Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) (5 page)

Golgatha, Judea
April 7
^th
, 30 AD
The Ninth Hour

It was dark now, almost as dark as night, at least it might as well
have been for Longinus. Everything was a dark, gray mass to his failing eyes.
Nighttime had once been his enemy, he making it a point to try and be inside by
nightfall, in his bed laughing with his comrades, or sleeping. But as he
adapted, he realized that nighttime provided him the cover he needed at times
for his ailment. Walking with a hand held out tentatively, running along the
wall as a guide was the norm, everyone doing it, nobody judging you or asking
you questions, and he had found when it was dark, when the noise of the day had
given way to slumber, his other senses were heightened.

It was
as if he could sense where things were.

And with
the wind whipping around them, almost unabated for the past three hours since
the darkness had fallen upon the land, Albus describing thick, black, billowing
clouds overhead, he had found himself simply closing his eyes, listening to the
sounds around him. Albus was at his right, the other soldiers, four in number,
farther still to his right.

All were
scared.

Mourners
were gathered at the foot of the cross occupied by the man named Jesus, their
whimpering and sobbing still heard, as if carried by the wind directly to his
ears. The pleas and whining of the two criminals had given way to silence,
though they were still alive.

And
Jesus had said almost nothing since the sky had darkened.

“My God,
my God, why have you forsaken me?

Longinus
turned to the voice, surprisingly strong, the heartbreak and anguish so
genuine, he knew this man’s time had come, the body’s last gasp at life often
providing a final surge of energy to the condemned.

One of
the mourners sobbed. “He’s calling God!”

He’s
not long for this earth.

“I
thirst.”

The
voice was weak again. Longinus held out his spear in the direction of the
others. “Soak a sponge in wine.” He could hear the sounds of wine sloshing nearby
then something pushing on his spear as it was stuck to the end. He wasn’t sure
why he had felt compelled to offer up this gesture, but there was something
about this man that he felt connected to. What it was he had no idea, but the
sense he had, as inexplicable as it was, was that this man, despite his
madness, was a good man.

And why
he should suffer from thirst, on top of all the other cruelties he had endured,
was beyond him. He could see no harm in whether a man’s thirst was temporarily
quenched as it did little to extend his suffering on the cross, it would simply
make it more comfortable, albeit slightly. And with this man having refused the
wine and gall, he must be in sheer agony.

He felt Albus’
hand on his shoulder, nothing being said, but Longinus knew his friend was
silently thinking, “Are you insane?” But with a swiftness that surprised him,
he stepped forward, swinging the spear high above his head and coming to rest
in a spot he simply
felt
was the right spot.

He heard
the man sucking on the sponge, stopping after a few seconds.

He
lowered the spear, a sensation of wellbeing almost overwhelming him in the
knowledge he had done something good for a good man.

Albus
squeezed his shoulder, removing the sponge from the end of the spear.

One of
the soldiers nearby spat. “Now leave him alone. Let’s see if God comes to save
him.”

Longinus
waited, standing, listening to the last gasps of a dying man as his friends and
family wept at his feet. He found himself praying to this God, to this single
deity he had never believed in, and still didn’t, but if he were a god, like
his own, perhaps he might listen to the prayers of this non-believer as he
silently begged for a final end to this man’s suffering.

A cry
suddenly erupted from overhead, the final words moaned out to the heavens
above. “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

A crack
of thunder tore apart the sky above them and the earth shook. Those around him
screamed in fear as Longinus dropped to a knee, extending a hand to steady
himself, vibrations travelling up his arm and into his very soul. Flashes of
lightning cut through the darkness that was his world, the thunder so immediate
he feared they might all be struck by this god’s wrath, for that was what it
had to be.

A wrath
of some titan enraged by the death of one of his believers.

And as
the sound of rocks splitting around them, of thunder overhead, and an earth
that refused to be still at their feet continued, a sense of foreboding gripped
him as somebody shouted out nearby.

“Surely,
this man was the Son of God!”

Hugh Reading Residence, London, England
Present Day, Two days before the Paris assault

Interpol Agent Hugh Reading snorted then froze, wondering what had
woken him. His phone vibrated on his bedside table. He grabbed it, looking at
the time.

Bloody
hell!

It was one
in the morning, an ungodly hour for anyone to call, especially something
showing as a blocked number.

He swept
his thumb over the touchscreen and held the phone up to his head.

“Hello?”

He
cursed as he heard his Darth Vader voice, forgetting he was hooked up to his
damned CPAP machine. Reaching over he pressed the button to turn it off then
tore the mask off his head, tossing it beside him as he sat up, shoving his
tongue around his mouth, unsticking his lips from his gums.

Forgot
to add water to the bloody thing.

He was
still learning how to use the machine, but he had to admit it was changing his
life. He’d been dragging his ass for months, and until he had been prescribed
it after a sleep apnea diagnosis, he hadn’t realized how much so. In fact, he
felt twenty years younger, and judging by the fact he’d apparently been a
snorer for years—even his ex-wife confirming it to their son when he had shown
him the contraption on a recent visit—he might have been less than his best for
years.

What had
really concerned him was the fact sleep apnea could cause heart damage,
something he had never known. He had of course heard of sleep apnea and knew it
meant that you stopped breathing during the night and that in turn would cause
you to wake up slightly, but he had always assumed that just meant you were
tired.

But
heart damage?

He was
lucky, it apparently caught in time, and though he had had serious reservations
about ever being able to sleep with a mask over his face, he had found it
remarkably easy, the greatest incentive being the fact he had more energy now
than in years, and with his body not trying to protect itself from the lack of
oxygenated blood, he was actually sleeping through most of the night rather
than up several times for a squirt.

It was a
life changer.

He held
the phone up to his ear.

“If this
is a crank call, I’ll make it my life’s mission to seek you out and destroy
you.”

“Agent
Reading?”

He sat
up straight.

“Yes?”

“This is
Mario Giasson, I’m sorry to wake you, mon ami.”

Reading
smiled. “Mario! I know you do things a little different at the Vatican but you
do sleep, don’t you?”

Giasson
laughed. “Trust me, my friend, I am well aware of the time and I wouldn’t have
called if I didn’t need your help.”

Reading
frowned, leaning over and flicking on his bedside lamp then picking up his pad
and pen he kept handy for just such an occasion. “What’s happened?”

“Are you
aware of what a Blood Relic is?”

“Not a
clue. I think you meant to dial Jim and Laura, they’re the experts in bloody
relics.”

Giasson
chuckled, continuing. “No, I’ve got the right man. Blood Relics are objects
that are believed to have the blood of Christ on them.”

“Oh.”
Reading wasn’t very religious so didn’t give such things much thought, but his
experiences over the past few years with the Actons had taught him that far too
often those who
did
believe were more than willing to kill for those
beliefs.

“I know,
I know,” said Giasson, “you don’t believe in such things, but somebody out
there clearly does.”

“Why?”

“Last
night a priest in Spain was murdered, the only thing taken a shroud that is
believed to have been used to wrap the head of Christ after he was taken down from
the cross. And tonight, before my very eyes, the Holy Lance, also known as the
Spear of Destiny, was stolen from the Vatican by four men who were quite
literally pulled out of here by a helicopter.”

“Any
casualties?”

“Thankfully
no. Just my pride.”

“Well,
that grows back. God knows I’ve had mine wounded enough.” He paused, jotting
down notes. “So two Blood Relics in the same night. Sounds like too much of a
coincidence.”

“Exactly.
I was hoping you could get involved since this crosses borders.”

“I will
if I can. I’ll have to see if I can get the case allocated to me.”

He could
almost hear the smile through the phone. “I’ve already taken care of that, mon
ami. You were assigned a few minutes ago.”

Reading
shook his head, the power of political connections never ceasing to amaze him.
“Then I suppose I’ll be seeing you in the morning.”

“I look
forward to it.”

“I think
however I’m going to need some help.”

“I
thought you might. Please inform the professors that the Vatican looks forward
to hosting them once again.”

“I’m
sure they’ll be thrilled.”

Golgatha, Judea
April 7
^th
, 30 AD
The Ninth Hour

“We need to get out of here while we can!” shouted Albus, the
howling wind beginning to settle, the ground beginning to still. Longinus
shoved himself to his feet with the help of his spear, looking up at the sky as
the clouds began to part, the sun making its presence felt once more. 

And then
it was still, as if nothing had happened, as if all their sins had been
forgiven.

The
wails of this man’s followers continued, their grief rolling over the hilltop
unabated as they mourned their loved one’s passing. He felt Albus’ hand grip
his shoulder. “What just happened?” His voice was low, terrified.

Longinus
shook his head, looking up at the shadow of the man so hated and yet so loved.
“I fear to imagine.”

“This is
taking too long,” said one of the other soldiers, crossing in front of
Longinus. “Our orders are to make certain this is over before Passover begins.”

“Break
their knees!” ordered another.