Book of Judas--A Novel

by Linda Stasi

  Dane air-knocked on the door just as Dona opened it to leave. He came in with his recyclable green grocery bag, all cheery, taking out some fruit. “Cherries were on sale. Thought you’d like some … Raylene, my sweet, why don’t you go home and put up some lemon balm and skullcap tea? Looks like Alessandra’s had herself a bad day.”

  “The baby was a little gassy,” Raylene responded as though Terry was theirs and they were discussing the day’s baby events. “I made him a nice infusion of fennel seed. Did the job lickety split.”

  Dane kissed her on the top of her head. She giggled.

  They were too sweet, but seriously, I’d had enough for one day. “No, thanks on the skullcap tea, Dane. I’m bushed. Just need to spend some alone time with Terry.”

  They cocked their heads inquisitively. “I may have to go to Israel for a very short trip. My parents will be home in a few days so they can take Terry while I’m gone.”

  “You know we’d be happy to keep him. I mean, not forever,” Raylene said, smiling quickly so I’d know it was a joke, “but so your folks don’t have to rush home or anything.”

  “You’ve been way too kind already,” I answered, knowing that the sooner I could unlock this thing and sell it, the sooner we’d get Roy’s defense going. But no, I couldn’t …

  Dane, who apparently disliked Engles as much as Engles disliked him, put his arm around me as they were back at the door. “That Engles person? I called Professor Safar after I got home this morning. She and Dr. Amarande both agree that he’s not the man for the job. Bad reputation. Minah and Heli,” he said softly, now using the diminutive of their names affectionately, “said he’s one step above—well their words, not mine—selling Mickey Mantle baseball cards!”

  Apparently this was the worst best example of low class they could come up with. But in my sphere, especially among the sports desk guys, owning an original, signed Mantle? That was as high up the art food chain as we got. Clearly they didn’t know that a near-mint 1952 Topps Mantle had sold recently for nearly half a mil!

  I decided not to tell him I’d picked up the tube—or even bring up the Voynich business again—because, well, I liked Engles and I thought they were dead wrong. I was right about that at least.

  When they finally left, I flipped on the TV. Fox News popped up. (Their number one reporter who had just been here getting baby spit all over herself must have had it on in the background.) And I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  Roy, my Roy, was in shackles and an orange jumpsuit being perp-walked in front of a crowd of crazed reporters. As he passed them, reporters were yelling, “Did you kill those prostitutes? Were you into transgender hookers?” and all manner of disgusting questions they knew he wouldn’t answer. The camera cut to some babe in leather pants and a second-skin tight sweater in front of the courthouse reporting: “The former firefighter who just yesterday was on the front page for inheriting ten million dollars will spend the night in jail. He’s wanted in the long-unsolved murders of nearly two dozen prostitutes in the Gilgo Beach Murders, also known as the Craigslist Ripper. The question is this: Is Roy Golden the Craigslist Ripper?”

  The screen cut back to the anchor babe with gigantic Miss America hair and a low-cut rubber dress—like a wet suit for underwater cocktail waitresses. “So, Candace, tell us,” Wet Suit Babe said. “Isn’t that ten million dollars tied up in some cursed relic, though?”

  Candace: “Yes, Lacey, it is, and now we wonder if the curse has already rubbed off on this Long Island surfer dude. Or should we call it the ten-million-dollar curse? Back to you in the newsroom, Lacey!” she said, wiggling. I couldn’t tell if she was attempting a sexy gyration or if just she had a bad vaginal itch from all that leather.

  Why do these morons always have to exaggerate the dollar amount? Ten million dollars. They’d say the same if the relic was worth one hundred dollars …

  “Great reporting, Candace!” Wet Suit said.

  Jesus, that rubber dress must be hot under those lights. Good thing her boobs are free to catch some air.

  I flipped to NY1, where I’d get honest news without the stripper clothes. The news however was the same—bad news for Roy. I called Mad Dog, who was on his way to the arraignment. He said, “They’re saying ten million, maybe twenty. You’re looking at one hundred to two hundred K just for the bail bondsman, if the judge even goes there. Roy’s a risk.”

  “A risk for what?” I asked, alarmed. “He’s a freaking hero firefighter!”

  “A freaking hero firefighter who took early retirement because he was mental.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say. He had PTSD as did thousands of first responders.” I sounded like Candace Tight Pants.

  “Yeah? What about how they’ll say he’s a nut job who surfed alone at night in giant waves while tranny and straight hookers were being offed in the weeds?”

  “OK, I admit, it doesn’t sound good.”

  “That’s because it’s not good. Can you sell that thing he inherited right away? And failing that, you got an extra few hundred grand layin’ around? Like right this second?”

  “Shit.”

  “Shit is right.”

  I did what I swore I wasn’t going to do and called the Judsons. I wanted to know—if possible—whether they could take Terry for one overnight until my parents arrived. Raylene let out such a cry of pure joy it sounded like she’d just realized that it was all a terrible dream and her son was alive and well and cuddled up next to her.

  Dane, more practical, wanted to know why I needed to rush to Israel. I made the mistake of telling him the truth.

  14

  I Skyped my parents, who spent ten minutes baby talking to Terry, who in turn stared at the screen like they were a video game, touching it and trying to move them around.

  “He thinks you’re a toy,” I said.

  “He can’t possibly have that kind of motor coordination skills at this stage,” Mom said.

  “I told you. He’s a genius.” Terry grabbed for my parents’ faces and said, “Gagi! Papa!”

  “Maybe he’s trying to say ‘Gramma,’” I suggested, sticking my face into the screen while kissing the baby.

  Dr. Mom said, “Yes, perhaps,” and rolled her eyes.

  “You’ll see for yourselves when you get here. A genius!”

  They would be arriving in two days and told me if I could get the next plane out, that they’d be there before Raylene and Dane could claim him as their own grandchild.

  The next few hours flew by as I booked an El Al flight for the next day, packed a small bag, made sure my passport and everything else was in order, and booked a room at the Harmony Hotel.

  As I was stuffing a ratty T-shirt that I loved to wear to bed into my carry-on, the phone rang. Alonzo. Oh my.

  “Hi, Alessandra, did I get you at a bad time?”

  “Well, sort of,” I said honestly, but quickly added, “but I’m so happy it’s you. I’ve had one helluva day.”

  “So I heard.”

  “From?”

  “Well, Raylene called me all upset about you. She apparently thinks a lowly New York city councilman can spring a man from a Long Island jail…”

  “She’s such a sweet lady. In fact, they’ve even agreed to take Terry for an overnight until my parents get back from Africa in a day or two.”

  “Going somewhere?”

  “Yes. I need to take a trip to Israel. It’s about the story…”

  “So I guess that means you can’t go to the Yankee game with me?”

  Gee, what’s better, I thought: a night out with the handsomest, single pol in town, or rushing to Israel with a cursed relic to meet a creepy swindler/priest/CIA Vatican operative with a black market business on the side? And that’s when he wasn’t swindling rich people into giving their kids secret Vatican-approved exorcisms.

  “Can I get a rain check?” I asked.

  “You bet,” he answered. “I look forward to it.”

  “Me, too.” How crazy was this? Fl
irting with a guy while my best friend was rotting in prison.

  Next call was to Donald. I told him the story, he offered to go with me to Israel—if he had exclusives on the photos—but I told him Father Paulo would probably freak out. Failing that, would he come over whenever he could in the next day or so to make sure everything was good until my parents arrived?

  I could hear dopey Larry in the background, even above the music from whatever bar they were in. “Without dopey Larry,” I added.

  Apparently the music wasn’t that loud because Larry butted in: “I’m not so dopey.”

  “He’s not. He just likes people to think he’s a moron,” Donald said, and I could practically see the male arm punch.

  “He’s doing a great job of it,” I snarked. Larry really is such a fool, I thought.

  “Ali, one question,” Donald continued. “How do you propose to take a sealed brass tube onto a plane?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. And then I also remembered that it was very illegal to transport antiquities—especially stolen antiquities—into another country. That was called transporting goods for the black market. Hello?

  How the hell was I going to pull that one off? Stick a priceless relic—the only intact pages left on Earth that had the actual words that Jesus had spoken privately to Judas, which might be the secret to life itself, or had the power to unleash Armageddon—into checked baggage? Have it travel around the world in the cargo hold? Send it via Fed Ex to a hotel I’ve never even been to?

  What if I was followed and someone snatched the bag? What if I was caught transporting a stolen relic? What if I got arrested and there was no one to take care of Terry? What if my bag went missing and it was never recovered?

  And what if I didn’t go and Roy couldn’t make bail or defense money and he was assigned a public defender, convicted of seventeen counts of murder, and got the death sentence? What if I ignored the most important story I was likely to ever get again? What if …

  I gave Terry his bath. My anxiety level was out of control and my cozy, warm apartment was starting to freeze up again.

  What in hell is going on?

  At least Terry seemed to be back to his jolly self and I fed him a nice warm bottle, which he actually asked for, I think; read him a story, which he didn’t understand, I think; and placed him in his cozy crib. Checked that both the club baby lock was in place as well as the gaffer’s tape. All good. Still cold. I put a heavy, wool, baby blanket on him.

  Then I remembered the key. Maybe it really was ancient and also worth a fortune. Roy could use the dough for sure.

  His diaper pail needed to be emptied, so I left the front door ajar and planned to walk the whole ten feet to the compacter room to throw it out. But as soon as I opened the door, I saw someone leaving the Judsons’ apartment. Dear God. It was Arturo Elias! I slipped back inside and closed the door very gently, waited to hear the elevator ding, and picked up the phone and dialed the Judsons.

  Raylene picked up. “Raylene, was that Arturo Elias leaving your apartment?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” she said mysteriously. “I was just going to call the doorman. I don’t know how he got in, but he said he was looking for the apartment right upstairs from us and got off at the wrong floor!”

  “And so you let him in?”

  “Well, he’s a priest, dear. The doorman said a priest was coming up. When the dear man realized his mistake, he took the lift up one flight. Or so I presume he did.”

  “Raylene, please listen to me very, very carefully. His name is Arturo Elias, and I don’t know if he’s a priest but I do think he’s a bad guy. He’s after the relic! You must never let him in again!”

  “Oh my. That’s so disturbing. A fake priest? Oh Lord! What next? Fake shamans?” She is the only person in the world, I thought, who could say that and mean it.

  “Yes, like a fake shaman,” I answered, shaking my head. But she sounded like she was really shaken up, so I told her that I’d call the doorman immediately and straighten it out.

  So much for my super-secure building.

  When I called downstairs the doorman was all apologies, but said the Judsons had said it was OK to let him in! Then he added, “Maybe they thought it was someone else. I’m so sorry if he bothered you, too, Ms. Russo.”

  “No, no problem, Anthony,” I said, “but please make sure he doesn’t enter the building again. Is he still inside by the way?”

  “No, he left a few minutes ago.”

  “He’s not who he says he is. I don’t even think he’s a priest. Please don’t let him in again.”

  “Geez, Ms. Russo, I’m sorry. But we will for sure have him on surveillance video, so we’ll post his photo so he never gets in again.”

  I double locked the front door—not just because that creep had entered my building and my floor and bothered my friends, but considering I also had the book and the Gospel pages inside my apartment, well, Elias had been way too close for comfort.

  I opened my laptop and looked up transporting antiquities. I didn’t even bother to get into the transporting stolen antiquities law, because even dopey Larry would know that was so insanely wrong that I’d probably end up in a Middle Eastern prison camp. But maybe the pages weren’t illegal because nobody had claimed them when Morris nicked them. Right.

  I found out what I already knew. It was illegal. Taking the relic into Israel meant I was turning into Morris Golden, international black marketeer. Or maybe just a schmuck.

  I took the box containing the brass tube out of my bag anyway. I opened it and removed the tube and—bam!—dropped it right back into the box in a flash. The damned thing gave me another big shock. Must be static electricity. Right.

  Yes, it did look like a pipe bomb. No, there was no getting around it. Either I kept it in my bag and got nailed at JFK and arrested on the spot, or I put it in a suitcase and checked it, hoping it didn’t get stolen, or removed—along with its passenger—by the NTSB (National Transportation Safety Board).

  El Al is so security-driven that they probably even have antique-sniffing dogs that’ll tear you limb from limb for trying to sneak even fake antiques in or out, I thought. Not wanting to be ripped apart on either side of my journey, I emptied out a giant Johnson’s Baby Powder container into a bowl, stuck the ten-million-dollar tube inside the ten-dollar baby powder container, then poured back as much powder as I could fit, put the top back on, and stuck the container into the velvet-lined wooden box and surrounded it with tissue paper.

  I then wrapped the whole mess in bubble wrap—as though X-ray machines couldn’t see through bubble wrap. This move, I knew, was the equivalent in dumbness of putting your flashers on when you illegally park.

  I finished packing up clothes enough for two days, put three separate luggage tags on my suitcase, each with my cell number and the name, number, and address of the Harmony Hotel in Jerusalem, placed the box in the middle with clothes and sneakers around it, and got ready for bed.

  Screw Father Paulo’s request for the Voynich Manuscript. One ancient relic at a time was all I was willing to smuggle. If he wanted it for his own perusal, he could get his backside here. This time I had no choice but to bring what I had to him. If he wanted this old book, he could come and get it.

  Then I remembered the skeleton key. I hadn’t given it a second thought and in fact had completely forgotten about it.

  I opened my dresser drawer and took the key from its totally safe hiding place: a lone tube sock I had meant to throw away.

  I turned it around in my hand. What the hell could I do with this thing? Nothing.

  Then I hit on how to get the key, at least, through security. Stupid idea, but better than nothing.

  I took the cans of silver and gold spray paint, glitter, and even spray snow that I had in the Christmas decorations box in that same closet. I laid out some newspaper—yes, it was another story about the Gilgo Beach monster—laid the key down, and sprayed the key silver and dusted it with glitter. Perfectly hid
eous. Perfectly wonderful!

  I placed the old, now-garish key on the metal drain chain around my neck—on which also hung my most treasured possession, my New York Standard press pass—and checked it out in the mirror. I’d fake it as a cheap, bad-taste piece of junk.

  You’ve just covered a Sumerian or Roman or some other ancient key with glitter and glue. What a classy dame you are, Russo.

  I went to check into my flight online and saw that El Al had added an extra flight because of the upcoming high holy days. Great. I was able to rebook onto the earlier flight instead of the usual late-night JFK–Tel Aviv flight.

  Then I made one more call to Mad Dog before I turned in.

  No hello, no nothing. He picked up: “He’s remanded. No getting out,” the Dog said, matter-of-factly. “The judge set the highest bail ever set out there. Ya ready?” He didn’t wait to see if I was or not. “Seventy-five million. I cudden believe it.”

  I couldn’t believe it, either. “But Roy’s not a flight risk…” I attempted to say.

  “Not a risk for flight, just a risk to life and limb,” Mad Dog screamed in my ear. “And no local bondsman is gonna come up with that scratch. I can get it in the city, but it’s gonna be a seven five down.”

  Seven million five hundred thousand upfront, in other words.

  “Can you get that much?” he asked.

  “I’m working on it. I’m working on it,” I offered despondently. I could only hope Roy would call me collect the next day before I got on that plane. If he was allowed to call me, that is. I needed to tell him he wasn’t alone.

  “Did he give you permission for me to sell the papers his father left him?”

  “Yeah. Do it.” He hung up. Sure, Mad Dog was mad but he was also garnering so much publicity for himself as the guy repping the Gilgo Beach killer/hero firefighter/ancient relic owner that he himself was getting seventy-five million in free publicity.