The Phoenix Apostles

by Lynn Sholes

  QUESTIONS 1876, SOUTHERN

  ARIZONA TERRITORY

  "WHERE'D YOU GET THESE?" Charlie Pykes examined the coins Groves had just placed on the scale in the front room of the Calabazas Land and Mining Company office. Pykes was the local assayer.

  Groves touched his chest through his shirt and rubbed the place where the arrow had entered. It was still sensitive and sore, but there was little of what should have been a wound. It didn't make sense, almost as if it never happened-nothing more than a bad dream. He had acquired enough cuts, scrapes, and bruises over his thirty-seven years to know how long things take to heal. This was crazy.

  "Where 'bouts you 'em?"

  Already too many questions. "What difference does it make? I just want the money to buy me a wagon. Any crime in that?"

  "No crime, Mr. Groves. We just don't get too many old Spanish coins in here. Any more where these came from?"

  "Beats me." Groves glanced around the empty office. A couple of cowboys rode by on the dirt street outside the front window. The town was quiet in the early morning. That didn't stop him from sweating at the thought that someone would discover his secret.

  "You okay, Mr. Groves? Look a bit jumpy."

  "Just tired awaitin' for you to give me my money so I can be on my way. If we could get on with our business, I'd be much obliged."

  "Where'd you say you're from?"

  "Over near Tombstone," he lied.

  "No foolin'? Now what in heaven's name would a bunch of Spanish coins be doing over there?"

  "Maybe somebody 'em. I don't know."

  "And you gonna use the money to buy some diggin' gear?"

  "I said I need a wagon and a couple of mules. That's all. Do I get my money or do I have to go up to Tucson?"

  "No, you don't have to do any of that. Just wonderin' how you came across such a nice collection of gold." Pykes took the coins off the scale and started counting out a stack of paper money. "Looks like at twenty dollars an ounce minus my exchange fee, you're gonna get more than enough for a fine wagon and some strong mules. I'd say you should be all set to head back to Tombstone and look for more of them coins."

  "Don't want none of that paper money." Groves pointed to the bills. "And where I go ain't your concern."

  "No problem." Pykes opened his safe, took out a handful of $20 gold pieces and handed them to Groves. "Roy over at the livery should be able to fix you right up. Mention my name."

  Groves took the money and turned to leave. It occurred to him that if the word got out he'd found a stash of Spanish treasure, everybody would be wanting a share. "Actually, I'm thinking about headin' west to Gila Bend. Probably leave tomorrow."

  "Gila Bend, is it? Well, good luck finding more of them coins."

  Groves stood on the wooden boardwalk outside the assayer's office and glanced in both directions along the main street of the frontier town. An uneasy feeling came over him. If word spread about the coins, then getting out of town with a wagon full of digging gear and some dynamite was going to be harder than he figured. "The livery's in that direction."

  Groves spun around to see Pykes standing behind him pointing.

  "Thanks." He stepped off the boardwalk and headed along the dusty street.

  "Come back and see me if you find any more gold."

  Groves didn't look back, but he knew if he could get his hands on the Apache treasure, it probably wouldn't be the last time he saw Charlie Pykes.

  THE PRAYER 2012, SAO PAULO, BRAZIL

  JAVIER SCARROW LAY IN the all-white satin bedding of his suite in the Hotel Emiliano. As his life's mission came closer to fruition he sometimes found it hard to sleep. His body seemed to pump out adrenaline by the gallon. And his mind whirred with checklists and visions of the future, and sometimes after ingesting the ancient god's mushroom, teonanacatl, chased with a drink of chocolate prepared in the old way, he experienced apparitions and hallucinations that led to prophecy.

  Tonight he stared at the ceiling, trying to calm himself enough to at least doze. Scarrow reflected back on the day so many years ago when the gods had finally answered his prayers. It was 1960 and he worked as a research analyst for the Smithsonian Institute. The name Javier Scarrow was the latest he had taken to hide his true identity-there had been many others. He remembered the night as if it were yesterday when he had opened the window of his third-story, two-bedroom Bethesda, Maryland, apartment to let the pungent smoke escape.

  A small stone altar called a tezcatlipoca sat in the middle of the bedroom. Atop the altar a single-stem marigold lay beside a oneinch, carved jade figure of a jaguar head he had secretly pocketed while cataloging a private collection donated to the Institute. Scarrow knelt before the altar, then sat back on his heels.

  In the center of the stone slab was a sculpture he had carved of Quetzalcoatl, the deity he invoked that night. There was also a clay basin in which splinters of wood burned. This was not the Eternal Flame; he had no right to light that fire. Not yet. But he prayed the day would come soon. Most of the smoke rose up from the incense burner, another bowl filled partway with sand on which rested a burning charcoal tablet topped with copal, an aromatic resin.

  Deftly, he drew his obsidian tecpatl blade over the inside of his forearm, a blade sharper than a surgeon's scalpel. Tiny beads of deep red blood percolated to the brim of the paper-cut-thin slice in his flesh. He lifted his head, eyes closed. He had consecrated this room making everything in it sacred. It was a sanctuary, a makeshift temple, dedicated to worship.

  "I come again, yet another day, to beg for your forgiveness." His eyes had flickered open, and he wished it were the stars in the night sky he saw rather than the plaster ceiling. "Hear my pleas, Quetzalcoatl, oh mighty one. I give you my reverence and honor, and am grateful for your eternal presence and the constant bounty you have given me. I praise your infinite wisdom, power, and beauty." He lowered his head, eyes cast down. "I am wretched and unworthy."

  Scarrow had reached for a small earthenware bowl and held his forearm over it at an angle so that a few drops of blood trickled into the hollow of the vessel. "I give to you that which is right-my blood."

  As happened each time he brought himself to this altar, his eyes stung with tears, and his throat painfully constricted as he wept. "It was I who offended you by allowing the downfall of our people. I was the one who misread the prophecy. It was I who mistook the arrival of the barbarian, thinking it was your glorious and foretold return."

  The sobs came unrestrained, and he found himself stuttering. "I understand that this curse of immortality, this blessing of agelessness you have given me, is my atonement. I beg of you to give me guidance as to what I must do. Every day I see the universe convulsing with your wrath. Fires, earthquakes, floods, famines, disease-all because of me. If I am to right it, then I need your blessed intervention. Let me once again walk in the light so that I might see."

  He drew the knife across his other forearm, crisscrossing a net of fine, thread-like scars. Holding both bleeding arms above his head, he said, "I give to you what is right." He dropped his arms and bent over his thighs with deep, bellowing sobs.

  Scarrow knew that the universal balance was askew and would lead to disaster. If he could just find a way to return the harmony. He understood that was his task and that it called for suffering, and he wanted the gods to know that he accepted that responsibility. He had a purpose and needed the help of the gods. The doomsday predicted by so many ancient calendars and legends was coming, the day Einstein suggested would come, the day science theorized that the magnetic poles of the earth would shift and the dire effects would destroy the world as we know it. It had happened before, 200 times over the last 178 million years. And it was going to happen again.

  Unless he could stop it.

  Scarrow sat up, drew the fingers of each hand across his bloodied arms and used them to paint scarlet lines down his chest as he whispered the ancient prayers.

  When the ritual was complete and his body spent, he shivered-the de
ep meditation had expended much of his core heat. He extinguished the incense with the sand, and smothered the bowl of glowing wood embers with a clay lid. Exhausted, he left the room, locking it behind him.

  Scarrow trudged to the apartment's kitchen to make some hot tea. He glanced at the newspaper he had tossed on the table earlier and caught a glimpse of a picture that made him more than curious-a face he was sure he recognized. He picked up the paper and skimmed the obituary of the deceased in the photograph.

  Bracing himself against the table, he uttered a prayer. "Oh, most giving and resourceful Quetzalcoatl, I offer my gratitude and

  Scarrow opened his eyes as he lay in the Brazilian hotel room. Those memories from so many years before were as clear as if they had just happened. It had been a day that changed his life. For after seeing the face in the paper, he knew the gods had finally answered his prayers.

  THE MESSAGE 2012, MIAMI

  SENECA SPED UP AS she headed north on Dixie with the mystery car steadily stalking a block or so behind. As a series of bright streetlights temporarily illuminated the car behind her, she caught a quick glimpse of the three-pointed star in the circle on the front grill, that and the high profile of the vehicle told her it was an older model Mercedes SUV with orange fog lamps.

  "Ready for another test?" She watched the reflection. There was little traffic for her to be concerned with, so as she kept an eye on the fog lamps in the mirror, she took her foot off the accelerator and let her car start to coast. It seemed like it took a few seconds for the mystery car's driver to realize what was happening. The Mercedes closed the gap quickly but then slowed as well.

  "Okay, asshole." She slammed on her brakes and came to a halt in the outside lane of Dixie Highway. The Mercedes immediately veered right onto a side street and disappeared. As soon as it was out of sight, she stomped on the accelerator and sped off, moving into the center lane and taking the first left onto 17th Avenue. At Coral Way, she doubled back and headed south into Coconut Grove, monitoring her rearview mirror the whole way. This time there were no orange fog lamps staring back.

  Seneca pulled the Volvo into the parking garage on the ground floor of her South Bayshore Drive apartment building. Daniel had moved in with her six months earlier. It wasn't the most deluxe apartment, but it was comfortable and all they had needed. The lease was up at the end of the month, and as a wedding gift to each other, she and Daniel had put a deposit on a place in a more upscale section of Bayshore Drive. It wasn't something she could have afforded alone, even though she had a staff position with one of the premier magazines, Planet Discovery. Nor could Dan have made the payments on his own. Together it was more than doable.

  Inside her second-story apartment, Seneca spotted the mail stacked on the coffee table. A retired neighbor watched out for the place whenever they were both away. He collected the mail and made sure to feed their two clown fish, a mutual Valentine's Day gift she and Dan had purchased. They bought the salt water aquarium and fish together. As she passed the small aquarium, she switched on its hood light.

  Seneca wandered into the kitchen, dropped her purse beside the sink, and took a glass from the cabinet shelf. She filled the tumbler with water, then dug in her purse and withdrew the plastic bag, dumping three amber vials onto the countertop. She lined them up neatly against the backsplash, stared at each for a moment considering which she would take. She chose the sleeping pills since she was planning on going straight to bed and just sleeping just being oblivious to the world-just finding a black hole to slip into for some peace and relief from the physical and mental pain. She took one tablet in her hand, then washed it down with a gulp of water.

  Refilling the glass, she returned to the living room and sprawled on the couch, not ready to face the bed, yet.

  Their bed.

  Seneca stared at the aquarium as the fish swam serenely and silently working their tranquility on her. But tired as she had been earlier, the ride home from the airport with the suspicious car had given her a second wind. After awhile she began to doubt the medication's potency.

  Leaning back on the couch cushion, she set the glass of water on the coffee table and rolled her head to the side. The sudden shooting pain brought her hands to the wound in her scalp. The blinking light on the answer machine caught her attention. She'd considered giving up her landline at one point, but it was difficult to part with tradition.

  Seneca inched toward the end of the sofa to see the answering machine better. One message. She pushed the button. After hearing the first several words her body stiffened as if flash frozen. When the message finished, she sat up, doubled over her knees, and put her head in her hands.

  She remained in that position, breathing in and out in her palms, rocking, thoughts rising up from the shadows of her heart. Finally, she went to her bedroom closet and looked up at a small box. It was a little larger than a shoebox and made out of some light wood that her mother had decoupaged back in the early seventies.

  Seneca pulled the box from the shelf and placed it on the bed. She opened it and studied the collection of envelopes, all addressed to her. Letters, birthday cards, photographs, postcards. She probably should have thrown them out long ago.

  Over the years he had only written.

  Now he was calling.

  TEN-EIGHTY 2012, SAO PAULO, BRAZIL

  THE DIRECTOR OF THE Sao Paulo Institute of Forensic Medicine sipped his coffee as he read the morning edition of A Tribuna. Always first to arrive at work, he took advantage of the quiet time to mentally prepare for his day while he caught up on the news.

  A front-page story on the recent Phoenix Ministry's Great Awakening event intrigued him. Held at Morumbi Stadium, the event had ended the previous day. Tens of thousands came to hear the words of one man.

  Someone named Javier Scarrow was responsible-a man the media described as a charismatic spiritual prophet and believed by many to be the new messiah. His devout followers spanned the social, economic, and political spectrum-even embracing those of all faiths. His crusades drew huge crowds around the world as did his online and television ministries. And all he preached was to be in balance with the universe.

  Rather simplistic, the director thought. Why would so many people want to hear something as basic as that? But then, getting back to basics might be just what this world needed. Or was it too late-too far beyond basics with all the threats society faced daily? It made him think of the cliche: you can never go home again.

  He took the next twenty minutes to finish his coffee and the paper before checking his calendar. His first appointment was with his granddaughter. She had graduated with a journalism degree and managed to get a job with a medical journal doing research on cutting-edge forensic procedures. He would be one of her first interviews.

  "Doctor," his granddaughter remained formal and businesslike, "my last question is about something called brain fingerprinting. Can you tell me what it means, is it accurate, and is it admissible as evidence in court?" She typed her question into her notebook resting on her lap as she smiled across the desk at her grandfather.

  He returned her expression of affection but also remained on a professional level. "The basic difference between someone who is guilty of a crime and someone who is innocent is that the guilty party has a record of the crime stored in his or her brain. The innocent person doesn't. Until brain fingerprinting was developed, there was no real scientific method of detecting this fundamental difference."

  "Does brain fingerprinting determine guilt or innocence?"

  "No. That task always resides with the judge and jury. What brain fingerprinting does do is give the courts compelling evidence based on science to help them arrive at a verdict."

  "Will you explain exactly what it is?"

  "It's a scientific technique to determine whether or not specific information is stored in an individual's memory. The procedure measures brainwave responses to words, phrases, sounds, and pictures. While conducting the interview, we use details that the subject
would have encountered in the course of committing a crime, but that an innocent person wouldn't know. We can tell by the brain wave response if the subject recognizes the stimulus or not. If the suspect recognizes the details of the crime, this indicates that he has a record of the crime stored in his brain."

  "How accurate is it, and does it obstruct our rights to mental sovereignty and cognitive liberty?"

  "In cases where a determination of information present or information absent was made, one hundred percent of-"

  The director looked up at his office door. "Yes, what is it?"

  "Sorry, Doctor," his assistant said, "but can I see you a moment."

  "I'm right in the middle of an interview. Can it wait?"

  The woman grimaced. "I'm afraid we've had a break-in." She stood unmoving in the doorway.

  The director came to his feet. "When?"

  "Apparently over the weekend. The blue safe was broken into."