The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection

by Ken Fry

  Some time elapsed, and Martha finished writing her notes at the same time as the woman concluded her prayers. She had sat back with a look of contemplation. When her eyes opened, she turned and saw Martha and offered her a tentative smile. Martha smiled back with a slight nod of her head, then she began packing her notes away before standing to leave.

  The woman spoke, “Jovencita, olvidaste tu fotografía.” She picked up the photograph that Martha had left behind, and was about to hand it to Martha, but couldn’t resist looking at it first. A startled expression crossed her face as she looked up at Martha and back at the photograph several times.

  “Oh, Dios Mio! Es Ulla Stuart!” The woman’s hand covered her mouth and her eyes widened like small moons.

  It was Martha’s turn to look equally astonished. “What? What are you saying? How do you know this? Who are you?”

  The woman remained speechless and fumbled behind herself to sit down, her entire body shaking. She muttered several times in English, “Oh, Mother of God! Oh, Mother of God!’

  Martha could not comprehend the woman’s reaction. She looked as if she had seen her long dead ancestors. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?” Martha reached out to her and held her shaking hand. “Who are you? Why did my mother’s photo surprise you so?”

  The mention of her mother caused the woman to begin weeping. Her accented English added a poignancy to what she said next.

  “Tu madre, your mother, she is Señora Ulla…” Her voice broke off and she stared hard into Martha’s eyes, as if attempting to make her understand.

  Martha tightened her grip on the lady’s hand. “Please. Please, don’t … this is most strange. Yes, she is my mother and she’s in England, Señorita Ulla Stuart. I am her daughter, Martha. How do you know her?” Martha attempted a smile.

  The woman lifted her other hand, reaching out to stroke Martha’s cheek. “God forbid. Another miracle has arrived.”

  Martha offered her a tissue to wipe her wet eyes.

  The woman graciously accepted and dabbed at her eyes before she said, “I knew your mother and her partner, Señor Brodie Ladro, a long time ago. I am the Condesa Maria Francisca de Toledo.”

  CHAPTER 10

  It had gone far better than he had dared hope. Pastor Shepard gave rare thanks to God. He had just finished communicating with all his churches and followers.

  What he didn’t know was that after his speech, his detractors now definitely considered him a complete screwball.

  With great and bogus sincerity, he had shared his vision at the World Charismatic Convention, which was covered by the media. Ensuring that his network of churches in the USA heard him too.

  “I have spoken with God,” he had announced to a startled stadium audience. “Yes, dear friends, I was in the desert doing penance to save my soul and He spoke to me. Do not doubt me, my brethren! He spoke to me. Yes, me, who stands before you now, Pastor Silas Shepard. I cannot lie about such a momentous event lest He strikes me dead where I stand! His voice came as if from behind the clouds, and from the very sands and rocks that were strewn as far as the eye can see. I hid my face from him in fear and shame.” At this point, Shepard made a show of covering his face with his hands before slowly lifting his head skywards. “He told me to prepare the way and commanded me to form a new church, the Holy Church of Lazarus, his one true and final bastion on Earth. Its followers shall be known as Lazacrucians, to commemorate Christ’s greatest miracle, and as a reminder that everyone who follows Him will find salvation and life everlasting.” Shepard paused, and when he spoke again, he lowered his voice for effect. “With this, God has revealed to me that a painting exists ... its very fabric imbued with the power of Christ’s healing ministry.” He allowed that piece of news to sink in before he continued. “Yes, beloved friends, it has the power to heal those who believe ... and I, a lowly sinner, have been chosen to establish its potency here upon the planet Earth!”

  No one can argue that the Pastor had a flair for drama. All eyes were on him, some faces with their mouths agape.

  He continued. “Will you join me on this sacred task by subscribing to our mission?” Soft music gently played across the stadium, and Pastor Silas Shepard fell to his knees. He raised his arms and began a high-pitched rant. “Praise our Lord, for the time is near. The four blood moons have passed, and the great and terrible day of the Lord is almost at hand. By the end of next year, Israel will be no more. The world will be set on fire and the Lord will end this world of sin. The Lazacrucians will be preserved from His wrath, as he had promised me in the desert. When it begins, we must close our windows for three days and not look outside. After three days, we will come out to the new land of God. As Lazacrucians, you and your families will be spared and given access to the healing powers of his sacred painting, which will soon be entrusted in our care.”

  In the background, a choir began to sing a slow, emotional rendering of ‘Gwahoddiad,’ the Welsh inspirational hymn, ‘Lord, Here I am!’ No tear-jerking opportunity was missed.

  “Step forward, my friends, and make your commitment now in front of God.”

  People poured to his raised dais and knelt in the hundreds. His acolytes began distributing leaflets and booklets which explained the new tenets. Pledges and money began to flood into the numerous and massive collection boxes that had miraculously appeared.

  Watching from a safe distance, in a private booth, John D. Bower observed Shepard’s phoney but spectacular performance. It had him squirming, but he grudgingly admitted that the man had pulled it off.

  They’re eating out of his hand. This guy is gonna get rich very quickly if he plays it right. How much richer if the painting is found?

  He felt in his pocket for his lucky pack of cards. It was time for a wager. I’ll deal three cards. If the total exceeds fifteen, we will find what we want. Lower than fifteen and we will fail.

  The idea of failure did not sit well with Bower.

  He must think I’m stupid. There’s stuff he hasn’t told me and I’m going to find out what. It might not be a pleasant experience for him when I do.

  He shuffled the pack and peeled off the top three cards and turned them over one by one. He was looking at the three of diamonds, then the six of spades. The next had to be a seven at least. It was.

  Bower turned to his two bodyguards. “You boys are going to have to exercise your special skills very soon with that impostor out there. You happy with that?”

  They turned to each other and smiled.

  “Good. I’ll take that as a yes, then. I will let you know when ... but it will be soon.”

  §

  They had opted to stay overnight at the Hilton Hotel at London Airport, before embarking on a midmorning flight to Valencia’s Manises Airport in Spain. Shepard had argued that it was a good place to start making enquiries since Valencia’s Cathedral held the alleged Holy Chalice, the very cup that Christ used at the Last Supper.

  Shepard was in an expansive mood. The drama of his announcement had sent shockwaves around the religious world. Enquiries continued to pour in from around the planet, together with cash, and bank commitments globally. He had to rename and consolidate his churches soon and give birth to the new Holy Church of Lazarus. In twenty-four hours, he had amassed an extra one hundred thousand dollars and it was only day one.

  At this point, Bower realised he had made a poor selection in Shepard. He was becoming too cocky and his stadium performance had gone to his head. The man knew more than he was letting on, although he had verbally agreed to divide the money they obtained by producing miracle cures.

  Bower’s agenda was different from Shepard’s. For him, it wasn’t about getting rich in the style of Layfette Ron Hubbard. He was looking at another side of the whole story. There was something about it that he found compelling. He wasn’t in it entirely for the money, which to him was quite odd. He was still unsure of the exact reason he was wasting time on this whole affair.

  One thing he was certain of ... it
was time to put Pastor Shepard, Man of God, and Archbishop of the Lazacrucians, on a tighter leash. He needed some persuasion. Bower could feel his temper rising for he was convinced Shepard was playing a double game.

  He called his two musclemen. “Go to his room. When he answers, get inside. I’ll be there five minutes after you. You know what to do. Now, go!”

  He sat down and clenched his fists. No bible-bashing creep was going to get the better of him. If Shepard didn’t cough, then he wouldn’t be flying anywhere. The only trip he would be making would be to the hospital ... or maybe the mortuary. I loathe violence, but sometimes it’s the only way.

  §

  A tapping on his door alerted a hyped-up Shepard to visitors. With an expansive gesture, he flung open the door wearing a broad smile. It wasn’t Bower, as expected. It was his henchmen. His grin vanished. They pushed him to one side, strode in, and slammed the door.

  “Hey, what’s going on? Where’s Bower?”

  A heavy shove sent him crashing to the floor. His first reaction was to grab for his Smith & Wesson, but a fierce stamp on his wrist by a large boot terminated the move. His pistol spun across the room and out of reach.

  “Well, Pastor,” said Man One. “Mr. Bower thinks you’re being, shall we say, economical with the truth. You ain’t been telling all you know, he thinks, so we’re here to persuade you otherwise. George here,” he indicated man two, “he has special skills. Don’t you, George?”

  George nodded, smiled, and delivered a swift kick into Shepard’s crotch.

  An agonised screech came from Shepard as he doubled up in agony, clutching at his scrotum with his eyes watering profusely.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shepard managed to gasp out.

  Man One picked up his gun on the floor and emptied all the bullets from the chamber except one. Then, he spun the barrel and forced the muzzle into Shepard’s gaping mouth. “Our version of the Deer Hunter’s Russian Roulette game. You’re a gambling man and not very good at it as we saw. What odds do you want before I pull the trigger?”

  Shepard gurgled. Words wouldn’t formulate in his drooling mouth. His testicular pain was forgotten as he attempted to push away the man’s arm.

  ‘”I think he’s trying to say something, George. Let’s hear what it is before I pull the trigger.”

  “Don’t do this, please. Don’t do this. Get Bower here. Get him here now. I want to talk to him, please!”

  Man One pushed his face close to Shepard’s. “Well, you lying religious scumbag, I will do as you ask. But any more crap and the game will resume. The only place you will be going to, will be a wooden box.” Twice, he slapped the pistol hard, left and right, across Shepard’s frightened face, drawing blood from the mouth and nostrils. “Now, get up and sit in that fucking chair, and don’t fucking move until you’re told to. Move!”

  Shepard moved, and fell into the chair, curling his deformed foot underneath. He was shaking as he realised that he had underestimated Bower. An appalling misjudgment that could cost him his life.

  He heard another quiet rap on the door. George opened it and John D. Bower entered the room, ignoring Shepard who was quivering in the chair.

  “Anything to report, gentlemen?”

  “Yes,” said George. “I think the toe rag wants to have a chat.” He gestured at Shepard.

  Bower turned to look at Shepard finally. “You haven’t been gambling again, have you, Shepard? Let me guess. High stakes, low returns, and losing as usual. But this time, your life for information. Correct?”

  Shepard, to his own amazement, nodded

  “Okay. You know things I don’t. Get this straight, understand it, or you won’t be around to enjoy the fruits of it all. This is what I want to know. How will your new church develop? Without evidence of a miracle, there’s nowhere for you to go. I suspect you have something to go on or you wouldn’t be dragging your arse across to Spain for nothing. Something has happened somewhere, and you know about it. All that bullshit you spouted out at Wembley was the prelude to some total con. Right?”

  Man One slapped Shepard hard across the face, causing him to swing his head around to allow George to slap it viciously back again.

  Bower looked at Man One and nodded. The man spun the barrel of the pistol and jerked back Shepard’s head.

  Shepard knew they weren’t playing games. Physical pain and mental terror assaulted his entire being. “Stop! Stop, for the love of God. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  Man One and George moved close behind him and placed their hands on his shoulders.

  “Well?” said Bower. “I’m waiting.” He took out his pack of cards and began a slow shuffle, followed by a series of one-handed false cuts. “Be quick and you might survive this.”

  Shepard talked like his life depended on it ... and it was. He explained the pyramid structure of his new church and the amount of money that would add to his coffers.

  Bower had taken a seat. As Shepard continued, he had a thought. Seeing his performance at the Stadium and the way people willingly gave him their money, it’s a brilliant idea. He can run it, but I want a huge slice. Still, there’s an element missing. The painting, if it exists, and the woman who was cured. Without these components, it could all die.

  “Shut up now, Shepard. As I thought, you’re a devious scumbag, but not entirely stupid. We’re off to Spain, but I’ve a feeling you haven’t told us all you’ve heard.” He turned. “George.”

  George nodded, and from his pocket, he produced a pair of small, shiny, zinc-plated thumbscrews. In one swift and practiced movement, he had clamped both on Shepard’s thumbs. George gave each screw a couple of tight twists, causing tiny spikes to dig into the crevices of each nail.

  “For fuck’s sake ... stop!” Shepard screamed. What was happening exceeded his wildest nightmares. Exquisite shafts of pain, the likes of which he could never have imagined, cascaded through his hands and pulsated through his skinny body.

  “Talk or it will get worse.”

  “Yes! Yes! I’ll tell you more.”

  “As I thought. You have a hidden agenda. Start spouting, Preacher.”

  Shepard talked. This time, he didn’t miss an iota of what he knew. One mistake and he would be dead meat. He knew that. He talked extensively.

  “So ... we’re looking for a Spanish woman, allegedly an aristocrat from Valencia, Seville or Toledo. She was terminally ill, but after coming into contact with this Lazarus painting, was restored to full health ... and there were others also. Correct?” Bower confirmed.

  “Correct.”

  “There was a pair of Brits tied up in it, too?”

  “Correct.”

  “Whereabouts unknown?”

  “Correct.”

  “Tell me, Shepard, why shouldn’t we waste you away? Now that I know as much as you do, what’s the point of you?”

  A bolt of panic shot through Shepard. This whole thing had turned very nasty. Only the smartest answer would perhaps save his life.

  “My church. You will need it and all its potential followers. Without that, you’ll never get this off the ground. And you, a casino owner ... that wouldn’t look too good in the media, would it? I’m well-known in this arena and many people believe what I tell them. You’ve seen that for yourself, haven’t you?” Shepard’s heart thudded in his chest. He was taking the deadliest gamble of his life.

  Bower said nothing. He walked over to the window and stared out at the flat scenery leading across to the distant airport. A silence, akin to that of the ghost of a dead man, hung in the air.

  Shepard closed his eyes, and for once in his life, began a silent prayer asking for forgiveness and imploring whoever was listening to spare his life. Sweat broke on his sallow face.

  In one swift movement, Bower spun around, his right arm outstretched, and his suppressed Beretta pointed directly at Shepard’s head.

  CHAPTER 11

  El Desierto de Tabernas

  The White Ho
rse of Uffington had begun its gallop and drew closer by the day. It had become clearer. Dream after dream confirmed it. A person was mounted upon it, clutching the horse’s flowing mane with the other hand swinging a large sword. The same words he’d heard before accompanied his dream.

  Deus Vult! Beauséant!

  They shall not pass. They shall not!

  Brother Baez began reciting the old war cry. Something was telling him the time had come for him to leave.

  Please, God, leave me be! Have I not done enough?

  There was no reply, only the incessant twitching of emotional strings and words crashing through and upending his rational psyche. He reached for his brushes. This is my last work in this place. I shall do no more.

  He shut his eyes and it seemed as if Ulla appeared to him. She did not speak but only smiled and nodded. He returned the gesture.

  He hadn’t felt like this for so many years. The monastery was his physical home, but he had another. It was a realm he could not articulate. In it, was boundless love and compassion. He failed to portray that in paint. Lazarus had beckoned to him since the resurrection of his painting, and he had answered. But now … somehow … he was being summoned again. A voice resonated within him, as if he had known it since time began. The links went into the distant past and were now stretching out to the endless future.

  And The White Horse was carrying them.

  He set to work … and the hours passed.

  The desert vanished.

  Horses appeared, galloping.

  White and green were spread with enormity and haste. He didn’t dare look at what he was painting. It was of no matter. His paints, his strokes were being guided. This way … that way … again and again. He was in a field of bluebells, amidst its heady scent. But they were not supposed to have an aroma. It all became too much for him.