Die, Messiah

Afterward

Prologue - the Judas effect

The lamplight from the sixty-watt bulb across the dingy room offered only a dull reflection from the cold blue steel of his 44 magnum. This was the despicable piece that had been the cause of it all. Braxton Lee Hunsenger knew that once the FBI found the weapon, they would put two and two together. That ballistics would confirm it was the firearm used to commit the foulest of foul deeds.

Christensen was not dead. Not yet. But Lee knew it was only a matter of time. Having fired the shots and knowing the devastation of the hollow-point bullets, he knew nothing short of divine intervention could save the man who had, to millions, become a God himself; a savior, the second coming.

Lee knew better. He knew the real David Christensen, or so he believed. He had foreseen the future and had been terrified by the probabilities. He had seen the changes occurring on a daily, almost an hourly basis and knew that someone must act to stop the avalanche before it caused total devastation. He had appointed himself to be that someone. Or had he?

Now he sat alone and confused in his self-imposed prison. This dark, dank, sparsely furnished hole of a room in a third floor Brooklyn walk up near where he had grown up was his only refuge. It was only a matter of time before the Feds would track him down. Their goal would not be to kill him, although most of them would like nothing more than to be the one to bring him down. No, they would want to place him on public view to be despised and humiliated, to be spat upon and then locked away for life or put through the agony of death row to spend years contemplating his imminent execution.

His name would join the unenviable list of despicable assassins: Booth, Oswald, James Earl Ray, Sirhan Sirhan and others. He would become the modern day Judas responsible for the betrayal and death of one sure to become a saint if not a messiah. This was inevitable.

What was not inevitable was that he would have to be around to see it happen. He had solidified his place in Hell. Of this much he was certain. But the Hell on earth that was imminent if he remained was still in his control.

Blue steel caught the briefest reflection of a flash of light from outside his window. It was only now that Braxton Lee Hunsenger realized that there was a severe storm raging through the bitter streets of New York. It didn’t matter. In fact it seemed only appropriate after the storm of outrage his recent actions had caused.

Now was the time to end it all. He had no other choice. His brief and turbulent 33 years on this earth were about to come to an end. His dingy reflection in the bureau mirror, obscured by layers of dust and cigarette smoke, echoed his life story: the bedroom hair, thinning and already starting to show signs of gray; the 3-day growth of stubble on his chin, dark, brooding eyes screaming for sleep that had evaded him for so long. It would all be over soon. He had considered how it might be accomplished. Hanging himself seemed too uncertain. What if he botched it, leaving himself too helpless to complete the job? He considered stealing a car and driving it off a bridge or a cliff. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of surviving.

No, the only sure method of ending it he held in his hand. It seemed only fitting that the brazen tool he had used in his dastardly deed should be the same one to end his own despicable life. He had been staring at the Magnum for several minutes as he reviewed the events of the past few weeks. How could he have been so wrong? What had he been thinking? Did he have any other options?

No. He knew what he had to do. The lightning flashed again followed quickly by a rolling, rumbling wave of thunder. The storm was moving away. Slowly, deliberately he raised the weapon, placing the business end firmly against the fleshy part between his chin and Adam’s apple at an angle that would send the projectile upward.

This would not be a pretty sight for the unfortunate soul who discovered his worthless remains, but it couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t leave even the slightest possibility of survival. He must succeed.

One last swallow, one last breath, one last brief reflection of a life gone awry. He gave no thought to the tear that had trickled down his cheek. He steadied his trembling right hand with help from his left and applied just enough pressure on the trigger to put the hammer into action. Then it happened.

Instead of the loud deafening bang that he would only half hear before everything went black, all he heard was a resounding ‘click’. His usually reliable handgun had suddenly and mysteriously decided to misfire.

Initially confused, ultimately amused, Braxton Lee Hunsenger, suddenly out of character and inexplicably spontaneous, burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. He considered the weapon at arms length, a weapon that had not misfired in the 11 years he had owned it. Why had it chosen this exact moment to fail him? What irony this?

His laughter subsiding, he lowered the weapon to his knees where he let it rest. Laughter turned to tears and he sobbed heavily, not knowing if he would be able to muster the courage to check his weapon and try again.

Suddenly there were noises on the stairs. A spotlight flashed through the window once, then again, and he knew. He had expected to be traced to this apartment but not so soon. It looked like he underestimated the efficiency of the Feds. Now they were at his door, calling his name, proclaiming their identity and demanding that he ‘open up’.

Braxton Lee Hunsenger made no move. He had decided to do what he had done so many times in this life, turn a potentially hopeless situation to his advantage.

As he expected, a stout boot action laid the flimsy door wide open causing it to backlash and prompting a second firm kick that took it off its hinges. Flashlights held high above service revolvers scanned the room coming to rest on the motionless figure seated in the rickety captain’s chair clearly illuminating the deadly weapon in his lap.

Demands flooded the air for Hunsenger to drop the weapon and hit the floor, hands behind your head, do it now. Loud voices referring to him as scumbag, slimeball, and son-of-a-bitch permeated the stale air in the diminutive room. Suddenly there must have been a half dozen weapons trained on him, waiting, waiting for him to make the next move, fingers itching on triggers, poised, some hoping he would raise the 44 instead of letting it fall to the floor.

Hunsenger slowing cocked his head to one side, squinting hard against the harsh lights, singling out the one person who appeared to be in charge, the one who was giving commands and making demands. With sudden resolve he jerked his worthless weapon up to eye level and pointed it directly at the FBI Inspector knowing full well that these trained professionals would unleash a deadly hail of lead that would finish the job he was unable to complete on his own. In an instant it was over. All was darkness. At last Braxton Lee Hunsenger was at peace.

Chapter 1

David Who?

In this, the year of our Lord 2025, I offer the following testament to the greater glory of God’s messenger on Earth. Do not praise him. Do not honor him. Rather, pity the world who could not understand him.

I suppose, of all the people who knew him, and that number is considerable, I would be the one most qualified to tell his story. After all, I was there from the beginning. I was there the day his mother brought him home from the hospital, saw him take his first step. Hell, I even helped to change his messy diapers.

I lost track of him for a time after he grew up, but then everybody did. We lovingly referred to those as his lost years. He never talked much about them, although his early writings seemed to reflect on them as being quite an adventure. Those of you who have read his work know what I mean.

So, who is - was - David Christensen? Was he saint or sinner? Madman or messiah? Modern day miracle-worker or total fraud? Genius or hack? At one time or another, depending on whom you talked to, all of these terms may have applied. I have my own opinion, but I leave you to decide for yourself.

My name is Blake Tryndall. I’m a free-lance reporter and part-time author. Ghostwriter might be a more appropriate term. My one true claim to fame to this point was a little read biographical piece on a former president, William Jefferson Clinton.

Slick Willie as they called him. He was quite the scoundrel in his day. That’s not to say that he was a bad president. He was at least no better or worse than a number of others who held that post. But I digress. You can read that story another time.

This is the story of David Christensen; the saga, if you would. Some of what you are about to read you will doubtless find hard to believe. I do, and I was there for most of it. I saw it with my own eyes.

There was so much about David that was never explained. Many who knew him never saw past the ruggedly handsome exterior. The thick blond strands of well-coifed hair that he always kept trimmed at an All-American length. The piercing steely blue (sometimes closer to green) penetrating eyes could at times melt your heart. At other times they could cut right through you. Forever vigilant, always in control, David was more than just a seeker of truth. He was truth personified.

When you finish reading you may tend to believe that I sought to embellish the truth, to stretch reality a bit for the sake of the story. The fact is there was no need to embellish. The simple facts just as they occurred hold enough fascination for ten lifetimes. David Christensen’s fifteen minutes of fame will stretch through the remainder of recorded human history.

Chapter 2

They call the wind…

Mariah Christensen grew up believing that women deserved equal opportunities in what was, in her day, a man’s world. Born in March 1951, her parents named her Mariah, the wind, after a three-day buffeting of chilled Canadian air had pounded the East Coast. It only subsided after she was delivered at 3 a.m. on March 23rd.

Baltimore in the sixties was conservative compared to most of the country. Oh, they had the Block, the famous strip of nightclubs where nude dancing was the big draw, especially for the sailors who frequented Baltimore’s busy port. Blaze Starr still appeared nightly at the 2 O’clock Club and hawkers stalked the front sidewalk of every den of iniquity proclaiming that his club had the most beautiful women in the world and that they were all totally nude.

Far more popular to the general public were the local neighborhood pubs. It seemed that just about every corner on the East Side had at least one watering hole, some more than one. There was no nude dancing, except for the occasional neighborhood bimbo who had a few too many shots or tequila and decided to climb up on a table and show off for the local boys. These scenes usually ended up badly with the owner either throwing the lady out or the lady throwing up all over her gawking onlookers, or both.

None of this ever touched Mariah. Her parents made sure of that. Not that they were so prim and proper or ultra-conservative in her upbringing. Her Dad was a machinist at the Westinghouse Plant on Broening Highway who made a decent living. Her Mom worked part-time at a local Highlandtown eatery to earn a little extra cash that she stored away for a rainy day.

Mariah was a bright child, usually far ahead of others her own age. She probably could have skipped grades in school, but her parents wanted her to experience the full measure of her childhood. She often felt bored with her classes, knowing as much or more as the geeks who were trying to teach the class. Thank God for the Pratt Free Library. It became her retreat, her church.

When she was eleven, Mariah’s parents took her out of public school and sent her to Saint Elizabeth’s Catholic School. Mariah liked the change, even liked the neat little uniforms they made her wear. Here, finally, she was able to excel. The Sisters recognized how exceptional she was as a student and encouraged her to move along quickly.

She especially formed a bond with Sister Eleanor who taught English Literature. The good Sister was a slight woman, barely five feet tall with delicate features and soft, round, brown eyes that could melt the hardest of hearts. Mariah never knew what color the Sister’s hair was because in those days they were never without their habits. She imagined it too was brown. It was difficult even to estimate her age although Mariah guessed she was somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties.

Many an afternoon Mariah would stay late, not as a punishment but because she chose to stay. She had developed a passion for poetry.

She and Sister Eleanor would have long discussions on Keats, Shelley and Mariah’s favorite, Emily Dickinson. They would take turns reading out loud. They even shared some of their own personal writings.

Sister Ellie, a name Mariah was only able to use when the two were alone together, was amazed at how someone so young could write with such feeling. Not your typical sing-song rhyming jingle type greeting card poetry, but deepdown, heart-felt sometimes gut-wrenching emotion leaped from her pencil onto the page.

Saint Elizabeth’s was mainly a business school for young ladies. Parents would send their daughters there to learn the fundamental skills needed to survive and flourish in an office environment. By the time she finished, Mariah could type 110 words per minute, take shorthand, operate a Dictaphone, balance a doubleentry accounting ledger and project an annual budget for a small company. She was, to say the least, an exceptional student.

In Mariah’s third year, Sister Eleanor left Saint Elizabeth’s for a missionary assignment in Nicaragua. There was growing unrest along with its usual accompanying civil strife and poverty in the Central American country that set Sister Eleanor’s sense of conscience into motion and drew her to this service. Mariah cried for three days upon hearing the news as if she were losing her best friend. In a sense, she was.

Sister Eleanor contracted Malaria working in the Central American jungles and, despite the best efforts of modern medicine, did not survive. She had only been there for six months. For the most part she had been taking the medication to stave off the killer disease, but when the supply ran short and replacement medicines were delayed she felt it was more important for the local children to receive the medicine than to take it herself. Her selflessness became her undoing.

Mariah never totally lost the enthusiasm for poetry and literature that Sister Eleanor had inspired in her but it just wasn’t the same after Sister Ellie left. Her interest turned inward and became very private. She would not share her own writings with anyone else for a long, long time.

Mariah’s parents had ambitions for her to pursue a business career concentrating on accounting with a goal of becoming a Certified Public Accountant. They claimed that opportunities abounded aplenty in the CPA field and it would be foolish for her not to use her natural abilities to get ahead. Being the dutiful child she was, Mariah acquiesced to their wishes.

At age 17 1/2, Mariah Christensen entered the University of Maryland’s School of Business. She had applied for every grant, scholarship and student loan available in order to help defray the cost of tuition for her parents. Fortunately, she was able to move in with her Aunt Bessie, who lived on the outskirts of College Park, thereby eliminating the expense of dormitory fees. It wasn’t always easy getting to and from classes on time on her second-hand three-speed Schwinn bike, especially during the cruel winter months.

Thank God for Uncle Freddie who worked in the University’s Maintenance Department and would offer her a ride on those especially frigid mornings. She would toss her bike in the back of his beat-up Ford pick-up and away they would go. So what if the old truck had no heater. So what if Uncle Freddie sang along to the shit-kicking country music that blared from his radio. So what if Uncle Freddie had a tin ear and a voice that would make a bullfrog moan. It beat the devil out of cranking through the slop and slush on her rickety old two-wheeler. Well, just barely.

In those days, the University of Maryland was known primarily as a party university. Not that an enterprising student couldn’t get a quality education if that was the goal, but most nights in most frat houses on campus, the beer and booze flowed hot and heavy for anyone looking for a good time. Mariah shunned this lifestyle. It was not the reason she was there. For that reason, her reputation around campus was that of a Miss Goody-two-shoes. This didn’t bother her too much, but her circle of friends was very small and her college days were more like a job than anything else.

It wasn’t that she was without suitors. Any number of anxious young men would ask her out. Although not a ravishing beauty, she was far from being homely. At 5’ 6" with a slight build she was more than capable of turning heads. Her golden hair reflected only the slightest hint of red and her alabaster skin served to highlight eyes as blue as the summer sky. However, her focus was strictly on her studies and she refused to get emotionally involved with any of the young neophytes who attempted to court her.

This worked out to her advantage in many ways as she crammed every difficult course she should into her busy schedule. Her Guidance Counselor, Miss Henry, thought she might be taking on too much in her effort to over-achieve, but she was able to maintain a 3.8 grade point average throughout and made the Dean’s list every semester, finishing a four year course of study in three years.

Even before she graduated, Mariah had a job lined up with Henderson-Franklin, a well-known accounting firm in Baltimore. She started work the day after final exams were completed, opting to forego the celebratory festivities known as ‘graduation’.

Parents, relatives and faculty were all disappointed that she chose not to go through the graduation line to receive her degree, but Mariah simply didn’t want to be a part of what she looked upon as a ‘freak show’. She knew, or at least felt, that as many as half of the individuals receiving their sheepskins that day didn’t really deserve them. They could mail her certificate to her and she would file it away in a drawer somewhere. She had already received what she went there to achieve. An education. Now, she intended to use it.

There were additional courses Mariah needed to take in order to prepare for her certification. Fortunately, the University of Baltimore offered the necessary cirriculum in the form of night studies that would not conflict with her day job. She devoted every waking minute and every ounce of energy to one goal, to become the youngest employee in the history of Henderson-Franklin to pass the CPA Board exams and be certified. She succeeded at the tender age of 22. Two weeks after achieving her certification she left Henderson-Franklin.

Howard Franklin was the Managing Partner of the accounting firm of Henderson-Franklin. He and Vince Henderson had formed their partnership some twenty years ago after working for another firm for five and seven years respectively. Their first few years were lean and at times it was unsure that they would survive.

But Vince Henderson was a wizard when it came to wooing new clients. It was his charisma along with