by Lynn Sholes
"If you say so." This conversation was getting stranger by the moment, Groves thought. "You claim it was that cloth, the veil, that brought you immortality. And yet, you said that it is the one thing you need from me. If you've already received its power, why do you need it now?"
"There will be twelve others that will someday deserve to be rewarded by the gift of the veil. I need it to prepare for their com
"So how do you even know I've got it?"
"Of course you have it, William. You've already confirmed it."
"Sorry, but you've lost me."
"Nineteen years ago? Reno, Nevada? Remember the hooker you took down into your underground vault?"
Groves studied the aircraft's ceiling while he tried to recall his years in Reno. Suddenly, he remembered. The woman's claim of rumors about him having a treasure. Her insistence that he show her the vault. He was so drunk that he violated his own rules. There had been no rumors. She was there for a reason. Groves rubbed the sweat from his face in a feeble attempt to hide his anger and regret.
Taking a deep breath to recover, he said, "Okay, answer me this. Why me? Why did it happen to me-and you, for that matter?"
Scarrow let a slow, all-knowing smile seep across his face. "Because we were chosen."
What the hell was he talking about? Groves thought. "By whom, and for what? This is getting way over my head now." He stood and paced, rubbing the back of his neck, sloshing his drink over the rim of his glass.
"You need to relax and listen. Why don't you sit back down and take a few deep breaths. What I have to tell you is good news, not bad. Please, sit."
Damn it! Groves admonished himself. He had allowed Scarrow to glimpse a brief lapse of self-control. This man, this stranger, had managed to worm his way into a private world-one Groves had spent decades building a rampart around to keep people out. How could he have let this happen? What was different about this man that he so easily blinded Groves? He had to regain his composure. No more slipups. No more losing control. "This had better be good." He returned to the couch.
Scarrow placed his drink aside. "I did not use the word chosen lightly. Just as the Christ was chosen by the creator of the universe, so have you and I been chosen. Christ was given the gift of immortality so that he could rule over his kingdom forever. You and I have been chosen to make sure there is an eternal universe in which kingdoms like his can exist."
Groves laughed out loud. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I have to tell you, Mr. Scarrow, I don't think you're playing with a full deck."
"Do you doubt your inability to age, William?"
Groves hesitated before shaking his head.
"How many times were you dealt a deadly wound and survived? You bear the scars of bullets and arrows, and yet you beat all the odds and are sitting here today. Would you care to see the five deadly dagger wounds inflicted upon me by my Spanish captors? Without the veil, my ashes would still be entombed beneath the cobblestone plaza in Mexico City."
"No need." Groves held up his hand. "I'll take your word for it."
"Do you grasp the fact that you received the gift through the power of the veil in the same manner in which the Christ was able to suffer the deadly wounds of his Crucifixion and then rise from the dead? Did you not also rise from the dead?"
Groves simply watched Scarrow as uneasiness coursed through his veins. Comparing his resurrection to that of Jesus Christ was unsettling. In a somewhat weak voice, he said, "I'll grant you all that. But I still don't get the chosen part. And for that matter, what do you mean by suggesting we become partners?"
"I could say it was destined, but I don't think you would accept that on its own. So, I will explain in terms you will understand. I believe there are things we can do for each other that would justify a partnership. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts, as they say."
"Mr. Scarrow-"
"Javier."
Groves nodded, but was not ready to settle into a first-name basis with this man just yet. "Since you've spent so much time and energy tracking me down and learning everything about me, you already know that I have an immense amount of wealth and power. Groves Consortium is made up of hundreds of corporations that deal with everything from food processing to oil exploration. I even own a company that makes rocket engines for the space program and another that develops secret military tech nology. If I never made another dollar, I'd still have a shitload of money.
He sat his drink down on a glass table. "Now you add to that the fact that I'm probably going to outlive everybody on earth that's alive today, except for maybe you." He leaned back in the soft cushion, content that he had regained control of the conversation and would soon dismiss this man as an opportunist and maybe even a scam artist. "So, Mr. Scarrow, enlighten me. If you were my partner, what could you do for me?"
Scarrow stared across the space between them with an expression that nearly paralyzed Groves. The confidence the cowboy had felt a second ago evaporated.
Scarrow leaned forward, his face stern and hard, his eyes conveying a compelling and regal manifestation Groves had never witnessed before. "William, over the years you've made amazing business contracts that, at the time, seemed crazy and foolish to those around you. Little did they know that in your madness was brilliance, for a hundred years later, those crazy deals would reap millions. You have an ability to turn everything around you into profit-literally a Midas touch. But unlike King Midas, you started with gold and turned it into more gold. Now, here's your problem, as I see it. Your life may be filled with riches and treasures, but we both know you're not rich, not in the spiritual sense of the word. Yes, you can buy whatever you want-no price is too high. You've proven that thousands of times. But once you have your newest possession or conquest, how does it make you feel? Are you happy? Content? Fulfilled?"
Groves wiped away a thin film of perspiration that had returned to his forehead.
not. You're not only a prisoner of your own success, but you're held captive by what you consider a curse. You confirm it every time you look in the mirror. What I can do for you is to prove that your encounter with the veil was not a curse but a blessing, an amazing opportunity. No more hiding behind a wall of secrecy. I can take you to a level of spirituality you've never experienced before, a higher plane of consciousness, an enhanced experience of life. I will show you that finding the Veil of Veronica was the luckiest day of your life. And what I can do for you no one else on earth can do."
Scarrow paused and gave Groves an insightful nod, almost like he could read his mind, like he truly knew and understood how meaningless and empty Groves's life was. As much as Groves wished this man to go away, to vanish from his sight and take his tempting words with him, he was compelled to find out what Scarrow offered. Otherwise, he would regret it forever.
"All right, Mr. Scarrow, you have my attention. What is it you can offer me that I cannot achieve on my own?" As he waited for an answer, he felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"I can make you into a god."
The dawn washed the city orange as the sun rose over the Goldfield Mountains. Having just touched down, the Boeing 727 slowed and taxied toward the sprawling Groves Avionics complex in the northeast corner of the Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport.
Scarrow watched the arid landscape slip past while the plane crisscrossed the tarmac to a private hangar. He knew he had only a short time left before the aircraft would come to a halt, the doors open, and he and his host disembark. So far, Groves had responded as predicted, at least up until the point he offered him the ultimate temptation-to become like him, a god of the universe. It was a lot for the man to absorb and process in a short time. But watching the cowboy-industrialist from a distance for so long, he was convinced that this was the time in Groves's long life that he would be most vulnerable and receptive. Living an exhausting life of hiding, masquerading, deceiving, and constantly fabricating lies had chiseled away at Groves. He was terrified of being found out, of becoming
a sideshow freak for the world, to be poked and prodded by scientists and psychiatrists for all eternity. He had gone to extreme lengths to prevent that. Groves was clinging to the final vestiges of sanity, so very precariously balanced on the edge of the ravine where reality and fantasy flowed as one river of thought, no longer distinguishable. A promise of something extraordinary, something beyond anything his fortunes could buy-it had to be his salvation. For Scarrow offered Groves a life of prestige and glory to match his immortality. He was sure the cowboy would come around. There was still time. But time was not infinite. The day of doom approached.
To stop it, he must prepare for the coming of the Phoenix Apostles.
THE SAD NIGHT 1981, SOUTHERN ARIZONA
THE GROVES AVIONICS HELICOPTER hovered over the helipad in- side the walled compound of the rambling ranch house located about forty miles north of the Mexican border. Standing on his terrace, Groves watched the aircraft descend and throw up a cloud of dust and sand. He imagined its lone passenger had glanced out the side window on the final approach and saw the gouging scar in the earth on the horizon-what was left of the Cornelia copper mine. Groves had invested heavily in the open-pit mine in 1911 and watched it produce more than six billion pounds of the mineral before the operation shut down in early 1980 as copper prices plunged.
Apprehension swept through his body as he watched the rotors spin down and the side door open. A moment later, Javier Scarrow appeared framed in the doorway.
Two weeks prior, Groves and Scarrow had parted ways after their flight across the country from Washington to Phoenix. The result of their discussions of immortality, the veil, and their shared situation caused Groves many sleepless nights. The day after the arrival home, he had made a clandestine trip into the nearby town of Ajo. Venturing beyond the walls of his compound was something he rarely did without heavy security and a disguise. But on this occasion, he slipped away from the compound, driving himself into the small town to the Catholic church. It was Sunday, and he sat in the back pew during the sparsely attended evening Mass. His eyes roamed the walls, stopping to marvel at the stained glass windows.
When the service was over and most of the parishioners had departed, Groves walked the outer aisles, finally finding what he wanted. He came to stand in front of the Sixth Station of the Cross. This was the one that interested him.
Like the other thirteen Stations lining the walls, the Sixth Station was a simple wooden plaque hanging between two windows. It depicted Jesus carrying a cross. Beside him stood a woman holding a piece of cloth. Appearing as if she held a portrait, there was a man's face pictured on the cloth.
"Good evening." A voice came from behind Groves.
Turning, he saw an elderly priest approaching, dressed in black trousers and a short sleeve shirt with a Roman collar. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper-colored hair and the swarthy skin common to the area's Mexican population.
"Hello." Groves nodded.
"Welcome to the Church of the Immaculate Conception. I'm Father Miguel."
The priest extended his hand and Groves shook it. "Butch Mills. Nice to meet you."
"I've not seen you in church before, Mr. Mills. Are you new to the area?"
"Passing through."
"Well, we're happy you dropped in. You seem quite interested in the Stations of the Cross?"
"Mainly this one. Can you tell me about it?"
"Of course. It depicts the story of how Saint Veronica used a portion of her clothing, probably her veil, to wipe the sweat and blood from the face of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as he carried his cross to be crucified."
"A friend lent me some books awhile back. Said I was a pagan and needed to get some religion." Groves pulled at his chin as he looked down with a perfectly executed embarrassed grin. "Guess he was probably right about that. Anyhow, that's how I first heard about this Veronica and her veil. But then I went to the Bible and tried to read about it. No luck."
"Actually, there's no reference to the story in the canonical Gospels. I suppose the closest might be the miracle of the woman who was healed by touching the hem of Jesus' garment. That's in Luke, 8:43-48. She was identified as being named Veronica. But the story you see before you, portrayed in the Sixth Station, is more legend than fact."
"I saw a picture of a huge statue of Veronica that's in St. Peter's Basilica. I also found references to a ton of paintings of the woman and that event." He pointed to the wooden plaque. "And you said she's a saint. Why all the fuss for someone who's only legend?"
"Many legends are based on fact, Mr. Mills. We in the Church believe that whether Saint Veronica was a real person or not, she exemplifies the compassionate side of mankind. And her veil is an example of God's love. The lesson being taught is that for those practicing compassion, they will be rewarded. In her case she was rewarded with the imprint of Christ's face on the cloth."
Groves scratched the top of his head. "But there's no proof that the veil really existed?"
"I'm neither an historian nor an expert. But I believe that because of what some things symbolize, they are best left to faith. If we gain knowledge and grace from the story of Veronica and the veil, and that knowledge helps us lead a better Christian life, then it doesn't really matter if it's true or not."
"Did her wiping the face of Christ with the veil have anything to do with his rising from the dead? I mean, could the cloth have had some kind of magical powers or something?"
Father Miguel laughed. not, Mr. Mills. Christ rose from the dead because he is the Son of God. The Veil of Veronica had nothing to do with it."
"And you're sure about that?"
"As sure as we're standing here."
"Where can I find more information on the woman and the veil?"
"I'm afraid there isn't much hard evidence you can research. Just the legend. Sorry."
"Not your fault. Thanks anyway."
Groves nodded a farewell to the priest and headed outside to his Jeep. Legend or not, he was going to dig up enough information on the Veil of Veronica to make a decision whether to bring Scarrow to him and discuss this whole Aztec god-thing or dismiss the man entirely.
Over the next week he had phoned contacts inside the Mexican government trying to find out if there was any record of Montezuma coming in contact with the veil. At first, his sources produced nothing of value. But then he got an interesting report of a passing reference in an obscure diary of a Spanish soldier who accompanied Cortes to Mexico. It stated that there was a religious icon given to Cortes by Diego Velazquez de Cuellar, governor of Cuba. The officer referred to it as imagen verdadera which meant true image. However, there was some doubt it was the veil because the Vatican claimed to be in possession of the relic until at least 1608, then it was questionable as to whether it disappeared or not. And the timing would have been all wrong. Cortes left Cuba in 1519 while the veil was still alleged to be in Rome. Some believed the Vatican exhibits a fake copy so as not to disappoint those who make a pilgrimage to see its annual public display. Also, the relic could have disappeared or left the Vatican before 1608. The diary stated that on the night of June 30, 1520, just after the death of Montezuma, the Aztec army rose up in retaliation against the Spanish. Loaded down with gold and treasure plundered from the imperial palace, the soldiers attempted to escape the city. Most were slaughtered; a handful fled north into the mountains where rumors said some of the treasure was hidden away or stolen by mountain Indians.
Groves's source did mention that over the years, Aztec treasure taken by the fleeing Spanish soldiers surfaced as far north as New Mexico and Arizona.
The diary never said for sure what had happened to the relic, only that it was probably stolen during the infamous and bloody La Noche Triste; The Sad Night.
BLUE LIGHTS 2012, FLORIDA BAY
MATT TURNED AWAY FROM the blinding beam of light.
"Oh, my God, they found us." Seneca raised her arm to shield her eyes.
"Come on." Matt bolted to his feet, expecting to hear
the earsplitting bursts of automatic gunfire at any minute. He grabbed Seneca's hand and pulled her along, running farther upstream, but the water was nearly to his groin now. The tide was coming in and all they managed to do was to struggle, fall forward, then clamber to stand again.
They had to get away, had to make it around the bend up ahead in the creek to escape the light. If whoever was on that boat fired in their direction, chances were good that at least one of them would be hit. He slogged through the water and felt Seneca fall again. He turned to help her up when a sudden brilliance illuminated the sky and turned the mangroves to daylight.
Seneca gasped. "Are they shooting?"
"No, it's just a flare." He stood beside her, and she threw him a look of concern.
