Free Sullivan Saga 2: Sullivan's Wrath by Michael K. Rose Page A

I….”
    “Listen, I know you never would have done that if you weren’t being influenced. You can end this.”
    “I don’t want to end it, Rick. I don’t want to leave her. I can’t leave her.”
    “It’s not her.”
    “No, I know that. But she’s as close as I’ll ever get.” Allen looked at Liz again.
    “Set it up,” she said.
    “Listen, Rick. I want to say goodbye in person. Come meet me.” He took out his tablet, unfolded it and tapped on the screen. “I’m sending you an address. Be there in one hour.”
    Allen tapped on his earpiece and ended the call.
    “Good,” said Liz. “Very good. Now call Brooks again. Make sure he’s ready.”
     

17
     
    PETER HAD INTENDED to speak to Father Curtis after evening prayers, but as he caught Curtis’s eye, he felt the same reluctance creep into back of his mind. Instead he smiled at Father Curtis and bade him goodnight.
    He tossed and turned for several hours in bed. The last time he’d checked, the clock had read two thirty. Peter looked again. Two thirty-three.
    “Dear Lord,” he whispered, “please bring me peace so that I might sleep.”
    Peter turned onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. There, just as he had seen it on the wall and in his mind every night since then, was the crucified Jesus. Peter blinked several times to make sure he was truly seeing the image. Remembering an old trick—he didn’t recall ever having done it before, and he felt silly doing so now—he pinched himself on the arm. He squeezed his nails into his flesh until the pain became unbearable. He couldn’t remember ever having felt pain in a dream before, so he knew he had to be awake.
    This was the clearest he had ever been able to see the vision. The appearance on the wall of his room had been brief, and the vision he had seen when he closed his eyes, even though it had been constant, had seemed blurry and far away.
    As his heart began to race, he took in the details. If he truly was seeing Jesus, he wanted to remember everything about how he looked. The crown of thorns around Jesus’s head could not diminish the beauty and nobility of the face. His hair was shoulder-length and curly, and he wore a closely-tapered beard.
    Peter cast his eyes across the arms of Christ. Multiple lacerations could be seen where the whip had missed his back and curved around his shoulders and upper arms. Jesus was nailed to the cross through his hands, not his wrists as skeptics had been insisting upon for hundreds of years.
    The spear wound in Jesus’s side was dripping blood which ran down the side of his leg. Peter glanced at Jesus’s feet. A single long nail was driven through both feet. They were resting on a small block of wood, also nailed to the cross.
    Peter clasped his hands in front of him as he stared up at Jesus. “Dear Lord, what message do you bring me?”
    Jesus, whose head had been hanging, looked up and fixed Peter in the eyes. Peter could see the pain and sorrow in those eyes, and it brought tears to his own.
    “Dear Lord,” he repeated.
    A sound filled Peter’s ears. It was a sound unlike any he had ever heard, like a chorus, but there was something metallic in the voices. No , he thought. Something golden .
    He watched Christ’s lips slowly part. At first he heard only a weak exhalation of breath. Then words formed on the breath. Peter strained to hear what they were, they were so faint. Slowly, Jesus repeated the words before the image dimmed and faded. Peter felt a chill run down his spine, and his pulse began to pound in his ears. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he had understood the words the second time: “Look… for my… return.”
     

18
     
    RICK SULLIVAN TAPPED his fingers on the table. Kate was sitting on the bed, leaning forward, watching him. She looked at his restless hand. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Despite his generally calm demeanor, she could tell he was anxious.
    “We should go,” said Kate.
    Sullivan shook his head.