Tolerance

© 2004 by Robert Fuld. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 1-4140-4745-2 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4140-4744-4 (Paperback)

1stBooks-rev. 12/30/03

Contents

Book I Rayna Garcia Doe

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Book II John Brown

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Book III George Doe

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

About the Author

Thirty-two years ago, in the constellation of Taurus, a Red Giant Star burst. The blue afterglow lit up a corner of the sky, obscuring all other stars in the vicinity. The phenomenon was most perceptible in the American Southwest where it remained dimly visible throughout the day, finally fading from view on the second night.

Book I

Rayna Garcia Doe

Chapter 1

George Doe was in a coma.

Rayna sat at his bedside, her sketchbook open. It was the seventh day of George’s coma and he remained motionless, his expression frozen. Rayna studied his elliptical, unopened eyes. Her husband had high cheekbones, a thin nose, small mouth, and light caramel colored skin. She hadn’t let the nurses shave his face and the growth now contoured his chin. It was the first time she had ever seen him with a beard.

Her pencil moved over the blank page. She returned to George the dark hair that had always covered his oval head. She kept his eyes closed, dispatched his beard, and crossed his arms. She drew him supine, as he was in this hospital room, made him naked, and then added boxer shorts. She smiled as she covered his groin with the underwear.

Rayna finished the sketch by covering George with the shade of an elm tree and surrounding him with a patch of grass. She sighed and looked up toward the television. John Brown’s glare met her gaze. The television was turned to the evening news. John Brown had become a staple of the newscast. She turned up the sound.

John Brown was speaking from his now famous video. Rayna studied the dark face buried beneath make-up and a long white beard. She concentrated on Brown’s beady, round, intense eyes. It was the seventh day of John Brown’s super-stardom. He and George had shared the spotlight for the past week. George, too, had become a star. George was a hero for his altruism. Brown was a killer.

John Brown was the leader of a sect called The Harmony Temple, a non-denominational religious group that believed in God, a single God, and that all people, not some, not most, but all people, were children of that one God. To that end they were trying to create a multiracial society, to mongrelize the races. Harmony Temple worked with the poor and destitute, helping them off the streets and out of their dire circumstances. The lone stipulation imposed upon those who were aided was that they had to submit to an arranged marriage with the member of a different race.

Harmony Temple owned three apartment buildings and one farm. It was a self-sufficient corporation whose militancy had made it a target of the FBI, and with good reason.

At midnight, seven days ago, on February 9th, seven clergy-people were assassinated in the United States. Each of the clerics had a different religious background, and their ethnic heritages were varied, and pure. In all, a Catholic Priest (Hispanic man), a nun (White woman), a Buddhist (Oriental man), a Reverend (Black man), a Muslim Imam (Arab man), a Hindu Brahmin (Indian man), and a Rabbi (White man) were murdered.

The seven assassinations occurred within 12 minutes of each other. Each cleric had their hands tied behind their backs and were forced into a kneeling position. All seven clerics were allowed the opportunity to recite last rites for themselves, and to utter final prayers. All seven assassins had escaped and were still at-large.

John Brown created a video following the brutal executions. He sent it to a number of high profile media organizations. It was a twenty-minute speech in which he discussed atrocities, past and present, all committed because of racial, ethical, and religious intolerance. He pleaded for tolerance and harmony, and warned he would kill again if no improvements were made.

America needs something to hate, he said, his eyes ablaze. Hate me! America needs to unite, and a common enemy to unite against. Unite against me!

The newscast cut away from the video. Rayna had already seen several fragments on other programs. She knew John Brown was crazy, but he also had a point—something had to be done about the racial and ethnic strife. What made him dangerous to Rayna was Brown’s belief that God was motivating him, that his acts were justifiable in the eyes of God. Rayna was cynical in her attitude toward a Creator. She supposed He existed but lacked the requisite faith to cement her belief. If God did exist, he wouldn’t be a party to this. God had to be a benevolent creature. Had to be. There was no other way she could reconcile trying to believe in Him.

The thoughts made Rayna uneasy. She muted the sound of the television, turned to a clean page in her sketchbook, and stared at George.

Something seemed different about George’s face. He wore a Mona Lisa smile that puzzled Rayna. She had been staring at his stoic countenance for a week and hadn’t noticed that the corners of his lips were upturned. She turned the pages of her sketchbook to previous drawings she had made. They all displayed an impassive mouth, nothing like what his face now exhibited.

She ran a finger along his lower lip. With her thumb and index finger she pushed the corners of his mouth up, creating a full smile. It was grotesque. She allowed his mouth to sag back into its previous position.

Rayna arose and moved to the window. Her eyes welled up. She didn’t bother pushing the tears away. A few fell softly on her cheek as she looked down on the street twelve floors below.

New York City was as busy as it always was. It didn’t matter that George lay in a coma, or that John Brown was killing clergy. It was New York City and it would always be busy. In 2000 years it would still be crowded, an ancient metropolis known the world over, like Jerusalem.

On the street below, she noticed a Black man and White man walking together and she realized that more people wanted peace, harmony, and respect than wanted riots and hatred. But these men were not newsworthy. They were only quiet, regular, everyday people, talking about the weather or sports. Nobody wanted to see them on the news. Why was that? Why is there a need to report on only the bad? Why can’t we see tedium and cooperation on a newscast? Rayna turned away from the window, bored with looking at the two men. She laughed at herself.

This ordeal had given her too much time to think. It had forced her to go over every bit of her history. To study, criticize, and analyze every significant act she had ever done and experienced in her 31 years. She wiped the moisture from her face and began the self-reflection all over again.

Rayna was a mixed race child herself, her father, Geraldo Marquez Garcia was a Peruvian immigrant; her mother, Cindy Nussbaum was a Jewish-American. Rayna was born and raised in Queens, New York City, with her younger brother, Carlito. Rayna looked like her mom. At 5 feet 4 inches she was an inch taller. Her 115 pounds was five pounds heavier. They both shared dark, shoulder length hair that was parted in the middle, and large brown, oval shaped eyes.

Rayna had full lips and a friendly smile. Her pretty face wore little make-up, none here in the hospital, and her short nails sported no polish. Rayna paced as she thought. She dragged her feet, which was unlike her, but the unending days of being in the hospital, and its accompanying depression, were taking its toll.

By nature, she was introspective, a restless observer, usually quiet and often serious. It was George who frequently compelled a smile out of her. Her smile had been missing for a week. Now, the numbness and uncertainty of George’s coma was wearing off, she was itching to do something, anything. But she didn’t want to leave George’s side. She didn’t want him to awake and not find her there.

Rayna considered herself a realist. George’s coma was real, very real. So was the possibility he might never awaken. She tried to avoid thinking about the long term. It was only in the last day or two that Rayna began to consider anything past this week. She thought about the near future. What if George remained still and unconscious, locked in his coma? She limited her time frame to six months, to the end of the summer. She knew she couldn’t stay in this room, at his side, stagnant, for any longer than that.

She stopped pacing and sat down. Her thoughts raced back to the first time she met George. It was at a rest area north of Chicago, in a fast food place. They were on their way to a concert, at an amphitheater called Alpine Valley, in Wisconsin.

Rayna was traveling with three friends. They had decided to spend the night on the road, in order to arrive early at Alpine Valley. It was 2 AM and Rayna had been driving since Indianapolis. They were still three hours from their destination, and her companions were fast asleep. Rayna was tired, hungry, and in desperate need of coffee. She pulled into the rest area.

George was alone, sitting at a table near the counter. Rayna picked up a Chicago Tribune and ordered a salad and coffee. She grinned at the trivial recollection of choosing Lite Italian salad dressing. When she lifted her food tray, the newspaper slipped out from under her arm and fell to the floor. Later, she would swear over and over again that it wasn’t done intentionally.

George picked up the newspaper and followed her to the table. She recalled that initial instant their eyes met. A grin creased her face. She had painted it a couple of times, once from her perspective, once from a third party point of view.

Her smile infatuated him and his eyes did the same to her. He stood above her as they spoke. They were both going to Alpine Valley for the concert. George was traveling alone. They would both be vending in the parking lot. George was selling grilled cheese sandwiches. Rayna was peddling drawings and crafts she had made.

Their conversation ran dry after a few minutes and George withdrew to his table. Rayna left first. She said good-bye to him, and they exchanged a see you tomorrow without making any plans.

They did meet the next day and hardly have been separated since. George was living in San Francisco and Rayna moved in with him. George was the yang to her yin. She recognized it before he did. His outgoing personality meshed with her introspection. His friendliness compensated for her solitary nature. He was smart and loved to talk. She was a good listener.

George had developed a philosophical approach to life (he had a degree in philosophy) that Rayna agreed with. It was a belief in a unity of opposites. A belief in enjoying yourself because life forced its seriousness on you so often there was no reason to be any more serious than was absolutely necessary.

No one knew what George’s true ethnic background was. He had been discovered as a baby (hence the last name Doe), on a Native American reservation, and was raised there. His birth parents were never found. His features were so varied, his skin tone of such a color, that it was impossible to say with any certainty whether he came from White, Black, Asian, or Native American ancestry. It was no longer peculiar to Rayna that anyone who saw him quickly assumed he was a member of their race. It had caused considerable confusion among the media this past week.

They lived in San Francisco for three years before moving to New York. They rented a studio in the East Village and later migrated to the Park Slope section of Brooklyn.

Two years ago they made it legal and were married. It was a happy, satisfying marriage of equals.

George kept himself busy with two jobs. He taught a special education class in a Manhattan public school and sign language at the School for the Deaf. Rayna loved to say her husband taught the deaf and mute to speak. He also enjoyed volunteering and sometimes got Rayna to join him, something she was not enthusiastic about.

Rayna worked as a free-lance artist while trying to promote her own artwork. Recently, she had sold a few pieces of her art for a thousand dollars each. It had helped her to obtain an agent who was now actively pushing her work. Last year’s highlight was a solo exhibit in Soho. In the coming year her agent had scheduled shows in San Francisco and London.

This happy, successful life though, had been irretrievably altered when George committed the heroic act that resulted in his coma.

On Sunday, seven days ago, George and Rayna were walking down Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn, heading home with four bags of groceries. Try as she might, Rayna could not remember what they had been discussing as they tramped home.

Everything changed, suddenly, with a loud crash, as if God’s thunder had struck some object. George saw the entire event. Rayna turned in time to see a five-story brick building collapse onto itself.

It was incredible. There was no explosion, no bolt of lightening, only an act of God, as the insurance companies would call it. What George did was also an act of God, because it certainly didn’t come from any previous heroic experiences.

Without hesitating, without thinking, George dropped the two bags of groceries he was carrying and ran toward the missing building. Rayna remained frozen in shock and awe. She was consciously aware that her life was changing as she watched her husband disappear into the dark cloud of dust and debris.

Rayna could not recall much of the next half-hour of her life. What she did know had been pieced together through news reports and conversations with other witnesses.

She had picked up the bundles that George had dropped and joined the crowd a safe distance from the imploded building. She stared silently in shock as the smell of dirt entered her nostrils.

Sirens roared as fire engines approached. People stumbled out of the building but not George. The first floor remained erect but pieces of it crumbled onto the street. There was tremendous confusion, and no fire. New York City’s bravest were reluctant to rush into the building, fearing the rest of it would collapse at any moment.

Two children came out through the front door, a girl and her baby brother. She said her brother, a three year old, was hysterical, and a man was trying to rescue him. Rayna asked what the man looked like but she never heard the answer. The building completed its collapse.

The dust covered the silent bystanders. Rayna looked around and saw the fire trucks red light sweep over the people’s stunned faces. The firemen rushed in as Rayna slowly sank to the ground. A stranger came to her aid. She mumbled her husband was in the building.

The night’s darkness became complete as it surrounded the three tremendous spotlights the fire department focused on the absent building. The firemen sifted through the rubble calling for survivors. The only people missing, as far as they knew, were George and the little boy, whom they still heard crying from beneath the mess. George made no sound.

It took them an hour to locate the position of the boy’s voice. It took another two hours to remove enough of the debris to attempt a rescue. By this time, Rayna sat in an Emergency Medical Service vehicle. She had escaped into the ambulance when the reporters had become too overbearing for her to deal with.

Heavy machinery was brought in to remove the rubble. Word of George’s heroism and disappearance spread through the media. Even without Rayna’s input, George’s name and picture were displayed on a number of news programs.

Four hours after the building initially collapsed, George and the toddler were removed from the rubble. Somehow, miraculously, the little boy was unharmed, but George was unconscious. His body was wrapped around the three-year-old. He had taken the brunt of the collapsing building on his back, and although he lay insensible, he had not relaxed his grip around the child.

George had taken a blow to the head but aside from that, remarkably, his body had sustained no broken bones. There were a few minor cuts and scratches but nothing serious. The same was true of the little boy. Once George’s body was disengaged from him, the child walked away on his own. Rayna heard many people murmur the word miracle but she was too distraught to pay them any mind.

George was gently pulled from the debris and laid upon a stretcher. Camera flashes lit up the night and video spotlights followed the stretcher to an ambulance. Rayna rode with the comatose George to the hospital. She had remained at his bedside for virtually the entire week.

Rayna was an easy-going woman but her self-imposed confinement in this hospital room was beginning to irritate her. She had already tried everything she knew to resuscitate George. First, she willed him to get better. When that didn’t work, she talked to him about past and future good times. She even tried whispering sex acts in his ear, and eventually resorted to praying. It had all failed.

She began to believe her presence was bad luck or bad karma or bad something. She felt that maybe if she weren’t at his side, he’d come to. It contradicted her desire to be there when he awoke, but at this point she would try anything, logical or not.

The telephone rang and Rayna jumped. She cursed herself, it was happening way too often. She was much too jittery. She picked up the phone before the second ring ended. It was a woman reporter from the Kansas City Star. By pretending to be George’s sister, she had gotten through the maze of interference the hospital switchboard had set up.

I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, Mrs. Doe.

That was the way they all began. The day after the building collapse the phone calls had been incessant. George and Rayna’s real friends and family couldn’t get through. Finally, the hospital switchboard was told to only let family members through.

Later in the day a press conference was arranged. Rayna answered questions for an hour and a half. She counted nine television cameras in attendance and no less than 50 reporters, some of whom she knew by sight, many others she knew by name.

She hated the experience. Rayna, a private person, detested answering questions about her mental state and explaining her life story to strangers. The microphones thrust into her well-lit face made her uneasy. She felt exposed and intruded upon. She was uncomfortable, she was in grief, she was in a really BAD mood, and here were all these people wanting her to expound on her emotions. She felt awful, couldn’t they understand that? Her husband was in a coma, for God’s sake.

It still raised her blood pressure to think about it. That night she saw herself on the evening news. The next day her picture appeared in newspapers across the country. George, John Brown, and Rayna graced the front pages from sea to shining sea.

The second day another press conference was held. It was the same reporters asking the same tedious questions. They wanted to know George’s life story and how he and Rayna had met. Were they happy? Did they have any children? Were they planning to have children? How long would Rayna wait for him? Would she pull the plug if it came to that? What happened on the night of the rescue? Had they been arguing? Did they have any pets? That’s when Rayna lost it.

What the fuck do pets have anything to do with this?

People are curious.

Well, it’s none of their fucking business!

Rayna stormed out. That was the last press conference she held. She no longer spoke to reporters. Some had staked out her apartment, waiting for her arrival home, but she raced past them, ignoring their questions and microphones.

It’ll only take five minutes, said the reporter from Kansas City.

No, I’m sorry.

Just five... Rayna hung up.

She believed in freedom of the press but disliked that they were a pushy, arrogant bunch that refused to respect a person’s privacy. She did not lead a public life and did not want the publicity (though her agent begged to differ). Furthermore, Rayna had learned that if you gave a reporter five minutes they would take twenty, and if you allowed two questions they would ask fifty. Plus, they all asked questions she had already answered, a number of times.

No, leave the press to people who wanted the attention. Speaking of which, here was John Brown’s face again on the television screen. It was the infamous video. This time they were playing a longer extract from his speech. Rayna turned up the volume.

Violence breeds violence, John Brown was saying. The killing of those people was decreed by Almighty God, ordained from eternity. They met their fate with the dignity of true believers, and I was very proud of them.

Brown spoke directly to the camera. His steely, intense eyes seared through the television and across the room, attacking the viewer.

But they will not be the last to die. Your Lord never destroyed towns until he raised in their metropolis an apostle who recited to them Allah’s communications, and He never destroyed the towns except when their people were unjust! Beware, America, you are unjust! There is rampant, unjust, senseless, unproductive violence on your streets and it is not to be tolerated!

Brown took a deep breath. He lowered his voice and went on.

"Surely, I am a plain warner for you. And certainly, our Lord God did destroy generations before you when they were unjust. God has used me as an instrument for killing, and will use me to kill a great many more if you do not mend your ways.

"I offer no problems, no solutions, and only one demand. Live in harmony, America. This is your home, not a battlefield. Our differences are many but not so great to fight and kill over.

"Oh, but if you persist in your disharmonious ways I pity you for the grief you will endure. I am a warner and a warrior sent by God Himself! His verdict will be certain and his justice severe!

"All people are a single nation, so Allah raised prophets of good news and as warners. I tell you I am warning you that it is better a whole generation of men, women, and children should pass away by a violent death than hatred should rule this land!

"I give you this fair warning and pray for your souls. You will not apprehend me for the Lord will not permit it. He has greater plans for me. Look upon me, for I am the one who shall lead this country back from the abyss. I am the one who will curtail this unending and inane hatred and violence. O, people of America, you have a need to hate. I offer myself to you. Hate me! Love your brothers and sisters. Love the people you meet on the street, and those you don’t meet. Save your hatred for me! I am strong enough to bear all the hatred in this world. It is my duty. It is my fate!

"You may judge me if you like, but it means nothing. Only God’s judgment matters and it is in His name that I pursue my actions.

I tell you, America, that if a man stands between me and what I consider right, I will take his life as coolly as I eat my breakfast. Repent your ways or fear the wrath of God through me! Do not treat my warning lightly.

The screen went black. Less than a second elapsed before a dour anchorman appeared and began speaking. Rayna paid him no attention.

She thought of John Brown. She didn’t admire him, but she didn’t hate him, either. There was no doubt he was delusional, and his method of creating a kinder, better United States was psychotic, but she couldn’t bring herself to hate him. She tried to think of non-violent methods that would produce the changes he preached, but couldn’t conceive of anything that would work.

John Brown was right about one thing, Rayna decided. People would always hate. Somehow they needed to do it in a more constructive way, to channel it better. She had no idea how this could be done. She doubted it was possible.

’We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’ Even with this historical and visionary statement as a cornerstone to the United States’ principles, it has been difficult since the beginning to practice this unbiased philosophy.

Rayna was reading something she had copied from George’s Web Page. He had posted it the day before the coma began. She found it when she downloaded his e-mail. She printed it, put it in her bag, and forgot about it until John Brown’s speech pushed it back into her consciousness. She continued to read.

"Since the drafting of the Constitution, the U.S. has contradicted itself on almost all matters. It has always been a land of paradoxes. Founded on the hope of freedom, slavery flourished during the first century of the new government.

"The ‘American Dream’ has been worshipped and pursued by people across the globe, many of whom came to our shores and discovered that it was just a dream, unattainable, and not without consequences.

"By opening up a land to freedom of the press, freedom of speech, and freedom of religious beliefs you also allow for the freedom to think. In a country so large there is inevitably difference of opinion, and since you don’t lynch those who disagree with the government (anymore), you are certain to have contradictions. It is a fundamental part of the American’s nature, of a human being’s nature.

"Dichotomies, contradictions, exist in all human beings. The positive and negative exists in us all. A stone-faced killer may be a lover of cats. A devout Christian may hate Muslims. Jesus Christ preached that if wronged you should turn the other cheek but in the Book of Exodus it instructs retribution according to ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’

"Humans have trouble accepting contradictions within themselves. It is my feeling that it is unnecessary to analyze and dissect this part of our nature. All we need do is accept it.

"Accepting this behavioral quirk does not mean changing or altering our contrary natures. It only means realizing that not only are there irreconcilable differences between the next person and myself, but there are irreconcilable differences between me and myself. It means opening up to the idea of tolerable differences.

"If you are aware of, and tolerant of, differences in yourself, then it becomes possible to be aware of differences between yourself and others of your country, of your world. Awareness is the first step towards tolerance.

"Do not say I am White, Black, Catholic, Baptist, or Muslim. You are pigeon holing yourself. Does a tall man say I am tall and leave it at that? No, he says I am tall, smart, and American, etc. Does he hate all short people? Probably not. Then why should a Muslim hate all Jews and Christians? Why should a White man hate all Black people? It is from ignorance.

I write from the United States. I look around me and I see Americans. They all look different, they all are different, and they/we are all the same, humans, full of contradictions, hopes, and desires. I try to be tolerant of my fellow earthlings, of their activities, emotions, and thoughts. Sometimes I am successful, other times I am not. I’m sorry, I’m only human.

Rayna sat silently still for a long moment, the paper dangling from her hand. It occurred to her that George and John Brown were on the same wavelength. She tried to make the connection but her mind was unable to. The stress of the last week had slowed her thought processes. She slowly folded George’s editorial and returned it to her bag.

Rayna’s blank stare remained transfixed upon the television news. The story that followed the John Brown video was about Simon Opens.

The renowned Simon Opens was a 67-year-old African-American father of three. Before retirement he had been an eminent judge: fair, open-minded, and caring. In his illustrious career he had served as editor of the Law Review, sat on the New York State Supreme Court, and been a Federal Judge on the United States District Court in New York, finally resigning on his sixty-second birthday.

Throughout his career as a judge he continued his involvement in the community affairs of his hometown Brooklyn neighborhood. His non-denominational storefront Church was open to everyone, and Opens made himself available for consultation whenever time allowed. Anyone with a problem could come to see Judge Opens. He gave legal and moral advice, without pay, and his opinion was highly respected and sought after.

Since his retirement from the legal profession, Simon Opens had turned his complete attention to his Church on Flatbush Avenue. The New Hope Non-Denominational Temple was called a Church but functioned more like a community center. There were no prayer meetings and although many called Simon Opens a Reverend, he did not preach. The main focus of New Hope was volunteer work. The former judge spent a tremendous amount of time, and his own money, helping the poor and unfortunate.

Something momentous is coming, he told the reporter, I want to be available to help, if possible. He would not, or could not, be any more specific than that.

The focus of the news report, and the thing Judge Opens was currently speaking about, was why he had begun panhandling on the subway. He explained that he was fundraising to a captive audience. Rayna didn’t hear the rest of what he had to say because the telephone rang in the hospital room. Rayna hit the mute button and answered the phone.

Calling from her cell phone was Phoebe Gold, Rayna’s agent. Rayna braced herself for the fast talking Phoebe.

Rayna, honey, is that you?

Hi, Phoebe.

I’ve got some good news, great news, I know you could use it.

I sure.

But how’s George? Any change yet, honey?

No, not yet.

Oh, what you must be going through. I pray for you, Rayna. I pray to God it’ll all come out okay. I know it will.

Thanks. What was the.

News. Yes! Oh, you’ll be so excited. It’ll help you forget your troubles for a minute.

Did you sell something?

Did I sell something? Who’s the best agent in the world? I am! Not that your work needs the best agent, Rayna. It would sell on its own. You know that.

What did you.

Sell! What didn’t I sell? You left me four pieces. That first one, the abstract, we sold for $7000. That was before George’s accident. Since the accident, and it’s horrible this is the way it works, the bidding price on your work has skyrocketed. Through the roof! Asshole! Sorry, honey, some jerk in a Caddy just cut me off. He was making eyes at me and I.

The painting.

Rayna’s emotions were mixed. The heavy cloud of George lying beside her tempered her enthusiasm but she was excited because she could now consider herself a working artist.

The painting. Yes, of course. I sold ‘The Pinnacle Field’ for $125,000.

Rayna’s mouth fell open. Phoebe listened for a response.

You there, honey?

Yeah. Rayna stared at George, wondering if her work was that good or was it because her husband was a hero.

Surprised, aren’t you? Rayna nodded. But I told you, didn’t I tell you? Anyway the other two pieces have bids over $100,000 on each. I’ll hold out a week or two, but I need more. I know you’ve got more in your apartment, I need you to work, honey. I know it’s hard, oh shoot, hold on, my call waiting’s beeping.

The phone line went dead. Rayna thought about The Pinnacle Field. It was a simple work, or at least she thought so. The landscape was one of destruction, remains of a city could be seen, but all the buildings were gone. In their places were canyons and rock pinnacles. In the foreground, atop the main pinnacle was a large oak tree.

Phoebe was back. Rayna dear, I gotta go. Congratulations,okay?

Okay, thanks.

I pray for you. You’re in my heart.

Thanks.

Phoebe was gone. Rayna hung up the phone. She was stunned. She felt as if she had just won the lottery. She leaned over George and whispered, Phoebe sold ‘The Pinnacle Field’ for $125,000. American dollars. She kissed his cheek, stared at him a moment, and then picked up her sketchbook.

Looking at the pad, she noticed she had been working on a variation of The Pinnacle Field. As she thought about it she realized most of the work she had done in the hospital followed the same thematic line, centering on pinnacles and destruction. She had been unconscious of it.

Rayna analyzed herself through her artwork, something she did with regularity. The destruction seen in the sketchbook could certainly be accounted for by the building collapse, but how could you explain The Pinnacle Field, which was painted before the event that left George in a coma?

She was deep in thought when she heard a low moan. She didn’t register it at first, ignoring the sound, and then her head shot up.

Is that you? She stared intently at George.

Do it again, honey, there was desperation in her voice, make a sound, any sound.

A beat passed and then a low moan came from George’s throat, his mouth remained closed. Rayna lunged for the nurse call button, jabbing it repeatedly as her eyes searched George’s body, searching for any sign of movement.

George’s head moved slightly, his eyes fluttered, and then slowly opened. His blurred vision would not allow him to focus. His body was numb and his fingers twitched. He realized it was Rayna sitting over him, frantically pushing a button. Tears poured from her eyes, her face shone and he could see her open mouth catching many of the falling tears.

George tried to smile. Rayna stopped pressing the button and threw her head down on George’s chest, harder than she meant to, harder than George could handle. He grunted.

Rayna sobbed as she spoke, I’m sorry.

George smiled but Rayna couldn’t see it with her head buried in his chest. A nurse entered the room, saw the scene, and ran out looking for a doctor. George moved his hand, placing it on Rayna’s head. He stroked her hair clumsily.

Oh my God, was all he said.

In the days that followed, Rayna spent the daylight hours in the hospital and then went home at night. She slept poorly. Rather than lying in bed, she used the time to clean, make phone calls, and paint late into the night.

The speed of George’s recovery was miraculous. His doctors were astounded by how quickly he regained normal motor functioning. For the first week, while his speech lagged behind, George compensated by using sign language, his wife interpreting for the doctors. Within a week, George was out of bed and rolling himself around the hospital in a wheelchair. He was a celebrity.

A press conference was held for the horde of media representatives who came to report on George’s awakening. Rayna did not attend. George sat quietly before the cameras and microphones, smiling serenely. He allowed his doctors to do the talking, signing only one sentence.

I will speak with you when I can speak clearly.

Rayna studied George’s face while they sat together and watched the broadcasts. He revealed no indication of surprise with his newfound celebrity. It was as if he expected the attention. He was totally at ease and full of confidence.

Once his face disappeared from the news, he turned to Rayna and asked to see the work she had done while he was in the coma. He turned each page slowly, studying each sketch. In times past he would speak at length on each drawing, whether he understood them or not. Now, he only nodded.

How come you’re not commenting, she asked. She was worried his injuries had damaged his ability to think abstractly.

He smiled at her knowingly. This disturbed her more, for a reason she could not articulate. He tapped a pencil drawing of a destroyed cityscape. A handful of pinnacles rose up sporadically across the sketch.

This is very close, he signed.

Close to what?

I can’t explain right now. One day, I will.

When you can speak?

It will take more than that, he answered.

I don’t understand.

I’m sorry. He squeezed her hand and asked if she had heard from her agent.

Rayna slapped her forehead hard. They both smiled. I forgot, she signed, then told him, in words, of the sales Phoebe had made, and their new wealth.

George signed, Good, but he lacked enthusiasm. It was as if he had anticipated it. Rayna looked at him strangely but didn’t comment. George ignored her queer stare.

George spent as much time as the doctors would allow in the children’s ward. He played games and taught them sign language. They loved him. He spread joy to all that came in contact with him, all except Rayna.

Of course Rayna was glad her husband was conscious and recovering, but he seemed different. She discussed it with her family, but they hadn’t noticed. They were happy just to see him conscious.

Rayna was confused. She tried to sort out her feelings objectively. George had always been the center of attention. True, it had never been on this grand a scale before, but Rayna didn’t begrudge him his fame, that didn’t matter to her, she was sure of it. And she was certain she wasn’t jealous. She wasn’t different, he was.

He seemed all knowing, not surprised by anything. There was something, she searched for the right word, human, missing from him, and yet she was the only one who felt this way.

Her mother thought she was imagining it, her father blamed the stress she was under, and her brother felt it was her artistic vision getting in the way, making her see things that weren’t there.

Chapter 2

John Brown sat in stoic contemplation. Circling him were his children. There had been arguing and complaining, but it was quiet now. John Brown let them have their say before he gave the final word. He understood their grievances. It was difficult to live as they were doing, in close quarters, unable to leave their confinement.

The children waited for their father to speak. When they addressed him it was with a sir or father. John Brown, Sr. would not allow them to address him in any other way. They were too old to be stricken but they all had vivid memories of severe beatings. The youngest of the group, Sarah, had not been dealt with any less harshly than the eldest, John Junior.

John Brown looked at the eight people who sat around him. The assemblage included seven of his children and a son-in-law. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his Moses-like beard nearly touching the ground.

Everyone in the room believed John Brown was divinely inspired. It was ingrained into them during their upbringing and they never had any reason to doubt it. Even Brown’s son-in-law, Henry Thompson, had quickly come to accept John Brown’s divination. It was in the way that the old man carried himself, certain and confident, unwilling to bend, and supremely dominant.

All but Sarah had recently performed an assassination. Sarah had not been sent because Brown deemed her too young, too feminine. The others were not cold-blooded killers, so the killings had surely tried their souls. Although the assassinations had been justified to further the cause, and were done in the name of the Lord, it had been a difficult thing to do. The children obeyed obediently without understanding the full dynamics of the situation. They were following blindly, doing God’s will as John Brown interpreted it. The Lord was surely working in mysterious ways. It had caused angst and uneasiness, but there was never any moment of doubt.

Nor were their living conditions conducive to a healthy mental state. The nine conspirators were living in the basement of a house. The size of the room equaled a large bedroom. They had no amenities and no conveniences. Sleeping bags, their beds, littered the floor. They were forbidden to go upstairs for fear a neighbor might spot them through a window.

The basement was dirty and dank. The floor was cold plywood. There were two small windows that had been boarded up from the inside, allowing no light or prying eyes to enter. The walls were peeling old white paint. The alabaster ceiling was chipped, exposing the upper level’s floorboards. All their light emanated from a single 60-watt bulb hanging loosely from the center of the ceiling.

The Browns had been confined in this place, safely in hiding, since they returned from their mission. The house stood in a run-down section of Queens, New York, and was owned by a secret confederate of The Harmony Temple. It was in this room, two months earlier, that John Brown had proposed the assassination plan to his children.

While John Brown prayed, lost in meditation, Allah had come to him and given him the idea.

Fighting and killing is an object of dislike, John Brown had said on that day, and it may be that you dislike a thing while it is good for you and necessary to man’s evolution.

Tell us what the Lord wishes us to do, sir, and we will do it to the best of our ability.

It was Jason Brown who spoke. Jason was the second oldest at 30 years of age. He was a strong, burly man, but his nature did not match his physique. He was the kindest and gentlest of the Brown men, but no less loyal to the cause.

Allah does not impose on any soul a duty but to the extent of its ability, son.

Yes, sir.

John Brown sat quietly a moment. His intense, round, steel gray eyes bored into each person there. They sat compliantly, waiting for the great man to give his orders.

When he spoke it was with the wrath of a true believer. They were justified in their acts, and the justification came not from John Brown, but from Allah Himself. Allah had given the assignment and Allah would lead them. The Lord God would put courage into their hearts. The Lord God would create the opening for them to do the deed and it would be the Lord Himself that would make certain they would escape.

What is it we are to do, Ruth asked.

She was John Brown’s eldest daughter, a strong woman, devoted and compliant to her father’s will. She would do whatever he asked. John Brown looked at the 24-year-old; he saw his own round eyes look back at him. She lacked his intensity but not his implacable will. He briefly thought she was not unattractive, not noticing her rough features and short dark hair. He felt pride in his offspring and then turned to the others.

He named seven U.S. cities: New York, Atlanta, Des Moines, Dallas, Los Angeles, Albuquerque, and Boise. He assigned each child a city and a religion. They were to locate a clergyman of the religion they had been delegated, and to kill him or her. Specific details as to how the job was to be done were explicitly articulated.

His audience responded with stunned silence. They were prepared to do whatever their father ordered, but that didn’t prevent them from exhibiting shock. John Brown Junior spoke first.

Why clergy, father?

"Because they will be the most prepared to die and meet their

God."

But we’re attacking hate by killing people who preach peace.

John Brown’s voice rose to meet his son’s challenge.

Our mission is to teach tolerance! Hate is a byproduct of intolerance and ignorance. Killing hated people will cause no ripple in the average person’s conscience. Killing clergymen will cause all people to take notice!

Owen Brown stood up. My prayer, my life, and my death are all for Allah!

The other children arose, repeating Owen’s oath. John Brown was the last to stand. He stared deeply into the eyes of each person surrounding him. He spoke in a cold, calm tone.

It is time to strike terror in the hearts of bigots.

The assassinations went off as planned.

John Brown had eight living children, six of whom were conspirators in the assassination plot. The killers were, in order of birth: John Junior, Jason, Owen, Ruth, Frederick II, and Watson. Also included in the clique were Charles Kaiser, the man whose house they were hiding in, Henry Thompson, and Sarah Brown.

John Junior was thirty-two. The youngest, Sarah, was twenty. All but Sarah and Watson shared the same mother, Dianthe Brown. She bore

John Brown five sons and a daughter. Her contribution to the family began with John Junior and ended with Frederick II. There had been a previous Frederick, born between Jason and Owen, but he had not survived infancy, Dianthe Brown did not survive the birth of the second Frederick. She died before her 29th birthday.

Sarah and Watson’s mother, Mary, was living on the Harmony Temple farm in Nebraska. She was there with Oliver Brown, the youngest child in the family. Oliver was eleven years old.

Throughout their lives the Brown children were taught to obey their father, so when their father told them to kill, they accepted the directive without a challenge. They left New York with their specific assignment of location, race, and ethnicity.

Using the dark of night, two cars left the house in Queens. Each of the children hunted for a victim that matched the profile they had been assigned. It had been requested they find unmarried clergy, so there would be less grieving by direct family. The assassins were successful in their searches. The next step was to study the habits of their subjects, plot the assassination, and plan a feasible escape. They did their jobs efficiently and effectively.

On the evening of February 9th the plan went into action. Each of the assassins followed their victim home. At an opportune moment they succeeded in abducting the clergy person they had selected. They entered the homes of their hostages and spoke the words that John Brown had given them to say. Each of the martyrs was told they had been chosen to die for the glory of God, and that their deaths would lead to the final solution of ending bigotry and intolerance.

If you truly have faith, then you will not be afraid to die.

All seven victims announced they were not afraid.

Each hostage tried to dissuade their executioner, but none succeeded. All but one of the assassins carried out the mission with calm detachment, allowing their victim to speak at will until the final time came. Only John Junior’s conscience would not allow him to hear what his victim had to say. John Junior grew troubled and angry each time the Rabbi tried to speak.

Shut up or I’ll kill you before you have time to pray for yoursoul!

The Rabbi quieted and began to pray.

The assassins were synchronized in their time. At 11:00 in the east, 8:00 in the west, each victim was allowed to write a farewell letter.

They all did so. Watson’s Indian Hindu and Owen’s Oriental Buddhist also chose to eat something.

Forty-five minutes later the victims were forced to kneel. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Their legs were tied together. They were offered blindfolds. Only Ruth’s nun, a Black woman, donned one.

The victims were told to give themselves last rites or otherwise pray for their souls. Jason’s Black Reverend and Henry Thompson’s Hispanic Priest shed tears as they prayed. Frederick’s Arab Muslim prayed in Arabic, adding a few words of retribution against Frederick and his movement.

The executions took place between midnight and 12:12. The victims were assassinated with a bullet to the back of the head. All were killed instantly. John Junior’s bullet was fired last. His hand shook unsteadily and the bullet nearly missed its target. He struggled to calm himself, his anxiety boiling over to near madness as he listened to the Rabbi mumble his final prayers. Finally, he was able to fire the shot and kill the martyr.

John Junior strained to keep his wits and escape. The others had much less psychological trouble than he did. In the end, they all escaped without a problem. All returned to the safe house in Queens, undetected, within three days of the killings.

The murder in New York was the first to reach the news media, making the morning news shows. By noon, all seven killings had been reported. Shortly afterwards an announcement was made confirming that the killings were related.

Once the children reached home, John Brown arranged for a video to be released. The uproar that ensued was just what he had expected.

Harmony Temple was in decline. The government’s crackdown on militant and possibly violent sects had taken its toll on John Brown’s organization. Another factor was Brown’s concentration on a holy war. It had taken away from his efforts to maintain Harmony Temple. The buildings were still there, the people still lived in them, but money was running out. The main benefits of schooling, charitable work, and job training were being neglected. They weren’t attracting any new members. Friends remained, though. There was still a clandestine network of people willing to help John Brown, and he used them to his advantage.

Harmony Temple’s creator had been John Brown’s father, Owen. John was thirteen when Owen Brown purchased an aged apartment building just outside the Cabrini Green section of Chicago. Owen Brown was devout and outspoken. His railings against racism and organized religion led to a falling out with the Parish of his local Church. Owen began Harmony Temple based on the ancient teachings of Christ and the Jewish Torah. His main focus was to attack racism, organized religion, and intolerance of any kind.

Racism and organized religion are sins against God.

Owen Brown’s oratory style was slow and cold. He spoke of damnation and being saved. He spoke of a new world order without racial differences. He began attracting followers among the lost and destitute. They would donate whatever money they could. It was eventually enough to buy the dilapidated apartment building.

Fifty families moved into the apartments. They worked together to improve the building’s infrastructure. Of the fifty pairs of married couples living in the Harmony Temple building, forty of them were inter-racial pairings. It soon became the basis of inclusion into the Harmony Temple family.

Under John Brown’s leadership, Harmony Temple expanded into three apartment buildings: the original one, one in New York, and the last in Los Angeles. They also purchased a farm in Nebraska.

To a great extent, they had become a self-sufficient organization. They had their own schools and traded amongst themselves using a barter system to exchange goods and services. Unfortunately, the outside world required money. They still needed items and conveniences they couldn’t create on their own.

Different businesses were attempted. They all suffered failure and poor earnings, which led to financial ruin and bankruptcy. The building in Los Angeles was lost. Frustrated, bitter, complaining of conspiracy, John Brown made his Harmony Temple more militant.

Street preaching by the Browns had always been practiced. Under the cloud of paranoia and resentment that now enveloped John Brown, he became increasingly more angry and vengeful in his rhetoric. The FBI took notice and began their surveillance of Harmony Temple.

In spite of Harmony Temple’s calls for tolerance and harmony their gatherings were becoming more tumultuous. Eventually, violence began bursting out at rallies organized and attended by Harmony Temple members. The FBI tightened its grip, making their presence known to the

Brown family. John Brown, sensing the momentous change coming, and his own role in it, went underground with his children.

The FBI was concerned about John Brown’s disappearance. They created a task force to keep track of the Browns and other potentially dangerous members of Harmony Temple. The task force failed. The successful assassinations made this painfully clear. They now had no idea where John Brown was hiding.

Brown sought out an old ally for help. Charles Kaiser had met John Brown nearly thirty years before, when they were both in prison. Brown was there on inciting to riot charges. Kaiser had been a mercenary jailed on attempted murder charges. They were as different as salt and pepper but remained in clandestine touch because of ideological agreements.

Kaiser remained a loner. He never joined any organizations. After having been a mercenary he had learned not to trust any organized groups. This became a positive attribute when Brown needed a place to stay that couldn’t be traced. Very few people knew of the continued relationship between Brown and Kaiser.

Kaiser was a jolly, fat, Black man who added humor to the hidden group. He had gained 150 pounds since being released from prison and now tipped the scales at 350 pounds. He constantly laughed, at himself and others, revealing his molar-less smile. The teeth had been lost through fighting and bad eating habits. Others always laughed with Charles Kaiser, all except John Brown, who rarely laughed. There were times Kaiser made Brown smile. This would frighten Kaiser more than any paranoia of the FBI.

Kaiser had been out of prison for ten years. To the outside world, he was leading a straight life (as a vacuum cleaner salesman). Secretly, though, he continued to associate with society’s undesirables. The straight life was too dull for Charles Kaiser. He missed the excitement of his mercenary days. He needed excitement and when John Brown, through an intermediary, approached him, he opened his house to the fugitives.

The Browns had been hidden in the house for eight weeks. They remained in the cramped basement space all day, only rarely venturing upstairs late at night. There was a bathroom downstairs but the plumbing was bad and the basement reeked. They couldn’t chance a visit by a plumber so they lived with it.

The garage had space for two cars. Any coming and going by the Browns was accomplished by laying low in the back of Kaiser’s car.

Kaiser did the shopping but avoided overbuying. He didn’t want to attract suspicion. Besides, money was running low. Kaiser wouldn’t liquidate his own money and Brown agreed with him. Again, the fear was in arousing suspicion. This led to days at a time of bread and water rations for the Browns. No one complained.

Kaiser took care of all communication with the outside world. John Brown had many allies and friends circulating throughout the United States. Kaiser made phone calls from out of the way phone booths, his pockets heavy with change.

The Internet and e-mail were also used. Kaiser would travel to out of town café’s and libraries that featured computer use. Once there, with a cup of coffee and no one looking over his shoulder, he would dispense whatever messages John Brown had entrusted to him.

Kaiser had mailed the videotape Brown sent to the media. He had driven all night and mailed three tapes from three different post offices in the Smoky Mountain region. This eliminated all connection to New York City.

Charles Kaiser was the only human link the Browns had to the outside world. For the weeks following the assassinations they would besiege him when he returned home for any news, good or bad. They wanted to know the world’s reaction. They wanted to know if the FBI was closing in on them.

Kaiser would smile and pat his guests on the back, Trust in God, and keep your guns handy. Then, he’d laugh.

Rayna sat with her parents and brother in a chic Indian restaurant near the United Nations. Rayna had invited them for dinner. This would easily be the most expensive meal she had ever treated her family to. It was in celebration of her newly acquired wealth. Phoebe had sold the other two works, for more than her parents had earned, combined, the previous year.

When Rayna’s father was happy his accent became more pronounced. As he spoke now, it was obvious he was happy.

I feel fortunate to be sitting at the table of a famous artist.

Although he tried to eradicate his Peruvian accent, he had never been able to succeed. It was still softly evident and gave his speech a warmness that came through in all six languages that he spoke.

I’m not famous, Rayna answered in Spanish.

Don’t be so modest, her mother responded in Hebrew.

For a few minutes they spoke bits and pieces of the half dozen languages they shared, a family game. Rayna always enjoyed this because of the confused glances it generated from the bystanders nearby. Today was no exception.

Charlie, however, spoke only English and Spanish well. He could understand small amounts of other languages but had never taken an interest in learning them fluently. His mother, and his father to a lesser extent, were disappointed he had never shown the same interest in linguistics as they or his sister did.

How’s George doing, Rayna?

He’s getting better.

Her voice held no conviction or edge of excitement.

Is something wrong, sweetheart?

Her father was always able to read between the lines of his daughter’s words.

No. Not really.

He sounds different on the phone.

Charlie had given a rare unsolicited opinion. His family looked at him in surprise. He didn’t notice, didn’t add anything more, and went back to his vindaloo.

He is different, but I can’t explain how, Rayna complained.

Well, he just came out of a coma, Rayna. You can’t expect him to be bursting with enthusiasm right away. Give him time to recover.

It was mother’s voice of reason, and it irritated Rayna.

I know, it’s just...I don’t know.

Charlie put down his fork and looked at Rayna.

Sometimes, recovering alcoholics and drug addicts, to get over their addictions, lose some of the zest they had.

This is completely different, Charles. George is a hero, not a drug addict.

"That’s not the point I’m making, mom. What I’m