A DELIVERY TRUCK GRUMBLED BY ON THE ROAD OUTSIDE ASHER’S window and he sat bolt upright, as wide-awake as if he’d just been given an intravenous dose of pure caffeine. For an instant he felt as though the events of the previous day had been nothing but a dream, then he lowered his feet and the cool kiss of the tile floor established reality. He glanced across the room. The assassination gun rested on the bureau, visible even in the gray shadows of dawn.
Asher slid his feet into slippers and pulled his robe from the foot of the bed, shivering as he belted it around his waist. Raking his hands through his hair, he walked through the front room and foyer, then opened the door and saw his newspaper on the carpeted floor.
He lifted a brow. If God had not wanted him to proceed, it would have been a simple thing to prevent the delivery of the newspaper he planned to use as a prop.
Asher stooped, picked up the paper, and closed the door, then made his way to the kitchen. He tossed the paper onto the counter and switched on the coffee maker, then leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, staring at the floor.
It all might end today. This cozy little existence, this link in a chain of lifetimes, might be shattered by sunset. His plan would end in one of several possible results: He would either succeed and be caught, fail and be caught, or succeed and escape to be captured later. In this modern world, technology virtually guaranteed punishment, and if by some miracle Santos Justus lived, he would know that Asher had approached and pointed a weapon at his face. So this would almost certainly be Asher’s last morning in this quiet kitchen.
A niggling fear wormed its way through the crowded thoughts in his mind. Was it even possible for Justus to be killed? A careful study of Scripture seemed to indicate that the Antichrist would be a mortal man, and all of the other possible antichrists had died easily enough after falling from leadership to corruption. But perhaps the power of evil guarded Justus’s life even as the power of God guarded Asher’s.
The muscles of his forearm hardened beneath the sleeve of his robe. Guarded or not, he had to make this attempt. In all the years since his repentance, he had never knowingly lied or stolen or committed harm to anyone, but this situation demanded action. Always before there had been room for doubt, but yesterday Asher had seen honest fear in Justus’s eyes when he spoke the name of Jesus. Why would a man fear the Savior unless he had already sold his soul to il diavolo?
Asher took a deep breath in an effort to steady his erratic pulse. He would take action, but this time he had more to fear than an execution squad. After his first death experience, he had learned to endure pain, knowing it would soon pass into the oblivion of time and forgetfulness, but Italy had not executed a prisoner since 1947. The government had abolished the death penalty in 1994, so if Asher was captured and sentenced for attempted murder, he would remain in prison for life. And if the Lord should delay his coming . . .
“Half of forever,” he whispered, the room swimming before his eyes, “is still forever.”
He reached out and braced himself against the edge of the kitchen counter, his anguish almost overcoming his resolve. His life had been endurable only because he always managed to find his way back to freedom. How could he endure an immortal lifetime behind bars? And what could he do in prison when evil assumed authority and God sent tribulation and judgment upon the earth? Asher earnestly hoped to join the other believers in the Rapture, but he had no guarantee that he would be included in the ingathering. Somehow, in the deepest part of his soul, he had always felt unworthy of inclusion. He was a sinner, the lowest of the low, and though he had spent nearly thirty mortal lifetimes trying to do penance for his crime against Deity, could anything atone for his sin?
Asher pressed his hand over his face in a convulsive gesture of resignation, then slowly sank to his knees on the tile floor. For a long moment he knelt there, his forehead pressed to the sharp edge of the countertop, his fingertips clinging to the rim of a drawer.
He swallowed, his throat raw with unuttered shouts and protests, then beat his fist against his chest, resigned to the irony of his situation. If he was successful today, he might buy time, perhaps another entire generation, for a world lost in spiritual darkness.
If he had to spend the remainder of his forever in prison, he would. He would pay the full price for his sin and bear whatever he had to bear.
He could do no less.