“Thank you,” he told them with a nod. There was no reply.
They followed him inside, and, once the door was securely shut behind them, Jeremiah afforded a moment to look around. There was no one else in the foyer with them. Perfect. He turned to the guards and signaled for them to take the lead. They walked in front of him, and one after the other fell with broken necks. Jeremiah stepped over them and checked his watch.
He knew that this was the Don’s usual nap time. In two and a half minutes, Francesco Gibaldi would get an urgent call about business. Like always, he would take this call in his office where he could access his paperwork. There, he would meet a most unhappy long-lost acquaintance.
Jeremiah slipped into the office, and, as he did, he could see a light on a phone in the office begin to flash. Marla was known for being punctual. He stepped into the shadows and waited. Moments later, Gibaldi walked briskly into his office and greeted the person on the other line. But, to his surprise, there was no one on the other line. He returned the phone to the receiver as Jeremiah stepped out of the shadows.
“Long time, Jeremiah,” Gibaldi said in accented English.
“What happened to you, Francesco? You used to be such a good boy.”
“Isn’t it funny how things change? I suppose it would be pointless to call for security.”
Jeremiah smiled. “You know me too well. I thought we would have this conversation alone.”
“Once they told me that you were back, I knew you would come for me eventually.”
“You fought against Mussolini. You kept him from ever becoming a true threat to the rest of the world. Then, you became a leader in Italian crime. What happened?”
Gibaldi’s still youthful face contorted. “The world didn’t change. Your poison ran too deep for there to be any lasting impact. Now, I have a family to protect. People rely on me not to make decisions to protect the world, but decisions to protect them. How can you judge me? No matter how many people die at my hands, that number will never come close to what you have personally overseen.”
“I was shocked when I intercepted information that you intend to help Metatron in killing my prophets.”
“They’re not your prophets, Jeremiah. You’re a demon. They fight for God. Have you so quickly forgotten why you fought? God let all of this happen. It was His will that my parents and sister die at the hands of that bastard. Remember?”
“Yes,” Jeremiah verified, looking ashamed, “I do remember what I said to you. But I was wrong, and the world is changing. There is now hope, and I’m seeing that hope more clearly.”
Gibaldi shook his head. “Though it happened after you would have liked it to, you converted me once. Don’t think you’re going to do it again, Jeremiah.”
“What did Metatron give you?”
Gibaldi shuddered. “He threatened to torture and kill my family.”
Jeremiah held a menacing glare. “As you can see, that may happen anyway.”
“And here I thought you’d turned over a new leaf, Jeremiah. Threatening an innocent woman and children? That’s reminiscent.”
Jeremiah rolled his eyes. “I have no intention of harming your wife or children unless they get in my way. My point is that they are not well-protected. At any time, if Metatron wanted to up the ante, he would only have to threaten your family again to make you jump. I could put them in a safe place, and you could do the work you began—fighting evil, instead of aiding it.”
“I am not that easily won, Jeremiah. I’m tired of empty promises. Metatron has the power to follow through on what he says. No offense, Jeremiah, but he seems to be winning. He’s got you on the defensive, and you’re running around the world trying to stop him before he gets wherever it is that he’s going. I foresee that he stays, and you go.”
“Your visions don’t mean as much as they used to,” Jeremiah retorted, though he could not shake a growing fear that this ex-prophet might know what he was talking about. And the thought of Hell was ever-present on the demon’s mind.
“Maybe not,” Gibaldi replied, “but it’s what I see nonetheless.”
“Your children,” Jeremiah observed, “are obviously not yours. What made you choose to adopt?”
“Are you going to psychoanalyze me, Jeremiah? I adopted because I wanted a legacy. Just because prophets can’t reproduce doesn’t mean that they don’t want someone to remember them, someone to care for.”
“The reason prophets can’t have children is because they have a more important responsibility. The world is your responsibility, Francesco.”
Gibaldi laughed. “Don’t try to guilt trip me. I paid my dues. I paid in the blood of everyone who had ever been important to me. I’d prefer not to have to pay anymore, but that seems to be a choice that isn’t mine to make.”
“You gave yourself a liability with your family. Didn’t you think about the consequences of your actions before you involved them in this?”
Gibaldi hung his head and walked around his desk to his chair and plopped down. “It was desperation. Nothing else meant anything anymore. My fight was over. My family and friends were dead from it. I wanted something to live for, but you’re right. I didn’t think it through. I couldn’t have. It wasn’t until I fully understood what it was I stood to lose that I understood at all. Do what you came to do, Jeremiah. But promise me that you will protect my family.”
Jeremiah nodded. “I will.”
Then, he shot Gibaldi in the head.
***
The Dalai Lama took a walk along the mountain path every morning. The serenity of the environment and the peace it offered him were very therapeutic, especially in troubled times like these. He’d made one of the most difficult decisions he felt he’d ever had to make. His religion advocated change, and it preached against becoming too attached to anything, but he loved the Panchen Lama like a son.
When the Panchen was very young, the Dalai Lama had called him Lao Shi, old teacher, and the name seemed to stick. The irony stopped with the physical age difference between their bodies because the souls of the Dalai Lama and the Panchen Lama had walked together for a very long time, and His Holiness could definitely see remarkable resemblances between this new Panchen and the previous, his friend of old.
Even as a boy, Lao Shi exhibited traits of his predecessor. Throughout time, the Buddhists believed that the Dalai Lama and the Panchen Lama skipped across the ages, continually reincarnating into new bodies as they went. The thought of the wisest and strongest of the Buddhist infrastructure being around for all times in new bodies gave hope and leadership to the faith, if faith it could be called. And the Dalai Lama had always been able to feel the steadfast and sturdy soul of his friend in this boy. Though there were many tests that each new reincarnation had to go through to validate the claim of a new Lama, the most telling to the Dalai Lama was the presence of an ageless soul. That, though, was a test only another Lama could perform.
He had learned so much from Lao Shi, despite his age, that he felt almost as if he were learning the ways of Buddhism from the previous Panchen all over again. Thus, the name seemed appropriate. Now, his old teacher was gone again, and he would have to face the coming tribulations alone.
Disturbed by his thoughts and not enjoying the undertone of desperation that this day seemed to be exhibiting, the Dalai Lama decided it was time to walk back to the monastery. He had come pretty far down the mountain in his search to find enlightenment in this situation, and, in a similar fashion, he had traversed many miles within his own soul. Satisfied, he turned and began the walk back to his home. Blocking his path was a man he had been expecting since Jeremiah’s visit.
“Metatron,” the Lama observed.
“You’ve been quite busy,” Metatron noted. “I didn’t think Jeremiah would have had that much influence on you, based on past events.”
“The world changes,” the Dalai Lama replied. “If we don’t change with it, we get left behind.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps, forgiveness wo
uld even do a demon good.”
“How dare you lecture me,” Metatron spat at him. “I was there in humanity’s darkest hours, telling them of hope and forgiveness.” He motioned to the monastery. “You sit up there in your temple, preaching archaic knowledge to dumbfounded masses. I think you’ve spent too much time on the moral high ground. You can no longer understand the people who follow you. You seem to think them capable of handling their own lives and sifting through their own problems long enough to comprehend the true nature of the world around them, but they can’t. They can’t see beyond themselves. And what do you do? You continue to teach your arbitrary methods. To what end?”
“I think you know the answer to that question.”
Metatron laughed. “You prophets and your optimism. What? Peace? Hope? Tranquility? Do you think that these were meant for the sheep? They get happiness from ignorance and peace from lies. You have no place in their world.”
“I don’t expect you to understand matters of faith,” the Lama returned coolly.
The demon roared and extended his hand to grasp His Holiness by the neck. He quickly retracted his hand as it hit an invisible barrier and began to burn. He looked up to the Lama, who seemed neither alarmed nor satisfied by what had just happened.
“Yes,” Metatron said after he’d calmed down. “I should have known better than to try something like that with one such as you. Forgive my…explosion. But you should know that I was once a prophet, too. Unlike all other angels, I was human like yourself.”
The Lama nodded in affirmation. “The Bible says you walked with God. You were called Enoch.”
“There’s no surprising you, is there?”
“Despite how archaic my knowledge would seem to be or how arbitrary my methods, I am still a child of the times. It isn’t a matter of great difficulty to find written history.”
Metatron nodded. “The point being that I understand faith.”
“I believe that you did once,” the Lama retorted, “but now you are fighting for the wrong side. Angels are not expected to play by the same rules as humans are. Your faith is not only an integral part of your existence; it is what defines you. We can lose our faith and revel in the beauty of getting it back. If angels lose their faith, they cease to be angels. I believe that is why you’re speaking with me now.”
Metatron narrowed his eyes at the Dalai Lama. “Yes, well I think this is going nowhere. Like all good things, this conversation must come to an end. I will remember it always and stow it away as an excellent learning experience, but I have other matters to attend to.” And, with that, the demon was gone.
The Lama sighed with relief. He was sure that this was the time he had been envisioning. He had not wanted to battle the demon, but the situation seemed to be escalating toward that direction. Then, he heard a deafening explosion.
He looked up the mountain to see pieces of his monastery shoot far into the air, and a ball of fire engulfed the area where the holy place once stood. Two other explosions tore out huge holes in the side of the mountain. The Lama watched as a landslide barreled down the mountain in his direction. He took his eyes off his bane and looked back to the burning monastery. Debris was falling everywhere as smoke was billowing up to the heavens. The Dalai Lama sadly accepted the fate of his followers. Then, he serenely accepted his own. In his last moment of life, he was grateful for Jeremiah’s intervention. He knew that the demon had saved the life of the Panchen Lama and many of the monks, and Lao Shi would be the best hope for the Buddhist people in the coming times of woe.
“Find me again, old teacher,” His Holiness prayed as the earth overtook him.
***
Alex had almost passed out at his desk. It was only about eight in the evening, but he was exhausted. He scanned the last two pages of Revelations and put it down. Satan got bound, God created a new Heaven and new Earth, and Jesus made promises and threats. Altogether, Alex thought, not as exciting as people make it out to be. Alex rubbed his face to wake himself up. He stood and stretched, and little by little, he started coming back.
There was a knock on the door that brought him back to reality. He opened it, and he saw that Marla was standing on the other side.
“Tomorrow’s the big day,” she said.
“Yeah,” Alex agreed, “I guess so.”
She handed him a manila envelope. “You’re going to have a new identity. If the name Alexander Tanner comes up, it could spell big trouble for you. Everyone you knew thinks you’re dead, and I don’t think the government would take too kindly to finding out that someone they presumed dead was actually alive, walking around, and part of a conspiracy. Your new name will be Thomas James Kinsfield.”
“Well, at least you kept my middle name.”
“With all the things you will have to learn for a new identity, we decided that the middle name was least important. So it’s one less thing for you to have to worry about. I’m afraid almost everything else will change, though.”
“Like what?”
“Everything, Alex,” Marla repeated patiently. “You are the only son of a wealthy property owner who lives in a very elite subdivision just outside of Las Vegas. His name is Robert Kinsfield, and he owns real estate on the Strip. He’s got some money, but his name isn’t big enough to attract much attention. His family helped to settle this area a long time ago and held onto their property. Now, the dirt their property is composed of is worth far more than its weight in gold. That’ll be your story, anyway. The truth of the matter is that the property belongs to Jeremiah, as does Robert Kinsfield and probably a fifth of this city.”
“So, who is Robert Kinsfield?”
“Like I said, to the public eye he’s a wealthy real estate owner who achieved the only fame he has through old money. In point of fact, he is a highly trained psychologist and a phenomenal businessman, but his real name is no more Robert Kinsfield than yours is Thomas.
“Jeremiah hired this individual more than twenty-five years ago to begin a life here and watch over some of his assets. Recently, Elizabeth decided that Kinsfield would be the best person to play your father, so she hired him to do that on top of everything else he was doing. Since Jeremiah set up his compound here, there has been little need for Kinsfield to protect Jeremiah’s assets. After this one last escapade, Kinsfield can take whatever name he chooses, retire and live the high life on some tropical island if he likes.”
“Okay,” Alex said. “So I’m the son of old money. Anything else I should know?”
“For starters,” Marla replied, “your style is going to change. How do you feel about imported silk?”
“I guess it’s fine. What’s wrong with what I have on?”
Marla smiled. “That’s what everyone is going to expect you to be wearing. Besides, jeans and shirts with trendy logos don’t say son of a millionaire.”
“Well, I suppose I could use a change of clothes.”
“And hair,” Marla added.
“Hair?” Alex asked, suddenly concerned.
“Yep. We’re going to cut it shorter and dye it brown.”
“Uh, Marla, I like my hair.”
“Sweetheart, I’m sure you like your clothes too, but the more different you look from a distance, the less likely you are to be recognized by someone who would want to kill you.”
Alex shuddered at the thought of changing his hair. “I guess.”
“On the bright side, how do you feel about a Logos?”
Logos was the name of the most impressive car on the market. In the recent past, a new car company, Pandora, had designed an impressive engine that utilized the best environmentally-friendly technology. And, to everyone’s dismay, the car had the capabilities to match the horsepower and speed of any other sports car in production. The prices were, of course, outrageous, but the Logos was a hit with the wealthy all over the country and in Europe.
Alex’s demeanor changed, “That sounds fun.”
“I thought you’d like that. Tomorrow, we’ll get your hair ta
ken care of. After that, you can tool around in your new car—to get to know it. Then, you’re off to school.”
“Marla, isn’t it going to seem strange that someone with that much money is going to a state school?”
She smiled. “If you were going to inherit your wealth, wouldn’t you want to go where you had the least amount of responsibility?”
Alex nodded. “I suppose.”
***
“I still don’t understand why you have to go,” Elizabeth pleaded.
Matt sighed. “We’ve been over this. I don’t trust mercenaries to be able to protect Alex.”
“We’ll still be watching, and we won’t be that far away. We can intervene if something happens.”
“Like Metatron popping in here? We had no way of knowing that was coming.”
Elizabeth grabbed Matt by the shoulders. “You almost died. You always almost die. One of these days it isn’t going to be almost.”
Matt shrugged her off. “Didn’t you hear Jeremiah? If Alex dies, we’re fucked.”
“What if I die? Does that mean anything to you?”
Matt closed his eyes. “Don’t do this to me.”
“I guess that’s my answer,” she said and turned away.
Matt walked out of the room, determined not to be swayed.
Chapter 8
History of warfare has shown that there is a significant positive correlation between the amount of resources available and victory. In a battle between Heaven and Hell the only ammunition of importance, the only currency, the only quantitative measure of victory is the number of humans who fall or ascend. The battle for Heaven is completely lost to the demons, and only the most tormented of spirits fight over Hell, so Earth is the only feasible battleground. And we humans are the fodder. Both sides organize troops and construct fortresses. They decide upon or create generals for their armies. They design plans of attack and implement them with cunning strategy. But we are the losers, no matter on which side we may be. Alexander Tanner was an excellent general not because his followers died heroically for the most noble of causes—which they did—but because so few of them had to.
Demonic Designs (To Absolve the Fallen) Page 19