End of Days (6 page)

The albino took the money, but he didn't leave. He continued to stare as if transfixed. She glanced around. The other passengers were all looking somewhere else.

“Hey, I gave you some money,” Christine said calmly. “Can you just move on?”

“He's coming for you,” the albino warned. “He's coming for you, Christine.”

An electric prickle crawled up her spine. “Christine? How do you know me?” she demanded. “Who are you?”

The albino smirked obscenely. “He's gonna fuck you. Fuck you. Can you see him? Can you see him?” He started to move off.

“Who are you?” she repeated. “How do you know my…”

Christine reached for the albino's arm. It shattered like porcelain in her hand. Just then the car lights went out.

As the subway hurtled through the tunnel, strobing lights swept the car, revealing demonic faces leering at her. The car began to violently shake and rattle. The albino man crashed to the floor and smashed into a hundred pieces … each piece bursting into flame …

Christine screamed.

Suddenly it was quiet. The lights blinked on as the train slowed and came to a stop. Everyone in the car seemed startled by her outburst. They were looking at her strangely. Christine glanced around the car.

The albino had vanished.

Embarrassed, she retrieved her book. “I'm sorry,” she muttered. “I'm sorry.”

But they continued to stare.

*   *   *

Home sweet home. Jericho had to admit his décor compared favorably to Thomas Aquinas's Neo-Inferno style.

He filled his glass with vodka and downed it.
The place is starting to look better already,
Jericho noted, refilling his glass. He moved to the bedroom and pulled off his shirt. He stood at the mirror and dropped his Kevlar vest.

Two large, yellow-green welts marked his massive chest where the bullets had struck. And they ached with each breath. Two aspirin, another vodka, and some sports cream lubricated his bruises. Like any good athlete, he knew how to play hurt.

Trying to sort out the day's events, Jericho wandered over to the window. The dark, restless sky above the city rolled with gathering thunderheads. Jericho tried to remember what Thomas Aquinas had shouted at him.

When the thousand years are ended … When the thousand years …

Abruptly Jericho turned and went to his closet. He reached back through the clutter and pulled out a cardboard box. He set the box on his bed and opened it. After rummaging through some books, envelopes, and old documents, he found what he was looking for. An old, leather-bound Bible.

As Jericho lifted the Bible, he discovered a cracked music box beneath it. Immediately he recognized it. It belonged to his daughter Amy. When he picked up the music box some photographs fluttered to the bed.

A flood of emotion rushed over his brain as he studied the pictures. His daughter Amy, and Emily his wife, making sand castles at the beach. Happier days. He picked up the music box and wound the key.

The tiny ballerina began to twirl as a tinkling melody floated through the quiet …

*   *   *

When Christine York arrived at her town house, she was exhausted.

She locked the door behind her and hurried past the library, where she knew Mabel would be waiting for her.

“Christine?” Mabel called as she passed. “Christine?”

“I'll be there in a sec…” Christine hurried upstairs to her room. She went to her phone and punched the speed dial. “Hello, is Dr. Abel in? It's Christine York.”

As usual Dr. Abel picked up immediately.

“I had another one,” Christine said breathlessly.

“How long this time?”

“I don't know … twenty or thirty seconds. It was pretty frightening.”

“Christine, listen to me,” Dr. Abel said patiently. “We've gone over this before.”

Actually, Dr. Abel had been Christine's spiritual advisor ever since he had baptized her in blood in a hospital morgue.

At the time he had been known as Father Abel, head priest of Our Lady of Mercy Hospital. Now he was Dr. Abel, prominent psychiatrist with one special patient—his unholy godchild Christine York.

“You're feeling stressed,” he said soothingly. “It's perfectly natural to feel that way around the holidays. Understand … these dreams are your creation. There's nothing real about them. You control them … they don't control you. Take another Xanax to relieve your anxiety. Trust me…” He lowered his voice. “You're fine.”

Christine slowly exhaled. “You sure? Okay … okay, Xanax. I will, thank you.”

“Another vision?”

Christine looked up and saw her mother standing in the doorway.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Mabel Rand asked in a pained voice.

“I didn't want you to worry.”

Mabel gave her a rueful smile. “I'm your mother. It's my job to worry.” It was true. Mabel had been Christine's guardian since the moment she'd been born. Nurse Rand—her title at the time—had served as her godmother in blood. When Christine's parents were killed in a car accident, Mabel stepped in and adopted her.

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.

*   *   *