The Lost Apostles (9 page)

Chapter 12

If Jesus Christ came back from the dead, why not his female and male apostles, to foreshadow his second coming?

—Amy Angkor-Billings, private journals

The sun splashed pools of sunlight around the interior of the dining tent, which had mesh windows on the ends and sides. Dixie Lou Jackson had sent for her son, and he was being brought to her. She sat on the bench of an inflatable table.

It irritated her that she had found no sign of the missing helicopter, or of the she-apostles that seemed to have disappeared into thin air. The difficult teenager Lori Vale had something to do with both problems; she was certain of it. But every search party had come up with nothing.

She had one clue, though, albeit a thin one. The day before, she had gone into the village and questioned Malia at length, trying to see if she knew anything. Though the Arab woman had denied all knowledge, her behavior had been suspicious and her answers too brief, as if she wanted to conclude the discussion quickly and move onto another subject. Having grown up on the mean streets of Baltimore, Dixie Lou had some experience with human nature, and with liars. In any culture, they were the same. She saw things in the behavior of people, in the edginess of their words, the nervous movements, the moist, glistening brows and quivering upper lips.

And Dixie Lou suspected that her son might have something to do with it as well. In her position, she had to suspect everyone, and he had never proven himself above reproach. . . .

Feeling dismal, Alex entered the tent and sat on a bench at the other side of the table. His mother stared at him in an unnerving way, and he wondered what she was thinking . . . and why she had sent for him.

“I thought you might like to see what we’ve been doing,” Dixie Lou said, smiling suddenly. But her dark eyes remained hard. On the table she had a laptop computer, which she always kept charged inside the command helicopter.

Not saying anything, Alex scowled, causing his thick eyebrows to lower over his pewter eyes. His curly black hair was tousled.

“I can’t go on-line with this computer yet,” she said, “not until we get to civilization and have it repaired. But back at Monte Konos, one of our computer whizzes set up an on-line Concordance of the
Holy Women’s Bible
. With it, we can search for any passage. There’s one about our enemies, but I don’t recall exactly where it is—” From memory, she voiced key words, and the computer searched, then brought up a passage in ornate script, which she turned toward Alex so that he could read it, too:

Our enemies deserve what they

have shown us—no mercy.

“You seem disinterested,” Dixie Lou said, looking at him. She shut down the computer and folded its cover shut. “Is there something you wish to say to me?”

“Only that I hate you,” Alex said.

“I know you think you do, but that’s only because you don’t understand the big picture, the challenges I must deal with, the difficult goals we seek. You have no idea what I go through.”

“Why can’t I talk to Liz Torrence and Siana Harui? They’re my friends, but that guards keep me away from them.”

“I make the rules around here. That means I don’t have to explain them.”

Shaking his head, Alex stared at the ceiling of the tent. “And why are you bothering to show me your Unholy Women’s Bible?”

“Don’t get smart with me, young man.”

“Or you’ll have me beaten?”

The enigmatic woman showed no emotion in her caliginous features. “I’m trying to decide whether or not to kill you.”

“Gosh, Mom, couldn’t you just withhold my allowance or ground me?”

“I’ve never been much of a mother to you,” Dixie Lou admitted. “But you’ve never tried to be a son to me, either.”

“Are you trying to bond with me now? Isn’t it a little late for that?”

“Maybe so. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Her eyes narrowed. “I know you had something to do with the disappearance of the children. And so did your little girlfriend. The only think I haven’t figured out is why are you still here?”

“Did it ever occur to you that I had nothing to do with it?”

“Where’s Lori?”

“I wish I knew. I only hope she’s safe.”

“Get out of my sight!” Dixie Lou thundered. She shook a fist at him.

“That’s more like it,” he said, as he stood to leave. “For a moment there, I almost thought you were human.”

* * *

A camel caravan snaked along the crest of a dune, forming a long profile against the sunset. High in the saddle of the lead animal, Rashid Ali Khan grimaced; his aching, stuffy head was shaken every time the animal jostled him. He had pushed himself too hard. All day long, he’d been suffering from what felt like a severe bout of the flu. It had begun early in the morning, and had gotten worse with each passing moment. Now he really needed to rest.

Rashid raised an arm and called out to the men: it was time to make camp. He led the way down the face of the dune to a flat section of sand and hardpan where caravans often camped. At other times of the year, when the sun turned the desert into a furnace, Rashid traveled by night and made camp during the day. Now it was cool enough to travel by day and sleep at night, which he preferred. Maybe he would feel better in the morning after a good night’s rest.

As he dismounted from the camel, his younger brother Meshdi helped him keep his balance on the loose sand and rock under his feet. Meshdi was smaller than Rashid, with a square jaw and small, narrow-set eyes.

“Lie down for awhile,” his brother said, as he spread a fiber mat on a section of soft sand. “I will bring you something to eat and drink.”

Despite his pride, Rashid didn’t argue. It felt good to stop, to free himself from the rolling, sickening motions of the animal.

On this trip, the men in the caravan had delivered their goods to a wealthy merchant. Following a fine meal at the man’s home they had set out for home, along a route so familiar to them that they might have accomplished it blindfolded. That had been four long days ago, and Rashid was ready for this trip to be over.

Late the next evening he would see Malia again, and she would nurse him back to health. She was a nurturing person; he always grew strong in her presence, and withered when away from her. It was worse than usual on this trip, because his feelings of longing for Malia were exacerbated by this sickness. He wasn’t the type to complain; never had been and never would be.

I’ll just lay my head down for a few moments
, he thought, as he stretched out on the thin mat. Beneath his body the sand shifted, adjusting itself as he pressed his form onto it. To the west, the sun looked larger than normal and more orange, from the dust of the desert. He saw turbaned men removing bundles from the camels and opening them in order to set up the tents.

* * *

Across the world, in Washington state . . .

“Well, what do you have?” Styx Tertullian demanded. He stood in front of Kylee Branson’s desk, glaring down at him.

“But you just asked for it this morning,” the Vice Minister protested. “We’re working on the biblical fraud angle, just as you said.”

“Just as I
said
?” With a swipe of his hand, Tertullian knocked a picture frame off the desk, onto the carpet. When the glass didn’t break, he stomped on it in order to develop the cracking and popping noises that he wanted for effect.

Branson’s eyes opened wide in terror.

“I didn’t just
say
it,” the Acting Minister roared. “It wasn’t a
request
. I didn’t just mention it in polite conversation, or
propose
it. I
commanded
it, and I expect immediate results!”

“But sir, I already have a translator working on what that baby said on the computer screen, the she-apostle.”

“And if the UWW translation was accurate?”

Branson squirmed in his chair. His gaze darted around, as if looking for a means by which he might escape. “You just told me to check it.”

“Are you paid enough to think?” Tertullian came around beside Branson, glared menacingly at him.

“Well, yes sir, of—of course.” The man scooted his chair back a little, then had second thoughts and returned it to its original place. For him, there was no escape.

“Then what is your contingency plan?”

“Contingency—in case the translation was accurate? Oh, you mean have one of our disinformation labs make the
Holy Women’s Bible
look phony anyway?” He scratched his head, forced a smile. “We can come up with something convincing. Our proof could be set up using computer enhancement. We can use the Internet, just like they did.”

“Smart boy,” Tertullian said, with a condescending slap on Branson’s smooth face.

* * *

Pacific Coast of Mexico . . .

Through the partially open bedroom door, Gilberto Inez watched the sleeping woman, with her long, dark hair fanned over her forehead and eyes. For the better part of three days, Consuela Santos had worked extremely hard in the house and yard, completing the work of three men. She was taking a well-deserved afternoon
siesta
now, at the insistence of the Inez brothers. She stirred, turned the other way.

From outside, Gilberto heard hammering, as his younger brother José repaired a window shutter. It was almost 4:00 in the afternoon, and their parents were due at any moment. Earlier in the day, Gilberto had even painted some of the stucco and trim where it had weathered. All was in readiness now for the impending arrival of their parents, except for the matter of the young woman and her tiny daughter, who had been living in the house without permission.

Gilberto held little Marta on his lap, keeping in place a glass baby bottle he’d purchased himself. The child was fussing with the rubber nipple, but sucking occasionally and swallowing formula.

The hammering stopped, and he heard the familiar, smooth pitch of a car engine. He’d know that Alfa Romeo sound anywhere. His parents had driven the mountain roads from Mexico City. He considered rising, but didn’t want to disturb the baby, who was finally settling down. Her eyelids were heavy as she slipped into peaceful slumber. Her lips quivered a little, and white formula ran out of one corner of her mouth. Gently, Gilberto used a hand towel to wipe her chin.

The front door of the house burst open, and a grinning José entered, carrying expensive leather luggage. Their mother and father were right behind. Tall and lean, Arsinio Inez had a silvery mustache, heavy black eyebrows, and a square face with a dimpled chin. He carried himself in the dignified manner of a business owner, the operator of a successful export company in Mexico City. His blonde wife Raffaela, nearly his height, was quite a bit heavier and looked older (though they were the same age), with deep creases around her mouth and eyes. A tenured professor at one of the most prestigious medical schools in the country, she carried a sheathe of medical journals. She was constantly reading, keeping up with the latest developments.

“House looks fabulous, boys,” Arsinio boomed. “How’d you—” Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, mouth agape, as he noticed the baby in Gilberto’s arms.

Marta screamed and wrenched.

“You woke her up,” Gilberto complained, trying to get her to accept the nipple again. Then, realizing what his parents must be thinking, he pointed toward the bedroom door and said, “The mother’s asleep in there. She’s real tired. Uh, it’s a long story, Father. And this is
not
your surprise granddaughter, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“They were here when we arrived,” José added, as he dropped the luggage onto the floor with a thump. He went on to tell what he and his brother knew about Consuela and her baby.

Raffaela took the unhappy child from Gilberto and cradled her in her arms, speaking soothingly to her.

Marta stopped crying, and with alert brown eyes she looked up at the large woman. And began to babble, making a series of fragmented word-sounds.

“She does that all the time,” Gilberto said. “I think she’s trying to talk.”

Looking to his left, he saw Consuela standing in the bedroom doorway, looking disheveled in a striped blue and white blouse and dark skirt he’d purchased for her. Nervously, she tucked in her blouse and folded her arms across her chest, never taking her eyes off her daughter.

“Unusual child,” Raffaela said. “It’s almost like she’s speaking to me, though I don’t understand a word she’s saying. Of course children this age aren’t able to talk yet.” Seeing Consuela, Raffaela took the baby to her and in a kindly voice asked, “Are you feeling better now?”

The peasant woman nodded. Her expression was grateful as she accepted her daughter, but her eyes were filled with concern. She listened and nodded politely as José made the introductions. Then she said, “I have been staying here without your permission or knowledge, and I am deeply sorry for that, but I was desperate and needed someplace where I could take care of little Marta. I kept detailed records of the food we ate, and all of it will be repaid.”

“She doesn’t actually owe us anything,” Gilberto said. “You should see all the things she fixed and cleaned around here. José and I hardly had to do anything.”

With cautious admiration, Arsinio and his wife looked around, nodding their heads.

“Your child makes such unusual sounds,” Raffaela said. “In my graduate studies I did some research on the communication of babies, but I don’t think I ever heard anything like that.” Studying the worried expression on the uneducated Méxicana’s face, she added quickly, “I am a professor, but a doctor by training.”

Looking alarmed, Consuela said, “I am so sorry to have troubled you. I will pack my things and leave immediately.”

Raffaela approached her, but the young woman, obviously terrified, backed up against the wall, clutching her child tightly to her breast. “Please don’t hurt my baby,” she pleaded.

“We would never do that.” Raffaela placed an arm on Consuela’s shoulder, in an effort to calm her, but the woman was shaking and shivering. “Why are you so afraid?”

“You are a doctor.”

Raffaela laughed, then caught herself. “A lot of people are afraid of doctors, but not terrified of them as you are.
Why
, child?”