SYNOPSIS
Not only are these six days analogous to the six days of biblical creation, but BJ is the key to God's own the-first-shall-be-last-and-the-last-shall-be-first palindrome. Simply, women must return to an equal status "as it was in the beginning." And it is a woman who finally brings BJ to a realization of his true calling. "The Black Madonna," a computer genius dying of AIDS and who speaks only in palindromes, finally touches his soul (The English "Eve" and the Hebrew "Havah" are both palindromes, just one more cosmic "hint" that God has always figured women prominently in the rescue of mankind). In the process, BJ must protect the enigmatic Jonathan, and the nucleus of savant women unleashed by Jonathan's special gift, from a vicious psychopath named Father Love, and from a self-aware computer program created by The Black Madonna. Calling itself Black Dragon, the willful computer program has completely taken over the Internet and has determined that the key to its own immortality is to make sure end-of-the-world Biblical prophecy is NOT fulfilled. It almost succeeds.
FROM THE AUTHOR:
Admittedly, all novels are autobiographical. An author just can't help it. The Black Madonna character is based on Shirley Dixon, a tragic acquaintance of mine in San Jose, California. An alcoholic African-American with an advanced engineering degree, she's dead now. At one time in her life, she believed she was literally married to Jesus Christ. So she had her name legally changed to Shirley Jesus Christ. Shortly before her death, she had it changed back to Shirley Dixon. When I asked why, she said it was too much trouble cashing checks.
BJ - Barabbas Jonas - has a kindred spirit, also named BJ, currently living in San Francisco. BJ is bigger than life and gave me a pretty good idea of what the real Destroying Angel might be like. The actual "BJ," whose personality and mannerisms I've "borrowed" for my character, is photographed looking down at the co-pilot from atop the 727 on the cover. He graciously consented to allow the photograph from a distance, conditional upon my keeping his actual identity a secret. In return for which I also agreed to offer astronomically expensive copies of Destroying Angel for $100, signed by him at this Web site. Naturally, BJ gets 100% of the profits generated from such transactions. I would advise those who know BJ to help him maintain his privacy, that is if you like your kneecaps.
Whatever insight I've gained on the "bum rap" given women by a general misinterpretation of Genesis I owe to Shira Halevi and her book, The Life Story of Adam and Havah, published by Jason Aronson, Inc. Many thanks to my neighbor and friend, attorney Clark Waddoups, for introducing me to this book.
Why palindromes? Besides the fact I really think God was "winking" at us with the name of our first mother being a palindrome ("Eve" in English, "Havah" in Hebrew), the mathematician in me couldn't resist the challenge of creating meaningful dialogue for a very smart character. Black Madonna deserved it. So did her real-life namesake Clifta Kimball, who was murdered by her boyfriend in my hometown of Sheridan, Wyoming. I was only a child at the time, but news of her brutal rape and subsequent hammer-crushed skull dramatically impacted my life view. Her killer was tried, imprisoned and, if there is any justice, got a working knowledge of "hard time," courtesy of a cell mate just like himself.
I chose country-music chapter lead-ins, because they capture the loneliness and fatigue of my two-thousand year old BJ.
As for other autobiographical elements, no useful purpose would be served in revealing them. Suffice it to say, like Jonathan, I was lucky to graduate at all from Andover. George W. Bush made it out of Andover a year ahead of me. We didn't know each other.
The future? I'm well into a Kinky Friedman-style sequel. So far, it appears to be working. And I've finished the screenplay for Destroying Angel. Unfortunately, that doesn't work. It makes more sense as a Broadway play, especially the scene atop the airliner. I've even built The Blades. They're pictured on the cover.
EXCERPT
Ah, the sublime memory of it all! Barabbas had quickly looked at the shaft being held by the symbol of all his hatred. And he surveyed the man's complement of guards, assessing his chances of dispatching just one final Roman swine in this miserable life.
"I used the one arrow," he said, his attempt to step closer to the target thwarted by a guard's foot on the chain separating his shackles, "because you stinking Romans aren't worth the price of two arrows."
Pilate reflexively stepped back, in spite of the prisoner's restraints. Then, angered by his inadvertent show of cowardice in front of hardened troops, he walked forward and tapped this convicted insurrectionist, thief, and murderer with the arrow's tip.
"Methinks my fellow citizen and our likely future emperor, Caligula, would appreciate the gift of such a spirited Jew."
Tension on the chains increased, as did the rope's grip around Barabbas's neck. He'd heard of the young Roman, Caligula, whose legendary penchant for cruelty had been widely discussed by his prison guards. Better, thought Barabbas, to guarantee himself a quick death in Jerusalem, if hanging on a cross spar long enough for the weight of his gut to guarantee suffocation could be considered quick, than to yield his spectacular surface area to the ministrations of a really gifted sadistic prodigy. He even allowed himself a smile at the thought of how fast his amazingly large stomach could hasten his own crucifixion. So with his forward movement all but impossible, a glob of bloody mucus came in answer to his sniffled prayer. And he spat the congealing projectile into the face of the man holding the arrow. Now, in the black night that followed a string of black nights unbroken since another man had taken Barabbas's place on the cross, a swollen shoulder loudly suggested that a leisurely trip to Rome might have been preferable to his pre-crucifixion treatment at the hands of Pilate's jailers. Of course, being scalded to death in boiling oil would have been preferable to the beating, cutting, stretching, and starvation menu served up by his hosts. Because he'd at least be dead by now instead of digging like some nocturnal animal, burrowing into the earth before sunrise.
[PRESENT DAY - CHAPTER 1] Numb with San Francisco's three-o'clock A.M. April chill, the two surprised motorcyclists swerved, barely escaping a collision with the abandoned silver Mercedes. Serpentine skid marks decorated the on-ramp to the Golden Gate Bridge. Riders of lesser skill would have left a trail of skin and leather on the pavement. If the car's driver had been nearby, the immortal BJ would have killed more than just his engine. His partner coasted around the side of the car and also shut down.
If he'd been wearing a helmet, the hulking BJ would have thrown it through the windshield. Two thousand years of rage hadn't begun to mellow in BJ, not known by his real name of Barabbas ben Jonas for nearly two millennia. Jerking the Harley onto its kickstand, he took off the leather gloves and headed toward the object of his aggravation. Adorned with hose clamps instead of rings, stubby fingers alternately smoothed his full gray beard and shoulder-length hair. The pair simultaneously uncorked their one-piece cellular telephones - earphones - that used bone conduction to pick up their voices, without sounds of wind and engine roar, by means of which they kept in touch with each other and the home base in San Jose.
"Some mental pygmy decided to go for a walk," said BJ, running one of his rings down the entire length of the car, gouging a furrow through all sixteen layers of silver paint.
Five-foot-eight Jonathan swung his thin leg over the handlebars of his parked bike. In his early fifties, he had brown eyes that seemed to have been cast from the identical pigment that formed his hair. Had he been able to recall his birth, he'd remember BJ standing to the right of his father, who, in turn, had held his mother's hand. But he had no memory of his father - John the two-thousand-year-old Revelator - or his mother, only of BJ, who'd simply been there his whole life. Jonathan, son of an original apostle, offspring of the mysterious revelator, didn't know his father. He didn't even know the origins of BJ, and had never heard his step-father - for Jonathan thought of BJ as his adopted father - Jonathan had never heard BJ refer to himself by the ancient appellation of Barabbas.
Jonathan removed three flares from the backpack slung over the seat behind him. "Fog's coming in," he said. "If we don't get flares placed, somebody's going to buy it."
Devouring fog lapped over the pavement by the time Jonathan ignited the last flare. One second later and he wouldn't have caught the attention of a southbound camper. Its driver volunteered to raise the California Highway Patrol on his cellular phone. Jonathan thanked him and ambled back toward BJ, who slouched against the car's trunk.
"Maybe she's not out for a walk," said BJ, pointing to a singed white scarf coming out of the open gas tank. "If the fire hadn't gone out and we'd timed it right, I'd be scraping you off the pavement with a stick and a spoon."
"What makes you think it's a she?" Jonathan missed the obvious question: Why wouldn't BJ have the same fate in a crash? Why wouldn't the California Highway Patrol be scraping both of them off the pavement? BJ had never shared the nature of his own immortality, or that of the boy's father, with Jonathan. And Jonathan had long since seemed to write off thousands of such apparent lapses as natural to his egomaniacal mentor. "Couldn't it be a male driver?"
"Nah, it's only a woman. The car smells of perfume, and there's lipstick on the cigarette butts in the ashtray. Judging from her success at arson, she must be having some terrible night."