“Night, Daddy,” Elizabeth mumbled as she rubbed her face into the blanket.
Leah watched from the other room, but when Michael returned to the dining area, she sat down quickly at the mat. He sat facing her. Leah placed the final cup of wine in front of him.
“If I must,” he said, smiling, picking it up and taking a sip. He was enjoying this time with her, and the wine was sweet and smooth in his mouth. “This is really good,” he said, leaning on his right elbow, reclining closer to Leah. “Do you mind?”
“No, I don’t mind,” she said, watching him closely. “You know, I have enjoyed my time with Elizabeth. She has been a pleasure to me.”
“Yeah, she’s a great kid. She’s a lot like her mother: so friendly and happy. I’m not like that at all. I wish I were. I’m just an old guy who pushes people away.”
“No, I don’t think you’re like that.”
“You don’t?” he said, rather pleased. “What do you think I’m like?”
“Well . . . what can I say?”
“Oh, c’mon, you can tell me.” Michael sat up, moving closer to her and adding with a smile, “I can take it.”
Leah placed her cup of wine down.
“You’re very strong, Michael, but you are kind, too, and loving, especially with Elizabeth . . . and what a cook you are!”
Leah smiled at him, which drew his attention to her soft lips, and he leaned over slightly without thinking. She looked into his eyes, her hair falling in front of her face. She brushed it back behind her ear.
“You make me believe,” she whispered to him.
Something snapped in Michael’s head and he recoiled quickly, standing up. “I’ve got to go.”
“Michael?”
“I need some air.”
Michael started climbing down the ladder, but stopped abruptly to glance back at Elizabeth. “I’m sorry, can you please watch over her?”
“Of course, of course, but where are you going?”
He didn’t answer. He was already in the courtyard heading for the gate.
12
BLOOD
MONEY
The slapping of his sandals on the hard stone road echoed throughout the empty streets of Jerusalem. Michael walked around aimlessly, almost unaware of how deserted the streets were.
What am I doing out here? What about the soldiers? What if I get caught? They’ll surely kill me this time.
He stopped in the middle of the street and looked around. Where am I? I’ve got to get Elizabeth out of here. How could I have been so stupid? Why did I let it go this far?
Remorse built up inside his mind, disabling his eyes as they stayed transfixed on the unusual structures of the city. His stare was disrupted when he heard someone approaching. Michael turned and noticed a bald man wearing a purple belt around his waist. Thankful he wasn’t a soldier, Michael relaxed slightly.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I’ve lost my way.”
“Then it’s best you find it,” the man responded. “For a man like you, this is not a night to be out.”
“Why?”
The man looked at him with pity. “Roman soldiers will be in the streets very soon. You would be wise to be away from here before they come.”
“But there’s nobody out here,” Michael said, looking around at the vacant streets.
“There will be.”
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t concern you. Move on!”
“You’re right,” Michael agreed quickly, trying to quiet him. He glanced over his shoulder, fearful that the man would draw attention to them—the kind of attention Roman soldiers would notice.
The man nodded approvingly. “You are wise to think that way. Now go home.”
Michael saw two Roman soldiers moving toward them at a slow, leisurely pace. He nodded farewell to the bald man and walked to the other side of the street. The soldiers quickened their step, trotting past him as they caught up with the bald man.
As he watched them, fear gripped him. Are they talking about me? I’m not waiting to find out. He frantically looked around, but there was nowhere to hide, so he sprinted to a darkened alley.
Wham! He ran into someone.
“Watch out!” a man shouted angrily. He stooped to retrieve the the bag he had dropped.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Michael replied, bending down to help. He picked up a couple of coins. As the bearded man stood up, Michael recognized him. “Oh, it’s you,” he said in surprise. “You helped me in the marketplace the other day.”
The man glanced at him, then turned quickly, looking nervously around. “What are you doing out tonight?”
Still hazy from the wine, Michael recklessly blurted out, “Maybe I’m looking for Jesus. You know where the garden is?”
“What do you mean?” the man asked, frowning.
“Well, maybe I’m wrong—heck, maybe I’m even dreaming.”
“Friend, you’re not dreaming. Go home.”
“Buddy, I don’t know where home is.”
“Then go back to where you came from. It is dangerous. Everyone out here is dangerous tonight. Believe me, you don’t know who your friends are.”
Michael noticed how closely the man was holding the pouch to his chest.
“Go now,” said the man. Suddenly he broke into a run, the bag swinging from his hand.
Stunned, Michael watched as the man’s figure retreated. “Wait!” he called, holding up the coins. “You forgot your money.” He began to run, too. “Stop! You forgot your money!”
Knowing it was probably a bad idea to follow him, but too drunk to care, Michael continued to pursue the man. Rounding the corner, he caught a glimpse of him about twenty yards ahead, darting to the left into an alleyway.
These streets! It’s like running through a maze, and I’m the rat.
When he came to the end of the alley, Michael saw the man reach the wall surrounding the city and run through a gate into the dark night. He was gone.
Michael stopped, trying to catch his breath. “Oh, I don’t believe this.”
Exhausted from the chase, he slumped down against the wall. As Michael did so, he felt the stones slice a gash in his back.
“Oh, great!” he gasped, reaching back to feel the torn skin. He looked down at his hand, now covered in blood. “Wonderful. A great way to top off the evening.”
Michael leaned harder against the concrete wall, his chest heaving, and his head pounding. Why am I doing this?
But as he rested there a moment, Michael heard footsteps approaching. Soldiers? he thought, starting to panic. He looked around and noticed a gate farther down the wall. He jumped up and ducked through it into another quiet courtyard, then crouched down. He could tell he was in someone’s yard. A house was across the courtyard, similar in design to Leah’s. Lamps were burning brightly on the second floor, but he couldn’t hear any voices.
All the thoughts that he’d tried so hard to dispel these last few days with logic and lagging faith now came rushing back to haunt him. This was it. If these events were truly unfolding—and he was here to bear witness—could this be the night of the Last Supper? And if so, would it be some form of blasphemy to consider warning Jesus? What would happen if he altered anything, assuming he even could at this point? Would fate, or perhaps something more divine, simply lead the soldiers to Jesus some other time? Would they still crucify him? What if he could find Judas and stop him? Should he?
Most important, he could no longer avoid the biggest question of all: if Jesus didn’t die tomorrow, what would it all mean for everyone?