The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection

by Ken Fry

  He paid little attention to them. He was reading Jacobovici and Wilson’s The Lost Gospel and made frequent notes both in the book and a notebook he kept beside him. Bower was a complete paradox. He delighted in mysteries and conspiracies and had always considered the church as part of a massive cover-up; a scam, and full of untold and unpleasant secrets. His employees knew better than to debate this with him or disparage Bower’s point of view. The few that did, had found themselves at the end of his fist and out of a job. His temper was legendary. Being small in stature, and with a soft waistline, his outward appearance detracted from his fists, which were shaped like bunches of bananas.

  The paradox?

  He operated a flourishing chain of gambling and casino enterprises. It had started when he was twelve years of age, running bets for downtown hoods who wanted to keep a low profile. He never saw a dichotomy between this, when as a young boy, he was also often in the role of a chorister and altar server.

  His father scratched a living as a cab driver and his mother took in ironing and washing. A few years later, young Bower was earning more than his parents. He got in early and developed a system whereby expert observers could transmit betting odds to individual bookmakers using a network of clearing houses. The money poured in. He started a small casino and the rest was history.

  As a Catholic through habit and upbringing, he used to attend mass every Sunday and on holy days of obligation. He had a secret wish … that he could use his wealth in some way to discover something that would light up and debunk the world of religion. Like a major discovery that would shake their world and cause everything to be rethought. Not that he believed or disbelieved in God – that had always been an area of uncertainty. But he was convinced that the way the church presented it wasn’t right. In some ways, he wanted the whole edifice of the churches to collapse. That this odd desire ran contrary to his profession as the owner of casinos never bothered him. He was regarded as ruthless, more so than his counterparts. But Bower felt a sense of pride that it set him apart from the other slime balls.

  In the midst of his musings, a red light flashed on one of the monitors, followed by a bleep. A chip-tracking device had been activated. That meant certain big money chips were micro-chipped and their progress via the big betting games like Craps, Blackjack and Roulette were being monitored. It meant one of two things; either someone was losing big time or winning against the set house odds that never produced a loss.

  He forgot about the mysteries of heaven for a while. Switching on a small microphone situated in the centre of his desk, he spoke directly into it, “Focus on that. Table nine.”

  Table nine was playing Black Jack. A hidden camera zoomed in on the players. Bowers noted a tall skinny man, moving with a limp around the tables. He had been marked earlier on and was now placing heavy bets on every game he could.

  At least a thousand dollars a hit.

  He wasn’t doing too well at it either and was looking the worse for wear. The camera moved in for a closer look at him. High rollers were always of interest since they could pour fortunes into his games and machines. Bower gave a start. The man was wearing a clerical collar and around his neck hung a small crucifix.

  Well, I’m damned. A holy roller! I thought Einstein said God didn’t play dice with the universe?

  Bower experienced a curiosity that lit up his money-making and religious boxes. He spoke again into the microphone, “Lorenzo, our man of God out there on table nine, offer him our best deal for the evening and make sure he doesn’t refuse.”

  “Will be done, JB.” A disembodied voice echoed around the room.

  The ‘best deal’ was a private room where tables were set for more private play and bets, away from the raucousness of the main rooms and hall.

  §

  “What the hell?” Shepard’s slurred words sounded lost in the hubbub of the casino’s excited cries and groans. A firm grip on each of his elbows by Lorenzo and his counterpart propelled him away from the table and another lost stake.

  “We have a better deal for you, sir,” Lorenzo whispered into Shepard’s ear. “A better chance of winning and free of the hustle around here. This way.”

  The prospect of a better chance of winning had its appeal. “About time I was treated with some respect around here.”

  Shepard was aware of having had too much to drink, but as usual, he couldn’t bring it entirely under control. He allowed himself to be manoeuvred into a hidden room along the sidewall of the casino. Once inside, he felt himself being pushed forward and facing a large Roulette wheel and a fancy Blackjack table edged in decorative rolled gold ormolu. Standing behind the table and surrounded by a battery of CCTV cameras stood a smallish, slightly rotund, and balding figure of a man wearing a broad silver-striped and ash-grey suit. His face was a fleshy pink, matching the enormity of his hands on which he wore a solitary gold signet ring. Another heavy looking man with a face like a shovel, sporting a ponytail and a tuxedo, stood impassively to one side with arms folded across his chest.

  Shepard found himself sobering up fast. “What’s going on here? Where are the other players?” His eyes swivelled around the room from left to right, and back to the man in front of him. He felt a flare of uncertainty he had not experienced since he had been confronted by his superiors over his Russian affair.

  “My name is John D. Bower and I own this place.” His voice was soft and silky. “Welcome sir, or should I say … Father? Please, take a seat.” He waved to indicate a spare seat opposite him. “May I get you a drink?”

  “Well, yes, but what am I doing here? Where are the other players?”

  “All in good time, Father. Now what’s it to be?” Bower waved expansively to a glass shelf stacked with every conceivable bottle of spirits one could wish for.

  “Straight Bourbon on the rocks.” Shepard could feel confusion spreading over him as he watched the man with the ponytail pour him a massive shot over a pyramid of ice cubes. In the brief silence that followed, the only sound was of the crackle of the ice cubes. He held the glass tightly and could feel its coldness spread through his fingertips. He stared directly at Bower.

  Bower returned the stare, and then with a nod and a wave of his hand, he dismissed the other men from the room. His voice became sharper once they were alone. “Who are you? What is your name and why is a man of God gambling like crazy in my casino? You’ve lost over fifty thousand dollars. Did you know that or are you too shot to notice?”

  Good God! As much as that? He sipped heavily on the drink and never let his eyes stray from the face of the man sitting opposite him. “My name is Pastor Shepard and I’m from Santa Fe.”

  “I see. Spending the church funds, are we? It certainly wouldn’t be from your stipend, would it?”

  Shepard remained silent. He wasn’t going to admit to anything.

  Bower continued. “If you had won, what were you going to do with the money? Wine, women, and song?”

  “I don’t know why you’re asking me all these questions. I don’t have to sit here any longer. I’ve done nothing wrong in your casino.”

  “True, Pastor, true, but you intrigue me. Was personal gain your motivation or do you have another motive?” Bower relaxed and leant back into the soft folds of his luxury desk chair.

  Shepard took another gulp of Bourbon and for an unknown reason, felt himself relax at Bower’s non-threatening posture. “I don’t think it’s anything you would understand, Mr. Bower.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’m attempting to establish a new church and I need funds for it.”

  “You haven’t done too well it seems. Why on earth do we need yet another new church for?”

  “I’ll tell you why.” Shepard felt a fire pass through him as he began speaking of the miraculous stories he had heard surrounding a blessed painting of Lazarus, which was rumoured to heal believers. The original painting created by an artist who had witnessed Christ’s greatest miracle. The current artist, it was said, was hiding s
omewhere in a Spanish monastery. “If it’s true and the Vatican is unaware, then it would be the most amazing thing in Christendom and the biggest money spinner the world would have ever known!” He slapped his tumbler down on the desk. He wasn’t expecting what happened next.

  Bower had leapt to his feet and was leaning forward across the desk with an excited look in his eyes. “Say all that again, Pastor, and say it slowly.”

  Shepard repeated what he had said at a slower rate. When he finished, Bower sat back down and opened several drawers in his desk, pulling out volumes of books and piles of notes related to Christian mysteries and phenomena. These he thrust at the Pastor.

  “Look at these, will you?” His soft voice had transformed into a bellow.

  Shepard recoiled. He’d been expecting to see a firearm, not a mess worthy of a literary scholar. He stuttered, “I … I … I don’t understand!”

  “What is there to understand? A man who comes into a casino wearing his clerical collar and can lay his hands on the sort of money you have lost tonight, might be stupid in one way, but that you got hold of it in the first place says something about you. Don’t you see? We have similar ideas, similar ambitions, and I have been haunted by these ever since I can remember. What you have just told me is what I’ve been studying for the last ten years or more. Am I making myself clear?”

  The Pastor’s mind somersaulted. A thousand possibilities beckoned to him. “You’re making yourself clear, but how on earth can I help you?”

  “Think again. We can help each other. This is not the time or place to discuss what I have in mind. I’ll get a car to pick you up in the morning. I have a private jet at the airport and I’ll fly you to my estate in Sacramento. It’s less than four hundred miles so it’s not a long flight. You okay for that, Pastor?”

  It was music to Shepard’s ears. It was as if God had answered his prayers. If Bower was offering help, he was going to take it. That didn’t necessarily mean there would be a pay back.

  “I’ll be packed and ready.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Monasterio de San José de Nazaret

  Nr. Segovia, Spain

  Abbot Louis, looking older, wiser and more composed than seventeen years ago, pondered over the Condesa’s experience. He attempted to piece together all that he knew concerning the history of the Lazarus painting and those before it. He had been privy to all the events and circumstances that had brought Brodie and the Condesa to him, and the sacredness of the unique stewardship they had bestowed him with. The words she had heard spoken, and told him of, it’s almost time, reverberated in his mind as he silently repeated them.

  Maria sat impassively in front of him, her face a mixture of hope and concern. She lifted her head and spoke quietly, almost as if she was afraid of being heard.

  “It must be shown. It must be on view.”

  “I agree.” We have both reached the same conclusion at the same time. Abbot Louis nodded. “But it must stay inconspicuous. Just a run-of-the-mill work of art amidst others of similar religious expression. What do you think?”

  “I agree, Abbot. Whatever we do, I can’t help feeling that something is stirring. You know what happened in the chapel, and I also had a dream last night. There were knights and Crusaders and waving crosses, and I haven’t had that since Brodie first came into my life, all those years back.”

  The Abbot paled and abruptly stood. “Heavens forbid!”

  “What?” The Condesa looked startled.

  “I had the same dream.” He sat back down. “In God’s name, what’s happening?”

  She reached out and grabbed the Abbot’s shaking hands. “I think it’s starting again. This is how it happened last time. I wish Brodie were here.”

  “You have not seen Brother Baez for seventeen years as was his wish, although you have been coming here, on this day, ever since. As you know, he’s in the desert. He’s going to be there a while yet.”

  “That’s a shame. For I am sure, without a doubt, that he is experiencing something similar. I have a feeling we’re being forewarned. I think we should move the painting right now, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. We’ll get it out, but I don’t want the monks to see where we have been keeping it. As far as they’re concerned, it’s just another painting added to our collection. They must know nothing of its powers.”

  “It seems the right thing to do, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. We both have had similar thoughts and dreams, so it must be right.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Shouldn’t Brother Baez be consulted?”

  “I’m certain he would not object.”

  They proceeded to the back of the monastery and into the Abbot’s private room. Pulling back the carpets, they opened the trapdoor and headed underground. It remained as the Condesa had left it. The Abbot produced the key and unlocked the metal gridded gate that led to the wooden door of the small secret chapel. He turned the brass handle and the door creaked open slowly, as if asking for gentleness due to its lack of use.

  “You left a light on, Condesa?” The Abbot gestured around the chapel, which glowed with a soft, white-blue light.

  She froze mid-step where she stood. “I only used candles. There are no electric lights…” Her voice trailed off into the surrounding silence.

  The candles remained unlit and the ambient light shimmered around the painting that faced them both.

  Without waiting, Abbot Louis picked up the matches and lit the candles in quick succession, before falling to his knees, bending his head, and making the sign of the cross. The Condesa followed.

  They felt no fear, only a reassurance that what they were about to do was correct, and indeed, it was the right time to do so. The light began to fade and before long, they were left only with the soft glow of candlelight. A sense of awe was all they could muster.

  “It was a sign.” The Abbot arose and again crossed himself.

  The Condesa followed suit. “I brought this,” she whispered, as she unravelled a broad fold of dark cloth. “I think it should be covered as we move it.”

  “Of course. Let’s do it.”

  With the greatest of care, they began removing the painting from its attachment. It came away easily. Placing the cloth around it, they moved out of the chapel and ensured it was securely locked.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were standing in the monastery’s small art gallery. The forty plus art works on display all depicted scenes from the Bible, or portraits of previous Abbots since the place was built in the Middle Ages. There was nothing remarkable about it, and like most rooms in the complex, it was utterly silent. They had decided to place the painting somewhere in the side exhibits, but not too far from the centre. There were plenty of spare hooks and wire. After juggling the displays around the gallery, they hung the painting in an inconspicuous place. It looked ordinary and unremarkable.

  They took several backward steps to survey what they had just done.

  “Look, I don’t remember seeing that before.”

  In the bottom corner of The Raising of Lazarus, she pointed at some very small letters.

  “You wouldn’t even know they were there at first glance, would you?” she asked.

  “They are quite imperceptible if you didn’t know what to look for.”

  “I had the oddest thought while we were doing this,” the Condesa replied.

  “What was that?”

  “It seemed that this painting has been here all its life. It looks totally at home.”

  “I agree. It looks very ordinary and right where it belongs.”

  “I haven’t mentioned that something else kept repeating in my mind. ‘They will come … they will come.’ Who ‘they’ might be, I have no idea, Father. Have you?”

  Abbot Louis paused. “Condesa, I feel we are in the midst of some great mystery here, of which, as yet, we haven’t a clue about. You seem to be more attuned than I am.”

  “All we can do now is wait and see … and I believe we
will get some answers sooner than we think.”

  §

  Uffington, UK

  The dreams persisted. Martha’s experiences intensified within them, so much so that her initial fears and anxieties had been replaced with curiosity and a deep yearning to grasp the meaning of it all. She no longer feared them. The bluebells would appear, not every time, but frequently, and the same figure would be there, reaching out for her before fading into a misty haze. If not that, it would be Crusader knights and assortments of monks. She would hear their deep, chanting voices, loud and clear, and behind it all, always the same message, ‘Yes, I will find you.’

  She could only think that it was her father calling out to her across time and space. Nothing would convince her otherwise. What the armoured knights and monks had to do with it, she couldn’t say. But she knew her mother had experienced the same visions and dreams with Brodie all those years ago.

  With everything that was happening, her university acceptance seemed less important now. What was imperative now was to discover what was going on in that unexplained zone of dreams and intuitions.

  That morning, she had an overwhelming urge to erect her easel and collect her palette of oils. She hadn’t felt the urge to paint for quite a while, and she didn’t know why she felt compelled to do so now.

  Once assembled, Martha stood back and stared at the blank canvas. What do I do? She had no idea. The opening of the door distracted her. It was Ulla.

  She saw what Martha was doing and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, my God! Not again.” Ulla moaned.

  But Martha didn’t seem to hear her. She had dipped her fan brush into the green oil and whoosh, with several vigorous strokes and some gentle touching, the green of Uffington hill appeared. She snapped out of her trance and turned to face Ulla.