The Phoenix Apostles

by Lynn Sholes

  After checking into her room, she flipped open her phone, found Matt Everhart's number in her contacts and called.

  "There's a wonderful little spot on the Gulf side called the Lorelei," he said after thanking her for coming. "Why don't I pick you up around six? Where are you staying?"

  "No, that's okay. I might do a little sightseeing. I'll just meet you there." She didn't want to be stuck with someone she knew little about. If she wanted to call it a night, having her own car made it easy.

  "That's fine. You'll know it by the Mermaid sign. Around marker 82. Bayside. Great outdoor dining and live music. I'll get a table on the deck outside." He paused a moment. "Or would you rather eat inside?"

  "By the water would be wonderful."

  "Just look for a guy wearing a University of Florida shirt. If we're lucky we'll get a real show on the horizon when the sun goes down."

  Surprisingly, the Key Lantern was next door to the Lorelei, but Seneca didn't especially want Matt to know where she was staying.

  The motel was exactly as advertised-nothing fancy, but clean and comfortable. Maybe she should do a travel piece on it and some of the other budget motels in the area for a little extra income. Her editor didn't mind her doing freelance work for nonscience magazines. She might even get a reduced rate or free stay out of the article. Seneca made a note to speak to the owner before she checked out.

  Instead of walking to the restaurant, she drove the short distance. Dressed in a white blouse, ankle-length skirt, and sandals, Seneca stepped onto the Lorelei's open deck portion of the busy restaurant. She scanned the tables, her eyes coming to rest on one with a single occupant wearing a blue UF polo shirt.

  He saw her, and she waved.

  Matt rose as she approached and outstretched his hand.

  "Ms. Hunt?"

  She had seen the author's picture on his website before she left her apartment and thought he was nice looking, but he was more than that in person. Appearing to be in his late thirties, he had a shock of thick, nearly black hair, rich coffee-colored eyes, an even, light suede tan on the angular planes of his face, and stood at about six feet or a tad over, she guessed. The UF shirt was tucked into khaki cargo shorts, and he wore a pair of worn boat shoes, maybe Sperry Top-Siders. He was obviously living the Keys lifestyle.

  "Call me Seneca."

  "You're just in time, Seneca." Matt gestured to the west and the spectacular sunset that was building. "Just enough smathering of clouds to make it interesting. It isn't the most clear days that make the most dramatic sunsets."

  She wondered if smathering was a real word or if he just made it up. No matter, it fit perfectly. "You promised, and it looks like you're going to deliver."

  "Thanks again for coming. I'm anxious to hear about what happened in Mexico. So far, all I know is what I read on the Internet and the little bit you told me on the phone."

  The waiter strode over to take their drink order. Matt spoke up. "Two margaritas on the rocks." He glanced at Seneca. "With salt?"

  "Absolutely." She sat back, realizing the calming effect of the ocean and the onset of the vibrant sunset were helping her to slow down and relax. It was nice to be away from the city. Taking a deep breath she began relating the Mexico experience including a description of the tomb. Finally, she said, "Dr. Bernal was my fiance."

  Matt reeled back. "Oh, man. I'm so sorry. Nothing I read mentioned that. I wouldn't have sounded so cavalier. I would have been more sensitive when you first declined my invitation. Oh, God, what you must have thought of me."

  "I realized you didn't know."

  "I am sorry."

  "It's okay. Really it is."

  Matt kept shaking his head at his ignorance.

  Seneca began another conversation to help bail him out. "So let me tell you what Dan thought. He was so intrigued with the fact that Montezuma's remains were not there, yet the grave didn't appear to be robbed because all the valuable grave goods were still there. All kinds of pottery, gold, and gems, even what appeared to be a small reliquary that he theorized was possibly a gift from the Spanish. The burial shroud that should have wrapped Montezuma's body before cremation was crumpled on the ground. And Daniel was puzzled as to why there was no funerary jar."

  "I don't blame him for being perplexed."

  "His basic questions were, why weren't the artifacts stolen if the grave had been broken into in the past, why was Montezuma's burial shroud still there, and where were his remains."

  "Those are precisely the things that captured my attention. Just like what wasn't taken from Elizabeth Bathory's grave that captivated me. Like your fiance, I was fascinated by the goods left behind in Montezuma's tomb. It seemed like an interesting coincidence-Bathory and Montezuma, that is."

  "I did some reading up on Bathory and wow, you are right, she was a real piece of work. Pure evil."

  "That she was. I told you the local villagers so reviled her that they didn't want her buried in their cemetery. Instead, they moved her to her birthplace. I went there to do some more research, and that's when I found out her grave had recently been opened. Not robbed, mind you-at least not in the traditional sense. Even though she was despised, old Liz was still of royal lineage and so she was buried with a few of the family jewels-a necklace, broach, and several rings."

  The waiter brought their drinks. "Are you ready to order?" He looked at Seneca.

  "Oh, my, I haven't even looked at the menu."

  "If you like fish," Matt said, "I suggest the whole yellowtail. I've had it here before and it's excellent."

  "Then it's the yellowtail." She closed the menu.

  "Good choice. And for you, sir?"

  "Prime rib, rare."

  The man nodded and scooped up their menus.

  "Prime rib? With all this scrumptious seafood?"

  "I eat my share. But now and again I've got a hankering for beef."

  "Didn't you say on the phone that you were trying to jog away from a steak?"

  "I'm always on the run from something."

  She realized he had an infectious smile. Like Daniel's.

  "Usually it's a group of religious extremists who think my books are heresy or blasphemy."

  "Really? You mean people actually confront you?"

  "Some folks take my writing way too seriously. That's why I decided to live in a place that's out of the way. It takes a commitment to come all the way down here looking for me."

  She liked that Matt was not pretentious. He didn't try to impress her. He seemed personable and down to earth.

  "You were telling me that they buried Elizabeth Bathory with her jewelry?" She saw that Matt noticed the engagement ring. Seneca touched the diamond. "I haven't been able to take it off yet. It's on my checklist of things to do. I just haven't gotten to it."

  Matt nodded in understanding and paused a moment before continuing. "My point is that a grave robber loots graves for valuables, not old brittle bones. Even though Elizabeth's crypt had been opened and her remains taken, whoever did it left behind her valuables. It didn't make sense to me. Then, out of nowhere I caught the story about Montezuma's tomb. the initial news accounts didn't say too much about how all the grave goods had been untouched and that Montezuma's remains were nowhere to be found. The media focused on the fact that there had been a local terrorist bombing, probably drug-gangs or fanatical political faction-related. But I thought the real story might be bigger than what the news played up. Just a hunch, but I had to wonder if there was a connection somehow."

  "Maybe. But what would Elizabeth Bathory and Montezuma have in common? What could be the thread that links them? After all, they're separated by continents and what, a hundred or so years?"

  "I've thought about that, too, but there is one link. Think about it."

  Seneca glanced at the blazing sunset over Florida Bay before turning back to Matt. "That the only things missing from their graves are their remains."

  REVELATION 1962, RENO, NEVADA

  "THERE'S A STORY GOING
around that you got yourself a room full of Spanish treasure hidden in the basement of this hotel." The call girl straddled Groves as she pumped him deeper into her. Between grunts, she said, "Honey, you gonna show me your treasure?"

  "What do you think I got shoved up inside you? That's the best treasure you gonna get-long and hard." Groves watched her breasts bounce as he gripped her hips-their bodies dripping in sweat. She bent forward letting her long hair hang down and rake his chest.

  This one was unquenchable, he thought-the best so far. It was the third time that night they had screwed since his men had sent her up from the casino. He knew she had no idea he was William Groves the billionaire, only that he was the wealthy mystery guy living in the private penthouse.

  Groves was working on his personal goal to bang a different woman every night. It was one of the hundred challenges he set for himself out of utter boredom. So far he had not missed a night. But he was no less bored.

  After all, since finding the treasure eighty-six years ago, he'd made more money than the gross national product of most countries. He owned more corporations than he could keep track of or even remember. His accountants told him he had over a halfmillion employees worldwide. He had faked his own death in 1919 followed by faking the deaths of his son in 1937 and grandson in 1960. To the outside world, he was William Groves IV, greatgrandson of Billy Groves, the cowboy, and considered by the media and business world as an eccentric billionaire recluse, just like his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather.

  He ran Groves Consortium from behind an impenetrable curtain of privacy armed with a battalion of attorneys and security experts. No one knew or would have believed he was really the same cowboy that stumbled across the Apache treasure trove in 1876, died from the wound of an arrow, was buried by an earthquake, and rose from the grave.

  Groves lived anonymously in the penthouse suite of the plushest casino and resort hotel in Reno-one of over a dozen castles, country estates, mansions, and hotels he owned throughout the world. Growing tired of the hassle of moving between them, he had made the Reno penthouse permanent, having lived there for more than five years. Each day he gazed out over a world that might as well be an alien planet for he could never set foot on it as a normal mortal. He had long forgotten the meaning of freedom.

  While those around him grew old and passed away, he lived on in the body of a thirty-seven-year-old Arizona cowboy, fresh from a Mexican shootout in Santa Ana. Whether his immortality was a blessing or a curse, he had no idea why he was chosen or how. There were times he wanted to test his immortality. He would take a pistol, cock it, and hold the tip of the barrel to his temple, but he never had the cojones to pull the trigger.

  Groves was a man who possessed everything and yet had nothing. His latest method of passing the time was to drink heavily and fuck as many whores as possible. But even as he did, he knew the thrill would soon wear off. He spent less and less time allowing himself to be seen or dealt with as William Groves and more and more behind-closed-door time, like tonight, as plain old Billy, the skin he was most comfortable in.

  Suddenly, Groves thrust upwards and shot his load into her. "How's that for buried treasure?" His speech was slurred from so much booze.

  She rolled off. "You're a damn fire hose, baby." Her words were equally distorted from hours of drinking everything in his penthouse bar in between going at it like rabbits.

  Groves struggled to slide off the bed and get to his feet. His legs wobbled as he navigated across the master bedroom to the bath. Standing over the toilet, he leaned forward, bracing himself against the wall while he took a piss. She was the best one this week, he thought. He'd have his men pay her double for the best piece of ass he'd had in a long time. A thousand should do it.

  "Come on, baby. Show me that treasure."

  Groves turned to see her propped against the door frame, her naked body still glistening from their sexual workout.

  "I just gave you all the treasure I've got." He staggered toward her, and they fell into each other's arms, barely able to stand. "You drained me dry."

  "I know you got gold and shit hidden around here somewhere," she whispered as she bit his earlobe. "I've heard the rumors. How else did you come up with enough money to buy this hotel? Come on, baby. Show me."

  It was something few had ever seen. If he showed her, he would be breaking his own rules. But what the hell. She was so drunk that no one would believe her anyway. And that's if she would even remember tonight and what she was about to view.

  "You have to promise to keep it our little secret." He took her by the arm and led her across the room, stopping long enough to grab each of them a bathrobe. Neither could walk in a straight line, but with a lot of effort, they wound up at the entrance to an elevator-not the one leading to the private casino entrance and parking garage but a small lift big enough for two or three people. Inside it, she had to hold on to him to keep from falling.

  They descended twelve stories before coming to a halt. No other floors had access to this elevator-its shaft completely encased in concrete and steel plates. When the door opened, what lay ahead was a short hallway ending in an imposing vault-style door.

  After a few paces, they stood in front of the big, brushed bronze door. "Turn your back for a minute."

  Obeying, she looked away as she leaned up against the wall. "Holy shit, I'm dizzy."

  Groves worked at remembering the combination to the triple locks. He got it wrong the first time and hesitated, knowing if he mucked it up three times in a row the vault would automatically seal itself for twenty-four hours.

  He shook his head, trying to clear the murky shadows induced by so much alcohol. Finally, he turned the combination wheels again. A moment later, a series of clicking sounds let him know the bomb-proof door was ready to swing open.

  "This way." He guided her by his hand on her waist.

  They entered the darkness of the vault. Groves flipped on the lights. The room was about the size of a two-car garage. It contained heavy floor-to-ceiling iron shelving lining the perimeter and two rows running down the middle. What was left of the Apache treasure-about a third by Groves's estimate-was there. Most of the gold and silver was long gone. What remained were several art objects and odd military and ancient Mexican and Indian pieces. Though he had liquidated the bulk of those types of articles, there were still a few chests filled with rare coins and one modest pile of bullion. And there were millions in US currency. One should always have cash on hand.

  Groves stood back and watched as she moved around the room, her eyes wide in wonder. She seemed to want to touch every surface, especially anything that sparkled. "This is the sexiest place I've ever seen." She picked up a handful of coins and rubbed them across her breasts through her open robe. "How much is this all worth, honey?"

  "No idea." He held on to the corner of a shelf.

  "What you gonna do with it all?"

  "Keep it so I can bring beautiful women like you down here to play with it."

  "Check this out." She placed two coins on her nipples like pasties.

  Groves yawned. Time to cut this short and send her on her way. It had probably been a mistake to bring her down here, anyway.

  "What's this?" She pointed to a small silver chest on the bottom of a shelf.

  Groves strained to focus on what she indicated. "Shit, I forgot about that one. Never did figure out why it was in with this batch. Held on to it just because it's a memento from a special day in my life. Guess the box is worth something."

  "So what's in it?"

  "It's been a real long time, but if I remember, just a piece of cloth with some guy's picture on it. I remember that he's got feathers sticking out of his head."

  an I look, please?"

  "Sure, what the hell. Then we've got to go."

  She opened the lid and looked inside. "You're right, just an old cloth."

  "Like I said, a picture of some guy who liked to wear feathers. Maybe he was an Indian chief. Probably not worth
a dime."

  Reaching in, she lifted the cloth, unfolded it and held it so the light struck the surface. "Wow!"

  "What is it?" he asked, growing impatient.

  "I thought you said it was a guy with feathers."

  It is, isn't it?"

  Holding the cloth by the corners, she turned it so Groves could plainly see the face on its surface. "No, honey, it's a picture of you."

  REBIRTH 2012, BAHAMAS

  SCARROW STOOD IN THE twilight of the genetics lab-the glow of the computer screens and electronic gear softened the hard-edged coldness of the room. His eyes scanned the body resting on the stainless steel table a few feet away. A stark white sheet covered the corpse from the neck down. The surgeons kept the room chilled, but Scarrow didn't mind. He was on fire with excitement.