The Chair

by James L. Rubart

  “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 of Monty Python and Steven Spielberg decided 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 leaned 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 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.

  For the hundredth time since Nicole had appeared outside his store, he told himself he had to find someone he could spill the whole story to that knew Christianity and knew history.

  And knew something about this legend Jefferies referred to.

  Corin felt like he was an Egyptian standing at the bottom of the Red Sea after the Jews had passed through. He needed to ask questions of someone he could trust, get answers from someone who would know what they were talking about. But who? Trustworthy genius historians weren’t hanging out on street corners offering insight and the unraveling of ancient mysteries for food. And he wouldn’t be calling Mark Jefferies.

  Wait.

  A moment later he threw back his head and laughed. Of course. If anyone could help it would be Tesser—if the guy was still alive.

  Corin pulled up his contacts on his cell phone and typed in his old professor’s name. Corin rubbed his face and sighed. Not in there. Maybe the university would have his last known phone number, even if it had been eighteen years since he taught there.

  Or he could simply take a shot and call Information.

  Two minutes later he dialed Tesser’s number. It rang seven times before his old friend’s voice came on the line. Yes. He was still among the living.

  “Tesser, Tesser, I’m a professor. Are you? Well, I used to be. But maybe you aren’t what you were anymore either.” Beep.

  “Tesser, it’s Corin Roscoe.” He paused. “It’s been a few years.” Sure ten was more than a few, but why point that out? Corin hesitated. How much should he reveal on voice mail?

  “I’ve stumbled onto something that’s soaring way over my head and I need to come see you about it. Soon. Any time that works for you will work for me.” Corin gave his cell phone number and hung up.

  He couldn’t think of anyone better than Tesser who had expertise in archaeology, history, and anthropology. If anyone knew about a legendary chair from the time of Christ, it would be his old professor. He could be a human Google, if Corin was able to keep Tesser on point.

  TWO HOURS LATER Corin’s phone vibrated. He glanced at the caller ID. Tesser. Sweet. “Hello?”

  “Corin Roscoe?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, Professor.”

  “Oh my, a delight to hear from you. It hasn’t been a few years, you know; it’s been ten. Ten, my dear Corin. That’s too many. You never call me. Never. But now that you need something, I’m suddenly on your speed dial.”

  “Did you break your fingers?”

  Tesser laughed his staccato-chuckle bringing back memories of him filling the streets of Greece with it as they wandered though its glories a lifetime ago. “Touché, yes, I could have called you. Point taken. So let’s forgive each other, extend grace, and be grateful we’re talking while I still have a modicum of my brain left and we can enjoy each other’s company again after too many years. Hmm?”

  “Fine.” Corin laughed.

  “Splendid.” Tesser cleared his throat. “Now let’s see, when to meet. How urgent is this?”

  “Very.”

  “All right then. Let’s say six tomorrow morning. At my house. It’s the same one as last time we saw each other. I think. Let’s see, I haven’t moved for forty-three years and I last saw you . . . yes, same house. I’ll persuade you to tell me all about what kind of waters you’ve muddied your feet in, and I’ll tell you about the trouble I’ve led skirmishes into for the past decade.”

  Corin inwardly groaned. He’d forgotten Tesser’s penchant for early morning meetings. Night Owl meets Crack of Dawn Man. But the price was small. If anyone could pull back the layers on the chair it was the professor.

  CHAPTER 24

  That night Corin served Tori a spaghetti dinner with three different sauces and tried to ignore the anxiety pressing out on all sides of his chest like an overinflated soccer ball. Would Tesser have any answers? He needed them.

  By the time they polished off their bowls of Cookies and Cream ice cream, he’d successfully shoved his worry to the back of his brain but it refused to vani
sh completely.

  “Great dinner, we need to get a picture of it,” Tori said.

  “But the meal is over. We should have taken a shot before all the bowls were empty.” He motioned toward the red-stained bowls and plates sitting on his seventeenth-century seven-foot Jacobean oak table.

  “Nah, now is the best time; it shows we enjoyed it.”

  Corin smiled. “Okay, I’m with you.” He laid his camera on his built-in bookshelf and set the timer for ten seconds, then scuttled back to Tori, put his arm around her waist, and smiled.

  Ten seconds later the camera flashed and Tori pranced over to the camera and pulled up the shot. “Nice!”

  “Let me see.”

  Where they’d stood obscured most of the dishes, but years from now—if they were still together—they’d be able to remember it was spaghetti.

  Tori studied his camera. “You have 238 pictures on here as far back as three months ago. Don’t you ever download your photos?”

  “I should, but I never seem to get around to it.”

  “I’ll do it for you right now if you want.”

  “Sure, you get that going and I’ll clean up the table and get the dishes taken care of.”

  A few minutes later Corin stood at his sink hand washing the dishes from their meal. It’s not that he didn’t appreciate his dishwasher. There was something about washing dishes by hand that was therapeutic, as if he could wash away the regrets of the past and photos he wanted to wipe out of his memory forever.

  He glanced through the kitchen door at Tori sitting in front of his laptop. Would they be together in two months? Two years? Two decades? Did he want to be with her that long? Maybe. He didn’t know and suspected she didn’t know either. Three months together wasn’t long enough to know. Actually it was, but he still needed time to . . . He stopped, plate in one hand, a light blue scrubber in the other.

  He needed time to fix things that never could be fixed.

  He shook the thoughts from his mind and turned off the water.

  “Hey!” Tori called from the living room, “I got ’em all downloaded.”