by Ken Fry
“He’s not stupid, Throgmorton. He’ll know something’s wrong. What are you expecting him to bring back anyway?”
His face remained emotionless as he glanced at Maria. “The same thing as that stupid bitch wants.” He waved the gun barrel at Ulla. “It’s a pity, Miss Stuart, that you’ll not live to see a miracle.”
For a moment, Ulla saw indecision register in him, whether to kill her or not. Her hand curled tight around the scissors. “Don’t!” she yelled, ready to launch herself at him.
Sister Agnes’s next move shocked her.
Her quiet voice became a roar. Her passive expression now resembled red hot coals. She sprung from her seat in a snarling rage and placed herself between the gun and Ulla, gripped the barrel with both hands, and at the same time, she pulled the gun barrel up against her head.
“Holy Jesus, you murdering bastard! I hope God never forgives you if you do this. Kill me now if you dare and may your corrupt soul rot and burn for eternity!”
She spread her arms wide open and lifted her head to stare into Throgmorton’s face.
Ulla could only gawp. What humanity there was left in him showed itself. He wavered. Ox leapt over, ready to use his muscle, but Sister Agnes remained defiant and did not budge. Ulla knew this was the time to strike, but before she could, the ringtone of her mobile broke the tension.
Damn you, Ladro!
Everybody took a step backwards.
“Are you going to answer it?” Ulla snapped.
Throgmorton looked relieved and gave an exaggerated stare at the display screen. He picked it up, switched it to loudspeaker and placed it to Ulla’s ear.
“Answer and be very careful what you say.”
§
Angry flurries of dirt and grit flung upwards as Ladro brought the pick-up to a stop. He’d halted in the middle of the countryside away from the monastery. He needed time to think and make sense out of what had happened.
He couldn’t explain the paint, but hell, there wasn’t anything he could explain. All he remembered was the circular room, the paintings, and the shock of recognising the Cortez. After that, all was blank. He had collapsed but had no visible injury to show that he had been struck. The room he’d been in had vanished. No trace at all. It couldn’t have been real. No photographs either. The Abbot had said nothing more about the paint but had gone very quiet. He had no explanation for how it got there.
I’ve got to talk to Ulla. Damn it. Unless there’s an explanation or something happens, I think our mission is at an end.
He got out of the truck to get a decent signal and walked around to the back. A wide, thick roll of canvas, tied in three sections, located in the vacant space of the pick-up, caught his attention.
What is that? It wasn’t there before.
He moved closer to examine it. As he ran his hand over it, he experienced a series of minor static shocks, causing him to jump back.
He pulled out his Swiss army knife and with caution, began to cut at the binding.
Thirty minutes later, he pressed the speed dial for Ulla’s number again.
“Brodie?” She hoped he would pick up on the tension in her voice.
“Ulla, what’s going on?”
Ulla looked at Throgmorton who nodded.
“Ask him what he found?” The gun barrel was now pressed into the side of her head.
“Not much. We’re waiting to see what you’ve found.” As the phone was on loud speaker, there was no way she could tell him what she wanted to.
“Nothing and everything.”
His reply was odd, disembodied, and not at all what she expected. It didn’t sound like him.
Throgmorton gave her head a jab with the barrel while Ox kept the other two women covered. “Has he got a painting or not?”
“Do you have a painting or not, Brodie?”
Please, darling Brodie, understand what I can’t tell you, please!
“I don’t know what I’ve got. I really don’t, so don’t ask. I’ll be about a couple of hours. How’s the Condesa?
Is he being deliberately weird and suspects something?
“She’s not well, Brodie. We’re worried about her.”
Sister Agnes again cut through the pretence and shouted out loud.
“Throgmorton has us as prisoners ...” It was all she could manage before Ox’s pistol butt struck her hard across her mouth. She collapsed headfirst to the floor.
Ulla saw it coming. Her hand swung up, dislodging the phone from Throgmorton’s hand and spinning it into his face. He staggered backward as he was caught off guard, and the pistol blasted off at the ceiling, bringing shards of plaster down. She flung herself forward into a shoulder roll, holding the scissors and knowing her objective was the gun or him or both if she could. Before he could turn, she had come up on her feet behind him and swinging back her arm, yelled out, “You bastard!” Her aim was anywhere soft on his body. She saw the look of alarm on his face and before he could bring the gun back down, she swung forward, arcing her arm upwards and plunging a single blade of the scissors into his spongy underarm flesh. Throgmorton gave a shriek of pain and fell backwards.
That was as far as she got, and it wasn’t far enough. An iron like clamp descended and held fast to her arm, preventing any further movement. The cold pressure of a gun barrel hit her temple.
“I’ll waste your fucking brains, bitch.”
Ulla froze. She knew the trigger would be pulled if she as much as blinked.
“Let me finish her, boss.”
Ulla felt the barrel push harder into the side of her head and heard the round drop into a chamber.
My God, he’s going to let him do it!
Ulla closed her eyes tight, clenched her fists, dropped the scissors, and took what could be her last breath.
Throgmorton spoke. His voice had lost its cool demeanour and now croaked in pain. “An eye for an eye has always been my maxim. In law, those responsible are punished. Hold her arm out. Make it straight and let me see it tight.”
She opened her eyes and could see the blood dripping from beneath his sleeve and onto the floor. For the first time she could remember since she was a child, real fear struck her. Ox jerked out her arm and held it as he asked. She attempted pulling back her arm, but he held it fast. Blue veins shone as he stretched it taut. She couldn’t move.
“You’ll pay for that, you stupid cow,” Throgmorton snarled. “That hurt and I’m bleeding too much.” He bent down and picked up the scissors. “You’ve also ruined an expensive jacket.”
Ulla turned her head away with the gun still pressed into her head. She knew what was coming. She only heard him remove his coat, and a rush of air as his arm went upwards and then descended at speed. The force of the blow jolted her arm, but Ox held it firm as the point of the scissors split into her flesh, the tightness extending the slash and penetrating deep, before colliding with her radius bone.
At first, she felt nothing. There followed a sound similar to that of plaster being ripped from a wound. Unbelievable pain hit her as he jerked the blade out and wiped it on the end of her jacket.
“We’re level pegging, Stuart.”
Ulla turned her head to see the blood gushing out in a rapid flow, before she dropped to the floor.
CHAPTER 59
“ULLA!” shouted Ladro but got no reply.
Another yell, followed by a crashing noise. “My God. Throgmorton!”
It wasn’t Ulla. It must have been Sister Agnes.
The phone went dead, and he feared the worst. They were in danger. But since Throgmorton needed him to locate the painting, and as long as he thought he had what he wanted, then the women might not be harmed. Playing a waiting game gave them a better chance of survival. He drove slowly down to the highway leading back to the Condesa’s. A plan formulated in his mind, but it was risky. Anything is going to be dangerous.
In spite of the perilous situation, he couldn’t stop thinking back to the events beneath the monastery.
&nb
sp; Something new and inexplicable had occurred. That lay wrapped in the back of his truck; mysterious, wonderful, and causing him to question his sanity. He had recognised it, the work of his human hands. Events were fitting together; the assignment, Throgmorton, the Bodega, Cortez, the Condesa, Valencia, Toledo, now Sister Agnes and Brother Louis, even stranger ... his visions, and now the unfolding saga. There was no way it could be explained. He had time and time again checked his phone for the photographs he knew he had seen. Abbot Louis had been correct, they were blank. But what he noticed was that each frame, whilst blank, showed a date and the time the blank image was taken.
There were thirty in total.
He continued on to the Condesa’s home, aware of the gathering darkness. The blacker it became, the closer he could get to Throgmorton undetected. Navigating through the traffic, he reached the side road to Maria’s house. Reaching the top of the ridge, he stopped the truck and killed the lights. Down below, he could make out the shape and outlines of her house. Apart from one light shining, it was in darkness. Cars were parked in the courtyard. He leant forward, gripped the wheel and placed his head on the steering wheel.
Focus, Ladro, focus. You know what you have to do.
A minute later, he got out and walked to the back of the truck. He tied the contents together with a long cord, which he lifted out with great care, slinging them around his shoulders. He reached for the backup pistol, but something stopped him. His hand hovered over it, but he withdrew.
His voice was telling him to leave it. There were no inner words.
He reached for the large knife and tucked it inside his jacket. He began the walk towards the house.
Keeping away from the skyline, he crouched low in a half run, going from bush to bush, getting closer but not knowing what he would find when he got there. The closer he got, the louder the chant rang in his head.
Deus Vult! ... Deus Vult!! ... Deus Vult!!!
He knew what it meant. They were Latin for ‘God Wills It!’ ─ a Crusader’s war cry. This time he didn’t fight it. He let it be, allowing it to flow through every sinew of his mind and body. The chant was accompanied by a vision of a black pattée flag. Ladro forgot who he was.
The mission was sacred and those who abused what had been freely given must die.
He guessed Throgmorton was not alone and the three women were there, but he was afraid they’d been harmed. The last phone call sounded bad. He knew what Throgmorton wanted, but now he knew the man would have to kill him to get it, and then he too would be destroyed.
Ladro realised it wasn’t him thinking. Somebody or something else was doing it for him, directing and manoeuvring him, and whoever it was, he had to trust it.
Rounding a low parapet wall, he came to a stop and recognised the place. Not the Condesa’s residence but the former monastery. He knew the layout as if it had been built only yesterday. He slipped by the remnants of the west wing that led down a small slope, into the rectangular area of the former cloisters that now held many guest rooms. Across the northerly section, he could see where the light came from.
What happened next wasn’t expected.
§
Ulla watched Maria kneel beside her to bind her wound with her expensive Hermes scarf. The bleeding hadn’t stopped yet but was congealing. An intense throbbing pain ran the length and breadth of her arm. The blade had missed vital arteries and veins and she knew she wouldn’t bleed to death. She looked at Sister Agnes. She had managed to sit up and held her head in her hands. Blood stains covered the front of her habit. Ulla could only feel pity for her and rage at the moron who had struck her.
“Sister Agnes, how bad are you?”
“I’ll survive, Ulla.”
Ulla gasped at what she could see. A large bruise with a flow of blood had spread down from under her headpiece and her nose was swollen, her petite face bloated and now a bloody mess.
“My God, I’ll kill the bastard!”
“A tempting mortal sin, Ulla, but don’t do it, I beg you.”
“Be still, please.” The Condesa may have been frail but her voice maintained its imperiousness as she made the final tight knots as secure as her lean fingers would allow.
Maria continued. “Forgive me, please. I fear we have lost in this game and it is my fault. My pride and arrogance landed you all in this mess. I am so sorry.”
“Don’t you believe it, Maria. Brodie can be very resourceful, and I’ve seen what he can do. He won’t abandon us, I promise.”
Throgmorton sat close by, holding the pistol. He’d stopped bleeding and a close inspection showed his wound wasn’t serious. He was alone. He’d sent Ox out as a lookout, telling him he didn’t want any nasty surprises.
“Well, I hope our friend isn’t going to keep us waiting too long. He must know you are being held and I don’t think there’s much he can do about it. One false move and one of you dies … it doesn’t really matter who. The nearest is the most obvious. What do you think, Condesa? Not so high and mighty now, are we? But I don’t think it will be you, well not initially. I still need you to test my theory.”
He walked over to the window but could see nothing through the darkness.
CHAPTER 60
Ladro’s heart pumped hard. A figure had appeared through an opening in the ruined brickwork. Whoever it was wouldn’t be friendly.
He pressed himself behind a pillar. The man hadn’t seen him as he turned away to scour the far entrance of the building. There would be no second chances. Ladro centred himself, released his bundle to the ground, and let the strange force of whatever was possessing him assimilate him.
He was tired of being hunted and shot at.
He reached behind him and felt the handle of the knife. His heart skipped a beat as its grip filled his hand.
Transformation.
Either I will die today or God willing, the enemy shall perish. By this Sacred Pattèe, I live or die.
Deus Vult! ... Deus Vult!! ... Deus Vult!!!
There was no cognition ... only hatred of the godless usurpers and thieves.
Ladro shouted the ageless battle-cry. In a blur, he saw the man’s startled expression at the suddenness of the attack, bringing to Ladro a taste of unknown pleasure. Leaping through the dark, he spun behind the confused thug and with a strength that was never his, gripped his arm around the man’s thick neck and buried the blade, deep down behind his right ear.
There was no sound as he twisted the steel.
Ox’s eyes rolled upwards in a final gesture as his hands waved in the air like a drowning man. Ladro let him drop as blood surged in a pulsating plume onto the cobbles. He yanked out the blade and stood on his victim’s twitching body.
Who am I? I didn’t do that ... I didn’t do that.
Without thinking he wiped off the blood and fleshy scraps across his trouser leg.
This is not happening ... it’s unreal. Who is doing this?
A voice spoke to him and confirmed what he dared not admit.
“You know me. I am you, and you are me. Custodio Baez, monk, warrior, artist, and the Guardian of Christ’s Sacred Relic.”
“This can’t be true. It’s the twenty-first century, for God’s sake.” His voice bounced around the silent stone walls.
He wasn’t going to argue with whatever it was. He had to trust it. A major source of danger had been eliminated, although somehow, he felt detached from it all. Something or somebody was living in him and taking over when it had to.
He could see the faint glow of a light coming from an upstairs window, and it was the only one in the place. It had to be where they were being held. He stepped out of the cover of the cloistered brickwork, recovered his bundle, and began pushing his feet through uncut grass and weeds. Ducking low, he let himself be guided towards the source. The outside walls were covered in thick vines that led up to the window. As he approached, he spotted an opening between the boughs and made for it. He had to decide; climb the short route up the vine or head around the stai
rs towards the door? An entrance through the window would be less expected.
Peering through the intertwined branches, he began to climb.
It was a short distance. He caught his breath and waited to see if he had been heard. There was no activity from behind the window, but he kept on high alert. He looked across at the row of grapevines and knew he could balance on one and gain full access to the window without being seen.
Holding on to the top branch, he looked over the top of it and what he saw caused him rage.
Blood.
The first person he saw was the unmistakeable figure of Sister Agnes. She was sitting on the floor facing the window, and her face was a mess. With an arm around her, was the Condesa.
Ulla!
He prevented himself from calling out. Ulla sat in a chair, her head lolling backwards, giving added significance to the uselessness of her left arm, which was smeared with large patches of blood and bound with a bright coloured scarf.
I’ll murder the bastard!
He saw Throgmorton standing upright against a back wall, holding a pistol pointed at Ulla. Ladro couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he didn’t need to interpret the backhanded swipe that struck her across the face.
An inner voice prevented him from launching himself through the window.
Ladro saw Throgmorton look at his watch and then directly at the window and began to move towards it. He pressed himself close against the wall as flat as he could go and hoped he wouldn’t be seen. Throgmorton was looking for his man. If he opened the window, it could be the opportunity he was hoping for.
He watched the Judge release the catch to open the glass. Every muscle in Ladro’s body tightened, as he held his breath and prepared to attack.
He heard the metallic rasp as the bolt slid back and the window opened. It swung towards him and he realised he had misjudged the distance and angle. The bottom frame slammed into his knee and ankle, sending him crashing down through the vine.
Holy Shit!
