She gave him a withering look and turned to a grinning Feldman as the only semirational alternative. “I've gotten a confirmation from the Samaritans. They'll meet with you in one hour at the Bethlehem Star hotel. Here's the room number and the names of the leaders there. Maybe you can finagle an exclusive with the Messiah boy and we'll have ourselves another scoop!”
24
Bethlehem, Israel Sunday, 11:28 A.M., January 2, 2000
Three pompous-looking Samaritan disciples had met with Feldman and Hunter for nearly an hour. Things were not going well for the two reporters. The main obstacle was the head Samaritan himself, the First Reverend Richard Fischer.
A dogmatic, arrogant, portly man with wavy gray-brown hair, bulbous nose and acne maculations on his face and neck, the Reverend had done most of the talking. He took obvious delight in the attention he'd been receiving, and in the power he now wielded as custodian of the hottest media property on earth.
“Boys,” he addressed the frustrated reporters, “while I'll grant you WNN may be the best-followed network covering this particular story, as directors of the Samaritan movement, we, the Leadership Council, must refrain from showing any partiality. All we're able to tell you at this time is that the Messiah
Once the reporters had left, one of the disciples turned to the First Reverend and exclaimed in a chagrined voice, “Reverend Dick, I don't get it. You let Brother Leroy sell our videotape of the Messiah to WNN an hour ago. Why did we have to keep that a secret? And you sold it for a pittance! If we'd just waited, I bet that Feldman would've paid us a fortune!”
Fischer presented his cohort with a knowing smile. “Brother Gerald, you miss the tactics entirely. Leaking the tape to WNN is the best investment we could make. No one must know it came from the Leadership Council. As long as WNN believes they finessed it from one of our lower-level brethren, we preserve the tape's credibility. You've got to appreciate the cynicism of the media, Brother. They're a suspicious lot and will surely question the tape's authenticity anyway. If it came directly from us, that would only deepen their skepticism.”
Reverend Fischer was getting through to his less savvy associate. “Consider the fact that WNN now has the greatest world audience of
As the two reporters pulled out of the hotel parking lot, Cissy called on their car phone and urgently summoned them back to the RV. Feldman informed her of their failed mission, but she wasn't disappointed. “Forget it,” she consoled him. “Wait'll you get a load of what we just got our hands on!”
Met by Bollinger at the door, Feldman and Hunter were ushered into the RV to view a freshly acquired amateur video. “This,” Bollinger announced with unabashed excitement, pointing to a dark picture appearing on the largest wall monitor, “is our next exclusive.”
Secured at minimal expense, Hunter and Feldman were told, this unique prize had been secretly furnished by an underling from within the Samaritan camp. Not of great quality, the tape had been taken at night in the light of pole mercury lamps. But both reporters knew instantly what this was. Shaky, shadowy, grainy, then turning completely white in response to sporadic lightning strikes, this was a video recording of the Millennium Eve phenomenon at the Bethlehem commons.
Shot from a distance of some thirty feet, the figure in the video was of slight build, robes thrashing wildly in the wind at its back, face impossible to discern. Each time the lightning flashed, the image bloomed white and the camera operator was momentarily blinded, lost his framing in the viewfinder, then awkwardly regained it.
As the form reached the stone steps of the temple and began its ascent, the camera zoomed in. Off screen you could hear the crowd above the screeching wind, counting down the seconds toward the twenty-first century. Topping the steps, the figure turned toward the camera, into the wind, raised its slim arms heavenward and faced the Well of David across the courtyard. At last there was a brief, vital moment of fulfillment when the face was illuminated by lightning and finally visible to the camera.
At that instant, the crowd countdown reached midnight, a tumultuous cheering began, and then the video was purged by a violent shock of bright light that shorted out the image, leaving only a blank, snowy screen. The audio, however, continued unaffected, a hellish uproar of shrieking wind, terrified screams and resounding thunder. And then a deep rumbling, which Feldman judged to be the earthquake.
“Rewind a bit and go to the ADO Plus,” Hunter requested, pointing to an instrument cluster of special effects on the video control board. “Isolate on that shot of the face, ADO in and enhance the image.” But Hunter couldn't restrain himself long enough for the editing engineer to enact his instructions. Excitedly, he pressed forward to take the controls himself.
Feldman shared his enthusiasm and watched intently as Hunter skillfully located the exact frame he was searching for-the moment when the face was at its best angle, turned about three quarters to the camera, the instant before the image was lost to the lightening flash.
Through the magic of electronic manipulation, Hunter magnified the image and a whisper of awe escaped the lips of the viewers. Although the enlargement blurred the face at first, it was still discernible. Very pale and alien- looking. With each adjustment, the visage became sharper and better defined until, at last, all the features were reasonably distinct.
The eyes were bold and dark and unwavering. The nose was prominent, Romanesque. The cheekbones high, the jawline strong. The dark hair was of medium length and splayed wildly in the wind.
There was a wrath-of-God intensity here. An intimidating, anguished, judgmental sternness. Yet, while the brow was furrowed, the eyes were almost sorrowful. The lips were parted and full. This was a youthful face, but there was an aged wisdom to it. It was noble, intelligent, authoritative.
“Holy shit!” Hunter exhaled. “There's a Messiah figure for you!”
And Feldman had to agree.
25
Brookforest subdivision, Racine, Wisconsin 6:17 P.M., Monday, January 3, 2000
Michelle Martin had her family gathered about her in the family room in front of the TV. She was not about to watch yet another fearsome WNN special without the maximum amount of emotional support she could muster.
Beside her on the sofa was Tom, her husband of twenty-six years. He was a large, placid, heavy set man with thick wire-rimmed glasses that magnified his serene blue eyes twofold, the by-product of a lifetime crunching numbers at the local bank. Seated on the floor at his feet was Tom Junior, a big-boned boy of seventeen, his dad all over again, less the weight and glasses.
On Mrs. Martin's opposite side was her daughter, Shelley, in a baggy University of Wisconsin sweatshirt. Twenty years of age, fresh-faced, she resembled her mother in both appearance and nervous temperament. Sprawled at the edge of the couch with his head in the daughter's lap was the family dog, a medium-size, lop-eared animal of mixed lineage.
All sat motionless, staring mesmerized at the TV.
