End of Days (13 page)

Chicago pulled his arm away. “What do you think, doctor?”

Jericho didn't answer. The hairs on his neck prickled and he glanced around. The room was empty. Still, he sensed the presence.

“Yo,” Chicago called. “What is wrong with you? What the hell is going on?”

Silently, Jericho went to the window and looked down.

*   *   *

You see everything in New York, as Bronwyn always liked to say. So she was more curious than surprised when, while walking her cat, she looked up and saw someone falling from a great height, arms and legs flailing.

The crash sounded like an explosion when he hit the car. Hesitantly, Bronwyn picked up her cat and joined the others hurrying across the street.

She was glad to see there was no blood. The car's roof was completely caved in, forming a metal hammock for the dead man. “Did he jump?” someone asked. Nobody answered. They all stared at the inert figure on the crumpled roof. “I called 911,” someone else announced.

Bronwyn was about to turn away and continue walking her cat, when she saw something. The dead man's finger twitched. She looked around. No one else seemed to notice.

However they did notice when seconds later, the man's hand moved. There was an awed murmur as they watched the man open his eyes, stiffly push himself erect, and swing his legs down to the sidewalk. He leaned against the car and dusted himself off.

Bronwyn clutched her cat protectively, but she was curious. “Hell of a fall there, mister,” she ventured.

“I've had worse,” the man confided. He stretched his arms and she heard his neck crack.

Then, regally, as if he'd just left an exclusive club, he strode through the crowd and hailed a cab.

*   *   *

Fear clamped his belly like an octopus, cold and slimy, as he watched the crowd below part to let the man pass.
It's true,
Jericho told himself.
The scumbag was right—I'm afraid to believe it.

As he turned away, he glimpsed the ballerina music box on his nightstand. Suddenly he remembered Christine.

“I shouldn't have left her alone like that,” Jericho muttered, picking up his jacket. “I should be there.” He paused and looked at Chicago.

“I need your help.”

Chicago smiled. This was the Jericho he knew. “Tell me what to do.”

“I've gotta get back there,” Jericho explained as if talking to himself. “Get her as far from him as I can.”

“Okay, we leave town,” Chicago said patiently. “You get her. I'll get the secure car. Just tell me—where do we meet?”

Jericho hesitated, “St. John's Church in one hour.”

“St. John's Church,” Chicago repeated. He gave Jericho a long, skeptical look, as if trying to diagnose his illness.

Jericho shrugged ruefully. “Even I can't believe what I'm starting to believe.”

*   *   *

Christine was beginning to wonder if she'd made the right choice by staying with Father Novak. The people around him were slightly to the right of the Crusaders. Several monks had posted themselves around Christine and stood vigilant guard, while the others prayed and consulted their texts. They radiated a fluorescent intensity in the gloomy chamber.

“How much longer, father?” she asked, wishing she could go outside.

Father Novak pressed his hands together, as if pleading for her patience. “He must sire his child between eleven and midnight tomorrow night. We must keep you hidden until then.”

“I feel as if I'm suffocating down here,” she said, jaw set stubbornly. “Could I go upstairs to the chapel for a while?”

Father Novak nodded. “Of course. I'll go with you myself.”

In the cool quiet of the empty church, Christine managed to calm her frayed nerves. She took a deep breath and wished she could light a cigarette. Father Novak was seated in a pew a few rows behind her. Christine turned to ask permission, and saw the large wooden doors yawn open.

Cold shock washed over Christine when she saw the hooded figures march into the church. She ducked down in her pew.

“Who's there?” Father Novak called, rising to face the visitors. Six monks in black robes shuffled down the aisle. In their midst was a pale old man with fierce black eyes wearing the bright scarlet cap of a cardinal.

From photographs in the Vatican newspaper, Father Novak recognized Cardinal Gubbio, one of the pope's close advisors. As the elderly cardinal approached, Father Novak knelt.

“Your Eminence,” Father Novak said uncertainly. “We weren't expecting…”

The prelate extended his hand. “In this hour of darkness, we need all the help we can get.”

Father Novak bent to kiss the cardinal's ring.

“How is the girl?” Cardinal Gubbio said brusquely.

“The girl is fine, thanks,” Christine announced, stepping out of the shadows. It was a mistake.

Cardinal Gubbio turned to her and smiled, his dark eyes glittering in the candlelight. At that moment Christine saw the amulet dangling from his neck.

Red heart pierced by a silver sword.

It was like reading her death sentence.

“No…,” Christine rasped, lunging toward the door, but it was too late. Two of the hooded monks grabbed her from behind.

“Father—they're the ones who tried to kill me,” she cried, struggling to twist free as the cardinal approached.

“Your Eminence, what are you doing?” Father Novak demanded, stepping between Christine and the advancing cardinal.

Cardinal Gubbio reached beneath his cloak and drew a long silver dagger, shaped like a cross. “We cannot allow the union to take place,” he declared.

Father Novak stood his ground. “Your Eminence,… you can't…”

Face as white as a bone, the elderly cardinal glared at Father Novak, black eyes blazing with all the authority of his holy office. Slowly the priest shrank back.

“You mustn't do this,” Father Novak protested.

“She is one life,” the cardinal said wearily. “How many lives are you prepared to end if we do nothing?” He gestured and four monks pinned Christine to the floor.

“We can't do evil to prevent evil.”

Cardinal Gubbio brushed past the priest, dagger ready. “There is no time. It is the only way.”

The Cardinal dipped the blade in holy water, then raised it above Christine's breast. Christine heaved and struggled against the monks holding her limbs.

“You cowards!” she shouted. “You fucking cowards. You'd rather kill me than protect me?”

A monk began to drone a prayer in Latin as the cardinal lifted the blade.

“May God forgive me,” the cardinal said hoarsely.

“Amen,” the monks intoned.

Christine screamed as the silver blade swung down.

Her scream was cut short by a sudden blast that shattered the dagger in midair. For a long moment the church fell completely silent.

Jericho strode down the aisle, his gun trailing smoke like incense. “God may forgive you, but I'm not as reasonable.”

“Jericho…!” Christine cried as the cardinal lunged for her throat with the broken blade.

This time the blast shattered the cardinal's hand. His arm jolted back and the silver blade spun across the marble floor.

“I can do it all day,” Jericho said calmly. “Now let her go.”

The monks glanced at the wounded cardinal. The old prelate refused to give in. He glared at Jericho with raging fervor. “You must let us finish. If she is slain, his hope of creating a kingdom on earth will die with her. Her death is God's will.”

“No,” Father Novak spat. “It is
your
will. This can only lead to our destruction.” As he spoke, his small band of monks and scholars appeared, drawn by the gunshots.

The cardinal didn't waver. “She must be removed,” he insisted. “It is the only way to defeat him.”

Jericho groaned in disgust and pressed his Glock against the cardinal's temple.

The elderly prelate glanced at the gun barrel against his head. “For a thousand years we have sworn ourselves to this. We aren't afraid to die.”

“Good—because I'm not afraid to kill you,” Jericho said tersely. He leaned over and pulled Christine to her feet. The hooded monks did not resist.

Jericho put an arm around Christine's shoulder, and started backing toward the door.

Without warning, a shudder rippled through Christine's belly. She stopped.

“What?” Jericho whispered anxiously, eyes on the cardinal's guard.

“Oh no…” she moaned, almost to herself. “Oh no, oh no.”

“What's wrong?”

Christine pulled away. “I can feel him,” she said hoarsely.
“He's here.”

Cardinal Gubbio looked around for the fallen dagger.

“Please…” Christine clutched Jericho's shoulder. “… Don't let me.”

“I won't,” he promised, keeping his eye on Gubbio's monks.

The great doors blew open with a thundering boom. Slowly, the man entered. He wore a long black coat and black boots that amplified his arrogant swagger as he strode down the aisle.

With each step the marble floors and stone walls reverberated. The granite pillars trembled and a deep rumble shook the vaulted cathedral.

The titanic footsteps seemed to vibrate inside Jericho's very heartbeat. But he stood fast, shielding Christine.

“God help us…” The old cardinal crossed himself. “We're too late.”

The man paused in the center of the church and put his hands on his hips. “I've come for my wife,” he growled, green eyes sweeping the church until they found Christine.

Father Novak stepped in front of him. “This is the house of the Lord Our God,” he said fervently. “You are not welcome here!”

The man shrugged. “I can bear the pain of being in church. How much pain can you bear?” All the candles suddenly flared, illuminating the man's triumphant expression as he reached out to Christine.

“Christine, come to me…”

His vibrant whisper echoed in the flickering silence. Cold fear snaked around Jericho's chest. He took Christine's wrist and pulled her back toward the altar. At the same time Father Novak's followers came to their side.

“Christine, don't be fooled by a world of liars,” the man warned, moving toward her. His footsteps thundered and the altar shook violently, sending the crucifix to the floor. “I'm what you've been waiting for all these years,” he crooned. “I'm the answer to your prayers.”

Eyes glazed, she weakly tried to pull away, but Jericho held tight. One of Father Novak's monks scooped up the fallen crucifix and advanced on the man, intoning the Lord's Prayer.

The monk stopped and thrust the crucifix in the man's face. “In the name of God, I order you to leave here!”

The man rolled his eyes. “Oh, please,” he muttered yanking the crucifix from the monk's hands. With a bored expression, he imbedded the crucifix into the monk's forehead. Crucifix jutting like a bloody antler, the monk fell against the man.

“Get her out of here!” Father Novak pushed Jericho toward the rear door. “Go!”

Shoving the dead monk's body aside the man came closer, pews and pillars shivering with each step. Some of Father Novak's followers ran, while others attacked, shouting prayers.

The prayers suddenly disintegrated into agonized gurgles as blood showered the walls. Jericho dragged Christine to the rear door while the man was distracted by the brief, brutal battle.

“For the glory of God!”

The cardinal lunged from the shadows like a white-faced snake, stabbing at Christine with the broken dagger.

Jericho's hand whipped out, grabbed the cardinal's bony wrist and hurled him against the wall. The old prelate collapsed, his dark eyes bulging with hatred.

“You've killed us all…,” he groaned. “You've killed us all,”

But Jericho was already out the door with Christine.

The only one who heard the old cardinal's despairing moan was the approaching man. He paused beside the weeping cardinal, and put both hands on the old prelate's head, as if conferring a blessing.

“A thousand years you have awaited my return,” the man intoned. “Behold that you have failed—and with your last breath bear witness to the End of Days.”

As if popping a paper bag, the man crushed the cardinal's skull between his hands.

C
HAPTER TWELVE

Christine seemed to revive when they hit fresh air. No longer resisting, she ran down the alley behind Jericho. She saw Jericho stop at the end of the alley and motion for her to be careful. When she caught up she saw why.

A gang of men and women, all dressed in the same long black coats and black boots worn by their leader, were waiting in the shadows.

Jericho pushed her back behind a Dumpster.

“What's the use?” Christine sobbed. “It's going to happen, no matter what we do.”

“It won't,” Jericho said quietly.

She glared at him defiantly. “How do you know?”

“Because I won't let it happen,” he said slowly. “I lost my daughter. I'm not gonna lose you.”

Squealing tires cut off her reply. Jericho peered around the corner and spotted Chicago's town car. It screeched to a stop behind the gang of black-booted followers. Jericho turned and saw Christine moving back to the church.

“He's calling me…,” she crooned.

Jericho snatched Christine's wrist and pulled her toward the town car. He charged wildly as the crowd of black coats converged to stop him, and he slammed into the wall of people like a 400-pound fullback.

With savage power Jericho bowled aside the first wave and tore through the rest. Steering Christine to the town car, he pushed her ahead of him, then whirled to face the raging gang.

“Run!” Jericho yelled. He pumped a few shots into the ground, scattering the black-booted acolytes.