by Ken Fry
§
Guadamur
Luciana had prepared tortillas, rice, chicken, chillies and an array of tapas and varied finger foods, plus several bottles of iced wine.
“Well, this beats monastic gruel by a long measure,” Brodie said. “I haven’t eaten like this since I can remember.”
“Enjoy it while you can, Brodie. You’re more than welcome.” The Condesa turned to Garcia who was teaching Luciana how to make a Rusty Nail. An absence of Drambuie cancelled out that drink. “Tell us what you know about this Shepard and his followers.”
“If it hadn’t been for your mother, Martha, I wouldn’t be here today. I thought it was a cock and bull story until she mentioned a certain Sir Maxwell Throgmorton.”
Brodie caught Maria’s pinched expression.
“Whatever happened to him? Do you know?”
There was a pause.
Maria looked up at Garcia, and in a flat monotone voice said, “I shot and killed him.”
Silence descended amongst them, so thick it was almost palpable.
Tight-lipped, Garcia drilled his eyes into the Condesa. “I never heard you say that … nor did anybody else here. Well, it seems to me the bastard got what he deserved. It should have happened sooner. Well done.” He smiled and clasped her hand. “As I told Ulla, Shepard is being backed by a man of vast wealth, who has an interest in the arts and religious artefacts. He’s a casino owner named John D. Bower. Believe it or not, he is the owner of the Augsburg Book of Miraculous Signs. Have you heard of it?” His eyes turned to Brodie, who nodded. “This Bower had paid a fortune for it. My bet is he’s after the Lazarus painting, either to make money from its alleged power, or to add to his collection. A bit like Dr. No in the James Bond film, don’t you think?
“To give you some idea of his operation, he employs over eight thousand people, and recently sold off a small chain of casinos to a major media and film production company. That deal netted him billions.”
Garcia refilled his wine glass before he continued. He had everyone’s attention. “To make life more interesting, a few days ago, I anonymously signed up to one of Shepard’s seminars and weekend intensives, which will happen in a few weeks’ time. That should reveal a lot. It reminds me very much of the Scientology set up.”
Brodie leant forward, his expression one of serious concern. “Mr. Garcia, with respect, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. They’ll spot you a mile off, and you’ll be roasted alive. This phoney Holy Church of Lazarus and its creepy leader, Shepard, strikes me as no different from our old adversary, Throgmorton. If what you say is true, then he will be back, and it’s my bet he won’t be alone. He’ll have his troops on hand and they will be armed. You’d better believe me.” He turned to the Condesa. “What have you got to protect yourself?”
She produced her pistol. “I think you better have this.”
Brodie declined. “Technically, I can’t. In essence, I’m still a man of God. Anything else?”
“I have an old shotgun that hasn’t been used for years, complete with a belt of rounds.”
“Okay, do you have wire, axes, gardening tools … anything we can use to defend ourselves, should we have to?”
“Masses, at the rear of this complex.”
“I guarantee if you are left here alone, the worse could happen. The place will be ransacked, and your life would be in danger. Unless you do as I say, you won’t have a chance. That pea shooter of yours is no match for what these guys could be carrying.”
He turned to Garcia. “I think it’s best if you leave before anything happens. There’s no obligation for you to stay, and when you leave, take my daughter with you.”
Martha stood in haste. “No, Dad. I’m staying with you. I haven’t sacrificed my university place and my heart to find you, just to leave you when we’ve only met. I’m staying put.”
Garcia pushed back his chair and stood, fists tightly clenched and with a fire in eyes that surprised everybody. “I’ve a feeling that this could get messy. Listen, Brodie, and all of you. What do you think I am … a local junior newspaper reporter? No, I’m bloody well not! I’m an investigative journalist with a worldwide reputation.” He banged his fist hard on the table that caused them all to start. “I’m getting pissed off with this and I too haven’t travelled all this way to scarper at the first sign of trouble. There’s a major story here that could have a global impact, and I’m going to see it through to the end. Get it?” He riveted Brodie with eyes like steel spikes and his voice ascended several pitches. “Request denied!” He stormed off.
Brodie, Maria and Martha were left dumbfounded. What could anyone say?
Martha spoke first and looked at Brodie with a smile, attempting to defuse the tension.
“Dad, I do like saying that word, I forgot to give you something. It’s a letter from Ma.” She reached into her bag and handed him the stiff white envelope.
He took it and stared at the calligraphy style handwriting he had known so well. For a moment, he paused, and his hands trembled.
“I need some space. Excuse me, please.” He headed away from them all and found an old bench to sit upon. With care, he unsealed the envelope and swore he could smell her well-remembered perfume wafting from the envelope. He unfolded the paper.
My dearest Brodie,
I hope this finds you well. If you’re reading this, you now know that Martha is our daughter, who I love and cherish as I do you. Even after all these years, there has never been anybody else in my life.
I hope you can love her as I do. She has asked about you so many times and it is only of late that I’ve told her everything. She is bright, intelligent, and incredibly mature for her age. A wonderful future awaits her, I am sure.
You must also know that the Lazarus painting is at risk from a Pastor Silas Shepard. Speak to Ned Garcia. He is a good man whom I trust, and like, totally.
I want so much to see you again and have you back here at Uffington, with Martha. So that we can all be together, dare I say it, like normal people! We really need that, darling. When you give the word, when you can, I will be there on the first flight.
My darling, Brodie, all my love and more.
Ulla
He held the letter like a crumpled ball in his hands and looked out at the darkening terrain. The rocky, undulating hills that had spoken to him back then, were once again beginning to stir. He felt like an old tree being ripped from the ground.
He took in a deep breath and gave a strangulated sob that breeched his chest and throat, sounding like birds going south to avoid the coming blasts of winter. He wiped the tears from his face. Oh God, release me from this. Have I not done enough? There was no answer. Only the feel of a soft arm around his waist.
“Please, Dad, don’t be sad. Be happy, as my message told me. We know and love each other. Just leave all this and come home. You don’t have to do it anymore.”
“Martha, I can’t. It’s not finished. It’s not over by a long way. I need to think. All these dreams, voices, visions, messages, and not forgetting the bluebells … they are communicating, and I can’t walk away. I know I can’t.”
“We want you home, Dad. Please.” She embraced him with all the love she felt in her heart.
Brodie gently pried her away and looked at her with resignation. “My fate is bound up with that painting and it won’t let me go. You felt its power when you touched it. That wasn’t static as the Abbot wanted you to think. Most people experience nothing … so I would say that in some way, you are also connected. How? I’ve no idea. But I don’t want you caught up in it. When I leave from here, I want you to go back to Ulla and tell her I will find my way back to you as soon as I am released from this curse.”
“But Dad…”
“My lovely daughter, you have brought me happiness I would not have believed possible, and I don’t want harm to come to you. I’ve no right to tell you to leave, but I’m asking … no, not asking, begging you to leave. Bad things are going
to happen again, and soon. I can sense that and so does Maria. We’ve never been wrong and what she thinks, I know, because I hear her thoughts in my head.”
“I told you I’m staying with you, no matter what happens. Your begging bowl is empty, Dad. You won’t change my mind. Let’s join the other two.”
She steered a confused Brodie back to the veranda.
Maria stood as they approached. “It’s getting cooler. Let’s step inside where we can feel more comfortable.”
“Good idea,” Garcia said. He had returned and seemed to have calmed down. “In the car, I’ve got some photographs of this Shepard weasel, plus, I forgot that I have a bottle of Drambuie somewhere. Rusty Nail, here we come!”
Everyone chuckled as they moved inside.
Garcia headed out to his vehicle, reached inside, grabbed the photograph and then the Drambuie which was wedged in the dashboard locker. He stood, and for a moment, he weighed the situation and events of the last forty-eight hours. He was on to something big … but what? He couldn’t figure it out yet.
It was then he caught sight of a balloon of dust, as a vehicle barrelled at some speed towards the property.
Who can that be? He huddled behind the gates and waited to see who it was.
The vehicle, an ageing Land Rover, came to a broadside halt in a shower of gritty dirt and sand. The engine switched off, and a small but powerful man emerged, clutching a clipboard and wearing a denim suit festooned with pens and pencils from the pockets, with two cameras hanging off him.
Garcia moved to meet him as the man approached the gate.
“Hi there.” An arm was thrust out and Garcia found himself shaking it. “I’m Luke Majors. I’m doing research on ancient and medieval monasteries of old Spain, for National Geographic Magazine.” He waved an ID tag hanging from his neck. “Can I speak to the owner? Is that you?”
Garcia felt an alarm bell give a soft ring in his head. He didn’t know why, but his instincts had never failed him yet. Something about the soft West Coast American accent, the missing consonants, the timing of the man’s arrival …
“It’s not me,” he replied. “She’s inside and may be sleeping. Let me check.” Why am I saying that? “If you would care to remain where you are, I’ll be back soon.”
“Thank you, sir, much appreciated.”
Garcia strode quickly into the room where they were all seated. He handed his portfolio to Brodie and placed the Drambuie on the table.
“Outside, we have our first visitor.”
“What? Who is it?” The Condesa looked suspicious.
“A guy called Luke Majors. He claims he’s from National Geographic and doing research on ancient and medieval monasteries of Spain. He wants to speak with you.”
“This is too much of a coincidence. First, Shepard appears, and now this total stranger. What do you think?”
“It’s got a smell about it I don’t like. I’ll tell him you’re not available.” He turned to leave when they heard a voice behind them.
“Well, well, well … I was hoping it wouldn’t be as difficult as this.”
The unmistakeable American voice caused them all to swing around. Framed in the doorway and holding a suppressed Beretta in his outstretched hand, stood the man who called himself Luke Major.
CHAPTER 18
Abbot Louis was worried and on edge. As one of the painting’s guardians, he was aware that at any moment, someone could come and take it away. The monastery was not a closed order, and parts of it were open to the public, so they could participate in everyday mass and holy days of obligation. The gates opened and were shut at specific times of the day. From this, he calculated that anybody with a view to stealing something would have little trouble entering.
No announcement had been made about the painting, nor would there ever be. He remembered Brodie’s words … ‘They will come.’ The Abbot truly believed these words came from God. Those in need of its help would be drawn to it and receive its healing grace. That’s the way it has always been for more than two thousand years since the original painting was created by Annas Zevi.
Juan de Borgoña’s version of The Raising of Lazarus had self-destructed, as had all paintings before it. Abbot Louis suspected that Brodie’s version would follow the same fate when a new artist has been chosen to create the next version. When this will happen, nobody knew.
He looked at his watch, and true to the minute, the gates were opening and a small flock of the faithful moved inside. The numbers had diminished over the years. For that, he felt sorrow. He recognised most of them by sight, and when mass was over, and farewells were given on departure, he went out of his way to ensure he spoke to everybody.
The Abbot spent more time with new faces. In this secular age, he understood that new blood was always required.
There’s a face I don’t know.
He saw a tall, thin man with silvery hair and eyes like grey flint stones making his way out into the warmth of the sun. His head was bent, and there appeared to be an air of sadness around him.
“Hello, friend. I haven’t seen you before.” Abbot Louis extended his hand.
It was firmly taken and shook. “No, Father. I’m a recent convert,” lied Shepard in reasonable Spanish. Confident that the Abbot could not have heard of him.
“A convert, eh? That’s something we don’t often hear around these parts. You are more than welcome. Have you a few spare minutes? We could have coffee and chat.”
“Yes, I would like that. Lead on, Father.”
Within five minutes, Shepard sat opposite the Abbot, sipping coffee from a delicate porcelain cup and indulging in small talk. He shared the circumstances that led to his conversion.
But as his guest bent forward to place his cup on the table, Abbot Louis caught a glimpse of Shepard’s shoulder holster. A pang of alarm went through him. He decided not to mention it and get the man out of the monastery as soon as possible.
“I hear you have a small art collection here, Father. Depicting various miracles, like Christ’s raising of Lazarus and other events. Would it be possible to look at them?”
The Abbot made the pretence of looking at his watch. “Oh dear, not at the moment, I’m afraid. We have the builders in, and I have a meeting in a few minutes. You can return once the builders are done and I would be happy to show you the gallery.” He stood, a smile still plastered on his face, but clearly terminating the meeting.
Shepard paused and then he, too, rose to leave. It was as he thought. Once inside the monastery, it wouldn’t be difficult to find what he was looking for. The Abbot had not denied the presence of the Lazarus painting. “Another time then.” Shepard smiled as the Abbot led him out.
Once outside, Shepard activated his cell phone.
§
“Who the hell are you? Get out.” Maria moved forward but Garcia held her back.
“He’s got a gun. Don’t be stupid. National Geographic, my arse!”
Brodie pushed Martha behind him. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Who I am is of no consequence. Just do as I say, and you will not be harmed.” He swung his gaze around them all, and his pistol followed his gaze.
Then, it dawned on Garcia. “John D. Bower, I bet. I’d put money on your rigged gaming tables!”
From the expression that crossed the man’s face, Garcia knew he had scored a bull’s eye.
“Shut the fuck up, whoever you are, or you won’t see daylight much longer.”
At that moment, Martha moved to one side, away from Brodie. Her stare was fixed on the man and she approached him.
“Come no closer! I abhor violence, if you must know. Don’t force me.” A tinge of doubt could be heard from his voice, more so when he saw the T-shirt she was wearing. He held up his palm. “Stop where you are! What is that you’re wearing and where did you get it? I’ve seen that image before.”
Martha turned to an anxious looking Brodie. “Dad, he’s seen this before?” She indicated the logo on her T-shirt
.
“Holy Saints!” Brodie looked shaken. “I don’t understand what’s happening here.” He answered for Martha. “That image is carved into the side of an English hillside and it’s called The White Horse of Uffington. It’s over three thousand years old. Somehow, it’s connected us all here. Even though you’re threatening us with a pistol, you are part of this story. Where have you seen it?”
Before Bower could reply, the ringtone of his phone cut through the air. “Shit.” He glanced at the screen. It was Shepard. “Stay back, all of you.” He waved the gun at them.
Brodie gasped as ancient memories surfaced in his mind. Deus Vult! Beauséant!
Centuries of history arose once more in his being as he prepared to launch himself at the man.
No, Brodie … no! He will harm Martha! The Condesa’s words ripped into his psyche, stopping him in his tracks. It was like old times and nothing had changed between them. Not yet! Not yet!
He pulled back.
Bower continued to talk to Shepard, never taking his eyes off his captives. He spoke rapidly into the phone. “I guess we’re getting close. We’ll follow it up. I’ll see what I can find out here.”
Without being seen, Garcia activated his voice recorder. He didn’t want to miss any of this.
Bower ended the call and pocketed his phone. However, he didn’t know what his next move should be. He got side-tracked and remained transfixed by the horse on Martha’s T-shirt. It was exactly like the image depicted on his canvas. An image he had not painted himself! He was inwardly in the grip of a mysterious uncertainty. All his investigations into philosophical and religious conundrums had somehow exemplified themselves in the strange sequence of events that were beginning to surround him. There’s something here I don’t understand, and that damned horse is part of it. Yet, I can’t waste time on that. “I’m here to locate some lost art, but my colleague has just told me that he thinks he’s found it.”