The Second Messiah (5 page)

“Not that I know of. Why?”

Sergeant Raul pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You’re sure about that? There was nothing mechanically wrong with the brakes, for instance?”

“I—I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

The sergeant considered, then shook his head. “No reason. Keep a firm grip, you hear? Try to stay strong, Jack. Your parents would have wanted you to.”

Two days later, Jack was sitting in a chair outside his hospital room, his leg propped up on pillows, as he stared out absently at the parched hills beyond Jerusalem.

As he sat there, numbed by grief, he heard footsteps and turned. A priest—small, wiry, with thinning red hair—stood there, carrying a brown paper bag. It was Father Kubel, the archaeologist who had tended to Lela. He placed the bag on the table. Jack noticed the man’s fingers were stained brown, the sign of a heavy smoker.

“Some fruit,” the priest said awkwardly, his accent German. He looked upset. “I—I just came to say how sorry I am about your parents. They were good people. Your father was a fine archaeologist. It was an honor to work with him.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

“I wanted you to know that Father Becket and I tried our best to rescue your parents. In fact, I’ve been asked by my superiors to write a report about the scroll’s destruction and the tragic accident. It will be an internal church document, of course, not meant for public consumption. But my superiors are anxious to know what happened. Your father’s work was a great asset to the dig.” Kubel hesitated. “I’m so sorry. If Father Becket and I could have done anything more, we would have, I assure you.”

Jack fought back his emotion. “I’m grateful for what you both did.”

Kubel placed a hand firmly on Jack’s shoulder. “I know it’s little consolation, but we will always remember your parents in our prayers.”

Four days later Jack was discharged from the hospital, hobbling on a crutch until his leg healed. He made the final arrangements for his parents’ burial. It was to be a brief affair, yet more than two hundred people turned up, huddled in prayer along the roadway overlooking the ravine where Robert and Margaret Cane had died.

A commemorative marker had been erected, and when the prayers finally ended Jack numbly shook the hands of mourners. Sergeant Raul waited until the crowds had driven away, then he touched Jack’s shoulder and handed him a metal urn containing a few handfuls of his parents’ ashes. “At least you can have a private moment to do what your folks would have wished, Jack. Someone wants to say hello, so I’ll leave you alone.”

And then Sergeant Raul was gone and a voice said, “Hello, Jack.”

He turned, saw Lela Raul. A white gauze patch covered her forehead, her pretty face bruised and drawn. It was the first time Jack had seen her since the accident and his heart lifted a little. “Lela, it’s good to see you.”

They hugged and she kissed him on the cheek. “I don’t know what to say, Jack. I’m still in shock too. I wanted to come see you in the hospital but they wouldn’t allow you visitors for the first few days. I had to peer in at you through your door whenever I could.” Her voice broke off as she stared at the urn in Jack’s hands, then she reached out, her fingers touching his. “It must be so difficult for you. I just want you to know that you’ve got a friend.”

Jack looked into her face, her chocolate eyes pools of concern. “How are you, Lela?”

“I’ve felt a lot worse.”

“How about Basim Malik’s family? They must be distraught that they’ve lost their father.”

“It’s thoughtful of you to ask. My dad says they’re just about coping, like we all are.” Lela’s expression changed, as if there was something she was going to add but she fell silent.

“Can you do something for me, Lela?”

Her eyes lifted to meet his face. “Of course. Anything.”

“Borrow your father’s car and drive me away from here.”

“To where?”

Jack felt overcome. “Anywhere. There’s something personal I need to do but I’m just not ready to do it yet.”

Five minutes later, they were driving on the dusty roads toward Qumran, Lela steering her father’s blue Escort.

“Did you think about what you’re going to do in the near future, Jack?”

“I have to put my folks’ estate in order. Estate—that’s a joke. It’s just a small house at the end of a dirt road in upstate New York. My folks didn’t put much store by possessions. Their career never paid much but it meant everything to them.”

“The house is where you grew up?”

“More often than not I traveled with my folks. I got most of my education on the hoof. I guess I’d feel more at home in Qumran than in upstate New York.”

“What will you do?”

He had a lost look on his face as he said quietly, “Right now, I don’t know, Lela. Maybe go back to the States and finish my education.”

She reached across, held his hand. “Am I allowed to say that I’m worried about you?”

“I’m worried about me too.”

“Will you write to me? Please?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

He looked at her. “I’m sorry, Lela, I guess my mind’s all over the place right now.”

“Did my dad explain that the scroll may have been destroyed in the blaze? The forensics people found no remains of the leather map case.”

“He told me.”

“He asked Father Becket and Father Kubel if they’d seen it lying among the wreckage but they claimed they didn’t. Dad questioned a few other drivers who arrived at the accident soon after but no one knew anything.”

Jack frowned. “Are you suggesting that your father thinks someone may have stolen it?”

“No, but like most cops my dad’s just suspicious by nature. He’s got no proof that the scroll was completely destroyed in the inferno and it bothers him.”

“Why did he ask me if any repair work had been carried out on the pickup? I almost got the feeling your father thought the crash was sabotage.”

Lela’s face darkened. “I—I don’t think he’s sure of that, Jack. Certainly he’s got no evidence.”

“What’s wrong? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No. I told you, my dad’s just naturally suspicious. It’s the same with every case he works on. He’d really hoped forensics might have found at least some remains of the map case.”

“My parents and Basim Malik were burned beyond recognition. What hope would a leather map case have?”

“You’re right. I guess we’ll never know what the scroll contained.”

“Right now, somehow, that doesn’t even matter. Though my dad would never have forgiven me for saying that. He was so excited about his discovery. He had high hopes it might have amounted to something. Can you turn back to the ravine now, Lela? I think I’m okay.”

“Of course.” Ten minutes later she pulled up to the edge of the ravine and killed the engine. The afternoon sun was still hot, the sky cloudless, a strong breeze caressing the desert. Qumran lay beyond, stunning in the fading light. The pickup’s wreckage had been removed from the gully but the blackened stains from the fire were still there. Jack shivered.

Lela asked, “Are you okay? Do you really think it’s such a good idea coming back? I don’t want you to torture yourself, Jack.”

“For some reason I feel closer to them here, where I lost them. Does that make any sense?”

Lela touched his hand, looked into his face. “Can I tell you something? When my mother died I learned that grief can be a very private thing. One day the person you love walks out the door and you never see them alive again. It can leave so many loose ends, so many things unsaid, because it can be all so sudden and unexpected. Sometimes it’s so very hard to come to terms. We clam up, can’t talk about it. But if ever you feel the need to talk, or you just want somebody to listen, you only have to say, Jack.”

He gripped her hand, wanted Lela to hold him, to feel her comforting embrace, but this wasn’t the time. He clutched the urn and went to climb out of the car. “Can you excuse me a minute?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Something that my folks would have wanted.”

Jack faced toward Qumran and the Dead Sea. He was dreading such a final act of farewell. He opened the urn and tilted a single handful of ashes into his palm, allowed them to trickle through his fingers and scatter into the soft breeze. They swirled, eddied away, toward Qumran’s tangerine hills.

Jack thought,
Is this all that remains of the two people I loved? My life and theirs simply turned to dust?

When the last of the ashes blew through his fingers, he held up his dusty gray hand and smeared it on his face. Why, he didn’t know, except that for some strange reason, and just for that brief moment, it made him feel closer to his parents. Overcome, his body convulsed in a fit of sobbing.

All he remembered after that was Lela appearing by his side, her arms going round him, holding him wordlessly. And so he stood there, clinging to her, both of them swaying in the desert breeze, as if at that moment each was all the other had in the world.

Jack opened his eyes, let the past wash away. He looked out over the vast dusty landscape toward Jerusalem.
Lela, where are you now?

A hawk circled overhead, its shriek interrupting his thoughts. The months after his parents’ deaths were a reckless time when he’d done things he never should have, just to bury his anguish. It was a time in his life he just wanted to forget.

He stared down at the grave marker.
Dad, Mom, I finally hit pay dirt and found a scroll. Everyone on the dig’s thrilled. Professor Green, our director, thinks it could be a pretty important discovery. I’m excited about it. I want you both to know that
.

Jack thought:
I sound like a child
. It was as if he were trying to impress his parents with his exam results. But he had such a powerful need to communicate his excitement with the two people who had shared his life.

A memory came to him.

A sunny winter’s day outside Cairo on his fifteenth birthday. Helping his father dig near some old burial sites at the Cheops pyramid, they had stopped to brew coffee, talk, and eat lunch. About that time Jack began to really feel the powerful allure of a career in archaeology. Ancient tombs, cryptic inscriptions etched in stone or onto papyrus, valuable coins, bits of jewelry, human bones, and broken pottery—this was the stuff adventures were made of.

And as they sat and talked his father spoke about the Egyptians’ unshakable belief in an afterlife. It almost seemed to Jack that his father was suddenly conscious of his own mortality as a parent.

At fifty, Robert Cane had come late to fatherhood. The experience had awed him. He adored his son, loved him with a depth that was sometimes frightening in its intensity. He was an emotional man, and his bright blue eyes had a hint of tears that day. “I want you to know that I love you, Jack.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

“You know what I believe, Jack? I believe love never dies. It’s the sole reason why we’re all here. To create love and to nurture it. And I believe the Egyptians were right, just like so many other civilizations that put their trust in an afterlife. There’s a dimension that as humans we can’t even begin to perceive, call it heaven or Nirvana or whatever you want, but it’s a dimension created by God, where we all meet again and renew our love. Do you understand what I’m saying, Jack?”

“I think so.”

“You know what else I believe?”

“What, Dad?”

“That once we depart into that dimension there’s no coming back. We can no longer be part of this earthly life and the loved ones we’ve left behind. But we can observe them, at least be with them in spirit until we join with them again.”

Robert Cane looked out over the mighty splendor of the Cheops pyramid, and his voice filled with emotion. “The ancients believed that the spirits of the dead lingered near their tombs. I sometimes get that feeling when I’m here. The hairs rise on the back of my neck. It makes me feel as if I’m touched by something powerful, something magnificent and unearthly. It’s almost as if the dead can touch us.”

“You mean physically?”

His father smiled. “No, not in that sense, Jack. But I believe the spirit world can induce feelings in us, like intuitions and emotions, or invoke unnatural phenomena. You hear people talking about
guardian
angels, that they feel there’s something supernatural watching over them. It’s that kind of feeling. A chill down your back that’s more than an intuition, that might warn you something bad’s going to happen. A feeling of a presence in an empty room. A sudden gust of wind, yet there’s no wind nearby.”

“Those things have happened to you, Dad?”

“Sometimes. I once remember sitting by my own father’s grave. It was a difficult time for me. I had problems to deal with and no one to turn to. That day I strongly felt his presence, sensed him near me in spirit. It was uncanny, but I was sure I felt his hand touch my shoulder, just the way he used to when I was in need of comfort. He’d look at me and say, ‘Bob, whatever it is that’s on your mind, I want you to share it with me and let me bear some of the burden.’ And I would, and he always did. I felt that same feeling that difficult day.”

His father paused and met his son’s stare. “Jack, you’re at an age when you’ll start to question your beliefs, your future direction, even the reasons for your existence. It’s all part of growing up. But trust me on this one—there’s an afterlife.”