by Lynn Sholes
Groves took the cloth and scrubbed his hands with it before dropping it in the disposal bag also provided by his assistant. "What's this?" Groves said as the man handed him an envelope. "The gentleman insisted I give it to you."
Groves tore open the envelope and read the embossed script on the business card. Javier Scarrow, Spiritualist. Expert on Mexican Culture and Antiquity.
"Don't know him." Groves flipped the card over. As he read the handwritten message, a surge charged through his body like an electrical current. His legs suddenly felt feeble, barely strong enough to hold him up. Groves wiped his perspiring brow, feeling almost like the time he awoke to find himself buried alive in the mountains of Northern Sonora. It was hard to breathe.
His voice was charred with unexpected dryness. "Where is this man?"
The assistant motioned in the direction to Groves's right. He turned to see a tall man in a suit and overcoat standing near the entrance to an elevator. He had a dark complexion and a closecropped mustache and beard. His hair was as black and gleaming as his obsidian eyes. In an instant, Groves recognized the face-a face he had gazed upon so many years ago inside the Apache treasure cave.
KILLER WHALE 2012, FLORIDA KEYS
SENECA SMACKED HER PALMS on the hood of the Mercedes SUV. The parking lot light shone through the windshield revealing that there was nobody inside.
"All right, where the hell are you?" She turned in a circle raising her arms in the air. "I know it's your car. Why can't you just leave me alone instead of lurking out there in the shadows, you sonof-a-bitch. What did you do, skulk in the dark like some kind of stalker and watch me eat? I don't want anything to do with you. Is that so hard to understand?"
Winded and shaking, she stomped back toward Matt.
"You all right?" His face bore an expression of complete confusion.
"Sorry. I know you must think I'm a lunatic. I'm just so furious." She heaved out a sigh. "It's my father. Well, not exactly-not a father I ever knew. Long story. I don't want to bore you." She looked back. "That's his car over there."
Two couples leaving the restaurant stopped to stare in Seneca's direction.
"I'm so sorry for pitching a fit in the middle of the parking lot and making an ass of myself in front of someone I just met who graciously paid for my dinner." She looked at Matt apologetically. "I'm really sorry." She gave him her most sincere smile. "I hope that boat ride invitation is still good?"
Seneca followed Matt's 911 Carrera, taking her own car. After several minutes his blinker flashed and they turned onto a street that ran parallel to a canal. At the end of the street, Matt braked, and a moment later a white wrought-iron gate in front of a house opened and automatic security floods flashed on. The actual living quarters of the house were elevated. Parking, storage, and a covered barbecue and patio were ground level.
Matt pulled his Porsche into the parking spot below the house and got out.
Seneca stared at the pale yellow house with its white shutters and metal roof. She loved the old Key West-style architecture. The floodlights revealed a wraparound veranda with a white railing.
She got out of her car and walked toward him. "I think I'm in the wrong part of the writing business."
"It's my sanctuary. I bought it several years ago when the bottom fell out of the real estate market. The owners were anxious to sell, so I got a steal of a deal. I never could have afforded it when the market was at its peak. It's my home, my office, my getaway. Come inside for a sec while I get the boat keys." He started up the steps with Seneca trailing.
"Here we are." Matt opened the door and ushered her into a great room with sliding glass doors stretching across the length of the opposite wall. They opened to the veranda at the rear of the house.
"Would you like anything to drink? And if you need to use the restroom, it's the door there to your left."
"I'm fine, thanks."
"I'll just be a minute. Have a seat."
Seneca sank slowly onto the leather sectional. Everything she saw was stylish but moderate by what she thought were most people's standards. There wasn't much furniture, just enough to be functional. Straight clean lines and a very masculine nautical theme. No clutter like her apartment. Daniel would have liked it.
As she observed the rest of the great room, one thing that most intrigued her was the horizontal wood paneling. It begged to be touched. Just as Seneca rose to go get a closer look, Matt reappeared.
"Ready?"
"Yep. Can I ask you a question first? What kind of wood is this? It's got so much character. I love the red stain in the grain."
"It's reclaimed pine from an old Vermont covered bridge. I had it put in after I bought the house. The only modification I've made." Matt ran his hand down the wall. "A little on the rough side, but..."
"I like it a lot."
"Me, too."
"Is it okay if I leave my purse?"
"Oh, sure. No need to lug it on the boat."
Matt led her down the back stairs and flipped on a couple of switches at the base. The backyard and dock burst into view. A jet ski sat atop the floating drive-on dock and a Boston Whaler was moored at the end of the pier.
"Sariel?" She noticed the lettering on the side. "Interesting name.
Matt held her hand as she stepped off the dock into the Whaler. "The main character in my series. She's an angel-literally. You've got a unique name. Is it a family name?"
"No. My mother was kind of a hippie. Well, not kind of. She was a full-blown hippie and women's rights activist. My name comes from the 1848 Seneca Falls Convention in New York and a reformer named Elizabeth Cady Stanton. My full name is Seneca Cady Hunt. And, FYI, Hunt is my mother's maiden name."
"I think it's great to have a name that means something."
A sliver of a crescent moon hung in the sky as Matt started the Whaler and slipped away from the dock. His house was at the mouth of the canal so it took only a few minutes to leave the "no wake" zone and head west into Florida Bay.
Matt accelerated the twin Mercury outboards. The boat porpoised for a second on the choppy water, then got up on plane. Soon they were racing across the dark water.
Seneca grew more relaxed, the tension gliding away, leaving her stalking father behind with the diminishing glow of the Upper Keys. There was nothing quite like being on the water, she thought. It put things in perspective. The splendid stillness and the absence of daily distractions.
"There's a cabin if you want to look around?" Matt had to yell over the wind and roar of the engines. "It's got a small galley and head. The berth sleeps two." He switched on the interior lights.
Seneca opened the hatch and peered inside. "Looks like you've got everything you need." She noticed the reduction in the boat's speed.
"I'm going to slip us up behind that mangrove island to keep out of the wind so we won't rock so much."
She closed the hatch. With the boat in neutral, Matt flipped a switch on the control panel, causing the electric winch to lower the anchor. A moment later, she felt it grab and swing the boat around.
"Chill time." Matt turned off the engines and moved to the stern. "Come sit back here so the T-top doesn't interrupt your view."
Joining him, she sat on the padded bench and gazed up. "I've been living in Miami for so long and its city lights, I've forgotten the absolute beauty of the night sky."
A whooshing noise close by startled her. Then a smile of recognition broke over her face. "A dolphin taking a breath, right?" But she didn't need Matt's confirmation. "I can remember when I was a kid being out on the water with my mother. Some days it was so quiet we could hear the dolphins breathe. No splashing, just breathing. We'd hear them before we saw them."
"If we get lucky, we'll see shooting stars." Matt pointed. "Now there's a beautiful sight."
Seneca saw a half-dozen twinkling lights the size of stars on the horizon forming a long line from west to east. They seemed to be moving, but very slowly. "What are they?"
"It's called t
he string of pearls. Those are airliners lined up on their approach to Miami International. Tonight the line stretches way out over the Everglades."
"I guess you need to be this far away to appreciate it."
"On a clear night like this one, you can-"
She turned to him. "Something wrong?"
Matt leaned forward. "Must be my imagination." He continued to stare intently into the blackness of the night sky. "How peculiar, there it is again-something moving across the sky about twenty degrees off the horizon. You can see it block out the stars for a few seconds."
"Where?"
"One o'clock."
Seneca strained to see. "Yes! I can make out its outline. Kind of like an airplane but no lights."
He stood and cocked his head to the right. "Or sound. I've never seen anything quite like it. It's sort of cigar shaped."
They were now standing elbow to elbow. "Shaped more like a flying killer whale."
"You're right. But it's impossible to judge how big or how far away it is."
She cupped her hand to her ear. "Matt, I do hear somethinglike a beating sound, but really soft and muffled."
"Yeah, now I hear-"
Suddenly the Boston Whaler buckled and shook, chunks of fiberglass, metal, and plastic shooting through the air as largecaliber rounds ripped into the cabin.
In almost the same instant, Seneca felt Matt grab her shoulders and shove her over the side.
FACE TO FACE 1981, WASHINGTON, DC
"WE HAVE A MUTUAL friend." Scarrow sat in the back of the bil- lionaire's limousine as it sped along Independence Avenue. The two men had just left Reagan's inaugural ball at the National Air and Space Museum and were headed to Washington National Airport.
Scarrow didn't scare Groves, there had been others like him before-those hell bent on extortion. A handful down through the years discovered the tiny cracks in his facade when they caught him in an unguarded moment without his specialized makeup and facial prosthetics. Fools like Colin Black who paid for their greed with their lives. Each one had suffered an untimely demise or mysterious disappearance. Unlimited funds could buy anything.
But even though this man didn't intimidate him, Groves knew in his gut that Scarrow was different. He felt it from his first glimpse of the man's face in the parking lot.
He pushed a console button and the soundproof divider separating the passenger compartment and the driver closed. Staring at the handwriting on the back of Scarrow's business card, he read aloud, "I know the secret of your longevity." He looked at Scarrow. "Explain yourself."
"It needs no explanation."
"You say you know the secret. What secret is that?" That's what intrigued Groves. No one had ever claimed to know how this had happened to him. Hell, he didn't even know. But suddenly there was this new thread that he couldn't quite untangle. He'd seen Scarrow's face before all right, only back then it was more primitive looking and he wore a crown of feathers. It was the imprint on the piece of cloth in the silver chest. And then, that night in Reno the hooker held up the cloth and Scarrow's face had been replaced by his own.
Was that old scrap of cloth the link to what had happened to him? That made no sense.
All these years, he had hidden under layers of lies, masquerade, and deception. Had someone-this stranger-actually discovered the secret to what caused him to remain ageless? The idea of Scarrow being able to explain how his condition had happened would be nothing short of a blessing. And a relief. Once he understood, there was the possibility the weight might finally be lifted from his soul, a weight that tried to suffocate his every thought. Growing more apprehensive, Groves wiped his palms on his pants legs.
"Who is the mutual friend you mentioned?"
"Veronica."
Groves' mind sifted through current and past acquaintances, close and distant. There were so many women he'd known down through the years and thousands in his many corporations. It was possible some were named Veronica, but none of any importance came to mind.
"I don't know anyone by that name. This is all a mistake, a misunderstanding. I think you have me confused with someone else. I don't know this Veronica person, and I don't know you."
"How old are you, William? You don't mind if I call you William, do you?"
"My age isn't any of your concern."
Scarrow leaned in close. Almost in a whisper, he said, "By my estimates, you're around one-hundred forty." He smiled broadly. "But you only look like you're in your late thirties." Looking smug, he added, "How'd I do, William?"
Groves's palms turned clammy. "What do you want?" He lowered the pitch of his voice to sound as menacing as possible, not wanting Scarrow to think he felt threatened. After all, this man could be bluffing-a lucky guess, an outside bet in order to swindle money out of him.
"You're probably thinking that I'm here to blackmail you or intimidate you or in some way take advantage of your situation." Scarrow seemed to relax as he leaned back into the plush seat. "Let me assure you, it's the farthest thing from my mind. You see, William, we not only have a mutual friend, we also share a common set of unusual circumstances."
"I doubt that." Groves laughed nervously. "You're just another scam artist-"
"Oh, William. Have a little faith. I'm probably the only person on the face of the Earth who understands your gift. It is a gift, you know. To help answer your concerns, let me tell you my story, first." He rubbed his chin as if organizing his thoughts. "I received the gift four hundred and sixty-one years ago-way before you did. I'll leave the details for a future discussion, but I'll tell you that it was at a time of great turmoil. I was the leader of a vast nation facing the peril of an invading army threatening to destroy our culture and civilization. The commander of the enemy forces displayed a swatch of cloth which he claimed bore the image of his god. He told me that the cloth was a priceless relic known as the Veil of Veronica. He said it originally belonged to a holy woman who used it to cleanse the sweat and blood from the face of a condemned man on his journey to be executed. William, the face I saw embedded within the threads of the veil was of the great prophet and rabbi, Jesus Christ."
He paused as if to let the story sink into Groves's mind.
"The one who showed me Veronica's veil told me of Christ's crucifixion and resurrection. It occurred to me that, because of the miracle of the face appearing on the cloth, there might be a connection between it and Christ's rising from the dead. So, in a brief moment when I was alone with the veil, I decided that if it conveyed some magical power, I, too, wanted to be like Christ and have the power to rise from my tomb. In desperation, because I knew that I would soon be taken prisoner and put to death, I touched the veil to my face just as Veronica had done to the rabbi. After my cruel execution I found myself wrapped in a burial cloth-and most astonishingly alive inside my tomb. My closest attendants may have returned at some point to cremate my body. But I had risen from the dead and escaped. That began my endless search for the veil. I knew that by touching it to my face I had been given immortality."
Groves shuddered. Like an avalanche of memory, he saw himself standing in the Apache cave staring at the face of the man with the crown of feathers. Then he remembered what happened next.
He used the cloth to wipe the sweat from his own face.
"Tell me, William, the first time you gazed upon the cloth, whose face did you see?"
"Yours." Groves could only manage a whisper.
"And whose face is on it now?"
THE LESSON 2012, BAHAMAS
AN ABUNDANCE OF STARS filled the Caribbean sky and thin wisps of cirrus clouds curled around a crescent moon as Scarrow looked out from the ceremonial terrace atop Azteca. Although the lights on the horizon were from distant Bahamian hamlets, he so yearned for them to be the home fires of his beloved city of Tenochtitlan and the boat lanterns that were once scattered across Lake Texcoco. Flickering around the perimeter of the temple roof, torches filled the breeze with a pungent smoky haze.
In the middle of the
terrace stood a single, knee-high trapezoidal stone slab. It was designed so that when the xochimiqui, or captured warrior, was stretched out upon it, his back would naturally arch.
Scarrow searched the faces of the current nine apostles as they watched from the opposite side of the slab. Each wore decorative, floor-length cloth sheaths that hung down the front and back. Scarrow was dressed in a similar manner but also wore a crown of feathers that pointed toward the heavens and a wide, hand-tooled silver belt on which was depicted the Aztec Fire Serpent of Time. Upon his feet and those of the apostles were leather sandals with strands of thin golden rope that wound around their legs to their knees. Bracelets, earrings, and necklaces of turquoise and silver hung from their bodies. And in his hand he held a trowel-shaped, black obsidian knife with a leather-bound handle. Torches bathed the sacrificial altar in shimmering golden light.