The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection

by Ken Fry

Flags fluttered in a strong breeze beneath a blistering sun. The call of Pope Gregory VIII, The declaration of Revenge for the Horns of Hattin. The desecration of Holy Relics must be prevented, and despoilers put to the sword. Remember who you are.

  Ladro squeezed his eyes shut and placed his hands over his ears but her vision and voice continued to fill his mind.

  Saladin’s crimes ... he is the devil, the despoiler, and he stands above you now. Do nothing apart from what I tell you … and you will live.

  He couldn’t stop the process, nor did he want to. He succumbed.

  Custodio Baez lives. Zevi lives, and Lazarus will be raised again!

  He lay still and prayed that Throgmorton wouldn’t pull the trigger. From the conversation, he knew the man hadn’t entirely given up the hope that his dreams of amassing a vast fortune from a miracle painting could still come true.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next.” He spat out the words like a machine gun. “You’re going to tell me what this secret is and how it helps with what I’m looking for. You’d better make it good, because if you don’t, he dies and then you. I’ve nothing to lose. I’m already wanted for one murder, and then there’s your stupid maid to take into account. I know the European justice system, and I’ll have nothing to lose no matter how many of you I kill. If your secret is valid, you might live. It matters little to me. So, start praying, Condesa, that your story is good enough for you to live.”

  Ladro waited.

  She replied. “The painting is incomplete as they have been since Lazarus was first raised. A final ingredient is required to make it complete.”

  “I’m listening. What are you babbling on about?”

  “The Lazarus legend has been traced back to the time of Christ and has been known since the thirteenth century. Since that time, it has been protected from the Moors and nomadic Arabs by monks living around Toledo and Valencia. They guarded its secret.” The Condesa began gasping for breath and her hand clutched at her throat.

  “Now you’ve got this far, don’t die on me just yet, you disgusting old hag.”

  “Let her sit down,” Ulla snarled at him, and picked up a nearby chair for Maria to sit.

  Without taking her eyes off Throgmorton, she sat on the chair. She paused before closing her eyes and Ladro understood her.

  Custodio, I know you. Listen to me for this concerns you.

  Ladro nodded and saw she had seen. A strange degree of pleasure coursed through him on hearing the ancient name being spoken, bridging the centuries. He had not been forgotten.

  We shall all be leaving this room in a few minutes. He will then see what it is he wants and try to kill us. You must follow my lead. Our lives will hang in the balance. Whether we live or die will be in your hands. Beau-seant!

  Ladro opened his mind and heart.

  Our war-cry is thy holy name!

  He heard her speaking to Throgmorton as he closed his eyes. Her voice sounded a million miles away.

  “Yes, you are right for once. The painting is incomplete, and it will remain that way until the tabard is present and worn.”

  “Tabard? What tabard? What are you on about?”

  Again, the Condesa appeared short of breath, her voice descending to a hoarse stage whisper.

  “Let me explain. The Lazarus paintings have been produced by various blessed artists and have been protected since the Crusades by warrior monks, some were the artist themselves. You will find a list of them in our family archives. But I don’t expect that will concern you, will it? Why do you think I undertook this venture even in my infirmity? Because I believed in fairy tales? I think not. I took it because I know it to be true. It’s never been just a belief for me, it’s fact. My cardinal error was using you, Maxwell Throgmorton, to assist in the search. But I now think that was meant to be.”

  “So, what’s your point, your Highness?” Throgmorton sneered but never let his attention be diverted from any of them, especially Ladro.

  She continued. “Borgoña’s fresco collapsed in a pile of dust within the Cathedral walls of Toledo, but not before the new artist was selected.”

  “Selected? Selected by whom?”

  “As all the painters had been chosen … by the mystical selection of Christ!”

  “What a load of crap.”

  Ladro allowed the blackness to descend on him as his anger began to rise. His knuckles tightened ... his breathing grew rapid ... he tensed, ready to attack.

  Wait, Custodio, wait!

  Her plea cut through his rage and he halted.

  I will tell you when.

  He nodded.

  She continued speaking to the Judge. “It was Francisco Cortez’s painting we so stupidly tried to find. It had already disappeared like all the other paintings before it. The successor has been chosen.”

  It hasn’t. I’ve seen it.

  The brief moment his message reached her caused her to falter. It wasn’t noticed.

  “You wish to put this to the test? Then bring this painting with you and follow me. We shall soon see if it has the powers you are looking for.”

  CHAPTER 65

  As they descended a narrow corridor and marched through a cobbled arch, their footsteps echoed off the walls lit by emergency lighting. Ulla, still clutching her arm, followed the slow-moving Condesa, with Ladro in between them and Throgmorton following behind, his arm around the Sister’s neck and the gun at her head. Ladro had said nothing but his mind was wide open, receptive and alert to every sound, and waiting for the Condesa’s signal. They both had no doubts that Throgmorton was going to execute them all, whatever the outcome.

  They reached a series of heavy wooden doors. Maria went to the central one and turned around. Throgmorton stood well back; his arm remained tight around Agnes’s throat.

  “Is this it?” he asked.

  “Yes, part of the legend is here, where it has been for centuries.” She indicated the large door, looked up at them all and knew Ladro could sense her desperation.

  “Open it now and no tricks, or you know what will happen.”

  Her gnarled fingers had no strength to turn the large wrought iron latch.

  Ulla spoke. “Let me do it.” She moved to the door and gave the latch a vigorous shove with her good arm. The door moved begrudgingly before she kicked it hard and it reached its fullest extent. The room had full lighting, was circular and was as she had left it. Various devotional paintings and weeping Madonnas adorned the walls.

  “Get in there all of you and line up around the wall where I can see you.” He kept his grip on Sister Agnes.

  Ladro stood between Ulla and the Condesa, who held the rolled canvas and had her eyes fixed on a large chest at the furthest end of the room. On it lay something folded.

  It’s the Tabard. The test begins.

  Throgmorton moved to the centre. “This had better be good. What’s going to happen next?”

  Custodio, it’s time to tell him.

  “I will show you.” Ladro stepped forward. He ignored the puzzled looks from Ulla and the others.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The miracle of the painting, The Eyes of Christ, as we have always known it, is only brought to life when dire need asks it to, or when it chooses to do so. That need is amongst us. You shall see.”

  “More rubbish, but do what you have to, Ladro, but one mistake and her brains will be all over the floor.”

  The tabard. Put it on.

  Ladro nodded and stepped across to the chest. He paused in front of it, looked down at the folded garment, and bent his head as he touched it.

  The battlefield’s clamour ... the sound of steel ... screams of men and horses ... warriors of Islam ... black and red pattée ... In God’s name! Beau-Seant!

  Custodio, put it on. It was yours and still is.

  Centuries of spilt blood passed before him. A sensation of angry compassion took hold of him. With reverence, he picked up the tabard, held it in front of him and allowed the fol
ds to drop down. He held it so all could see.

  Without looking behind, he could sense their expectancy.

  It was old ... very old. No longer white, time had changed it to a pale grey and wilted cream. Stains, their colour muted across the centuries, clung to it, proud emblems of forgotten battles. The edges were tattered, threadbare. Still on both sides, the black pattée, faded but visible. A series of minor shudders passed through him as he slipped it over his head. It felt as if he had never taken it off.

  Throgmorton looked agitated. “Cut the drama and get on with it, my patience is going.” He thrust the Sister in front of him. “Make it snappy or I will.”

  Maria, her face expectant but furrowed with pain, turned to face him. Behind her stood the easel and brushes as she had left them. Ladro stood as if in a trance; his eyes glazed. He was oblivious to all apart from her. She unrolled the painting, turned, and pegged the canvas to the easel.

  Silence.

  Thoughts of blood and violence abated and the focus of all pivoted on the contemporary work that glowered back at them.

  It is time, Custodio.

  I am ready.

  Do it. Amat Victoria Curam!

  My pain ensures my victory for the Greater Glory of God.

  Ladro allowed his eyes to open and look at the painting. The shroud had moved. He ignored it. He was being asked permission. He agreed, lowered his head as if in prayer, and then stretched out a hand to grasp the largest brush.

  “Brodie!” Ulla screamed out. “What are you doing?”

  “This had better be good, Ladro, or you will die looking like a stupid fool.”

  Sister Agnes wriggled frantically but couldn’t break his hold on her.

  Ladro turned and moved rapidly across the space that divided him from the others, ignoring their astonishment at his changed appearance. His hair had darkened, blood and filthy sweat dripped in large globules from his head, and his face grimaced in an unknown pain that had crossed the centuries.

  Her voice was in his head.

  Custodio Baez, Beau-seant! Beau-seant!

  The tabard glowed with an unearthly whiteness. He held the large brush as an inverted spear.

  The Judge froze at what he saw advancing towards him. It was Ladro, but it wasn’t. It had become a distorted version of him. He couldn’t pull the trigger against her head, but using his free arm, he flung the Sister forward at the advancing Ladro. Her impact sent him backwards and over as Throgmorton’s shot whistled passed him to thud into an oak beam behind.

  Ulla sprang like a wounded animal, eyes blazing, teeth bared, and claws raised, she hurled herself on Throgmorton before he had a chance to let off another round. But he was too agile and strong, and his clenched fist smashed into her jaw, sending her crashing to the floor.

  “Beau-seant!”

  A bloodcurdling roar filled the room and a blur of motion fell on him. Another shot blasted through the air and hit nothing. Throgmorton fell backwards under the weight of Ladro transformed.

  I am Custodio Baez, Protector and Guardian of Lazarus!

  It wasn’t Ladro speaking. It wasn’t him fighting.

  Ladro gripped him by the throat and armed with only the sharpened end of the sable brush, he raised his arm high, poised to penetrate it deep into Throgmorton’s frightened face. The Judge fought back, swinging his free hand in front of him as he kept his grip on the gun. He blocked Ladro’s downward thrust by striking the descending weapon with equal force. Ladro ignored the pain, but was unable to stop the deflection, and found himself keeling in the direction of the blow. Throgmorton’s next move was a follow through which flattened Ladro, as both men attempted to stand. He still held the improvised spear, but it would be no match against a gun. The distance between them meant he was out of striking range.

  Throgmorton pointed his gun at Ladro’s head, and his finger tensed on the trigger.

  “I’ve no idea what’s going on here, but I do know one thing ... I’m going to enjoy this.”

  God forgive me, I have failed!

  Ladro experienced eternity unfold before him as he closed his eyes, and tensed his entire body, hoping he wouldn’t feel pain.

  He heard shots, flinched, but felt nothing. The next thing he heard was a clatter, followed by a profound silence. He dared to open his eyes.

  The Judge was farther away, bent on one knee, his gun out of reach. A dull red stain had begun its journey across his shirt front, and a low moan escaped from his sagging jaw. An expression of startled disbelief lodged in his eyes.

  “What the fuck?” Ladro looked around. Both Ulla and the Sister had risen to their feet, equally astonished.

  Stepping from a lazy wreath of gun smoke walked the Condesa. In her hand, she held a small silver Elite Beretta pistol. She approached Throgmorton whose blood continued oozing between the fingers he was pressing to his body.

  “Look at me,” she demanded.

  What was going through his mind, Ladro could only guess. Throgmorton made no sound but turned his head upward to look at her.

  She looked taller and towered over his crumpled body. “Now, do you believe?”

  “How? How?” His voice descended into a gasping whisper.

  “There’re things in this world you will never know, and this mystery is one of them.”

  Ladro’s concern was for Ulla. He crossed over to her and Agnes and helped pull them to their feet. He started to ask if she was okay but stopped halfway. Wide eyed he looked at her and ran his hand over her face, her nose, lips, and then down to her arm. There wasn’t a mark on her. Any bruise, blood or cut had vanished.

  “There’s not a wound on you, Ulla.” His voice rang with excitement.

  She immediately checked herself. “I can’t believe it,” she gasped, turning to the Sister.

  “The same with me. God be praised.” She fell to her knees.

  Ladro crossed over to the painting. “It has changed. It is finished. It has moved!” As soon as he spoke, he saw the shroud ruffle.

  He reached out to touch it, but it was dry and static. The faces, formerly unfinished, were now identifiable; Christ, Lazarus, and the onlookers. Christ and Lazarus appeared to be looking directly at the viewer, and almost with a hint of a smile on their faces.

  Did I do this?

  You did.

  The Condesa moved towards him. “You did. Throgmorton never understood, and he never will. He’s dead.”

  A glance put any doubt of that aside. His crumpled body was motionless, a small pool of blood seeping from under him.

  “What are we going to do with him?”

  “I’ll show you all. Step over here, will you?” She stood against the far wall and pulled hard on a wall mounted crucifix. From beneath them came a rumbling and whirring sound of gears and machinery coming alive. “Watch.”

  Without warning, the central part of the floor opened, revealing a dark black abyss. Throgmorton’s body fell swiftly and silently into it.

  Sister Agnes bent her head and made the sign of the cross.

  “That pit has been part of the monastery’s secret history since it was built. It is over 150 feet deep. Undesirables found themselves plunged into it and it was also used as an escape route in times of war. Only I and now you three know of its existence. He will find he’s not alone and his remains will never be found.”

  Ladro spoke. “Reassuring, but more so to know that you are healed.”

  “Like Ulla and my daughter, I am. Thanks to you, Custodio Baez, I am. Look at me. I feel wonderful, unbelievably so. You are released, dear Brodie Ladro, to be yourself once more.”

  “Well, who was he then?” Ulla demanded.

  “Let’s say it’s somebody I knew once.”

  “You also have a miraculous painting, Brodie.” The Condesa touched it with reverence.

  “No, I don’t. It belongs to you. It’s part of your legacy, part of this place, and for you to do with it as you see fit. You keep it, it’s destined to self-destruct at some time in the future
. I alone know where it will go when it does. That is my secret. I have seen all the Lazarus paintings since the revered original. They are all alive and will remain so until the end of time.”

  “I am jealous.” She said nothing more but held Ladro’s gaze as an understanding passed between them.

  “We need to speak to Evita Cortez and her father to tell them as much as they need to know.”

  “I agree, and I promise they shall want for nothing. I owe them much more than they can ever imagine.”

  “But what about Throgmorton? How do we explain him away?”

  “We don’t. If anyone asks, all we know is that he was called away. We do not know more than that.”

  EPILOGUE

  London,

  13 Months Later…

  Money continued to pour into their bank account. Their discoveries were syndicated worldwide across satellite TV networks, and Ulla had the pick of the best possible assignments she could have ever wished for.

  Sitting at her desk, she gave a long sigh. The letter was finished, and she began to think of the events that had brought this about. She was pleased for the happiness that had befallen those who deserved it.

  The Condesa, miraculously restored to full health, had given limited access to the media and had provided a new convent for her daughter, on the edge of the Tabernas desert. She had also rescued the struggling Bodega Cortez by giving them substantial funds and lending her name to their wines. Now, they were producing some of the finest wines that Spain could boast of. The Bodega’s future was assured.

  Her own personal sadness, Ulla had not spoken of.

  Without him, her life lacked meaning. Brodie had left her two months ago, and she guessed it had been something he had been thinking of since their return from Spain.

  He had left everything to her, including Gordian Knots, and had made certain she would lack for nothing. Every financial and business matter he had legally endorsed over to her, and that included his house. His actions, at first, caused her disbelief … that was followed by deep pain. She should have seen it coming. He had descended into himself, a troubled being, locked away from her and caring only for his paintings. For days, he would barely speak. She had found him one morning staring at a blank canvas as tears rolled down his face. He had stood in that position for over two hours and refused to say a word. Whatever happened to him in Spain, he was now paying the price. She had asked him to see a doctor, but he had refused, saying that it was nothing to worry about, and he would soon sort it out. He did, but not in the way she expected.