The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection
Page 42
Brodie looked over to Maria and she gave a slight shake of her head.
Garcia made no movement, but simply said, “Lazarus is alive and well and living in Spain, if you catch my drift.”
Bower looked across to the Condesa. “Let me guess. You’re the pistol-packing mama who got herself cured by this guy’s painting, and she’s his daughter. But what fatso next to her does, I have no idea. So, what am I going to do? Let me tell you.” He made a one-handed call on his phone. It was answered at once. “Okay, guys, come on down. Everything is under control. Enter through the main door, I’ll be waiting.” He turned to the four. “My men will be here in a few minutes. They’ve been waiting up the road a short way back, and they can be very persuasive when put to it. So, you’d better behave yourselves, eh?”
“What is it you want us to do?” Brodie asked.
“We want the painting and we want the whole world to know of its existence. Hiding it away in some crummy little monastery is a waste of its potential. It could be the biggest money-spinner in the religious world, far exceeding fakes like The Shroud of Turin or Lourdes. Already, a vibrant church is being built around it, and followers are lining up to join the Lazacrucian movement. We’re going to get exceedingly rich. I bet it wouldn’t look out of place in The Book of Miracles.”
That remark confirmed it for Garcia. This man is Bower and he possessed the ancient book.
Martha spoke, her voice soft, low and aimed at Bower. “I don’t know what that book is, but the painting won’t work for you right now. I don’t know how I know that, but I feel it. Your horse will not let you go yet. You have much to go through.”
A look of puzzlement crossed Bower’s face. “Rubbish.”
“I think she’s right.” Maria was calm and composed. “What then?”
“Ah, my men have arrived. All of you up against the wall, please.”
There was a noise as George, followed by Man One, hustled in looking like two half-chewed beef burgers with the ingredients oozing from them. They both held firearms.
“Did you do as I asked?”
“Yes, boss. We have the keys. We paid three months rental, and all is ready. Who’s coming with us?”
A silence descended like a heavy wet blanket.
“What?” Brodie roared. “No one is going anywhere!”
Bower nodded at Man One who strode over and grabbed the Condesa Maria by the arm. Brodie lunged at him but a sharp pistol whip to his head dropped him like brick.
“Dad!” Martha screamed. But before she could reach him, George had hauled her back by her long hair, causing her to crash across an empty table.
Maria was without her pistol and doubted whether it would be of any use in this situation. Brodie was groaning on the floor, a small trickle of blood oozing down his temple.
Man One grabbed a terrified Maria and pulled her towards the door, and George did the same with Martha.
Garcia was frozen to the spot. Rough stuff was out of his league.
Bower looked down at Brodie. “Do as you are told, and they will come to no harm. We’ve rented a farmhouse in a city north of Madrid, so you can’t get too close.” He reached out and grabbed Martha by the ear, pulling her close. “I’m certain that you recall the John Paul Getty 111 kidnapping in 1973. Instructions weren’t followed, so he didn’t look too good when his ear was cut off. Are you following me?”
“Leave her here, please. I beg you, take me instead.” Brodie’s voice cracked with emotion.
“No chance. Besides, she’s prettier than you.”
“Why do you need to do this? Why take us?” Maria bristled.
“It will make things easier. With you two as hostages, we need not worry about the police, do we now?” Bower smirked and aimed his pistol at Brodie’s head. “You do understand, don’t you?”
“If you so much as harm a hair of her head…”
Bower cut him short. “Losing our saintly perceptions, are we? This is what’s going to happen. You will all remain here until you hear from me later. Don’t contact anybody, or it will be all the worse for these delightful ladies. You will await my instructions, no matter how long it takes. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Dad, I’ll be okay. He won’t harm me. Believe me. I don’t know how, but I know.” Martha’s voice trailed away, and her eyes widened in surprise.
“Let them go or I’ll blow your head off!” Luciana had entered unseen and forgotten through a side door, and in her hands, she held a large shotgun, pointed directly at Bower.
“No, Luciana. No! Put it down!” Maria’s warning came too late.
Man One pulled Maria in front of his body and without taking aim, blasted off a shot at Luciana.
Luciana gave a cry like a wounded animal, and dropped to the floor, as a series of moans rippled through her slim body.
“My God!” Brodie rushed to her, oblivious to the danger and the shrieks from both ladies. The bullet had entered her left shoulder and exited above the collarbone, narrowly missing her neck veins.
Garcia grabbed at a large tablecloth and rushed to Brodie, who immediately began to staunch the blood flow by pressing on the brachial artery opposite the elbow. He turned his head to speak to the intruders, but they had disappeared, together with their hostages. A feeling of sickening despair threatened to overwhelm him. He had to continue.
Garcia sprinted to the bathroom and located a medical kit. It contained gauze pads, bandages and adhesives, which with the tablecloth, would help stem the blood loss.
“Luciana, you’re going to be fine. The bleeding is under control. You’re going to be okay. Talk to me, Luciana. Talk to me, please. You are a very brave woman. Stay with us. Everything will be fine.” Brodie leant in closer, so he could check her wound. He knew he had to stay with her or she could die of shock.
At the same time, his insides were screaming for Martha and Maria. “Please talk, Luciana. Please.”
She began to speak, and Brodie brought his ear closer to her mouth, so he could hear what she was saying.
“It hurts, Señor. Where is Maria?”
“She’ll be fine. Don’t worry now. Stay still. We’re going to cover you with a blanket to keep you warm. We won’t leave you, I promise. You are safe.”
Luciana started shivering. Brodie could do nothing else but pray. He called for help, to anyone who might be listening … but there was no answer.
CHAPTER 19
The City of Pamplona, Spain
The car had bypassed Toledo on its over four-hour drive to the Gothic city of Pamplona, famous for its annual bull run which attracted thousands of tourists.
“Where are we going?” Martha asked.
“Somewhere out of the way,” Bower replied.
He’d been uncharacteristically silent during the trip and looked like a troubled man. Both Man One and George, however, looked pleased with their accomplishment.
When they reached the outskirts of the city, the car took a sharp left turn down a small turning, that then became a track leading down to a white, rustic building with large, brown, wooden window shutters. The car slowed to a stop in front of the building. A tall, skinny man wearing a clerical collar but packing a fat shoulder holster opened the front door. Pastor Silas Shepard smirked with an expression of triumph.
“We meet again, my lady, and not so high and haughty this time.” Shepard helped to propel her forward.
When Bower stepped out, however, he personally took Martha’s arm. Gently and almost protectively, he led her inside the building.
The interior was modest and designed as a family holiday home. Bower had chosen it with some care. They would be hunkering here for several days or more, if needed. There were five bedrooms, all lockable, and to which he had the keys. He had thought it through with care. All had en suite facilities, and for the ladies, he had made provisions for changes of clothes. Additionally, the cupboards and freezers were fully stocked. There would be no need for them to leave the building.
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“Make yourselves comfortable, ladies. We have satellite TV, so you can watch what you like at any time. George here is a careful man. He has disconnected all phone lines so there’s no point in trying to make any calls, and we have your cell phones. Don’t attempt to escape or involve the police and you will come to no harm. Understood?”
“Understood,” the Condesa replied and glanced over to Martha who nodded.
Shepard spoke, an air of triumph in his voice. “Tomorrow, we contact your father, and all he has to do is bring us the damned painting with no tricks or switches. That’s all there is to it. Simple. Once we are on our way, you will be set free.” He paused and added with a suggestion of menace. “There is just one thing ... We may need a demonstration of the painting’s capabilities.”
“Don’t be stupid!” Maria rushed at him but was stopped by Man One who stepped between them. “It can’t be ordered or compelled.”
“Who knows what it might do…” Shepard’s grin grew broader, “once it sees what its favourite old firecracker is up against, eh?”
“Shut up all of you.” Bower broke his silence. “I’ve some thinking to do, and you,” he pointed at Martha, “I want to speak to you alone. I’m not going to harm you in any way.”
“I know you won’t.”
“That’s the second time you said that. You don’t know me, so don’t get too confident. Let’s go into the other room and see what we can make of this.”
§
They sat facing each other. Neither blinked. Bower felt the need to speak before the silence grew uncomfortable.
“I don’t know why I’m talking to you like this, but you know something about what’s going on with me, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“That logo on your sweat shirt.”
“You were told what it was.”
“Yes, I was. I collect rare books and my big hobby is painting. A few days back, I was trying to paint a view of the Puenta de Alcantara bridge across the Tagus river. I then heard the most overwhelming sound of a bloody battle. Men were screaming and dying alongside their horses. I heard and saw the yell of ancient crusaders. Deus Vult! they said. Their battle cry shook me to the core, and then your damned horse galloped into view. I passed out and when I came to, my hands were covered in blood, but there was nothing around me that could have caused it. Everything looked normal. And then, I met you all and that horse is in your T-shirt. It’s all very strange. What can you tell me?”
Martha thought for a while. There was something about Bower. She trusted him in an indefinable manner, although his recent actions should put any trust way out into orbit.
“Why are you asking me? It looks as if all of us involved here are having the same experiences. You should talk to my father. He’d know.” Carefully, she related her own experiences, Maria’s, and those of Brodie’s in the past. “I would say, Mr. Bower, that you have a part to play in what’s going on here. I cannot believe you really want to steal this painting so that other man out there can make a fortune.”
“He needs me and don’t underestimate him or me, for that matter. We have our own agendas, which are dropping into place very nicely. What you have told me confirms one thing; this is no cock and bull story. There’s an element of truth in it and I’m more than anxious to discover what it is. Hopefully, that will not be too long now. Once we have this painting, I’d like to see it perform a miracle cure with my own eyes. Between us all, we should be able to achieve it like that.” He snapped his fingers.
Martha remained unfazed. “When you first saw me, you seemed unnerved. You know that what I’m saying is true. You’re in the midst of something you don’t fully understand.”
“You are a very confident young lady, but I want no part of this mystical religious nonsense. Now, get back in the other room with the others. I need to be alone for a few moments.”
She turned and left the room. What annoyed him was she seemed completely calm and unruffled. Most people were scared of him.
Bower turned to his easel which he had Shepard set up for him earlier. The last thing he wanted was to be seated in a room with those five all staring at each other.
His canvas beckoned to him and he pulled back the wooden shutters to gaze at the panorama of fields and trees that led further into the city beyond. In the distance, he could see the spires of the imposing Catedral de Santa Maria la Real Basilica, which took over one hundred years to build, and not far from the ancient fortress and walls.
Bower was particularly taken by the weathered stonework. He picked up a pair of binoculars to get a better view and began gauging the perspective he wanted to paint. For a moment, his world of money-making casinos and a miraculous painting were forgotten. Art was his panacea.
He made a soft pencil outline of the scene. The door suddenly swung open and Shepard walked in. Bower glared at him.
“I thought I said I didn’t want to be interrupted.”
“I know, but I thought you might like this.” He handed him a large bourbon in a heavyweight cut glass tumbler. He held another in his other hand.
“Put it on the table, will you? All okay out there?”
“More or less. The old bat is worrying about her maid.”
“Too bad. She’ll find out when we contact them tomorrow. How’s the other one behaving?”
“She’s weird … just stares into the distance without an expression on her face. Are you sweet on her or something?”
The stainless-steel palette knife was thrown with such force it shattered the bourbon glass Shepard had been holding in his hand.
“What the fuck! What did you do that for?” Shepard reached for a handkerchief to mop up the spilt drink. When he looked up at Bower, he found himself staring into the barrel of his Beretta.
“Not another word, not another remark or insinuation, or my finger on this trigger might get jumpy. Piss off out of here, or I’ll call in George and Man One who would no doubt enjoy having some recreation with your skinny body. Now get! And before you go, pick up all the broken glass. If there’s any left, I’ll slice you with it.”
Shepard grabbed a roll of kitchen towel, picked up every piece, before retreating at a fast pace.
Bower reached for his drink and took a heavy gulp, running his fingers across his brow. I’m really beginning to hate that creep. He paused and thought of Martha and her almost sublime, enigmatic way of dealing with him. As if she was some sort of druidess like Fedelma, a banfili who possessed visionary and weird prophetic abilities.
He gave his drink another pull, took another look through his binoculars and then picked up his brush and commenced with a wide sweeping arc of colour across the canvas.
It happened again…
His brush had its own agenda. It would not go where he directed it.
“My God! What’s happening?” he exclaimed. “Martha, quick here!”
Broad, swift strokes … and no matter how hard he tried to stop it, the brush continued of its own volition.
The door burst open with Man One holding on to a wide-eyed Martha’s arm and his gun in the other. “Boss, what is it?”
“Never mind that. Leave her here. Get out!”
Man One, used to Bower’s outbursts, scuttled from the room.
“What is it?” Martha sounded uneasy.
“Look at that.” He pointed to his canvas near the window. With a shaky hand, he swiftly swallowed what was left of his drink. “I picked up my brush and the damned thing painted by itself. I swear to God I didn’t do it. It’s the same as what happened at that bridge in Toledo, and it’s full of red streaks dripping from the person riding that thing that’s supposed to be a horse. It was so fast I couldn’t control it. You seem to know so much, so tell me … what does it mean?”
Martha gazed long and hard at the work. In one manner, she thought it out of her power to comment. On the other, she had perfect consciousness of Bower’s emotions. In spite of his awfulness, she felt compassion for him.
She stared harder at the work and what she saw made her gasp. She recognised the figure astride the horse.
There was no doubt. It’s Spencarian form told her all.
“Listen, Mr. Bower. Don’t ask me to explain, but this is important. You must bring my father here at once. He will know exactly what is happening to you.”
CHAPTER 20
Uffington, UK
Ulla Stuart stood looking out at the darkness of the window with her phone pressed to her ear.
There was no reply.
She switched off with a shot of concern passing through her. She had been expecting a call from Martha but had heard nothing for twenty-four hours.
It was 11: 30 p.m. on a Friday evening and she had been unable to sleep. Wide-awake and anxious, she sensed something was wrong. She had called three times, but the result was always the same … zero.
Feeling a chill, she pulled her gown tighter around her and moved away from the window. She reached the drinks cabinet and poured herself another large shot of Jura. A shudder passed through her as she gulped down her drink.
She sat down on the fat, brown leather sofa and felt its coolness around her feet. Ulla curled them up underneath her gown to keep them warm. Grabbing her laptop, she checked her browsing history on Google … the usual stuff, weather, news, art and antiques, hidden mysteries – all the things that reflected her life. She clicked on ‘newspapers.’ All the early morning editions paraded before her. It was only when ‘The Times’ came into view did she realise she had one avenue of exploration left open. One she had forgotten about. Of course. Ned Garcia.