by Lynn Sholes
This would be the creation of his ninth apostle-three more to go. And although he had witnessed his hand-picked team of physicians perform the miracle of rebirth before, the power and magnitude of the event besieged him. He truly believed that this task had been handed to him to bring back into the world the grandeur and glory of his empire. That was what separated him from Groves-why Groves had lost touch with reality-a lack of purpose. Scarrow was being allowed a chance to put all things right by rebuilding what had been destroyed. But unlike the time in which he ruled millions before watching his nation conquered by the Spanish army, today he had the power to avenge his people and his gods. Soon he and his final twelve apostles would follow in the Aztec tradition and hold in their hands the still-beating hearts of those being sacrificed in the name of restoring the delicate equilibrium of the universe.
The magnitude of it all caused Scarrow to feel his pulse race. To remain calm, he took in a deep breath.
He chose each apostle for their intense dedication to a cause and commitment to achieving their objectives at all costs, including the willingness to take human life if need be. In return for Scarrow's gift of rebirth, his apostles were dedicated to him, obligated and grateful. They would go out into the world and carry on his mission. And once complete, their reward would be to break the chains of mortality and live forever.
Scarrow stood beside the table and gazed at the body. Dr. Blakely and his team had done well. The face bore an expression of peace and serenity. He touched the man's forehead. The skin was cold and lifeless. Scarrow's hands no longer trembled as they did with the rebirth of the earlier apostles. At this point, he knew exactly what to expect once life flowed back into the body. The color would come to the skin as it warmed. Then the first breath would cause the chest to rise. There would be movement under the eyelids and sporadic tics in the limbs, a slight parting of the lips, a flaring of the nostrils. The male apostles had experienced erections during rebirth while the females exhibited a flush to their cheeks. Finally, the most glorious moment of all-their eyes would open and look upon the face of their life giver, their savior, their god.
Excitement rolled through him at knowing what was about to take place. He said a prayer of thanks that he had been chosen to resurrect the Kingdom of the Sun. In his past, human civilization had already been destroyed four times-four suns-the first sun annihilated by jaguars, the second sun destroyed by great winds, the third by fiery rain, and the fourth by a great flood. He and his apostles would appease the gods with an abundance of human sacrifice, and the time of the fifth sun would continue.
Turning, he nodded to the team of surgeons standing nearby. The room immediately flooded with white light as the high intensity lamps over the operating table blazed to life.
"It's time," Scarrow said and stepped aside.
"I COULD REALLY GET used to this." Seneca watched the swaths of red, tangerine, violet, and gold swirl across the sky as the sun sank into Florida Bay. "Daniel would have loved this place. He'd be telling me to listen to the rustle of palms and taste the brine on the southeasterly breeze. You're so lucky."
Matt watched her and smiled. "Yeah, I have to put up with this most every night. It's the price you pay to live in paradise." He started to speak, but gave her a few more moments to muse over the beauty of the setting sun. "I did some more poking around on the Internet after we talked. Made some phone calls, too. I came across an instance of another empty tomb, actually, two more."
"You're kidding?"
"Ever heard of Emir Timur?"
She shook her head.
"He was a fourteenth-century warrior and emperor, also known as Tamerlane, who founded the Timurid Empire. Tamerlane was buried in a mausoleum in Uzbekistan. The building was recently undergoing restoration, and when his tomb was opened, they discovered it was empty." He paused as the waiter brought their dinner.
"Mmmm, looks delicious," Seneca said as the plate of baked yellowtail snapper was placed before her. "Your prime rib looks yummy, too."
"Can I get you folks anything else?"
Matt glanced at Seneca. "I think we're good." He realized he was somewhat taken with her. From her voice on the phone, he hadn't pictured Seneca Hunt quite like the woman sitting across the table. She seemed almost delicate and reserved, yet there was a gleam in her eyes. And her eyes smiled as much as her lips. She was quite attractive.
Seneca took a bite of the snapper. "It doesn't just look delicious, it tastes even better."
"I've never gone wrong with that recommendation."
"Getting back to Mr. Tamerlane, let me guess-when they opened his tomb the grave goods were still there, but no human
Matt nodded. "Tamerlane was supposedly related to Genghis Khan and was likely the most influential military leader in central Asia during his time, despite the partial paralysis of his left side. That's actually how he got his name-Timur, the Lame. As emperor, he was entombed with an impressive array of military and imperial garb along with other valuable objects, all of which were still there. Only his bones were missing."
Matt cut another piece of meat, stabbed it with his fork, and put it in his mouth European style, tines pointing down.
He motioned toward the horizon. "I don't think an artist has ever captured on canvas that deep indigo at the moment the sun disappears. It doesn't last long except in your memory. I'm a romantic in case you haven't guessed."
"I wish I were more so. I should stop and notice things like beautiful sunsets more often. No, I take that back. I do notice sunsets, but only when they relate to what I'm writing. Most of the time, I get so focused I might as well be wearing blinders to nonessential details like the color of the sky the instant the sun goes down."
"Ah, but as a journalist, you appreciate the whole canvas. That's all that really matters. The ways you and I write are not that different-we both deal in details. It's just that most of mine are over-embellished to create a scene that doesn't really exist. I see it playing out in that little movie in my head, and I've got to describe it with enough details that the reader sees the same movie." He grinned. "Plus, fiction or fact, if you live down here, sunsets are hard to ignore."
"You should write something for the Chamber of Commerce. At least get them to put you on retainer."
"If my book sales dry up, I'll have that to fall back on." He laid down his fork. As much as he'd like to continue in a direction that would reveal more about her, he thought better of it. After all, she was a professional writer and had traveled all the way down here to learn about the tomb robberies. Not to go on a blind date.
"Back to Tamerlane. Interesting guy. He led his armies across western and central Asia, leaving the population decimated by systematic mass slaughter and genocide. And yet he managed to main tain a great appreciation for art and literature. He was a military genius who loved to play chess to improve his battlefield tactics."
Seneca washed down more fish with her margarita. "He does sound interesting, but I think tying him to Montezuma is farfetched. You mentioned two empty tombs. Who's the other?"
"I'm not sure it's related at all-just a notion. Do you remember a story in the news a month or so ago about some vandalism that occurred over in London in Westminster Abbey?"
"Actually, I do recall something about Queen Mary's grave being defaced. AKA Bloody Mary, same as the drink."
"Right, but I also heard that the drink originated with a waitress named Mary who worked at the Bucket of Blood Bar in Chicago. There are a lot of theories. But most everyone associates the name with Queen Mary. And for good reason. As a Catholic, Mary gained the nickname because of her persecution of Protestants during her five-year reign. A lot of people were burned at the stake, including a former Archbishop of Canterbury and a former Bishop of London. Oh, and here's an interesting side-story. When you were a kid, did you ever recite the nursery rhyme `Mary, Mary, quite contrary'? That's our Mary, some say."
"So her grave was vandalized. What's the connection?"
"I've go
t a buddy at Scotland Yard that I use as a source from time to time for verifying my research. That was one of the calls I made today. I asked him for details on that event since it has to do with a tomb. Apparently, what was not released to the public for security reasons is that her tomb was broken into and the remains removed. The details weren't released to the public because of the outcry it could cause. If the authorities can't protect the tombs of the former queens of England in Westminster Abbey, how can they protect the United Kingdom?"
"So what really happened?"
"Mary shared a crypt with her half-sister, Queen Elizabeth I. Someone broke into the tomb and stole Mary's remains. They left Elizabeth's bones untouched."
Seneca ate in silence for a moment.
"I can't be certain there really is something to tie all these events together or if it's just my overactive imagination. After all, I write fiction for a living."
"I don't see a clear link between Tamerlane, Queen Mary, and Elizabeth Bathory. And where does Montezuma fit in?"
"I didn't make a connection at first, either. Then it occurred to me that besides their remains being stolen, there was one other common denominator."
Now it was Seneca who laid down her fork and waited for his point.
"They're all, in their own ways, mass murderers. Montezuma was responsible for sacrificing eighty thousand in a span of four days during the dedication of his temple. Tamerlane slaughtered close to seventeen million during his military campaigns. Elizabeth Bathory murdered over six hundred girls and young women. That earned her the title of the most prolific female serial killer of all time. And Queen Mary, well the number of her victims pales compared to the other three, but it's still impressive. She sent more than three hundred Protestants to be burned at the stake and will forever be known by her colorful nickname."
"You put Montezuma, Tamerlane, and Mary in the same category? They weren't serial killers like Bathory."
"Yes, but they're all mass murderers, no matter how you look at it. Different motivations, but the result was the same."
"But with Montezuma, you have to consider the culture and the times."
Matt sipped his margarita and peered over the salted rim at her. "You have to take that into consideration for all four, not just Montezuma. In each case, they were driven by what they believed to be righteous and justified. It doesn't matter what we think is just and right."
"This could be my next story. If I follow-up on this, it might allow me to keep tracking down Daniel's murderer or murderers? I won't rest until I've done that." She looked away, toward the water for a moment, then back at Matt. "That's what keeps me going. It's the only reason I get up in the morning-to nail whoever killed Daniel." Seneca swept her hair back as if recomposing. "So, I can present all four of these mass murderers to my editor and pose the same philosophical question we just discussed."
Matt was impressed with her determination.
"I could equate it with today's world leaders, tyrants, and fringe zealots. This would make sense-at least from a feature story standpoint."
"Certainly has possibilities."
"Sorry. So much for talking. Our food is getting cold. Let's eat."
Some time later, with their empty plates collected, the waiter returned, and Matt insisted on signing the check. Afterward he stood and went to Seneca, holding the back of her chair as she got up.
"Thanks for making the trek down here and keeping me company," he said. "I hoped you might find these empty tomb stories as interesting as I do. I plan to make use of it in my next book."
"You may not realize it, but after the disaster in Mexico, you might have just given me a huge boost. The trip was well worth it. And I got to meet a new friend. Could I call you if I need any more info?"
"It would be my pleasure." As they stepped into the parking lot, he hoped she would call him, especially once she had healed from her recent tragedy. He would have pursued seeing her again, but the timing was wrong. At least he would offer to take her on the promised boat ride.
"You up for that spin out on the water? On a night like this it really is quite wonderful when the bay is lit only by the stars. It's a little windy but we can tuck in behind a mangrove island so we don't rock so much."
"That would be lovely, Matt, but-" Seneca came to a sudden halt. "You've got to be kidding me. Jesus Christ, why won't he just butt out?"
"What is it? What's the matter?"
Seneca didn't answer. Instead she marched over to the Mercedes SUV with the orange fog lamps.
THE MEETING 1981, WASHINGTON, DC
"No MATTER WHAT THEY say, it isn't true I flew that." The crowd roared with laughter as Ronald Reagan pointed to the Wright Brothers' plane.
Groves watched the president from the side of the stage, fifty feet away. Reagan ran his hand down the front of his heavily starched white shirt from throat to abdomen. Maybe the new president was more comfortable in boots and jeans rather than white tie and tails, Groves thought. He looked down at his own glossy black, patent leather shoes and razor-creased tux, and longed for boots and spurs, too. Even with all the success they had both experienced, the simple fact was they were just cowboys at heart.
President and Mrs. Reagan waved to the packed crowd of party goers gathered inside the National Air and Space Museum-one of nine inaugural balls spread across the nation's capital.
Reagan is almost giddy, Groves thought. And he should be. A few hours earlier, he became the fortieth president of the United States, and a short time later received word that the fifty-two American hostages held by Iran for the past 444 days had been freed. It was a great day for Ronald Reagan and America.
Groves knew the president's schedule called for him to stay ten or fifteen minutes at each event, and by all indications, he was preparing to leave. With a proud Nancy on his arm, Reagan, still waving, turned to exit in Groves's direction. Surrounded by a contingent of Secret Service, the group started moving as the hall erupted in thunderous applause and cheers while the orchestra played a rousing "Hail to the Chief."
Accompanied by a half-dozen of his own security personnel, Groves watched as a White House aide moved toward Reagan. Getting his attention, the aide leaned in close and spoke into Reagan's ear. The president gave him a nod of acknowledgment and continued waving to the crowd. When the presidential party finally arrived at the stage exit, they halted. The president broke away and strode over to Groves.
"William, I'm so pleased you came." Reagan extended his hand.
"How could I say no, Mr. President?"
"Mr. Groves," Nancy Reagan said as she joined her husband.
The president pumped Groves's hand. "You're the spitting image of your father." He turned to Nancy. "How long ago did we last see his dad? Had to be twenty or so years ago when we had Billy out to the ranch. Boy, time sure passes quickly, especially when you get to be my age." The president stared at William for a moment then shook his head and uttered a small amused chuckle. "The resemblance is uncanny."
"I hear that a lot."
"Won't you join us?" Mrs. Reagan asked. "It's going to be quite a night."
"I wish I could, but I'm afraid I have some other commitments."
"Then let's plan on you visiting Nancy and me at the White House real soon."
"It would be my honor."
"I intend to hold you to it." Reagan turned to the group of supporters standing a few feet away. "Take a good look, my friends. You rarely get a chance to see one of the great American entrepreneurs, William Groves the Third."
As the supporters seemed to realize who Reagan referred to, they broke into applause. The wall of camera flashes became blinding.
Reagan shook Groves's hand once more. "Thanks again for coming, William."
Like the rush of a great wind, Ronald and Nancy Reagan, along with their aides and the Secret Service, swept out of the hall.
As a group of reporters sprang toward Groves, his personal security surrounded him and started moving in the opposite direction of
the president's party toward an exit corridor. When it became obvious that they would not have access to the billionaire who was becoming more and more a recluse, the press spun an about-face and hustled to catch up with the presidential party.
A few moments later, Groves and his men emerged into an underground parking garage. Waiting for him was a black limousine, its motor running and an assistant standing beside the open side door.
As Groves approached, he smelled the cloth that the assistant had saturated with rubbing alcohol and held out for him. This had become a ritual over the last several years. When in public, Groves avoided touching doorknobs or shaking hands with people, but when he had to, those acts were followed by serious hand cleansing. He couldn't afford to become debilitated with a sickness that would make his life miserable but never kill him.
