Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) (10 page)

“It all
had to come from somewhere,” said Giasson. “Whether you believe He was the Son
of God or not is a matter of faith. To deny His existence entirely I think is
simply wishful thinking on the part of those who are so anti-religious they
blame it for all that ails them and the world.”

Reading
raised his hands in defeat. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I’ve never been much of a
churchgoer or a believer. When you’ve been in war like I have, when you’ve seen
what one man can do to another, you can be forgiven for wondering how any god
could allow it to happen.”

“Perhaps
the best thing any god could do would be to let men fail individually so that
man can learn collectively from their mistakes.”

Acton
squeezed his wife’s hand, her words as usual inspiring. “This entire discussion
is irrelevant. We’ve got someone who obviously believes in the healing
properties stealing these artifacts and killing if necessary—”

“Though
I hardly see how killing an elderly priest was necessary,” interjected Laura.

“Agreed.
Even if you identify who they might be from the security footage that doesn’t
mean you’ll catch them. Not only do we need to stop them from steeling
additional relics, we need to recover what was stolen.”

“I have
a feeling the security footage won’t lead anywhere,” said Reading. “They didn’t
seem to be too concerned about having their faces on camera.”

“Does
that suggest anything to you?” asked Giasson.

“That
either they’re so well known that it doesn’t matter—they haven’t been caught
yet, so why would that change? Or they’re completely new and only intend to be
active for a short period of time before disappearing underground.”

“Or,
they’re so well protected, even if we caught them it wouldn’t matter.”

Reading
grunted at Acton’s suggestion. “It wouldn’t be the first time. And if it
weren’t for the murder, the entire thing could get swept under the rug if it
were some billionaire’s son getting his kicks. But as it is…”

“Well, I
think our course of action is clear,” said Acton as they pulled through the
gates of The Vatican.

“What’s
that?” asked Giasson.

Laura
smiled. “We go to the one place irresistible to any Blood Relic hunter.”

Reading’s
eyebrows slowly climbed his forehead. “Where’s that?”

Acton
and Laura answered in unison.

“Paris.”

Roman Barracks, Jerusalem, Judea
April 10
^th
, 30 AD

“Longinus!”

Longinus
turned to see his commander, Vitus, enter the barracks. He looked concerned,
almost scared. “What is it?”

Vitus
stepped inside, looking around to see who might be listening. Albus rose from
his bunk, as did the others who had been witness to the resurrection, they
having spent most of their off-duty hours together, talking of the miracles
they had witnessed.

“They’ve
ordered your death!” hissed Vitus.

“Who?”
asked Albus, standing beside Longinus, placing a protective hand on his
friend’s shoulder.

“The rabbis!
I don’t know what you did, but you have to get out of here, now!”

Longinus’
eyes opened wide in surprise. “Desert?”

Albus gasped.
“Desertion means the death penalty if he’s ever caught!”

“He’s
dead if he stays here,” replied Vitus. He looked over his shoulder, leaning
into the tight group of soldiers. “If anyone asks, I sent you on a forced march
outside the city walls. Punishment for insubordination. No one will miss you
until tomorrow.”

“I’m
going with you,” said Albus.

“And I!”
echoed the others.

Vitus
frowned, but nodded. “I understand. But you must go
now
.” He held out
his hand and Longinus grabbed his forearm, squeezing tightly. “Good luck, and
may I never see any of you again.”

“Thank
you, my friend.”

Vitus
gave a final squeeze then let go, turning on his heel and leaving the barracks.
Albus looked at his friend. “Where will we go?”

“I have
an idea on that,” replied Longinus as he began to put on his armor. “We know
where his family is staying. I say we find them and seek their help. They did
ask us to join them.”

“That’s
right,” said Severus. “And he had thousands of followers. Maybe some of them
can help us.”

“It’s
our only hope.” Longinus helped Albus with his armor. “We’ll join the followers
of this teacher and learn his ways.”

He
grabbed his spear, eyeing the still bloodstained tip.

“Let’s
go before they come for us and it’s too late.”

They
stepped out into the fading sunlight, quickly forming ranks and marching toward
the gates. Taunts from the guards greeted them, Vitus obviously having informed
them of their “punishment”.

“Enjoy
your march, ladies!”

“Don’t
stay out too late, boys!”

They
ignored them, keeping character, just four men scared to do anything else that
might piss off their commander, intent on completing their punishment and
moving on with their tours of duty.

They
cleared the garrison gates and turned left, toward the gates of the city
itself, their double-time march harsh in the unforgiving armor, the sunbaked
ground under their feet still giving up the heat gained during the day, relief
not yet making itself felt. As they exited the city they turned toward
Golgatha, knowing that behind its mound prying eyes would be few, hopefully
none.

They
also knew it was where some of the followers of Jesus had gathered to mourn his
death.

Imagine
their joy in hearing the news of his resurrection!

He
looked at the tip of his spear, jutting out in front of him then at his side
with each stride, the bloodstain still visible. It had clearly been this man’s
blood that had cured his blindness, and he couldn’t help but wonder how
powerful this wondrous gift might be. Could it heal all wounds? Could it
prevent death, or reverse it completely?

Would
a wound created by the tip of this spear simply heal itself?

It was
an interesting question, one he pondered as their grueling march continued, the
sun slowly setting in the west as a chill began to settle on the harsh desert
landscape. The very idea of a weapon that couldn’t kill was a fascinating
concept, and almost maddening, the images of stabbing enemy after enemy, to
have them only rise from the dead and continue attacking, disturbing.

He
shivered.

And
vowed from that moment on he would never harm another living soul.

Kruger Residence, Outside Paris, France
Present Day, One day before the Paris assault

“Father!”

Dietrich
Kruger rushed to his father’s bedside, his mouth agape with shock. His father
hadn’t looked well in years, so long in fact that Dietrich had to rely on old
photographs to imagine what his father
should
look like, but today he
looked as if he had aged another ten years since he had seen him last.

A thin,
boney hand reached out for him. “Son.”

Dietrich
sat on his father’s bedside, holding his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Like
shit, how do you think I feel?” A thin smile inched across the man’s face.

“At
least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

A
coughed laugh erupted and Dietrich out of habit reached for the glass of water
sitting on the bedside table. He waited for his father to take a drink through
the articulated straw.

“Our
latest mission was successful,” said Dietrich, returning the glass to the
table. “We retrieved the lance from Vienna.”

“And
you’ve given it to the lab?”

Dietrich
nodded, using his finger to push a tuft of thinning gray hair out of his
father’s eyes. “Dr. Heinrich said he’ll begin testing immediately, but I’m not
confident with this one.”

“Neither
am I. And the shroud from Spain?”

“It
tested negative. No blood at all.”

“And the
Vatican?”

“The
results aren’t back yet, but they never claimed it was genuine.”

“I fear
we have little choice.”

Dietrich
nodded, frowning at his father’s words. “I think you’re right.” The mother
lode, if it could be called that, was at the Notre-Dame Cathedral. It contained
what was purported to be the actual Crown of Thorns worn by Jesus, a piece of
the original crucifix, and one of the nails used on the cross itself. It was
also rumored to have a jar containing a sponge used to quench Christ’s thirst.

A knot
formed in his stomach.

“You
must be careful,” said his father. “It will be well guarded.”

“Casualties
may be necessary.”

His
father shook his head. “No one should die for me.
No one.
” Dietrich felt
his hand squeezed. “Have you prayed for forgiveness?”

Dietrich
nodded, his eyes clouding slightly as his chest tightened. “Every moment since.
I never meant to kill the old man. If only he hadn’t tried to jump me…”

His
father patted his hand. “I know you didn’t mean to, but we must be careful. If
something goes wrong, just get out of there. We’ll find another way.”

“But you
can’t die, Father. If there’s a way to save you, then I have to do whatever it
takes.”

“I’ve
known I would die from this disease my entire life. If I die, then perhaps it
will be your generation, or that of your son, that will be the one to put an
end to this curse.”

“But
father!”

“But
nothing. My life is worth no more than any other, and I won’t see people dying
to save me.” A wry grin broke out on his face, a little bit of strength having
returned to his voice, a hint of color in his cheeks. “But a little grand theft
is perfectly okay.”

He
winked and Dietrich laughed as his mother entered the room.

“So
you’re back,” she said as she perched on the other side of the bed, giving her
husband a kiss on the forehead. “I understand it was successful.”

Dietrich
nodded. “A little excitement, but nobody was hurt and we retrieved the relic.”

“Good
work.” She patted her husband’s shoulder. “We’ll get you well soon enough.”

His
father reached over and clasped his hand over hers, the love in his eyes
obvious. “Ever the optimist, this one.”

Dietrich
smiled at the two of them, his love for both of them almost overwhelming. For
her to have stuck by his side through everything, for her to have even agreed
to marry him when she had been told of the disease that would eventually
cripple then kill him, was remarkable. In an age when people left each other
over the ever popular irreconcilable differences, when infidelity was a matter
of pride in some communities, to see two people, together for over thirty years
still deeply in love was inspirational.

He only
hoped he and his wife Andrea would be so in love when his own body was so
ravaged. A shot of pain in his leg caused him to wince, then a wave of
self-pity suddenly overwhelmed him, his stomach tying itself into knots as he
turned away so his parents couldn’t see his face.

“It’s
begun, hasn’t it?”

He
nodded, unable to face his father.

“I was
your age when I felt the first hints of what was to come.”

His
mother’s arms wrapped around him. “I’m so sorry, dear.”

It only
made it worse.

“I’m
going to go see Andrea and Hans.” He rose, his mother’s arms falling away.
“I’ll see you before I leave for Paris.”

“Has it
come to that?” asked his mother.

“It’s
our best hope.” He wiped his eyes then turned to his mother. “Perhaps our only
hope.”

His
father shook his head. “No, there’s one other. But I fear it may be lost to
history.”