The Cosega Sequence: A Techno Thriller

by Brandt Legg

  Sean thought about the good times he’d had in his adored car, about his girlfriend, who had probably been harassed by the FBI, and his brother’s final suffering minutes, which he’d imagined a hundred different ways. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Nanski hung up the phone and told Leary, “Punch Chimayó, New Mexico, into the GPS. Gaines is there.”

  “How do we know this?” Leary asked.

  “The Cardinal just told me that Clastier was the priest at Chimayó.”

  “And if there’s no record of that, then how would Gaines know?”

  “I’m afraid Gaines has access to better information than the Vatican has.”

  “That can’t be possible. He’s just one guy. Surely, he’s nothing against the resources of the world’s greatest religion, more than a billion and a half Catholics and the Kingdom of Almighty God.”

  “So far, Gaines has done pretty well for a man who should have been dead a week ago. We’d do well to recall the words of Archimedes, ‘Give me a lever long enough, and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world.’ Gaines has the lever; pray we stop him before he locates the fulcrum.”

  Chapter 23

  Rip’s hand trembled slightly as he held the nearly two-hundred-year-old letter from Clastier. He read the line for a third time to make sure he was getting the translation correct. “A black sphere cradled within stone bowls found at Chimayó has made more of an impact on me than anything produced by the Church. Yes, it even rivals the creations of God in its wonder, and grants more into the ways of its secrets; revealing a past so great that one must believe more in God, but far different from the God that Catholicism presents. It is too much to comprehend and yet, it is simple. The pain this tiny glowing planet causes me could not be healed with every medicine known to man, for it is without a doubt that the Church is false. Mistaken at best, fraudulent at worse, and I have helped to perpetuate this lie. And now, they will do what they always do in any disagreement with any dissenter. I will be labeled as a collaborator with the devil, a heretic, and then they will banish or kill me. But my dear sweet Flora, I cannot deny what I have seen and what I know.” Rip leaned back in the old leather barrel chair and closed his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Teresa asked. She touched his arm; her hand felt like warm crepe paper. He opened his eyes and focused on her thin grey hair, trying to rein in his runaway thoughts. Clastier’s papers were based on knowledge, at least in part, that he’d gained from an Eysen. Was it the same one concealed within the pack on his back? Impossible! He’d seen that one pulled from an eleven-million-year-old cliff two thousand miles away from where he now sat.

  “Do you know what he is talking about here?” Rip pointed to the passage.

  “Oh, yes,” Teresa said, barely glancing at it.

  “Does he say more about it?”

  “Oh my, yes.”

  “Would you allow me to take these letters? I’d like to make copies and study them further.”

  “Mr. Ripley, I could never part with these.”

  “It’s just that they are possibly . . . I mean, these letters could save my life, could save many lives.” Rip was desperate. He didn’t feel safe enough to stay there for the hours it would require to read them, but he believed they were the key to his survival. Clastier had had an Eysen! The ramifications overwhelmed him. He considered just dashing out of the house and speeding away. But she would likely call the police, plus he didn’t like the idea of becoming a serial artifact thief. “How can I convince you?”

  “Mr. Ripley, I could just give you copies.”

  “You have copies?”

  “I made them for the historian. He refused to take them.” She made a sour face. “He’s a very smart man, but he’s too Catholic for this business.” Teresa went to an old desk, fiddled with a tiny key and produced a manila envelope. “Clastier was destroyed by the Church, my family was forever changed, but what they took from the world is the greatest crime ever committed,” she said, handing the copies to Rip.

  “And what did they take?” Rip asked.

  She looked at him as though he’d just asked her what year it was. “They took the truth, Mr. Ripley. They stole everything that is real and gave us this,” she waved her hands toward the window as if to indicate the outside world, “this mistake!”

  “How do you know? Does Clastier say what happened to his sphere?”

  “He didn’t know what happened to it.”

  Rip stared, his expression begging her to continue.

  “Clastier was gone. The story came down through my family. Clastier had already fled. No one knew if he was in hiding, captured, or dead. The Pope himself ordered the Chimayó Church to be destroyed. They knew he had hidden something, but couldn’t find it. It was good fortune they didn’t know of his relationship with Flora or this house would have been gone.”

  “But they didn’t destroy the church.”

  “No, because they found what they were looking for.”

  “What did they do with it?”

  “It’s been a long time, been told down the line and confused, if they ever knew at all. One way it’s come down is that the sphere was smashed to fragments the size of sand and buried at the church. Another has it that they shipped it off to Rome, and it’s locked in the Vatican somewhere to this day. Another claims that the sphere never existed in the physical form, that it was just a metaphor for the ideas, philosophies, and predictions of Clastier. He called them Attestations and Divinations.” She looked at Rip’s bewildered face. “Poor boy, I have something that will clear up all this serious talk.” Teresa left the room and Rip wondered if she might bring an Eysen back. Returning, her smile increased his excitement. “Look at these,” she said, pulling an arm from behind her back. “Shortbread cookies. I made them myself.”

  “Oh, they look delicious.”

  “Wait until you taste them.”

  He took one. “Amazing,” he said around bites.

  “This old half-baked broad can bake, huh?” she said, winking.

  Rip laughed before turning serious again. “Teresa, what do you think happened to Clastier’s sphere?”

  “I think they smashed it.”

  He had a sudden feeling of being kicked in the stomach. “Why?”

  “They couldn’t risk its power getting into the hands of the common man.”

  “Clastier considered himself a common man; he used those words.”

  “I know. His story survived.”

  “Funny, they could destroy an object, but they couldn’t quite extinguish the spirit of a man.”

  “It is part of an old story. His secret is part of an unspoken promise. Clastier says in one of those letters that ‘A true secret is something angry at wanting to be released, but its only power comes from being kept.’ He left clues to his secrets, didn’t he? You must have found some to come all this way and ask an old woman about a forbidden name.”

  “Yes. I just wonder if it’s enough.”

  “Then perhaps you haven’t looked hard enough.”

  “There’s something more?”

  “The Clastier tales they told me growing up talked of papers that were hidden.”

  “I found those.”

  “Maybe you haven’t found them all. Clastier had many friends and he knew his time was short, but most of all he was aware that the Church was the most powerful force in the world and precautions were needed. He knew what they would do. Things had to be preserved.” She reached into the pocket of her housecoat and pulled out a stone fragment the size of Rip’s hand. “It’s part of the stone bowl that his sphere was found in,” she said, passing him the piece.

  Rip felt a lump form in his throat as he took it. Studying the carved stone for a moment, recalling the one he left in North Carolina, he knew they were identical. There were the familiar circles and beautifully carved lines. He was about to pull out his laptop and verify it against photos when the phone rang. Rip, so immersed in the fragment, hardly noticed Teresa walki
ng back to the desk to answer, until she handed him the phone and said, “Mr. Ripley, it’s for you.”

  Chapter 24

  Nanski and Leary left Taos on Highway 68 along the Rio Grand River, then through Española; it was the quickest route to Chimayó. Leary noticed Nanski’s pensive mood as they drove. “What did the Cardinal say that has you so worried?”

  “Clastier used to preach at Chimayó, but his true church was somewhere else. A wealthy and influential man, named Abeyta, built Chimayó as a private chapel in 1810. The building we’ll see today replaced a smaller, earlier version in 1816. Clastier actually became a priest at a nearby church sometime in the 1830s; the location is secret to this day as it was leveled during the expunging of Clastier. The Cardinal has been unable to find any references to where the original Clastier site might be.”

  “If it was leveled, why does it matter?”

  “Everything about Clastier matters!”

  “Why?”

  “Because just like Malachy’s hidden prophecies, Clastier predicted that stone bowls contained the destruction of the Church.”

  “It’s starting to feel like we’re in the end times, like we’re two warriors of God ordained to save Catholicism, the one true religion, and humanity’s only hope for salvation.”

  Nanski didn’t respond; Leary might sound dramatic, but he knew Leary believed his words. He stared at the Rio Grande River; working its way through the narrow canyon with just enough space for the river and the road, and decided Leary wasn’t too far off. “Salvation or survival. We’ve got to stop him.”

  “You really think he’ll be at Chimayó?”

  “Gaines has whatever was contained in the bowls and he is going to every church where Clastier is known to have preached.”

  “What if Gaines knows the location of Clastier’s original church?”

  “That’s a terrifying thought. We need to find him first.”

  “What else do we know about him?”

  “In 1839, the bishop in Durango heard reports of Clastier’s radical preachings and during 1840, they stripped him of his parish.”

  “Man, losing his church. What did Clastier do?”

  “Sometime in the next year or so, he managed to win the confidence of Abeyta, who invited him to preach at Chimayó. It took until 1843 or ’44 before he was officially defrocked.”

  “But he didn’t quit his blasphemy, did he?”

  “No. And Church leaders in Rome ordered him executed.”

  “Good move, he was a wicked man. But he got away?”

  “It’s unclear. Clastier went into hiding; first, at an unknown location near Chimayó; then, for a short time at the San Francisco de Asís Mission, where he had a sympathetic friend behind the pulpit. Finally, he fled to the Taos Pueblo where the Indians hid him until he was flushed out by a posse. From there, the story becomes rumors and legends.”

  Kruse and Harmer were heading to Chimayó at the same time. Booker’s superior intel had given his AX agents a slight head start, but Kruse chose to take the more scenic High Road, figuring fugitives would always take the backroads. He hoped to get lucky and find them before they reached the historic church.

  The FBI was also converging on Chimayó. In the helicopter, Hall finished reading the manuscript of Gaines’ upcoming book, “The Future of the Past.” With Gaines in the news, wanted for murder, and then not; the publisher was rushing the book to an earlier release, along with a companion volume of deleted sections and excerpts from Gaines’ most controversial speeches.

  The publisher had suddenly become the target of a hostile takeover from a corporation that DIRT believed was ultimately controlled by Booker. At the same time, several religious groups had mobilized to pressure the company not to release his work. The tactics just made them more anxious to publish sooner – controversy is the best thing for book sales.

  Hall watched the ruggedly beautiful wilderness of northern New Mexico flow beneath the chopper. He didn’t believe Gaines was a criminal, but surmised that the famous archaeologist had found something that could severely damage the reputation of the Church. However, the reasons that Gaines seemed to want to protect the Church eluded him. Booker’s role was even less clear. DIRT had uncovered many good deeds done in secret by the ruthless tycoon, but with so many dead-ends and a long string of lawsuits and investigations swirling around Booker, a true picture couldn’t be seen. Hall suspected even Barbeau might be coming around to a similar theory about Gaines; he planned to discuss it with him, after they landed at Chimayó.

  The Sangre de Cristo Mountains seemed to explode out of the earth below and the irony of their name translated to “Blood of Christ” momentarily disturbed Hall. “What if Gaines really did find proof of Cosega? What if, as he said, ‘the history of human origins on Earth is all wrong?’ What if, in all the gaps that existed across millions of years of the Earth’s history, another society actually existed?” he thought to himself, replaying the line that most haunted him: “The question is no longer what if it’s wrong; the question is, how wrong is it?”

  Gaines had spent his life searching for something impossible, and in that quest, he appeared to have made a discovery that shocked even him. He’d come to Virginia at the peak of his career; living a life anyone would envy. He left twenty-four hours later, with a price on his head, and little chance of escape. Whatever he found had to be extraordinary; the most powerful people in the world all wanted it. Hall suddenly realized that he might be the best chance Gaines had at survival, and the thought terrified him.

  Chapter 25

  Rip looked at Teresa and then tentatively at the phone. “Hello.”

  He didn’t recognize the voice at first, just a man yelling, “Get out, Gaines, you have to get out of there.”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Aragón, the historian. The FBI just left here. I tried not to tell them anything, but one of the kids had already mentioned overhearing me tell you about Chimayo.”

  “Damn it. Okay, thanks for calling.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  After he hung up, Teresa said, “Time’s up, huh?”

  “Yeah. A lot of people are still trying to silence Clastier, and destroy the sphere.”

  “You have to go to the church.”

  “No. There’s no time.”

  “Remember time is different in New Mexico.”

  “People are after us.”

  “The church will only take a minute.”

  “I don’t understand why they didn’t destroy the church?”

  “Because they located his sphere. They would have destroyed everything Clastier touched until they found it. Oh, they still tore that chapel apart. My grandmother said it was taken down “to the innards” as they searched for any trace of the man who would become ‘never to have been’ but, there is one thing they could not remove.”

  “What?”

  “The very thing that has made the El Santuario de Chimayó famous around the world.”

  Her dramatic pauses made him impatient. “Please, Teresa, I have no time.”

  “The dirt, poor boy, they couldn’t remove the dirt.”

  “Dirt?”

  “Your hand must touch the dirt; you must take some of it with you. I have given you the letters; do this for me.” She smiled at his exasperated look. “They cannot hurt you there. You’ll still manage your escape.”

  “Then I’m off.” Rip hugged the old woman. “I could never thank you enough. You’ve taken what I already had, but couldn’t accept, and returned it to me in a way that now it all makes sense.”

  She smiled. “And cookies, I also gave you the best damned cookies you’ve ever had.” She handed him a brown bag. “Don’t worry, it’s only cookies. Oh, and a plastic baggy, you’ll need it for the dirt.”

  He took the bag, along with the manila envelope, and hurried to the door, “Stay safe, great-, great-, great-granddaughter of Flora.”

  “And Clastier.”

  “Seriously?” />
  She laughed at Rip’s shocked expression. “Apparently he never knew Flora was pregnant. But so much of the story is lost, maybe he knew, maybe he even saw the baby.”

  He hugged her again. “Incredible. There really is nothing new in the past.”

  Rip got in the backseat. “FBI’s on the way. We gotta go.”

  “Which way?” Sean asked.

  “A quick stop at the church and then to Española.”

  “The church, huh?” Gale laughed. “What on earth did that old lady have to say that could send you to another church?”

  “Let’s just say you would have liked her,” Rip said.

  “Do we really have time for sightseeing at some old church, if the FBI is on the way?” Sean asked. “What’s so important?”

  “It’s a long story,” Rip said.

  “No problem, I’ve got nothing but time,” Sean said.

  “Let me run in here, first,” Rip pointed to the church, as Sean circled close to the entrance. “You guys wait here. I won’t be a minute.”

  “Are you kidding?” Gale said, miffed. “Did the old lady say we weren’t allowed in here either?”

  “Please,” Rip shot her a pleading look. “I need to do this one alone.” He jumped out and jogged toward the entrance.

  Gale, already annoyed at being excluded from the conversation with Teresa, now felt even more removed from their quest. She started after him, but stopped a few feet from the car. Something had happened to Rip in that house. By insisting on going alone into the church, he seemed to be finally accepting Clastier’s continued guidance. She decided not to interfere, but would demand the full story before the end of the day.

  Two weathered pine doors clung to hinges and stood permanently open under an adobe arch that led to the courtyard. A powerful wave of déjà vu mixed with dread made Rip dizzy for a few moments. He wove his way past several tourists and around a wooden cross at the center of the stone walkway. As he stepped inside, the two-hundred-year-old adobe church became timeless. Staring at a crucified Christ in the center of the colorful altar screens, Rip felt nauseous and unsteady. He looked around for something to support him and grasped the back of a wooden pew; the air was suffocating. He made his way down the center aisle of the nave, using the pews as crutches, until he reached the sanctuary. He fell through a small opening to his left and landed on his knees, staring into a shallow hole carved in the floor. He felt sure this wasn’t his first visit there, as some strength returned. “Conway,” Rip said, suddenly hoarse, remembering what the Pueblo shopkeeper had called him.