by Linda Stasi
I plopped down on my bed, and as I was lying there trying to sleep the thought that had hit me earlier, the nagging thought that I’d missed something, started running through my head again. But what the hell was it? What had I missed? Something about Morris Golden … what the hell was it?
I finally fell asleep, but woke up because my room this time had gone from seventy to zero in sixty seconds. And the window next to my bed this time was wide open. I jumped up, nearly breaking my neck on my suitcase, and closed the window, relocking the club thing. In doing so, I noticed that oddly, again, the night air outside was warm—much warmer than the frigid air in my room. In fact, it was, all in all, a perfect spring night.
I got up and checked the thermostat. Fifty-two degrees inside! But how could that be? The AC was turned to “off.”
I checked on Terry. He was fast asleep with his little butt in the air, and for once, it was warmer in his room than in mine. In fact, because he was in a toasty onesie, his face was red. It was even a bit too warm in his room.
To prevent myself from breaking my neck next time I got up, I moved my suitcase from my bedroom to the living room and then crawled back into bed. It was 1:30 A.M. Jesus.
I finally fell back to sleep, but I wished I hadn’t.
I found myself in a dark place, holding Terry in my arms. I was wearing a sort of burqa. Together we descended dank, cold, stone stairs into a dark cave or maybe it was a dungeon. Holding Terry in one arm and feeling my way down the stairs with my free hand, we descended, each step bringing us closer to the hell below. When I reached the bottom step, I hugged Terry closer to me as he started to cry.
Go back! Go back! my brain was screaming, but my dream wouldn’t listen.
A single bulb illuminated our surroundings: just a low-ceilinged, cave-like hole hewn out of the rock. Terry and I were completely alone, but I could hear men screaming in agony. But the screams were coming out of the walls!
I could feel “handles” carved out of the stone every few feet along the walls, but they seemed to be handles that held nothing. Hieroglyphs scrawled like ancient graffiti splashed across the screen of my dreams. Just then the light in the cave dungeon blew out, thrusting us into the pitch black. Terry was no longer in my arms. He was gone! I could hear his little screams melding into the screams of the unseen men, but with each wail, I knew he, too, was disappearing further into the walls themselves and I couldn’t find him.
Why did you bring him down here—to his certain death? Why?
I shot up straight in bed, soaked in sweat, shaking, freezing, and burning up all at once, and mumbled, “The chains of our Lord did not bind Him!”
What the hell? Or more to the point, what hell was that?
Was this some sign that I shouldn’t go? I sounded as superstitious as Raylene! No, it made no sense. I wasn’t taking Terry with me. My baby was going to be safe and sound at home with the Judsons. Safe-and-sound.
I turned toward the door of my room and in the dim light coming through the blinds I saw him. Baby Terry was standing at my door!
15
I picked him up, shocked. And shaken. It’s kind of terrifying to see your infant standing alone at your door, after all. He was still fast asleep. How in the world could a six-month-old, who didn’t yet walk, climb out of bed and sleepwalk to my room?
Carrying the sleeping baby with me, I walked from room to room checking to see that no one had broken in. No one had. The child was just progressing by leaps and bounds. Right. I took him into bed with me to keep him from doing such a thing again, and he slept through the night. Me? Not so much.
The next day was a flurry of crazy—Terry couldn’t even figure out how to crawl that morning, let alone walk, and was doing the baby-rock-back-and-forth-on-all-fours thing.
The hours flew by as I attempted to get all my ducks in a row before setting out for what I knew would be a very short trip and a very long flight. All attempts to reach Father Paulo were unsuccessful, and I hoped that tradition would hold true, and although as unreachable as always, he’d be exactly where he said he’d be, exactly when I got to where he wanted me to be. And that is what I was banking on. What was the choice—really?
Bob was even willing to pay for the trip, on the condition that I’d bring back as big a story as I had with the Veil of Veronica and the cloning of Jesus.
This tube in my possession contained—I hoped—the only words left on Earth said by Jesus directly to his once most trusted disciple, his treasurer, Judas Iscariot. So yes, could be as big. Were they words of magic? Power? Armageddon? Resurrection? And why to Judas? Could actually be bigger—much bigger. Whatever these remaining words were, they were invaluable in terms of what it would mean to the world and nearly as much on a personal level in getting Roy out of prison. I had to trust that the Vatican would do right by them. And pay me enough to do right by Roy. If it had been any other pope but Pope Francis, I would never have considered it, but he is the most decent man to occupy the office in my lifetime. So decent, in fact, I often wondered how the bad guys inside hadn’t poisoned him yet.
I pulled on a pair of black jeans; a white, cotton shirt; and then hung the hideous glitter key around my neck and tucked it inside. I didn’t feel like explaining myself to the Buttinskys when I had so much other explaining to do—about exactly what to do with Terry every second—that the last thing I wanted was to explain why I was wearing a glitter key. I told them about how he’d climbed out of bed and they assured me that they’d sleep on the floor of his room so he couldn’t do such a thing again.
Mollified, and knowing it would only be for one night, I finished up by sticking my iPad, keyboard, an overnight kit, a reporter’s notebook, a bunch of pens, and a few essentials in my big hobo purse.
The Judsons arrived at my apartment on time—loaded up with their Omega mega super juicer, a thermal bag, and two giant brown bags of greens, even though we had hours and hours to go.
Of course I was apprehensive about leaving Terry for the first time, especially with his escalating advances, but even though I thought they were nosy and could be annoying, I was thankful that I had friends like the Judsons. I mean, they were thrilled to stay with him until my parents arrived, or none of this would have even been possible. Dona-the-capable was flat-out incapable when it came to Terry when he was on a tear. Donald would have taken Terry to a bar and then claimed it was good for him because he was his son or something equally ridiculous.
“I know you guys are desperate to get some kale juice down this little boy,” I said, picking Terry up and kissing his little face while eying their juicer, “but I’m afraid he’s strictly a peaches kinda kid.”
Raylene pulled out a frozen thing from the thermal bag. “Look! Delicious frozen kale, spinach, and celery root pops! He can suck on them like an ice cream bar! Delicious!”
“I’m sure. But just in case…” I opened the pantry and showed them the rows of Earth’s Best baby food in every variety known, well, on Earth. Raylene looked like she might faint. “It’s organic baby food,” I protested.
“Organic, schmaganic!” she proclaimed. “I was in the business. I know from organic!” She kissed her Omega juicer. “Don’t we, buddy?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t BeDazzled it with sequins,” I joked, hugging her.
“Might look nice,” she joked back. I think.
I knew Terry would never eat any of that stuff, even as Raylene handed him one of her pureed frozen spinach pops. He turned it over a few times, and stuck it in his mouth, and instead of spitting it out he started sucking on it like she’d just given him a chocolate pacifier. Worse, he kept it there—even though it must have tasted like frozen nasty.
“Yum!” said Raylene as she gently took it from his mouth and he giggled and tried to grab it back. Go figure. It was green slime!
“Anyway, here are the numbers of everyone I know,” I said, handing them Mad Dog’s number as well as everyone else’s contact info within the continental United States, i
ncluding the press secretary to the White House just in case. In case of what I didn’t know. Too bad I didn’t. Know, I mean.
I was horribly concerned that I hadn’t heard from Roy yet and the time was getting near to my leaving, so I called Mad Dog’s office, but they said he was tied up and would get back to me—not. One last Skype to my folks, who I was thrilled to find out were actually leaving early. They were about to board the first of two legs of their flight home and said they’d be back in New York probably even before I touched down in Tel Aviv, barring a flare-up of my dad’s tourista.
So far, so good.
I reluctantly picked up my bag, kissed Terry (feeling serious separation anxiety), and made sure they had the giant list of instructions, which I knew they didn’t need. As I headed to the door, I said, “My folks will be here tomorrow, so you’ve only got to put up with the little monster for one night and you’ll be back in your own bed tomorrow. Please, I swear he crawled out of his crib, so…”
Raylene shushed me with, “Dear, he’s fine. Just a little genius,” she said, giving him a sloppy kiss.
“Well, I can’t begin to tell you how much I love you for doing this, you guys,” I said, starting to tear up.
Raylene, with Terry in her arms, reached out and put Terry up to me and said, “Kiss Mommy good-bye like a good boy. There you go.”
Dane walked me to the door and handed me a package tied up in string like something out of the 1940s.
“Open it, please,” he implored me. I unwrapped the brown paper. It was a small book, The Gospel of Judas, second edition, edited by Rodolphe Kasser, Marvin Meyer, and Gregor Wurst.
“The book, this book, is, I think, an interpretation of what was found back in the 1970s. I’ve made some notations inside.”
“Gosh, Dane. I’ve begun researching, so this will be very helpful. It’s incredibly thoughtful of you,” I said, hugging him and trying not to tear up again.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m just an old guy living vicariously through my glamorous, dashing reporter friend down the hall!”
“Hardly,” I said, pointing to Terry and all his stuff. “I’ll read every word on the plane. See what this demon Judas had to say—or what was left of the words that weren’t rotted away, at any rate.”
“Apparently, it was mostly rejected by the mainstream scholars and of course the Vatican.”
I realized that our little talk had cost me precious time and El Al didn’t let you board a minute late.
I had to hurry but still I left with a heavy heart, even knowing Terry was in good hands. As I stepped outside with my big hobo purse on my shoulder and my rolling suitcase in hand, to wait for the Carmel car I’d called, a black-coated, scruffy figure appeared out of nowhere and approached me quickly and spun me around.
“Father Elias! What?” He looked like he hadn’t shaved or bathed since last I’d seen him sneaking around the hall. He was positively frantic now.
“Don’t do this thing!” he yelled, lunging for my purse. “Give me the papyrus!” I fought him off, dropping my suitcase to the ground but holding on to my purse, which was probably stupid. It would have been worse for him to run off with the suitcase.
“Give it to me—give me the words of Jesus. I must put it in a consecrated place. Morris Golden left it to me and to Our Lady of Vilnius. Give those pages to me!” he screamed. I struggled to break free as he struggled to grab my big red purse.
My doorman came rushing out and grabbed Father Elias by the arms, holding him tight as a small crowd gathered. “What’s going on, Ms. Russo? Call nine-one-one somebody!”
“No, no! Just call security. I need to catch a plane and I can’t stay to file a complaint!” I said, completely agitated. The last thing I needed was to miss my plane. Shaking Elias off, Anthony held him at bay, trying to get me to change my mind as a Carmel car pulled up. The driver came around, picked up my suitcase, and opened the door, confused, as I rushed in, shaken. I slammed the door and locked it, just as Elias broke free of Anthony and rushed the car door, shoving the driver. He grabbed at my window and screamed, “Give me the codex!” and as Anthony tried to pull him off he screamed, “Thief! That woman is running away with a stolen relic!”
The driver hurried back into the driver’s seat and I could hear sirens approaching. Somebody had reported the incident. “Please. Just leave!” The driver didn’t want to, but I was the paying customer, after all. “He’s just a crazy neighbor.”
As we pulled out, Elias followed us. He fell on his knees in the traffic and made the sign of the cross, crying, “The chains of our Lord did not bind Him, Miss Russo! The chains of our Lord did not bind Him! You are a sinner!”
I was shaken to the core. The driver turned around. “You all right, miss? You sure we shouldn’t wait for the cops?” His Middle Eastern accent was thick, and his New York Yankees cap was firmly and proudly in place.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” I lied. “A crazy man—that’s all.”
“Lots of crazy people,” he said. “A regular nut job.”
As I settled back into the seat, I checked my purse, knowing that Father Elias had grabbed onto my bag during that bizarre encounter. Everything looked OK. Tickets, check. Passport, check.
“Yes,” I answered the cabbie, “just your run-of-the-mill New York nut job.” Not.
He liked that a lot. I didn’t.
My mind was racing: Is the creep looking for a payday or does he believe the Gospel pages really hold the secret to whatever he and Morris were up to?
Although the Midtown Tunnel—which miraculously hasn’t yet been renamed for a dead politician—was crowded, we made it to JFK just under the wire.
When I got to the El Al check-in line, I reached into my bag to pull out my passport and ticket and felt something I hadn’t noticed when I checked my bag earlier. A folded piece of paper.
What the hell? More creepiness from that freak. Father Elias must have stuck this in here!
I opened it. The wobbly script was the same as Morris Golden’s and so was the obscure code he’d written before to his son: 31.780231° N, 35.233991° E
As a great philosopher once asked, WTF?
16
After I got past the initial shock of being assaulted by the now-disheveled and disoriented priest, I get hit with the same code that had been written by the dead and disoriented father of my best friend who was rotting in jail. And to think, just a few days ago, all I was, was merely feeling sorry for myself for losing Pantera.
The check-in line was very long, but since I was cutting it so close, an El Al agent, who I swear are all ex-or-maybe-current Mossad, brought me to the front of the line when I told him I was late.
I began sweating bullets. The last thing one should do—especially when one is smuggling stolen relics in the presence of an El Al ticket/Mossad agent—is to start sweating even small bullets, look guilty, or behave in any way like you are hiding something.
I now had all three going on at once. Yes! Way to go, Russo.
The agent looked at the ticket, looked at my passport.
“I have TSA,” I said, as though that would change everything. This is the prescreening method that I had applied for and gotten, which allows you to skip regular lines. Unless you’re flying to Israel and they don’t want you to skip lines. “Oy,” as they say in New York.
I rubbed my wet palms on my jeans.
I imagined a locked room and never getting my boy Roy out. Or me, either, come to think of it.
Instead he pulled me aside, checking with his handheld device to see if I was a known smuggler or something. “Why are you going to Israel for just two days, Ms. Russo?”
Never mind smuggler, he’s about to arrest me as an international terrorist.
I decided to use the same excuse that I’d used last time I was on the run, at an airport, trying to escape the country.
“I, um, am a publicist for a band. A rock band, so I am, ah, just doing the pre-publicity.”
“A rock band,” he
repeated.
“It’s a, well, a retro rock band. We like the 1960s.”
“And this band is called—what?”
What the hell did I call it last time? What was it? Shit!
I hoped I remembered correctly, since now everything you ever said or did is recorded somewhere and if any airline would have it, it would definitely be El Al, the world’s most secure airline.
“The, uh, the Pan Band,” I said, feeling as insane as when I’d said it the first time it came out of my mouth last year.
“The what?”
“The Pan Band. You know, um, they do Jimi Hendrix covers, that kind of thing.”
What did you just say? Jimi Hendrix cover band? You sound insane. Shut up before you sink yourself but good.
The Mossad ticket agent looked at my passport and then at my ticket and looked back at me. “Remove your sunglasses, please.” I removed my sunglasses but then for reasons I will never understand, I pointed to my blouse and said, “I’m so sorry, but I’m Orthodox.”
What? He didn’t ask you to strip. You sound insane. Worse, an Orthodox woman in jeans is as stupid as one checking in naked on El Al. Jesus! What is wrong with you?
“Come with me,” he ordered.
Shit! Shit! Shit! You went too far.
He checked the computer. “Why did your previous passport say ‘Zaluckyj’ and the current one lists you as ‘Russo’?”
I had just told the guy for no reason that I was Orthodox and now I couldn’t say I was divorced and that my maiden name was Russo. “Ah, it’s my married name.”
“I see. You converted?”
“No, I was born Jewish.” Dear God. Why are you saying all this? You sound like you’re about to explode with grenades sewn into your underwear. Shut up!
He did a bit more checking, and then he brought me right up to the front of the check-in line—and I watched as my suitcase with the precious relic went zipping right onto the conveyor belt to be tossed and beaten up in the cargo hold.
Whew. So far so good.
Security line. Beeeeep. “Please remove your jewelry,” the security guard said, pointing to the glitter disaster that was now poking out of the button that had come undone on my blouse. Orthodox slut!
