THE NEXT MORNING DAWNED BRIGHT AND CLEAR, THE KISS OF SUNRISE painting a rosy blush on the stately structures of the city. For a change, it didn’t rain, though gray skies would have been more in keeping with my mood. I had awakened in a fog of regret and sadness, and only by focusing on the task ahead could I keep my thoughts from centering on Kirsten and home.
I took a cab to Global Union headquarters, rode the elevator to my office, and dropped my purse and briefcase into my desk drawer. After quickly checking my e-mail to be certain there was no urgent news from Kirsten or Sean, I placed a call to Santos Justus’s office, spoke to his secretary, and made a note in my desk calendar.
Ready or not, Asher, here I come.
I tugged down the hem of my jacket—a nervous gesture, my brain noted—and walked to the elevator. As the doors slid closed and I found myself staring at my reflection in the brass surface, I pressed the button for the fourth floor and met my own determined gaze straight on.
Last night, I’d dreamed of lamps and lights and Inquisition fires. I found myself in a long line of condemned heretics before a cheering crowd in the Global Union cafeteria. Though I protested that I had done nothing to promote heresy, when Reverend Synn lifted the torch and asked if I would confess Christ and receive his grace, my mouth went dry and I could not speak.
The flame came toward me, dancing upon the end of a long wooden pole while Signora Casale sang the Global Union anthem: Peace, Peace, follow me to peace! But death had never brought peace to Asher, just as it did not now bring peace to Kirsten and Sean and Travis . . .
As the ends of my hair sizzled and blackened in the crackling flames, I awakened.
I still didn’t understand what Signor Pace meant about receiving God’s grace, but I was ready to stop doubting Asher Genzano. I have always trusted the evidence gathered by my eyes and ears, and everything I saw in Asher attested to the truth of his testimony and his journals. For eight weeks I had been poking and prodding at his story, and not once had I discovered a weak spot or rattled his composure. And I had discovered other proofs as well—the statue by Michelangelo, the eyewitness accounts of others who met Asher in centuries past, the photograph with Hitler.
As impossible as it seemed, Asher Genzano had told me the truth . . . and right now I needed truth more than I had ever needed anything.
I had no answers for Kirsten; I couldn’t explain why God, if he truly existed, would allow a loving mother to lose her innocent child. But Asher claimed to know God, and if he believed God wanted him to speak privately with Santos Justus, he would speak with Il Presidente today.
I would wait and see what God would do . . . or if he could do anything at all.
The elevator chimed softly as the doors opened again, then I stepped off and went in search of my friend.