5:03 p.m. Passion Ministry

“Help me! Help me!” the man shouted. He staggered forward.

Virginia Darrow, standing off stage, dove after him. Missed.

Palms up in a defensive motion, John shuffled back.

Virginia lunged again, this time snagging the man’s pant leg. They both crashed to the stage in front of John. Virginia squealed, elbow on fire.

“No, no,” moaned the stranger.

Pandemonium erupted in the audience. Many attendees screamed. Pushed towards the stage.

The tall man bowed to John, a pearl-colored rosary clutched in his fingers. “Please, John!”

John’s throat constricted. He’s grieving.

The lights flicked off, pitching the auditorium into an inky blackness.

Oscar bawled, “Protect the perimeter!”

“Don’t panic!” John’s voice commanded from the dark. “Lights, please!”

The main spotlight snapped on. The fans gasped at the sight of the tormented man kneeling in a blaze of light at the Apostle’s feet.

John smiled. “What is your name?”

“George Dagg.”

To everyone’s surprise, John raised George to his feet. Hugged him. 
“It’s all my fault,” George sobbed, backing away. “God help me, I killed my own son!”

The audience gasped.

John raised a hand for silence. Focused on George’s tormented face. Sweat dripped from his forehead and his breathing increased.

After a minute, John smiled sadly. He knew the boy’s death was an accident; the man’s guilt and despair were unmistakable. “George, you’ve asked for and received divine absolution,” he said. “Yet you refuse to forgive yourself.” He looked out over the audience. “Sometimes, we’re our own worst enemy and need others to help guide us.”

John took the older man’s hand. “You’re among friends here.” He raised his voice. “Isn’t he?”

“Yessss!’ roared the crowd in response.

“A faithful friend is the medicine of life,” continued John. “Don’t worry, George. We can help.” He moved closer. Whispered in George’s ear, “We’ll speak later.”

“Thank you,” George said, as Oscar gently led him away.

Suddenly, John grunted. Staggered. Searing pain. Immediately, his viewpoint skittered backward into the early thirteenth century.

De la Jacob couldn’t resist the unrelenting voice. Pushing. Pulling him. Oblivious to the dead and dying outside the church, he ran a tongue over his lips. What did the voice want?

An excited buzz raced though the audience, its high pitch piercing John’s vision.

In an instant, his consciousness returned. He was back. Aware of his stage surroundings. And of something else.

Terror.