The Stolen Gospels (24 page)
Ahead, the truck turned south onto a two-lane highway, and after several kilometers it turned west again, onto a winding road that climbed steeply past the terraced hillsides of small farms. Reaching a plateau they passed through a quaint little town. Automatically, the computer provided more detail. Near here at Mieza, the philosopher Aristotle had tutored the young Alexander.
Soon the truck turned off again, onto a narrow, winding highway that ascended even more steeply. Sandoval saw on his computer monitor that the road led to the ancient monastery of Monte Konos, known from a new intelligence report to be the headquarters of the UWW. The dispatcher reported additional BOI units moving into position ahead.
The rain let up for a few minutes and then resumed, worse than before, so that Sandoval could no longer see the red tail lights of the truck. He sped up, then heard the bark of the dispatcher, telling him the satellite was losing contact in the storm. The dispatcher asked for Sandoval’s coordinates, but heavy static cut into the message.
“On the road to Monte Konos,” Sandoval said into his headset. “I’d estimate forty kilometers to their defense zone.”
Radio static filled the air.
Uncertain if his transmission had been received, Sandoval nudged the accelerator with his knee. As his turbocharged van rushed forward, the tail lights of the truck came back into view, a short distance ahead. He backed off on the accelerator, maintaining a distance that barely enabled him to see the truck.
This separation remained constant for several kilometers, as they went through a narrow mountain pass and then down a steep incline, after which the road leveled and straightened somewhat, with the turns less sharp. The truck increased speed.
Sandoval restrained his urge to accelerate. Just a little more pressure on the accelerator and he could blow right by the truck, as if it were parked. He watched the tail lights disappear around a turn. His windshield wipers flopped, but it was no longer raining.
When his own van reached that turn, he again saw the lights of the truck, far ahead on a straightaway.
Noticing the wipers scraping dry glass, he switched them off.
And saw something, a dark shape moving in the air between him and the lights of the truck. The shape grew larger as it drew closer. It was above the road, skimming it. An aircraft? His pulse quickened, and he called for the satellite dispatcher, but received only a broken response, and more static.
One of the passengers behind him cursed.
Lances of blue light erupted from the shape, soundlessly illuminating the darkness. It was a beautiful sight, Sandoval thought, just before he died.
* * *
During the attack the black truck had pulled off the road, behind the cover of a massive rock. Now, catching the women off guard, Giovanni jumped out of the rear of the vehicle and tried to run away. The beam of a spotlight found him and he was ordered to stop.
He didn’t.
One of the women fired a gun, apparently on impulse, and Giovanni fell in the middle of the road, a .45 caliber bullet in the back of his head. He didn’t move.
“There’ll be trouble over this,” one of the women said. “Dixie Lou said to bring him back alive.”
Chapter 29
It is said of the traitorous she-apostle, the She-Judas, that she went with Judas Iscariot and testified against Jesus before the Sanhedrin, the supreme council of the Jews.
—The Apostle Lydia; information set aside by Dixie Lou Jackson and not included in the
Holy Women’s Bible
It was early afternoon. In the cool half-light of her catacomb cell, Lori Vale lay on the uncomfortable bed, immersed in private thoughts. So far today she hadn’t been contacted by anyone, and as each moment passed she wondered more and more if she would ever be free of this confinement, if she would ever again see Alex, or her old friends back home, especially Alicia Koppel. Sometimes the two of them used to sit up late at night talking about important things. She missed that.
Lori was terribly worried about Alex, and perplexed by the curious chain of events that had taken place. In her memory the image of Dixie Lou’s terrified face played over, and the vision that preceded it: The bloody knife clattering to the floor, Lori and her baby unharmed.
Did Dixie Lou share that vision with me?
It seemed impossible, but somehow Lori sensed it had really happened, a vision experienced by the two of them simultaneously.
A chill ran down her spine.
My baby? Is that woman a threat to a child I’m going to have?
Suddenly, more than anything, Lori wanted Dixie Lou dead. She wanted to do it herself, to watch her die painfully so that she could be certain of her baby’s safety. But these were crazy thoughts, she realized quickly. Wild products of her imagination.
I have no baby to protect anyway. I’m only fifteen years old.
But the look on Dixie Lou’s face, and the way she had departed so quickly. The scene was indelible in Lori’s memory, and played over and over in her mind.
Something happened between us.
Lori lay on her back on a hard, thin mattress, staring at the elongated pattern of window bars on the opposite wall, created by a yellowish light in the corridor outside. Her forehead remained sore where Dixie Lou had kicked it. She heard water dripping, from an unreplaced faucet washer in an adjacent bathroom, which was the only other room she could enter freely. The separate toilet area was strange in a cell, she thought, but at least it afforded her some minimal privacy.
The dripping water seemed to grow louder. Each drip was like a life, she thought, for water and life had been inextricably linked for billions of years. A human being could go without food for up to thirty days, but nowhere near that long without water. She knew from her science class in high school, which seemed like an eternity ago, that each droplet of water, when viewed through a microscope, revealed a micro-world teeming with living organisms.
There had been uncounted molecules of water since time immemorial and an unending stream of children as well, and with the kerplunk of each drop Lori imagined the birth of a fresh, clean baby, heard its cry, and saw the unending cycles of water and life, the continuous flow of fluids from earth to sky and back down in the form of rain, and from person to person and from animal to animal.
She sat up and held her stomach with both hands, where one day she might carry a baby, as the vision had suggested. Though she felt special in an undefined way, she reminded herself she was like all other girls, biologically and emotionally designed to become mothers, carrying seeds in their wombs to protect and nurture, permitting new life to grow and ultimately to thrive.
One of her pearl-and-gold earrings fell off, and she replaced it on her ear, securing the pin in its clasp. She liked to wear this pair, especially with everything that had been happening recently, because they reminded her of her mother, who had given them to her.
With a long sigh she laid back on the mattress and closed her eyes, blocking out the shadow of the bars on the wall. Using her fingers she tried to plug her ears and block out the dripping of the faucet.
A thought sparked and Lori whispered, “Dear God, what do you have in mind for me?”
She heard no answer, only the steady dripping of the faucet, which now made her think of blood dripping from a body, of life ebbing away . . . .
* * *
A day passed, without the appearance of the twelfth she-apostle. In the council chamber of United Women of the World and in coded conversations over the worldwide computer web, women conjectured that any chance to locate this important individual may have died with the murder of Amy Angkor-Billings. In Mexico, the child and its mother seemed to have vanished. Had Amy hidden the baby someplace before her own death, they wondered, or had she taken some other action to suppress dangerous revelations?
Sitting silently in the red chair, Dixie Lou recalled the three highly realistic visions she’d experienced . . . one in which she saw a bearded man praying inside a prison cell . . . another in which she stabbed sleeping forms, in a larger prison cell . . . and yet another in which she held a bloody knife and was backing away from Lori’s baby in shock, without harming it. The visions seemed connected, but how?
She focused on the most recent one, and recalled the bright, amorphous form over Lori disappearing, replaced by the teenager holding a baby tightly against her bosom . . . a child that terrified Dixie Lou. But why? The scene replayed in her troubled mind, as it had several times since experiencing it, but she came up with no answer. It frightened her even now, just thinking back.
She gathered her composure, felt strength returning. It was all foolishness, she convinced herself, nothing with which to concern herself and certainly nothing to reveal to anyone else.
I do not fear a baby
!
Dixie Lou thought of her own son, Alex. Not long ago he’d been small like that, too, and far less complicated. He was a troublesome young adult now, and she might just sentence him to death in order to get him out of her way. Even if she did that out of political expedience, she assured herself, it wouldn’t matter much. The women of the UWW were her family now, and at long last she was the mother of them all, to be revered one day as the holiest of all living women.
Chapter 30
Behold, the She-God cometh out of her place to punish the men of the earth for their iniquity.
—Isaiah 26:21, as amended in the
Holy Women’s Bible
Wearing a black pants suit with red pockets, Dixie Lou hurried through the tunnel, toward the worn rock stairway that led to Alex’s cell. It was a couple of hours before dinner, but she thought she might skip it today and have food sent to her office later that evening.
She was a woman of secrets, of mysteries, of intrigues and death. Her past was rife with such events. Born Betsy Rae Collins in backwoods Mississippi, her studies carried her no further than the sixth grade. At the age of fourteen she ran away from home, after being raped and beaten by her stepfather and his brother. She’d headed north for the promise of a better life, just as her slave ancestors had done following the Civil War. In her case, the war had been in her own household, and she, only a child, had not been in possession of the strength necessary to survive against much stronger male opponents.
In recurring nightmares throughout her adult years, she was revisited by the sweating, stinking bodies of the men as they took turns with her, as if she were no more than a piece of meat, without feelings or personal worth. Worst of all, they were black men. How could they do such a thing to a girl of their own race? It made a lie of what Baptist ministers said in church every Sunday, that “black folks” should stick together and help each another out.
For six difficult years Dixie Lou had lived on the streets of Baltimore, first as a prostitute and later (so that men would not paw over her anymore) as a thief. At the age of twenty-two she found herself in Cleveland, having hitchhiked there. In that city she was arrested for shoplifting, and jailed for a month before the judge let her go with a stern warning.
Other cities followed, and numerous arrests and aliases. In Chicago she murdered a drunken black man and got away with it. The incident occurred in the middle of the night on a bridge, where the drunk stumbled into her and then apologized, in a voice that reminded her of her father’s. Not liking the way he sounded or smelled, she’d pushed him off the high deck, then laughed as she watched him disappear into the darkness, where he undoubtedly drowned. A short while later, she robbed and murdered a cab driver in Milwaukee, stabbing him to death. In those days she often slept on cold sidewalks and under freeway ramps, bemoaning her misfortune and vowing to overcome it.
Eventually she ended up in New York City. There she found a home for the first time, under an alias that was a combination of names from the Bronx phone book: Dixie Lou Jackson. On Staten Island, she met Amy Angkor-Billings and gradually wheedled her way into a position of trust with United Women of the World, in which she was given responsibility for the handling of donations. This provided her with the opportunity for skimming, and Dixie Lou amassed a tidy fortune in the process. She manipulated, cajoled and bribed her way up, eventually becoming a councilwoman, and now Chairwoman, of the most important women’s rights organization in the world.
Now she negotiated three stone steps and reached another passageway, with a lower ceiling. She hurried through it, noting that it smelled musty.
Yes, Dixie Lou harbored a great many secrets, and she had a more recent one to conceal, the murder of one of her own security officers. Lori Vale had seen her do it, meaning Alex had either seen it, too, or knew about it. Should she terminate Lori herself in lieu of a public execution, to keep her mouth shut? All day long, Lori had not been permitted out of her catacomb cell, and only Dixie Lou’s most trusted guards had been posted to watch her—guards who wouldn’t talk if Vale said anything to them.
The Giovanni Petrie matter was a problem, too. He was missing, and that infernal Katherine Pangalos was requesting a special session of the council to address the serious questions that had arisen.
Still, this collective Sword of Damocles over Dixie Lou’s head could have two edges. If she seized it and redirected it properly, she could make others bleed. She would turn it into the Sword of She-God, visiting death upon her enemies.
With short, powerful strides she negotiated a long, shadowy stairway that led down to the catacomb cells, including the one where Alex was being kept. Ideas churned and frothed in her mind, stemming from her visions . . . She thought of another prison cell . . . a large one in which she’d moved from bed to bed, stabbing the forms that lay there so peacefully. Where had it been, and when? Was it only a dream? But it was so vivid. She hated thinking of it, but knew she must, that she could not escape it. Again she saw the dream-baby of Lori Vale and the blood all over herself as she fled in terror. It had been so real she’d actually
smelled
the blood, the metallic, coppery odor.
* * *
When Dixie Lou arrived at Alex’s cell, she found Katherine Pangalos awaiting her, standing in front of the door, arms folded across her chest. Beside her, councilwomen Fujiko Harui and Bobbi Torrence looked nervous. Two guards stood at attention nearby, along with Lieutenant Sears.
“We heard you were on your way,” Katherine said, in a snotty tone.
Dixie Lou narrowed her gaze as she focused on her key adversary, staring up at the taller woman. “I’m here to see my son.”
“He’s unconscious,” Katherine said. The crease lines in her aged face seemed to deepen.
“I want to see him anyway.”
“We’ll go in together, just in case he comes to.”
“I’ll see him alone, thank you. He’s my son.”
“That would not be appropriate,” Katherine countered. “This is council business, not a family matter. You had no right to disable the listening devices in Vale’s cell—a little trick you undoubtedly intend to employ here, too.” She looked at one of the bulging pockets of Dixie Lou’s pants suit, where a hand-held signal muter was concealed. “Mmmm, Giovanni used to work for a surveillance equipment manufacturer.”
“That’s no secret. I’ve mentioned it in council, and you’ve seen all the devices he’s obtained for us.”
“Rather a talented stud knight,” Katherine mused. “Too much so, some say, which casts certain suspicions.”
Dixie Lou’s lips became thin, hard lines, as if drawn by a pencil. “Since you seem inclined to deny a mother the simple human right to be with her seriously injured son, I must inform you that as Chairwoman of United Women of the World I will not be treated as a guilty party. I had nothing to do with the plots against our organization.”
“No one said you did.”
“You said I was close to two of the kidnappers, and perhaps to a third, insinuating that I was involved in their actions. Now get away from the door.” She pushed her way through, shoving Katherine aside.
“Hey!” Katherine exclaimed angrily. A much larger woman, she got in front of Dixie Lou.
But the Chairwoman was younger and stronger, and pushed the old troublemaker aside. “I’m going to see my son!”
As Dixie Lou tried to use a key card to release the lock on the door, Katherine still interfered, trying to push her hands away. “Your son is charged with murder and treason!”
“Do you have any evidence incriminating
me
?” Dixie Lou demanded.
“Nothing direct, but—”
“In matters of treason against our organization, the Chairwoman—that’s me, in case you’ve forgotten—has the right to conduct an investigation, with or without the assistance of the council. The discretion is mine.”
“But you have a conflict of interest.”
“Our charter mentions nothing about that. Besides, have I said anything about sparing my son?”
“No, but—”
“No buts about it. Stay out of my way on this, or risk your position on the council. Are you prepared for the consequences of your actions? I warn you, Katherine, don’t test my patience anymore.”
The elderly woman’s mouth moved, but words seemed to stick in her throat. Finally, shaking her head in exasperation, she turned and walked away. Fujiko and the heavier Bobbi followed her.
Dixie Lou fumbled with the key card, couldn’t get the door open.
“Sears, get over here and help me with this door,” she commanded.
The big lieutenant hurried to comply. She removed the key card from the lock, tried it again. The door beeped twice, swung open.
Dixie Lou removed a short barrel .38 from her shoulder holster. She went inside the cell, motioned for Sears to remain outside. The heavy door clanked shut behind her.
* * *
The door to Lori’s cell squeaked open, and a matronly female attendant lumbered in, carrying a tray of food. The dinner smelled good, causing Lori to salivate. She tried not to look at it, though, or think about it. Instead she thought back to the last time she’d smoked a cigarette. It had been more than a week, and she was feeling better each day about the decision to quit. Every time she resisted lighting up she felt stronger, and though she was shaky at times, this discomfiture had been subsiding. She was determined to succeed, not only for herself, but for her mother, who had always opposed what she called a “filthy habit.”
“What have we here?” the puffy-faced old attendant asked, noting the uneaten lunch on a simple wooden table by Lori, who sat on a stone bench. The woman, so corpulent that she experienced trouble walking, had an Irish accent and reddish-brown hair streaked with gray. “You must eat to maintain your pretty figure.”
“I don’t want anything,” Lori mumbled. She didn’t like the woman. She had an irritating habit of speaking in a sweet, grandmotherly tone that concealed her true nature. The eyes, deep purple and malevolent, concealed something. The food was probably drugged, something to control her. Or worse.
“Well, maybe you’ll change your mind. I’ll just take this lunch away and leave your dinner. Fresh lamb stew today. Specialty of the house.”
“Take everything with you.”
The woman paused at the doorway, shook her head. Her voice hardened. “You’ll eat it, or—”
She paused, as Lori grabbed the dinner tray and hurled it against a wall by the door, smashing dishes and spreading a brown splash across the wall and floor. She had intentionally thrown it several feet away from the woman, intending to startle her but not hit her.
It worked. With a squealing string of protestations, the attendant fled the room, slamming the door behind her.
