13th Apostle (15 page)

“What does that have to do with the scroll?” Gil asked.

That's the whole point, she explained. Ludlow spent his lifetime looking for one thing, an ancient message that would point the way to the mate of The Cave 3 Scroll. He believed The Cave 3 Scroll was a trap for the greedy, a detour for those who would see only the promise of riches and disregard its true message. The last entry in The Cave 3 Scroll says simply that there is another copper scroll that holds the key to treasure. The mention of the existence of another scroll comes after the description of dozens of storehouses of riches and their locations.

“Like the last sentence in the telephone call you talked about, the
real
message of The Cave 3 Scroll is its last entry that says there is another, more important manuscript, yet to be discovered. Don't you get it?” she asked excitedly. “Elias is calling out for the tzaddik, the righteous one, to seek out the second scroll and to uncover the true treasure it alone holds.”

Gil shook his head. “So, what's the
true
treasure?”

“We won't know that until we figure out what these musical notes mean and find the second scroll.”

They were so close to finding it; incredibly close. They knew Elias' message was concealed in the puffs of clouds that dotted the heavens of the tapestry. Only one problem remained. Neither of them could read music.

“I had two months of piano lessons when I was seven or eight,” Gil offered lamely.

He remembered something about moving up and down the scale one note at a time and that each note landed on a line or in between the lines but that was just about the extent of his expertise. He never did understand sharps and flats. He had once learned a trick to help keep track of the names of the notes. It involved using the first letters of each words in the phrase, “every good boy does…something or other,” but he had no idea how to use the mnemonic.

“I know where middle C is on a keyboard and that's it,” Sabbie offered, then muttered something about the blind leading the blind.

Gil copied the tapestry's placement of lines and clouds onto his hand. It was beginning to look less and less like a staff with notes. Something was wrong. It took him a minute to figure it out. When he did, the answer made the whole question of a musical message a moot point.

“Look at the musical staff,” Gil said tensely. “Only four horizontal lines.”

“So, what does that mean?”

From what he could remember, modern notation used five lines and the spaces above, between, and below each line to represent the notes of an octave. If the tapestry showed only four lines it meant that the musical notation was written in the four-line tradition of Elias' time or that, even worse, the clouds didn't represent musical notation at all.

“Either way we're screwed,” Sabbie said.

“Wait a minute, it may not be that bad after all. When you read music, what are you doing? You're following a pattern,” he answered, not waiting for a reply. “Let's assume these clouds and lines do represent a musical notation. Even though we may not know the absolute notes, we know the relationship of the notes.”

Sabbie looked unconvinced. “And if it's not a musical notation at all?” she asked demandingly.

“
Then
we're screwed.”

“So, what do we do now?” she asked.

“We just repeat the pattern starting with every key on the keyboard,” Gil answered.

“Try it on what?”

“On the organ in the Chapel,” he said excitedly. He scooped up their gear, and headed for the door.

“That's it?” Sabbie asked in disbelief. “Hit or miss? That's your plan? We've got less than two hours left!”

“That's the only way I can see to do it, unless you've got something better in mind.”

Gil grabbed her hand and ran back down the passageway to the Chapel. With each step that brought him closer to the great chamber, his stride became more sure and easy. Elias was with them, calling to them to hurry. Gil knew where he was going as if he had walked these halls a thousand times before.

Twenty minutes later
Weymouth Monastery Chapel

Gil shook his head in disbelief. How could he have been so stupid? He had been thinking only of the tapestry's musical notes and never took it to the next step. Now, with one of the three hours already gone, it might have been a fatal oversight.

If, beneath the cloth that covered the organ keyboard, organ keys were found to be missing, or if the great pipes failed to produce any sound, there wouldn't be enough time to go back to the tapestry room and start over. Either DeVris or some of McCullum's WATSC Power Angels could be expected to arrive any time. There'd be no second chance.

Sabbie held both flashlights while Gil slid the cloth from the organ keyboard. He steeled himself for the almost certain disappointment of a crooked line of yellow, crumbling, half-missing ivories; a contingency that even Elias might not have thought to provide for.

The sight that greeted him, however, bore witness to countless years of dedicated care. The bench and organ looked as if someone had just vacated them and might be returning momentarily. Their surfaces were spotless, oiled and buffed so that they shone even in the near darkness; the keyboard, though yellow with age, was smooth, clean, and spotless.

A new fear tightened in his chest. If someone had put in the time and energy needed to keep the huge organ in such fine repair, couldn't they have accidentally hit upon the combination of notes he and Sabbie had discovered in the tapestry? He knew the answer even as the question was forming in his mind. A sense of certainty made him smile.

No, Elias would have thought of that. He would have figured a way around it.

“That's middle C,” Sabbie said pointing to a central key. “That's all I know.”

Gil circled the organ's great pipes and considered its workings. As far as he could see, it utilized a bellows system. He was going to have to pump the bellows while she pressed down on the keys.

Sabbie ignored his plan. She knelt in front of the bellows and waited for him to seat himself at the organ. “By now your hand should be hurting like hell,” she said.

In fact, the pain had deepened and spread up his arm. Funny, until that moment he had barely noticed it.

“You should start feeling a numbness creeping up your arm,” she added, matter-of-factly. He did and there was no reason to lie about it.

“That's the poison from the oleander. If we could, we'd immobilize that arm. The last thing you need to do is exercise it.” She began to pump the bellows.

“Why? What'll happen?”

“I'll take care of the pumping. You start picking out notes. Hold the flashlight in between your teeth,” she added, “so you use only your good hand on the keyboard.”

“What happens if I don't?”

“Don't worry, it won't kill you,” she laughed. “Wait, I have a better idea.” Sabbie dug into their supplies, pulled out what she needed, then deftly secured the flashlight to his forehead with a circle of duct tape and did the same for herself. She returned to the bellows and pumped them in a slow rhythmic pulse. A soft grunt escaped with each push and pull against the bellows' powerful resistance. Gil turned back to the task at hand.

With middle C as a starting point, he hammered out the note sequence they'd seen in the tapestry. He waited, not knowing what would happen but hoping that somehow, something would. Nothing did.

Systematically, Gil moved up and down the keyboard using each new key as a starting point. At first, he paused at the end of each combination, waiting as if in front of a slot machine, hoping for some unidentified payoff. As the minutes passed, however, the starting points and sequences began to run together.

Sabbie caught each run-on sequence and cautioned him, repeatedly, to keep each combination distinct.

“The way you're playing, even if you hit the right starting note, we'll never know it. It's becoming one big jumble of notes.”

Gil forced himself to stay focused. Time was slipping away. They had a little more than an hour left and, except for dimming flashlights and frazzled nerves, they had nothing to show for their effort. Though she denied it, Sabbie had become visibly exhausted. She could barely pump enough air into the organ to get it to play more than three or four notes in succession. He didn't have the heart to keep pushing her but his arm, no longer numb, was on fire.

Gil willed himself to concentrate. Twice more he lost track of his starting key in the sequence. Like a man lost in the desert, he seemed to be walking around in circles. Perhaps all of it was for nothing. He had been going on instinct; a hunch at best. He could have been completely off base.

Gil heard it first, a sort of crunching sound. Frantically, he tried to repeat the sequence of notes he had just played.

“Wait!” Sabbie called. “Shhh.”

Gil ignored her. He needed to make sure he wouldn't lose the sequence.

“Stop!” she commanded in a hushed tone.

The crunching sound grew louder. It was accompanied by the rev of a motor as a car continued up the drive to the Monastery.

“Cut your light and don't move,” Sabbie whispered. She disappeared into the darkness, and he saw the door open, then quickly close.

Gil slid to the floor and sat, in the dark, motionless, his back against the bench. Outside a car door opened. With each approaching step, the steady crunch on the gravel grew louder. A rustle was followed by the sound of a low moan. Then silence.

He groped along the wall in the darkness and made his way to the side door at the Monastery entrance. Slowly and silently he inched it open. Sabbie's silhouette was clear against the predawn sky. She crouched at the foot of the steps, a supine figure at her feet, the car door still opened. Gil slowly approached.

“Get me the duct tape in the basket,” she ordered. “And the Swiss Army knife. And turn off his car lights, first!

“Now, before he wakes up. Hurry!” she barked again.

Gil hesitated. He wanted to know who was lying unconscious at their feet. He wanted to know what they were going to do with him. More than anything, however, he wanted to make sure that the man lying on the ground was bound good and tight before he regained consciousness. Gil returned quickly with the tape and knife.

“Now, give me something to stick in his mouth,” she ordered.

Gil considered his shoe, then his fist. Nothing seemed workable. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet then, thinking better of it, clumsily stuffed it back.

“Never mind. Get the blanket,” she ordered.

Gil was back in a moment. “Who the hell is he?”

“This isn't exactly the time for a discussion.” She cut a strip from the blanket, pushed it into the intruder's mouth and secured it with duct tape.

Sabbie slid her arms under the man's back and arms. “Pick up his feet.”

Gil crossed his arms and shook his head. Hot pain from the oleander puncture shot up his arm. He winced, then stood tall to communicate his steadfastness. “I'm not going to be part of this.”

“You're already part of this. What do you call breaking and entering?”

“Yeah, well, it's not murder,” he said.

The moon moved from behind the clouds and brought an eerie light to the macabre scene.

“Don't be a baby. Does he look dead to you?” she asked, pointing to the wet spot that was spreading across the crotch of the prone man's pants.

A wave of nausea swept up Gil's throat. The helpless form lying at his feet was too terrible to comprehend, either as victim or predator. Even worse was Sabbie's apparent lack of concern.

She's had lots of practice.
The nausea doubled.

“Who is he?” Gil demanded.

“Just the maintenance guy. He tidies up and gets things ready for the tours,” Sabbie explained. “He wasn't supposed to show for another half hour.”

“You
knew
he was coming?” Gil asked incredulously.

“The tour guide talked about him when we were all out in the garden. He's her brother-in-law.”

“Terrific.”

Sabbie spoke quickly and with a tone one might use when describing why dinner would be ten minutes late. “The way I see it, between the guy at the hardware store who was curious about our purchases, your diabetic drama during the tour, and, now, him,” she nodded at the unmoving figure at her feet, “the police ought to have no trouble figuring out who's responsible for the break in. The blanket will be pretty easy to trace and our fingerprints are all over the duct tape.”

“So wipe it off!” Gil said.

“The sticky side, too?” Sabbie asked. “We have a little more than an hour. Do you want to continue talking or do you want to find the scroll?” She turned and headed back to the Chapel.

Gil caught up to her in three strides. “What are we going to do with him? With the car?”

“I wanted to make him more comfortable by putting him in the backseat, but you didn't want any part of it, so I guess now, he'll lay out there on the gravel 'til they arrive for the first tour around noon. By then, we'll be long gone, with or without the scroll.”

“Noon? Won't somebody miss him before that?”

“No, he's a drinker,” Sabbie replied. In the semidarkness of the courtyard, she changed flashlight batteries as deftly as if in full light.

“You know what the problem is?” she asked.

Damn straight.

“No, it's not me,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “It's you.”

“Me?” Gil said in disbelief.

“Yes. You said you work by the seat of your pants, that's what you do best, but you've just spent the last hour sitting at the organ, doing everything in the most methodical way you could. You've played it perfectly logical and safe. And all wrong.”

She was right. Once he had discovered Elias' message in the tapestry's clouds, Gil had used it in the same way that anyone else in the world would have. That wasn't Elias' way and it shouldn't have been his.

Gil knew exactly what had to be done. It was getting light and he wasn't sure they still had time.

“Here, take this dollar bill and read me the last part of the hidden message again,” Gil said. “Start with the heavens beckoning part.”

“‘Then the heavens shall beckon and the sound of angels shall open the heart of the righteous one…'”

“Yes. Okay. We did that already, now the rest.” Gil insisted.

“‘…for they sing to him as in the words of those who have come before. May they live forever in…'”

“That's it!” Gil shouted. “‘In the words of those who have come before.'”

“Who came before?”

“The diary may be written in Latin but, if the Scroll was created at the time of Jesus, it should be in ancient Hebrew!”

“Or Aramaic. Backwards…” Sabbie added softly.

“That's right. We've been playing the sequence in the wrong direction.”

Gil sat down at the bench and waited for Sabbie to take her position at the bellows.

“Pump!” he called.

His mind was clear and focused. He kept track of every combination and permutation of notes to be tried, then he repeated the sequences but now in reverse order—from right to left—as in Hebrew, the ancient tongue of those who had come before.

It didn't happen until the end of the sixth reverse note combination. The great creaking sound echoed in the silence; then changed to a deafening grinding sound that filled the Chapel. The whir of wheels, gears, and counterweights, silent for a millennium, groaned into motion.

The altar table shook and threatened to fall. The Bible slid to its edge, and the large cross at its center wobbled dangerously. Gil jumped from the organ bench and, by the light of the flashlight still taped to his head, caught the beautifully carved cross in one hand and the Bible in the other. The pain from his injured hand coursed up his arm to his shoulder. The table's altar cloths slipped to his feet, and he scooped them up with two fingers of his good hand just in time to step back from the sliding stone slab that was inching toward him.

Sabbie made her way to his side and focused her flashlight at his feet. A large dark rectangular hole appeared where only a moment ago there had been a stone slab. She bent down to get a better look. Her flashlight revealed the top of a stone staircase at the edge of the opening. They stood together and stared into the darkness beyond the circle of light. The moving slab halted abruptly.

Gil gently placed the Bible and cross back on the now still table and ripped the flashlight from his forehead. With the light held carefully in his injured hand, Sabbie's hand in his other, Gil descended into the dark recess that had been waiting for nearly a thousand years.