“Uh, no,” he said.
“He just gave me a ride here from the airport,” Anna said.
“I heard about your arm,” Bonnie said. “Hurt it in an accident, right? How is it?”
“A lot better, thanks,” Dyson said with a smile. “A little stiff, but not too bad. I can drive okay.”
“He’s going back to the university tomorrow,” Anna announced. “He’s meeting with the dean of archaeology to discuss … things. My leave lasts a couple more weeks, so Jack’s going to be there for my students, in case they need anything.”
“I’m so glad you’re going to be staying with us,” Bonnie told her sister. “We’ve got so much catching up to do.”
“I’m so glad you asked me,” Anna said. “I’m just not up to that empty apartment right now. I need to get my mind off everything … get back on track. Reassess where my life is headed. My heart just isn’t in a lot of things right now.”
“Bless your heart,” her sister frowned. “If there’s anything you want to talk about, you just tell me. That’s what I’m here for.”
“I will.”
“Well, I’d better run,” Dyson said, rising. “I’ve really enjoyed meeting you, Bonnie.”
“So soon?” she said, reaching out to hug him as she whispered to her sister, “Don’t you dare let him get away.”
Anna rolled her eyes, clearly embarrassed. Dyson pretended he hadn’t heard.
“You’re welcome here anytime, Jack,” Bonnie said, then she whispered in his ear.
“We’ll see,” he replied with a smile.
“What?” Anna asked. “Bonnie, stop it.”
“You hush,” her sister teased.
Suddenly the front door opened. In walked a pretty girl of eleven, her blonde hair long and swept back. She wore a sunny spring dress and carried a glittering party bag.
“Whose car is that …?” Ellie began to ask, but the words fell away when she saw Anna. A huge smile appeared on her face, and she rushed forward, her arms spread for a hug. “Aunt Anna!”
“Well, hi there!” Anna said, holding her tightly. “How’s my big girl?”
“We missed you so much,” Ellie said.
“And I missed you, too.”
The girl looked at Dyson. “Hello.”
“Hi,” he replied, smiling.
“This is Dr. Dyson,” Bonnie told her. “He’s a friend of Aunt Anna’s from the college. He’s a professor too.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” the girl told him.
“And you, too, Ellie.”
“I was at Christy’s birthday party,” she told Anna, holding up her bag. “We got all kinds of neat stuff. Can I show you?”
“Sure, sweetheart. In a few minutes. Dr. Dyson is just leaving.”
“Can you stay? Will you be here for a while?”
“Yes,” Anna said. “For a while.”
The girl smiled anew and hugged her aunt again, then she hurried down the hallway toward her room.
“She’s lovely,” Dyson said.
“Thank you,” Bonnie beamed. “She’s a good girl. She gets so easily distracted, though.”
“She’s a kid,” he reassured her. “Goes with the territory. She’ll be fine.”
Anna followed Dyson to the door and out onto the front porch. Standing one step above him, she gave him a farewell hug. “Be careful. You sure your arm’s still okay for driving?”
“Rock solid.”
“Hey … what did she say to you just then, right before Ellie came in?”
“Bonnie?” he teased. “Oh, just that she wants me to keep my Thanksgiving open.”
Anna looked away for a moment, her hand to her mouth, hiding an uncomfortable grin.
“You’ll have to forgive her,” she began. “She gets kind of carried away, but she means the world to me. She’s been trying to fix me up since high school. Except for when I was married, of course.”
“It’s okay,” he said, slipping his sunglasses back on as he walked to the car. “She’s a doll.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“And so’s her sister.”
He smiled, opened the door, and slid onto the seat.
Anna was smiling too.
“And tell her … in that movie, it was Gina Lollobrigida,” he called with a wink through the open window as he backed out of the driveway.
“We have no choice, now,” Mercer remarked aloud.
He spread the week’s copy of Archaeology Journal International on his desk, the sight almost too grim for him to bear. There, in full color on the center spread, were reproduced in their entirety, though in somewhat reduced form, the seven papyri stolen from Pompeii. The weave and texture of the paper was visible in extreme detail in the high-resolution images, aiding any who might wish to run a comparative analysis. The text, written in the exact ink he had seen before, was clear to anyone with a working knowledge of ancient Greek. And for those without one, translations in English, Spanish, and Italian ran alongside, all boldly declaring not only their content but their authors.
Andrew. John. Bartholomew. James. Thaddaeus. Simon. Matthias.
Do you have any idea what you’ve done?
Other publications had simultaneously run the story as well. The covers of Time, Newsweek, and U.S. News and World Report had all declared the scrolls’ likely authenticity. More than a dozen authorities worldwide had also been quoted, their words damning to the faith. Yet nowhere was the name of the person in current possession of the leaves revealed, nor was the present location of the documents. They could be anywhere in the world now, on any continent, surely in the hands of a private collector. No museum would claim them outside of Italy’s borders—none would dare to. But despite the uncertainties, the lack of provenance in their presentation, Mercer knew immediately that they were authentic.
The papyrus matched, to the very weave.
The handwriting matched, to the letter.
It’s out of my hands, Anna. I know what I said, but if I could stop this now, I swear to you I would.
The reproductions even included a smaller leaf similar to the one in the first box, giving the location of the vault found in Rome. Each box, Mercer now knew, had contained instructions for finding the other.
Anna, I’m so sorry …
His phone rang. He answered to find the chairman of the board of regents on the other end.
“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Mercer said. “I saw. I have it in front of me.”
He glanced over the texts as he listened to the man speak. The words he heard were not pleasant ones. The words he read were even worse.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, sir,” he said. “Yes, I’m aware of the response. Yes, I … I know, sir. I …” He listened. There was little else he could do. “All right. Do what you have to. So shall I.”
He dropped the phone onto its cradle for a moment, took a breath in frustration, then picked the handset back up and pressed a button.
“Amy, please get me Dr. Meridian.”
The water was warm and soft, its embrace melding with that of the music and soft light into a soothing, healing tranquillity.
Oh, how I’ve longed for this.
Anna lay back in the bubble bath, her eyes closed, trying to lose herself, to be cast adrift upon the serenity of the room. Scented candles flickered, casting a vanilla glow upon the air. Every muscle relaxed, she lolled in the warmth of the perfumed water, letting it buoy her as if gravity no longer took hold. Even the most subtle motion brought the same response from the heavenly liquid, an all-too-brief rocking like that of a cradle, gentle and soothing. She slid one leg along the other, losing herself in the honeyed piano concerto caressing the tile walls around her, trying to let the warmth and the melody draw the pain f
rom her soul.
Let me just stay here for a while—maybe a month or two.
She opened her eyes, her mind far away, and gazed absently at the pastel swirl of wallpaper in the candlelight. Her body was at peace, drifting on a quiet sea, but her mind retained at its core, like a pit amid a fruit, a question that refused to let it rest.
“Who do you say that I am?”
That question had lived at the heart of her being for so long, shaping her every thought, her every decision. Like no other before it, it was the very essence of a reality she could never have fathomed otherwise, a truth closed to her until the coming of a moment set aside at the birth of time itself.
“Who do you say that I am?”
Seven words—the most important ever asked, in any language, in any era. Seven words—the answer to which carried the very destiny of a human soul.
She drew a heavy breath, torn by the question. Its answer still lay within her heart. But its surety had been tarnished by the finds in Rome and Pompeii.
A foundation once solid was crumbling from beneath her, and she was powerless to stop it.
Please, she struggled, tell me something—anything…
Only silence echoed from the tile walls.
It just doesn’t make any sense. They couldn’t have been wrong about him. They couldn’t have led such false lives, promising salvation where none lay!
Her hands formed fists, her long nails digging into her water-softened palms.
But forgeries wouldn’t have been in that wall!
She cast her eyes upward.
Would they? Christ had been unique in too many ways, both in life and in death. His brief span on earth was the pivot point of all history, the crossroads at which the eternal path of all humankind would be determined.
The culmination of all things, before or after.
Even discounting the gospel accounts, Anna knew through Josephus that Jesus had been tried before Pilate. Yet Jesus had been convicted and executed not for what he had done but for who he was. And just as that question had determined his own earthy fate, so has it determined the destiny of all people.
“Who do you say that I am?”
“Why, Lord?” Anna whispered. “Why now? Why me? Why bring this upon the world? Why inflict such a devastating blow? I love you. You know that. I’d never have hurt you! But because of what I’ve done, your Son has been branded a fraud. Why did you put me in that room? Why did you let me open that wall? Why?”
She lifted a leg from the water, watching the wetness glisten on her skin and the suds slide away. Her toes, accented with wine red–polished nails, found the front lip of the tub, her calf tightening to keep them there.
So fearfully and wonderfully made …
Her thoughts traveled down a new path.
How could an all-knowing God who’s powerful enough to bring into being something as intricate and wonderful as the human body be defeated by the deceitful actions of mere humans? How could he allow false Scriptures declaring a false Messiah to linger and mislead the entire world for two thousand years? How could he create a universe from utter nothingness, yet be so impotent as to be unable to make himself known—as he wishes to be known—for century upon century?
She lowered her leg back into the water, finding it warmer than before, and sat up, her mind racing, her thoughts afire.
What do you want me to do? Please, give me a sign … anything.
A knock broke the stillness.
“Anna?” came Bonnie’s voice. “There’s a call on your phone. I hope you don’t mind, but I answered for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Dean Mercer at the college.”
“Just a sec.”
Anna rose from the water, grabbing a large pink towel from the rack as she stepped onto the plush bath rug that lay against the tile. With mincing steps she wrapped the towel tightly around herself, warding off the cold, then reached out and unlocked the door.
“He’s waiting,” Bonnie said, handing her the phone through the gap. “Oh, and Ellie’s home now, so be careful coming out.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Anna turned away, closing the door again as she brought the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Anna,” came the dean’s voice. “This is Albert.”
“Hi,” she said, happy to hear his voice. “How’s Mary? How’s Oldefield?”
“Both are fine. I trust you had a pleasant flight back?”
“Very nice. Yes.”
“My dear,” he said, assuming a tone she had learned to dread, “I need to talk to you.”
Clik clik clik.
Anna tapped a high heel against the polished, speckled flooring of the hallway, knowing at any moment the vote would come. She sat on one of three benches spaced against the wall, each bearing the name of a past benefactor whose generosity had allowed many passersby throughout the years a moment or two off their weary feet.
She glanced over at the sealed double door again, hearing nothing from beyond it.
This isn’t going to be good.
She pulled a tube from her purse and freshened her lipstick, more from nervousness than need. It soothed the butterflies a little just to do something normal, something she did so often. A small thing, but it helped.
As the minutes crawled by, she studied the hallway around her, finding in every element echoes of almost two centuries of learning. The dark wood-paneled walls, lovingly maintained just as they had been since long before her birth, bore framed photographs of past faculty and staff. A succession of presidents, provosts, trustees, and deans—almost all men, with a very few recent exceptions—watched her from behind decades-old glass, their clothing and eyewear telling the era of their service. Some of the faces, she imagined, bore looks of disapproval.
Why did I have to look behind that rotas square? Why couldn’t I have left well enough alone?
She momentarily closed her eyes, shutting out the faces, then diverted her gaze to the rest of the history surrounding her. A row of display cases held the remnants of a long-discarded football tradition, its last season having been played in 1949. Trophies, their tarnish and style betraying their age, stood right where proud coaches and players once had placed them. Awards of merit, decorations, prizes, and other tributes, some in frames, some not, stood right alongside, declaring the all-but-forgotten achievements of honorees past.
And in one case she recognized a small photo of herself being awarded the Fergusen chair.
My kingdom for a time machine.
She glanced down, tugging at the hem of her black suit dress, her purse close beside her. She looked at her watch.
They’ve been in there an hour.
She dropped her head.
Oh, Lord, please tell me you’ll open a window.
Mercer had warned her what to expect. She knew the nature of the meeting. He had hoped to spare her at least some of what was to come, if at all possible.
A sound. She looked up to see the door opening. Rising at once to her feet, she picked up her purse and smoothed her dress as the board of regents, all men at the top of the local business community and dressed accordingly, began to emerge.
Here we go …
One regent kicked a doorstop into place with his toe as the others filed into the hallway and came in her direction. One after another, in something not unlike a funeral procession, the almost two-dozen men walked past her. Some never broke stride and didn’t meet her eyes. A few paused and reached out to take her hands in theirs, as if to show deep regret.
As the last of them passed, Anna looked over at the door. Mercer stood there, his face set, beckoning her approach. She took a deep breath and went to him. He motioned her into the university’s grand meeting room.
O
nly one man remained inside. His eyes were hard, his woolen hair raven black. He was Carl Broden, the chairman of the board of regents and president of the largest bank within a seven-county area. Clad in a dark suit and navy tie, he stood opposite Anna at the head of the long, dark conference table. He was tall and well built for his age, his imposing bulk apparent even in business dress. His angular face was stern, his demeanor intimidating.
“Dr. Meridian,” he said flatly.
“Mr. Chairman.”
“No need to take a seat. This won’t take long. Dean Mercer has been asked to wait outside.”
Anna glanced over her shoulder to find Mercer gone and the door closed.
“Why am I here?” Anna asked.
“Dr. Meridian,” he began, “you are aware that for some time this institution has considered and reconsidered the wisdom of maintaining your archaeology program. Out of the university’s appreciation for the achievements of your late husband, we continued to fund you in your efforts. Unfortunately, those efforts bore few results.”
She remained silent.
“That is, until this past month,” he went on. “The events in Italy initially but all too briefly focused a positive spotlight on Oldefield. The prospects for increased enrollment in the fall seemed promising. Your discovery of a legendary and long-sought-after site was the fulfillment of every university’s dream. I commend you on the find.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. Since the discovery and the subsequent release of the documents you uncovered, a great deal of new attention has fallen on this institution. Unwanted attention, Dr. Meridian. Our phones have rung off the hook with calls from angry parents and parishioners the world over, with threats of every stripe … and with the publication of the other texts, the threats have only increased. Financial threats. Bomb threats. Even death threats and threats of violence against specific members of the faculty, including Dean Mercer.”
She was surprised at that. “He didn’t tell me.”
“He wouldn’t. I also doubt he told you that our physics professor awoke this morning to find his home vandalized and his tires slashed. This stops, Dr. Meridian, and it stops now.”
The Demas Revelation Page 15