by Ken Fry
Pain.
Searing pain.
Nausea.
Vomit mixed with blood.
“Oh, God! Help me.” He managed a guttural noise through a pair of lips the size of burnt sausages, as a bloody and viscous dribble of sick trickled down his bruised chin.
What have they done to me?
They hadn’t been gentle and exacted every inch of malicious force they could muster. George had fashioned himself a new garrote and only Bower’s interference had prevented him from using it.
What a fucking mess! This is going to take weeks to heal. That’s the end of all my plans. Without the painting, the press conference would be pointless. I have nothing!
He swore that once he recovered, he would find them and rip their hearts out, and before feeding them to the ferals, he’d barbeque them first while one by one, they would have to watch until their turn came.
By God, I swear it. That painting belongs to my Holy Church of Lazarus and me, and I will have it.
He now needed to explain his predicament to both Alphonse and Jeremiah. He’d tell them he was set upon and the painting stolen from him, and that he knew where it could be, but the police must not be informed.
The two men he wanted to contact most were Alexis and Bruno. Some long-term planning was needed. But right now, he was experiencing too much pain to think straight, and it was going to be like this for a while.
Bent double, he hobbled to the land line, his foot a hive of agony. His cell phone was on the floor, shattered after that ape stamped on it.
The call was answered by Bruno and Shepard had difficulty getting him to understand who he was. Such was the pain in attempting to speak. The man eventually summed up the situation and assured him they were coming over.
CHAPTER 40
Guadamur
Two days later...
They had got away whilst they could. Again, Bower had taken care of all the arrangements and they had all come to appreciate Bower for his financial support. They had spent the last day in a degree of fear and trepidation, but nothing had occurred to menace or threaten them.
Now, back at the Condesa’s home, the pressure had lifted, even though their location was not unknown to Shepard and that was still a cause for worry. There was no way Brodie or Garcia could leave the women alone. Abbot Louis was with them, but he would be leaving for the monastery soon.
That evening, as they ate a meal prepared by Luciana, the Abbot asked, “Would you like me to take Lazarus back to San José de Nazaret?”
“That would put you and your monks at risk, and you don’t deserve to have that hanging over you. On that score, I think not, Father Abbot,” Brodie said, still using the polite and formal address. “It was my work and therefore it’s my responsibility. You can’t disagree with that.”
“In one sense, yes ... and in another, no. We’re all part of this and we belong to it no more or no less than you.” Maria sounded strident as only she could.
“What do we do then?” Martha asked. “We stay here and wait until we’re attacked? That will happen for sure.”
“Shepard will not only want the painting, he’ll want my guts hanging on the washing line.” Bower added, although he did not look too concerned by what he said.
“And mine.” George’s words were laced with amusement.
Brodie looked thoughtful. What was going through his mind wasn’t easy to figure. He opened his mind, but nothing was coming through. He would have to work this out on his own. He pushed his chair back and stood up.
“I need to think alone. Excuse me, I’ll go to my room and see what I can decide.”
“Don’t be too long,” said Martha.
“I won’t.”
Brodie stepped into his room and emitted a long sigh before sitting on the edge of the bed. What am I to do now? I really have no idea. The Lazarus painting was standing upright on the dressing table. He offered a prayer, which he hadn’t done for some time – such was the state of his mind.
“God, you set me up for this and I haven’t done too well. Forgive me. Their lives are in peril and it’s my entire fault. Show me what to do, I beg of you. If any more lives are to be lost, spare them and let it be mine. You’ve had me in suffrage for all these years, and the painting has and will cure many more. Let us be safe. We need not, nor deserve any more of this.”
A thin ray of filtered sunlight flickered across the room, illuminating the area where the painting stood, impassive as always. A soft wind blew across the curtains.
The head of Christ turned and looked at Brodie, before the entire painting melted away into nothingness.
§
The Condesa Maria gave a start. She placed her hands on her head. A jolt went through her as if she had touched a live wire.
Bower cried out, “Deus Vult!” and had no idea why. He went down on one knee and bent his head low. He just had to. It was inexplicable.
Martha began to sob. “It’s gone! It’s gone!”
Abbot Louis looked startled and he felt the shift of something immense and unknowable pass through his entire being and life.
Garcia intuitively understood the enormity of what he was witnessing, as Luciana clung to him, sobbing…”He’s gone. He’s left us!”
CHAPTER 41
The sound of heaven resounded all around, and ahead stretched a long and lonely road arrayed with aged and weathered crucifixes, on which was hammered the forgotten and countless souls of those who had died for Him.
The rider wears their ancestral armour, the colours and the black cross pattée emblazoned upon a tabard of ancient Templars past.
The wind blows hard and there is rain in the air, as thunder begins its roll across the skies, lit by streaks of lightning. The rider has heard the call and knows it must be answered. The call is within the message.
Bells of heaven call to the rider, who, with head bent low, moves to where the sound is coming from. The voices of the angelic choirs sing, sending golden rays and dispersing the darkness of the world. The light descends and suffuses the rider… The Chosen One.
As it has always been and will be forever more.
A church appears bathed in a gentle healing light. The rider, like those that went before, is finally home. With outstretched hands, the rider pushes open the door and when inside, sees that all is as was promised. The easel and paints are ready.
A tear trickles down the rider’s dusty cheek. The journey has been long but is now drawing to a close. The brushes glide swiftly and lovingly across the naked canvas. Body and form take shape. Life arises where there was once only death. The painting breathes as the rider accomplishes the role of artist.
Death has been escaped, and as it has always done, the eyes of Christ shine into those of The Chosen One. Lazarus lives again and in all humankind. The circle is complete. The vision is accomplished and hope for the world is renewed.
§
Brodie lurched back into the room looking like a man on fire.
“It’s happened!” he shouted, “It’s happened!” He was about to shout again but stopped short. Something had occurred. There was complete silence. Every one of them appeared transfixed and locked inside a private world of their own – wherein their own imaginations, hopes and fears abided. It was as if they hadn’t heard him. He scanned the room. “What’s been going on?”
No one spoke.
Brodie realised they had felt what had just happened. The miraculous event had communicated with all those involved, and they had felt and understood it. They appeared dazed.
Martha looked up, her eyes wet with tears. She stood and went to Bower who remained on one knee with his head bent. Putting out her arm, she hauled him up.
He looked shell-shocked. “Holy Mother, what was that?”
Turning to Brodie, she asked, “It’s gone, hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” he replied flatly. “It’s vanished to God knows where. Probably to that gallery which I alone have seen, wherein every painting ever done by the c
hosen artist since Annas Zevi, lives.”
He watched the scene unfolding before him. Maria moved closer to Martha, as did the Abbot, Luciana and Garcia. She was surrounded as they all stared fixedly at him.
An awful thought began to form in his mind as it descended upon him like a sepulchral cloak. His hand went to his head. He went dizzy before he collapsed in a hunched up bundle on the floor.
§
Two days later...
Consciousness began to return and for the first time in two days, Brodie moved. He could discern the play of sunlight on his closed eyelids and thoughts began to stir. Where am I? He forced his eyes to open and take stock of where he was. It wasn’t difficult. He was in bed at Maria’s place, and staring down at him were the serene faces of both the Condesa and Martha.
He shook his head. “Why am I here? What happened?”
“You passed out on us. We had a doctor look you over and he said that if there was no improvement by tomorrow, we’re to take you to the Hospital de Tavera in Toledo. He couldn’t find anything wrong with you. All your vital signs and functions were perfectly normal. But he thought it would be best if you had a scan. How do you feel anyway?”
“I’m not sure. There doesn’t seem to be anything amiss.”
Maria pumped up his pillow.
“It’s coming back now. That accursed picture, it vanished before my eyes, and you all knew when it happened. Didn’t you? I didn’t have to say a word.” As he thought about it, a flood of despair assaulted him. He looked at Martha with eyes begging her to say no. “You’ve been chosen, haven’t you?” He was willing her to deny it, to tell him he was crazy. But she didn’t, and that compounded his misery.
“I’m joining the others outside.” Martha looked unhappy as she turned and left the room.
He turned to Maria. “Maria, what do you do know? You must tell me. There is her mother to think of … poor Ulla. First me and then her daughter. She’ll die when she finds out and if she does, I no longer want to live too.”
“Don’t worry about Ulla, Brodie. I know she calls Martha every day and she only tells her mother the good bits, believe me.” She sat beside him and placed her hand on his arm. “There’s something you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“We all had the same vision, all of us in that room, of the unrecognizable person in that church. So, it seems to me, either it’s a collective choice, or the next artist hasn’t been selected. But you, it seems, have been released as you so fervently asked.”
“I didn’t see anything, Maria, only Christ’s eyes as he turned to me before the painting vanished! But it sounds almost the same as what I experienced all those years ago.”
“Consider this, Brodie.” Maria held his hand and squeezed it. “The only people in that room capable of painting are John, Martha, and Abbot Louis, who I know is pretty handy with a brush. He has also been a guardian of your work since day one, up until the present time ... and he is in an ideal situation. If I was a gambler, I’d put my money on him.”
“The continuum of elements never stops throughout time and space,” Brodie muttered, not quite sure what he meant by that. The Condesa’s assessment of the situation had helped calm him down a little. But until he knew for certain, he would never entirely settle. “Where are they all?”
“They’re sitting outside, enjoying a drink. Would you like one?”
“I feel fine. I’ll join you outside if you don’t mind. Provided I can still walk.” He swung his legs out and as he did, he realised they had undressed him before putting him to bed. Oops!
The Condesa Maria made a hasty exit.
Five minutes later, after putting on some fresh clothes and brushing his teeth, he emerged into the warm sun beneath the bougainvillea that covered the giant pergola. He got a round of applause and they lifted their glasses to him.
“Where the Abbot?” Brodie asked.
“He’s in the chapel going through the office of the hour,” the Condesa replied.
“What of Shepard and his thugs?” He directed his question to Bower.
“We haven’t seen or heard anything from them yet. But give him time to recuperate and he’ll find us sooner or later. Remember, he’s been here once before.”
“Who can forget it.” Martha giggled.
§
Larnaca, Cyprus
Shepard knew that his two acolytes, Alphonse and Jeremiah, had done all they were capable of. With the painting gone and in his current condition, everything had been brought to a halt. Without it, the project was a dead dog. A fake painting at this stage, wouldn’t do. It would be sussed in no time. He sent them home.
There were more important issues to attend to – like Bower and his jolly crew. He burnt for revenge on all of them. He still didn’t know where they were, but he knew that once they had the painting, they wouldn’t be hanging about. The most obvious place for them to go had to be to that crazy bitch’s place in Guadamur, where she had fired her pistol at him.
With Alexis and Bruno as back up, things were going to get interesting. Pretty boy Bower, and his dumb stooge called George, were first on the list. He would wait for another week, then they would strike. He had the advantage. They wouldn’t know when the attack would occur.
He could wait. He was good at waiting.
CHAPTER 42
Guadamur
The next day...
Bower paced up and down and guessed the party was far from over. Moving backwards and forwards outside like a man who knew his final hour was upon him, he plotted his next moves. He was sure that staying here was the right thing to do. It was that or abandon the Condesa to an uncertain, but no doubt, nasty future.
In spite of the peculiar events, the visions, and the vanishing work of art, he could not shrug off the feeling that there was something else behind it all and that the entire panorama of events had been constructed on purpose. An outside force was beckoning him, and indeed ... Martha. They were being led along, urged towards whatever was being clandestinely planned.
Still, he had broken through something to reveal that change was possible if you surrendered to it. For the first time since he could recall, he was no longer standing where, before, he had feared to leave. This was a minor triumph, yet he was in no mood for patting himself on the back.
Looking back on his life, he felt that everything had been a waste of time. All his achievements, his money ... they all meant nothing. A colossal sadness edged into his thinking. He had little enthusiasm for the world of glittering Las Vegas or the spinning wheels of fortune of his casinos. Not so long ago he swaggered with a sense of his own power. Now, he was being tormented by self-doubt. He no longer knew, apart from Martha, who or what feeling to truly trust.
One day we are alive and the next we could be dead. I’m being carried along with no power or control. Nothing stays with me. Everything will die when I do, and death, in some way happens to me every minute of the day.
Even the paintings of Lazarus for all intents and purposes died at some point in time, as if their entire future had been mapped out.
But now there was a gap waiting to be filled.
Bower was caught up in intense introspection, and he wondered if he had been too hard on himself. There was a part of him that was growing steadily, that he was unaware of. He sensed that total redemption was possible and with that came hope, and what man would have the strength to resist the possibility of hope? A thought flickered through his mind, that like Lazarus, all men had the hope and possibility of resurrection. He knew that Martha would not deny that expression of boundless optimism.
With that, his mind cleared and all he could register was a white blankness that caused him to close his eyes. Through it galloped The White Horse on which he was mounted and around the horse’s mane was a garland of bluebells.
The vision went as quickly as it had appeared.
“Jesus!” he muttered out aloud. He needed to get away for a few hours or more.
He went back to the others and announced, “I have to go into Toledo this morning, to the bank, and arrange a funding transaction via The Wells Fargo Bank. They’re located in Madrid but hopefully it can be sorted from Toledo. Also, I have to attend to some casino business. I won’t be too long, and I’ll keep the mobile switched on. I’m going to take my easel and paints, just in case I get inspired on the way back. You never know, I might find a field of irises or a farm garden with sunflowers!” His reference to Van Gogh was not unnoticed and prompted wry smiles from everyone, apart from George who hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
“I’ll come with you, boss.” George looked hopeful.
“No, you won’t. I want this time to myself. You’re staying here to watch over them.”
Bower caught Martha’s stare and he knew that she knew he was lying.
I just can’t keep anything from her.
Martha stood up. “I’ll give you a hand.” She headed for the door and he followed.
Outside, she turned to him. “You’re not going to the bank. Why did you lie?”
“I had to. I didn’t know what else to say.”
“I know what you saw because I saw it too. I was on the horse.”
“You got that wrong, Martha, I was on the horse.”
“What? We both can’t be on it.”
“Are we being told something? Is this a clue?”
“God only knows. We should be used to it by now. I also feel compelled to paint. It’s too bad I can’t come with you. Dad won’t allow me to travel or even go out without him. I’ll have to stay around here and see what I can come up with. There’s something else I have to tell you.” She stared into his eyes which had a haunted quality about them.
“What?”
