CHAPTER 13
Ryan froze, gaping at the man. People continued to shout and scream.
“Get paramedics!” he heard Dayan shout above the frenzied crowd. “Hurry!”
David rushed up to Ryan. “Come on! Hurry!”
The two men pushed their way through the crowd toward Ben, who stood, a bulge under his shirt, gazing up at the mortally-wounded man lying motionless on the podium. “Come on, Ben!” Ryan urged. “Let’s get out of here! Fast! Before the police see you!”
David grabbed his cousin’s arm and pulled him out of the crowd. The two men dragged him into the nearest cab. To Ryan’s relief, Sam sat behind the wheel. “Take us back to the hotel, please,” he said. Flooring the accelerator, Sam sped in the direction of the hotel.
“Stay in hiding,” Sam ordered. “Keep Benjamin with you—don’t let him return to his home.” Nodding acquiescence, David pulled his cousin out of the cab and hurried him into the back of the building. Ryan followed suit. The door clicked shut behind them.
All day, the three men stayed in Ryan’s room. They watched the TV coverage; only David left the room to order room service. To their dismay, a wanted poster of Benjamin appeared on the TV screen, along with a reward for anyone who turned him in.
“Uh-oh! Look,” Ryan said. Elijah Dayan sat behind a desk, a microphone attached to his lapel. Sorrow etched his face.
“Antonio Puccini was a good man,” he said, his voice choking. “He pulled the Middle East out of decades of violence. For the first time since Israel came into existence, they have a working peace treaty with their Arab neighbors and the temple they dreamed of for so long.”
A hard expression crept into his eyes. “And this is how the Jews repay His Excellency’s largess—by murdering their benefactor! Yes, ladies and gentleman, it was an Israeli Jew who killed him. His name is Benjamin Weizmann, and he used to work for Puccini. But he wasn’t satisfied with what Puccini had done for him, and so he decided to kill him.”
“Liar!” Ben hissed. “I killed him because he killed my wife!” He shook his fist at the TV screen. “And if I could, I’d kill you, too!”
Ryan laid a calming hand on Ben’s shoulder. To their side, David paced back and forth in a straight line, shaking his head nonstop. His shoes thudded softly on the carpet. Ryan had closed the drapes across the French doors, so the room looked darkened. A table lamp shed a soft light throughout the bedroom.
Dayan rested his hands on the desk. “Rest assured, the murderer will be caught and prosecuted. In the meantime, in our late world leader’s honor, I have ordered a statue of Puccini to be built. It will stand in front of the government building.” A diagram of the proposed statue appeared on the TV screen. It was to be a life-size statue of Puccini, standing, gazing ahead.
Ryan caught his breath. He did not like what he had just heard. This proposed statue was probably the one predicted in Revelation. It would speak, ordering people to worship Puccini on pain of death. Rising to his feet, he pressed his index finger against the power button, shutting the TV set off. Silently, he turned his back to face David and Ben. For a long moment, he leaned against the TV set, facing the other two, hands folded across his chest.
“We’re going to get out of Rome,” he said, at last. “And we’re going to do it fast.” He looked from Benjamin to David. “David, you may have to quit your job. If Dayan learns that the murderer is your own cousin…” His voice trailed off. He bit his lower lip.
“I agree. You’re right.” David nodded agreement. “We can’t do it now, though. You heard what Sam said—we have to stay in hiding.” He glanced at his cousin, who sat slumped on the edge of the bed, head bowed. Ben fixed his gaze on his shoes as they flattened the tufts of carpet beneath.
Ryan nodded in return. “We’ll just have to occupy ourselves as well as we can, until it’s safe to get out.” And keep an eye on Ben, he thought. He may do something drastic.
Ben looked up at Ryan. “Thank you.” His voice sounded faint. Approaching him, Ryan squeezed his shoulder.
The three men spent the night in Ryan’s room. Ryan slept on the couch so the two cousins could share his bed. Unable to sleep for much of the night, Ryan tossed and turned; when he did go to sleep, nightmares about the day’s events haunted him.
What should we do, Lord? he prayed, more than once. Show us! Help us!
He resisted the urge to pound his rumpled pillow, lest he wake the other two; instead, he burrowed his nose into it. How long, now, till Puccini returns from death, indwelt by Satan? It can’t be long now! And we can ill-afford to stay here when it happens. When Dayan learns that Ben is related to David, David and Nicole will be in as much danger as I am.
While Ryan tried to sleep, the four angels met on the portico of the government building, invisible to all human eyes. "Why are we supposed to meet here?" Monica asked her supervisor.
"All I know, Miss Wings, is that this is the Father's order," Tess replied. "We will learn His reason shortly." She folded her arms across her chest.
"Yes, you will." Sam appeared at their side, dressed in a gray suit, accompanied by another angel carrying a trumpet.
"Gabriel!" Monica exclaimed. "It's good to see you."
The Annunciations archangel chuckled. "And to see you." He looked from Tess to Andrew, smiling a greeting, then paused to look at Gloria. His trumpet dangled from the crook of his arm. "And you must be Gloria."
Gloria beamed. "Yes! The others have told me so much about you."
Gabriel nodded. "And Monica and Tess have told me much about you." His eyebrows furrowed, as he exchanged glances with Sam, who nodded.
Sam cleared his throat, then thrust his hands into his pants pockets. "Gabriel and I have just left Heaven." He paused. "Satan has been banished from there permanently. He is never to appear in God's presence again."
Tess nodded, lips pursed. "He tried again, didn't he?"
Gabriel nodded. "He certainly did. He has just made a last-ditch effort to overthrow God and to take over Heaven. But Michael and his forces fought valiantly, and threw him out. His demons, too."
Sam nodded. "Satan has been thrown out of Heaven for the last time--he is never to enter it again. He may never again enter the Throne Room to accuse believers. He has been thrown down to earth, where he will stay with all his demons until Jesus returns." He paused, his eyes darkening. "And you know what that means."
Monica nodded, exchanging a concerned look with Andrew, then with Gloria. She did, indeed: the indwelling of Puccini was about to happen. That meant things would become worse for mankind than they'd ever been or ever would be again. Gabriel vanished as she and the others pondered his words.
The next morning, when the three men finished breakfast, Ryan yawned. “I’m so sleepy.” He glanced at his watch. “Turn on the TV, David, and we’ll see what the update on Puccini is.”
David picked up the remote control and pushed the “power” button. The blank screen came to life, already tuned to CNN, Ryan noticed. In the next instant, as the three men peered at the TV, an excited anchorman announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have Edna Rolsten on location in the Piazza Navona with the newly-resurrected Antonio Puccini! Stay tuned.”
The three men exchanged startled glances; Ben gaped at the screen in shock. He pressed his fingertips against the surface of the table, holding his breath. The coverage immediately turned to the plaza where, sure enough, a miraculously-recovered Puccini stood on the platform near the Fountain of the Four Rivers, with a reporter holding a microphone. No evidence of the gunshot wound remained in the side of his head. The early-morning sunlight shed golden beams on the imposing buildings surrounding the plaza. Elijah Dayan stood behind him, a few paces to the left.
“Uh-oh,” Ryan said in a low voice. “Look at his eyes.”
The three men peered at Puccini’s face. Sure enough, there was a hard glint in Puccini’s eyes that had not been there before. He shifted position from one foot to another, as a pleased smirk appeared on his face. Dayan looked from Puccini to the audience with a beam of satisfaction in his eyes.
“It’s official,” the reporter announced. “Ladies and gentlemen, Antonio Puccini has raised himself from the dead!” She turned to Puccini. “May we hear in your own words, Excellency, how that happened?”
Puccini folded his arms across his chest. “It is very simple. As the designated leader of the world government, it was not my time yet. It has been revealed to me that I am God. As such, I have powers of deity.”
Awe crept into the reporter’s tone. “Powers that include—raising yourself from the dead?”
“Yes.” Puccini inclined his forehead. “Exactly.”
Miss Rolsten cleared her throat. “So, Excellency—what are your plans now that you’re returned to life?”
Puccini pressed his lips into a thin line. “My biggest priority, now, is to get rid of all opposition. And to announce a new focus of worship in the near future, now that the pope's religion has been disbanded.” He raised his hand. “I will announce my plans for all that soon. In the meantime—” He turned to Dayan. "Elijah, just so there's no doubt in anyone's mind as to my identity, show them some proof."
"With pleasure, lord." Dayan half-turned his body, raised his face toward the sky, and pointed his arm heavenward. "Look at the new vendor's stand at the far end of the plaza!"
As Ryan, David, and Ben gaped in shock, a sudden surge of fire bolted out of the sky, engulfing the vendor's stand in flames. In a matter of minutes, the fire died out, leaving behind a pile of charred remains.
Puccini turned back to the reporter. "That should eliminate any doubt that I am God," he told her. "And if anyone wants more proof, it will be forthcoming."
"I--I certainly don't doubt your word--lord," the awestruck Miss Rolsten stammered, a mixture of awe and admiration in her voice.
Puccini turned to the camera. “All right, then. I would like to thank everybody for your gifts, phone calls, and get-well cards. It is most gratifying to know that so many are loyal to me.” He walked away. Miss Rolsten turned to face the camera, her microphone held to her chin.
“This--this is Edna Rolsten with CNN News,” the reporter concluded.
Ben leaped to his feet and pressed the button off. The TV screen went blank. “I want to be alone,” he said, his voice sounding agitated. David and Ryan exchanged troubled looks. Taking a deep breath, Ben turned around. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to sneak off—I’m no hurry to be executed by Dayan or Puccini. But I’ve got much to think about.”
Sighing, Ryan rose to his feet. “We’ll be in David’s room if you need us.” The two men left. The door clicked shut.
Benjamin pressed his ear against the door; he waited till he heard David’s own door shut. With a deep sigh, he sank down on the edge of the bed and pulled his revolver out of his inside jacket pocket and gazed at it for a long moment. He ran his fingers along its cold metal side. The mattress sagged underneath as he shifted position.
“I thought I’d feel better than this when Puccini died,” he said to himself. “I’ve avenged my wife’s death.” He shook his head. “So why don’t I feel better? And how could Puccini have come back to life anyway? The news reports said he was dead! Dead men don’t come back to life.”
He shook his head. “It’s over,” he muttered. “I’ve had it. Now not only am I in real danger, so are my cousins. And their friend.”
Ben just wanted to die. He had nothing to live for now. He was in even more pain than he’d endured before he’d killed Puccini. Holding the revolver to his temple, he pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. It’s empty! he thought.
Cursing, he pulled a smooth lead bullet out of his pants pocket and slipped it into the revolver. He then slipped another. “Please, God,” he prayed, “just let me die. I can’t take anymore.”
“Benjamin, God doesn’t want you to do this.”
END OF CHAPTER 13