13th Apostle (13 page)

Day Nine, early morning
Weymouth Train Station
Weymouth, England

The Weymouth Limousine Service was the model of dependability, when the owner was in town. Which today, he wasn't. According to the stationmaster, the specific instructions that Sabbie left the day before on the company's voice mail would probably be retrieved just in time for spring thaw and the onslaught of vacationers.

“It wouldn't have killed them to include that vital piece of information on the answering machine message,” she complained to the stationmaster.

“The sky is blue,” Gil muttered.

“What?” she asked, apparently more than ready for a fight.

“It's something George always says. ‘The sky is blue, the grass is green, and people are stupid.'”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you can't change any of them, so why try?”

She shot him a cold stare.

The ticket master told them they could catch a private cab. Only a few taxis bothered to come down to the station when it wasn't tourist season but, with a bit of luck, they'd find one parked at the far side of the parking lot.

Gil spotted a gray cab amid a sea of silver-colored cars. “There it is, over there,” He waved the driver over. “You know what I always say. Best place to hide a tree is in the forest.”

“Great idea. Why bother to make cabs easily visible?” Sabbie muttered.

It was a quick trip to the hotel and the check-in was effortless—until the desk clerk asked to hold their passports, as was the custom. Sabbie left Gil to finish up the details of the registration while she had a private word with the manager. Gil had anticipated a repeat of the intimidation tactic Sabbie had used in the airport but, even from a distance, he could tell she and the manager seemed to be getting on famously.

The desk clerk handed Gil the key to their room and made one final request. “Would you please fill in an address and phone number on this traveler's check?” he asked. “Your friend has signed the check but has neglected to finish filling it out.”

Gil struggled to remember the address of the Museum then settled on as near an approximation as he could conjure.

“Just there, under your name, Dr. Ludlow,” the desk clerk said.

Gil's gaze dropped from the clerk to the traveler's check; one of many traveler's checks that had been paying their way. Only one name appeared on the traveler's check: Dr. Robert Ludlow. Next to it, awaiting the manager's decision, lay a passport which contained Gil's picture and, under his photo, the name of a dead man.

Later that afternoon
Weymouth Monastery

A break-in, whether at the Monastery or any other building, required two essentials: planning and the right tools. Such was the world according to Sabbie. Gil didn't bother to ask what previous experience provided her with these words of wisdom. He didn't want to know.

Her plan was simple: get a look at the Monastery by day, preferably from the inside, then to return in the evening to search for the scroll. Time, however, was not on their side.

“DeVris may have already realized we've gone. If not, we have one day, maybe two before he figures it out.”

“After that?”

“Not sure. If DeVris decides to use official channels, Scotland Yard could be called in. Or, he could get McCullum to send his Power Angels.” She explained the purpose and tactics of McCullum's WATSC Nazis in far more detail than Gil would have preferred.

“So, I'm not sure that it matters who is after us,” she concluded wryly.

“Well, Scotland Yard sounds a lot more appealing than McCullum's goons.”

“Don't be so sure.”

“But you think we have a day or two, right?” Gil asked.

“Yes, but I could be wrong.”

“Great,” he said sarcastically. He did not do powerless well.

She ignored him as usual. “Food, information, and a hardware store. That's what we need, in that order.”

They got their food and information at the same place, and both were equally bad. The waitress who served them runny eggs, also informed them that tours at Weymouth Monastery were on hold during off-season.

“Not enough demand, you know,” she added, then left them to their inedible meal.

“Never take one person's word on anything,” Sabbie advised, as she pushed the untouched plate aside. They grabbed some coffee and stale muffins and headed for the Weymouth Chamber of Commerce Office/Insurance office/Ticket agency.

“Monastery tour? No problem,” the pleasant young woman informed them. Best of all, they were able to book a tour for that afternoon.

They spent the morning buying supplies and walking the streets of Weymouth in order to get a lay of the land. They divided their purchases between several establishments so as to not cause suspicion and had to cash in four more traveler's checks.

Several hours of feigned nonchalant shopping yielded everything from crowbars and wire cutters to the biggest backpack Gil had ever seen. Fully loaded it must have weighed fifty pounds. Although Sabbie said they would trade off carrying it, Gil refused to hand it over.

“Don't you think we're overdoing it? How much money do we have left?” Gil asked.

If they were going to find the scroll, Sabbie said, they needed all the help they could get. They had nothing to depend on but the diary and their wits.

“Yeah, and enough tools to furnish a Home Depot,” Gil added. The reference was lost on her.

“I suppose you prefer prying open doors with your fingernails?”

Until that moment, Gil had never really contemplated what would be involved. Breaking into the Monastery suddenly took on a whole new wood-splintering-window-smashing-spending-your-life-in-jail kind of feeling about it.

What's this, my third crime in two days, counting the bomb scare at the Museum and my string of forgeries? Terrific.

He had lost count.

The afternoon tour was a welcome distraction. The Monastery was imposing—huge stone walls, towering spires, an expansive circular cobblestone courtyard led to wide stone steps. Two great wooden doors towered above them. Their tour companions, three women and a young man, paused to take pictures, and approached.

“Our little crowbar is not going to make a dent on those,” Gil whispered.

“Shhh.”

Last to arrive was the tour guide. She could have easily doubled as a Wac sergeant left over from the Second World War. Square-shouldered and broad of hip, she addressed her little group of visitors in front of the Monastery's great double doors. In keeping with her appearance, she wasted no time on pleasantries. Rules of behavior were listed with precision, as if speaking to new recruits in a tiny and somewhat odd-looking army.

Gil, Sabbie, and the other four hapless sightseers that made up the group were instructed to stay together, abstain from eating, drinking, smoking, and especially from touching anything that might be found within one's natural reach.

“And you think
I'm
tough,” Sabbie whispered.

The guide paused, possibly aware of the disappointment she was about to engender. “In addition, the taking of photos or video is strictly prohibited.”

Each of the tourists, heavily laden with now-useless cameras, snacks, and bottled water, sighed deeply and grumbled their complaints. Her directives complete, the guide turned and walked past the great doors, and disappeared into a small, side entrance. The rest of their little band filed behind like ducklings with Gil and Sabbie bringing up the rear.

The tour began in the
buttery
, which the guide noted had nothing to do with butter but, rather, had served as a storehouse for casks of wine and beer.

“The sell-air-ium,” the guide explained with more enthusiasm than Gil thought justified, “has nothing to do with sun and air…it is not soooolarium…it's
sell
–
arium
, spelled c-e-l-l-a-r-i-u-m. It means underground, which is where the food was kept to minimize spoilage.”

“Jesus, lady, get a life,” Gil muttered under his breath. Sabbie threw him a disapproving look.

They spent fifteen minutes learning more than any civilized human being needed to know about preventing the decay of food. “And now, on to the cow-le-factor-y,” the guide announced with precision.

Gil couldn't help it. It was one of those thoughts that begs to be spoken, so witty that it must be shared by another. Gil whispered the comment that demanded to be heard. “Cow-le-factory? Isn't that where they used to build French bovines?”

It didn't sound as nearly as funny coming out of his mouth as it had sounded in his head. Sabbie distanced herself from him and concentrated on the guide's explanation that a calefactory was a warming room where monks found a few moments of welcome conversation as well as respite from the ceaseless cold of their unheated cells and workrooms in winter.

Sabbie scribbled something on her notepad then coughed a bit to mask the noise as she furtively tore off the page and handed it to Gil.

Her note was brief but to the point. “Get a grip.”

Gil forced himself into a semblance of sobriety.

The tour guide's current banter on the changing architectural features inspired Sabbie to take copious notes. Gil, on the other hand, needed some quiet and solitude, a chance to think.

Suppose he didn't have enough time to decipher the diary's vague message! A list of accountings that made mention of a tapestry, that was his only signpost. The discovery of a priceless scroll bearing witness to Jesus' life depended on that alone…and on him.
His stomach tightened.

“We'll be finishing up in the Chapel,” the guide announced. “But, first, we'll tour the gardens and make our way around to…”

He had to get some God damned peace and quiet! He needed to get away from the drone of the guide's unending commentary and eagle eye.

“Follow my lead,” Gil whispered to Sabbie. “I've got to get some time alone to look around.”

Approaching the guide, Gil spoke softly, as if no one else could overhear. “Excuse me, I need a word in private with you.”

Reluctantly, the guide obliged. Out of earshot of the others, Gil explained.

“I have diabetes and I'm not feeling well. May I just sit down for a while?” he asked.

The guide hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously.

He had placed her on the horns of a dilemma and each of the points was equally uncomfortable. If she didn't grant him this small act of kindness, she'd have to take him for medical attention, which would necessitate canceling the tour halfway through. As this was the only tour of the day, the group was bound to be mighty unhappy. On the other hand, his request was clearly not within her narrow guidelines.

“I've taken my pills and I need to rest a while. I won't bother anything,” Gil added. Feigning exhaustion, he slid to a sitting position next to the wall, head bent, and eyes closed.

Sabbie sprang to his support. “Please,” she said, earnestly. “If you just give him a few minutes to rest, he'll be fine. He'll wait right here until we return. You did say we'd swing back through here, didn't you?”

Sabbie's indication that she would be continuing the tour seemed to lessen any remaining doubt the guide still entertained, and Sabbie's question, which required a response, provided a final distraction.

In the end, the tour guide seemed satisfied to keep Sabbie as a tour hostage should Gil take it into his mind to commit some unspeakable profanity. Within a few minutes, the group had vacated, Sabbie in the lead, leaving Gil a half hour to himself.

He was on his feet even as the door closed behind the departing group. At best, there wasn't a second to spare. At worst…well, he didn't want to think about that.

At the end of the one corridor that the group had not yet explored, Gil found himself faced with two choices. On his right, a long dark hall snaked between two massive stone walls. The narrow passage turned and trailed off, with no doors or openings in sight. On the left, a hall that, according to a small wooden sign, led to the Chapel.

He walked quickly to the right. The chill air of the hall cooled his sweaty neck.

How long does this damn hall go on? Shit! I must have lost five minutes already. I'm going to have to turn around if it doesn't lead some…

He never saw the end of the dark hall coming. He turned as the passage twisted and raced as fast as his pounding heart could manage. He rounded the final curve and barely escaped a collision with a large unpainted wooden door.

Surprisingly, it was unlocked and it opened with ease, revealing a wealth of tapestries. The room was filled with the smell of antiquity. The scene before him reminded Gil of a large carpet store gone unattended for a couple hundred years. Dozens of tapestries hung on the walls, lay piled on the floor, or draped over racks. Knights on horseback, ladies and their attendants, dogs, even dragons were intricately woven into the designs. In their day, their colors must have been bright and rich, but the tapestries he could see had greatly faded.

Surely these works could not be the “mediocre tapestries woven by the old, stupid or infirm” that Elias had described in one deciphered bit of diary text. Each was an intricate work of precision and beauty. There was something oddly consistent about them, as if they had been made by the same hand.

What was it that Brother Elias had written? The Abbot had designed all of the tapestries
—
with the exception of only one that Elias had been permitted to conceive and create on his own? Well, Elias' tapestry may have been special to him but among all of these, it was just another face in the crowd.

Gil glanced at his watch. He was running out of time. The jog back through the passageway seemed to take longer than the forward run. He was late and, if the guide returned and found an empty entry way where he was supposed to be resting, there'd be no way to explain it. Putting on a burst of speed, he found with relief that the group was not yet in sight. He had barely seated himself when the group trooped in from the garden. Gil struggled to control his labored breathing, then turned to allow the guide full view of his pale and sweaty face.

Sabbie stooped to wipe his wet forehead with the sleeve of her sweater. “You're clammy and white. Are you okay?” she asked.

The yellow cardigan smelled vaguely of vanilla, and he longed to lie flat on the cool stone floor and have her continue to keep mopping his forehead.

“What did you find?” Sabbie whispered.

The guide called to them to join the group in the Chapel.

“Good stuff,” he whispered back. They hurried to catch up with their little band.

The massive stone columns of the Chapel rose high into the air and, although the vast chamber contained the same dirty glass windows as the tapestry room, the Chapel seemed far brighter and warmer. A great pipe organ loomed at the far end and, next to it, a simple altar sat upon a huge stone slab. A small wooden bench peeked out from under the organ keyboard as if inviting the next pious soul to bring the old pipes to life.

Gil's body ached. He had never felt quite so tired. His head slipped backward and rested on the back of the wooden pew.

The guide's voice seemed to come from afar. Next to him, Sabbie took notes.

“This, of course, is our Chapel, the part most of you have been waiting for,” the guide continued. “You may have heard about the healing power of the Chapel, but we strongly discourage that sort of talk. This is not Lourdes and we caution visitors not to expect any kind of miracle here. Some people report a feeling of peace or well-being.”

Others have described it as a renewed sense of faith, she added. Some claim that the rejuvenation springs from the power of some ancient object that has been hidden within the confines of this building. Most of the Friends of the Monastery agree that the source of the experiences doesn't matter so long as it continues to bring replenishment and spiritual healing to those in need.

Having completed her obviously well-rehearsed speech, the guide stood straight and proud, a confident witness who now spoke in her own words; no longer fearful of saying the wrong thing. Her words were simple and carried a new warmth.

“Scientists may not be able to explain it to their liking, but sitting here in this Chapel, something comes over you. People say it's like being in the company of something holy. I will tell you that it's a presence; a good, loving, and protective presence.”