The Revelations by Erik Hoel (e ink ebook reader txt) 📕

out of the embrace but linger, standing close to each other, his hands on her.

“That’s it over there, right?” he says, gesturing across the street.

“The meeting should be going on right now.”

Hand in hand they race across the river of the street and burst into the small entrance of the church. They end up in an annex, Carmen wringing out her ponytail onto the marble, sopping and laughing.

Trailing puddles and following signs down steps they arrive at a basement room. A man is speaking, of similar dress and manner to the street preacher that Kierk had approached. Around him are dozens of folding chairs. Most are filled. All heads in the church basement turn toward Carmen like magnets orientating along a vector field, running the gamut between homeless and well-to-do, but all male. Their faces shift to disbelief as she brushes away a few stray wet strands of hair from her face.

Kierk leans over to whisper—“Great undercover work, Frauleinwunder.”

She elbows him discreetly and he stands jokingly nursing his side as she makes her way as naturally as possible to get herself a Styrofoam cup of coffee, men parting before her as if it were Cleopatra herself approaching.

“. . . not that there is any evidence of this! No! It is just assumed true. That’s why you have to learn how to muster your arguments against theirs. Set side by side, one is clearly superior, as clearly as when the snake of Moses swallowed up the snakes of the Egyptian sorcerers.”

As she’s getting coffee Carmen smiles at an older man with a white mustache who’s leaning against the coffee table.

She quietly says—“Excuse me. What exactly is the purpose of this organization?”

He’s chewing gum and looks over at her with gray eyes.

“We’re a peaceful organization.”

Carmen pauses. “Yeah, I mean . . . of course. But I wanted to know if there was like, a mission statement or something.”

The man points to the wall behind the speaker, on which hangs a banner reading THE FOLLOWING BROTHERS OF CHRIST: TO SEEK THE TRUTH, TO EXPEL THE MYTHOLOGY OF THE SECULAR.

“Thanks . . . So is there somewhere I can sign up? Like a member roster? An email list?”

The man shakes his head.

“How many people are in this?”

The man shrugs.

“Yeah, um, thanks a lot . . .” she says, then takes the two coffees and sits down next to Kierk, handing him one, shaking her head to answer his unspoken question.

“And yes, we’ve attempted to reach out to them. At Columbia University we picketed a month ago outside the so-called evolutionary biology building and were manhandled, yes, we were attacked, by the security guards. But the theme of this summer is rising a new threat. Apparently there is a program at NYU, this Francis Crick Scholarship, a program that is devoted to the supposed biology of consciousness. The biology of consciousness! They want to explain the human soul in terms of nerve cells! They want to convince the public that science can explain not just the origin of creation, and not just life itself, but also your very soul!”

Carmen and Kierk share a glance with wide eyes, each marking how far it is to the exit. Kierk cannot but feel that some trap has been laid, but the preacher continues as if they weren’t present.

“. . . these scientists are the next threat to our faith. Just as evolutionary biology sought to destroy the notion of God’s design, so does this supposed science of consciousness seek to destroy the notion of the soul. It effaces the human. It disposes of our divinity. It is our duty to stop them, under the guidance of Christ our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” the men all echo back at him.

There is a smattering of applause, which Kierk and Carmen hesitantly clap along to. Carmen tries to stop Kierk from raising his hand but it’s too late.

“Hi! Everybody. I actually got interested in this by the person who sometimes hands out pamphlets at the Bleecker Street Station. I forget his name. Does anyone here know who I’m talking about?”

There’s a long pause. Finally the preacher says, “Now why would you want to know that?”

“I . . . just wanted to thank him. We had a good discussion. Really helped me out.”

“We hand out pamphlets all over.”

“But specifically I’m looking for the guy who does so at Bleecker Street Station. Red baseball cap?”

“If you come next week, maybe he’ll be here.”

“Oh, okay great, I’ll, ah, look for him again then.” And then Kierk sits back in his seat, rubbing at his hands. He sees in the front row the street preacher, now dressed in normal clothing, who had told him about the meeting yesterday. The young man turns toward him, looking him directly in the eye, to which Kierk’s knee nervously bobs up and down.

Carmen puts a hand on his knee, looks at him quizzically, mouths—What?

“Well if that’s it for everybody let’s break officially and then we’ll start to meet and greet our new members. But first, a prayer.”

Everyone puts their heads down to pray and closes their eyes. When they open them the rain-soaked young couple has vanished.

“Okay, so I guess this is it,” says Kierk, both of them standing outside the CNS in the bright lamplight. The rain has stopped. The night is full of sweet sounds and cars passing on Broadway.

“So sorry I have to do this,” Carmen says. “My participant is supposed to meet me here.”

“Hey listen, there’s something I wanted to tell you,” he says, suddenly serious.

“What?”

He informs her about the security guard seeing him and Carmen at an estimated 2:15 a.m., but that they had left shortly thereafter and Kierk hadn’t returned until after 4:00 a.m.

“So you’re telling me you weren’t home yet by the time of the murder?”

“. . . Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

“But if you weren’t home . . . I had cleared everyone who was in the taxi. Leon, Alex, me, you. After the bar we all went in the opposite direction