CHAPTER 2
As Beth and I were talking, Russo recorded these words in his diary in a hotel room on the other side of Zurich, Switzerland.
“Tuesday, March 28. Once again I am staring at my glass bottle and the small bloody fibers. The fibers look old and brittle. I hold in my hands a true religious relic with enough miraculous power contained within its molecules to bring the nations to their knees. I understand this power. This is the power I’ve needed.
“I remember the Chicago incident again. How they left me twisting in the wind to take their blame. When the investigation occurred, I was left unprotected. The Monsignor from Chicago, who directed the Vatican’s banking operation, knew that, as a young priest, I would only get a slap on the wrist. The investigators said that I was simply stupid about the monies I accepted. They all thought it would be quietly dismissed. The Monsignor had no idea what it did to me. Actually, he didn’t care what destruction would come to me. All he cared about was covering his own exposed behind. Tonight, as my eyes study my clear glass bottle, I’m thinking, ‘God, I know you understand. I gave everything to your church. I compromised my being for her. Thank you, God. Together, we will get even.’
“I feel strange as I write tonight, I feel tired, yet I feel empowered. Something is strengthening me. It must be my Holy faith. Much to do tomorrow. Need sleep.”
When morning came for me, my anticipation seemed to throw my body from the bed. A million thoughts ran through my head. I wondered where I’d order the lab equipment? What about the egg once it was produced? Who would carry the child to term? How much contact would I have afterward?
At that time I imagined the papers I’d write for the journals and the conference speaking to be done as the first man to clone another human being. I showered, dressed, and was about to leave when Beth came down the stairs. She smiled and said she hadn’t seen me like this since the night I asked her to marry me. She told me that I still had all the idealism of a boy.
“Come have a cup of coffee with me before you leave,” she said. As she filled our cups, her eye caught the brisk movement of a thick, murky shadow across the floor. Her eyes snapped to the window to see what had glided between her, the floor and the sun. She blinked. The blind was closed. A shiver ran through her body creating goose bumps and raising the hairs on the back of her neck. At first, she tried to shake it off with a flip of her hair but it grew into a deep, disquieting fear. Then she said, “Matt, I'm frightened. Something doesn’t seem right. I feel like we should pray.”
I felt a little strange, too. “OK, Beth. I’ll pray.” It had been so long since I had prayed out loud and for some reason the ‘Our Father’ or ‘Hail Mary’ hadn’t seemed right for this occasion. I wasn’t very practiced in the art of heavenly communication and I was surprised when out of my mouth came these awkward words: “Lord, help us!” Our fear subsided and she noticed last night’s dirty dishes. Cari must have been startled by my prayer and woke up. Her cry kicked Beth into her daily routine and I bolted out the door for my meeting with Father Russo.
On the other side of town, Father Russo was up early. He had written several letters. One was to an internationally known television evangelist who went by the name Prophet T.N. Thompson. I noticed the address when he dropped the letters in the mail box as we met for breakfast.
At that time, I knew nothing of this Thompson but soon we’d be colleagues. It wasn’t until his authorized biography was published that I read his story. A source close to him told me the truth behind the book’s script. Thompson had risen from a small Florida church to be one of the most recognized and earliest religious figures on television. The Florida days stayed fresh in the Prophet’s mind. He remembered those lean times, and that Sunday night service when Laura Severson came forward for prayer.
To the world, the Holy Ghost spoke to the Prophet. To those closest to him it was a low, reverberating male voice that started to speak inside his head. At first he ignored it. Thompson thought that he was extremely tired. The little church kept him jumping seven days a week. The church’s slow growth left the deacon board with little money to hire more help and lots of work to be done. Most of it fell to Rev. Thompson, as he was called then. It was when he had neared exhaustion that Thompson experienced the voice before. The voice began when he was a teen but it came rarely then. He barely remembered it, according to the biography. He tried not to remember much of his childhood. His parents had made that easy. He wanted to force from his mind the memories of their abuse and alcoholic rages. But on that night the voice told him something about Laura.
She had asked to be forgiven. Laura confessed that she had grown to hate her husband. Willy Severson was an alcoholic who often beat Laura. She had turned to the church for support and some answers. Thomas Nigel Thompson rarely had any of the answers she needed or wanted. But that night the voice spoke about Laura. Laura’s husband will die after complications caused by an accident, the voice stated. Thompson had fought the urge to speak those words to her. Several thoughts went through his mind. “What if I am wrong? What if it really is my typical Sunday evening energy drain that is causing this?” He hadn’t felt exhausted though. It was just the opposite. It felt more like his entire body pulsed with electrical current.
He tried to shake it off. He couldn’t. The voice came back again. Her husband will die after an auto wreck. Tell her those words. He struggled but finally the voice overpowered him. T.N. Thompson spoke to her as he gripped her head between his hands. He lowered his own head and spoke into her ear. It was nearly inaudible.
“What was that Reverend? I didn’t hear you,” Laura said.
He spoke louder, “Your husband will die in an auto wreck. As we pray together he is out drinking. On his way home, a pick-up truck will run a red light, pinning him in the car. Two days from now he’ll die.”
Thompson was stunned when Laura called the next day to ask him to meet her at the hospital. Her husband had been drinking and got into an auto accident. The doctors didn’t expect him to live. Rev. Thompson spent many hours consoling her in, as she called it, “special ways” after that. Laura continued her support and ministry to his needs as his personal secretary and assistant.
When the news of the prophecy spread, more people came to that little Florida church building each evening to hear the prophet and to have him prophesy over them. The collection plates filled to the top as they passed through the unpadded, cracked pews. Books were written. Television programs were produced. And before Thompson knew it, a prophet was born and profit was made. Now, the Prophet T.N. Thompson sees millions of dollars given to his ministry each year.
The deep, masculine echoing voice in his head got stronger and the lust for the unholy trinity of money, power and flesh strengthened. Something great was about to come, the voice said. A few days after I met with Russo, the voice gave the Prophet this message: Look for the priest, it said. Look for the priest.