As he drew closer, he saw that Jeza was half kneeling, half sitting on the cold ground. The upper part of her body was lying across the seat of a stone bench in front of a large, dormant rose bush. Her face was buried in her arms and she appeared to be sobbing. Feldman rushed over and dropped to her side, placing a comforting hand on her back. Her robe was cold and damp. Her shoulders felt small and delicate.
“Jeza! What's happened? Are you all right?” He attempted to draw her upright and she did not resist. Gently he turned her, smoothing back her hair to see her face.
Her eyes were closed, her brow creased, her lips compressed in a tight, bitter line. With her complexion so pale, it was like gazing upon the marble sculpture of some classic Greek goddess. Only this one was weeping real tears.
“Jeza, sweet Jeza!” Feldman dried her eyes with his handkerchief and caressed her hair. It was as soft as down. “What's happened?”
Drawing back from him slowly, she placed one hand on the stone bench and began to stand. Feldman rose quickly to assist her. He held her arm to steady her, but she seemed impervious to him, looking out toward the dawning sky, introspective and troubled, but no longer crying.
“My soul is sad unto death,” she said hollowly. “What must be is not of my will, but foreordained.” And without looking back, she gave Feldman's arm a tight squeeze with both hands and then slipped away from him, returning along the path to the house.
70
Salt Lake City, Utah 8:00 A.M., Sunday, March 5, 2000
Cardinal Litti had been up since well before dawn, too excited to sleep. This was the day he'd been so anxiously awaiting. Showered and carefully shaved, he was dressed in his best cassock, best white shirt and clerical collar. Standing before the full-length mirror, he attempted to suck in the ample girth that strained his cincture, detected little improvement and surrendered, laughing.
The cardinal was in a bright mood, if somewhat nervous. He realized that this day would see him witness his New Messiah, and would most likely determine for him the course he would follow for the rest of his life. He draped his red and black cloak across his shoulders and placed a spotless red zucchetto skullcap meticulously on his crown.
“Now,” he said to himself with appreciation, “I'm ready to meet my maker!”
As it was his policy to preserve his precious remaining dollars, rather than take a cab, Cardinal Litti elected to make the invigorating walk to the hall. It was a mistake.
Unlike the previous two days, which had seen large but navigable crowds in the vicinity, today the turnout was almost impenetrable. It started in Litti's hotel lobby, which was packed with impatient guests. But worse, outside his hotel, the sidewalk traffic was elbow to elbow. He regretted not reserving a ride, but certainly now, getting one would be impossible.
Summoning his determination, the sturdy cardinal pushed out into the mob and began working his way slowly toward the towering Tabernacle Hall in the distance. His journey was made all the more difficult because Salt Lake City's Department of Crowd and Traffic Control had mounted a stubborn effort to keep all downtown streets open for the endless cavalcades of limousines and police escorts that constantly streamed by. To cordon off the roads, barriers had been erected up on the sidewalks, rather than down in the curbs, abnormally narrowing the pedestrian access ways.
Even though the convocation didn't officially assemble until ten A.M., Litti was experiencing growing concern about ever getting there. If the crowd was this compact blocks away, he couldn't imagine how congested it must be near the hall. Inching along, he hugged the barricades, as near to the street as he could get, hoping to snare a passing cab. But none that streaked by in a yellow blur paid him any heed. Finally, in desperation, Litti closed his eyes tightly and whispered a fervent prayer to Jeza, asking for deliverance.
When he reopened them, the cardinal found himself staring into the lens of a TV camera. A roving news crew from a U.S. network had been cruising around doing man-in-the-street interviews. Having been unfairly shut out of the convention hall, as were all news media save for WNN, competing networks were reduced to developing collateral stories wherever and however they could. Spying the cardinal's vivid red cap and cloak from their mobile van, the opportunistic crew immediately pulled over. A real Catholic cardinal was a rare find in these parts, and they were obviously delighted with their luck.
“Can we trouble you for a few comments about Jeza for our viewing audience, Your Grace?” the reporter asked, smiling.
“My son,” Litti responded in his thick Italian accent, “I fear if I delay, I shall be unable to make today's opening at the hall; the crowds are impossible.”
The news reporter was even more excited to have stumbled across a cardinal who would actually be in privileged attendance. “I tell you what, Monsignor,” he said, lowering his camera, “if you'll give us an interview and you don't mind riding in our truck here, we'll drive you down and make sure you get there on time.”
Litti grinned broadly. Yes, his faith in his Messiah was well founded.
71
Salt Lake City Airport, Utah 10:17 A.M., Sunday, March 5, 2000
The jet carrying Feldman, Hunter, Cissy and their special envoy landed at Salt Lake City Airport right on schedule. It had been an uneventful flight, with Jeza spending the entire cross-country journey in her room. Sleeping, Feldman hoped, since she apparently got none last night. He was concerned about her state of mind after her troubling display in the Rose Garden.
His worries were quickly alleviated, however, once she took her seat for the landing. She was herself again, looking fresh and calm once more. She even afforded Feldman a quick smile.
Safely on the ground, the jet taxied to a service facility somewhat removed from the terminal. Here, Secret Service representatives transferred the four passengers quickly and stealthily to a waiting helicopter for their last, short leg.
As they approached the huge Mormon Tabernacle Hall, Hunter called out to the others in amazement at the staggering sea of people far below them. “Would you look at the crowd!” he exclaimed. “There must be millions of millenarians down there!”
Jeza remained completely uninterested. Indeed, she'd made it eminently clear that she wanted no more of the display she'd been previously subjected to. Before leaving Washington, Jeza had requested that there be no reception, no greeters, no visitors and no media to interrupt her meditation prior to her address. Feldman had placed a quick call to the disappointed Mormons to ensure this.
Made comfortable in a private suite in the upper levels of the great hall, Jeza appeared relaxed and composed.
“Why don't you lie here on the sofa and rest for a while, Jeza,” Feldman suggested to her. “I'll slip outside to make sure all the arrangements are in order for your address, and I'll be back soon.”
She smiled gratefully, nodded, and sat quietly on the edge of the couch.
Leaving Jeza's suite, Feldman checked in with the Secret Service agents stationed outside to ensure she would not be disturbed. He then signaled a nearby Mormon aide and asked where he might have a discreet look at the Grand Auditorium. The aide led him to a mezzanine and into one of many private, glassed condominium suites overlooking the huge assembly. In addition to a panoramic eagle's-eye view, the condo offered plush seating, a large-screen TV monitor and nonalcoholic wet bar. About thirty of the “beautiful people” were here munching hors d'oeuvres, enjoying boisterous conversation and laughter.
Stretching out in front of Feldman, the huge hall was set up like a rock concert, with elevated speaker's
