Last Days (Last Days Trilogy #1) (4 page)

“Seth, just a sec.” Reggie sat at Eliza Leon’s kitchen table, tightening a screw on the back of the video game controller.

“Hurry! We want to play,” Seth beckoned.

“Will you please be quiet?” Reggie looked at him. “Here.” She set the screwdriver down and handed Seth the control. “Here. I hope Kathleen kicks your butt for being so impatient.”

“Yeah right.” Seth smiled and darted into the living room.

Reggie picked up her coffee cup and walked to the pot by the sink where Eliza, Marcus’ mother, was wiping down the counter. “Janice bowling tonight?” Reggie asked.

“Yep. Every other Wednesday I got Kathleen. And I’m glad you bring Seth over.” Eliza turned around. “How’s Seth getting along in school this year?”

“Still getting picked on.” Reggie poured some coffee. “He’s so small. So he’s a target. I tried to help but… well, you know.”

“I remember those days. Poor Marcus. Always getting picked on.” Eliza moved to the kitchen table and sat down. “He was tiny too. But...” She let out a sigh. “...that was back in the days when I could protect him.”

Reggie raised her eyebrows, and then joined her. “Eliza?”

“I can’t protect him anymore. Not now.”

“Marcus will be fine. No one’s going to hurt him.”

“I’m not worried about someone hurting him. I’m worried about his soul.”

“Eliza, God gave him the brains to do what he’s doing.”

“Yeah, and he’s taken that gift and slapped the Good Lord in the face with it.”

“I disagree.”

“You would. I got a call today. Guess who?”

Reggie shook her head.

“The Pope.”

“Not
the
Pope.”

“The one and only,” Eliza said. “He wants me to appeal to my son, to make him see the error of his ways.”

Reggie chuckled. “Don’t you think people are being a little ridiculous over this?”

“How can you say that? You know what The Shroud stands for.”

“I know what people believe it stands for. I also know what historians and experts say.”

“Marcus said it was the image of Jesus.”

“Well …” Reggie sung her words.

“So you doubt my son is an expert?”

“I think Marcus said whatever would draw the most attention. What if the historians are right? What if it wasn’t Jesus wrapped in that cloth, but some murderer or criminal who was crucified for crimes that...”

“Regina!” Eliza gasped.

“I’m just saying. What if the cloth isn’t the burial shroud of Christ? Then don’t you think God’s getting a good chuckle out of all this commotion?”

“I don’t think any of us should presume to know what amuses the Lord.”

“Marcus needs your support.”

“That’s not going to happen. This is against every Christian thing I taught him.”

“You don’t think his upbringing had a lot to do with this?”

Eliza looked oddly at Reggie. “How can you say that?”

“I can say that because history proves it.” Reggie smiled. “Remember when Marcus was younger? He was always trying to come up with logical explanations for Christ’s miracles. You used to get so mad at him. Like his theory about the loaves of bread and the fish. He said everyone watching Jesus was so consumed with him that no one noticed the apostles sneaking in more food. Or... how about his walking on water theory? You hit the roof.”

“The lake was iced up.” Eliza shook her head with a smile. “He reached for anything.”

“And he still is.” Reggie grabbed Eliza’s hand across the table. “Only this time, Eliza, your son is reaching for the biggest thing he can find. And he needs us. Whether you think this stuff is right or wrong, he needs to know that you’ll...”

The sound of breaking glass and children’s screams erupted from the living room. Reggie ripped her hand from Eliza’s and jumped up. “What was that?” she asked, running toward the children.

A small fire was burning just inside the broken front window; bits of glass were scattered about the floor.

“Get the extinguisher!” Reggie shouted, racing to the fire. She began to stomp it with her foot until she saw the extinguisher in Eliza’s arms. She grabbed it, stepped away and blasted the small fire. She heard engines revving and men hooting outside, and walked toward the broken window.

“Reggie, be careful,” Eliza said, holding Seth and Kathleen close.

Hiding behind the right-side window pane, Reggie peered out. Four pickup trucks driven by men in white hoods sped in circles around the large front yard. “What is this? 1966?” Reggie shook her head. “Eliza, where do you keep George’s shotgun?”

“Above the mantel in the dining room.” Eliza said. Reggie ran from the living room. “Reggie, no.”

Reggie returned to the living room with the shotgun folded open. “Shells. Where are the shells?” She lifted her head when she heard shots from outside. “Now, Eliza!”

“Uh...” Eliza had to stop and think. “Top drawer of the bureau.”

Reggie ran from the room, returning moments later, loading the shotgun as she moved to the front door.

“What are you doing?”

“Ending this. Get the kids in the back room and call Sheriff Thompson. This is ridiculous.” Slamming the shotgun shut, Reggie flung open the front door, stormed onto the front porch, swung the shotgun strap over her head, and jumped onto the porch railing. With a pivot of her body and a short leap, Reggie gripped onto the roof and pulled herself up.

She glared at the pickup trucks, whose occupants were now tossing more flaming torches towards the burning cross in the front yard. Reggie raised the shotgun above her head. She fired once. They didn’t stop. Angry, she lowered the shotgun and aimed. Reggie was a great shot. Kyle taught her well. Her first shot exploded the right front tire of the second truck from the back of the line. It swerved back and forth out of control until the driver jumped the curb and came to a stop. The other three trucks also stopped.

A man’s voice called out from the dingy-blue lead truck. “We have no quarrel with you, Reggie Edmunds!”

“And you have no quarrel with these people!” Reggie thundered back, holding her aim.

“Their son...”

“Their son is not here!” Reggie shouted. “If you have a problem with Marcus, then I suggest you go to London and take it up with him! These people did nothing to you! And right now you’re breaking the law. And don’t think I don’t know your voices. I serve you coffee.” Their laughing response infuriated her. “Leave the property.” They didn’t budge. Reggie fired again, taking out the back tire of another truck. She pumped the chamber and fired once more. Another tire blew up, this time on the off-red pickup farthest from the house.

With that, the men leapt into the back of the trucks and sped away riding on rims.

The dust covered their tracks as they drove down the dirt road. Reggie lowered the shotgun, and then sat on the edge of the roof, her legs dangling over the side, her heart and thoughts racing. She dropped her head in relief when she heard the distant sirens.

“And you’re sure?” Marcus asked over the phone. “Tell me the truth.”

“I did,” Reggie told him. “Everything’s fine. Sheriff arrested twelve of them. Bunch of drunks jumping on the bandwagon.”

“Oh, God, Reg.” Marcus lowered his head into his hand.

“Marcus, stop it. It’ll be fine. They weren’t out to hurt your parents, just scare you.”

“They did.”

“Are you gonna stop?” Reggie asked.

Silence.

“Marcus? Are you gonna stop?”

“Well...”

“I didn’t think so. So tell me. Please?”

“It’s done,” Marcus stated. “It went well. We acquired enough. Or at least I think we did. Now, the Shroud goes back to the Vatican. Then we isolate the DNA, recreate the nucleus, and implant it into the shelled-out ovum when we get to Chicago.”

“Thus beginning the asexual fertilization.”

“Cloning process,” Marcus corrected.

“Do you think it’ll work?”

“I don’t think it’ll take three hundred attempts like the first one. But, after a few failures, yes,” Marcus stated. “It will work. I don’t expect any problems with the in-vitro generation or the implantation into the surrogate mother.”

“See now, that’s what I don’t get,” Reggie said.

“What’s that?” Marcus asked, his hands fiddling with the phone cord.

“The world is uptight about what? A baby. An innocent baby who will have the same genetic makeup as... well, Christ. If, you know, the stories are true.” She paused. “All right. I see why they might be a little irate. Marcus...” Reggie’s voice softened. “...leave Marcus the scientist behind for a second. What did you think when you saw it so close?”

“Well... I saw the image of a man who died a horrendous death. Tortured to the point that there was enough blood to soak an image on a cloth. It was very moving. It made me grieve for him, whoever he was.”

“Do you believe it was Jesus?”

“Hopefully, after some tests, I’ll have a better idea, at least for my own knowledge. We took a lot of photos and samples and...”

“I thought you were only cloning.”

“Reg, please,” Marcus chuckled. “I have the Shroud of Turin for forty-eight hours and you think I’ll let it go without answering the things I’ve always wondered?”

“I guess not.” Reggie took a long, deep breath. “My prayers are with you, Marcus.”

“Reg, don’t you think that’s a little sacrilegious considering...?”

“No. There’s nothing sacrilegious about praying for someone you care about. And I’m praying for you.”

“Then in that case,” Marcus sighed, “keep ‘em coming. I need someone to watch out for me. I have the feeling that today was only the beginning.”

Sporting his best pair of Levis and a maroon button-down shirt, Herbie Wallaby looked good. His hair was cut and combed, and for a man of his size, he moved with grace and confidence on the dance floor. But none of that mattered to Reggie. The best she could muster in response was feigned enthusiasm. She’d tried repeatedly to get out of the date, but her father deftly countered each attempt. Menstrual cramps? Take a Midol. A special wrestling pay-per-view is on? Record it. Reggie saw what she was up against and finally gave in.

Pretending to enjoy the dance, Reggie’s eyes were glued to the wrestling match that played on all ten televisions in the bar. Reggie
loved
wresting. In particular, she had a thing for Mr. Big and Hot, the seven-foot glory with a hulking body. Every Monday and Thursday she waited patiently with Seth, watching for the towering, long-haired wrestling God. Reggie wasn’t about to pass up a match with Big and Hot for a dance with Slow and Not. That was why she chose Harland’s Bar and Grill, it always had the pay-per-view extravaganzas.

“Enjoying the dance, huh?” Herbie asked, a wide grin dawning his round face.

“Huh?” Reggie said, shifting her eyes to Herbie and back to the television. “Yeah. Yeah, I sure am,” she suspected that Herbie had mistaken her soft moan at the sight of Big & Hot’s bare chest as an assessment of Herbie’s slow dancing.

“Don’t you dance much?” Herbie asked.

“No.” Reggie said, her concentration on the television.

“But you like to dance?”

“Yes.”

“You like being close?”

Reggie cringed, Big and Hot took an elbow shot that knocked him off his feet. “No.”

“You don’t?” Herbie asked, ready to pull back from Reggie.

Big and Hot flipped his opponent. Reggie grinned. “Yes.”

“You do, then?”

“Yes.” Big and Hot tossed the other guy from the ring. “Go for it.”

“You got it.” Herbie pulled her closer and nuzzled his cheek against the top of Reggie’s hair.

Reggie began to feel smothered. When she snapped out of her wrestling world, she cleared her throat and nudged Herbie back. “Sorry,” she said, her eyes moving back to the television. “I can’t dance that close. I have a full frontal rash. Highly contagious. I have to be careful.”

Herbie eased back.

Everyone said Bud Harland was ninety-eight years old. In fact, Bud was just a ripe seventy-four. He was the first business owner in Seville to have cable television in his establishment, and later the first one with flat screens. Rumor had it, 3D was next. But Bud Harland ran his business his way and cared little what his customers thought about it. So when his wife suggested that he turn on the news, he did. Reggie seemed to be the only patron pissed off that the wrestling match took a back seat.

“Hey!” Reggie yelled. “Bud! Come on! This is for the title!”

“Hush,” said Bud. “They’re talking about our local heathen boy.”

Reggie pushed Herbie further away, and moved closer to the set, ears perked...

...with security tightened, especially surrounding Dr. Marcus Leon who is set to orchestrate the experiment.

The first in-vitro fertilization-slash-cloning of the shelled-out ovum with the new DNA nucleus is scheduled to take place Tuesday at the Westing Biogenetic Institute in Chicago. Chicago authorities are gearing up for what they suspect may be one of the heaviest days of protesting and violence in the city’s long and storied history.

Archbishop Ronald Oswald of the Chicago Archdiocese is emphatically opposed to the alleged cloning of Christ in his city. Yesterday, in a news conference, he also criticized the timing of the experiment, calling it a slap in the face to all Christians and questioning its proximity to the Christmas holiday. Westing’s Dr. Marcus Leon, responded that the timing is purely coincidental.

In other news, Israel is gearing up...

Bud flipped the televisions back to their primary all-sports function. “Didn’t you used to date that guy?”

“No, I didn’t,” she replied, briefly dazed, until wrestling snapped her back to reality. Then she stomped her foot as she realized that Big and Hot had lost his match. “Damn it!”

She swung out her hand in frustration, turned and came face-to-face with Buzz, her verbal adversary from the diner.

“Excuse me,” she said sarcastically, and stepped to her right. So did Buzz. “I thought they had special bars for your kind,” she said, eyeing Buzz’s rough looking crowd about ten feet away.

“We come here all the time. If you left your closet more often, you’d know that.”

“Ain’t I lucky that the closet door was left open?” Reggie tried to get past him.

“I think your date is real cute.” Buzz winked, blocking her way again.

“Better looking than you,” Reggie snapped back.

“You know what I think.” Buzz snickered and lowered his eyes to Reggie’s. “I think now that your boy Marcus is the world’s most hated person, Herbie over there is the best you can do.”

“Oh, yeah, well Herbie can pound the hell out of a dent. Can you? No. “

Nervously, Herbie stepped forward. “Hey-hey. Please don’t fight about me.”

Reggie smiled and looked around Buzz, speaking softly. “It’s okay, Herbie. Buzz and I are actually friends. It’s this fake fighting thing we do.”

“When we were young,” Buzz said. “She used to flip me over her shoulder. I’d challenge her every single time. But, hey we’re older and I’m bigger. Or I’d challenge her again.” He winked.

“You don’t think I can?”

“Reg, come on.” Buzz laughed. “Weren’t you at the hip doctor the other day? You might break it this time.”

“Oh my God, you just implied I’m old and fragile.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Ha!” Reggie took a step toward Buzz, turned her hips, grabbed hold of his shirt, bent her knees and flipped the huge man over her shoulder and onto the floor. He landed with a thud.

Buzz let out a low moan, rolled onto his stomach and banged his fist on the floor. ‘Damnit.”

Reggie gloated. Maybe a bit much. Jumping up and down with a few, “Yes. Yes. Yes.” Her hip didn’t hurt but her knee sure did. She wasn’t going to show it. She’d wait until she was outside and then she would limp.

As she held out her hand to Buzz to help him to his feet, one of Buzz’s casual comrades didn’t realize it was all in fun. He lunged at Reggie from behind, beer bottle held high. Just as his arm came down toward the back of her head, the bottle was knocked from his hand, his arms flew up and his body hunched forward. In the blink of an eye he was thrown ten feet backwards, where he landed hard on a table.

It happened so fast that no one really saw what happened. The guy was right there, ready to hit her. And then he was out cold ten feet away. Herbie was too far away to have done it and Buzz was still on the ground.

“Holy shit, Reg!” Buzz said, eyes wide. “That was the fastest thing I’ve ever seen. I didn’t even see you nail him.”

Reggie was confused, and still looking for her hero.

“Did you hurt your hand?” Herbie asked.

“Huh?” Reggie responded. “No. I’m fine. I didn’t do that,” she looked over at her assailant, lying groggy amidst the remains of the table.

“Yeah, ok.” Herbie responded, mocking her assertion.

“No, really.” Reggie shook her head. “Someone else did.” She turned to Buzz. “I didn’t hit your friend.”

“Hey, I’m cool with it,” Buzz laughed. “He’s an asshole anyway.” He reached out for Reggie’s hand, and Reggie helped him to his feet.

Still dazed, Reggie let herself be led across the dance floor, all the while muttering, ‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.’