The Phoenix Apostles

by Lynn Sholes

  Down the hall, Seneca parked herself in front of the nurses' station. "Excuse me." She glared at a young nurse who was on her cell phone, head coyly cocked to the side and giggling. "Excuse me." This time in a louder tone.

  The nurse flipped her phone closed.

  "My mother doesn't have any water." Her voice was low and calculated sounding.

  "Someone will be around shortly."

  "No." Her pitch and volume rose. "Not shortly. She hasn't had any water since God knows when, and she's very thirsty."

  "We make our rounds. You realize she's not the only patient here. We do the best we can."

  Seneca slammed the pitcher and cup on the station desk. "The goddamn pitcher hasn't had water in it for hours, maybe days for all I know. What else does she do without? She doesn't eat. Doesn't anybody care? I can't stay here all day, every day, to ensure she gets the care she needs-that's what I pay you for."

  "Ms. Hunt, just calm down."

  Seneca spun around to find that the voice came from the older nurse she'd encountered when she'd arrived.

  "All I want is some peace of mind. I want to know that when I leave here someone takes care of my mother. Someone has some kind of compassion for her. Did she eat today? Did you change her diaper?"

  "We all-"

  Seneca made her voice slide down into a calmer zone. "Just get her a pitcher of water, all right? If that's not too much trouble?"

  "I'll see to it right now." The nurse took the cup and pitcher from her.

  Seneca turned and marched down the hall. Before she headed out to her car she entered the Park View accounting office and wrote a check for the fee to keep her mother's crappy care going another month. In the parking lot, she put the key in the ignition, but didn't turn it. Instead, she braced her arms on the steering wheel and rested her forehead on them. She needed to get her mother into a better facility. But that was going to be expensive. Although her salary at the magazine was good, it wasn't great. The lease was up on her apartment; she couldn't afford the new place that she and Dan were to share, and didn't think she could get the deposit back. And what if she couldn't renew her lease?

  One thing for sure, sitting here mulling over every little thing wasn't helping. "Blow the stink off, Seneca." She sat upright and turned the key. "Take the world head on, one task at a time, one day at a time."

  The things she still had on her checklist to deal with that morning were finding out about the apartment lease, and making a decision on what to do about that message on her answer phone.

  Ten minutes later, Seneca turned her C70 into the parking garage of her apartment complex. Suddenly, she jammed on the brakes.

  "I don't believe it!" Backed into her parking spot was a darkcolored Mercedes SUV with orange fog lamps.

  LUCKY MAN

  GROVES OPENED HIS EYES. The full moon was directly overhead. Something had awakened him. But he couldn't remember-

  Growling! The sound came from close by. Two, maybe three animals.

  He sat up. In the gunmetal-gray light of the moon, a pair of coyotes stood over the corpse of the cowboy he had shot, their eyes catching the light, bared canines glistening.

  He moved his hand to his .45. Gripping it firmly, he was about to aim at the animals when a fierce cry broke the midnight air. The coyotes lifted their heads and sniffed-their threatening postures melting. It was a mountain lion, and it was close.

  A second shriek, this time only yards away. The coyotes bolted for the trail leading down from the ridge to the wash below.

  Groves got to his feet, ready to fire if the big cat approached. He knew it had come for the body of the-

  "What the hell!" He looked down and grabbed his abdomen. Dried blood caked his shirt. The cowboy had shot him, he remembered. The pain had been enormous, the impact sending him to the ground. There was no way he could have survived his guts being ripped apart. And yet ...

  He probed the bullet hole in his shirt, confirming that he had definitely been shot. He lifted the shirt and ran his fingers over his belly. Tender to the touch and still sore, but the wound was almost healed!

  Out of the corner of his eye, Groves caught the cat on the move. It leapt silently from the ledge, landing a short distance from the dead man. The animal crouched low, poised, one front paw barely off the ground. Groves stood still, holding his breath. Then the cat slinked toward the cowboy's body. And toward Groves.

  Keeping his eyes on the cat, Groves slid his hand down his side until he grasped the grip of the .45.

  BOOM!

  He fired the Schofield. The blast thundered across Renegade Pass and echoed off the rock walls causing the mountain lion to retreat toward the higher ledges, disappearing into the darkness. The bullet had missed, but at least the animal was gone.

  Trying to gather his thoughts, Groves slung the Big Fifty over his shoulder. He moved into the clump of trees searching for his mules. No luck. In the moonlight he made his way down the narrow path to the floor of the wash. One of his mules lay dead-probably panicked and tumbled off the cliff trying to escape the initial shootout. The other was nowhere around. It was vital that he not only find it, but now he needed another animal as well-the wagon required two to pull it. Maybe one of the cowboys' mounts was still nearby.

  As Groves headed south along the rocky wash, he rubbed his stomach, trying to figure out why there was dried blood but hardly a trace of the wound. How could he still be alive? One miracle was incredible, but two ...

  Maybe he was dead and didn't even know it.

  At sunrise, Groves located his mule in a box canyon south of Renegade Pass. Soon afterward, he saw one of the two riders' horses. He would have to do some explaining back in town about how he came across the horse. Could say it was a stroke of luck that after his mule was snake bit and died, he found the horse wandering in a ravine.

  He mounted up, and with the mule in tow, headed back north through the pass. As he slowly made his way along the wash and what was left of the dead Federales, he glanced up in the direction of the high ridge. The flutter of black wings told him vultures were already feasting on the cowboy he had shot. A short distance later, he came across the body of the first cowboy-the head wound from the Big Fifty was even more destructive than Groves had thought. After all, it could bring down buffalo with one shot. The vultures that gathered around the corpse angrily moved out of the way long enough for Groves to pass. Looking over his shoulder, he saw them flapping and hopping back to continue their feast.

  Groves waited at the edge of the trees and glanced in both directions along the lost valley. The call of a single crow, the distant ripple of the creek, and the whisper of the wind were the sounds he heard. Nothing moved in either direction.

  He turned and walked through the trees to the clearing at the foot of the cliff. A few moments earlier he had placed the dynamite sticks at the base of the rock pile covering the passage leading to the cave. Now he bent, struck a match on the rocks, and lit the fuse. He stood watching it burn for a few seconds before trotting back through the trees to a brush field a hundred yards away.

  "Get ready, boys." He called out as he ran to where his mule and the horse were tethered to a stump. If his other mule had bolted at gunfire, no telling what these two might do with an explosion.

  Thirty seconds later, a muffled boom sounded from the direction of the trees, the ground vibrated, and a cloud of dust swirled up over the treetops before the breeze swept it away.

  "Let's go see our handiwork." He untied the two animals, gathered their reins, and led them toward the trees. A few moments later, he stood staring at the pile of rubble blown out by the charge. The opening to the narrow passage was almost totally free of obstructions. More good fortune.

  Groves tied up the animals and headed along the narrow gap in the rocks until he came to the cave entrance. He found the torch, lit it, and entered the Apache treasure trove. Soon he stood gazing in wonder at the piles of gold, the treasure chests, and the hundreds of priceless items collected by
the Indians.

  As the light of the torch glittered off the precious metal surfaces, Groves took in a deep breath. He felt the hole in his shirt where the bullet had pierced the material.

  "I'm one lucky man," he said as he headed toward the bags of gold dust.

  AZTECA 2012, BAHAMAS

  SCARROW WATCHED ANDROS ISLAND appear out of the gray clouds as rain streaked across the window of the Learjet. The small, sixpassenger plane dropped out of the storm and banked hard on its final approach into Andros Town International Airport. Painted on the nose of the aircraft was the gleaming red phoenix bird rising from a flaming inferno.

  He glanced over at the opposite seat. The white box, about the size of a microwave oven, sat secured with seatbelts. He could see Sao Paulo Institute of Forensic Medicine, specimen 1080 written across the top.

  Within minutes, Scarrow stood in the light rain and watched his men place the specimen box into the trunk of the Bentley Continental GT. Keeping Scarrow dry by holding an umbrella over his head was his chief of staff, Coyotl. Closing the trunk, Coyotl protected Scarrow from the rain while he got into the driver's side. Then he went around and slipped into the passenger's seat. Scarrow shifted the Bentley into drive and shot across the tarmac to the two-lane highway heading north.

  Coyotl was on his cell phone discussing dinner arrangements with the kitchen staff. Scarrow glanced over at the handsome young Mexican who had been with the Ministry for more than five years. He oversaw Scarrow's personal affairs while handling any special projects that arose, including the recent event in Mexico City. Scarrow recruited Coyotl from a list of native Aztecs and chose him based upon several reasons, one of which was his graduate degree in Latin American history and his textbook knowledge of the ancient Aztec empire. His loyalty had proven invaluable on many occasions.

  It didn't take more than ten minutes before the black steppyramid-shaped building appeared out of the rainy mist. During the 1970s, the industrial giant, Groves Lumber, had deforested much of the indigenous pine forests that grew on North Andros. Now replanted pines covered the landscape like rows of dark green soldiers. And in the distance, built deep in the pine forest was Azteca, his home-a six-story monument that reached to the heavens like the great Aztec pyramids of his native Mexico. Soon he saw the high wall surrounding Azteca with its intricately carved ancient pictographs and glyphs. He turned into the entrance gate as it swung open-his armed security guards saluting.

  Coyotl finished his call while the Bentley glided along the milelong, palm-lined entrance road. "Imported Beijing duck with your favorite hot and spicy soup from Singapore. And Tiger beer."

  "A wonderful homecoming meal." Scarrow reached to push a button on the console, causing one of the dozen garage doors to open along the ground floor of Azteca. He pulled the Bentley in side and shut off the 550hp engine. The garage fell silent. "How is William doing?"

  "Restless and short tempered." He turned to face Scarrow. "But at least he's taking his meds."

  "And our newest guest?"

  "Mary is like a child on Christmas morning. Everything is one amazing discovery after another. Her eyes are filled with excitement."

  "What about the rest of the apostles?"

  "Growing more confident every day in their new roles."

  Scarrow's voice changed and had an intimidating edge to it. "And the status of the survivor in Mexico City?"

  Coyotl nodded apologetically. "I hope to have that matter cleaned up soon. It was a miscalculation on my part."

  "Find her and take care of the problem." He turned the conversation. "Have the men remove the box from the trunk and secure it in the lab. Schedule a meeting with the reconstructive surgeons first thing tomorrow morning. There's much still left to do."

  Scarrow opened the door to the anteroom of the penthouse suite on the top floor of Azteca. The movement of the door automatically set off the fans blowing out the intruding air that came in with Scarrow. A sanitizing chemical sprayed through misting nozzles creating a haze. Scarrow put on a pair of disposable green booties from a pop-up dispensary. He slit open a shrink-wrapped package with the accompanying small blade and extracted a green paper gown he slipped on over his clothes. Ready, he opened the stainless door and entered the suite. The heavy door closed behind him with a whoosh of compressed air.

  Scarrow waited until his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit living room-the air conditioning was set so low, he could almost see his breath. Thick blackout drapes covered the wide expanse of plate- glass windows across the far wall.

  The air smelled antiseptic, not unlike a hospital. It mixed with the scent of Indian incense, strong and pungent. The smoke from the incense slightly fogged the room, almost like standing amidst clouds. A sound machine somewhere in a far corner created the constant drones of an Australian didgeridoo and bullroarer.

  Scarrow moved through the rooms until he came to the bedroom, its door ajar. He pushed on it enough to enter. In the center of the room was a canopy bed with fine netting hanging down from the support frame to cover all sides. The scent of the incense caused him to cough. Hundreds of candles burned around the room on stands and tables. Their light made the room ethereal.

  Scarrow walked to the side of the bed and waited.

  "They're not boiling my water long enough for my tea." The voice came from behind the netting.

  "They use distilled water." Scarrow heard a grunt of disapproval. "And they boil it for thirty minutes before brewing."

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the low light, he saw the man sit up and maneuver toward the edge of the bed. A skeleton-like hand parted the seam in the diaphanous netting and a moment later, he stood a few feet away from Scarrow.

  Billy Groves was tall and frail, clad in a white long-sleeved shirt and boxer shorts, his bare legs stuffed into cowboy boots. A week's growth of beard made his face look pasty white. Tired eyes gazed out from under bushy brows as he moved to a chair and sat.

  "How are you feeling, William?"

  "Someone is trying to poison me."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Have you tasted the food?"

  "It's the same food we've been serving you since we moved here. No one is trying to poison you."

  "I think it's the fucking Apaches. They want to punish me."

  "There are no Apaches, at least not in the Bahamas."

  "Has anyone been around asking about the gold?"

  "No."

  we can't let them know about it."

  "The gold is long gone, William." He walked over to Groves, reached out and felt his pulse.

  "I don't like it here. I want to move back to my ranch in Arizona. Even that place in Greece or the island in Thailand was better than this."

  "The ranch was sold thirty years ago." Scarrow released Groves's wrist. "Are you taking all your medications?"

  "I don't like them."

  "They keep you calm and level-headed. Lowers your anxiety. You need to take them. You know how depressed you can get."

  "What happened to the gold?"

  "You know exactly what happened to it."

  "Where's the veil? It's not in the vault. What have you done with it?"

  "It's somewhere safe. Nothing for you to worry about."

  "Why is it so hot in here?"

  "It's freezing, William. I need to wear a parka when I come in here."

  He stared with compassion at William "Billy" Groves who had allowed his 170 years to intrude on his sanity. Yet he himself had managed for nearly 500 years without such consequences. But Scarrow understood the difference. Unlike Groves's, his immortality came with purpose. And at last, it was coming to completion.

  "They're not boiling my water long enough." Groves glanced around nervously as if expecting others to appear out of the shadows. Then he looked directly at Scarrow. "I want to know where the veil is. And what are you doing with those people?"

  "What people?"

  "The ones you're digging up?"

  TOO LATE 2012, MIAMI

&
nbsp; SENECA'S BREATH DAMMED up for a moment before she composed herself. It was probably just a coincidence, and she scolded herself for entertaining the idea that this Mercedes was the same one that followed her last night. She pulled into a nearby visitor's spot and waited, unable to tell if there was anyone inside the car or not because of the dark-tinted windows. Weren't windows that dark against the law? After several minutes she seized her courage, got out, and approached the SUV. It sure looked like the same car that had spooked her the previous night. But there were plenty of Mercedes SUVs on the roads in South Florida.

  Standing beside the driver's door she tapped on the window. Getting no response, she put her hand to the glass and peered inside. The car was empty. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.