A Taste of the Apocalypse
Book One of The Chronicles of Jeremy Nash

Prologue

The old aeronautical engineer felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He wondered if it was a change of airflow in his room – or trepidation.
    It was both.
He turned around in his moonlit 5th floor hospital room at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center to see a slouched silhouette in his open doorway. A cold shiver coursed down his spine, as if it had been dipped in ice.
Henderson squinted, his eyesight failing with age. But before recognition dawned on him, he knew something was going to happen.
    And it’s not going to be good.
    Particularly for him.
The silhouette slivered towards him. Henderson backed away with fearful recognition.
“Vajda!” he whispered nervously under his breath.
Now fully immersed in a pool of silver light, the tall alarming figure nodded imperceptibly.  He continued gliding forward in an unusual, stooped manner, like a jungle cat hunting its prey.
    And I’m the prey.
    Standing near the wide window, Henderson was suddenly having difficulty breathing.  He was acutely aware that he was trapped in a small hospital room with nowhere to run.  To make matters worse, Vajda was between him and the nurse call button.
The threatening figure said nothing as he closed the gap between them. Now fully in the moonlight, Henderson saw a tall muscular man with a shock of white hair growing out of a head of dark brown, dressed in a Romanian style silk brocade coat that reminded Henderson of a certain vampire count
“What do you want from me?”
 He knew he had little hope he would survive the night.  Hell, survive the next five minutes, but he gave it his best shot. “I didn’t tell them anything,” he cried out almost inaudibly.
    With stunning speed, Vajda pounced on him, gripping his throat with two strong hands.  Henderson’s air supply was immediately cut-off, and with it, any hope of calling out for help.
Vajda calmly watched Henderson with two different colored eyes -– one an extremely pale blue and the other an almost colorless brown.  A deep, brutal scar ran from under his left ear to his chin.
Henderson thought he was the ugliest son-of-a-bitch he’d ever seen. But then Vajda’s hideous face started to blur before him.  Like an encroaching oil spill, darkness crept along the edges of Henderson’s vision. In an amazing feat of strength, Vajda pulled the obese man straight up off the floor, holding him suspended in the air.
    “Where is he?” Vajda demanded with a slight lisp from his cleft lip. “Where is Nash?”
    Henderson couldn’t speak — hell, he could barely see.  Vajda held him up a moment longer, and then slowly lowered the old man to the floor, grudgingly releasing his grip.
    Gasping, Henderson would have fallen to his knees if the stooped man hadn’t held him up.  He painfully sucked in air through what he believed was a very damaged throat.
    “I-I don’t know,” he gasped, stumbling over the poorly formed words.
    “So you do not know where to find Nash?”
    “I don’t! I swear to you! I think he’s dead.”
    “Then you are of no further use to us.”
    With that, Vajda grabbed Henderson by the collar and dragged the old man to the window.  In one fluid motion, the brutal assassin kicked the barred window open, splintering the window frame and releasing whatever locking device it had.  Glass and metal rained down to the parking lot below as a soaring wind rushed up into the room blowing up through Henderson’s hospital robe.
    This isn’t happening.
    Henderson could hear the sound of traffic below, horns honking, cars rushing by.
    “I’ll see you in hell,” spurted Henderson.
    And with that, Vajda shoved the old man through the deadly opening.  Henderson flipped once, hit his head hard on the outside ledge, mercifully blacked out, and dropped five floors to the pavement below.
 

Friday
12:14 PM MDT
New Mexico

    The rising sun cast its orange and pink glow over the windshield of Jeremy Nash’s Cirrus SR Twenty.  A smattering of low cirrus clouds caught some of the early morning light, and Nash was reminded again how much he loved to fly at this time of day.
    He turned the controls slightly and banked to the left, bursting through the thinning clouds.  From here, he could see the high desert of New Mexico.
    He would be approaching Roswell Airport soon.
    The incessant beat of his SR Twenty propeller always had a calming effect on him.  He loved being up here, loved getting away from it all.  Loved, in particular, being alone with his thoughts.  He did his best thinking up here.
    And today, Nash’s thoughts were on his grandmother.  Two days ago, his sister had called to tell him his grandmother had passed.  Nash was in Albuquerque researching a lecture on crypto-history he was to deliver a few weeks from now in Berlin.  As an expert debunker of conspiracy theories, myths and legends, he was often asked to give such lectures.  Hell, half his time seemed to be spent behind a podium, poking holes in everything from Elvis faking his death, Bigfoot, and UFOs to the various 9/11 conspiracies.
    The city of Roswell appeared ahead, under the warm noonday sun.  He spotted the airport and angled toward it. He received confirming clearance from the tower, and a few minutes later he was applying the brakes as the plane touched down on the tarmac.
    Nash taxied off the runway, heading toward the executive terminal.  He parked the plane, shut down the engine, collected his laptop, and entered the small terminal.  Sitting there in the waiting area, looking as lovely as ever, was his younger sister Alyson.  She spotted him, smiled brightly, and stood.
    It had been several years since they had last seen each other.  Too long, and Nash had only himself to blame.  He was a workaholic, but at least he was the first to admit it.
    Though they were five years apart, Nash had heard all his life that he and his sister could have been twins.  They were both around medium height, with auburn complexions, hazel eyes, and straight dark brown hair.  Anyone could see the influence their Native American ancestry — Mescalero Apache — had on their appearance.
    “Well, hi there, Sis,” he said easily.
    She rushed over, throwing her arms around him.  Nash grunted doing his best not to fall over.
    “I hate you,” she said, still hugging him.
    “Why?”
    “You never return my phone calls.  You are such a jerk.”
    “If I’m such a jerk, then why are you still hugging me?”
    “Because I love you, you jerk.” She planted a kiss on his cheek and released him.  Nash laughed.
    She turned to glance over at a tall, athletic-looking man sporting a crew cut and standing stiffly a few feet away.  Nash thought the man resembled a drill sergeant — only not as pleasant.  Alyson was charged with enthusiasm. “Jeremy, this is my fiancé, Tom Gray.  Tom, this is Jeremy.”
    “Nice to meet you,” said Tom, reaching out with a wide, paddle-like hand.  Nash set down his laptop case and took the offered hand.  The man’s grip was vice-like.
    “Tom works for the FBI,” said Alyson beaming proudly.
“No kidding,” said Nash, working his hand while wondering what exactly Tom was trying to compensate for. “An agent?”
“Yeah.  Field agent,” he said. “Out of Albuquerque.”
“Tom often works undercover,” said Alyson. Both she and Tom laughed as Nash rolled his eyes.
    The introductions finished, Tom led the way to Alyson’s Bronco.

 
Friday
1:23 PM MDT
Roswell, New Mexico

    Nash was grateful for having grown up in the UFO capital of the world.  Yes, he was born and raised in Roswell–an ironic twist of fate that was not lost on his colleagues.
    Or just about anyone else, for that matter.
    Growing up here, Nash had discovered something curious about himself.  Furthermore, he was absolutely certain that had he not
grown up in UFO city this personal quirk would never have manifested itself.
    Considering that it had turned his life around and made him a lot of money, he was grateful for it.
    Just about everyone in Roswell was determined to believe in the UFO stories, especially the infamous crash of 1947. As a young boy, Nash was determined to prove the opposite–that a UFO crash had not occurred, that UFO’s did not exist, and that his entire city was insane!
    That’s how the great debunker and skeptic was born — from his drive to prove everyone else wrong.
    As they drove, Tom looked over at Nash. “So, Alyson tells me your grandfather, Zed, was quite a character.  Air Force Major, intelligence officer, archaeologist.”
    “And a paleo-linguist,” said Nash.
    “A paleo-what?”
    “His expertise was ancient languages.  He even worked on an original Dead Sea Scrolls research team.”
    “Very cool.”
    “Yeah…Until he went crazy,” mused Nash.
    Tom looked at Alyson and winked. “So I’m told. A bit crazy.”
    “Certifiable.  He was committed shortly after our parents were killed in an accident. That’s when Alyson and I moved in with our grandparents.”
    “Committed? Alyson didn’t tell me that part.” Tom squinted as he drove. “I’m, uh, sorry to hear that.”
They passed the International UFO Museum and Research Center, where the infamous — and bogus — alien autopsy had been performed on TV several years back. Orchestrated by Fox News, it was a brilliant publicity scheme, if nothing else. Nash had been one of the team of skeptics who had blown the whistle on it.
A few minutes later they pulled onto the property of the St. Mary’s Catholic Church and drove the short distance to the cemetery beyond.

 
Friday
2:25 PM MDT
Roswell, New Mexico

The funeral was mercifully short since it took place in the intense heat of the mid-afternoon sun.  During the service, Alyson openly wept. Nash found himself reverently lost in sweet nostalgia, remembering the good times he had shared with the kind old lady who had raised them. He could even forgive her insistence, and his resulting agnosticism, that he and his sister be raised in the Catholic Church. He never thought of himself as the sentimental type, but he shed a tear or two as well. Hoping his grandmother had gone on to a better place, he wondered where that might be.
He felt an unusual wave of guilt for having neglected his grandmother these past several years.  He certainly could have done a better job of stopping by or calling her.
Hearing the end of the ceremony, he caught his sister watching him. He tried to smile but his heart wasn’t in it. He felt oppressively sad and regretted the arguments with this dear lady that had led him to forsaking the faith so important to her. Alyson, bless her heart, reached out and took his hand. They stood closely together as the casket was lowered into the earth.
 
Friday
3:10 PM MDT
Roswell, New Mexico

They were walking back to the Bronco when a small man dressed in a dark suit approached them from the parking lot.  Nash briefly wondered how the man — who looked vaguely familiar — could wear such a dark suit on a scorching day like this.
    “Alyson.  Jeremy,” said the man. “I’m Frank Evans, your grandmother’s lawyer.” They shook hands all around.  Evans gave them his condolences and then got right to the point. “I have something for the two of you.” He reached into his coat pocket, producing a sealed white envelope. “This letter was given to me by your grandfather to hold for you until your grandmother’s death.  I’ve taken the liberty of making arrangements with the pastor to use his office — if you two want some privacy.”
    He gave the letter to Alyson, offered his condolences again, and departed.
“Well,” said Alyson, holding up the letter, “I guess we should see what grandfather has to say to us.”
The three of them hurried to the rectory.

 
Friday
3:20 PM MDT
Roswell, New Mexico

The pastor’s office was small, dark, and thankfully — air conditioned leaving Tom to amuse himself with some dull looking pamphlets outside.  Nash breathed a sigh of relief as Alyson went straight to the desk and found a letter opener sitting in an empty coffee tin full of pens and pencils.  She swiped the envelope, plucking the letter out.  Scanning the page, Alyson frowned. “What’s this?”
    Puzzled, she handed the letter to her brother to read.  Or, rather, he tried to.  The page was filled with neatly printed rows of what appeared to be some sort of pictographic writing system.  A very ancient system.  He said as much to his sister.
    “No wonder they locked him up,” Nash said.
“So how do we get this translated?” Alyson asked.
    Nash, folding the letter carefully, returned it to the envelope. “Actually, I think I know just the person.”
    “Who?”
“A colleague of mine at UCLA.  I’ve worked with him on many occasions. He also worked with grandfather years ago.”
“And when will you have an answer?” she asked. “I kind of want to know what he has to say to us that’s so important.”
Nash wanted to know, too.  He considered faxing the letter to his friend, but something stopped him.  After all, there had to be a reason why his grandfather had written the letter in ancient, freaking Sanskrit, or whatever the hell it was.  Perhaps their batty old kin might have left behind something very personal—even valuable.
He looked down at his sister, giving her a hug. “I’ll fly over to Los Angeles today and see about getting it translated immediately.”
She clapped and threw her arms around him.  
Nash had a phone call to make. He hoped his friend was in.

 
Friday
3:37 PM PDT
On Route to Los Angeles
    
As Nash’s small plane rose swiftly into the afternoon sky, he turned right and wondered how many citizens of Roswell were down there speculating that he was an interplanetary scout ship hunting its next bovine victim.
Sorry guys, he thought, but it’s just me, Jeremy Nash, your friendly neighborhood debunker.
With the help of a tail wind, he made good time to Albuquerque.  Before leaving Roswell, he called ahead to his old friend, Raymond Thomas, Professor of Near Eastern Languages and Cultures at UCLA. Although Thomas wasn’t in, Nash left a message with a graduate assistant informing the professor he was coming.
He barely caught the next flight out to LA.
As the big jet lifted off, Nash settled in. He was about to take a short nap when the overhead monitor turned on.  Since the trip was too short for a full movie, the airline had elected to show various news shorts.
    Nash jacked in his headset, casually listening and dozing in and out of consciousness.  But once CNN began airing an interview with Jeremiah Hicks, his eyes popped open, gluing themselves to the screen.  
The interviewer was a tenacious young news journalist.  Nash immediately liked her style.

    “Welcome, Reverend Hicks, to ‘Chapter and Verse’.”
    “Thank you.  I’m happy to be here.”
    “Reverend Hicks, you’ve come a long way from being a small country revivalist preacher. Now you’re the head of the International Christian Zionist Movement, have your own religious radio program, a TV media empire, and have published many bestselling books on the Apocalypse.”
    Hicks, to his credit, at least tried to look humble. “Well, I don’t think of myself as heading an empire, but I do expect my latest book, ‘Preparing Your Soul for the Apocalypse’, to do well within some religious circles.”
“Well, Reverend, let’s get right to it. Your organization’s goal is to actually bring about the Second Coming.  Is this correct?”
    “Our goal is to prod it along, yes.” Hicks apparently anticipated Blake’s next question and added, “Peacefully prod it along, that is.  The International Christian Zionist Movement is a non-political, non-violent movement whose sole purpose is to help bring Jews back to the Holy Land, fulfilling prophesy and ushering in the Second Coming of our Lord, Jesus Christ.”
    “Reverend, some say your organization is affiliated with the Jesus Saves the Earth UFO Foundation in Colorado, the so-called Warriors of Christ?  Is this true?”
    “Absolutely not–”
    “And some also claim that your organization is affiliated with the Armageddon Lobby–”
    “I emphatically deny–”
    “The same Armageddon Lobby that planned to carry out violent and extreme acts in the streets of Jerusalem at the end of ninety-nine to herald the return of Jesus to earth.  The same Armageddon Lobby that then planned to commit mass suicide, a la Heaven’s Gate.”
    Hicks’ round face had reddened slightly. But to his continuing credit he had waited patiently for the young reporter to finish.  When he was given permission to speak, he said calmly, “The ICZM has no connection with either cult.”
    “Is it true that both these ‘cults’, as you call them, believe Jesus will return in a flying saucer upon his Second Coming?”
Hicks opened his mouth to speak, but the reporter forged on.
“And didn’t these so-called UFO Jesus cults specifically want to create a catastrophic event by provoking a deadly shootout with the police in Jerusalem?”
“I don’t see how this is relevant–”
“Is it or is it not true that Israeli intelligence — the Mossad — connected both cults to you and the ICZM?”
“I’m unaware–”
“Isn’t it true that Israeli authorities deported members of your organization under suspicion of planning acts of violence to coincide with the year two thousand?”
Hicks opened his mouth to speak, but the reporter relentlessly pushed on.
“According to these same reports, your members were plotting attacks on the Grand Mosque in Jerusalem.  Is this true or isn’t this true, Reverend?”
Now Hicks was visibly shaking.  He looked like he wanted to stand.  A vein pulsed on his left temple.  Nonplussed, the young reporter blinked and waited calmly, letting the silence speak.
When Reverend Hicks spoke, he did so in a slightly strained voice. “It’s not true.  We abhor violence.  Our members believe that we are the Chosen Ones and have a holy task to complete at the Second Coming.  The ICZM will bring back Jesus peacefully.  Plans are in motion, as we speak, to erect the Third Temple on the mount.”
“Oh really?” the reporter asked, genuinely surprised. “And how will you pull that off without starting World War Three?”
The flush of blood in Hicks’ face finally dispersed, leaving behind several blotchy patches.  He sat back, seemingly relaxed again. “Through technology,” he said. “Holographic technology.”
“Excuse me?”
“My organization is planning to hover a holographic Temple above the Mount, thus re-constructing the Third Temple as prophesy foretold without removing a single brick from the current mosque located on the Mount.”
“And how will you go about hovering this, um, hologram?” the interviewer queried.
“The world will know next week,” Hicks said, winking. “Next week.”

The video clip cycled through other interviews, but Nash had seen enough.  He removed his headset and sat back, thinking.
Though he’d never spoken to Hicks, Nash was quite aware of the Christian Zionists and his organization. In fact, Hicks and his organization figured largely in one of the chapters of Nash’s new book.  Still, the connection to the UFO cult was news to him, and Nash made a mental note to contact the pretty CNN reporter.  There was still time to add an addendum to his book before it went to press.
 

Friday
5:05 PM PDT
Los Angeles, California

An hour and a half later, after touching down at LAX and hailing a cab, Nash found himself seated across from his long time friend, Dr. Raymond Thomas.  
They were in his cramped office tucked away in the far corner of the Social Sciences building.  The small window behind the desk was heavy with dust and seemed to lead to a narrow alley.  
Nash swallowed, his mouth particularly dry.  He was feeling a bit claustrophobic.  The office was piled high with artifacts, many in the form of ancient clay tablets. It looked like a small wing of the Getty Museum.  The two friends made small talk as Nash surveyed the clutter.
    “Actually, you’re lucky to have caught me,” said the Professor.  He indicated a small suitcase by the closed office door.  He sat back in his chair and pulled a black lacquer pipe from his jacket pocket.
Nash was amused to see the pipe because directly above the professor’s head was a ‘No Smoking’ sign posted on the wall. “I leave for the Middle East soon.”
    “Hey, so am I,” said Nash.
    “Seriously?”
    “No.  I just wanted to be inclusive.”
    “Asshole,” said Thomas.  He sat back and grinned, puffing on his pipe.
“Actually,” he said, “a colleague informed me of ancient scrolls found in Cairo that could prove links to languages spoken by the Proto-Indo-Europeans. Based on the initial reports these scrolls can add immensely to the study of the Proto-Indo-European language spoken by an ancient people who must have been the original ancestors of the European, Iranian, and Indo-Aryan peoples.”
Thomas became more animated and there was a gleam in his eyes. “As you can understand, this discovery, if true, might be quite significant to us ancient language aficionados.”
    “I’m sure you can barely contain your excitement,” said Nash. “I know I can’t.”
    “Why am I friends with you again?”
    “Because I’m lovable,” said Nash.
    Dr. Thomas snorted.  The professor, who was nearly thirty years Nash’s senior, could have easily passed as an older brother.  And whatever ravages smoking tobacco had on his body were not yet evident.  The man’s skin was tawny and tight, his hair flecked with gray, his arms rippled with lean muscle.
    As usual, Nash was jealous of his friend’s good health.  And, as usual, Nash made a mental note to eat better and get more reps in at the gym.
    More than anything, Thomas was a highly respected paleo-linguist.  Nash knew the man was born with the gift of deciphering the story of a life based on the incomprehensible chicken scratches found on the side of an ancient alabaster sarcophagus.
    Hey, we all have our gifts, thought Nash.
    “I don’t want to keep you from your exhilarating work.” Nash rolled his eyes and removed the folded letter from inside his jacket pocket.
    “Did you just roll your eyes at me, Nash?” said Thomas.
    “Never,” said Nash. “At least not intentionally.  Anyway, here’s what I came for.  Granted, it’s not a dusty old tablet, but I think it still might get your old juices flowing.”
    Thomas raised one eyebrow and took the letter.  As his friend read the letter, Nash thought the man looked entirely too serious sitting there with his pipe hanging from his lower lip, bluish smoke curling up.
    And then the pipe just fell from his friend’s mouth.  Thomas grabbed it, jumping up and dusting off ash and burning embers from his red argyle shirt.
    Scratch the too serious part.
    “Where did you get this?” Thomas asked, swiping at the embers on his pants, then sitting down.
    “I found it in my fortune cookie,” said Nash. “Took me forever to unfold.”
    “I don’t have a lot of time, Nash.”
    “Where do you think I got it?” said Nash. “Hell, you knew my grandfather better than I.”
    “Only through our letters,” said Thomas. “Your grandfather was a very strange man.”
    “A very crazy man,” said Nash. “So what does it say?”
    Thomas stood again, but this time moved over to his overflowing bookcase.  Mumbling to himself around his pipe, Thomas thumbed through the titles of several books on what appeared to be ancient languages — big surprise there.  He stopped at one, pulled it from the shelf and flipped through it.  Book in hand, he returned to his desk.
    Nash laughed. “That wouldn’t happen to be a book on deciphering the ramblings of a crazy old man, would it?”
    “No,” said Thomas. “Your letter, in fact, is written in Akkadian, the ancient language of the Middle East, commonly used from the third millennium BC to the early first millennium and surviving until about one hundred AD.”
    “Will this be on the test, Professor?”
    Ignoring Nash’s adolescent humor, Thomas continued.
“Akkadian was considered a special language, if you will, the language of diplomacy and culture.  Like today’s High German or Castilian Spanish.” He looked at Nash and said, “You say this was written by your grandfather?”
    “So I’m told.”
    “I could believe it.  Very few modern scholars have such a deep knowledge of this most ancient of languages, itself a very intricate tongue with many subtleties.  Your grandfather was a semantic genius.”
“He was also mentally ill and a hell of a bridge player,” Nash added. “So can you translate it or not?”
    Thomas grinned wryly. “Give me a few minutes.  My Akkadian is a bit rusty.”
    Nash spent the time watching his friend pour over the letter as if it contained the secrets of the universe.  Hell, maybe it did.  Thomas often consulted his ancient Akkadian to English dictionary, or whatever it was.  Watching this intense research was making Nash sleepy.  From doing his own research in Albuquerque earlier this morning, to his various flying trips, including the stop for the funeral, and now UCLA, with the office air conditioner rattling softly, Nash could very easily just drift off to…
    “Got it!” said Thomas excitedly.
    Nash jerked and nearly fell out of his chair.  For a very brief moment he couldn’t remember where he was.
    Ah, yes, a dusty old office….
    “Good for you,” said Nash, rubbing his eyes.
    “No, good for us,” said Thomas excitedly. “First of all, you were right.  Your grandfather didn’t have all his oars in the water.”
    “Tell me something I don’t know.  So what did the old coot say?”
    “Perhaps it’s best that I just translate it for you.” Thomas said, clearing his throat dramatically. “My dearest Alyson and Jeremy.”
Nash stopped him. “Just give me the Readers Digest version, please.”
Thomas seemed disappointed. “Really, it’s no problem at all.  I’ve got most of the words–”
“Raymond,” said Nash. “You’re leaving soon, I’m tired as hell.”
“You should exercise more,” said Thomas. “It gives you more energy–”
“Just give me the condensed version, please. I’m in a hurry.  I need to prepare for my lecture on crypto-history in Berlin in two weeks. So let’s get on with this nonsense.”
Thomas shrugged. “Fine.  He says ‘Hi’ to you and gives you and your sister his love.  Blah, blah, blah.  And with little or no segue, he goes right into something about a hidden diary.”
“A diary?”
“Yep.  He wants you to retrieve it.”
Nash groaned and sat back.  He knew he should never have gotten out of bed today.  Or, more importantly, he knew he should never have volunteered to get the damn letter translated.  But he knew his curiosity would have eaten him alive.
“Would you like for me to continue?” asked Thomas. “It’s about to get quite good.”
Nash sat a little straighter. “Alright.  Go on.”
“At this point in the letter, your grandfather seems to be addressing you in particular.  He’s giving you a man’s name and a location of the diary.  Do you know Stanton Roth? He’s the guy who’s supposed to have the diary.”
“No. Do you?”
“Yes. He’s an antiquities dealer. One with a shady past. Anyway, the letter says he’s in Europe somewhere if you want to look him up.”
“I’ll pass,” replied Nash. He got up to leave.
“But wait, there’s more,” said Thomas, enjoying this entirely too much. “According to your grandfather, the diary points to the location to the body of – oh, are you ready for this?”
“I’m quivering in anticipation.”
“According to your grandfather, this diary points to the location of the body of one Jesus Christ.”
“You’re kidding?” said Nash.
“No,” said Thomas, grinning. “And the look on your face is priceless.”
“Grandfather was nuts.”
“Maybe, maybe not.  Either way, I am certainly enjoying this moment.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Nash drummed his fingernails on the wooden armrests.  
The location of the body of Christ?
“Surely grandfather means where the body of Christ was buried,” said Nash. “You know, before the Resurrection.”
    Thomas grinned. “No.  Is buried.  As in now.  The language is quite clear on that.”
    Nash knew that the life of Christ had always been a hobby of his grandfather’s.  Perhaps more than a hobby.
An obsession.
“What else does the letter say?” Nash asked.
    “Something about you personally recovering the diary and letting the truth be told.  That your gift — and the very reason you were put on earth — has always been to reveal the truth to the world.” Thomas paused. “Oh, brother.  I think someone’s grandfather thinks a little highly of his grandson.”
     Nash ignored the rib. “Is that it?”
    “Yes.  Wait…hmm.  The signature isn’t written in Akkadian.  The letter is signed Me’chatimo.  Hebrew for His Signature.”
“As in God’s Signature?” said Nash.
Thomas sat back and grinned. “More or less.”
“Signed by God, huh?” Nash said in disgust. “So now he thought he was God?”
Thomas just shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah. Maybe the old man was nuts.”