The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection

by Ken Fry

  She dismissed the idea of a sudden rush at one of them as she could be shot before she’d got halfway. No, she had to get one of them to her and they’d have to bring their gun with them, or the plan wouldn’t work.

  I must pretend I can’t move. Somehow, I’ve got to get one of them to come to me with his gun ... but how?

  Ulla let out a long, low, soft groan and bent herself double, with her hands behind her holding the scissors. She shook her head from side to side.

  Both the Condesa and Sister Agnes turned to her, and then at Throgmorton. He registered nothing, as if he hadn’t heard.

  “Shouldn’t we be finding out what’s wrong with her?”

  “Please yourself, but no tricks. Ox, watch her, will you?”

  Ox grunted, stood and walked towards Ulla.

  Damn, he left his gun behind.

  Sister reached her first. “Ulla, can I help?”

  “Get his gun,” she whispered. One look at the Sister’s face, and Ulla thought she might have asked her to marry the devil.

  Ox pushed the nun out of the way and hauled Ulla backwards into the chair. “Shut up, bitch. Stop snivelling.” He backhanded her with force across the face.

  Ulla felt her cheek explode with pain as her head jerked sideway. She clenched her fists and fought hard to resist the urge to sink the scissors into his leg. Unless she had a gun, it would be pointless. She would, without a doubt, end up dead.

  She didn’t expect the second blow that sent her face reeling in the opposite direction. “Sister, help me please!” Her tormented screech filled the air and galvanised the nun into action. It wasn’t the reaction she expected.

  Sister Agnes swung back her leg and with her stout sensible shoes, kicked Ox hard on his shin with all the force her tiny body could muster.

  “God forgive me,” she yelled.

  If it hurt him, he didn’t show it. His face hardened, as if stopping himself from hitting the nun. He seemed to have drawn a line at that point.

  Ulla shouted again, “The gun, Sister. Get it!”

  She twirled around and headed for it.

  “That’s far enough, Sister. Another step more and your brains will be all over the floor.” Throgmorton stood ready to fire at her. “Don’t think your cloth is going to stop me either.” He turned his head to Ox. “Get your gun. You’re a bigger fool than I thought. Nuns, monks and priests are fair game and no different from anybody else. She got the better of you because you hesitated. Let me show you.” He took three strides towards Sister Agnes and cracked the gun butt across her ribs.

  She doubled up with an agonised squeal, her robes and crucifix swinging wildly in the air. Her pain was cut short as he finished the punishment by swinging the butt into the base of her neck, sending her crashing to the floor.

  Ulla clenched every sinew in her body. To attack now was suicide. Either one of them would finish her off. She agonised for Sister Agnes but didn’t dare move and reveal that she was free.

  “You’re a bigger, cowardly sewer-rat than I ever imagined,” she spat with venom.

  There was another sound. Throgmorton stepped back. Ox got his gun and they turned around to see the Condesa struggling to get to her daughter.

  Ulla experienced a deep pang of pity for the two women. Maria, the Condesa of Toledo, was crawling in a slow and humiliating advance to her daughter. Kneeling next to her and using her scarf, she began dabbing at the blood covering her face and neck. Ulla could hear her whispering either endearments or prayers to her.

  Throgmorton ignored the two women and spoke to Ulla direct. “Look and learn, my sweet. If you try anything, your punishment will not be so lenient. You’re advised to behave as we may have a long wait. I may need you to make a phone call to Mr. Ladro. Understood?” He poked the barrel of the gun under her chin and lifted her head with a savage jerk.

  Ulla nodded. While Brodie was out there, a chance to finish off Throgmorton was very possible. If he leans in any closer, I can stab him. She let her hand tighten on the handle.

  His breath was hot on her face.

  She flexed her wrist, held her breath ... just another foot, please.

  CHAPTER 57

  Where the light was coming from was unclear. The broken entrance gave no hint to what Ladro was looking at. The walls of the existing passageway had vanished to form a much wider passageway that rose overhead. The light illuminated the ceiling apex that curved upwards to form a continuous arched canopy that descended into smaller arched panels, each richly decorated with ornate, golden supporting structures. The entire area was a dome that covered an area the size of a small cathedral. The ground had been levelled flat and was made of flagstones. His astonishment increased as he gazed upwards. Each arched panel contained a painting.

  He counted thirteen.

  He then realised what he was looking at.

  Oh, my dear God. I don’t believe this! Brodie didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. This is not possible. I’m in a dream. It can’t be real.

  Common sense told him that while outside was a shaken mess of rocks and earthquake rubble; here, he was in an exquisite oratory of some sort, untouched, undisturbed and unknown to anybody. Somebody must know, for who put those thirteen paintings up there on those panels? He was speechless. The truth of the legend had become reality. What he had been seeking was real.

  It was proclaimed in those thirteen panels, each one of the vanished works depicting the raising of Lazarus by a different artist, beginning with the original work by Annas Zevi who witnessed the event.

  These must be all the missing Lazarus paintings!

  The preposterousness of that thought, let alone it being real, swamped his reasoning. Any thoughts of the Abbot, Ulla, the Condesa faded away, overwhelmed by the immensity of his discovery. He grabbed at the wall for support.

  This is not happening. It’s not real.

  He repeated it to himself until another thought struck him. I’ve been brought here.

  That’s rubbish, Ladro ... get a grip.

  He had no idea what to do next. He moved forward, his eyes still scanning the paintings. He shouted out. “Is anyone here?”

  It sounded ridiculous. His voice echoed and bounced around the smoothness of the walls, all displaying the curvature that led the eye upwards to the paintings. He found himself checking each one, the styles and techniques, and by that, he was able to chronologically estimate the time they had been painted. They were arranged in ascending order.

  The last one of Lazarus being brought back caused him to gasp. It was unmistakeable. Cortez’s missing painting. What the Condesa sought was hidden here all this time. He had no doubt of it. The style matched many of the sketches he’d seen at the Bodega. So many questions hurtled into his mind, he buried his head in his hands. Who’s going to believe me?

  He had no explanations. There were none that logically made any sense or would be believed. His recent visions offered a weird connection. Madness.

  He reached out to the Cortez and could just reach the lower portion of the frame. He ran a hand across it … Not a speck of dust.

  Who placed them here? Who built this place? There’s no record of this place anywhere, even in this monastery.

  Where’s all this light coming from?

  He continued craning his neck upwards, unable to take his eyes off the paintings. He took pictures of them on his mobile phone. It was then he saw that next to the Cortez were mounted other panels. They were all blank, suggesting unfinished business.

  How the hell am I going to get out of here? What about these painting?

  Unless the monks dug him out or there was an exit from the mystery room he stood in, he could die here. He circled around looking for a possible way out. His attention became drawn to something standing under the Cortez painting. It appeared to be a tall chest cupboard made of dark oak.

  His flesh tingled and he was certain that hadn’t been there before. Or had he just not noticed it in his fear and excitement? It had nothing
remarkable about it. It was plain, but it looked very old. Two large metal handles, possibly brass, offered themselves to be pulled open.

  Ladro hesitated. Inhaling deeply, he grasped the two handles and pulled. At first the doors felt stiff, so he tugged a little harder, and this time they swung open with ease. He didn’t know what to expect. At worst, all he wanted was a clue as to how to get out.

  He gasped as the odour of centuries past blasted into his nostrils; the smell of ointments and herbs, of melissa, traces of mugwort, rue, cloves, and hints of myrrh. How he recognized them he had no idea ... he just knew.

  He felt an eerie sense of peace. Had those strange smells caused him a deep quietness? A sense that all was well and he was in no danger? He couldn’t answer that.

  He wasn’t surprised by what he saw next. He stared at the golden mantle hanging directly in front of him, untouched by the march of time. It glistened as new.

  Ladro stood still, as his gaze took in what was in front of him. Its glow grew in intensity, holding him transfixed. Bit by bit, his defences fell away. The hardnosed realism, the functionality, practicality, Brodie Ladro, ace researcher, disbeliever in all ideas unless proven, all concepts and opinions were being stripped from him ... torn away in a soft pulsating field of gold. When he thought he could bear it no longer, the mantle fell to the floor.

  It lay on the ground in the shape of a fan and revealed what it concealed. Ladro stared down at it, as if expecting it to jump back up again. But nothing moved. He then looked up at a blank stretcher-mounted canvas that had been placed on a large easel. There was no feeling of surprise. His entire attention focused on the canvas, as the chest faded away in a lateral split of light, leaving the easel and canvas highlighted in a space that stretched out into an infinite blackness.

  His legs refused to move. He bent his head, unable to shout or scream, paralysed, powerless to prevent his inch by inch abduction, as the matrix of his being was drained from him.

  With it went the last vestige of fear. He surrendered.

  §

  He wakes from a dream of death in the middle of a secluded field, wearing armour and the black cross pattée tabard of the Knights Templar. It is cloudy, chilly and windy, but he feels no cold. He hears the bells of God calling to him and goes in a seemingly random direction. The bells stop. The field ... the clouds ... gone, as a shimmering path of glowing white marble and monks singing the Tibi Laus appear. In the sky, beautiful colours of blue and purple flash gently. He comes to a church, its portal aglow. He was home at last.

  He pushes open the door and sees what he must do. It is ready for him. His brushes glide swiftly and confidently across the virgin canvas, giving vivid life and meaning where before only death had its abode. His entire being gives in to an ecstatic flurry. He works quickly, and he becomes the work ... is the work ... bringing him back from Hades as the eyes of Christ shine down on him and once more … Lazarus is alive.

  It is finished. His mission is accomplished, and the world is reborn.

  §

  It was the influx of light penetrating his closed eyelids that prodded his consciousness to awaken. He realised he was lying flat on the ground.

  “What the...?”

  “There he is,” a loud voice exclaimed.

  He didn’t recognise the voice or the outstretched hands shaking his shoulders and raking the debris from him. More lights appeared.

  “Who are you? Where am I?” He shielded his eyes from the glare.

  “Thank God you’re alive. We were giving up hope. Are you okay?”

  A concerned face bent close to him, and Ladro recognised a monk wearing work clothes. It was then he remembered. He made a mental check of himself; feet, legs, chest, ribs, arms and finally his head.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, I think. What happened? An earthquake? Where are the paintings?”

  Another voice spoke. “We had no earthquake, Señor, and there are no paintings. Part of the passageway collapsed while you were in it. This is a dead end. There’s nothing here. It’s a miracle you survived. One section has been completely blocked, but it missed you. It’s taken us four hours to find you.”

  Ladro let the monks pull him to his feet and dusted himself down. “Four hours, what are you talking about? I’ve only been down here fifteen minutes.”

  “Check your watch.”

  One glance at his watch and he knew they were correct. “That’s impossible. It’s only just happened! Where’s the room gone?”

  “Señor, there is no room.” He gave a knowing look at his brother monk. “How is your head?”

  Ladro couldn’t answer. Inside his mind, a black pattée loomed immense, followed by nonstop flashes of colour. The smell of oils, brushes, canvas, the dead, the living universe, and a matrix of DNA, gyrated through his head with breathless urgency.

  “Whoa, Whoa, Whoa!” he shouted out to the roof, at the same time attempting to resist the tugs on his arms by his rescuers. A sense of powerlessness struck him, and he knew he was meant to go.

  “Quick, we must get you out of here. There could be another collapse.” The monk shouted to his colleague and with force, began propelling Ladro through their excavated route.

  He couldn’t stop them. What was going on inside of him took all his attention. He had no idea what the visions in his head meant. One thing was clear: this was not the place for questions or answers.

  Where is the dome? Where are the paintings? Where was I taken? I must have been dreaming.

  His brain scrambled. Time had shifted into another dimension and what had seemed like minutes was in reality four hours. Stumbling over loose rocks and debris, he let himself be guided along as he began to recognise the route he had originally taken.

  Ahead, he saw a glimmer of light. It was the original entrance and the spiral staircase that led back to the Abbot’s study. Ladro could make out the concerned face of Abbot Louis, attempting to peer through the gloom.

  “We’ve got him, and he’s fine,” the first monk shouted out.

  Ladro was pushed and pulled to the top of the ladder and into the study of a relieved looking Abbot.

  He couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  His eyes were shut tight, his mind ablaze and suffused with light and colours. Creeping into every nerve cell and sinew wove an awesome tiredness. He let the Abbot and his monks catch him as he began falling to the floor.

  §

  An unknown smell ... gurgling liquid pouring into something ... a hazy but smiling face ... he recognised Abbot Louis.

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re in my quarters. You fainted.”

  “How long?”

  “Ten minutes. You’re safe and you can speak. Take this.” He handed Ladro a steaming beaker of liquid.”

  “What is it?” Ladro grasped it as he struggled to sit up straight.

  “It’s a reviver made from rose, lavender, and henbane. Drink it. It won’t harm you.”

  Ladro took several sips and put down the mug. It tasted sweet. “Father, I’ve got to get out of here. There’s a painting down there I’ve been paid to find.”

  “I know that. You were talking out loud. It didn’t make a lot of sense. It bore out local legend around here.”

  “What did I say?”

  “A lot about Lazarus and why me? You said much concerning colours and paintings.”

  Ladro interrupted him. “I’m not making this up, Father. Look, I took several pictures of what I saw.” He reached for his cell phone and pulled up the photo gallery. “Look.” He jabbed at the buttons. “C’mon, c’mon,” he shouted at the screen.

  No photographs.

  “What! They have to be here. It was working perfectly down there, including the flash. I did take them, Father. I took pictures of the paintings, I swear it.”

  Father Louis looked grave. “Your evidence is not good, Señor Ladro. That is a pity. I would have liked to have seen whatever you believe you saw. You also said other things; your fears for your friend Ulla,
the Condesa Maria, and the blessed Sister Agnes. Are they in danger?”

  “I don’t know.” He speed-dialled Ulla’s number, and stared at the screen for a minute. “That’s odd, she’s not answering. Sorry, Father, I really have to go. My truck’s some way from here, but I shall be back.”

  “As you wish, Señor Ladro. I look forward to your return.”

  “Of course, Father, and thanks for your help.” Brodie headed for the door.

  “And Señor...”

  “Father?”

  The Abbot had a strange expression. “It might be a good idea to clean up before you go.” He pointed at Ladro’s clothes.

  Ladro looked down. He was covered in paint.

  CHAPTER 58

  Folded beneath her, Ulla’s legs were becoming numb. Throgmorton had stepped back out of striking distance. She would have to wait. One false move and they’d cut her down without a second thought. She looked across at the Sister. She sat still with her head bowed and Ulla couldn’t tell if she were praying or suffering from the ordeal. She willed her to look up and communicate. The Condesa lay prone on a sofa, with her eyes open wide but with a vacant expression, as if she were communicating with another dimension.

  She’s not going to be of any use if the going gets rough.

  Ulla’s mobile began ringing. Everybody heard it and froze. Throgmorton was nearest and looked at the caller display.

  “It’s him. We’ll let him wait and get anxious. When he tries again you can speak to him and I’ll tell you what you should say.”

  The phone stopped. Ulla knew what Brodie would be thinking. He’d suspect something was wrong. If that was the case, his behaviour would be unpredictable.