Again she saw the fence, and uniformed, roving guards.
Knowing that she could never hope to climb the fence and escape, with her strength ebbing fast, she vowed not to let her hated enemies—especially that slimy, cruel Tertullian—get their hands on her again.
Not alive, anyway.
Crawling back the way she had come, she found a sharp spike that she had noticed on the ground, and had hoped she would not have to use. She took a deep breath, and this time did not pray or delay at all. What she had in mind would take every bit of remaining strength she had.
And all of her courage.
Pointing the sharp end of the spike at her chest, over her heart, she lunged down on it. The spike penetrated her skin, but not far enough. Rising with great difficulty, she slammed down again on the steel point, and this time felt the crunch of bone and cartilage as it broke through.
Chapter 10
Monte Konos: A fortified monastery occupied for centuries by monks, it is now considered sacred ground by the UWW, the place where they sought sanctuary from persecution, and where they worked on their earth-shaking project.
—Notes confiscated from the body of a murdered news reporter
An unusual morning rain moistened the Vice Minister’s face as he hurried up the skull-lined path of the Hill of Golgotha. Dressed in a short-sleeve black shirt and black trousers, he shivered.
Little bubbles of water glistened on the broad double-edged sword that Tertullian held in his left hand, with the point of the weapon extended forward. He hadn’t expected rain but liked it, for it would cleanse blood from his sword.
God had sent rain for that purpose.
Today the first wooden cross was occupied by a blonde woman who had been hung there the day before. One of the heretics from the Seattle raid. Awake, with her body shaking from a night spent out in the cold, she watched him warily.
He passed by her with hardly a glance.
Looking at the second cross, however, he felt his jaw drop. The witch Amy Angkor-Billings was not on it! Thoughts whirled through his mind. Was he on the wrong row of crosses? He looked around, got his bearings. No, this was the right place. Had she been moved? If so, by whose authority? Only Minister Culpepper could have done it without Styx’s permission. But why would he do such a thing?
Just in case there had been an escape, or one was in progress, Styx sounded a silent alarm, punching a recessed red button on his watch. Within seconds he heard activity, vehicles in motion, guards running around, the shouts of men.
He began to search the hill himself. In only a few minutes, just as guards were running toward him, he found Angkor-Billings, lying in bloody dirt with a spike through her heart.
In rage and defeat, Styx howled into the rain, and kicked her lifeless form, causing it to roll part way down the hill. Like a madman, he chased the body down the hill, kicking at it repeatedly. Once, he slipped and fell, and nearly cut himself with his own sword.
Gathering himself, he rose slowly to his feet and looked uphill, where the guards were standing, looking down at him. “Put her back on the cross!” Styx shouted, lying. “She’s still alive!”
Two guards ran down the hill, to do his bidding. When they were close, he said, “The witch is still alive. If either of you say otherwise to anyone, I’ll kill you myself.”
They grunted in affirmation.
By the time the body was secured to the cross, the rain had stopped, but Styx hardly noticed. Something more was necessary now, the task his boss had left for him because he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. Despite the fact that the Minister had killed his own wife, that had been accidental, in a scuffle to keep her from subverting the secret bureau he led. Culpepper didn’t really have the stomach for terminating human life, couldn’t comprehend the fact that the application of violence could be an art if performed for the Lord.
Of course, this enemy was already dead. But that was only her physical form. Certain things could be done to make sure her caliginous soul was dispatched on a journey into the realm of eternal darkness. That’s why he wanted her back on the crucifixion cross, where she belonged.
Taking a step backward, Styx drove the sharp blade deep into Angkor-Billings’ stomach and jerked upward, like a hunter gutting a deer. At her jugular he sliced quickly and deeply to the left and then swung hard to the right so that her head was severed and fell to the ground.
Deep in reverie, he uttered a biblical passage from Second Samuel, in which Ishbosheth’s head was smitten from his body. Then with his left foot he kicked the head as if it were a soccer ball. It rolled several feet, and came to rest against a stone.
A sharp pain shot through Styx’s foot. It felt as if he had broken his big toe, so his shoe leather wasn’t as thick as he’d thought. He cursed, then apologized profusely to the Lord.
Must remain in control, he thought. Control at all times, in all things.
Even in death the woman’s head was still infused with devilish powers.
He set the sword on the ground and picked up the head, which contained the evil, demented brain of Amy Angkor-Billings, leader of the women’s rebellion. Holding the bloody face in front of his, he looked deep into the sightless, slitted eyes.
They seemed to stare back, though he knew that was impossible.
A slight smile remained on her mouth.
“Would you like to do something more to me, Amy?” he asked.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman on the first cross watching him, her face a mask of horrified fascination.
“How about biting my finger, Amy?” he said. Cradling the head in one arm like a football, with his free hand he parted her lips and stuck his pinkie into her mouth. The cavity was moist and still warm, meaning that she had not killed herself that long ago. Blood dripped on his shirt.
“Bite down,” he said. “Come on, I know you want to.”
He wondered if it was true that the brain lived on for several moments after death . . . or even longer. An hour, perhaps? If so, she probably wanted to chomp down and sever his finger, just as he had sliced off her once-pretty neck.
The rain resumed, and wind whipped around the base of the cross.
“Last chance,” he said, and he inserted five fingers and a thumb into her mouth.
Suddenly her lips twitched—or did they?—causing him to pull his hand away, quickly. But she hadn’t bitten down.
The woman on the adjacent cross laughed hideously, and that bothered him. Still, he would have the last laugh.
He tried to conceal the pain in his foot.
He held the head by its black hair, swung back and let it fly. The bloody orb cut through the misty rain for a distance of ten or fifteen meters, bounced off a rock, and went over the edge of the hill.
He retrieved his sword and with quick, efficient thrusts into the chest of the laughing woman, he silenced her. Then he walked at a normal pace down the path. When he was out of sight of the crucifixion crosses, he limped.
Raindrops mixed with blood on the surface of the broad sword, and dripped to the ground.
He had so much blood on his shirt and pants that he intended to throw them away. It was evil fluid, and might not wash completely out of the fabric fibers.
The sword was a different matter. It would clean up perfectly and could be used again, and again. Minister Culpepper had given him permission to “deal with” all the people taken in the two most recent raids . . . He could do so any way he pleased; Culpepper just didn’t want to know the details.
But Styx went to him anyway. . . .
* * *
In the hallway outside his office Minister Culpepper saw a disheveled Vice Minister Styx Tertullian approaching, his hair wild and his clothing soaked in rain and blood. The fat man ducked inside the doorway of his office and locked the door, then had second thoughts.
Not good to show fear.
As quietly as possible he unlocked the door and hurried to his desk. Just as he slipped into the chair, the door
opened and Styx filled the doorway, a crazed expression on his face and a gory sword in his grasp. Water and blood dripped on the hardwood floor.
“I did it,” he announced. “Sliced her head off like a . . .”
“This is not the way to deliver a report,” Culpepper interjected, in his haughtiest tone. “E-mail it to me.” Surreptitiously he turned a key to open a side drawer, just enough to see the handle of the .40 Magnum he kept there. He had never fired a gun but kept this one for security.
Grab it, Culpepper thought, release the safety and fire. . . .
He abhorred violence and loathed Tertullian’s methods. Still, someone had to do those things, and he did them exceedingly well.
Scold him a little, but not too much. Don’t want him going over the edge and turning on me.
“I’m not a computer whiz,” Styx whined. “I’m a hands-on kinda guy.”
“Nonetheless you will complete your report in the proper fashion.”
The soaked, soiled man took several steps into the room, trailing water and blood. “About slicing the head off, you mean, and the blood spurting?”
“Put it in the report!”
“Are you afraid of the details?”
“Certainly not!”
“Sir, do you ever actually read what I write?” His voice was even higher than usual.
“Of course.”
Styx came closer, a strange, demented gleam in his eyes. “I wonder.”
“Get out of here!”
A vicious smile formed on Styx’s face, but he backed up. He wiped the sword on his trousers.
“Don’t ever come in here like that again, or I’ll boot you out.”
He ran a finger over the sharp blade. “Personally?”
Culpepper glared. “Clean yourself up and transmit your report.”
“As you wish.” The Vice Minister whirled and departed, disrespectfully leaving the door open.
* * *
The female guard in the light of the doorway was heavily muscled, with cords and sinews visible in every square centimeter of her exposed skin, making Lori wonder how she had gotten that way. Steroids, she theorized, or perhaps she was the horrible result of some mad scientist’s genetic program. She looked more animal than human, evident in her dark little eyes, as she watched Lori walk across the courtyard, moving through the shadows and pools of yellow illumination cast by antique lamp posts.
Bundled in a coat she’d found in her apartment, Lori passed wrought iron chairs and tables, painted white, and exotic, leafy plantings, but without flowers, probably due to the season. Feeling better, she no longer wore the medical pack on her head. She looked up and identified her own apartment on the third floor, where she had left a lamp on in the window. The night sky was star-dusted and peaceful, but didn’t impart the usual feeling of serenity, as Lori recalled with anger the things Dixie Lou had done to her and her mother.
Hearing a rustle on her left she was surprised to see a young man dressed in baggy silks and a feathered beret. He wore a short sword, and in the patio light from a ground level apartment she made out the peculiar green-and-orange sword-cross symbol on his scabbard.
“I am Prince Alexander,” he announced, with a smile and an awkward bow. “At your service, fair maiden.”
Seven or eight years older than Lori, he had light black skin and soft features. His pewter eyes gazed past her and only intermittently looked directly at her, not focusing on her for long. He was about her height, but she was tall for a girl.
The guard watched, but without apparent concern.
“I’m big,” the young man added, “but I still get to dress up and play make-believe. My Mom says I can, and I have lots of fun.”
Realizing that he must be mentally retarded even though his face looked normal enough, she responded, “Thank you, but this fair maiden doesn’t require anything at the moment.”
“Dixie Lou Jackson is my Mom. You’re my friend, so you can call me Alex.” He leaned close to her. “You have a boo-boo on your head. Does it hurt?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” Lori saw the resemblance now, in the oval shape of the face, in the wide nose and the small mouth. His black hair was long and curly, puffing out at the sides from not being trimmed.
“I’m not stupid,” he said. “Some people say I am because of my motorcycle accident, but they don’t know all the stuff I think about.”
“I’m sure they don’t,” Lori said, trying not to sound insincere.
“I’m not one of the stud knights, either,” he added.
“Are stud knights what I think they are? Your mother laughed when she mentioned them.”
“They’re men who do things for women.” He grinned boyishly. “You know!”
“Sexual favors?”
A nod. “They’re boy toys. That’s what the ladies call them. Those are the stupid men, not me. I don’t have to do that.”
“You’re fortunate.”
“Do you want to be my special friend?” he asked. “I have lots of friends, but no special friends.”
Lori thought about what she was hearing. She wanted to dislike this young man because of his mother, but found herself unable to feel any animosity toward him. “Sure,” she said. “I’d like that.” His manner, though simple, was open and affable, and she liked his smile.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Your mother and I ran into some trouble, and had to leave America.”
“My mother always has trouble. She doesn’t have fun like I do. That makes me smarter, huh?” He removed his jaunty feathered cap and waved it through the air with a flourish. He had such a quixotic, carefree demeanor that she couldn’t help laughing. He was making some sense, too, albeit in an elementary way. Maybe people who were ostensibly intelligent didn’t see the possibilities in life, she thought, since they allowed too much to get in the way.
Leaning close to her, he said, “You got any stuff with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. Uppers, downers, crisscrosses, angel dust, ecstasy, speed, or maybe a little weed? You wanna smoke a bowl with me?”
Startled, Lori felt her head jerk back involuntarily, as she looked at him in a different light. She hadn’t expected this. “I don’t have anything,” she said, and this was true, because she’d lost her purse in the attack.
“That’s okay. I still got part of a bag I’ll share with you. I got some Marathon.”
“Marathon? Greek Hash? You’ve got some of that?” It was considered one of the strongest marijuanas in the world, named as it was because its effects remained with the user for long periods of time.
He shrugged. “Sure, but only a coupla cigarettes I rolled myself. They’re back at my castle. You wanna see my castle?”
“Is it nearby?” she asked, glancing at the guard and wondering if she could leave the complex without permission.
“Sure,” he said, pointing at an apartment across the courtyard. “Right there. See my suit of royal armor outside?”
She saw it now, a hulking shadow by an entry archway. “Cool,” she said.
He giggled. “Sometimes when they’re looking for me I hide inside it and they can’t find me. It has a hatch in the back where I can step through, and shut myself inside.”
“It must have belonged to a huge knight,” Lori said. “I thought those people used to be short.”
“Not all of them, I guess.”
“You must be right. What about rust?”
“I oil it a lot, but maybe I should take it inside.”
With a smile, Lori followed him past the armor and through the archway.
* * *
The wooden front door of Alex’s “castle” bore a childishly scrawled sign which originally read “No Girls Allowed,” but someone had altered it so that it read, “No Good Girls Allowed.” This gave Lori pause. He was quite muscular, outweighing her by at least thirty kilograms. But as he turned and smiled in his disarming manner her fears dissipated and she followe
d him inside.
The interior of the apartment looked like a glorified child’s fort, with poorly executed cardboard cutouts of medieval armor and other artifacts. She noted, however, how spotlessly clean it was, with a fresh lemon scent in the air. Here and there in clay pots and glass vases were silk artificial flowers, which she noted were of good, though not superior, quality.
“I have more armor in here,” he said, “where it doesn’t rust in the rain.” He opened a walk-in closet, revealing two sets of armor, gleaming but looking very old and used, with dents and scratches on them, and evidence of repairs.
“Where did you get all of the armor?”
He shrugged. “Stuff that was already in Monte Konos when the women took over. I thought it was cool, but my Mom and the others didn’t want it. They let me play with it.”
Reaching into the closet, he dragged one set of armor out and after removing his short sword and scabbard put the armor on over his clothing, piece by piece. As Lori watched, fascinated, he moved with surprising speed, and in a few minutes he finally put gauntlets over his hands, followed by the armet, the headpiece. With his fingers covered by chainmail now, he adjusted the armet, so that could peer out at her, through the vision slit.
Playfully, Lori went into the graceful t’ai chi pose of a white crane spreading its wings, then flew at Alex and slammed the side of her fist into the breastplate of the armor, knocking him harmlessly onto a sectional couch, as she intended. It wasn’t really the way her instructor would have wanted her to do it, but it was effective nonetheless.
“Whoah!” he said, sitting up and removing his headpiece. His curly hair looked disheveled. “Where did you learn how to do that?”
“My mother sent me to martial arts classes, so that I could deal with aggressive males.” Lori smiled. “Like you.”
“Aggressive? What does that mean?”
“A fighting person.”
“Oh. I only fight for fun. And I never fight girls. That would not be chivalrous.”
The Stolen Gospels Page 10
