It had been a bad thought, one that shamed her, and for it she had gone to one of the churches that morning to sit in a confession booth and talk to a priest, thus expiating her sin.
Now she had just enough pesos and centavos to take the bus. She had asked how much it cost, and the exact amount was rolled up tightly in her fist.
Finally the old bus, dented and belching black diesel smoke, pulled up to the curb with a loud squeal of brakes. A stream of townspeople boarded, followed by Consuela. After paying the driver she found a tattered, patched seat in the back, by a farmer and his wife who had chickens in a small wire pen and a rambunctious, bleating goat that was tied to one of the seat stanchions.
With no idea what lay ahead, she prayed for safe passage and deliverance from evil.
Chapter 19
In this war of many levels, propaganda is employed, but not in the traditional form, owing to the requirements of secrecy. Instead, both organizations covertly fund a variety of smaller groups that espouse philosophies similar to their own. In all respects the competition is as clandestine as any war in history, and in view of the intense mutual hatred the conflict could involve the instantaneous destruction of the entire world . . . if either party gets nuclear capability.
—Classified White House report on the BOI and UWW
Lori spent much of the following day with a stocky, muscular female security guard that had been assigned to her—riding the rail car, walking, looking around, absorbing the ancient ambiance and the modern technology that had been brought in by the UWW and artfully concealed from prying satellite eyes and other technology. Though Monte Konos comprised what appeared to be a large area (much of it a subterranean hive of passageways and chambers), Lori was not permitted into many areas.
The guard would not answer any of her questions, and seemed to have a vocabulary limited to variations on the word “no” and the phrase “I can’t comment on that,” both of which she employed each time Lori asked about her mother or the she-apostles.
Finally, as they neared Lori’s apartment, she said to the guard, “Your boss is the descendant of slaves, but she’s made slaves out of those children. Why doesn’t that bother her?”
“I only do what I am told, and you should do the same.”
With that, the guard left Lori, but took a position a short distance away, where she could watch.
Outside her own front door, Lori found Alex waiting. He wore a light brown leather jacket and dark slacks. His long, curly black hair was neatly combed and wet.
“What time are you going to dinner?” he asked, glancing at his watch.
“The seven o’clock seating, I guess.”
“We have a couple of hours, then.”
She looked at him quizzically.
His pewter eyes were dull. “You wanna go with me?”
She took a deep breath, tried to maintain her patience. Despite who his mother was, he had been exceedingly pleasant to her, and she didn’t want to offend him.
“Where?” she asked.
“I’m a better tour guide than that guard.” He waved an arm expansively. “I’ll show you the old monastery, where all the monkeys lived.”
She laughed.
“I’m not stupid,” he insisted, with a very serious expression. “I know the difference between monks and monkeys.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“I was just kidding you.”
“I know.”
“Hey, you want a cigarette?” He removed a pack from his pocket, extended it to her.
Though she wanted to accept, she fought the urge and shook her head. “Maybe I should quit. Those Greek smokes of yours may be the way I can finally do it.”
“What do you mean?” He didn’t seem to understand.
“The tobacco is coarse,” she said, “too rough for a lady.”
After pouting for a moment, he brightened. “How about some Marathon then? I could go in my apartment and get it.”
“I should give up marijuana, too. My mother would want me to.” She squared her shoulders. “OK, Mr. Tour Guide. Where to?”
“To see something really cool and really old.” He led her around to a storage shed beside his unit, and rolled a yellow bicycle out. The bike, with fat balloon tires, had a front fender that was loose and rattled. A rusty horn and wire basket were secured to the handlebars.
She wondered what he was doing, but didn’t say anything.
From the shed he retrieved a second bicycle, this one a bright red racer with gleaming metal accessories. “My brand new bike,” he announced proudly. “Mom got it for my birthday. The other bike is my old one. I keep it for dates.”
“I’m sure you’re quite an operator.”
The comment went over his head. “You can ride the new one, and I’ll take the dented one. I’m a gentleman.”
“I know you are.”
Fetching two red helmets from the shed, he said, “We have to wear these. I was in a motorcycle wreck and hit my head, and afterward Mom said I couldn’t ride motorcycles anymore, but I could ride bikes, as long as I always wear my helmet.”
“Your mother is right.” She realized that the accident might explain why he was dimwitted, or he might have been that way all his life.
“I still don’t like her, though. She tries to fake like she’s nice sometimes, but I’ve seen the other side of her, the bad side.”
“What have you seen her do?” Looking around, Lori saw the guard watching them.
“Bad things. Like I said.” As before, fear showed on his soft-featured face and he didn’t provide details.
“Follow me,” Alex said, after their helmets were secured, with the chin straps tightened. He led the way, walking the squeaky, rattling older bicycle across the cobblestone street.
She followed, with the bright red bicycle.
“I know how to lose that guard,” Alex said, looking back. “But you’ll have to keep up with me.”
They carried the bikes down an ancient stone stairway to the tunnel where Dixie Lou had jogged. It was empty now, except for the two of them. But she heard footsteps behind them, following. Quickly, Alex climbed aboard his bicycle and headed in the opposite direction, riding in a weaving pattern, as if he were a child just learning.
Lori followed, but didn’t get too close behind, for fear of running into him. Like her companion, she remained in the center, where the rock floor was worn smoother by the centuries-long passage of countless feet.
“Okay,” he said, peddling harder. “Now we get to go real fast.” His bike was only a three-speed, but he got it going more smoothly and at a pretty good clip. With her twenty-one-speed gear system, Lori had no trouble keeping up.
Laughing wildly, he led her around a turn in the tunnel, then made a series of sharp turns. At first they heard voices behind them, and then it grew quiet, only the sounds of their tires on the pavement and their heavy breathing. Finally they came to an abrupt stop at the edge of a precipice, with a barren, rocky valley visible beyond, hundreds of meters below.
In a panic she squeezed the hand brakes and prayed. He reached out and grabbed her bike, helping her to stop.
“Fun, huh?” he said.
Lori’s heart raced, but she wasn’t upset. They were at least three meters from the edge, not as close as she’d first thought. She had to admit it had been fun, and exhilarating. As much as the situation with her mother upset her, she still found it almost amusing that Alex’s mother had taken her jogging and now he’d taken her on a bike ride. The Jacksons were an energetic family.
“It’s beautiful here,” she said, gazing out at the snowy gnome’s cap of a ridge across the valley, beneath dark clouds. In the foreground, a flock of white-fronted geese flew lower than Lori’s perch, winging gracefully off to the north, toward snow-capped mountain peaks.
She noticed now that the cliff on which she stood rose to a promontory on her left side, with some sort of a structure up there. A narrow, rocky path led to it.
�
�C’mon, I’ll show you,” he offered.
Leaving their bikes and helmets behind, he led the way over an uneven surface that was around a meter from the edge. Lori had no fear of heights, and looked over the drop-off several times without concern or ill effect. Still, it was a long way down.
The tiny wood and stone building atop the promontory was open air, with a roof but no walls. An attached deck cantilevered out over the edge of the cliff. A heavy-duty block and tackle mechanism loomed overhead, with thick hemp rope connected to a platform that appeared capable of being lowered over the edge. The rope looked relatively new.
“This is the old lift system,” he said, striding out onto the cantilevered section. “Monks brought food, animals, and military equipment up on it.”
The deck looked sturdy enough, with some evidence of modern repairs, and was surrounded with a railing, so Lori followed him out onto it. Reading from a brass plaque adjacent to a huge rope drum, she learned that the lift system had been restored ten years ago, by hermits who lived on Monte Konos. Alex explained that the work was done shortly before the UWW took control of Monte Konos. The platform had a primitive gate that slid to one side in wooden grooves. According to the plaque, the mechanism had been rebuilt many times over the centuries, always according to the original specifications.
“I know how to make it go up and down,” Alex announced, proudly. “You wanna take a ride with me?” He swung the gate open.
Looking down the face of the high cliff, Lori felt her stomach lurch, but it was a pleasurable feeling, a thrill. She’d always been a risk-taker, and wondered, as she had before, if this might have been a trait of her father’s. Her mother certainly had not been that way, despite the manner in which she had been so badly injured . . . and perhaps even killed. Lori hated to imagine that possibility, and clung to a slender thread of hope. No one could have suspected it would be dangerous to attend a women’s meeting, a goddess circle, in a wealthy suburb.
Lori placed a foot on the platform, then looked at Alex and saw sudden alertness in his gray eyes and a slight, mischievous smile. “Go ahead,” he urged.
Something about him gave her confidence at this moment, a sense that he was knowledgeable in ways that were not easy to perceive. Sometimes, such as now, he seemed surprisingly intelligent, and not slow at all.
Bravely, she stepped onto the platform by herself. Looking down over the side she saw the scarred rock face of the cliff in waning sunlight, with hardy, clinging plants in crevices, and the shadow of what might be an opening in the rock several meters down. The platform swayed slightly on its rope tethers, then a little more, in a frigid gust of wind.
“Now you,” she said.
As he stepped aboard and held onto a hand rail, the contraption creaked, but held together. He rested his hand on the control lever of a pulley and gear mechanism that controlled the lift and descent ropes, then paused, looking at her. “I really like you,” he said. “To me, we’re on a date today.”
The comment struck her as odd, but she smiled gently. The platform rocked in the wind, giving her a queasy feeling.
“I haven’t exactly been straight with you,” he said, his words coming rapidly, and his voice seemed to have changed slightly, becoming more alert. “I’m not really simple minded at all, not the court jester I’ve been playing. And I know things about your mother.”
She glared at him. The dumbness that seemed to permeate his facial expression before had all but disappeared. “The truth? Where is she? She’s alive?”
Alex grasped her hand, and his grip was warm in hers. He looked into her eyes with warmth and compassion. “A friend of mine can tell you more.”
He lifted the control lever, and the platform began to descend slowly, creaking and swaying. They passed windows into unoccupied, stone-walled rooms. Presently, Alex brought the device to a stop at a wide ledge, with a large wooden door in the wall. It looked like a loading dock, from untold centuries past.
Using a stick with a hook on it, Alex pulled the platform closer and then tied it to heavy cleats on the ledge.
As he did this, the door creaked open, revealing a bearded man.
* * *
Elsewhere in the complex, Councilwoman Deborah Marvel paced a low-ceilinged stone room nervously, sharply alert to the slightest unusual sounds from the passageway outside, indications of trouble. Her short blonde hair was windblown, from her having been outside when the weather turned bad. She and fifteen other councilwomen were in a food storage room beneath the Refectory Building, in the midst of large bags of rice stacked in neat piles.
Deborah didn’t like this one bit, meeting without Dixie Lou’s knowledge, but the other councilwomen—especially Katherine Pangalos, Fujiko Harui, and Bobbi Torrence—had insisted upon it. The UWW Charter, designed with checks and balances in mind, allowed them to meet without the knowledge of the Chairwoman, as long as a majority of the councilwomen were present. No minutes or other records would be kept, and they were free to say anything. Title 6.19.2 prohibited any of them from disclosing the contents of the meeting to an outsider without the unanimous consent of the council.
“We know you’re not pleased to be here, Deborah,” Katherine Pangalos said, “but you must agree our new leader has been behaving strangely.”
“So, what else is new?”
“I mean, worse than ever. Even the guards are saying so. She goes around carrying the Sword of She-God, acts like she’s on some kind of a bizarre movie set.”
“I’ve seen her,” Fujiko Harui said, nodding. “Sometimes she just walks right by me and doesn’t say a thing—hardly even looks at me. She’s incredibly focused.”
“Or crazy,” Katherine said.
“She’s trying to take Amy’s place,” Bobbi Torrence added, “but no one can do that.” A heavy woman with a jowly face and a dark, overhanging brow, she had expressed grave concerns to Deborah about the Chairwoman.
“Strange behavior doesn’t translate into guilt,” Deborah countered.
Tilting her head back, Katherine gazed down the bridge of her nose. “Dixie Lou hardly mentions Amy’s name anymore. The rest of us talk about her all the time, how much we miss her, but she doesn’t do that. It’s as if she wants to forget Amy’s sacred memory, as if she thinks she’s more important.”
“I’m sure that isn’t the case,” Deborah opined, passing a hand through her hair. “She’s just busy with her new responsibilities, taking them seriously. I know her, and she looks toward the future, not the past. Admittedly she could be more diplomatic, more polite at times, but don’t forget she was raised in the most desperate poverty. Besides, we aren’t here to crucify—uh, attack—her for personality defects.”
“Let’s talk issues, then,” Fujiko Harui snapped, from Katherine’s side. “She may have had Amy killed.”
“You can’t prove that,” Deborah said.
Katherine raised her voice. “Based upon this, she’s either guilty or negligent.” She lifted a piece of paper, an anonymous tip that had been slipped under the door of her apartment earlier in the day.
“We don’t even know who wrote this,” Deborah said.
Katherine was scowling. “But the information is most shocking.”
“I still think we should tell Dixie Lou about it.”
“We will, after our little ambush.”
Deborah pursed her lips, but nodded.
* * *
The paunchy man had a reddish beard and horn-rimmed glasses. Lori could not determine his age. With his unlined, pallid skin, he might be twenty-five, or forty. He seemed agitated. Dressed in a pale green smock, he stood in a large, dimly lit room filled with medical supplies and equipment.
“This is Dr. Yonney Zakheim,” Alex said. “He tends to the stud knights, keeps them in top working order.” Pausing, Alex added, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be facetious. We’re here to discuss something much more important.”
“You know about my mother?” Lori asked, of the doctor.
He
gestured back, to doorways that opened into other rooms, all dimly lit. Men could be seen moving around in one of them, and she heard their voices. “There are two clinics on Monte Konos,” he said, “one for women and one for men. The male doctors are not as well trained as our female counterparts and we don’t have the best equipment, but somehow we manage to—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Lori said, “but what does that have to do with my mother?”
“For some reason they brought your mother to the men’s section. We did the best we could.”
“I want to see her.”
After exchanging uneasy glances with Alex, Zakheim said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but your mother is gone. She arrived here barely alive, and died two days later.” From his smock, he brought out a photograph and handed it to the shocked girl.
Shaking, with tears streaming down her face, Lori looked at the picture. It showed Camilla Vale lying on a hospital bed, with life support systems connected to her. Her face was pallid, her eyes closed. She appeared to be barely alive, and only sustained by the equipment—which they must have decided to disconnect eventually, without Lori’s knowledge or input. Her death was an outrage, on so many levels.
“I knew it,” Lori said. “Dixie Lou was stringing me along. But why? Why in the name of God would she do that?”
“For her own filthy reasons. Maybe she wants something out of you, or thinks she might need to get something out of you in the future.”
“Your ability with the she-apostles?” Alex asked.
“Where is her body?” Lori asked, tasting the bitter salt of her own tears.
“Cremated,” Zakheim replied. “By order of Dixie Lou Jackson.”
“How considerate of her,” Alex said.
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” Lori asked, of Zakheim. “Photos can be faked.”
The Stolen Gospels Page 17
