Solomon's Porch (51 page)

A little more than half the people in RFK did so.

“Lord, we ask for your mercy on all those who are suffering in California. Your will be done, Lord, but we ask that you spare as many as You will from death and disease. Especially, help and heal the innocent, Lord, and the faithful. Protect and keep them from further harm.”

A few thousand discordant “amens” were given, but Peter’s prayer was only half finished.

“Lord, we also ask for Your mercy on those who committed these terrible acts. Lead them to repentance, Lord, let them become sons of God and turn them away from the everlasting flames of hell. Hold not their sins against them. Christ, we ask you to forgive them. Amen.”

Stunned, thousands repeated “Amen” simply because the prayer was over, not because they agreed with it. For others, Peter’s amen was their cue to become belligerent and vocal.

“F*** you, Carson!” yelled a man who was standing directly behind a row of soldiers who had formed a human shield between the surging crowd and the stage.

“You filthy traitor!” came another shout. “Man of God my a**! Lunatic! Demon!” The cries of derision grew louder and more diverse. Peter let them holler unchallenged as he stood impassive at the dais. He showed no fear, or any other emotion.

After five minutes or so, the cursing attacks subsided and a far different set of chants were heard. “We love you, Peter!” “Praise God!” “Be strong, brother!” The supporters of Christ were just as vocal and persistent as the frightened and evil ones had been.

Once again, Peter said nothing. He stood stoically and waited.

“He wears no vest. Neither does the President. Allah be praised!” Mustapha had a clear line of sight and his targets were stationary and unprotected by body armor. But he held his fire, waiting for the perfect moment, all the while allowing part of his mind to drift to thoughts of his new life in Paradise.

Finally, when something close to calm was restored, Peter spoke.

“I am no one. Until last year I was hopelessly lost. I was a selfish, greedy thief cast aside by society in a federal prison.”

“For His reasons and His purposes the God of all creation, our Heavenly Father, chose me to deliver a message to you. Why he picked me and not the Pope or a bishop or a famous evangelist I do not know, because I am only His servant.”

“Over the past year I’ve come to understand many things, but I still wonder about many more. By no means do I have all the answers. I cannot waive a magic wand and solve all of our problems, because I am but a messenger.”

“The message He gave me to proclaim to the world is this; we must do a far better job of being our brother’s keeper. We need to focus our energies, talents, and wealth on helping each other, not on war or mindless competition or on satisfying our selfish desires. We must stop pretending that the will of God is a mystery, because it is not. He wants us to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick, and show mercy to the prisoners. He gave us the blessing of the restriction to demonstrate the urgency of His call for us to forsake violence in all its forms.

“I know how you feel right now. Servants of hell, confused and lost souls, have murdered thousands of our countrymen. This makes us angry, fuels our fears and hate, but God made it plain to me that if we retaliate, try to attack or kill those who we believe destroyed Los Angeles and San Francisco, we will set off a chain of events that will lead to our final destruction. I know it is difficult to accept the call of mercy. We are used to seeking revenge, to exterminating our opponents and calling the result victory and peace.

“But, my brothers and sisters, stop and think. Has war ever really achieved peace? No. It has vanquished enemies, but new foes always appear. War itself has never been defeated. Until now.”

“Let God fight this battle for us, my friends. Does anyone here still doubt His power? Have you forgotten the restriction already? Why would God abandon us now if we are faithful to Him? How much more will He protect and bless us if we are obedient?”

“I am not a political leader. The President will speak to you and explain how he will turn God’s commands into American policy. But I ask everyone here to believe, to have faith, to ‘seek peace and pursue it’ as St. Paul said.

“God’s way is strength through peace, victory through mercy, protection through forgiveness. Satan offers only to steal, kill and destroy, to fan the flames of violence to the level of Armageddon.

“If we become of one mind, with one purpose, which is to seek, obey, and glorify God, then each and every one of you will be blessed. We must take this next step in our spiritual evolution, brothers and sisters. Our only other choice is certain destruction.”

The crowd was quiet when Peter finished speaking. People who moments earlier were shouting insults and obscenities hung their heads and were mute. The message of God was powerful, impossible to ignore and difficult to defy.

Peter stepped down from the speaker’s platform and moved toward his friends. The President stood and greeted him with a hug and then walked toward the dais.

He made it about halfway.

No one heard the shots because the rifle was silenced, but the results were obvious. The President was hit multiple times in the chest and head. Blood and spilled brains oozed from his lifeless, but still twitching body.

Gail McCorkle was standing ten feet away from Peter when she saw that the President had been shot. She lunged at Peter, hit him full force like a linebacker on a running back, and knocked him down. She could hear the “tink-tink” sound of the bullets impacting the stage all around her.

Recovering quickly, Gail moved to throw her body on top of Peter’s, who was struggling to get back on his feet. As she stood Mustapha put two slugs into her torso. Gail collapsed before she could reach Peter. She was dead before she hit the floor.

Then the soldiers opened up. They sprayed the electronic display array with sheets of fire, completely ignoring the significant collateral damage they were causing to innocent spectators.

The soldiers were shooting at a ghost. Mustapha was already dead. The Secret Service agent who had escorted him to his hiding place killed him the instant after he murdered Gail McCorkle.

RFK was in a state of pandemonium. Everyone feared the stadium was about to be bombed. A hundred thousand souls instantly became a spooked herd, shoving and trampling each other trying to reach the nearest exit.

Satan was well pleased. His plan was being executed to perfection. He had only one more objective to accomplish, and he chose to tend to the matter personally.

Mustapha’s soul was already in hell, but his body was still warm. His assassin had put two bullets into his lungs, but Mustapha’s head and limbs remained in tact. Satan jumped into the nearly bled out corpse, not requiring a whole man, just some of the parts.

The devil intensely disliked placing himself in a human body and had done so on only a few occasions over the ages. The last time was when he entered a man named Iscariot in Jerusalem. For Satan, whatever pleasure he was going to derive from the experience had to far outweigh the disgusting repulsion of joining himself with a filthy ape.

Satan picked up Mustapha’s rifle. When he looked through the scope he saw Peter Carson kneeling over Gail McCorkle, praying for her soul. The devil could also see Peter’s friends, especially Malik Graham, desperately trying to get to him and shelter him.

Mustapha fired three more shots and all of them found their mark. Peter’s body exploded as the shells hit him.

Dead, he slumped over Gail McCorkle with his hand still clutching hers and a prayer for her salvation lingering on his lips.

Thirty

“Lord, you have led me down such a difficult path. Perhaps I live too long, sweet Jesus. I am your humble servant always; a loyal priest of Philippi, but Lord, my heart is troubled. Save me, Christ, help your sad and weary warrior.”

Gregory Kallistos offered his prayer silently. He did not know the driver of the car Alex Anderson had provided for him and he was in no position to put any trust in strangers.

As they pulled up to the Anderson estate he saw them. Julie Carson was indeed a most beautiful woman, exactly as Peter had described. Standing silently and holding her hand was the focus of the Bishop’s next, and perhaps final, mission for the Lord.

Fear and despair prevailed everywhere Kallistos had been over the past twenty-four hours. The losses were unimaginably severe; two large cities, a President, and a prophet of God all taken in the same tragic day. A state of shock gripped America and the world. Confusion was the predominant condition. Faith in the future, in any future, seemed reserved for a fortunate few.

Kallistos’ special burden was that he’d known that all of this horror was coming. But knowing and being able to do anything to prevent it were two very different things. God would not allow Gregory to avert the trial, but He gave him the wisdom and the prophecy necessary for His children to endure and overcome it.

That’s why Kallistos was here. Not to preside at Peter’s funeral, or to comfort his widow, or to give counsel to Peter’s disciples who must now go on without him. He would do all of those things and more, but that was not why he was here.

He was at the Anderson estate to deliver a letter. It was written almost two thousand years ago by St. Paul. The epistle was one of two prophetic messages entrusted by Paul to the Philippi priests.

“Lord, such pain and despair. Have mercy on them, Christ.” As the limousine came to a stop, Bishop Kallistos looked out through the glass at Julie and Kevin Carson. Their expressions were dull, postures slumped, eyes red. He was sure that neither had slept over the past thirty-six hours. They had the vacant look of homeless refugees, shattered by loss and grief.

Julie considered the idea of not letting Kevin watch the event at RFK. But how could she keep her son from seeing his famous father speak to the nations? It was not possible to deny him something so important.

They held hands and watched together as Peter’s speech calmed the agitated crowd to silence. Julie would never forget the relief she felt when she saw Peter descend from the platform unharmed.

Then the President was shot. The camera bored in on a close up of the slain leader. Kevin shrieked. For a few seconds they couldn’t see Peter, they did not know what was happening to him.

Even amidst the confusion, the television reporter somehow managed to keep giving updates from his position on the stage.

“Carson’s been shot! Carson’s been shot!” They heard the voice before they saw any images.

An instant later a camera found Peter slumped over Gail. Blood covered both of them as they lay together in a final embrace.

Julie was in a state of shock, so for a second she forgot about Kevin. When she recovered her wits she saw her son staring at the screen crying and pleading “Daddy, no, Daddy, please, God, no.”

That was almost twenty hours ago. Kevin had not slept, eaten, or spoken since. Julie was in slightly better shape, but not by much.

“My children,” Bishop Kallistos said, as he left the limo and approached them. “I am here as your servant, to show you Christ’s love in your most desperate hour.”

“Papa?” Kevin said, looking up at the old priest. “Papa Kallistos? Where is my daddy?”

“He is with Christ, my son. Your father is in no pain, he is happy and free. His love for you will never die, never, how you say, fade out. He watches us now, trying his best to help you, my boy.”

“Why, papa? Why did they kill my dad?”

“That will take many, many years for you to understand and accept, young Kevin. It is hard question for me to answer.”

“Gabriel says it’s because my dad was a prophet. The angel says no prophet is accepted in his own country.”

“When did you talk to Gabriel?” Julie asked, thrilled that Kevin had suddenly come back to life upon Kallistos’ arrival.

“In my room, mom, a few minutes ago. He told me Papa Kallistos was coming to help me and that daddy was okay. The angel loves me, mom. He loves you, too.”

Julie didn’t know what to say. She was battling her own conflicting emotions and ideas. God to her had become primarily a dispenser of cruelty. She struggled with the notion that He loved Peter or Kevin. How could a loving God allow such pain and suffering to be inflicted on them? Was such a God worth worshipping?

Yet, despite her doubts, Gregory Kallistos had an immediate soothing impact upon her. To some small degree at least, Julie’s torment lessened just by being in his presence.

Julie, Kevin, and Bishop Kallistos spent the evening of June the twenty-fourth in seclusion. The disciples had all returned to Atlanta, as had Alex Anderson, but they kept their distance from Peter’s uncle, widow, and son, allowing them some time to grieve as a family.

The world around the Anderson compound was in chaos. The Vice President of the United States had assumed the Presidency, but he did so under a cloud of suspicion and fear of imminent nuclear attacks. Several radical Islamic groups came forward and claimed credit for the California bombings. Unnamed American intelligence sources publicly tied these groups to several mid-east governments.

Rumors swirled, the most vicious and disturbing of which was that the California attacks and the assassination of the President and Peter Carson were part of a successful coup d’état. Even though “highly placed sources within the government” were making these outrageous allegations, not many considered them credible. Americans nuked their own country? It seemed insane to even entertain such wild speculation.