“No, I, uh.” Ben shifted his notebook from one hand to the other. “I thought you were going to tell me why the chair was so important to you.”
“You thought incorrectly.” Mark leaned back in his chair and glared at him.
Ben narrowed his eyes. “If you want me to help you with this little side project, don’t you think I should know a mite more than you’re telling me?”
“Excellent. Well done, well done.” Mark stood and clapped. “That is assertion and courage in the face of opposition. The kingdom of heaven is violent and violent men take it by force.”
“Thank you.” Ben gave Mark a thin-lipped smile. “So are you going to tell me?”
Part of him longed to tell someone. About the darkness inside that stabbed at him with daggers made from anger and ego that melted into mist when he tried to destroy them. The longing that welled up in him to know he was truly forgiven for his sins and accepted no matter what. The craving to be the man he pretended to be. About the hope of what the chair could do.
But he couldn’t tell this kid. He couldn’t tell anyone.
As soon as Ben left, Mark spun in his chair and slid back a bookcase behind which sat a safe. He spun the combination and opened the door a crack, spun to make sure the door shut completely behind Ben, then opened the safe door the rest of the way.
He pulled out a notebook and flipped toward the middle and turned pages back and forth till he found the page he wanted. If the true chair had surfaced, then the lady had to be close by.
He needed to meet her.
And he needed to meet Corin Roscoe and use considerable powers of persuasion to get the guy to give him the chair. After a few minutes of contemplation, Mark smiled. He knew the perfect instrument of influence to use on Corin.
CHAPTER 21
The next morning before heading to the store, Corin descended into his basement and twirled the combination padlock on the door at the back of the room, his hands shaking. Why? Because of what he was about to do? Or because he felt like he was sliding into quicksand and this would only speed up his descent?
The door squealed open and he stood at the entrance and stared at the chair.
Move. He needed to do this. It was one of the best ways to know if he was dealing with a legend come to life or a hoax out of this Nicole woman’s fertile imagination.
He strode up to the chair and circled it counterclockwise, hands on his hips. “I somewhat loathe to do this, but I have to find out more about you. Starting with your age.”
He stopped, turned, and continued circling, now clockwise. “Which means I’ll need to take a small sample to send to the lab. A friend of mine will discover myriad facts about you through the process. I hope you can understand.”
What was wrong with him? He was talking to the chair like it was alive, like it was a golden retriever he was about to do a biopsy on. It was a hunk of wood. Maybe old. Maybe beautiful. But probably nothing more than finely turned pieces of wood from centuries ago.
Or maybe only decades ago.
Or maybe it was the greatest archaeological find of the century.
He stopped walking, pulled a small blade from his pocket, and knelt in front of the chair. As he touched the inner left leg—where taking a sample from would be the most hidden—the air in the room seemed to grow warm, then back to its normal temperature a moment later.
Mind games. He wouldn’t let his brain start playing tricks on him again.
With wood this old he needed to be careful. If the blade bit too deep, he’d end up taking off more than he wanted to. Corin ran his finger over the section he was about to cut into.
The wood was hard; he’d have to apply more than the usual pressure to remove a piece.
He pressed the edge of his knife into the tip of his left forefinger. Sharp. Should he sharpen it more just to make sure? No. It was an excuse to keep him from marring the chair. But he didn’t really have a choice.
He set the blade into the wood at a twenty-degree angle. All he needed was a sliver. To his amazement the blade slipped under the surface of the wood like he was carving on a cube of butter. No resistance. After a quarter of an inch, he pulled up on the blade and watched a thin slice tumble into his palm.
He stared at the spot on the chair where he’d taken the sample and pressed the edge of his blade gently into the cut. It was rigid. He pressed harder. Where before the wood had been softer than Play-Doh, now it was like pressing into stainless steel.
Corin fell back on his heels and focused on the chair.
Weird was getting weirder.
Was there a faint glow around it now, or was the light playing tricks? He got to his feet and shut off the lights to see if the glow remained.
Nothing. Complete darkness.
He pulled a glass vial from his pocket, slid the sliver in and capped it. After shutting and padlocking the door, climbing the stairs, and locking the door to the basement with a keyed dead bolt, he poured himself his eighth cup of black coffee and picked up his cell phone.
“Hello?”
“Travis, it’s Corin. Did you get my e-mail last night?”
“I got it.”
“I just took a sample. Can I drop it off this afternoon even though it’s Sunday?”
“Of course.”
Corin stared at the door to his basement. He eased over to it and checked the dead bolt again. Still locked. He laughed at himself, wandered back past his espresso maker, and grabbed his car keys off the kitchen table. “How soon can you have the results back?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?” Corin shut his front door and strode toward his car.
“Do you want the full workup or just its age?”
“For now just how old.” Corin fired up his truck and started down the road in front of his house toward I-25.
“You think you have a fake antique on your hands?”
“Something like that.”
“What year is it supposedly from?”
“Can’t tell you yet.”
“Me?” Travis laughed. “You can’t or you won’t?”
“Both.”
“Now I’m really curious.”
“I will, just not yet.” Corin veered to the left on Mesa Road to pass a slow-moving yellow Slug Bug.
“At least tell me what the piece is from.”
Corin paused. He’d known Travis for six years. They weren’t friends, but he’d easily have a beer with the guy if they bumped into each other on the street. And he was trustworthy.
“It’s from a chair someone gave me the other day. Probably Middle Eastern. If I’m right, it’s old. Very old. And it has me curious enough to want to get some details about it.”
“Disappointing. I was hoping it was something from King Arthur’s armor.”
“Now that would be worth keeping secret.” Corin pulled up to a stoplight and glanced at the wannabe cowboy in the Nissan truck next to him. Had the guy just been looking at him? Corin put on his sunglasses.
“You’re bringing it in now?”
“I have a few stops first, so I should be there in about an hour.”
Ten minutes later he pulled into Hardline Hardware to pick up a few home-surveillance cameras for the store and for his house. He’d been meaning to do it for a while, and now that Ben Raney and Nicole had heightened his senses regarding people potentially after the chair, it was time to get cameras installed.
Corin shut off his engine but didn’t get out of his Toyota Highlander. Six rows over sat the same truck he’d been next to at the stoplight. A few seconds later the cowboy got out of the truck and ambled toward the hardware store. He didn’t glance at Corin, but Corin couldn’t shake the feeling the cowboy purposely didn’t look his direction.
As Corin drove away to drop off the
sliver of wood with Travis, he tried to relax.
Whew. He needed to get a handle on his emotions. When had the seeds of suspicion grown into a fully grown redwood of paranoia?
But his gut told him someone was planting an entire forest.
CHAPTER 22
As the sun hit the top of the sky, Corin grabbed his in-line skates and set off on Sundance trail in the Cheyenne Mountain State Park thinking he’d get away from everyone. Nice plan for a Sunday afternoon.
An hour and a half later—after tackling six more of the park’s trails—he slumped to a bench and let his heart rate return to normal. The workout cleared his head, and during the time on the trails, he didn’t think about the chair more than once.
Those were the type of moments he needed to steal more of.
A few minutes later two men in black leather jackets strode over the grassy rise directly across the path from Corin and marched in his direction. The man on the left looked like a wannabe emo-version of Bono, the guy on the right looked like a genuine wiseguy.
When they were twenty-five yards away, the Mafia man peeled off and stopped to lean against the trunk of a quaking aspen.
The other man continued on, staring straight at Corin, a knowing smile on his face, intensity in his eyes. Corin was about to turn and look behind him to see if the man was walking toward someone else when the man lifted his hand, pointed his finger like a gun, and pulled the imaginary trigger.
When the man reached Corin, he looked down at him and said, “Hello, Corin.”
His hair was jet black, his eyes a placid green. He was just over average height, five ten maybe five eleven, with one of those lanky builds that hid extra girth under a layer of clothes. At first glance he looked mid-thirties, on second Corin guessed early forties trying to look mid-thirties.
“Who are you?”
“Mark Jefferies.” He stuck out his hand. Corin didn’t take it.
“How do you know my name?”
“An associate of mine met you the other day.” Mark motioned to the bench. “Do you mind if I sit?” He didn’t wait for an answer and sat beside Corin.
“Ben.”
“Yes.”
Corin slid a few feet away from Mark. “So the pastor comes out of hiding to meet the keeper of the chair face to face. Then again, this isn’t exactly Times Square.”
Mark turned toward Corin, slid his arm onto the back of the bench. “My talking to you in private is as much to protect you as it is me.”
“From who?”
“The others who might come after the chair.”
“Why would people come after the chair?” Corin knew the answer. But he was curious how Jefferies would answer the question.
“You don’t think a kid getting healed by your chair has brought or will bring a few whackos out of the woodwork?”
“Like you?”
Mark glanced at his Mafia-looking pal, then back to Corin. “No one talks like that to me.”
“I just did.”
Anger flared through Mark’s eyes but settled a moment later.
“Are you going have your pal over there shoot me now?”
“You have a decent sense of humor, Corin.” Mark crossed his legs and reached into his inner coat pocket as if he was going to pull out a pack of cigarettes. Almost. It was a tin of Kodiak chew. “Like I already said, we want to help you, protect you. So we’re keeping our eyes open. Watching to see if anyone is tailing you.”
“So the cowboy I noticed yesterday—?”
“You noticed him following you?” Mark stuck a wad of the chew into his cheek. “I’m not surprised. He’s not too discreet.”
“What is a pastor doing with the kind of people who know how to track others?”
“When you get to my level of fame, you have a target on your back. A lot of people love me and a lot of people hate me. So I protect myself with people in every city I visit across the country who have skills I don’t.”
“So that guy over there, he’s your bodyguard?”
“Yes.”
“Looks like he has a rap sheet.”
“He does.” Mark spit. “I think all people have things in their past they need forgiveness for. In their present as well. And they need to be extended grace for what they regret.”
They sat in silence for a minute except for Mark’s occasional spitting.
“So if I wait long enough, I suppose you’ll tell me why you’re here. But since we probably both have a few more places to go today, why don’t I ask?”
Mark smiled and drummed his fingers on the back of the bench. “I’ll say it a third time, I’m here to help you.” He opened his palms and looked out from under his eyebrows.
“What kind of help?”
“If this chair truly healed that boy, then you’re dealing with powers you don’t understand. You need someone who understands the power behind the chair, how to contain that power, and how to keep it and yourself safe while you have it.”
“How to Handle God’s Chair for Dummies, huh?”
“You could have in your possession one of the most powerful artifacts ever to come out of the church age. A chair I’ve been hoping to see my entire life. A chair that can do miraculous things. You could help a lot of people with that chair, Corin.”
“You don’t think this is something I can handle on my own, hmm?”
Mark pulled a small, worn Bible from his back pocket. “First, I’m going to guess I know more about this chair than you do. Hmm? And more about this book.”
Corin nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Second I would guess I’ve studied the legend of the chair more than most.” Mark chuckled. “My wife would say I’ve obsessed over the chair more than most.” He paused. “Which is probably true.”
“What legend?”
“You just proved my point.”
Corin leaned forward. “What’s the legend?”
“I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it.” Mark stared at him as if he were reading Corin’s mind. “You probably haven’t heard that some people believe the Apostle John is still alive, or that the true Ark of the Covenant is hidden beneath the Temple Mount accessible through a series of secret underground passages.”
“People believe those things?”
“Passionately.” Mark nodded. “And they have extensive evidence to back it up. The only reason you’ve heard of the Holy Grail or the Ark of the Covenant is because Monty Python and Steven Spielberg deciding to turn those legends into entertainment.”
“So if I trusted you, which I don’t, what would you want to do?”
“Educate you on the legend. Coach you on what you should and shouldn’t do with the chair. Introduce you to the Person who created the chair.”
“And come see it.”
“Eventually, yes.”
“Examine it.”
“I’ve spent the past twenty years scouring the earth for stories and clues about where this chair might be. I’ve interviewed hundreds of people, most who knew nothing that could help me. I’ve poured my life into this mystery.” Mark’s eyes bored into Corin’s. “So yes, I would like to examine it.”
“And take it with you. To test your theories.”
“No. The chair would remain with you. It is not mine to take unless you want to sell it or give it away. If God has chosen you to have it, it should stay with you till you choose to turn it over to someone else.”
“How do you know it’s the chair you’ve been searching for?”
“I don’t. Maybe it’s not the genuine chair. If it isn’t, then I’ll stop wasting your time and mine.”
“And if I ever did let you see it, how will you know if it’s authentic or not?”
“I’ll know. And so will you.” Mark leane
d toward Corin. “Maybe you already do.”
Corin pawed the ground with one of his skates, sending the wheels spinning. Jefferies wasn’t a guy he could ever trust, but something about the pastor was magnetic. He could see why thousands of southern Californians worshiped Mark Jefferies on Sunday mornings and thousands more on the Internet.
But Corin wouldn’t be one of the faithful. Jefferies should have Loose Cannon tattooed on his forehead. The man was dangerous.
“Let me ask you, did the lady who gave you the chair tell you her name?”
“No,” Corin lied, “she didn’t.”
A satisfied look passed through Jefferies eyes and his mouth formed into a thin smile. “I see.”
Jefferies stood and offered his hand again. This time Corin shook it. “Think about it. I’m on your side.” After jotting down a number with a Montblanc pen, Mark handed him a business card. “You can reach me at anytime at that number. Any time.”
Jefferies turned and strode down the path leading out of the park. He didn’t stop at the tree his bodyguard leaned against or even look at the man.
There was no meandering. No stopping to smell the dandelions. No pretense to form an impression before a conversation. Mark had found out what he had come to discover. If only Corin knew what it was.
No one but Tori and A.C. knew how he’d gotten the chair. And Corin had just told him about the lady.
Jefferies had gone fishing and Corin had taken the bait.
CHAPTER 23
Corin weaved through traffic on the way home, changing lanes like Speed Racer looking in his rearview mirror every five or ten seconds and glancing at every car that passed him.
Was Mark’s Colorado contingent of Mafia pretenders still following him? Probably.
Corin smiled at the woman looking at him from her car sitting next to him at the stoplight. She was adorned in a pink stocking cap that looked like it was knitted in the 1970s. He didn’t think she was one of Mark’s minions. What kind of self-respecting tracker would wear something like that? Of course that would be the perfect reason to wear something like that.
Jim Rubart Trilogy Page 75
