Last Days Trilogy Read online

  “Yes, sir.” Herbie nodded, bent down to the car like a drone, and picked up his sander.

  “Dad,” Reggie grabbed his arm and pulled him away from Herbie. “What are you doing?”

  “Making you go out.”

  “You just hired him. You don’t even know the guy. What if he’s a rapist or something?”

  Kyle snickered. “He’s Marybeth’s nephew from Wadsworth. I’ve known him for a while. Great personality. Hell of kid. And you can’t tell right now, but funny. Boy, is he a card. Makes me laugh. And Reg....” Kyle leaned into her. “You should see how fast he pounds out a dent.” He whistled. “Business is going to triple with this guy.”

  “Good for you,” Reggie said. “Can you at least make him get a haircut?”

  “So you’ll go?”

  “Why not,” Reggie said defeated. “Maybe he’ll make me laugh. I hope to God you didn’t tell him I was easy.”

  “No.” Kyle shook his head. “I believe ‘lonely’ was the word I used.”

  “I am not lonely,” Reggie snapped. “I’ve dated.”

  “In high school. Reg, you need to get involved with someone. Everyone needs that.”

  “I don’t.” She took a moment to calm herself. “Besides, I can’t fathom getting into any kind of physical relationship with him. Nice or not, there are limits. He must weigh four hundred pounds, Dad. He’ll squash me.”

  “Squashed sex is better than no sex.”

  “I’m going home.” Reggie started for the door. “I’m the only woman in America who gets pimped by her father.”

  “Reg!” Kyle rushed to her. “Seriously. You need companionship. Forget whirlwind romance, you need someone to connect with; to share things with.”

  Reggie snickered. “Listen to you.”

  “I’m not kidding. When your mom left me, I swore off women. Not that I contemplated turning gay, mind you...” Kyle smiled. “But I swore off relationships. I had you. But the older kids get, the less they need you. Unless, of course, you have a thirty something daughter who won’t get the hell out of your life.”

  “I love you.” Reggie kissed her father on the cheek. “But, I won’t be lonely in my old age. I’ll have Marcus. Lord knows he can’t keep a wife.”

  “That’s because Marcus only gets married to get laid. And after today….”

  “Dad.”

  “Think about what he’s trying to do….”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Until this thing gets out of the news. There’s going to be problems. This is big, Reg, really big... and offensive.”

  “You’re frightening me.”

  “Me too, kiddo.” Kyle nodded.

  “I better get going.” Reggie looked at her watch. “Seth will be home soon. Thanks for watching Marcus today.”

  “I thought I watched Seth.” Kyle grinned.

  “Ha, ha, ha. See you.” Arms folded, Reggie walked from the shop. She froze when she heard her father yell out, ‘Hey, Herbie, you’re on for Friday. But you better cut that hair if you want to get lucky.’

  In amazement, Reggie shook her head and moved on.

  Westing Biogenetic Institute - London, England

  The cloth, seven feet long, three feet wide, lay on a table, surrounded by ultra-violet lights and isotopic equipment. The technicians wore sterilized clothing and latex gloves, looking to prevent even the slightest harm come to the cloth.

  Marcus prepared to do the honors himself, his hands finally steadied from the episode outside of the building. Phone calls, thousands of them, had poured in, none of which he took. Emails flooded his inbox, all of them demanding the same thing; for him to reconsider what he was about to do. Somehow they even found his social media accounts and flooded them. No one could have imagined the magnitude of the uproar that ensued within hours of the televised announcement. But it happened. And it was undoubtedly just the beginning. The multiple bomb threats were summarily dismissed, as Marcus was on borrowed time with the cloth and it would take him a while to perform the task.

  He felt Rose approach him from behind as he stood at the back counter. “We’re ready Doctor.”

  Marcus nodded and turned around. For a second, he thought he saw a faint glow coming from the cloth as it lay upon the table, hemmed in by a team of eight. It was just the lighting. Historically the cloth had gone from sacred to an artifact. Many believing it wasn’t as old as it had been claimed to be. While many still believed it had spiritual and religious implications. Whatever the case, the cloth was valuable and Marcus was honored to have it. He would find his own answers to the cloth in his own way.

  He took a breath and leaned over it, seeing – as if for the first time – the image of a man, outlined by the special lighting. Marcus knew exactly where he would concentrate his sampling, the right side of the image, where the stains were heaviest. He shifted to that portion of the cloth and positioned himself, checking the adjustments on his equipment that would magnify, record and play back his work in real time. Everything was ready, including Marcus. He felt like a surgeon attempting the most delicate of operations. And, in essence, he was. A surgeon with only one chance to create a life.

  “Six foot,” one of the male assistants whispered.

  Marcus looked up as he pulled his stool closer to the cloth. “What was that?”

  “Six foot,” James, the male assistant, repeated. “Rose asked how tall this man was. Dr. Leon, what do you think?”

  “I think that’s a hard call to make, considering that the cloth could have stretched or shrunk.”

  “Shrunk?” Rose snickered. “Imagine how tall he was if it shrunk.”

  “Impossible,” James stated. “Men weren’t that big back then.”

  “Oh yeah?” Marcus questioned. “Who do you know that was around two thousand years ago? Or whenever this cloth is from. Besides, it’s absurd to try to ascertain an individual’s height by the average of those around him. Today the average male is five-foot-nine. So explain Andre the Giant. Kareem Abdul-Jabber. The size of this cloth is no indication of the size of the man whose image is on it.”

  Rose smiled. “Just like the size of a man’s hand is no indication of the size of his...”

  “Rose,” Marcus interrupted, and then shook his head “All I’m saying is that we don’t know. And we’ve never known for certain the height, weight or appearance of anyone that far before our time.” Marcus looked up. “Until now.”

  Seville, Ohio

  “Seth, just a sec.” Reggie sat at Eliza Leon’s kitchen table, tightening a screw on the back of the video game controller.

  “Hurry! We want to play,” Seth beckoned.

  “Will you please be quiet?” Reggie looked at him. “Here.” She set the screwdriver down and handed Seth the control. “Here. I hope Kathleen kicks your butt for being so impatient.”

  “Yeah right.” Seth smiled and darted into the living room.

  Reggie picked up her coffee cup and walked to the pot by the sink where Eliza, Marcus’ mother, was wiping down the counter. “Janice bowling tonight?” Reggie asked.

  “Yep. Every other Wednesday I got Kathleen. And I’m glad you bring Seth over.” Eliza turned around. “How’s Seth getting along in school this year?”

  “Still getting picked on.” Reggie poured some coffee. “He’s so small. So he’s a target. I tried to help but… well, you know.”

  “I remember those days. Poor Marcus. Always getting picked on.” Eliza moved to the kitchen table and sat down. “He was tiny too. But...” She let out a sigh. “...that was back in the days when I could protect him.”

  Reggie raised her eyebrows, and then joined her. “Eliza?”

  “I can’t protect him anymore. Not now.”

  “Marcus will be fine. No one’s going to hurt him.”

  “I’m not worried about someone hurting him. I’m worried about his soul.”

  “Eliza, God gave him the brains to do what he’s doing.”

  “Yeah, and he’s taken that gift and
slapped the Good Lord in the face with it.”

  “I disagree.”

  “You would. I got a call today. Guess who?”

  Reggie shook her head.

  “The Pope.”

  “Not the Pope.”

  “The one and only,” Eliza said. “He wants me to appeal to my son, to make him see the error of his ways.”

  Reggie chuckled. “Don’t you think people are being a little ridiculous over this?”

  “How can you say that? You know what The Shroud stands for.”

  “I know what people believe it stands for. I also know what historians and experts say.”

  “Marcus said it was the image of Jesus.”

  “Well …” Reggie sung her words.

  “So you doubt my son is an expert?”

  “I think Marcus said whatever would draw the most attention. What if the historians are right? What if it wasn’t Jesus wrapped in that cloth, but some murderer or criminal who was crucified for crimes that...”

  “Regina!” Eliza gasped.

  “I’m just saying. What if the cloth isn’t the burial shroud of Christ? Then don’t you think God’s getting a good chuckle out of all this commotion?”

  “I don’t think any of us should presume to know what amuses the Lord.”

  “Marcus needs your support.”

  “That’s not going to happen. This is against every Christian thing I taught him.”

  “You don’t think his upbringing had a lot to do with this?”

  Eliza looked oddly at Reggie. “How can you say that?”

  “I can say that because history proves it.” Reggie smiled. “Remember when Marcus was younger? He was always trying to come up with logical explanations for Christ’s miracles. You used to get so mad at him. Like his theory about the loaves of bread and the fish. He said everyone watching Jesus was so consumed with him that no one noticed the apostles sneaking in more food. Or... how about his walking on water theory? You hit the roof.”

  “The lake was iced up.” Eliza shook her head with a smile. “He reached for anything.”

  “And he still is.” Reggie grabbed Eliza’s hand across the table. “Only this time, Eliza, your son is reaching for the biggest thing he can find. And he needs us. Whether you think this stuff is right or wrong, he needs to know that you’ll...”

  The sound of breaking glass and children’s screams erupted from the living room. Reggie ripped her hand from Eliza’s and jumped up. “What was that?” she asked, running toward the children.

  A small fire was burning just inside the broken front window; bits of glass were scattered about the floor.

  “Get the extinguisher!” Reggie shouted, racing to the fire. She began to stomp it with her foot until she saw the extinguisher in Eliza’s arms. She grabbed it, stepped away and blasted the small fire. She heard engines revving and men hooting outside, and walked toward the broken window.

  “Reggie, be careful,” Eliza said, holding Seth and Kathleen close.

  Hiding behind the right-side window pane, Reggie peered out. Four pickup trucks driven by men in white hoods sped in circles around the large front yard. “What is this? 1966?” Reggie shook her head. “Eliza, where do you keep George’s shotgun?”

  “Above the mantel in the dining room.” Eliza said. Reggie ran from the living room. “Reggie, no.”

  Reggie returned to the living room with the shotgun folded open. “Shells. Where are the shells?” She lifted her head when she heard shots from outside. “Now, Eliza!”

  “Uh...” Eliza had to stop and think. “Top drawer of the bureau.”

  Reggie ran from the room, returning moments later, loading the shotgun as she moved to the front door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Ending this. Get the kids in the back room and call Sheriff Thompson. This is ridiculous.” Slamming the shotgun shut, Reggie flung open the front door, stormed onto the front porch, swung the shotgun strap over her head, and jumped onto the porch railing. With a pivot of her body and a short leap, Reggie gripped onto the roof and pulled herself up.

  She glared at the pickup trucks, whose occupants were now tossing more flaming torches towards the burning cross in the front yard. Reggie raised the shotgun above her head. She fired once. They didn’t stop. Angry, she lowered the shotgun and aimed. Reggie was a great shot. Kyle taught her well. Her first shot exploded the right front tire of the second truck from the back of the line. It swerved back and forth out of control until the driver jumped the curb and came to a stop. The other three trucks also stopped.

  A man’s voice called out from the dingy-blue lead truck. “We have no quarrel with you, Reggie Edmunds!”

  “And you have no quarrel with these people!” Reggie thundered back, holding her aim.

  “Their son...”

  “Their son is not here!” Reggie shouted. “If you have a problem with Marcus, then I suggest you go to London and take it up with him! These people did nothing to you! And right now you’re breaking the law. And don’t think I don’t know your voices. I serve you coffee.” Their laughing response infuriated her. “Leave the property.” They didn’t budge. Reggie fired again, taking out the back tire of another truck. She pumped the chamber and fired once more. Another tire blew up, this time on the off-red pickup farthest from the house.

  With that, the men leapt into the back of the trucks and sped away riding on rims.

  The dust covered their tracks as they drove down the dirt road. Reggie lowered the shotgun, and then sat on the edge of the roof, her legs dangling over the side, her heart and thoughts racing. She dropped her head in relief when she heard the distant sirens.

  Westing Biogenetic Institute - London, England

  “And you’re sure?” Marcus asked over the phone. “Tell me the truth.”

  “I did,” Reggie told him. “Everything’s fine. Sheriff arrested twelve of them. Bunch of drunks jumping on the bandwagon.”

  “Oh, God, Reg.” Marcus lowered his head into his hand.

  “Marcus, stop it. It’ll be fine. They weren’t out to hurt your parents, just scare you.”

  “They did.”

  “Are you gonna stop?” Reggie asked.

  Silence.

  “Marcus? Are you gonna stop?”

  “Well...”

  “I didn’t think so. So tell me. Please?”

  “It’s done,” Marcus stated. “It went well. We acquired enough. Or at least I think we did. Now, the Shroud goes back to the Vatican. Then we isolate the DNA, recreate the nucleus, and implant it into the shelled-out ovum when we get to Chicago.”

  “Thus beginning the asexual fertilization.”

  “Cloning process,” Marcus corrected.

  “Do you think it’ll work?”

  “I don’t think it’ll take three hundred attempts like the first one. But, after a few failures, yes,” Marcus stated. “It will work. I don’t expect any problems with the in-vitro generation or the implantation into the surrogate mother.”

  “See now, that’s what I don’t get,” Reggie said.

  “What’s that?” Marcus asked, his hands fiddling with the phone cord.

  “The world is uptight about what? A baby. An innocent baby who will have the same genetic makeup as... well, Christ. If, you know, the stories are true.” She paused. “All right. I see why they might be a little irate. Marcus...” Reggie’s voice softened. “...leave Marcus the scientist behind for a second. What did you think when you saw it so close?”

  “Well... I saw the image of a man who died a horrendous death. Tortured to the point that there was enough blood to soak an image on a cloth. It was very moving. It made me grieve for him, whoever he was.”

  “Do you believe it was Jesus?”

  “Hopefully, after some tests, I’ll have a better idea, at least for my own knowledge. We took a lot of photos and samples and...”

  “I thought you were only cloning.”

  “Reg, please,” Marcus chuckled. “I have the Shroud of T
urin for forty-eight hours and you think I’ll let it go without answering the things I’ve always wondered?”

  “I guess not.” Reggie took a long, deep breath. “My prayers are with you, Marcus.”

  “Reg, don’t you think that’s a little sacrilegious considering...?”

  “No. There’s nothing sacrilegious about praying for someone you care about. And I’m praying for you.”

  “Then in that case,” Marcus sighed, “keep ‘em coming. I need someone to watch out for me. I have the feeling that today was only the beginning.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Wadsworth, Ohio

  Sporting his best pair of Levis and a maroon button-down shirt, Herbie Wallaby looked good. His hair was cut and combed, and for a man of his size, he moved with grace and confidence on the dance floor. But none of that mattered to Reggie. The best she could muster in response was feigned enthusiasm. She’d tried repeatedly to get out of the date, but her father deftly countered each attempt. Menstrual cramps? Take a Midol. A special wrestling pay-per-view is on? Record it. Reggie saw what she was up against and finally gave in.

  Pretending to enjoy the dance, Reggie’s eyes were glued to the wrestling match that played on all ten televisions in the bar. Reggie loved wresting. In particular, she had a thing for Mr. Big and Hot, the seven-foot glory with a hulking body. Every Monday and Thursday she waited patiently with Seth, watching for the towering, long-haired wrestling God. Reggie wasn’t about to pass up a match with Big and Hot for a dance with Slow and Not. That was why she chose Harland’s Bar and Grill, it always had the pay-per-view extravaganzas.

  “Enjoying the dance, huh?” Herbie asked, a wide grin dawning his round face.

  “Huh?” Reggie said, shifting her eyes to Herbie and back to the television. “Yeah. Yeah, I sure am,” she suspected that Herbie had mistaken her soft moan at the sight of Big & Hot’s bare chest as an assessment of Herbie’s slow dancing.

  “Don’t you dance much?” Herbie asked.