One of Christian radio host Harold Camping’s most influential predictions was that on May 21, 2011, Jesus Christ would return to earth, rapture the chosen ones, and that the end of the world would occur soon thereafter. It wasn’t his first prediction, but this time he was certain—so certain that his Family Radio spent millions on billboards and a media blitz to make sure that the world was properly prepared. Bumper stickers began to appear warning that vehicles would be unmanned when the rapture arrived. The righteous said their goodbyes to friends whom they suspected might not make the journey. Folks circled the twenty-first on their calendars with bold red marking pens and anxiously awaited the day’s arrival.
As the time approached, a few technical concerns began to surface. May 21st in China or the US? Well, that was surely self-explanatory! Ok, then…New York, LA, or Honolulu? That, too, was obvious—only the West Coast could handle an event like this! What about the weather? What if the skies were fair, with no clouds for Jesus to dramatically part? Hmmm…better settle on Seattle for that one—plenty of clouds there—perfect for a twenty-first century re-entry!
With so much publicity, it was indeed a highly anticipated moment when the day finally arrived. Some questions still remained, however, at least among the intellectuals. Questions such as, Would Jesus come like a thief in the night or return triumphant in broad daylight? Or would he draw the chosen ones up into the sky with him, regardless of their activities at the time? That could prove disastrous for those remaining behind! Can you imagine planes with no pilots, restaurants with no waiters, public restrooms with no janitors? Or worse yet, the Kansas City Chiefs without Patrick Mahomes? On the bright side, though, how about theaters with no ticket-takers, or airport parking lots with no attendants? How long have we waited for a break like that?
Sadly, in real time on planet Earth, the day ended with no hint of a savior—no parting of the skies, no choirs of angels, no Gabriel’s trumpet solo…no lights, no camera, and definitely no action. The faithful who had queued up for a heavenly departure were left in the dark, standing at the station, with no train a-comin’ or even a distant whistle a-blowin’. The naysayers—those just waiting for the ‘I-told-you-that-was-crap’ moment—seemed to have been vindicated. Even a prankster with a hot-air Jesus balloon would have provided some measure of comic relief for yet another human failure to predict the mind of the almighty.
Indeed, there was much disillusionment, frustration, and personal loss in the believers’ camp as May 21, 2011, came and went just like every other day….
OR DID IT?
chapter 1
Incipimus ad Finem: (We Begin Near the End)
(We Begin Near the End)
Portland, Oregon
May 21, 2011
It was just after 10:30 p.m. when Frank pulled up in front of a short row of town houses toward the end of Gaines Street. He knew that the redheaded nurse lived in the third one from the left, because he had followed her there from work a couple of weeks ago. Having no transportation of his own, both then and now, Frank had borrowed an old black ’82 Corolla from a friend, promising to use it only for a couple of hours each time. Tonight was different from his last visit, however, as he had arrived before she did and had plans other than just observing. As he cut the lights and turned off the engine, he was excited and somewhat edgy. Like a big cat seeking out its prey, all his senses were heightened and he felt a rush not unlike that from the line of coke he had done just before leaving his friend’s house. It was like a double high this time, though—the drugs plus the anticipation of what he planned on doing to the nurse when she arrived home from work.
This wasn’t just any nurse either. Frank couldn’t remember her name exactly, but she worked evenings at OHSU, and was often there when the cops hauled him in. She would always quickly flip her badge over in his presence so he couldn’t see her name. Can’t blame her, really, he thought. Who in their right mind would give out any personal information to a druggie like me, especially in the shape I’m usually in? Damn, I hate going to that hospital, but seeing her almost makes up for it. The way her ass wiggles when she walks down the hall…almost makes me come just thinkin’ about it. And those tits…oh my god, just like two overripe melons! I’d love to pluck those babies and suck on ’em till I die! And she was always such a smart-ass too. He hated it when a woman got the upper hand on him. Tonight he would get even, though.
Frank rolled a joint and lit up just to accentuate his fantasies a bit. He raised the windows and sucked in the sweet smoke that he so often depended on. “Oh, yeah,” he groaned as the weed took its intended effect. “Tonight’s the night I’ve been looking forward to for a long time.”
It was a pleasant spring evening in the city—partly cloudy, with temperatures hovering around sixty degrees. The moon was half-full as it illuminated the fronts of the four attached row homes, which were quite unique, even by Portland standards. With towering walls of glass in the front, and three levels of living, they backed up to a forested area that gave them a woodsy feel. Across the street where Frank was parked was a trail into the Marquam Nature Preserve, which offered miles of hiking into unspoiled Northwest habitat, ironically juxtaposed with Portland’s huge high-tech medical research complex. Frank studied the third town house very carefully, looking for any sign of occupancy at the moment. He was pretty sure that she would be returning from work shortly, as she usually worked the 3–11 shift and, at least on his previous visit, arrived home around eleven thirty. He also thought that she might have a boyfriend, as he had noticed a man through the window on his last surveillance visit. That complicated matters considerably and certainly made him a bit more cautious tonight. On the other hand, the thought of tying the guy up and fucking his woman right in front of him was almost more excitement than Frank could imagine. He had raped women before and had even done time for one of them, but the thrill of the struggle and conquest lingered strongly in his mind. Frank had heard somewhere that rape had a lot to do with repressed anger, but try as he would, he really couldn’t identify any such emotion in himself. For him, it was a lot like Lady Cain—all about the high, which was magnified so much more with a beautiful and struggling subject.
If he had thought about it, Frank would have easily seen that “getting high” had been the sole objective for most of his life. He had been in and out of foster homes as a child, with his police record starting at age nine, when he was convicted for sexually molesting the eight-year-old daughter of his sponsoring family. By his teenage years, he had numerous minor convictions for petty theft, drugs, and even one case of indecent exposure. His first real prison sentence began at age nineteen, when he was found guilty of raping one of the local high school cheerleaders after a big football game. At twenty-five, he was on the street again, residing primarily in homeless shelters, doing whatever drugs he could get his hands on, and continuing his sexually predatory practices. Had it not been so difficult to prove that his escapades were not consensual, he would have spent far more time in prison. As it was, his past few years had involved numerous brief periods of jail time interspersed with frequent hospital admissions for intoxication and drug overdoses. Now, at age forty-two, Frank was planning his biggest “score”: sexually assaulting one of his caregivers in her own home, with her boyfriend forced to watch—if he was around, that is.
Frank smiled sardonically as he inhaled the last of his joint and rolled down the window. There were no streetlights on this side of the street, so the black Corolla blended in well with the woods behind it. Passing clouds had covered the moon by this time, and the only light came from a streetlight in front of the second of the four town houses. Frank pensively scratched his four-day-old beard and ran his fingers through his matted and unkept brown hair. Deep wrinkles were etched in his face from years of malnutrition, smoking, drug abuse, and poor hygiene. His clothes were dirty and somewhat ragged, and his hands were rough, with nails resembling
