The Phoenix Apostles

by Lynn Sholes

  "Do you remember a student of yours-Daniel Bernal?"

  Flores seemed to ponder the question for a moment. "Of course. Daniel was one of my most promising golden nuggets. Much natural talent. How is he?"

  Seneca thought she could answer the question without choking up. She almost made it. "He ... he's dead, Professor Flores."

  "Really? I'm sorry to hear that. His death will be a great loss to the field of archaeology, no doubt." Flores pushed his cup to the side, done with the liquor, but offered Matt and Seneca another drink. They declined. "What happened to him?"

  She thought his response somewhat stiff and on the edge of being cold and apathetic. Daniel had given her the impression that he and Flores had been close, and there was evidence of that friendship in the letters she came across in Dan's belongings. "He and I were engaged to be married. He was on a dig in Mexico City, and I was there covering his discovery of Montezuma's tomb. There was an explosion-possibly a terrorist's attack. Daniel and his team were killed."

  "Terrorists?" He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling. "Murdering an archaeologist? That's disturbing." He looked back at Seneca. "I'm sorry for your loss. How long ago was this?"

  Flores still seemed distant and uncaring. Where was the emotional response to losing a friend?

  "A few weeks." She felt her eyes moisten, but managed to keep it from going any further.

  Flores shook his head. "Now that I think about it, I do remember something on the radio about an explosion in Mexico City. So, what does that have to do with me?"

  "We're investigating a series of tomb robberies occurring over the last two years," Matt said. "They involved the burial remains of numerous historical figures. In many cases, including the tomb of Montezuma, valuable grave goods were left behind, only the remains were taken."

  "We're trying to see if there is some connection between these robberies in order to identify who is responsible," Seneca said. "And to answer the question of why are the remains being stolen in the first place. We came to you because we received a tip that El Jaguar might know what this is all about."

  "A tip?" Flores smiled. "It seems my reputation is widespread. Who gave you the tip?"

  "We don't know," Seneca said. "Only that we should seek the answers we need from El Jaguar living in the jungle. We contacted your university and found out you were retired and living here."

  "Why do you live here?" Matt asked. "If you don't mind me asking."

  "Solitude. I enjoy the isolation."

  "Well, you picked the right place." Matt gave a shallow laugh as he looked around the room.

  Seneca couldn't dodge the feeling that there was something wrong, but she didn't know what. She stood. "Professor Flores, it was a long boat ride and I need to use your restroom."

  He glanced toward the bedroom. "In there."

  She grabbed her backpack and headed for the bedroom, closing the door behind her. A single bed dominated the small room. Like the main room, the walls were covered with paintings of birds, flowers, and other island wildlife. In the corner was an oldfashioned water closet toilet with the tank overhead. She pulled down her jeans, squatted just above the seat, and relieved herself. As she did, she took in the other objects in the room. At least two dozen fishing poles and tackle occupied one corner. An old chest stood against the far wall, and a simple chest of drawers sat by the door, the drawers ajar, the top covered with books.

  Then something caught her eye-a spot of red on the sheet hanging down from underneath a military green blanket that covered the bed. Finishing with the toilet, she pulled the chain on the tank to flush, yanked up her pants, and stepped to the side of the bed. Slowly lifting the blanket, she muffled a gasp with her palm as a large dark bloodstain appeared. In the same instant, she remembered something Daniel had mentioned about Professor Flores, something that had been scratching at the back of her skull since she first saw the black man in front of the cottage. Daniel had mentioned that his mentor always wore a wide-brimmed hat and long-sleeved shirt whenever he went outside. He'd had a couple of bouts with skin cancer and since the first round he always took precautions to guard his fair skin from the sun.

  Professor Roberto Flores was not a black man.

  UNMARKED GRAVE 2012, ISLA DE SANGRE

  SENECA WALKED OUT OF the bedroom with her backpack in one hand and the Lady Smith in the other. She stopped behind the impostor and raised the gun, pressing it into the back of his head.

  "Who are you, and what have you done with Professor Flores?"

  "Seneca, what the hell are you doing?" Matt jumped to his feet.

  "This man is not Flores. In the bedroom, the sheets are soaked with blood. And Flores isn't black. Daniel said he is fair skinned."

  The black man pushed back against the gun barrel as if daring her to shoot. "Don't be foolish. Why don't you tell me everything you know about the tomb robberies and I might allow you to live? Otherwise you'll never leave this island alive."

  Seneca jammed the gun into his head. "I think it's the other way around. I'm the one pointing a gun at your head. Who's responsible for the tomb robberies? Who is trying to kill us?" She shoved the barrel hard against his skull. "And who murdered Daniel Bernal?"

  Despite his bulk, the man was fast. In one fluid motion, he swung his right arm around as he pushed the metal chair backwards into her and jumped to his feet. Catching her forearm, he deflected the blast from the Smith & Wesson to the side of the table. Brittle Formica chunks flew in a spray.

  Losing her balance, Seneca fell against the porcelain sink. She struck her head but was able to twist around in time to see the man pull his pistol from his waistband and take aim at her. In that same instant, Matt slammed one of the metal chairs across the man's back. The gun blast shattered the sink and was followed by a second from the Lady Smith causing the man to grab his chest.

  Seneca watched a scarlet patch form on the front of the CocaCola T-shirt. A beat later, the man sank to his knees and collapsed beside her.

  She scrambled out of the way as Matt grabbed the impostor's gun.

  The man brought his hand up before his face looking in what appeared to be amazement at the blood dripping from his fingers. "It wasn't supposed to be this way."

  "Who are you?" Seneca asked.

  His eyes tried to focus on her. "He promised I would live for

  "Who promised?" Matt knelt beside him. "Who are you talking about?"

  "This was my second-"

  "Second what?" Seneca said. "Did you kill Professor Flores?"

  His stare burned into her. "There will be others. You are already dead."

  Suddenly his eyes stretched wide as he fought to keep them open. His mouth fell agape and the crescent of pink inside his bottom lip paled to white while the outer portion blued. A shudder passed through the man, and he made animal-sounding grunts that seemed to come from deep inside. Then came a series of random twitches that intensified into what Seneca realized was a fullblown seizure. Brutally fierce muscle contractions assailed him, and the arrhythmic thudding of his body as it convulsed against the floor sent waves of nausea through her. The contents of her stomach rose, and she covered her mouth and fought back a gag reflex.

  The man's eyes rolled back in his head so that only the whites showed as the seizure escalated. His extremities became rigid, shaking violently, and a trail of urine streamed down his pants. Soon, the tremors slowly subsided and finally disappeared.

  Looking confused and glassy eyed, the irises of the man's eyes reappeared, and he peered up at her.

  "Who are you?" she whispered.

  At first he didn't answer as he struggled with the blood filling his mouth. But then he spoke, softly, with unexpected clarity. "I am His Excellency, Idi Amin Dada, President of Uganda."

  His eyes closed and Seneca saw that his chest no longer rose and fell. The stench of defecation permeated the air.

  Once darkness fell, it took ten minutes to push the wheelbarrow with the black man's body up
the wooden walkway to the road heading back to the cemetery. Seneca led the way with a flashlight and shovel she found in Flores's cottage. The sounds of the jungle that she thought so comforting on their walk to the cottage now sounded menacing. They unnerved her as the volume seemed to be louder and harsher. And on a few occasions, she thought she heard the rustle of movement in the underbrush that sounded like it was made by a creature much larger than an iguana or tropical bird.

  Still shaken, her hands trembled from what had just happened. She had shot and killed another human being. Her right hand continued to sense the cold dead weight of the Lady Smith, and the ringing in her ears lingered from the blast of the fatal shot.

  Only a few weeks ago she was an excited bride-to-be, so in love that the world seemed to revolve around her every desire. Nothing could have derailed the fulfillment of her dreams, her love for Daniel or their happiness.

  Instead of such bliss, she was trudging down a dirt road in the middle of the jungle on a remote island helping a man she hardly knew dispose of the body of someone she'd just killed. This was beyond a derailment; this was a head-on collision with disaster.

  Who would go to such lengths to come to this distant place, murder Professor Flores, impersonate him, then try to kill her and Matt?

  She already knew in her gut that this was not going to end tonight once they buried this man. Seneca recalled the dead man's chilling last words-that others would come, that she was already dead. If anything, it was only going to get worse until she exposed whoever was responsible for the tomb robberies. Otherwise, she would soon occupy her own tomb.

  "Heads up."

  "What?" she said.

  "Keep the light on the road. You were wandering off course," Matt said.

  "Sorry." She paused to turn and face him. "I was trying to figure out what the shit this is all about. It just so happens that I've never fucking killed a man before. Could you cut me some slack!"

  "Yeah, well this is the first time I've buried a dead body, so do me a favor and shine the light in the right direction."

  "Thanks for your heartfelt concern."

  Matt lowered the wheelbarrow and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He came around and placed his hands on her shoulders. "We're in this together, Seneca. Remember, they tried to kill me, too. The last thing we need is to start arguing or mistrusting each other. I know you're on edge and upset. So am I."

  Realizing what he said made sense, she moved close and let him take her into his arms. Suddenly she was sobbing. Seneca found comfort in Matt's embrace and felt guilty that she did, as if she were betraying Daniel. Still, she was slow to pull away.

  "I'm sorry," she sputtered through her tears. "I feel like I'm about to explode. I don't understand why any of this is happening."

  "Neither do I, but we have to finish this business tonight before someone comes along and discovers what's happened here."

  She nodded as he gave her a compassionate kiss on the forehead.

  "Let's go." Matt returned to the back of the wheelbarrow. With a grunt, he lifted the handles.

  They continued on until the ghostly forms of the prison buildings materialized out of the dark jungle. Seneca spotted the wall surrounding the old penal colony cemetery. She pushed open the entrance gate, its rusted hinges not wanting to relinquish its secrets. Matt maneuvered the cumbersome load through the opening.

  They found the fresh grave and the two newly dug ones beside it.

  "You think those were meant for us?" she asked.

  "Yes, and I'll bet money the new one contains the body of the real Flores."

  A few minutes later, the crunch and scraping of Matt's shovel blended with the croaking of the tree frogs and the drone of the jungle's night creatures.

  A new unmarked grave was added to Isla de Sangre cemetery.

  THE SCROLL 2012, ISLA DE SANGRE

  MATT WIPED THE SWEAT from his face on the tail of his shirt. Near dusk he stood over the grave of the man who called himself Idi Amin. After burying the black man, he had filled in the second open grave beside it, the one most assuredly meant for him or Seneca. But not before throwing Flores's blood-soaked sheets and the black man's gun in first.

  While he was finishing up the work in the graveyard, Seneca announced she was going to go look around the old prison buildings. She was still feeling queasy after witnessing the death of the man in the cabin and couldn't take watching his burial or, for that matter, being in a place whose only purpose was to accommodate the dead.

  Reluctantly agreeing, he cautioned her not to enter any of the structures-their deteriorated condition was unsafe.

  Tossing the last shovel full of dirt on the new grave, Matt looked in the direction of the prison. Twilight was giving way to night and there was no sign of Seneca. She'd been gone for quite some time and he began to worry.

  "Seneca?" he called in a loud whisper. "Where are you?"

  No reply.

  Matt placed the shovel in the wheelbarrow and pushed it back through the cemetery gate. Leaving it parked beside the road, he had taken a few steps toward the main prison structure when he heard rapid footfalls-someone was running toward him from the direction of the prison. An instant later Seneca appeared, her flashlight beam scanning the ground in front of her as she ran.

  "Matt." She was panting. "You're not going to believe it." Out of breath and barely able to speak, she halted beside him and pointed her flashlight back in the direction of the main building, the one that proclaimed Penitenciaria over the entrance.

  "Believe what?"

  She shook her head, and between heavy breaths, said, "It freaked me

  "What?"

  "Come on." Without waiting, she spun around and briskly walked the path to the first of the buildings a hundred feet off the side of the road.

  "Are you going to tell me?"

  "No, I'd rather show you instead."

  Moving along the front of the building with its crumbling walls and overgrown sidewalk, she came to a long flat wall. Shining the flashlight beam on it, she said, "Remember the graffiti we saw from the road in the daylight?"

  "You mean the big heart and the portrait of Jesus? What of it?"

  "Check this out."

  Illuminating the face of Christ, she let the flashlight beam drift down to a painting of a ribbon scroll just below the portrait. On the yellow ribbon were the words, Usted debe destruir el velo por el fuego.

  She looked back at him with wide-eyed fascination. "Can you believe it?"

  "You know I don't read Spanish. What does it say?"

  "It says, `You must destroy the veil by fire."'

  Matt took a step back. "You're kidding." He studied the faded lettering. The paint was chipped and weathered. It had been there a long time. "Okay, maybe it's a common saying or has some kind of special meaning to Catholics. Catholicism is the predominant religion in France and Panama."

  She turned to him. "But in the tunnels it was in English."

  She was right. But it could still be a coincidence. Why in English if it was written by a French Catholic? A little creepy, but nothing to be overly concerned about. "I wonder, what's this veil they're talking about?"

  "I'm blown away. Do you realize that on two occasions we've run into this same phrase? And both times, it was when we were in danger."

  "I admit it's crazy, Seneca, but it may be nothing more unusual than seeing a yellow happy face in a couple of places. I'm not sure if it really means anything."

  "This is interesting. I'm the one who always needs the extra ounce of proof while you're the guy who professes to believe in UFOs and Bigfoot. Now I give you the strangest coincidence I've ever seen in my life, and you're blowing it off as nothing more than a happy face? I don't think I'll ever figure you out, Matt Everhart."

  "I'll give you this much, it's a bit unusual. But I think what we really need to do right now is hightail it back to Flores's cottage, wait until morning, get to the beach to rendezvous with Captain Mali Mali, and put this island in our wa
ke. Some obscure religious saying is the least of our problems."

  "Fine." Seneca brushed past him and started back the way they had come.

  Matt followed and caught up with her as she waited by the wheelbarrow. Without another word, she headed along the road toward the cottage. Matt took a last glance at the cemetery, then followed.

  They walked in silence the rest of the way as insects came at their flashlight beams like Kamikaze pilots.

  Approaching Flores's cottage, Seneca said, "I don't think I want to go inside."