I SLEPT SOUNDLY, THEN WOKE AT SIX. FOR A MOMENT I LAY IN A QUIET cocoon of anguish for Kirsten, then a more recent memory hit me like a punch in the stomach. Asher, wherever he was, would need me today.
I slipped out of bed, staggered to the shower, yanked the hot water on, and grabbed one of the towels from the rack. As the hot water pipes groaned, I dashed back into the bedroom to pull a pair of black slacks and a matching turtleneck from a bureau drawer, then locked myself in the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I stood before the mirror, dressed and with a towel on my head. I finished applying my makeup in a couple of deft strokes, then unwrapped my hair, tousled it with my fingertips, and blew it dry.
Asher needed me.
The thought kept running through my brain like some sort of commercial jingle. I didn’t know why he needed me, or where I was supposed to find him, but the urge to locate him grew more intense with each passing moment. I don’t know how to explain it—if you’ve ever felt the same thing, you’ll know what I’m talking about, but I’d never felt anything like it before.
As I grabbed my red cardigan from the back of a chair and ran for the door, I knew Kurt would say I had joined my Italian friend in his delusion. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” I muttered, closing the door behind me.
It was a cold day, but a bright one, with the sun pouring buckets of yellow light onto the Roman streets. Obeying a sudden impulse, I hailed a cab and told him to drive me to the Piazza della Rotonda, which meant I’d exit right across the street from Asher’s hotel. I glanced at my watch. It was now 7:30, and the sidewalks were already clogged with pedestrians. Cars and motorcycles jammed the streets, and the silence I had enjoyed only an hour earlier had vanished.
I leaned back against the cab’s vinyl upholstery and tried to force my confused thoughts into order. What might Asher do now that Justus had turned him away? I knew he was upset—his abrupt disappearance yesterday had proved that. I had tried to call him last night, but he never answered his cell phone. Which meant he had either left it someplace or he was steadfastly refusing to answer its continual chirping . . .
We had reached the piazza. “Please stop here.” I leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder, then tried my request in Italian. “Ah—si fermi qui, per favore.”
The driver flashed me an obliging grin, then thrust out his hand for the fare. Too anxious even to count out the right change, I pressed a handful of lire into his palm and slid out the door, joining the pedestrians in the piazza. I stood for a long moment, slowly turning to examine the tables and benches where dozens of men and women were enjoying their morning espresso. I didn’t see Asher.
Obeying that insistent inner urging, I sprinted across the piazza and entered the lobby of the Sole al Pantheon. A trim young woman in a navy blazer looked up as I approached the reservations desk. “Is Signor Genzano in?” I asked, panting to catch my breath. “Could you ring his room, please?”
She lifted a brow, probably wondering why Signor Genzano would want to entertain a breathless American at this early hour, then moved to the telephone. After a moment, she came back to me. “Signor Genzano does not answer. Would you like to leave a message?”
“No, grazie.”
I turned from the desk and pressed my hand to my brow, thinking. Asher left abruptly yesterday, so he might not even know he had been officially dismissed. In any case, he hadn’t had a chance to clean out his desk, so he might be walking to Global Union headquarters even now. The offices did not officially open until nine, but perhaps he had gone to work early, hoping to catch Signora Casale and plead for his job . . .
I knew the personnel director often arrived before the office officially opened. Justus and Reverend Synn did too, in order to avoid the mass of adoring employees. A security guard would let them in, but for a moment or two they would have to wait outside on the piazza . . .
Perhaps Asher hoped to confront Justus again.
The five-block walk to Global Union headquarters had never seemed so long. I set out at a quick pace, zigzagging through the crowd while I scanned the people in front of me, hoping for a glimpse of Asher’s dark head. But nearly every man on the street had dark hair, and most wore navy trench coats just like Asher’s . . .
I had just rounded the corner and stepped onto Via delle Botteghe Oscure when I saw him. He was sitting on a bench across the street from Global Union’s glass entrance doors with a white foam cup in one hand and a rolled-up newspaper under his arm. He seemed relaxed and content to wait for nine o’clock.
Relief flooded my soul, and I slowed my steps to catch my breath. At least a hundred yards remained between us, but with the curve of the road I could keep my eye on him, and there was no sign of Signora Casale, Justus, or Synn. So if Asher had planned another confrontation, I would have time to talk to him and make certain he planned to proceed in a reasonable manner.
I smiled at my fears. Asher was one of the gentlest people I knew, so why was I concerned? He would laugh when he saw me, and then I’d have to try to explain why I had rushed over here like a dog after a rabbit.
A long blue car with tinted windows swept around the corner and passed me, then slowed to a stop outside the building. The driver stepped out and took a moment to lift his arms in a sleepy stretch, and I recognized the lanky figure of Angelo Mazzone, Justus’s driver.
My heart leaped uncomfortably into the back of my throat. Lengthening my stride, I lifted my hand, waving to catch Asher’s attention. But Asher had lowered his cup to the bench, and now he was standing, the newspaper moving from under his arm into both hands, one hand supporting the far end, the other working at the edge near Asher’s body.
Something was wrong. Asher never wore this determined look, and his hands were usually loose and limber, not taut and mechanical.
Panic rioted within me. By some miracle my feet kept moving even as my lips parted to call his name, but Asher didn’t turn. Staring at the car, he moved toward the door Angelo had bent to open. In a moment he would be within inches of whomever rode in the backseat—
I let out a tiny whine of mounting dread as Angelo began to open Justus’s door, then Il Presidente himself stepped out, looking to the left, and then Asher was upon him, the newspaper only inches away from Justus’s face . . .
I experienced a moment of empty-bellied terror, then stopped in midstride and screamed. The sound rose and echoed down the street, overpowering the rush of the moving cars, the blare of horns, and the puttering noises of the motor scooters, and suddenly Justus, Angelo, Asher, and about a thousand other Italians were staring at me. Justus wore a look of complete surprise, marked by the hint of fear, but Asher stared at me as if he’d never seen me before. Silence sifted down like a snowfall for a profound instant, then Angelo’s gaze dropped to the newspaper in Asher’s hand.
Before I could draw another breath, Asher lay facedown on the pavement, his arms twisted behind his back. The Global Union security guard flew from the building and picked up the fallen newspaper, revealing not the gun I had feared, but an odd green stick.
Justus retreated inside the car as the guard pulled a gun from his coat and used both hands to point it at Asher’s head. Angelo sat on Asher’s back, trembling with fear and adrenaline. Like a man stricken with Tourette’s, he shouted the same Italian profanity over and over again.
I sank to the sidewalk and braced my back against a stone wall, gulping air to fill my starving lungs with oxygen. I deliberately averted my eyes from the scene to my right, not wanting to believe what I had just witnessed.
Asher had tried to kill Justus. I didn’t know what sort of weapon that green stick was, but from the bodyguard’s anxious expression, I knew it might be lethal. And, if not for my scream, Asher just might have accomplished what he set out to do today.
“Is this why you sent me here, God?” I covered my eyes with my hand, then peered through my fingers toward the blue sky. “Did you want me to stop Asher—or prevent him from trying? Was I too late?”
There was no answer, no quiet voice, but after a moment I heard the pulsing wail of sirens in the distance. The police would arrive at any moment, and though the scene was confused with screams and shouting, soon someone would remember what had happened . . . and they might want to talk to me.
What could I tell them? Nothing. They wouldn’t understand—or believe—a single word of the true story.
With an effort, I roused myself from the numbness that weighed me down and stood. Turning away from the hubbub on the sidewalk, I retraced my steps and left Asher alone.
The natives say a man isn’t a genuine Roman if he hasn’t done time in the Regina Coeli. The institution with that stately name is a prison located on an embankment of the Tiber River. The ancient complex is situated between the silver river and the green slope of the Janiculum Hill—a beast between two beauties. Though the “Queen of Heaven” jail once served as a monastery, little has been done to preserve its original lofty intention. The street vendors who hawk souvenirs on the river embankment assure me that the prison cells lack heat, adequate ventilation, and modern conveniences. It is, they say, shrugging, a place of punishment after all.
For three days I stood outside the stone bastion, waiting to see the man I considered a friend. The first day I stood across the street on the Via della Lungara for more than an hour, just summoning the nerve to approach the forbidding fortress. When I finally did grasp my slippery courage and enter the main office, I was told I would have to wait until the staff psychologist had completed the prisoner’s mental evaluation. I flinched at this, imagining the psychologist’s horror if Asher volunteered his complete history, but I later learned it was Asher’s choice of weapon, not his background, that signaled the need for a psych consult.
On Sunday, the third day of my vigil, I met Ricardo, the espresso vendor who operated a stand outside the prison. Ricardo had a cousin who worked in the system, and through the family grapevine I learned that the weapon used in the attempt to assassinate Santos Justus was a type of gas gun not seen in Italy since World War II. The alarmed authorities were keeping Asher Genzano under strict guard with a “no visitors” policy until they were certain the Italian Mafia had not decided to resurrect an old and sadistic weapon.
After recovering from the shock of this news, I was not surprised Asher had used a World War II–era relic. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had tried to wield a medieval sword or an ancient spear. I was astounded, however, that he had tried to commit murder.
After thanking Ricardo, I lowered my head and walked away from the depressing sight of the jail, wanting to put as much distance between it and me as possible. Sadness pooled in my heart, an acute despondency I’d never felt before. Until this point, everything in my life seemed to have a concrete reason and/or a rational cure—I was depressed because something bad had happened; I was elated because things were going well. Never before had my unease sprung from such unearthly causes. I wasn’t even certain I ever would feel better— weren’t Christians supposed to suffer?
Find Vittorio Pace.
There it was again, that insistent, inaudible voice. Suddenly Signor Pace’s little stone church seemed the only solid reality in a nebulous world. I looked up, struggled to think where I was on a city map, then stepped to the curb and lifted my arm to hail a cab.
The cab driver wasn’t familiar with the Rome Baptist Church, but eventually we found the place off the Piazza San Lorenzo. I paid the driver and stepped out of the car, noticing that the church looked smaller and a bit run down in the bright afternoon light. The wooden door was unlocked, so I lifted the iron handle and stepped inside.
I expected to see people—after all, it was Sunday—but it was nearly fourteen o’clock, so I assumed the worshipers had gone home. The interior was as plain and simple as I remembered, but I saw no sign of Vittorio Pace. I paced up and down the aisle and called his name a couple of times, then stood still and heard the rumble of a masculine voice from outside the building. Following the sound, I stepped through a side door that led to a small courtyard.
To my astonishment, the church courtyard seemed exclusively devoted to cats. Except for a winter-bare tree in one corner, any plant life that had existed in the walled space had long surrendered to the feline occupants. At least a half-dozen cats sat atop the stone wall, their front paws tucked neatly beneath their breasts, their tails swinging lazily into empty space. One of them, a yellow-eyed beast that must have weighed at least twenty pounds, turned to stare at me as I slipped through the doorway, but Signor Pace stood with his back to me. He was pulling pieces of white meat—chicken, I suppose—from a plastic bag and dropping them into ceramic bowls in the center of the courtyard. At least a dozen scrawny cats crouched around the bowls, sharing their feast in surprising harmony, and others were leaping from the wall to join their fellows.
“Fate piano, lasciate un po per gli altri.” I wasn’t sure what he said, but Signor Pace spoke to the cats in soothing tones. “Rufio, stai sempre a litigare?”
I smiled at the scene and leaned against the doorframe, content to wait until Signor Pace had finished his work. He had told me he was one of the volunteers who fed the homeless cats of Rome, but I hadn’t realized just how many cats depended upon him for their daily meals. I took a brief head count and came up with forty-two, but in the constantly shifting diorama I could have missed another dozen.
A black-and-white tuxedo cat brushed against Signor Pace’s legs, then plopped down on the ground and exposed his belly. “Ah, Stash, vuoi la pancia grattata?” Signor Pace emptied the last of his bag, then stooped to rub the cat’s stomach. “E come sono oggi le pulci?”
“He behaves just like a dog,” I called, startling several of the animals.
Signor Pace turned, then a smile gathered up the wrinkles by his ancient mouth. “He may think he is a dog,” he answered as the cat rolled back to his feet and slunk away. “He is certainly one of the leaders of this group. Look how he waits for the others to eat.”
He wadded the plastic bag in his hand, then came toward me. “I was hoping to see you again, signorina. Are you well?”
“Very well, thank you.” I transferred my gaze from the cats to the elderly minister. “I thought a lot about what you told me the other night. And I want you to know that I understand now. And I am happy to call myself a Christian.”
“God be praised.” His expressive eyes searched my face, reaching into my thoughts. “I am happy for you, my daughter. But something tells me you have come for a different reason today.”
I cast my gaze downward, a little startled by his discernment. Reverend Pace was in the wrong line of work; he could make a fortune in jury consulting.
I told him the truth. “I have come on behalf of a friend in trouble. He has an unusual story, and I hope you can help me help him. I don’t know anyone else who would understand, because his trouble is . . . well, it’s spiritual.”
Signor Pace gave me a look of faint amusement. “Shall we go inside? Your friend sounds interesting.”
“He is more than interesting, Vittorio.” I turned to follow as the minister opened the door. “He’s downright unbelievable.”
“My friend,” I began after we had seated ourselves on the front pew, “has made a life’s work out of watching for the Antichrist—you know, the evil leader who will rise in the last days.”
“I know about the Antichrist,” Signor Pace said smoothly, with no expression on his face. “But he will not be revealed until after the believers have been taken from the earth. It will be as it was in the days of Noah—the righteous preached repentance, the faithful were delivered, and judgment fell upon those who did not heed the warning.” A twinkle of sunlight caught his eye as he glanced up at me. “If your friend has trusted Christ, his concerns about the Antichrist are pointless. All believers will be gone by the time the Antichrist rises to power.”
“He thinks,” I spread my hands, “that if the man who will be Antichrist is removed, God will postpone his decision to take the believers.”
The minister’s face contorted into a brief grimace of disbelief. “But how can anyone know who the Antichrist is? There are many who oppose the things of God, and they are all anti-Christ—”
“He believes the Antichrist will be Santos Justus.”
Signor Pace recoiled from my steady gaze and tried on a smile that seemed a size too small. “I can understand his concern. There are many who worry about Justus. The man has gained considerable power in a short period of time, and his influence is spreading throughout the world.”
“My friend tried to kill Justus three days ago. He is now awaiting trial in Regina Coeli prison.”
The minister stared blandly at me. Only a tiny unconscious twitch of his eye revealed his surprise.
“The man I saw on the news—that is your friend?”
I nodded.
“And did you have anything to do with this, my daughter?”
I had expected the question—the police had asked me the same thing two days before. In the barest possible terms I told the investigating officer that I had been walking to Global Union, saw a man in a trench coat approach Justus with what looked like a weapon, and screamed. I volunteered nothing about my relationship with Asher, and the investigator didn’t ask for further details. When the case went to trial, though, I knew he’d be back with more questions.
“No, Vittorio, I had nothing to do with it—in fact, I think I may have saved Signor Justus’s life. Three times in the night before that morning I heard a voice calling me. When I finally listened, I knew I was supposed to find Asher as soon as possible.” I looked down at my hands, which trembled despite my resolve to remain calm. “I couldn’t stop Asher, but I screamed loud enough to distract Signor Justus. So Asher did not kill him.”
Signor Pace leaned back against the wooden pew, a frown puckering the skin between his dark eyes into fine wrinkles. “Perhaps you should give me the entire story.”
“The story is almost unexplainable, signore. I would not believe it myself, except—well, sometimes I can’t believe I do believe.”
The grim line of the minister’s mouth relaxed as he folded his hands. “I deal with the unbelievable every day, signorina. Now— begin at the beginning and tell me everything. I will make no judgments until you have finished.”
After a long pause, I drew a deep breath and forbade my voice to quiver. “It all began when I took a job for Global Union and met Asher Genzano . . .”
An hour later, thick shadows had begun to stretch across the church. I finished my tale, ending with a simple question: “Can you believe God would allow a man to live two thousand years?”
Signor Pace sat in silence. He had not interrupted once during the telling, nor did he seem inclined to react quickly. He simply sat there, his eyes unfocused, his mouth set in a straight line, his forehead wrinkled in thought. Finally he looked up with a burning, faraway look in his eyes. “Long ago I learned never to predict what God can or cannot do. He can do whatever he pleases. You, however, must go to your friend and give him the truth. He has been laboring under a lie.”
I blinked in surprise. I had expected doubts and arguments, not an outright command.
“But I don’t know what to tell him. I’ve only been a Christian for three days!”
“You are the one God has chosen to minister to him.” Vittorio’s pale gray eyes lifted to meet mine. “Would you refuse God?”
“But . . . I’m unworthy. Unqualified. Asher knows so much more about the Bible; he can quote it chapter and verse. So how am I supposed to give him truth?”
“I will teach you some things you need to know. And when you enter the prison, don’t worry about what to say. Just say what God tells you to. Then it is not you who will be speaking, but the Holy Spirit.” He uttered these words through a confident smile. And though I did not find much comfort in the words, his quiet, certain manner soothed my spirit like a balm. Without asking, I knew I was listening to a man who had staked his life upon the Word of God and found that it completely satisfied.
We spent another hour together, Vittorio teaching while I listened, and by the time I left the church I felt I could do the same.
On Monday, the fourth day following Asher’s arrest, the prison officials allowed me to visit him. A uniformed guard led me into a large, windowless room filled with air that had been breathed far too many times. He gestured to a small, wooden table with a red line painted down the center, and I sat in the wooden chair on one side. A moment later another guard led Asher in, and something in my heart twisted when I heard the metallic chink of the fetters on his ankles.
He smiled as he shuffled toward me. “It was good of you to come,” he said, lowering himself into the wooden chair. “I wasn’t sure I would have any visitors.”
“I’ve been trying to get in for four days. They said you had to talk to a psychologist first.”
Asher shrugged. “I tried to tell him why I did it, but he wasn’t really interested. He just wanted to know about the gas gun.”
I nodded, wanting to say more, but not knowing quite how to begin. I knew why he was here, and I understood the desperation that drove him to attempt murder. In the past four days I had come to understand many things I suspected even Asher himself did not know.
Asher leaned forward, dropping his manacled wrists upon the table. “I have heard things in this prison.” His eyes cut a glance from left to right, as though he expected someone to jump out at any moment and silence him. “Two days ago I shared a cell with a man from Florence who had just returned from New York. He was imprisoned here for drug smuggling, but as we talked he bragged that the authorities had no idea of his true crime.”
I hadn’t come to talk about criminals and drug smugglers, but something in Asher’s furtive manner piqued my interest.
“He confessed something to you?”
Asher looked at me then, his smile strained, his eyes hard and wary. “This man—his name is Carlos—went to New York to commit a murder. He followed his victim from his workplace in Manhattan, then dragged him off the subway and killed him in a dark alley.”
Hot as it was in the stuffy room, I felt a sliver of ice begin to slide down my spine. I stared at Asher as thoughts I dared not utter aloud began to assemble in my head.
Asher’s burning eyes held me still throughout a long, brittle silence. “Can you guess who sent him?” he finally asked, the question underlined with a delicate ferocity that made it abundantly clear that he expected me to know the answer.
“N-not Santos Justus,” I stammered.
“No. Darien Synn. Carlos did not know him by that name, of course, but he described the man, and the description fits Synn perfectly. And the timing was right. Carlos killed the man during the first weekend of November, which is when your friend died—”
“No.” The word came from my mouth reflexively, in the same way I’d seen a hundred mothers insist that their sons couldn’t possibly have committed the heinous crime for which they had been indicted . . . but I knew Asher was telling me the truth. The pieces fit. I had spoken to Synn about leaving Rome on November 2; I had even emailed Rory and asked him to find a case that would require my presence back in the States. Synn had read my e-mail, then sent someone to New York to remove my secretary. Synn had visited my Manhattan office, and he knew that without Rory, I had no other associates to look after my interests. Finally, by holding my passport and sending me to Brussels, he had guaranteed I wouldn’t bolt for New York on the next available flight.
Asher opened his mouth to speak again, but I held up my hand, needing a moment more to organize my thoughts. “Have you said anything to anyone?” I asked, finally meeting his gaze. “I want justice for Rory. And I want Synn exposed.”
Asher’s dark brows slanted in a frown. “I have not spoken to anyone in authority. And I want to be careful—when they do send me in to face the magistrate, I do not want it to appear that I am offering the information in an attempt to lessen my own sentence.” His face furrowed with contrition. “I am willing to pay the full price for my crime, even if I must spend the next thousand years in prison.” A melancholy smile flitted across his features. “I will be the marvel of the prison community.”
The sight of that sad smile gave me courage. “Asher,” I began, glancing down at my hands, “I’ve something to tell you, and I don’t know where to begin.”
An expression of weary resignation settled upon his face. “You’ve come to say you’re leaving Rome.”
I shriveled a little at his expression. “No, Asher, I won’t leave until your case is settled. Though I’m no longer employed by Global Union, I want to stay for your sake. I’ll help your lawyer prepare your case, I’ll stay through the trial . . . and then I’ll go home.” Like an old wound that ached on a rainy day, the mention of home reminded me of Kirsten. “I’ve had a bit of bad news since we last talked—my sister lost her baby, a little boy. She was eight months pregnant and in a car accident, and the trauma . . . well, it was an accident. So I’ll go home and help her when I can.”
Asher clamped his jaw tight and stared into the distance. “Fortunate baby,” he murmured.
I couldn’t believe I had heard him correctly. “Fortunate?” I whispered, my mood veering sharply to irritation. “How can you say such a thing?”
Asher returned his gaze to me. “He never had to endure the pain of life. He went from the womb to the arms of God.”
“He never felt the joy of life, either,” I snapped. “He never laughed; he never fell in love—”
“He never wept,” Asher countered, his expression clouding. “He never held his dying wife in his arms and felt himself powerless to save her.”
“So this is about you.” I lifted a brow and crossed my arms. “You know what your problem is? You’re angry with God. You think he’s punishing you, so you’re ticked off, but you won’t admit it.”
“I am not ticked off!” His brown eyes bored into mine, narrowed with fury. “I know I deserve my fate, and who am I to question God? But I cannot feel sorry for a child who will never have to endure what I have endured. I never weep at funerals, and I would rejoice to see death approaching in any form whatsoever. But I cannot. Because until I see Jesus, I have to remain here and suffer the lot of all mortals over and over again.”
Our heated conversation had drawn the guard’s attention. He peered in our direction, then pulled himself off the wall and took two steps toward our table. In a unanimous and silent conspiracy, Asher and I lowered our voices.
“I didn’t come here to argue with you,” I said, shaking my head. “I came because I think I’ve found an answer for your . . . situation.”
Hoarse laughter rose from Asher’s throat. “I’ve tried everything, Claudia. Unless you have Jesus waiting in the clerk’s office, I don’t think you can solve my problem.”
“Just hear me out, OK?” I bit my lip, then took a deep breath and dived in. “I suppose I should start with the morning I saw you on the street with Justus. I was there, you see, because I knew you would need me that morning. It’s hard to explain how I knew—I heard something that was almost, but not quite, a voice in the night. I tried to ignore it, but finally I realized the Spirit of God wanted to speak to my heart. And when I listened, Asher, I knew I had to find you as soon as I could. That’s why I was running toward you that morning . . . and why I called out.”
His face changed, the mask of resignation shattering in surprise. “You heard—”
I held up my hand, cutting him off. “God wanted me to stop you. And I’m very glad I did.”
Asher stared, his lips parting slightly. “Why would God speak to you?”
“I don’t know why he does what he does,” I pressed on, “but I know I’m his child, and he’s been leading me for the last few days. I paid a visit to a friend, a minister named Vittorio Pace. I asked him about many things, and I’d like to share some of his thoughts with you. The first and most important truth is this—you are not being punished, Asher. There is no condemnation for those who have trusted Christ Jesus.”
His expression didn’t change for a moment, then my words fell into place. He lifted a brow and looked at me as if I were a naive child. “Then tell me why I am alive. If God is not punishing me with immortality, who is?”
I slid my hands over the table until my fingertips kissed the edge of the red center line. “Perhaps God is not punishing you, Asher, but showing you mercy. Do you recall the story of the woman who covered Jesus’ head with rare perfume and washed his feet with her tears?”
A flash of humor crossed his face. “Remember her? I met her when she traveled to Jerusalem and tried to speak with Lady Procula. She had been a village prostitute, but after the resurrection she became an ardent believer.”
“Do you remember what Jesus said about her? Her sins—which were many—had been forgiven, so she showed the Lord much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only a little love.”
Asher tilted his brow and gave me an uncertain look.
“Think about it.” I lowered my voice. “You feel you committed a severe sin and consequently earned a severe punishment. But God is rich in love, Asher, and to you he has extended a severe mercy. Don’t you see how kind, tolerant, and patient God has been with you? Can’t you see how merciful he has been in giving you time to turn from your sin?”
A cold, congested expression settled on his face. “My sin? I have turned from it. I turned from it scores of lifetimes ago, and since then I have done nothing but sacrifice myself in order to do God’s work. I have studied, and worked, and allowed my body to be humiliated and tortured—”
“Stop.” I shivered with a chill that had nothing to do with the weather outside. I knew very little about the Bible, but Vittorio had opened the Scriptures and explained several things in simple terms— enough that I now knew where Asher had erred in his thinking.
Ignoring the tight place of anxiety in my heart, I fixed Asher in my gaze. “Listen to yourself, Asher. You have worked; you have labored; you have sacrificed. Don’t you see? You have tried to do everything yourself, and you have neglected the gift of God. It is by grace that we are saved through faith—and we do nothing to earn it. It is the gift of God. You turned from your sin, but you did not turn to Jesus.”
He closed his eyes, literally blocking me out. “How could I go to him with empty hands? I struck the face of God, Claudia! In pride and audacity, the very sins of Satan, I cursed Christ!”
“Asher,” my voice trembled, “suppose you do encounter the Antichrist and he rejects your testimony. Suppose the Lord then comes for the believers—what will happen to you?”
I strained to hear his soft answer. “I don’t know.”
“Everyone else who accepts Christ is assured a place in heaven.” The words formed a traffic jam in my throat, battling each other to get out in the short time I would be allowed with Asher. “I look forward to his coming because I have no fear for the future. You, on the other hand, are working to prevent his coming. You say this is because you want to give others a chance to accept the gospel, but could it be that you’re only fooling yourself? What will happen, Asher, when God moves and you realize you are not the referee and timekeeper? What will you do when you stand before God after pouring out the riches of your lifetime in an effort to avoid facing him again?”
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the hush of cars moving on the road outside. A change came over Asher’s features, a sudden shock of sick realization.
“Do you realize what you are saying?” he whispered through stiff lips. “If you are right, for a lifetime of lifetimes I have worked and suffered and labored. Now you say I only have to trust? I can’t. It would be easier for me to abandon my body than to abandon the purpose I have devoted years to following . . .”
As his words trailed away he pressed his hands to the tabletop, sliding them forward until our fingertips touched. “Claudia, this is the most grievous news you could have brought me.”
“No, Asher.” I gentled my voice. “It is the most wonderful news. Signor Pace showed me a verse that says God has every right to exercise his judgment and his power, but he also has the right to be patient with those who are the objects of his judgment and fit only for destruction. You recognized Jesus as the holy Son of God. You saw that his Word was true. But you never trusted him for your salvation, Asher. You strove to earn his forgiveness. And though you labor until the end of time, you can never earn salvation. It is a gift. It is free. It flows from mercy, not self-sacrifice.”
He looked away, his chest heaving in a dry, choked way, but he did not weep.
Hoping I had struck some responsive chord, I continued: “You once shared with me a verse about the Lord waiting for people to repent before his return. Perhaps he has been patient for your sake all these years. He does not want you to perish, so he is giving you time to repent.”
Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and slowly spilled from the ends of his lashes. “Believing in grace is one thing,” he whispered, a note halfway between disbelief and pleading in his voice, “living it is quite another.”
“Exactly.” Ignoring the guard’s stern glance, I slid my hand forward until my fingertips overlapped his, covering him with my prayers as I did so. “God is waiting for you, Asher, with his arms outstretched. His mercy is rich and available . . . whenever you’re ready to accept it.”
A deep silence filled the room; even the sounds of traffic outside seemed to fade. “Can it be,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to meet mine, “that I am the world’s greatest fool? To have seen what I have seen, and yet not understand the meaning of it all—”
“Millions of people never see with spiritual eyes.” I gave him an abashed smile. “I know I never would have, if not for you. You opened my eyes, Asher. You were stronger than I could ever be, and your labors were not in vain. You have to believe that.”
He shot me a half-frightened look. “But what I did to Justus—or what I almost did. That was not a godly act, but I could see no other choice.”
“You were operating under your own authority. You failed to trust God . . . and Signor Pace assures me that God has matters well in hand. He alone knows when the world will end; he alone knows who the Antichrist will be. We are not to run about searching for him. We are only to trust . . . and point others to grace. That’s our calling, Asher. And that’s what you did for me.”
I would have said more, but the guard came to our table and rapped upon it with his knuckles. Reluctantly, I released Asher’s hands and watched silently as he stood and turned to leave. His posture was bent, his shoulders hunched as though he carried the guilt of the world.
Tears came in a rush so strong my shoulders shook. Dear God, show him the truth. Show him the riches of your miraculous grace.