by Ken Fry
Grabbing her cell phone, she scanned her contacts to find his number. “Yes! There it is.” She pressed the key and waited. Whatever the time was there, she didn’t care. If she persisted, surely, he would answer?
She got the ‘Please leave a message’ routine.
“Sod that! I’ll ring every five minutes ‘til I get a reply.”
§
Luciana was stable. From what both Brodie and Garcia could gauge, her wound was superficial, and the main danger was from severe shock and trauma. The bleeding had stopped, and the bullet had exited cleanly and lodged into the adjacent wall. The prospect of calling in doctors or an ambulance would involve a lot of awkward questions … and lives would be at risk. When they had suggested it to Luciana, she had shaken her head emphatically and whispered a vehement, “No!”
Brodie could not sleep. His mind was awash with a thousand unsolved issues and concerns for his newly found daughter and her mentor, his mystic link, the Condesa.
In that restless parade of memories, he thought he heard Garcia’s cell phone ringing. It stopped as soon as he tried to listen harder.
Garcia had fallen asleep and was oblivious to anything.
Brodie was now wide-awake. Five minutes later, he thought he heard it again, and the phone was inside Garcia’s pocket, out of immediate reach. There was only one thing to do. He shook him hard by the shoulder.
“Ned! Ned!” He was half shouting. “Wake up, please wake up. Your phone keeps ringing. It could be important.”
No response. He shook him harder. This time, Ned’s eyes opened but the phone had stopped ringing.
“What? What’s the matter?” He looked annoyed as his eyes blinked rapidly, struggling to deal with the light.
“Your phone’s been ringing every five minutes or so. Someone is desperate to reach you. It must be important.”
“Oh God. Let me have a look.” He fumbled around, not remembering quite where he had put it. As he found it, it burst into ringtones again. “Oh, bloody hell, someone is serious.” He didn’t recognise the number. “Hello? Ned Garcia speaking. Who is this and it had better be good. Do you know what time it is?”
The reply startled him. “Sorry to wake you, Ned. It’s Ulla. I’m worried about Martha. I’ve not heard from her. Where are you? What’s going on? Do you know?”
“Jesus, Ulla! What…”
His words went no further. Brodie snatched the phone from his hand.
“Ulla?” he half yelled. Just saying her name caused in him a torrent of raw emotion and his hand, with knuckles turning white, gripped the phone.
“Ned, I can hear you. No need to shout.”
Brodie’s head tilted backwards. Pain shot through him. The sound of her voice … he had not heard it for over seventeen years. And with it, in one rush, came in all the memories, hopes and fears … passing over him like a sunken buoy, its bell ringing a perpetual knell of sadness. He collapsed on the sofa.
Garcia took the phone from him. He had never seen a man sob so.
He could hear Ulla. “Ned, Ned, what’s going on?”
“That wasn’t me, Ulla.”
“Who then?”
Garcia hesitated, and took a deep breath before replying. “It was Brodie. He’s too upset right now to speak to you.”
Silence.
There was a gasping sound from the other end, followed by a choking cry.
No words.
“Ulla, steady please, I don’t need any more waterworks around me. I have something to tell you. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening,” she whispered.
“Martha is with the Condesa Maria and she’s safe for the moment.” As soon as he said that, he wished he hadn’t.
His statement sliced through Ulla’s spiralling emotions. “What did you say? What do you mean she’s safe at the moment? Where is she?” There was alarm in her voice.
Garcia turned his head to look at Brodie who was still slumped on the sofa with his head hanging down. He would be of little help to him in his current state.
“We don’t know where they are. It’s that phoney Pastor’s backer, who we now know is John D. Bower. They came in here armed, and there was nothing we could do. They took Martha and the Condesa Maria but promised to return them safe after we hand over Brodie’s painting.” Garcia faltered. He didn’t know what else to say. To tell Ulla that the maid had been shot would only compound her distress.
“Enough!” Brodie’s voice cut through Garcia’s uncertainty like a hot knife through butter. He was standing upright. His eyes, red and raw, glinted dangerously. He looked like a man on fire.
Garcia automatically handed him the phone, turned and walked from the room. This conversation was not for him to hear.
“Ulla, is that really you?” Brodie spoke like a man who had lost and found a beloved and missing pet.
Her voice, choked with emotion, drove into his mind … causing dark corners to come and step out into the light.
“Brodie. Oh, my lovely man. This is all too much. We must leave tears and our sadness behind for another time. We must think of Martha and Maria. Oh God, this is all too much!”
“Ulla, my beloved Ulla, I have always loved you and have never stopped. But you are right, there’s a time and place for these things. I promise you that. I also promise we will get them back safe, no matter what it takes. You and Ned have each other’s numbers, so keep your line open and keep in touch. We must go now…” His throat tightened. “Your voice. Your voice, Ulla, I’ve missed you so…”
She interrupted. “I know. I feel the same. To hear you after all these years…”
Before she put down the phone, Brodie heard her sobbing.
The conversation had been brief, but he understood the strength and the emotion behind it. It was all that was needed to resurrect him back from the dead.
CHAPTER 21
Abbot Louis, uncertain of his role in this unfolding episode, sipped gingerly at his black, unsweetened tea. Life was complex as, indeed, were the mysteries of Christ. He had, of late, been troubled by dreams that could challenge his faith. All religious people experienced such things. Yet, underpinning it all was the presence of Brother Baez’s artwork of the resurrection of Lazarus. In some way, the painting had driven him into a sacred world that had washed him clean. At times, as he gazed upon it, he had felt its power. He had always turned away before he could know more. Indeed, he thought that attempting to do so was inappropriate. What there was, was what there was. God needed no explanation, no identification.
His tea almost finished, he placed his porcelain cup back on the saucer and felt a compelling urge to visit the gallery and look at the painting.
Breaking the lonely hush of the gallery, his thick, leather sandals slapped on the stone floor, intruding on the surrounding, almost sacred, hushed silence that confronted him as he walked into the area.
Alone.
He could almost swear that the presence of the Lazarus painting had a magnetic force of its own … drawing him inevitably to its presence. So strong was its power, he could have walked to it blindfolded without error.
He guessed that somewhere, somehow, a change was blowing in the breeze of life. He reached the painting and stood stock still as he gazed upon it, and involuntarily knelt on one knee with his head bowed.
After what seemed a respectable moment of time, he lifted his head.
The work shimmered.
He could only gasp.
The truth of it had become undeniable.
“What must I do? What do you want from me?”
There was no reply. Only what he thought was an unexpected slight smile on the face of Christ.
At that moment, he knew he was amongst a very few select people who had an intimate understanding of what might be happening around the work. He knew now that it had its own reason for existing. Life, death rebirth – were one never-ending circle throughout the universe, until the Second Law of Thermodynamics gobbled them all up and only God eterna
lly remained, beyond the physics and quantum realms he had created. Brodie’s painting said it all. Somehow, beloved Brodie had been chosen – a sinner, a robber, but a man of immense understanding and humility. With those wonderful qualities were reflected the hopes of humankind.
From what he knew, from what he understood, the work could protect itself. Yet, he sensed danger for all of them – the armed man, his questions, the meeting between Martha, Brodie, Condesa Maria and himself. Somehow, we are all characters destined to play out a mysterious plot.
He arose from his bent knee and stared squarely at Brodie’s work. Tentatively, he reached out to touch it.
They connected.
His fingers would not leave. They could not.
Power.
The surge continued. It juddered up his arm and around his spine, before it enveloped his entire body.
He realised that Christ was arming his soldiers.
Then, he collapsed in an ecstatic heap upon the stone floor.
§
Silas Shepard was beside himself. With the hostages, he knew the painting was almost in his grasp. If anybody was going to get it, it would be him. But how would he eliminate Bower and his cronies? That would take some working out, but as yet, he needed them.
In front of him were his major assets; Martha Stuart, daughter of the Lazarus artist, Ladro, and the Condesa Maria Francesca de Toledo.
They were priceless.
“You two bitches,” he commanded. “Here’s my phone. I want you to contact those two back at Guadamur. When they’re on the line, give the phone back to me. I’ll be listening, so no tricks or you know what to expect.” He passed the phone across.
Maria took it, punched the number, but handed it to Martha instead. “Brodie will answer.”
Shepard removed his Smith & Wesson and pointed it in the direction of the two women. “You say hello and you’re safe, and then hand it over to me, or I’ll slap this old witch around a bit.” He grabbed the Condesa by her neck and held her fast.
Maria made no effort to avoid him but nodded to Martha.
The phone rang a few times before the anxious voice of Brodie answered and asked who was calling.
“Dad, it’s me, Martha.”
The phone was taken from her and she was waved aside with Maria at gunpoint.
“Martha, are you alright? Where are you?”
“So … there you are, Ladro. We speak at last.”
“You’re the religious impostor Pastor Silas Shepard, I guess. My daughter, and the Condesa Maria … they’ve done you no harm. Just let them go. I’ll help you get what you want. Where’s Bower?”
“No questions. Just listen and do as you are asked. The sooner you do, the sooner these ladies will be released. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“I want the Lazarus painting and I want it quick. You are a monk and know the Abbot well. You will persuade him to release it. Then, when you have it, you will send me a video recording of you holding it. When that’s done, we can negotiate the next step.
“This could take a day or so.”
“I know, so you’d better start moving. Do this if you want to see your beloved daughter again.” He switched off the phone and shoved Maria away.
“I wanted to ask how my maid Luciana was as she was shot.”
“Who cares?” He shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll find out on the next phone call.”
“You’re a right bastard. You will never get what you want from this.”
“Yes, I will. We need a subject, someone ill or wounded. Since you two are so fond of it, either of you would be ideal. It wouldn’t refuse you, would it?”
“You’re so sick.”
“You’ll be sicker if it doesn’t work.”
CHAPTER 22
Monasterio de San José de Nazaret
Nr. Segovia, Spain
Abbot Louis’s desk phone gave three sharp rings. For once in his life, he ignored it. He was lost in a reverie of spiritual amazement. His body remained buzzing from the energy the painting had released when he had touched it. He was overawed and continually crossed himself, giving thanks to God and Christ and getting more confused in the process. So, it is true. It does have divine power. Now I know it to be true. God be praised.
The phone began ringing again. He managed to refrain from letting out an uncharacteristic curse. “Abbot Louis speaking.”
“Father Abbot, it’s me, Brother Baez.”
“Brother, you sound worried.”
“You could say that. Martha and Maria have been taken hostage by an American and two others. Her maid, Luciana, has been shot … but she’ll survive. To release the women, they want the Lazarus painting in exchange. If we don’t give it to them, I hate to think what might happen. Whatever it takes, Father, we must get them back.”
There was a pause. Abbot Louis found it hard to take in. He had just discovered the most wonderful thing he had never known, and now it will be removed from his care. Yet, there was no way he could allow the women to suffer.
“What do you suggest, Brother?”
“I have to collect the painting, video it on a phone, and send that to the man, Pastor Shepard, who is working with a casino owner named John D. Bower. I will then await further instructions, presumably a drop-off point. I have no idea where they might be.”
“Then, you’d better get here as quick as you can.”
“No, Father Abbot, it will have to be the other way around. You must come here with the painting. We can’t leave Luciana. She’s not out of the woods yet, and we’re taking turns looking after her. As it is, it looks like I might be in for another unknown and possibly long journey. Can you spare the time? We need to do this, Father, so I can try and save the ladies from harm.”
Abbot Louis knew he had no choice. He put down the phone with a heavy heart. Ever since his days as a seminarian so many years ago, and as a young man, he had dreamt in the secret confines of his heart for a sign – a miracle from God that he had made the correct choice in his life. Now, just when he had been graced with such a vision, an actual experience, it was about to be taken from him. He placed his head in his hands, removed his steel-rimmed spectacles, and began a prayer. He thanked the Almighty for the one small, but highly significant event He had bestowed upon him after all these years. It was a rare privilege, a bestowal of grace, and he got but only honour from it.
Rare, indeed.
Transitory and without permanence.
Don’t dwell on it.
He could only be positive about it, and he swore the memory of what happened in the gallery would never leave him until he died.
Ten minutes later, vowing to be positive, and carrying a large, thick blanket, he walked back into the gallery to stand once more, with a heavy heart, in front of The Raising of Lazarus. He said a silent prayer. He could not bring himself to look upon it before covering the frame, removing it from the wall, and carrying it out to his waiting car. He told his deputy that he could be away for several days but would keep in contact.
§
Guadamur
Brodie checked his watch. He reckoned it would take another four hours before Abbot Louis got to him. Garcia was busy with his voice recorder and making assiduous notes. Luciana had managed to sit up and drink a bowl of chicken soup and was out of danger unless the wound decided to fester.
“Ned, may I borrow your phone?”
“Sure. Who do you want to call?”
“Ulla. I must speak to her, please. Her number’s there on your phone, right?”
Garcia handed him the phone and tactfully removed himself from the room.
Brodie paused, trying to work out what he was going to say, but nothing came to mind. He decided to play it by ear. What he didn’t want to do was alarm her. There were so many other things he wanted to say … but this was not the time or place. He punched the number.
After several rings, he once again heard Ulla’s distinctive voice answer.
“Ned, how are th
ings over there? Do you have any news?”
For a fraction of time, he didn’t know what to say.
“Hello?” Ulla repeated.
“Ulla, it’s not Ned. It’s Brodie.”
Her gasp was audible. Her voice, beseeching, was edged with panic. “Oh Brodie, Brodie, what’s happening? Is Martha safe?”
Her voice rolled the years back for him, but he had to stay focused for both Martha and Maria’s sakes.
“They are safe. I have spoken to their captors and they want the painting in exchange for their freedom. I’ve a feeling they will be asking me to deliver it soon.”
“Is there no other way?”
“No, there isn’t. But don’t worry, I know from what still lurks inside me that the work can look after itself. Another artist is being called upon, Ulla. That’s what this is all about. We will know soon enough. But right now, I just want the Condesa back and my newly-found daughter.” His voice cracked. “I will get them back safe, I promise you. Then, we can be together once more if that’s still what you want.” It all seemed so rushed, so out of context. But he didn’t know what the right words were, if they even existed. As the silence lengthened, he waited with trepidation for her rejection.
Her reply was soft, warm, and emotional. “Brodie, all these years, that is all I have ever, ever wanted – for us three to be together. Can you promise me?”
“I promise you.” As he made the promise, he knew deep within he was not as confident as he made her think.
He prayed.
Please, dear God, let it be. I have served you and my sentence has been long enough. What your deeper intention is here, I cannot know … but I did what you asked of me. I accepted the mantle, the yoke, and have known little happiness since that day. I never want you to leave me, but I want my missing years back. Am I beyond redemption? Beyond forgiveness? Please, keep Martha and the Condesa safe for they have done little wrong.