  The man slowly drew his hand away from her breast. “Your choice.” He sighed regretfully. He picked up his coat and left the booth, ignoring the curious eyes following him to the door. Pietro bowed uncertainly as he passed.

  The chill night air was refreshing, the man noted when he stepped outside. He decided to walk around a bit. He hadn’t felt this good in years.

  When the man reached the corner, he paused to button his coat.

  Behind him, Pietro’s restaurant suddenly exploded in a white-hot blast of flame that charred the cars parked nearby. The intense fireball consumed everything from the customers to Pietro himself.

  Poor, foolish Tina, the man mused, walking briskly toward Fifth Avenue. She blew it.

  * * *

  Sometimes Dr. Donald Abel wished he had stayed a priest. Especially when dealing with his fifteen-year-old daughter, Hope.

  He had provided Hope with everything a girl in New York could want: a spacious town house, prestigious private school, clothes, generous allowance. But she always managed to make him feel as if he had failed her somehow.

  “So now you hate school,” he said patiently. “What’s new?”

  “No, it’s just that I hate the fact they put finals after the holiday. It ruins the whole meaning of vacation.”

  Abel glanced at his wife, Felice, a still-beautiful woman of forty-five. Felice had been a nun at Our Lady of Mercy when Dr. Abel met her. Now they were an affluent New York couple with a high-spirited daughter.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Dr. Abel reassured his daughter. “You always do fine. Besides, a bad grade isn’t the end of the world.”

  Just then the doorbell rang.

  Dr. Abel and his wife exchanged a surprised glance. Who could that be? he wondered, moving to the front door. When he peered through the glass and saw who stood there, he hurried to unlock the door.

  Feeli
ng slightly dizzy, Dr. Abel stepped back as the green-eyed man entered. Somehow he had expected the arrival to be accompanied by the blare of trumpets, or a cosmic chorus. Instead the man strode into the room and unbuttoned his coat without ceremony.

  “It’s you,” Dr. Abel blurted out. “I didn’t…” He fell silent, his initial shock overcome by a fearful awe.

  The man seemed not to notice. “The girl. Where is she?” he asked curtly.

  “She’s safe,” Dr. Abel reported.

  The man caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror and winced slightly in disapproval. Vanity was his strongest currency. “And what of the world?” he inquired.

  “Everything is as planned. Our acts go unnoticed, unquestioned. We are everywhere.”

  Hope appeared in the hallway. “Daddy, who is it?” She gave the man a shy smile, clearly fascinated.

  “Is that your daughter?” the man asked.

  Something in his tone alerted Dr. Abel. “Yes.”

  The man rubbed his hands together and looked beyond Hope, into the dining room where Felice was sitting. “Is that your wife?”

  There was no mistaking the question. Dr. Abel’s heart began to boom as he realized it was Judgment Day. His fleeting years of success, luxury, pleasure, and power had all come due at this moment.

  It was time to pay the piper his terrible price.

  * * *

  The naked bodies rose and fell in the shadows. The man loomed above the two women, his pale green eyes feverishly bright. He thrust into Felice and kissed her daughter, who responded eagerly.

  “Oh God, oh God,” Felice moaned.

  “No God,” the man rasped, thrusting violently. “Me!”

  As they writhed and caressed, their bodies started to melt together, one into another. Smooth limbs, sensual bellies and breasts, ecstatic faces; all shifted and merged until the man was making love to one woman.

  Christine York.

  * * *

  Her head was thrown back against the pillow, her face glowing with intense passion as she lifted herself to him … Christine’s eyes fluttered open and she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror.