The Phoenix Apostles

by Lynn Sholes

  Scarrow held up his hand. "Plain English."

  "Of course, sorry. We want to form the circulatory system first. We believe this will be a more efficient method and will save time as well. We will start with the heart in order to distribute the nutrients throughout the body. We'll manipulate or treat the H-E-S cells to make heart muscle and endothelial cells. From there, we'll continue formulating the cells to become skeletal muscle and attach to the existing skeleton or regenerate what's missing."

  "So no more missing parts?"

  "Right, Javier. That's the big difference and a nice side benefit. Our patient doesn't have to go around with a missing toe or finger. We'll formulate cells using our rapid regeneration procedures to make the various organs such as the lungs and liver, grow them in three-dimensional molds of human organs, and finally, we'll treat cells to become nerves to control it all." He smiled proudly and took another sip of wine. "And as before, we'll then revive the patient in the same manner as an ER doctor revives someone in cardiac

  "I trust all of you completely to make the right choices in accomplishing this task." Scarrow acknowledged each man around the table. "You and your amazing team have not let me down, Dr. Blakely."

  "Nor do we intend to. You have given us the challenge of a lifetime. A chance to do what most thought was only the domain of science fiction novels. You have given us the opportunity to rebuild a human being from the dust of death. Something each of us is dedicated to, but our research would otherwise be forbidden. You have provided an arena in which we can do the research and experimentation that is needed to extend life and heal those suffering. There is such stigma and so many so-called moral issues surrounding human replication and stem cell research. But here in Azteca, we are proving that it can be done."

  Scarrow fought back a smile, knowing that this magnificent medical team had no idea of his grander plan-not just to save human lives, but to literally save the world. "Much like the phoenix rising."

  "Exactly," Blakely added. "Just like the phoenix."

  "I'm pleased you're continuing to improve the process and are not afraid to try new things. It fortifies my belief I have made a good choice in bringing you all together." Scarrow leaned forward in his chair, his expression serious. "And on that same note, I want to push ahead with two unique requests. First, I would like you to give this latest patient, the one called ten-eighty, the ability to speak in multiple languages."

  Blakely turned to the CEO of the electronics firm that designed the Engage implant device. The man nodded. "It will take awhile, but it can be done with a bit of reprogramming."

  "Good. But my second and biggest challenge to you is to give the subject a unique facial structure."

  One of two reconstructive plastic surgeons replied, "Any specifications or just to our fancy as you've allowed us to do with the others?"

  "Oh, no. I have something specific in mind this time." Reaching into his briefcase sitting on the floor by his side, Scarrow removed a folder. He slid it across the table toward the plastic surgeon. "I want you to make the patient look like this."

  The doctor opened the folder and studied the photograph of a man's face. With an expression of shock mixed with wonder, he stared at Scarrow. "You must be joking."

  TIGRESS OF CACHTICE

  2012, MIAMI

  "LISTEN..." SENECA HESITATED, stumbling over how to refer to her father.

  "Start with Al. Maybe one day we'll work up to Dad."

  "I don't think so."

  "You don't need to go through all this alone. Let me help?"

  She shook her head, agitated that he attempted to slip so easily into a fatherly role. "You haven't heard a thing I've said." She went to the door to open it.

  "I can see my way out." He moved in her direction, stopping next to her. "Listen, little one, I'm not here to complicate your life. There's much more to all this than you realize. I'll give you some space to hash everything over in your head. But I'll be back in touch."

  "Just go."

  "I left my card on the kitchen counter. My cell number is on it. Call anytime." He turned and walked out.

  When the door closed she headed to the kitchen and poured herself a dose of Seagrams VO, neat. It burned all the way down in two gulps. She poured another shot and took a sip. That should help. Moving back into the living room, she settled into the couch cushions, rolled her head, feeling her neck and shoulder muscles resist with tension-the ever-present reminder of her Mexico City injuries.

  Al's parting words gave her an idea, not about him, but about Mexico and finding out who was responsible for Daniel's death. If she could come up with some plausible story to continue the project with her boss at Planet Discovery, she could keep trying to track down who had killed Daniel. She retrieved her purse and dug through it coming up with the small business card holder. Flipping through the cards she finally held onto one and pitched the others on the couch. She figured TV Mexicali might be the only possible route.

  She dialed the number for the Mexican television network. "Can I please speak with the remote production director?"

  "Un minuto, por favor."

  The line switched to an audio live news feed when she was put on hold. Several minutes passed before a man said, "Este es Enrique."

  "You are the remote production director?"

  "Yes." He answered with a slight accent. "Can I help you?"

  "I hope so. My name is Seneca Hunt. I'm the journalist who was in Mexico City covering the excavation of Montezuma's tomb. Unfortunately, as you know, there was the terrible explosion. I lost all of my audiotapes of the interviews I did with the archaeologist, Dr. Bernal. I was wondering if TV Mexicali had salvaged anything. Anything at all. Maybe something that was sent electronically or uploaded before the explosion."

  "We were disappointed that we did not recover anything, and we did not have any data transmitted back to the studios prior to the incident."

  Seneca looked at the card again. "Do you know how I can get in touch with Carlos Moctezuma? He was a tech assistant at the location shoot."

  The line was silent for a moment. "Senorita Hunt, I'm sorry ... it is our understanding that you were the only survivor."

  Seneca touched her hand to her mouth to hush the surprise in her voice. "Oh, my. I didn't know. I thought Carlos left before the explosion. Please give my condolences to his friends and family." Slowly she settled the receiver into the cradle. Carlos had been her last hope for copies or backups of the tapes that might contain some obscure clue tucked away in them that could lead to those responsible for the bombing and why. Something she missed or didn't seem important at the time. But this was turning out to be a dead end.

  Curling her legs under her, she drank half the shot of whiskey, then rested the side of her head on the back couch cushion. Things were going from bad to worse. Daniel was gone. Her mother's care was less than satisfactory. Soon, she might be out of a place to live. Her luggage was lost. Her father showed up out of the blue. And nothing remained of her notes and interviews.

  This might be a good day to just go back to bed. Seneca started to rise, then noticed a new message on the answer phone. She hoped it wasn't another from her father. She clicked the play message button, then hung her finger over erase.

  "Hello, Ms. Hunt. My name is Matt Everhart. You don't know me but I'm a fellow writer. I read on the Internet about what happened to you in Mexico. Listen, the reason I'm calling is, well, it's probably just a coincidence, but thought you might be interested in what I recently discovered at Cachtice Castle in Slovakia while doing research for my next novel. I'll try calling you again later, or you can give me a call. I live in the Keys so I'm not that far if after talking you'd like to meet. My cell number should be on your caller ID. Bye."

  The end-of-message tone sounded, followed by the time and date. Matt Everhart. The name was vaguely familiar. She had seen his novels in the local bookstore, she believed. What in the world was he talking about-some castle in Slovakia?

  As s
he listened to Matt Everhart's message again, her curiosity piqued.

  She clicked through the recent caller ID numbers, found his and pressed Talk.

  He answered on the fourth ring. "Hello."

  "Mr. Everhart, this is Seneca Hunt returning your call."

  "Oh, hey, thanks." He sounded out of breath. "Sorry, you caught me on the treadmill. Hang on." A moment later, he returned still breathing a bit heavy. "Thanks for calling me back."

  "Is this not a good time? I can call later." Maybe she should have taken a nap before calling, the effects of the Seagrams were kicking in.

  "No, it's fine. I was just trying to run away from a T-bone steak I ate last night. My doctor says I can't run from a bad diet, but I try."

  Seneca laughed. "You certainly have me curious as to why you called. You mentioned you're a writer. I have to apologize right up front. I'm familiar with your work, but have to admit I haven't read your books."

  "No apology needed. I'm not offended."

  She thought he sounded sincere, even a bit humble. That was nice-not a celebrity with an inflated ego and an attitude to match.

  "You said in your message that you had uncovered something while doing research in..."

  "Slovakia. You might think this a little crazy, but I thought it interesting enough to give you a call. I read on the Net about the terrorist attack in Mexico. The initial reports, or maybe they were rumors-I guess you'll know better-say that the tomb was minus an emperor.

  The way he spoke, it was obvious he didn't realize that Daniel Bernal was her fiance. He would have offered his condolences at least and spoken a little more solemnly. But that was probably a good thing or the combo of conversation and liquor might have sent her on another crying jag. "That's right. There was no funerary jar. No remains of Montezuma."

  "I was in Eastern Europe a couple of months ago doing research on serial killers for my next book. Ever hear of Elizabeth Bathory?"

  "No, I don't think so." She wondered what he was getting at. Maybe he was a kook, and she was going to regret returning his call.

  "Bathory was a scary lady. A countess, actually. She was known as the Blood Countess, Tigress of Cachtice. The legend is she killed hundreds of girls and young women, then bathed in the blood of virgins to retain her youth. She was never tried in court, but she was kept walled up in several rooms inside Cachtice Castle until she died. They buried her in the cemetery nearby, but the villagers were so distressed they moved her to her birthplace at Nagyecsed in Hungary where she was laid to rest in the Bathory family crypt. I spent some time at the castle ruin and then went off to visit Nagyecsed and the crypt. As it turned out, several days before my arrival, her tomb was broken into."

  "Dan, I mean, Dr. Bernal, the dig master in Mexico, said he didn't suspect grave robbers."

  "I understand. That's what initiated the connection between my Elizabeth and your Montezuma. My call is about what wasn't

  FIREWORKS 1899, CHICAGO

  GROVES STARED OUT THE window of his eighth-floor suite at the Congress Hotel and watched groups of revelers blowing party horns, shouting, and singing along the windy, snow-covered Chicago sidewalks. Although there were still four hours to midnight, hundreds were already gathering in the park to watch the New Year's Eve fireworks. The new century was about to begin.

  He also saw his reflection in the glass. The image looking back at him was an enigma-a mystery that ate away at his every waking hour.

  Why wasn't he aging? Why couldn't he die?

  He had long since resorted to using theatrical makeup to add subtle shadows under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks. There wasn't much he could do to add creases in his face, but he toyed with the makeup enough to create the illusion of shallow wrinkles and furrows. He had a number of expensive short beards and long-haired wigs, both salted with gray.

  The constant deception eliminated any chance of a normal life. Through the years, Groves had his share of women, but he avoided marriage and children. And that took care of having to explain away his masquerade. The only person he had kept a long-term relationship with was Charlie Pykes, his business partner. But recently Charlie had passed away from the scourge of the terrible Bright's disease. On his deathbed he had asked Groves, "What's your secret?"

  "You taught me everything about making money, Charlie. You're my secret."

  "No," Pykes had said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not the money. What's your secret?"

  Groves didn't answer but simply patted Charlie's hand and watched the old assayer close his eyes forever.

  After Charlie's passing, Groves became more reclusive, obsessed with protecting his secret. For the past ten years he had studied elocution and learned to read and write, all of which were necessary to perpetuate his secret. He couldn't forever be the uneducated cowboy, Billy Groves. Yet there were times he enjoyed slipping back into that persona. All his studies had paid off. He could be William or Billy, whatever pleased him or the situation demanded.

  He was now directing his finances and business dealings long distance through a staff of attorneys and managers assembled with Pykes's help. Once a year, he traveled to Chicago to attend the board of directors meeting for Groves Consortium-his holding company whose investments covered mining, timber, railroads, metalworking, oil exploration, and shipbuilding. Investing his original Apache treasure and selling most of the ancient artifacts to private collectors had amassed a great fortune for him. He kept a few of his favorite pieces as a reminder of the strangest day in his life-the day he was swallowed up by the earth only to rise from the dead.

  A knock on his hotel room door made Groves turn away from the activity on the street below. Standing in front of a mirror, he adjusted his tuxedo, fake beard, and wig before answering the door.

  A bellboy saluted. "Mr. Groves, your friends have assembled and are awaiting your company."

  "Much obliged." Groves handed the young man a two-dollar silver certificate.

  "Thank you, sir." He motioned for Groves to follow.

  They made their way downstairs and across the lobby to the ornate Italian-designed Pompeian Room.

  As Groves entered, a group of a dozen men standing near a stone fireplace turned in his direction. One of them, a short, round man with a pale complexion came forward, his hand outstretched. "Mr. Groves, so nice of you to join us." He went to a whisper. "There is some treachery afoot with our newest partner, Colin Black."

  "Thank you." Groves followed his senior vice president to the middle of the gathering.

  "Gentlemen." The man's voice boomed. "May I present our chairman, who has just arrived this afternoon by way of his private rail coach. Let's welcome him to the Windy City."

  As they applauded and stepped forward, Groves greeted each board member. A few were new, including Colin Black. "Welcome to the board, Mr. Black." He shook the man's hand and noticed that Black appeared younger than expected, and from his VP's warning, Groves intended to be cautious. It would not be the first time an unscrupulous newspaper or worse, a competitor, had tried to slip inside Groves Consortium for an exclusive story or to steal trade secrets. "I understand you're the new director of Ashland Coal and Coke?"

  "That's correct, sir." Black pumped Groves's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

  "I look forward to your P and L presentation, Maybe you can tell me all about what it's like to mine coal in West Virginia."

  The VP waved over a waiter. "Get Mr. Groves a Tennessee whiskey." He turned to the gathering. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse us." He led Groves a few paces away. "I highly suspect that Mr. Black is an impostor."

  "How's that?"

  "After we purchased Ashland four months ago, I received a letter from their general manager. He said that Mr. Black would be their representative, joining us here in Chicago."

  "So?"

  "If you'll remember, when you and I visited the property prior to the acquisition, Mr. Black was out of town, so neither of us met him."

  Groves nodded.

  "
In the letter, it also mentioned that Mr. Black was a victim of an industrial accident in which he lost his left arm at the elbow, but would not need any special accommodations."

  Groves glanced over at Black who was chatting with a fellow board member and gesturing with his left hand. "Must be a miracle."

  After dinner Groves and his board moved into the hotel's German Room, a spacious lounge decorated in the style of a Munich pub. The men assembled in large leather chairs while puffing on Partagas cigars brought up from Havana and sampling the nose of fine French Calvados brandy they sipped from seventeen-ounce snifters. Groves listened intently as each identified the biggest mountain they would have to climb to survive in the twentieth century. When they were done, Groves announced he was retiring to his room for the evening.