“Why did you want to know if the lights were on in the condo? Do you have binoculars? All I have on is my black robe.”
The thoughts that raced through his mind during the ten seconds before she spoke again were filled with dread. He was willing to make a compact with the Devil himself if he could just turn back the hands of time, turn them back to a day when he’d only heard of Angelique Caulfield, rather than been introduced.
“Are you still there?” Her words lilted through the receiver, snapping his reverie. “Or did you go to get the binoculars?”
“No. I was just…”
“Would you like to have me for breakfast?” she purred.
Shit. I’m through.
“Or if you’d prefer, we could just meet over at, uh, the 24-hour place in the Village?” She paused. “Are you still there?”
A wave of relief smoothed his anxiety.
“Now I get it,” he said. “I bet I know where you’re going to be in an hour or so.”
“Yeah. Command performance. The Pontiff’s secretary called after I got in and told me a certain man of your acquaintance requested my presence at mass this morning, and she happened to mention you were going to be there, too. I got your number out of the telephone book over here. I figured you’d probably be up already.”
“Yup.”
“So what do you say?” she concluded. “I’m really hungry. Haven’t eaten since the flight.”
“I’d like to,” he lied. “But I’ve been gone for over a week and I have to put together some docs before I meet with his Holiness later this morning. I’d really like to,” he lied again. “Maybe we could do it some other time.”
“Okay. See you at mass. But I would like to get together. It’s been a couple of months.”
“Yeah, I’d like that,” he replied, knowing he didn’t. Knowing it was dangerous for him and, if the truth be revealed, to Peter.
The organizational structure of the Sanctuarian Party was no different than that of the 16 other parties constantly vying for control of the Roman Catholic Church. Soon after his election, Peter suggested numerous appointments to fill posts within the Party, and had picked Samson for the coveted position of Finance Director, along with Jeff Gayle as Executive Director and Carter Sherwood as Deputy Director. Carter was a piece of work and Samson’s favorite fellow staffer, the only person since Kim’s death in whom he regularly confided anything. He thought about calling the notoriously late sleeper, thought it would be rude to do, picked up the phone, then dialed his number anyway. He answered on the fifth ring.
“Hullo?”
“Good morning, Woodpecker,” Samson grinned. “How’s my favorite Party hack doing today?”
“What time is it? Terry? That you?”
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”
“What’d you think, anthead?” he replied with a long, loud yawn. “You down in Florida?”
“Nope. I’m right down the block.”
“Why you calling me, man?”
“Just to bug the crap out of you. But seriously,” he continued, lowering his voice. “I got a call from Rosalita yesterday and she said to get up here on the double. They had the Gulfstream based in Miami fly me up. You know what’s going on?”
“Nobody told me you were coming back,” Carter replied. “I guess it has some thing to do with Castro. You know he kicked, don’t you.”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’m sure something is up that has to do with that. I mean, Jeff is in New York and he didn’t get called back, so it must have…”
“Jeez,” Samson interrupted in mock astonishment. “You’re in charge of Party again?”
“Speaking of which, did you see that article in RCC about Gene Phillips, that gumshoe Jeff almost hired to check a few of those curious items in Bishop McKinney’s background?”
“Haven’t seen this week’s issue.”
“It turns out that our collective instincts have served us extremely well again,” Carter said excitedly. “Turns out he was a bigger creep than we thought. Turns out the guy has some real close connections to the Cult. In fact, he might be a member of the Cult. Lemme go get it.”
Samson heard the phone set down and waited for Carter to resume, happy his friend thought the reason for his return was Castro’s death. “So it says here that Phillips was under consideration by the Sanctuarian Party to work on some sensitive policy matters but when the resume reached the upper levels, Phillips was dismissed out of hand, after especially bad recommendations given by Finance Director Terry Samson and major Party operative Carter Sherwood.”
“So that’s what it is you do? Major Party Operative, huh?”
“When’s you find out why’s you back?”
“Later on. I get to go to mass at the Chap this morning.”
“I figured as much, you prick. Had to be a reason you were up at the crack. But I’m goin’ back to sleep. Later, Ter.”
“Say, Carter?”
“Ten words or less.”
“What’s the cover article in RCC about?”
“Just the same old Angelique’s been a bad girl bullshit. When they gonna give up on her?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, swallowing hard.
Chapter Four
“The same old Angelique’s been a bad girl bullshit,” Samson said as he closed the front door and began the mile walk to the mansion, the cool air and pink light in the sky reminding him of the romantic strolls he and Kimberly took during the first few months of their marriage. Months when every dawn was exciting and precious, when every day carried the promise of joy and discovery. “Those RCC people ought to be shot.”
Roman Catholic Church This Week was one of the most popular magazines in the country and typically had as much to do with the truth as Benedict Arnold had to do with loyalty. The periodical inaugurated publication under Nicholas VI, cashing in on the huge demand for information about the Church that surfaced after Vatican III. While L’Osservatorel Romano was still published daily at the Vatican, it remained an unofficial sheet as it had for decades.
RCCTW started out in its early years as a reasonably informative if unsanctioned publication, but had since evolved into a lurid periodical that usually bordered on pure sensationalism—though it was required reading for anyone interested in the latest rises and falls within the Church. For the most part, the articles typically fell far wide of the mark and focused much more on personality than hard news. But occasionally it did manage to present something of value. The most notable piece delivered in years had appeared a dozen issues earlier, a nine-page expose devoted to the Diaries of Sebastian. The manuscript, which the Church finally acknowledged existed, was discovered during an archaeological dig near Galilee two years before. The 700 sheets of personal journals, while certainly an interesting curiosity, were at first dismissed as nothing more the ramblings of a teacher and poet intent on recording history, if not for posterity, for himself. The comings and goings of his life, the intrigues which were of earth-shattering importance to him, seemed to hold little value.
But two-thirds through the treatise, when he was spending less time on his writing and more with the wife of one of his cousins, a small story emerged. If it proved true it would make the Diaries one of the most important, if not the most important, discovery in the history of archaeological forensics and certainly the most dynamic document of the Church since the dawn of Christianity.
Two of Sebastian’s best friends were a pair of brothers named Simon and Jacob. He recounted visits to their home and of the wonderful impression he had of their mother, Mary. She’d been widowed young, her first husband, a carpenter named Joseph, having died many years before. She always had the time to act as hostess whenever her children brought friends around. It was on one of those visits that Sebastian had occasion to have a long exchange with the oldest.
Jesus was considered an oddball by his stepbrothers and sisters, seemingly interested in nothing except the Scriptures and practicing magic tric
ks ranging from slight-of-hand to elaborate illusions. Sebastian had gone there on the day in question but found no one home except Jesus, who told him the family had left for the market but would be back later in the afternoon. Not wanting to make the long walk back to the home he shared with a wife he despised, he chose to stay and wait for his friends’ return.
Much to his surprise, Sebastian found Jesus not to be the eccentric painted by Simon but instead an intense, driven student of the times who had a tight grasp on the political, social and religious events on which the community and territory were focused. Jesus spoke about the provincial occupation of the Roman forces and his dream that the occupation could not last forever and would not last for long as he manipulated three cups atop a small settee, a pair of green olives and one black mysteriously changing places as the man casually lifted them to reveal each new combination beneath. Jesus said that soon a revolution would begin to change the world. The time had come, he added, for someone to take a stand—a strong stand—against the sorry state of affairs into which the world had drifted. And that person, he thought, could be the son of Mary and Joseph.
Not that Sebastian gave him much hope for doing so. It was simply the naive conviction in his voice that stuck in his mind which led him to make a lengthy note of the conversation. And a further note some months later that Jesus, against the advice of the family, had decided to leave home and begin a ministry supported by a traveling magic show, choosing as his first venues the nearby towns of Chorazin and Capernaum.
It wasn’t until three years later—during a visit to Jerusalem to stay with friends for Passover—that Sebastian once again crossed paths with the man. He’d heard on and off about his exploits and popular demonstrations, the radical posture he’d adopted and the trouble he was getting into with both the Jewish tribunal and the Roman government. But he paid little mind to the stories because he knew enough people who are mad or crazy or disenchanted or restless.
Upon his arrival on a Thursday afternoon, one of the people he’d journeyed to see, Matthew, revealed himself to be an ardent disciple of the Jesus Sebastian knew from Galilee. Matthew told him that he couldn’t meet that night because of an important gathering being held between Jesus and his closest followers at which outsiders would not be allowed. Sebastian insisted he at least be permitted to come by to say hello before finding another diversion, so Matthew reluctantly agreed.
They came across Jesus waiting in a square with his retinue for someone to deliver the wine to be served with dinner later in the evening. Matthew became the object of a harangue by one of those present, a hot-headed revolutionary named Peter, the spiel ending when Jesus stepped across to greet the startled Sebastian. The man who embraced him was the same he had met in Galilee although he seemed to have aged 13 years rather than the three that had elapsed. Jesus was emaciated, walked with a pronounced limp and sported a black wristband with black feathers hanging from it, as did all the others. He possessed a blankness in his eyes that Sebastian recalled had once sparkled. They spoke no more than a minute, the wine arriving, Jesus apologizing for requiring Matthew’s presence that night. But before leaving, he reached to the ground, picked up a small, smooth white stone then placed in Sebastian’s hand, closing it weakly. “We will meet again, when we can talk more. Keep this until then.”
Sebastian placed the stone in a bag he was carrying to pacify Jesus and the recalcitrant Peter, then spent the night in the company of a girl he met an hour later.
The next morning he made his way back to Matthew’s room to take a nap. He found his host there with another follower he’d seen the night before named Luke. Both of them seemed frightened as they drank from a large jug. Matthew said Jesus had been taken prisoner by the Romans. Matthew said nobody understood the message Jesus was trying to deliver. Luke said two of the disciples had been collaborating with their enemies and had participated in a scheme to betray them all. Matthew said Jesus would be executed later that day.
Awaking alone that afternoon, Sebastian was hungry. Finding no food in the room, he went into the streets in search of something to eat. After purchasing some bread and cheese he roamed, eventually wandering to a place called The Skull, a small hill on the outskirts of the city. He spied three crosses in the distance, thought to turn away in view of the gathering storm but instead walked toward the place of punishment. Curious to see if Jesus was one of the victims. Wanting to be able to report back to Simon on his return home.
He ventured within 50 yards of the spot, close enough to see the bored look on the faces of the Legionnaires, to be certain it was Jesus. A slight woman was the only other civilian apparently concerned with the executions, seated on the ground 30 feet from the crosses. She turned, gazed at Sebastian a moment, and then returned her attention to the trio of victims.
The clouds grew darker, so Sebastian retreated to Matthew’s room. He didn’t find him there and apparently never saw him again, at least to the point the diaries ended approximately six months later, when the writer outlined his plan to murder his wife and then take his own life.
He remained in Jerusalem for three days, visiting others he knew. Out of money and weary of city life, he began his journey back to Chorazin where he now lived. That afternoon he chanced upon a man standing at a well, filling a bag with water. Sebastian approached, hoping he would allow him a drink from the bucket, his own satchel left behind in some forgotten place. As he neared he recognized the man as Jesus.
But not the one he’d seen crucified. This one appeared healthy, clean and freshly shaven, an apparently new, long black robe draped fashionably about him, a black feather hanging from his right ear. His eyes were brighter than ever. The woman Sebastian remembered as the one at the executions stood in the distance, black feathers hanging from both her wrists with another over her heart. He recorded the brief encounter.
“Jesus?”
“Hello, Sebastian.”
“I heard you had been taken by the Romans. Crucified.”
“I heard that also.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Drawing water from this well.”
“May I have some?”
Jesus topped off the bag, handed it to him and began to walk away. Sebastian was dumbstruck. He ran after the man as his senses returned.
The woman shouted: “Do not touch him!”
“What should I tell your brothers?”
“That I am gone. To a different place.”
“We’re you really crucified or was it a trick?”
“Do you have the stone I gave you?”
Sebastian rummaged through his bag, found it, then handed it over. Jesus held it a moment, then gave it back and said good-bye, advising him to tell his brothers and sisters all that he had witnessed. “I could see you from the cross. Thank you for coming. Not many others did. It was only death I was demonstrating. Everyone must die eventually.”
Sebastian tossed the stone into his bag and didn’t look at it until days later when he related the story to Simon and offered it to him. As he did, he discovered a black cross on it. The man dismissed the tale. The brother had no desire to keep the pebble, so Sebastian did. It was found in a disintegrated leather pouch along with the diaries.
If only somebody could prove the Diaries are real, Samson thought as the guard patted him down at the rear entrance of the mansion. Imagine what would happen if there were really an objective, disinterested account of the death and resurrection of Christ, he wondered as another guard lead him to the private chapel. Think of how everything would change, how my life would change if there were proof, real proof, that it was all true.
As he entered the tabernacle, he stopped as if the gray marble floor had suddenly turned to ice. The first worshiper he saw was Angelique. She knelt in the first pew, her face in her hands, her blond hair knotted into a single braid falling to her waist. Her signature. Behind her, he spied Mary Beth, Peter’s sister, and next to her Clarence. ‘Where should I kneel?’ was the only thought
he could draw. But Peter’s entrance, along with Clarence’s son, Kazbek, foreclosed any lengthy consideration. The obvious answer was the closest space, that being next to Angelique. As she stood to the tinkling of the tiny bell in Kazbek’s hand, she looked vacantly to the priest, then smiled, “Hi” as he eased in. He nodded to her, then to Clarence and finally to Mary Beth.
The Chap was a chapel any church would be happy to have. It was both simple and elegant in the extreme. A gray marble slab sat at the front, gray marble pews forming a small V as they pushed away from it, the lighting warm. It could accommodate 80 comfortably but Samson had never seen more than a half-dozen in it in all of the four visits he’d paid when Peter celebrated his daily mass. It had been built for Nicholas who always enjoyed having people around him. Peter had a different attitude toward his private devotions.
Typically he said them alone, not an altar boy or nun in attendance to respond to the prayers. He felt it was the one place he could commune with God without interruption or distraction. But occasionally the Pontiff would invite a few people to join in the sacrifice. Carter always joked that an invitation to Chap meant one of two things: either the Pope wanted something, or the Pope wanted something.
Peter, dressed in white and gray and black as always, made the sign of the cross as he said, “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” Everyone crossed themselves and said, “Amen.”
“May the grace of our Lord, Jesus Christ, and the love of his Father and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you, and with us all.”
Samson, Mary Beth, Clarence and Kazbek replied, “And also with you” in unison, Angelique saying, “Et cum spiritu tuo.” Peter cocked his head and seemed about to depart from the prepared text, but what could he expect? The singer was one of them.
Sanctuary Creek Page 4
