The Phoenix Apostles

by Lynn Sholes

  "I don't blame you, but if you stay out here, you'll be eaten

  With obvious reluctance, she opened the door and went in. "What do you think Flores used for lights?"

  "I remember seeing an oil lamp earlier." He shined his flashlight in the direction of the counter beside the sink. There was a lamp and a box of matches. A few seconds later, it gave off a warm, yellow glow.

  Matt could tell she was miffed that he had not taken the graffiti more seriously. At least it had refocused her attention away from the killing of the imposter. He looked at her in the soft light of the lantern, strands of her coppery hair hanging loosely in her face. She tossed them back as she wandered around the room examining Flores's possessions. She kept her arms folded, reluctant to touch anything, almost as if she were in a museum. Finally she faced Matt. "What are you staring at?"

  "Forgive me. I was just marveling at your courage. This is not a situation I would wish on anyone."

  She rubbed her bare arms. "I feel like my skin is on fire. This whole situation is horrible and there's nothing I can do about it, nowhere to run. It's like we're stuck on the dark side of the moon."

  "We just need to get through tonight. Tomorrow, we'll be gone.

  "We need to tell someone about this. You can't just kill a person and walk away. We could leave a note or something explaining what happened?"

  "To whom? There are no authorities here, only a handful of islanders who have no desire to bring attention to themselves or this place. Flores had a reputation for disappearing into the jungle. If someone ever comes looking and finds him gone, that's what they'll assume. And no one knows we were here."

  "Captain Mali Mali does."

  "True, but he doesn't know our names. We tell him the truthFlores wasn't here."

  Seneca stood staring at Matt, her arms now wrapped around herself. Finally, she gave a slight nod. "I guess."

  "Seneca, it was self-defense. He was going to kill you ... us."

  It took a few moments of silence before her body seemed to relax as if some of the anxiety flowed out of her into the air. "We need to figure out the sleeping arrangements."

  "Let's see if he has a change of sheets. You can have the bed, and I'll park myself out here."

  "No way, fresh sheets or not. The mattress is bloody."

  "Then you take the recliner and I'll find something to make a pallet on the floor." Matt opened the door to the closet in the bedroom.

  After looking at the sparse clothing hanging on the rack, Seneca said, "I guess Flores wasn't trying to make a fashion statement."

  Matt pulled a lightweight blanket from the overhead shelf.

  She put her nose to it. "Smells like mildew."

  Matt opened the coverlet, fluffed it in the air, then folded it lengthwise into thirds. "It'll have to do."

  Once they settled into their relative sleeping accommodations, Matt extinguished the lamp, then lay awake staring into the darkness of the room as the jungle night sounds drifted in. He lay awake for a long time, knowing Seneca couldn't sleep either as she tossed and turned. Though she had tried to put it aside, he understood that killing someone deeply disturbed her. That and the fact that tonight she had gazed into her own grave.

  "We're going to be late," Matt said as they passed the prison on the way to meet the captain. The sun was already beating down.

  "Mali Mali will wait. It's not like he operates on a big city bus schedule." She turned and walked backward, facing Matt. "Besides, it'll just take a second." She stopped and pulled her small camera out of her backpack. "Come on. Don't you want to see it again? Or are you afraid it's turned into a happy face?" Her mood changed to a more solemn tone. "I think it's important. Too much of a coincidence. Somebody wants us dead, so I'm not discounting anything, Matt."

  "All right." He followed her off the road through the weeds toward the buildings. They found their way along the front of the main structure until they came to the wall with the graffiti.

  "There's the big red heart." She moved along the wall before stopping to point. "And the picture of Jesus."

  Matt stood beside her as they both looked at the faded, crumbling wall. Finally, he said, "We must be at the wrong place."

  "No, it was here. I remember it exactly. See, there's the ribbon scroll."

  "So where is the thing about the veil?" He slowly read the words on the scroll. "Jesus es nuestro Salvador. Doesn't that mean Jesus is our Savior or something like that?"

  Seneca nodded. "I don't understand. We both stood here and saw it last night."

  "This place is covered with graffiti. I tell you, we're at the wrong wall." He checked his watch again. "Come on, we've got to get to the dock."

  He turned and started back the way they had come. Behind him, he heard the click of the digital camera as Seneca photographed the wall.

  Two miles later, they emerged from the jungle and saw the beach spread out ahead. On the horizon, a sport boat knifed through the breakwater. Captain Mali Mali waved as he brought the boat across the calmer water of the cove toward the dock.

  "You think you've got enough for a story now?" Matt said.

  Seneca shook her head. "I don't know what I've got anymore."

  "So how was your visit with El Jaguar?" the captain asked as he assisted them into the boat.

  "Unfortunately, we never found Professor Flores," Seneca said.

  "That's too bad." Mali Mali grinned. "But I hope you didn't let the seco go to waste?"

  Seneca shot Matt a look. "No, it went for a good cause."

  "Still, it is a shame you couldn't find El Jaguar. He is a most interesting character. But quite elusive."

  "All we can figure is that he's off in the jungle on one of his jaunts," Matt said.

  "He has a habit of doing that. What about the other one-the black man I brought over two days before you?"

  Seneca shook her head as she looked away. "No, didn't see him either."

  "That's no surprise." The captain laughed as he pushed the throttles forward. "Many come here only to disappear forever."

  THE PROMISE 2012, BAHAMAS

  SCARROW WAITED IN THE shadows of the bedroom for Groves to awaken. The medical staff assigned to care for the recluse had alerted him that Groves suffered a blackout and had been found lying naked on the bathroom floor. A thorough examination found no broken bones or serious injuries. He had regained consciousness, and with the help of medication managed to sleep the rest of the night.

  The room was cold enough for Scarrow to see his own breath. He shivered as he watched the frail form sleeping behind the gauze-like netting. As he often did lately, Scarrow wished there were some way that the effect of the veil could be reversed or canceled so that Groves would just fade away and die in his sleep. But he knew full well that no matter how incapacitated, sick, or mentally wrecked the cowboy got, he would never die.

  The reality was that Groves had become a burden that grew heavier each day-the high maintenance required by the billionaire seemed to be a constant drain on Scarrow's valuable time. Ultimately, Scarrow had to make most of the decisions concerning Groves since the staff was only allowed limited access.

  There was movement beneath the sheets. "Let me guess, Javier, you're standing there plotting on how you can do me in." The voice was weak and thin, and seemed to barely penetrate the darkness. "Isn't it ironic that doing away with me is the one thing you can't do?"

  "Why would you say such a thing, William?" Scarrow sat in a nearby chair, the protective paper gown he wore over his clothes crinkling crisply. "I was worried and came to see to your comfort."

  "Bullshit." Groves raised his scrawny hand to cover his mouth as he coughed. "You need me like a hog needs a bowtie. You've isolated me. I have no idea how my companies are doing. No newspapers, no television. For all I know you could have pissed away every last dime."

  "If I had, do you think we would be here in this place? Have you ever had any reason to mistrust me? Have I ever given away your secret? No, William. Your compani
es are running smoothly and efficiently. There's no need for you to worry."

  Groves's bony finger pointed at Scarrow. "Then tell me this, why do you keep me in this isolation chamber-this prison?"

  "I don't keep you isolated, William. Your doctors have explained to you many times that your immune system is weak and susceptible to disease and sickness that could incapacitate you. Mostly your isolation is by your own design. Because of your medical condition you've become paranoid. After all, look at me." He drew attention to his gown and booties. "You had one of your own companies build this clean room-stainless steel walls, halo gen lights that are washed down every day, a bank of ceiling HEPA filters, gel seals, negative pressure safety seals, and a dozen other specifications that protect you from the outside world. Your water is distilled and goes through two other purification processes as well as ionization to add antioxidants. All the windows are triple paned and heat sealed. And you wonder why there is no newspaper? Because a newspaper would bring millions of germs into this room. A television would require someone to install the satellite reception, which means a stranger would witness how bizarrely William Groves lives." Scarrow glared at him. "And you do live quite curiously, don't you think?" He sat silently a moment, letting Groves stew in his thoughts. "So, do you want me to have a newspaper sent up?"

  Groves rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands. "I don't know why you don't understand. I can't die, and if I get a disease it won't kill me. I will just suffer with it eternally."

  I understand. It is the same for me. But put all that aside. There's a bigger reason you stay away from the public. You know that. You are terrified that someone will find out your secret-if that came to the attention of the world and was spread across the headlines or the nightly news, you would be placed under the biggest microscope in history. You don't want that, and that's why we've been vigilant all these years to protect your privacy. Why are you questioning these things, now?"

  "Why aren't you afraid, Javier? You should be." Groves emitted a grumble followed by another cough. "And who are those Frankenstein doctors you've got sneaking around? What the hell kind of monsters are they building down there in the laboratories? I'll wager it goes against God and man."

  Scarrow leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs, lacing his fingers. How many times had he explained? Groves's medications had negative effects on his memory, which often initiated problems, misunderstandings, and confusion. Groves had been intrigued with Scarrow's plan from the very beginning, buying in every step of the way. But there was no use in reminding him that they had been over this numerous times over the last thirty years.

  "On the contrary. Oh, William, you will be so proud of this. You're giving a group of brilliant physicians and scientists an opportunity to research areas of medicine that they could not do elsewhere. And someday, when their work is presented to the world and recognized as the greatest advances in areas like reconstructive surgery and human cell regeneration, we will all share in their glory and accomplishments. And you, William, will be named as their principal benefactor, a man with unequaled foresight and vision. You will be the one who is responsible for bringing to the world miracles that up until now were only dreams. You will possess the ability to create life. Not only will you be the richest and most famous man in the world, but you will become what I promised from the start. You will become a god."

  "Do I look like a god?" He started to laugh but could only produce a choking sound. "If I ever find a way to die, and I come face to face with the real God, he's gonna send me straight to hell for helping you create the abominations in this place."

  "William, you have to trust me. Soon you'll-"

  Scarrow reached into his pocket and removed the vibrating cell phone. "Yes?" He listened intently for ten seconds. "How did this happen?" He paused, looking at Groves. "I'll call you back." Stand ing, he shoved the phone back into his pocket. "I'm afraid I have to go."

  "Things aren't going according to plan, Javier?" Groves laughed again which set off a coughing fit. "Life is full of disappointments," he finally managed to say.

  "Get some rest, William."

  Scarrow walked from the bedroom without looking back. He didn't bother to strip off the disposable booties or paper gown as he passed through the stainless door and sterilization port. Standing in the hallway outside Groves's penthouse suite, he clutched the phone so tightly that his fingers blanched white.

  Pushing the speed dial number, he waited for Coyotl to answer. Using every ounce of willpower to harness his temper, he said, "What do you mean, he's dead?"

  GOSPEL OF THE ANGELS 2012, PANAMA CITY

  "WHERE'S MATT?" AL ASKED as he walked into Seneca's room on the fourth floor of the Riande Granada Hotel in downtown Panama City.

  "He called from his room to say he was going to pick up coffee and copies of the local newspapers. He wanted to see if there was any news about what happened on the island."

  "There won't be." Al closed the door. "That place is about as isolated as it gets. The few inhabitants living there don't want any contact with the outside world. No news will come out of Isla de Sangre."

  Still wearing the jeans and pullover she arrived in from the island the previous day, she made eye contact with Al and fought back tears. She wanted to stay strong but inside she was falling to pieces. Her father seemed to sense her torment and took a step toward her, reaching out his hands.

  "I'm okay. Really, I'm fine. You didn't need to come all this way." What she wanted and needed was just what he was offering, a father's consoling embrace. In that safe place she could acknowledge that she had shot a man ... killed another human being. But she couldn't make herself move.

  Al took the initiative and put his arms about her. "I know, little one, I know." He patted her on the back as he held her. "Knowing you have taken someone's life isn't easy to live with. But you have to remember that he was there to kill you. What you did was clearly in self-defense. He could have just as easily murdered you and Matt."

  "There were two open graves," she whispered, pulling back and wiping away her tears. "I know they were meant for us." Seneca sat on a nearby couch. Al sat beside her. "In my head I understand that his intent was to kill us. Even so, I don't think I'll ever get over this."

  "I hate to ask you, but I think we have to go back to the island. You and Matt need to show me his grave. If I can collect some DNA samples and maybe get a good fingerprint, we might be able to get an ID on this guy."

  "But that will mean involving the authorities. I'll be charged with murder."

  "No, it means involving my buddies. They don't need to know the circumstances, just see if they can identify the man."

  "Who are your friends? Who did you work for?"

  Al hesitated, seeming to consider if he should answer. "It's better you don't know."

  "I need to."

  He rubbed his face as if fighting an internal conflict. "I was the director of a government group called ILIAD. Like I told you at Matt's place, they're a bunch of computer geeks who spend their time analyzing-"

  There was a knock on the door. Al rose and answered it.

  "Hey, Al." Matt had a couple of newspapers under his arm and held a cardboard carrier containing three large cups of Starbucks. "How was your flight?" He dropped the newspapers on the desk near the couch and handed out the coffee.

  "Hurried but uneventful." They shook hands.

  Matt nodded toward the newspapers. "I don't really read Spanish, but a quick glance through those turned up nothing about the island or a missing Professor Flores or a black man claiming to be Idi Amin Dada that I could see."

  "I was telling Seneca that I doubt there'll be anything forthcoming. The few people who are on that island are there because they want to become invisible. The graves in the prison cemetery are unmarked for many reasons, that being one." Al returned to sit with Seneca on the couch. "We've got a great deal of ground to cover."

  Matt said, "I'm ready for a lot fewer questions and
a lot more answers.

  "So, where do we start?" Seneca said.

  "How about with the phrase you two gave me to investigate? The one you said was also painted on the penal colony prison

  "And?" Matt asked.

  "First, let me say that the agency I formerly directed is not in the business of researching religious antiquity. But they are the best at researching anything. So it didn't take too long to come up with an answer. Although I'm told that it was obscure with a capital 0."

  "So it's something to do with religion?" Matt asked.

  "Christianity."

  "Explain."

  Al told them the legend of the Veil of Veronica and its role in the Catholic Church. "But actually, there's no reference to Veronica or her veil in the canonical Gospels. I'm talking about the four Gospels-Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John-in the New Testament that we all studied in Sunday school. But those aren't the only Gospels, just the ones most people are familiar with, the ones that made it into the Bible."