Bipolar WINTER. Samuel David Steiner

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СКАЧАТЬ at her for a long moment, finally deciding she had to be pulling his leg. “Sure you have.” After the day he’d had, being involved in spy games didn’t seem so far-fetched. But with Allison? The riskiest thing he’d ever seen her do was take a sip of his coffee. Yet, he couldn’t ignore the fact she was here, trespassing inside the Apostolic Palace. “And when exactly would you have gotten the chance to bug my watch?”

      Again, Allison giggled. “Made you wonder, though, didn’t I?” She stood and walked back toward the open balcony door. “There are many secrets within these walls, and now that you’re on the inside, we need you to be our eyes and ears.” She turned back and tilted her head again, knowing just how well that look worked on him.

      Like a charm. Aldo sighed. “Okay, for argument’s sake, let’s say I believe you,” Aldo said, rubbing his temple. “I’m not a spy. I’m just a scholar, a historian.”

      Allison laced her hands behind her back. “And only you were able to connect more dots than anyone else has. You’re close to the Bride’s Day Secret.”

      Aldo sighed again. “But I have no proof.” Up until an hour earlier, his theory that all of Christianity would one day be united again under the veil of the Catholic Church, like a bride and groom on their wedding day, had been just that – a theory. Now, with the pope’s confirmation of his research, he knew he’d been on the right track, but he still needed the proof to support it. But the pope’s confiscating his research made getting said proof a moot point.

      “You’ll get it, sooner than you realize. You’re in the right place.”

      Relenting, Aldo dropped onto the bed. “What am I looking for?”

      Allison pointed at herself. “You’re asking me?” Right. She wanted his help but wasn’t going to give him any hints.

      Since Aldo had left the pope’s private chambers, something had been tickling the back of his mind. Starting with Luther, he could pinpoint how each of the six sects had originated. What about the seventh? Pope Benedict had called the Seventh a rebellious teenager. In religion, rebelling would be in terms of doctrine. Whose doctrine had strayed most from the path? He straightened.

      “The Seventh-day Adventists are the seventh sect,” he muttered. They were the ones threatening to reveal Catholic secrets.

      Allison nodded. “I agree. I suggest you start at the beginning with William Miller. The Vatican Archives should have what you need. But it might take some digging.”

      Aldo looked at her, wondering what her stake was in all of this. She had already graduated with full honors from Brigham Young University, and he assumed she’d be returning home now that her study abroad program had ended. “I never said I’d help. Even if I wanted to, you know I’ll be watched every second.” Allison’s expression turned serious. “By more than one set of eyes.”

      Aldo already felt in over his head, and the weight of her words dragged him down further. He glanced again at the man in the corner. Allison’s presence here left little doubt that the LDS Church was involved. Beyond just being aware of Septem Montes he wasn’t sure how, but that meant at least two of the seven sects were on the move.

      “No guarantees,” he said hesitantly.

      “Don’t worry. We got your back. Just scribble a note on a piece of paper and toss it out the window if you need me.” She winked then followed her escort onto the balcony. Slipping smoothly over the railing, they disappeared into the darkness below.

      “Ever heard of a cell phone?” Aldo muttered with a sigh. He closed and locked the balcony door, pulled on his pajamas and dropped onto the bed, praying that things would start making sense in the morning.

      Chapter Two|The SEVENTH

       Low Hampton, New York

       October 1844

      William Miller cried as he watched the sun rise over his farm. The crisp morning air threatened to freeze the tears to his face, but he hardly noticed. For the last twenty-two years, he had devoted his life to teaching his followers, the Millerites, the truth.

      It has to be the truth. It is right there, in the Bible. So why? More tears slipped down his cheeks as he choked back a sob.

      “Unto two thousand and three hundred days; then shall the sanctuary be cleansed,” Miller recited Daniel 8:14 again. It was clear as day. Jesus would be coming to cleanse the Earth, purifying the world of all evil. The exact date had been carefully calculated, taking into account all possible factors. He believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that the day of Christ's Second Coming would reward his followers and punish the sinners of the world.

      That day was yesterday.

      So why, Lord? He threw his hands into the air in frustration. There were no errors in the calculations, no misinterpretation of scripture. Christ simply did not come. The reason was beyond Miller’s ability to comprehend. He knew in his heart that Christ would be coming. Soon. He felt it, believed it with every fiber of his being. But after this failed prediction, no one would listen to him any longer. He would be labeled a charlatan.

       I will need to disappear, find a quiet place to live out my days.

      Remorse filled him as he looked around the farm. This latest setback had not shaken his faith, but he feared the disappointment would be too great for his followers and cause many to lose their way.

      Miller’s gaze rose toward the ridgepole of his large red barn. Squinting into the sunrise, he could make out some of his parishioners, dressed in white robes—ascension robes—gathering along the peak of the roof.

      Puzzled, he left his front porch and headed toward the barn. Why are they still here? And still dressed in their robes?

      Then the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he picked up his pace. No, they mustn’t.

      Thousands of Millerites had gathered around Low Hampton the previous day, all dressed in white robes to make the transition to Heaven easier. Some had climbed onto rooftops, while others had hiked into the surrounding hills, all fully expecting the world to be engulfed in flames. But with the dawning of this new day, all their hopes and expectations had been crushed.

      Just as he reached the barn, one man leapt from the roof, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. William gasped then rushed toward the crumpled form. “No!” he screamed as another jumped. One by one, bodies continued to rain down around him, shaking the earth beneath his feet with each impact. “Stop!” he begged, falling to his knees. “No! Please, God! No!”

      Was this punishment for his mistake? To watch helplessly as each parishioner, each child of God, plummeted to their death?

      When at last silence fell, Miller forced himself to his feet. Thirty dead bodies lay strewn across the damp grass, each with white foam oozing from the mouth. Finding a small vial still clutched in one lifeless hand, Miller picked it up and sniffed. Bitter almond. They had poisoned themselves to ensure they would not survive the fall.

      Fresh tears filled his eyes, clouding his vision. Grief and frustration cramped his stomach and he retched into a nearby shrub. Unable to face his fallen brethren, he stumbled onto his porch and slumped into a rocking chair. Shivers racked his body as waves of sorrow washed over him. Where did I go wrong? СКАЧАТЬ