The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection

by Ken Fry

  “Abbot Louis.”

  “What about Abbot Louis?”

  “He’s become very quiet and has started drawing.”

  “That’s goddamned weird. What’s he drawing?”

  “I’m not sure. He covers it up if I try to peek. He makes the excuse that he is no good compared to us and is shy. I found this in the waste bin.” She reached into her pocket and produced a folded sheet of cartridge paper. With care, she placed it on the front of Bower’s car and smoothed it out flat.

  “Holy shit!”

  “It takes some believing, doesn’t it?”

  Looking up at them, as a pencil drawing, was The White Horse of Uffington.

  “We’re not alone then.”

  “We can only wait and see.”

  She helped load his easel and stool into the car. “Don’t go too far or too long. We may need you, as you know.”

  “I know, but this must be done. You know that.”

  “I know, and I have the same compulsion. We shall see what each of us produces.” She squeezed his arm, turned and walked away.

  §

  Thirty minutes later, Martha stretched out her arms and legs and absorbed the warmth of the sun caressing her entirety. She wondered what she would paint. She set out her painting tools and checked that she had everything she needed. Her thoughts strayed to Ulla. She could not possibly reveal what was going on for it would drive her mother insane. She looked back at the events realising that the days came and went, and she had lost track of time. In her own quiet way, she had been steeling herself for this event. Not the violence about to erupt, but the culmination of what she had felt and seen in Uffington.

  Be happy, for it is almost time.

  Like the Condesa and Brodie had done so many times before her, Martha’s gaze followed the contours of the distant hills that rippled and undulated across the backdrop as far as the eyes could see. She inhaled deeply, letting out the air in small sharp bursts. She imagined she was blowing away all her anxieties, her personal doubts and sadness into those distant hills and mountains, where they would be absorbed and buried until they bowed and withered away before the vast hand of eternity. She knew without a doubt that Maria’s home, once a monastery was blessed with some ancient mystery – a mystery that had embraced her family. It was all around and had seeped into the very fabric – the stone walls, and the ground – it was built on.

  She began to mix her paints, with no real idea of what she was about to do. The canvas was a mystery about to unfold.

  The sun had risen higher on the blue and cloudless sky, and for any artist, the light was a gift from heaven. Her brushes possessed a life and magic of their own over which she had little control.

  Panels of darkness.

  Panels of light.

  Figures, first here, and then there, began formulating into a recognizable image.

  She mopped at her brow. She lost all notion of time in a swirl of colours, light and shade. If something was not quite right, she would correct in any number of ways that artists are capable of.

  Almost five hours later, she had finished. She stood back to evaluate what she had accomplished.

  Her heart almost stopped.

  During the time she had been painting, she had been locked off from what she was creating. But now... she could see.

  §

  Brodie and Garcia were busy making fortifications. At present, they had three guns plus a shotgun, and all phones were fully charged. A batch of sharpened hunting knives were deposited in hidden places that all would be familiar with. They also added one to their own personal weaponry. Garcia looked nervous and the Abbot refused to contribute on account of his religious vows. Brodie understood that their actions were no longer typical of monks. But what of the Templars? Were they not warrior monks? Custodio Baez, thought Brodie, was alive and well ... and still with him.

  Heavy blocks attached to ropes were positioned in strategic doorways, and a barrier of razor wire – originally meant to discourage the odd wolf ravages that had once alarmed the region – were mounted across all entrances. Hidden behind this was a swinging pendulum of weights attached to a massive swathe of the same wire. It could be operated from a distance. They worked on their defences all day.

  Trip wires were set up and the only danger was that they themselves would fall over them. Garcia tied temporary red ribbons on them to minimize the threat. The last thing they installed were two sets of double spotlights, in case of a night attack.

  After exhausting all ideas, Brodie prepared barricades that would be erected once Bower returned. His ideas, he would have to admit, had come from an old film he had loved so much, The Last of the Samurai.

  Dusting themselves down, they slumped into the chairs and let Luciana pour them two ice-cold beers. Brodie smiled to himself and chuckled. He saw Ned holding her hand and she seemed to like it. How bloody nice. Good on ‘em.

  Across the way, Martha appeared to have finished what she had been painting. He frowned. Painting around here was perilous. It had the possibility of unleashing dormant forces from ancient times. A tremor of fear passed through him. He remembered only too well his own experience with Lazarus and what it had done to him. Now that the painting has disappeared from this world, he knew there was a vacuum waiting to be filled.

  He had begged for her not to pick up the mantle. For if she does, her life as she knew it would be finished – forever subordinate to the work she herself had created.

  He stood, leaving Ned and Luciana together. With considerable trepidation, he walked over to his daughter.

  She had seen him approaching and moved to meet him, blocking his way as if to prevent him from seeing what was on the canvas.

  “Martha, it’s no use keeping it from me. That in itself says it all, doesn’t it?”

  She looked up at him. His eyes were dark with a creeping sorrow, and in a few minutes, ten years had been added to his lived-in face.

  “Please, Dad, no!”

  He pushed her aside to inspect what she had done.

  Encountering it was what he had expected and dreaded.

  Before him, in bewildering flames of colour made of rich reds, blacks, whites and purples, stood the central figures of Christ with eyes ablaze, and a sitting figure in white wraps.

  It was a new interpretation of The Raising of Lazarus.

  “No, I begged you!” He reached out to sweep it away and destroy it, but Martha grabbed his arm, pulling it sharply downward and away from her work.

  “No, Dad! No, you can’t do that! I don’t know what’s happening and nor do you. Nothing is final ... nothing is settled! This means nothing yet. Believe me as you believed yourself once all those years back. Trust what I’m telling you. In some ways, Dad, you’ve been set free. I don’t know my role here, but it’s not only me. John’s part of this too. Don’t do anything, please, until he gets back.”

  Brodie didn’t speak a word. He turned and walked away, leaving her confused and frightened. She felt cut off from him, lonely and full of fear. She covered her work with a small sheet. She barely noticed the sun’s partial eclipse.

  CHAPTER 43

  The bandages and strapping from around his body had been removed the previous day. It felt strange and almost breezy, but for Shepard, it was a good omen. He was on his way to recovery. The beating he endured had been brutal, savage, with a very real risk of leaving him permanently disabled in some way. In spite of the mishap, the mistake those two and their cohorts had made was to leave him alive. The alteration of his facial features and the devastation to his mental well-being were not forgivable issues. They would suffer once he got hold of them.

  The beating had all but scuppered his plans for an upsurge in members, subscriptions and goodwill donations. He had vowed revenge, and in that transaction, to repossess the painting of Lazarus.

  It would be true to say that Shepard was now deeply disturbed and dangerously delusional. He now believed his own lies and hyped-up nonsense. Within that dis
torted belief germinated the seed of a murderous and deeply disturbed individual, now bordering on the level of a psychopath.

  Three days later, his breathing had become much easier. He called in Alexis and Bruno for a swift discussion. They booked a flight for the following day to Madrid. It was a long shot, but his investigations had found no trace or sound of them in Cyprus. He was convinced that they had fled the island as they now had the painting. What was to be gained by them remaining here and under obvious threat? Nothing.

  Returning back to Spain had to be the logical choice. But where? The monastery where the painting was originally installed, or the converted monastery, the home of the crazy bitch Condesa? He would find out, but first, he would have to make sure they were no longer on the island. Then, he would decide.

  It didn’t take long.

  There was no trace of them on the island.

  It was time to return to Spain.

  With that thought, he upped Alexis and Bruno’s retainer fees, and booked a flight to Spain. His plans for the Holy Church of Lazarus were temporarily suspended.

  Blood was what he wanted, and if the painting came with that, so much the better.

  Thirty-six hours later, he was booked in at the Toledo hotel, Cigarral Bosque, located on a hill with superb views of the River Tajo. The views didn’t interest him. A certain property down in Guadamur occupied his entire thinking.

  The following morning, using two vehicles, he and his muscle men set off to Guadamur and to the home of the Condesa. This was to be a reconnaissance mission. It was essential they were not spotted, because from this, he would draw up his future plans for them all. He was certain that they would be there. That painting belongs to me and my church and nobody else. I need it and I must have it!

  It was not long before they were heading on the lonely track road that led to the Condesa’s home. They came to a stop alongside a rocky outcrop, which concealed their presence but commanded a view of the place. Alexis and Bruno sheltered behind, out of sight, and Shepard trained his binoculars on the imposing structure. What he saw confirmed his suspicions. The parked cars were a giveaway.

  He gave a start when he saw a figure. Focusing hard, he saw that it was Brodie. That confirmed it. They all had to be there with him. He watched for another half an hour and observed the Condesa and the Abbot moving about.

  All was confirmed. He now had to withdraw and consolidate plans for an assault.

  §

  The previous day...

  Bower drove away from the Condesa’s home with no destination in mind. All he knew was that he felt compelled to get away for a while. He had become too involved in something larger and more mysterious than anything he had ever known. He needed some space.

  He had a dream the previous evening. But whilst sensing its importance, he had forgotten what it was about – apart from the emotions forgotten dreams often leave behind. This compelled his journey, which gave him the same feeling as his dream.

  He avoided the main roads and settled for quieter back routes. He was an hour into his drive when he saw an escarpment with a view of the landscape, and deep into a wooded valley. It looked ideal and he doubted if he would discover anything better. It was isolated and as silent. Just the way he wanted.

  Bower turned off the engine and for a minute or two, he sat still to absorb the silence. He got out of the car and looked around at the lonely beauty of the surrounds. He could smell the sweetness of the air, the smell of oranges and of pine and lavender. Never before had he noticed the intensity of it all. Now, he was prepared to suspend the constant garbage that trickled through his mind and accept – just accept and nothing else – the magnificence of the natural scene presented to him. For the first time since he could recall, he felt a degree of a rare and unusual sensation. It was called … peace.

  Once he had absorbed the flavor of the surroundings, he unloaded his equipment, complete with bottles of water and a hip flask of scotch. What was in front of him told no lies and played no games. It was as it was ... nothing less, nothing more. The truth of life, he thought, was far less simple than he would have liked it to be.

  As he arranged his easel and canvas, unfolded the stool and sorted out his colours, Bower realised with certainty that this was just the beginning. He was struggling to let go of his grip on his past life. In the secret darkness of his soul, he knew there was a power that would give him the strength to open his heart to the world, but darkness surrounded him. He needed the darkness to be broken ... to be flooded with light.

  To hope ... that required courage. But whether there was reason to hope was another question entirely. He was being given a second chance in life and he was powerless to resist the onward march of change.

  Bower examined his palette. He had failed to clean it from the last time he had used it, but somehow it seemed unimportant and everything around him assumed the same unimportance. All was level and equal.

  He mixed greens, reds, black and yellow, and began to dip his brush into the ensuing mix. He had no need to look or survey the complexities of what stretched out across the horizon in front of him. In an almost feverish haste, he began to apply paint to canvas. The odd car or lorry would pass by, but he never heard or saw them. If asked, he would have told you that neither could he see the canvas, nor did he care to do so.

  It had its own life ... its own meaning. He was just the colourist.

  The sun ascended high into the sky and what he failed to notice was that this was the day and the time that a partial eclipse of the sun was to occur.

  The birds fell silent and not a breeze could be felt and not a leaf moved. The only audible sounds came from the panting breath of Bower and the sound his brushes made as they worked around the canvas.

  The eclipse diminished, yet Bower had barely looked up. If he had noticed it, he gave no sign. His attentions were in another place, another time, and another dimension. Sweat began to drip from him, staining his white T-shirt with dark rings under the armpits, as if to pronounce his secret guilts.

  Then abruptly, he came to a halt. It was finished.

  Time had passed him by like a slow moving cloud and he hadn’t even noticed.

  He stood a few paces back to scrutinize what he had done.

  At first, he couldn’t make out the image presented before him. His eyes began to focus and then he saw it clearly. Lazarus was being raised from the dead and was standing looking out of the paint, and beside him, with a hand raised, stood the figure of Christ surrounded by his disciples. The expressions were challenging and almost scary, with a hint of El Greco around them. A bright sun shone light into the darkness of the tomb or cave.

  Bower reached for his camera and took several shots of what he had achieved.

  He sat back on the stool when suddenly, a violent pain bit into his head. Scissor-like pains were attempting to locate his brain. He bent his head down and grappled with the sensation as it flooded his entire head and then into his heart.

  I’m having a heart attack!

  There came one great and violent pulsation which racked his whole body and mind. He let out an agonised moan and then without any warning, the sensation vanished, as if someone had switched off a light bulb. The pain had gone.

  He gasped momentarily to get his breath back.

  Still bent double, he became aware of the warmth of the sun on his head and neck. He lifted his head to look at the sky and for a few moments, enjoyed the physical reassurance of the sun’s rays. He returned his gaze back to his work.

  Time stood still.

  The canvas on his easel ... was now blank.

  §

  Brodie felt anger. As he hurried away from Martha he clenched and unclenched his fists several times in a blanket of angry frustration and bewilderment. God, I curse you! You stole my life from me and yet, I have served you well. But you’re not content with that, so now you have to steal my only child, who I barely know but love so deeply. How can you do that? How? I asked you to take me again, b
ut no, you wanted someone new, someone fresh. I’d served my purpose. Leave my family and me alone. We’ve had enough of you. I curse you! Damn you!

  There was no vocal response.

  He brushed away tears of anger, and as he did, a cold blast of air gushed through the room he was standing in. It blew over ornaments, sent curtains billowing, and papers cascading in all directions.

  Brodie gasped. Maria, who was busy writing her next book, gave a small shriek and Garcia held on to his notebooks. The only person who had not noticed anything was George.

  “What was that?” Abbot Louis looked concerned. He had been busy drawing but had somehow only been able to reproduce variations of the same image he originally started with, The White Horse of Uffington. All his finished pieces lay scattered across the room.

  “It must have been something I said,” Brodie grunted. “I’m going to my room for a short while.”

  Once on his own, he started to regret his actions with Martha and the way he’d attempted to trash her painting, and then turning his back on her to walk away. Of all people, I should know there is nothing on earth she can do to stop what’s going on. I couldn’t, so how the hell can she? I’m ashamed of my actions and my thoughts. What do I do now?

  A deep tiredness, without warning, overcame him, prompting him to curl up on the bed. Before he could resist, and with one large gulp, he fell into a ferocious deep sleep.

  Whirling, whirling and forever turning, coloured images played around in the corners of his mind. Drifting up through the kaleidoscope arose the face of Ulla, and next to it another face formed, and it was Martha, offering him the reins of The White Horse, as if to say, take and ride to wherever you wish. He tried to articulate but his mouth refused to open. It was as if his entire body had been turned to stone. The faces dissolved into the spinning rotation from which now appeared the unmistakable forms of Lazarus, created since the time of Annas Zevi, one after the other, through the years and the centuries, reaching out to Borgoña, Cortez, and then through to Ladro. Fourteen in total. They vanished like ghosts and a new picture was forming – but it remained indistinct, without form or recognizable features – before that too began to fade away.