Marcus resumed speed. He was less than a half-mile to his home. He glanced in his rearview mirror. The driver seemed to slow, giving at least thirty yards between the two cars. Marcus considered driving by his home and cutting back.
He quickly turned into his drive and slowed to a crawl. Marcus kept his eyes on the mirror while the car passed, the lone driver turning his head toward Marcus’s home. The man in the car continued driving.
Marcus pulled up next to his home, got out and unlocked the front door. Buddy greeted him, turning in half circles, his short tail blurring.
“Bet you could use some outdoor time.”
The dog scurried past Marcus and trotted to the front yard, cocking his leg next to a persimmon tree. As he relieved himself, a Fed-Ex truck lumbered up the driveway toward the house. Buddy, leg hiked, managed to cough out a single bark that sounded more like a howl.
The driver slowed to a stop. Marcus approached the truck. The driver nodded, getting out of the truck with a package and a digital signature board.
“Hi, are you Paul Marcus?”
“Yes.”
“I have a package for you.” He handed Marcus the pad for him to electronically sign his name. The driver petted Buddy. “My brother had a dog like this. She could catch eight out of ten Frisbee tosses. Here’s your package. Looks like it came from a place I’ve always wanted to visit.”
“Where’s that?”
“Jerusalem. Have a good day.” The man climbed in his truck, cranked the diesel and followed the circular drive back to the road.
Marcus walked up to his front porch, sat in a rocker made from red oak, and opened the package. He found a letter and a sealed envelope. Marcus read the letter while Buddy sprawled on the wooden porch beside his chair.
Dear Mr. Marcus:
I spoke briefly with you last week. My inquiries are not intended to be intrusive. However, if I did not try to contact you, I feel as though, in some way, I am not doing as God may have intended. Now that I am the recipient of the Newton papers I mentioned, I feel certain that you are indeed the man Newton was referring to shortly before his death.
My contact information is enclosed on a separate page. I believe you, too, will understand the depth of what is at stake. Perhaps we will never fully grasp the significance of the words or even manage to pluck them from God’s agenda. I am not a young man, and before I find my final resting place on the Mount of Olives, I feel an obligation to seek you. If you choose not to answer the call, perhaps that, too, was meant to be. However, if you will look at a copy of a page from Newton’s hand, and still profess no interest, so be it. But in God’s name, I reach out to you. I think we all do.
Most sincerely,
Jacob Kogen
Marcus slid the second page from behind the letter. It was a photocopy of handwritten notes that were written in small, precise penmanship. Marcus scanned the words, his eyes searching for anything between the lines, something that was less obvious as he read. He followed Newton’s handwritten words, the prose making reference to passages from the Book of Daniel.
‘Daniel was in the greatest credit amongst the Jews, till the reign of the Roman Emperor Hadrian and to reject his Prophecies, is to reject the Christian religion. For this religion is founded upon his Prophecy concerning the Messiah.’
Marcus finished reading the page and his eyes narrowed on the handwriting in the lower right corner:
Daniel was given the visions from God to be continued by the visions conveyed to the Apostle John. Those revelations will be made whole by those who are yet unborn, but chosen, and according to the visions seen by Daniel and John, the final deliverance of the word shall be given to Paul James Marcus, who, in the year 2015, is awarded a noble medal for healing.
Marcus felt a chill move through his body. His throat was dry, hands trembling while holding the letter. The sun broke from mauve clouds, framing the dark purple mountains in a nimbus of orange. Marcus looked up to see a screech owl fly toward the valley below the farm. The sudden rustle of a cool breeze drew his attention to the multitude of leaves dancing across his porch, giving hint of an early winter. He opened the envelope, his brow tightening when he read the destination.
Marcus held a one-way plane ticket to Jerusalem.
ELEVEN
The next morning Paul Marcus parked his car in the lot of Mayflower Assisted Living, which was located outside of Fairfax. He entered the facility and walked through the atrium, the smell of bleach and roses shadowed him making his way to the reception area. He was told his grandmother had just finished her breakfast in the courtyard. Marcus followed a middle-aged nurse supervisor who led him down the hallway to the terrace. Her large inner thighs caused a swishing sound each time the polyester uniform rubbed together. She pointed to a woman sitting in a wheelchair.
“It’s kinda cool outside, but your grandmother insists on bein’ out here. She’s got her favorite sweater on, and we make sure she isn’t out here too long.”
“Thank you.” Marcus left the nurse and walked toward his grandmother.
Mama Davis sat by herself. Speckled sunlight broke through canopies of red and yellow leaves in the oak and mulberry trees. The old woman turned toward the warmth from the sun. Her face was aged and wrinkled but yet radiant. She closed her eyes and listened to the breeze in the boughs. A cardinal chirped and flittered through the limbs while two squirrels played hide-and-seek around the base of an oak tree.
She wore her white hair pinned up, a touch of pink powder on her cheeks. She held a cup of tea in both hands and opened her eyes to Marcus.
“Good morning, Mama Davis.”
The old woman smiled. Marcus bent down and kissed her cheek. “Oh, Paul, my dear, Paul. I didn’t know you were coming. I’d have fixed my face, had I known.”
“You never need make-up. You’re a natural beauty.” Marcus smiled and stood.
“Pull up a chair and let’s visit.”
Marcus slid a wooden rocking chair next to his grandmother and sat down. She patted him on the knee. “I wonder if you’re getting enough to eat. You’re looking a little on the thin side. I worry about you…have ever since Tiffany and Jenny passed.”
“I’m fine. And I’m eating well. Even Buddy likes my cooking.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “I miss that sweet dog. How is he?”
“Buddy’s great. The question is…how are you doing? The nurse said your blood pressure has regulated, but how’s that ankle?”
“Getting better. This old body is pretty resilient — I’ll be good as new in no time. Where I’m having trouble is…I miss my little home and your farm, too. I make friends here, but just about the time I get to know them, who they are and how many grandkids they have, they pass away. Harold Snyder, you remember him from your last visit, Paul?
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Well, he died right here on the patio in his wheelchair two weeks ago. The help thought he’d fallen asleep, but I knew better. His chest wasn’t moving up and down.” She glanced at the cloudless sky and was silent for a moment. Then she looked directly at Marcus. “You’re troubled. I can feel it. You’ve been gifted to see and feel things, so what’s going on?”
“Then, why couldn’t I see the deaths of my family, maybe do something to stop it?”
“We can only see what’s revealed to us, Paul. Tiny cracks, these little places where just a drop of God’s paint is shared within a canvas big as the universe, show up and shed light on things.”