The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection

by Ken Fry

  It was plain and simple.

  It did not need pomp or glamour. It had an unassuming power of its own. The room went silent as if anticipating a miracle.

  Nothing.

  Both Shepard and Bower looked deflated. Shepard placed his hand on the canvas.

  Nothing.

  “How can this be miraculous? It’s a phoney,” he declared.

  Bower could not bring himself to touch it. That, he couldn’t explain.

  Maria’s voice interjected. “It is not a fake. I can testify to that.”

  Brodie added, “So can I. You shot and wounded the Condesa’s maid, Luciana. I saw it as we all did. What none of you here know was that later, when she gazed at the painting, her wound immediately healed. It was as if the bullet had never gone through her.” He turned to Maria and her face had become a picture of joyous wonderment. She held her hand over her mouth, before crossing herself hurriedly many times.

  “Is this true, Brodie, or are you attempting to fob us off?”

  “It’s true. So, what are you going to do now? You have your picture and I want my daughter back and the Condesa with her. I’ve kept my side of the bargain and done everything you asked.”

  There was silence.

  “I need proof of its abilities.”

  “I’ve just given you that and I don’t lie. If you’re expecting it to deliver a miracle on command, it doesn’t work like that. Belief and goodness have a lot to do with it.”

  “So … you have to be a believer for it to work?” Bower asked.

  “Not necessarily, but it helps, I guess.”

  “I’ve forever been fascinated by these sorts of stories and this is the most compelling I have seen or heard of. I need to see it work. Who are we going to choose then? We have you, the artist of this weird work … we have her,” he pointed at Maria, “and we have the Pastor here. He’s a churchman and he’s got a puffed-up eye. He sounds like a likely candidate with a ready-made condition. Or maybe, we need something more serious like another bullet wound.” He produced his Beretta and waved it at them all, as George and Man One, on cue, moved into position beside him.

  “You’re making a mistake, Bower. As I said, it can’t be made to work by your command. It chooses its moments and could be dormant for years. If you think you can force its hand, you’re very much mistaken. It won’t happen. It needs to be revered, even loved, and I don’t think you’re capable of that … are you?”

  The simplicity of Brodie’s statement unsettled Bower. He didn’t know what to do next.

  They stared at each other in a dance of undefined assessment.

  Everybody was looking at Bower.

  The sharp blast of a pistol shot shattered the stalemate.

  Man One, with blood spurting from behind his ear, hit the floor like a blacksmith’s anvil.

  Shepard’s voice bellowed across the room. “All of you stand still, exactly where you are, and place your hands above your heads! Anyone who moves even a finger will get the same treatment. Bower and George, drop your weapons. I mean it. Do it now and do it slowly.”

  Shepard was holding a small Colt Mustang pistol and stood in a classic Weaver firing stance. “I won’t ask you again. Do it … NOW!”

  Two guns clattered to the floor and hands were raised.

  Brodie looked across to Martha and the Condesa. Martha looked shaken and Maria’s expression was unreadable.

  He heard the Condesa’s voice in his head.

  Don’t do anything.

  I won’t yet.

  “Kick them over to me,” Shepard demanded, and George kicked the guns over to him.

  Keeping everybody covered, Shepard retrieved and pocketed the weapons.

  Bower blazed with a cold vicious rage. An electric charge zapped through his blood and bones. “Where did you get that, you slimy scumbag?”

  “You didn’t search me as well as you should have. It was strapped to my ankle.” Shepard smirked.

  Brodie spoke. “I can guarantee if you take this painting it won’t work for you, or anybody else who has anything to do with you and your phoney, so called, Holy Church of Lazarus.”

  “It doesn’t have to, but maybe it just will, on occasions. That’s a chance I’m prepared to take. You did say it could well do so. Trust me, I have no shortage of people who would attest to its power. Shame about Man One down there, it hasn’t worked for him, has it?” He continued, gesturing towards the Condesa. “You and the old bat there know more about this than anybody else alive. You painted it. She was healed by it. I heard there were earlier versions. What happened and where are they?”

  “They – as far as this world is concerned – self-destruct when the time is right, and a new artist is ready. Social and global circumstances come into play. There has been no way of knowing. It could take centuries … it could take a few years. That’s the way it has always been since Annas Zevi painted the first ever depiction of the actual event. Each work represents the age and time in which we live.”

  “You mean it could dissolve or go up in smoke?”

  “That’s what I mean. Can we cut this crap and do something about that man on the floor?”

  “Nothing you can do. He’s dead. God be praised!” He turned to Bower who had his eyes closed. “You praying or something, Bower?”

  Bower could not hear him.

  Brodie furtively glanced over at the ladies to see if they’d noticed. Martha was staring at Bower and Maria was staring back at him.

  Communication.

  §

  It was hot and sticky sitting inside the car and attempting to keep out of sight. Garcia’s patience was not endless. He had heard a gunshot but nothing after that. He had no idea what had happened in the house. He had clear instructions, do not call the police whatever happens, nor come near the house. There were no screams or shouts or signs of anybody moving around. Clearly, something bad had happened. For a few minutes, he considered his options. He could sit forevermore in the car, or he could creep up and maybe peek through a window. The thought that he could get shot or injured played a pivotal role in his mind. C’mon, Garcia, grow some balls! This is not a time to tremble in the back seat of a car. Get in there and see if you can be of use!

  With caution, he inched the door open and picked up the shotgun, aware that he had never fired one before. It had more power than a pistol.

  Bent low, he scuttled from bush to bush and inched his way to the back end of the building. He could only guess where they would be … or what he would see. He peered around the corner edging and ducked lower than the window level. Raising his head slowly, he could see he was looking into the kitchen area and it was empty. He moved along further to the next set of windows which were much larger. He raised his head again, hoping he wouldn’t be seen. One furtive glance and he knew instantly what had happened.

  A man was down, and everybody else was standing with their hands raised. Brodie and the ladies seemed unharmed. What am I supposed to do? One man had a gun and I don’t know how to use this thing! He lowered himself to the ground, trying to come up with a plan.

  Crawling back to the kitchen door entrance, he tried the handle. It wasn’t locked, and he pushed it open with caution. He prayed it didn’t squeak. Luckily, it swung open with silent ease.

  Heart thumping.

  Stomach churning.

  He was a doorway away from God knows what!

  Hesitation.

  §

  Brodie’s mind was on the pistol he had concealed on himself, but any move to reach it would be fatal. Shepard was not shy in putting bullets into people. It was as easy as double-crossing his partner. What happened next startled him.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the door opening, and the figure of Garcia emerging from behind it … and he was holding the shotgun.

  I told him to stay put!

  Shepard hadn’t seen him and had grabbed hold of a terrified Martha around the neck. Pressing the barrel of his gun against her head, he forced her to ho
ld the painting.

  “Keep your hands in the air. Now, no heroics or fancy work or she will be the worse for wear.”

  Martha did not put up a fight. In one stroke, Shepard had neutralised them all; her father, her mentor, and Bower who had some sort of link with her. George only acted under orders, and Bower was not giving any. None of them wanted her to come to any harm.

  “I’m leaving now. Don’t try to follow. I’ve got more than I want. If you thought for one moment, Bower, that I was going to let you run things and boss me about … you got that really wrong. No way would I want you pulling strings. No deal … no way!” He began to back off towards the door, when he caught sight of Garcia pointing a shotgun in his direction. His surprise was one hundred per cent. He didn’t hesitate.

  Before Garcia could speak, Shepard roared at him. “If you fire that, she’s as good as dead! Drop it, whoever you are!” He hauled Martha directly in front of himself as a human shield.

  “Ned!” Brodie bellowed. “For God’s sake, drop it.”

  Bower held George back. “It’s Fatso! Leave it! She mustn’t be hurt!” For a brief second, he thought he could jump Shepard. But the situation was too dangerous.

  Garcia lowered the shotgun.

  “Empty it now!”

  Garcia, looking confused, snapped open the barrels, allowing two cartridges to roll across the floor. He dropped the weapon and raised his hands. Nice move, Ned.

  Shepard continued to walk backwards towards the door, holding Martha in a tight grip in front of him, with the painting in her hands. “No one needs to get hurt. But if any of you show yourselves at the door, I’ll drop you and she will go with you. Got it? Let us leave.”

  “Got it,” Bower spoke first.

  “If you so much as bruise her...” Brodie stood upright with fists clenched tight as piano wire.

  Shepard ignored them and reached the door, opened it with one hand, and inched out into the sunlight and towards his car.

  They were powerless.

  Brodie reached for the Condesa’s pistol in his belt. He grabbed it, and without knowing why, handed it to Bower.

  Bower didn’t even look at him. He pushed his arm away. “He’ll kill her. No. Forget it for now.”

  With those words in his mind, a startled and fearful Brodie handed the gun back to Maria, who was standing so still she looked as though she had turned into a pillar of salt.

  In all four directions the wind blew … one for Brodie, one for Martha, another for Maria and one more for Bower. Their message was clear, strong, and reassuring for each of them.

  The spell broke.

  Martha crashed back through the door in a bundle of jitters

  Brodie rushed to her. She was unharmed but in a state of shock. “Dad, I’m okay! I’m safe. He’s gone with the painting. What do we do?” She began to shake.

  “I’ve no idea.” Brodie stroked her hair and spoke softly, trying to calm her down. “First of all, we have a body here we have to do something about.”

  Bower, uncertain of where and how he fitted into this scenario, feeling like a fart in an astronaut’s space suit, spoke out, “Leave Man One to me. We’ve no weapons, but we will soon.” He glanced at Martha, relieved that she was unharmed. He didn’t know why, but he had begun to accept that there was something between them. A white horse that galloped as fast as the four winds.

  Somehow, someway, they were connected. All his secret studies and interests in Biblical mysteries and anomalies had come down to this, and in a manner he could not explain. Bower slumped into the sofa, overwhelmed by a force he could not truly comprehend.

  George sat down beside him, faithful as ever, and put his arm around him. “Boss, what’s happening?”

  “I don’t know but stay with me.” He closed his eyes.

  Brodie stood firm with the Condesa Maria beside him, as The White Horse galloped onwards, ridden by the unmistakeable figure of Martha. It was closer, but for now, it was a gap too far.

  Bower surrendered.

  The Condesa Maria and Brodie knew. They had become as one. Martha was part of it too. Barriers had finally fallen. All the players were in place.

  Garcia looked at them all in a mood of expectancy, as if something miraculous was about to occur.

  Shepard sped away and his car vanished in a billowing cloud of dust.

  CHAPTER 27

  Uffington, UK

  The sound of the phone ringing gave her a start. Ulla had been expecting a call hours ago and anxiety had her in its grip.

  “Yes? Is that you, Martha?” She gabbled out in a hurried gush.

  “Ma, it’s me. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Where are you and Brodie? What’s been happening?”

  “Sit down, Mum. It’s a long story and yes, we are okay … just. The painting has been stolen.” Martha then began a lengthy explanation of all the events including the shooting and her near abduction.

  “That accursed painting will be the death of us all. As long as you are safe, that’s all that matters. I want you to come home. Let me speak to Brodie, please.”

  Martha handed the phone to her father.

  “Brodie?”

  “Ulla, we’re all fine, but the painting is with that Pastor Shepard. This damned episode won’t leave us alone and we are now all caught up in it. Martha won’t leave unless I do, but I can’t, and you know why.”

  “I’m coming over. I must see you both. You can’t imagine what it’s like here for me. I’d rather be there with you.”

  “Ulla, don’t come here, please. The worst is not over yet. Listen and believe me. I will bring Martha back safely, I promise. But please, I beg you, stay put.”

  They continued talking for another hour, comparing recent events with their experiences in the past.

  Finally, with a mutual yearning for each other, they said their goodnights.

  §

  Maria, Brodie and Martha were all looking at him, like the scene from John Wyndham’s, ‘The Midwich Cuckoos.’ Bower avoided their communal gaze.

  Meanwhile, George had rolled up Man One’s body and taken it to his car for disposal later. This was not a matter for the police. He returned with a mop and bucket and proceeded to wash away the drying-up blood. “What next, boss? That bastard’s gonna pay for this!”

  “I don’t know. Do something decent with Man One. Whatever you want to do, you’re free to do so. Go back to Vegas, if you want. You have enough funds to do anything you wish. Things have changed here and I’m all over the place, as you may have noticed.”

  There was a lengthy silence as George sat down beside Bower. “Never did like the food here, boss. No burgers to start with.” He patted Bower’s shoulders and stood. “I’ll see you back in Vegas.”

  “Keep people in order for me while I’m away, okay?”

  “That’s what I do best, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Have a safe trip.”

  George nodded to the others and left.

  They all sat in silence for a while before Brodie retrieved the shotgun and shells and approached Bower.

  “It’s about time you told us what’s been happening here. You’re as much to blame for our predicament as that other idiot who had just stolen a priceless artefact. You must have an idea where Shepard’s heading. Why are you hanging about here? You could catch up with him.”

  Bower said nothing. He was lost in his thoughts.

  Martha crossed the room and placed herself between them. “No, Dad, no. Whether we like it or not, I believe he is part of this. The four of us … we’ve all been brought here. Our horse has carried us all, including him.” She pointed to Bower. “He’s had the same visions we’ve experienced. Doesn’t that strike you as strange? It’s compelling for me. If you think about it, Dad, three of us here have plenty in common – we are all artists, painters, and we’ve all been seeing The White Horse, the bluebells, and receiving the messages.” She turned to Bower, whose face had paled, and every ounce of his previous confidence a
ppeared to have left him.

  “You are here for a reason, which I feel will unfold very soon. As soon as I saw you, something flashed into my mind about you and I knew deep within me that you were not capable of harming us. You’ve played the villain, the tough guy, but I knew it was all an act to be the man you imagined yourself to be. You are meant to be here. We need to talk about this.” Martha pleaded, hoping he would open up, or maybe help them find the painting.

  “What about me?” Garcia cut into the escalating atmosphere. “I’m not an artist, nor have I had visions like you. But I know I saw a miracle.”

  Before Brodie answered, he looked at Maria.

  She nodded.

  “Ned.” There was a lengthy pause.

  “Ned…”

  “What?”

  “We need you. You have a part to play here too. Scribes have existed since time began. Without them, we would know nothing. That’s why you’re here. To witness whatever will come to pass.” Garcia scoffed, but Brodie continued. “Your presence is as important as ours. The days of quills and vellum have gone. We now have smart phones, laptops, desktops and you can communicate from any place in the world. You must record everything you see and hear, no matter how bizarre it may appear. Besides, the world needs to know what’s been happening over the last of almost two decades. Sooner or later, if we don’t catch up with Shepard, something unpleasant will happen. Already, he has an army of adherents who are more than willing to serve him and take on board all the rubbish he will ask them to believe. His wealth will grow and by then, who knows what he’ll do?”

  Bower stood up and looked around at them all. When he spoke, his voice was shaky. “I don’t understand why I’ve been brought into this, but since the event at the bridge and in here when I tried to paint, things have not been the same for me. Let me repeat them so your scribe can record what I say. After I’m done, all of you had better relate your experiences. I also need to know.”

  He spoke at length and when he was finished he was unable to prevent the words Deus Vult from spouting from his lips.