The Lazarus Continuum Read online

  THE LAZARUS CONTINUUM

  KEN FRY

  THE LAZARUS CONTINUUM

  Copyright © 2018 by KEN FRY

  Advance Review Copy

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever, without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  www.booksbykenfry.com

  Join Ken Fry’s Circle of Readers and Get Free eBooks

  Edited by Eeva Lancaster

  Cover Design and Book Interior by The Book Khaleesi

  BOOKS by KEN FRY

  The Lazarus Continuum (Sequel to The Lazarus Succession)

  The Chronicles of Aveline: Awakening

  DISJOINTED TALES: A Collection of Eccentric Short Stories

  The Patmos Enigma: Quest of the Wandering Jew

  RED GROUND: The Forgotten Conflict

  The Lazarus Succession

  The Brodsky Affair

  Suicide Seeds

  Check Mate

  Is That You, Jim? (FREE)

  AUDIOBOOKS

  The Lazarus Succession

  The Brodsky Affair

  The Patmos Enigma

  BROWSE KEN FRY’S AUDIOBOOKS on AUDIBLE

  US | UK

  PROLOGUE

  El Desierto de Tabernas

  30 Kilometres North of Almeria, Spain

  Raw heat, shimmering sands and scrub, shifted and bent in hopeless supplication before the turbulent zephyr that swirled in undulating rhythms across the tops of semi-submerged rocks and flints. Distant hills blurred in a shifting haze.

  Blazing heat.

  Nothing moved.

  Utter silence.

  It caused a stirring in his mind. He didn’t know what. But there was a faded familiarity in the panorama around him that draped across his memories … like a worn, ancient, and tattered battle flag. He shielded his eyes to gaze out at the desolation.

  This was his choice.

  Slowly, Brother Baez, in his monastic attire, alighted from the Land Rover Defender. His emaciated frame creaked from hours behind the wheel. The vehicle was equipped with everything he needed for a prolonged stay; spare clothing, toiletries, tools, shovels, trowels, food supplies, chargers, water, and more importantly, his canvasses, paints and brushes.

  Close by, he spotted a rocky outcrop with a small, cave-like structure. That would help keep my things cool and dry, he thought.

  An hour later soaked in sweat and his shaven head hot from the sun, he managed to transport most of it up the steep slope and into the coolness of the cave. Wonder of wonders, there was water dripping slowly at the rear. It must be coming from the distant hills. A small trickle ran further outwards. To where, he knew not, but he uttered a prayer of thanks for the additional water supply.

  He paused to sit and survey the pitiless landscape, and his mind scanned back through the years. To the remarkable events that had led him to this point in time.

  They had culminated in his request to Abbot Louis for yet another period of reflection. A solitary retreat for forty days and nights to question whether he wished to remain in the Brotherhood or not. Of late, he had felt his faith waver. Not just gently, but with massive vibrations. Over the last year, he had been increasingly troubled by recurring dreams and nightmares. He was unable to ravel their meaning. All he understood was that they went back to the events seventeen years ago, when he had somehow, under a canopy of mystical events, painted an artwork of The Raising of Lazarus. It was one of a long line of such works, that at a given point in their time, would vanish … before a new artist was chosen.

  He had witnessed his painting demonstrating profound miraculous powers. The cancer-ridden and terminally ill, Condesa Maria de Toledo had been cured simply by touching it.

  From that point, his life had not been his own. He had reluctantly submitted to the monastery, and to God, who never answered his torments. In the process, he had lost the woman he loved, and had never seen his child come into this world.

  His request to the Abbot had been generously accepted. Abbot Louis was not an unreasonable man and had perceived Brother Baez ─ formerly Broderick ‘Brodie’ Ladro, eminent historical researcher and TV producer ─ as a soul in torment, forever bound by the legacy that the painting had laden him with. With that in mind, he agreed that the Brother should spend some time in solitary retreat away from the monastic walls and routines. The only proviso was that he must continue his prayers, and paint for the monastic walls and altars.

  It was agreed, and five days later, Brother Baez had driven away from the monastery, and into the desert.

  The Abbot understood that his monk was at a decisive crossroads in his life, and that his faith was no longer holding up. He didn’t mention it, but of late, he himself had been experiencing a series of strange dreams, and he sensed an odd atmosphere curling around his monastery like a wet tongue.

  * * *

  The heat and the long drive had exhausted Brother Baez. A deep weariness assaulted him, and using a rucksack as a pillow, he allowed himself to drift into a short, dream-filled slumber.

  He dreamt of what had been, and what had happened to bring him to this point in time. Images transmuted into beautiful music.

  He awoke an unhappy man. The memories were too much to bear.

  That evening, darkness descended quickly and the temperature began to plummet. He set about making a fire by gathering brushwood, of which there was ample supply. After his prayers, he ate his first and last meal of the day of rice and dried chicken. He had sworn to adhere to this Spartan existence, to himself and to Abbot Louis days ago. As best as he could, he went through the Offices of the day, and finished an early and dark evening with Compline. He accomplished this by using one of his many flashlights.

  Later, he found himself awake and unable to sleep. Feeling the cold, he stood and stepped outside. Around the area, he could make out the glinting eyes of nocturnal creatures scuttling about in various directions. He covered his head with his hood and wrapped his arms around himself, as he watched the whiteness of his breath climbing upwards before vanishing into the night air. The sky was clear, and the millions of stars flickering above caused him to gasp in wonder. He imagined how Van Gogh had been moved to paint The Starry Night when in the asylum at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence.

  The panorama before him made him wonder. Have I gone, or am I going mad? It was a frequent thought and one that had been bothering him for the last six months. This was one of the reasons he needed a period away from the monastery. He had to realign his mind and spirit and he knew he would find that elusive peace if he could paint freely.

  The image of his hidden work, The Raising of Lazarus haunted him. It was almost time for it to be shown to the public. Yet, its secret had to be maintained. There can be no announcement. That was the way it had been done over the centuries and that was the way it will be done until time ceased to exist.

  The moon was full and he made a note to include it in a night painting illuminating the barren wilderness around him. As he took a lungful of pure fresh air, for the first time in years, he felt a sense of freedom ripple through his mind and body. He had to make the most of it. Forty days and nights was all he was allowed. He understood the significance of this well.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Church of Thomas Reborn

  Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA

  Pastor Shepard brushed off the dab of cream that had dropped from his plastic
pot and across his shirtfront. He wiped his hands down the side of his black coat that looked as if it had been poured over him. Sitting down, he lit up a cigarette, which he only ever did when nobody was around to see him. He was a perpetually ambitious, six-foot plus, fifty-one year old, with a skeletal looking disposition enhanced by a mean hard look in his dull grey eyes. He had silver hair and a club foot.

  His premises were empty, since his burgeoning congregation of over one hundred souls had long dispersed in a raucous display of hand clapping and shouts of ‘Praise The Lord!’ He now had dozens of churches across the country, all connected by direct TV relay. Pastor Shepard was quite an inspirational and uplifting speaker. Still, that number was far short of the count he would have liked.

  The Santa Fe church was also his home and few knew that he managed to live well. The many thousands of dollars that were lovingly dropped into the service collection bags across the country were deposited to a central bank account of which he had direct access. Funds were no problem.

  His lifestyle was a secret. His private quarters were forever locked. On his walls, not seen by a living soul, hung religious pictures of Christ and paintings with religious themes. Mixed in with these were pin-ups of scantily clad and naked women in various poses. He reasoned that God created beauty for men to admire, and there could be no sin in that.

  Drawing deep on his Lucky Strike cigarette, he reached across the table and poured himself a three-finger shot of his favourite Bourbon, ‘Widow Jane.’ Not for the first time, he felt that his true potential had yet to be realised.

  He was an operative in the USSS before his days in the service came to an abrupt halt, with his security clearance revoked. This happened when his affair with a married Russian couple was revealed. It was of course deemed unacceptable and he was fired on the spot, lucky to have escaped charges of espionage and treason.

  After that, he was left in a quandary and uncertain of what to do with his life. The existence of his church happened by accident and not by design. One time, he had spoken at a rally and received thunderous applause. He suddenly found himself with a small band of followers which quickly grew into the Church of Thomas Reborn.

  Still, he wanted more from his church. It was not satisfying his ambitions.

  His thoughts turned to the odd stories that had been brought to his attention by two of his acolytes, Alphonse and Jeremiah. Several days ago, they had told him of a rumour they heard on their recent visit to relatives in Spain. It concerned the existence of a painting, one of a so-called ‘successional’ series that held the secrets of Christ and the raising of Lazarus. Only one painting with supposed healing powers ever existed at one time, before it would mysteriously vanish and a new version was produced. It was said that a terminally ill noblewoman had been healed just by touching it. That painting, so stories suggested, was concealed somewhere in one of Spain’s many monasteries and guarded by monks.

  Shepard had the story checked out and it appeared to be the subject of very strong rumours. The woman, it was said, remained alive, and there were hints of a UK connection. It was a powerful story, one he was interested to exploit.

  The power to heal! I have never believed such crap, but there are millions out there desperate enough to believe in miracles. Just think if it were true ... or made to appear true.

  He took a throatful of Bourbon and welcomed the rush. The woman shouldn’t be hard to find, nor the UK connection. His USSS training had taught him a thing or two about tracking people. With modern technology, there were few places to hide these days.

  The story fitted in well with an idea that had been brewing in his mind over the last weeks. He had felt restless with the way the church was progressing. In his doubts, he had stumbled across information relating to Layfette Ron Hubbard (LRH), the founder of Scientology. This had prompted further investigation of which he was still in the midst of. The man, at his death, was reported to be worth six hundred million dollars. The Smithsonian magazine considered him to be in the top one hundred influential Americans of all time. He started a ‘religion’ and became fabulously wealthy.

  That story from Spain, whether true or not, could be the catalyst for a similar movement, but with a sacred icon at its heart. Shepard’s heart started pounding. More research was needed. This could be the start of something big.

  If I could bring this story to life, I could transform the planet! From little acorns, great oaks are grown. Shepard imagined all the wealth and power a sacred icon could bring him. A painting that could heal the sick and dying? Those security bastards who removed him would bend their knees. LRH would be an also ran.

  A tremor of excitement passed through him. It was time for a new religion.

  One last long draw on the Lucky Strike and he flung the butt into the collection he had amassed in an old corner fire bucket. Pulling out a World Atlas, he opened it up to a map of Europe. He knew the UK well enough, but very little of Spain. He knew there were sacred sites and several monasteries scattered around the country, but that was all.

  He opened his laptop and accessed his bank account. Several years of collection and donations accounted for a considerable sum of money. He was not poor by anybody’s imagination.

  A plan began to germinate. He had enough time and funds to look into a few ideas, and if all went well, maybe begin a new movement.

  In six months, he would be attending the bi-annual, Six Day World Charismatic Convention which will be held at the Wembley Stadium in London. From there, he could easily make his way down to Spain and begin his investigations. His deputy, Pastor Michael, could run the church in his absence and look after things.

  The more he thought of it, the more he warmed to the idea. At the moment, he had about two churches in each State. This was Mickey Mouse to what could be achieved A name change would be needed, and with a tangible miracle behind it, the world was his oyster. He had worldwide contacts and these could all be of great benefit to a new movement.

  His thoughts were distracted by the sound of boxes falling outside. He looked out at his private floodlit patio and saw two shaggy-looking brown and black dogs snuffling around the garbage. Shepard let out a low growl.

  He stood, and with a jagged limp, moved across to the adjacent wall and unhinged a fully loaded assault rifle he kept for protection or sport. He didn’t need a sight. Hadn’t he, in spite of his disability, been a crack shot in the service? He propped up his arm and elbow on the verandah support rail, disloged the safety catch, took aim, and gently squeezed the trigger.

  A sharp crack and a single round caused a piteous bellowing moan as one hapless beast fell to the ground with half its head missing. The other attempted to run but another shot brought it down in a welter of blood, before it gave one long last twitch and died..

  Praise be to God.

  He thought the time was nigh for some serious entertainment.

  * * *

  The Village Outskirts of Uffington

  Oxfordshire, UK

  She never tired of looking at it on the farside scarp of the Berkshire Downs. Cut deeply into the hillside, The White Horse had been there for over three thousand years, since the Bronze Age. It was generally regarded as a masterpiece of minimalist art and protected with lovng care. She felt close to it and had felt drawn by its simplicity from the moment she laid eyes on it. Ulla Stuart loved it more than most. For here, she could remember Brodie and how much he loved it whenever they visited.

  The years had been kind to Ulla. Her poise and stature remained, and her hair had but a few grey strands. Since the Lazarus episode, she had made a success of her life and prospered in the world of real estate. However, the old yearning to ‘liberate’ art and precious things never entirely left her. Often, she would be overcome by the desire, the old habit, to walk around at night and release a captive work of art, returning it to its rightful owner. But it was not to be. Her burglary days had died a slow death.The care and welfare of her daughter took center stage.

  Gazing upo
n the horse, she dropped her personal sadness into the green and chalky hillside and pretended that Brodie could return to her life once more. Broderick Ladro had walked out of her life sixteen years ago. The accursed Lazarus painting had broken them up. It divided them like nothing else could, and the strange and mystical events of those days now appeared like ghosts in her dreams and unguarded moments. The entire sequence of events had a momentous dimension that had skewered his life away from her and into the hands of a monastery. God knows where ... in Spain, where the whole business had started.

  When he left, she knew she was carrying his child. A child that was now a young woman who had never seen her father ... nor did she know who he was. Ulla had never told her the whole story, which she had written down in a continuous series of sixteen diaries, locked away in the house.

  That was about to change.

  She had named her daughter Martha for a reason, and it had been an appropriate choice. Not only was she born on the feast day of Saint Martha, July 29,she had grown so like Martha in the New Testament and had developed a very business-like and practical nature. There was something very like Brodie about her. In this, she found comfort that softened the pain in her heart.

  In all the time she had known Brodie, she had never thought he would choose the life he was now in. Within her mind, she would attempt to visualise his life and what he could be doing at certain times of the day. She missed him.

  Around herself and Martha existed a cohesive link. An understanding that there was, in their natures and lifestyle, a very common bond. It was difficult to define, but many had noticed an unusual grafting of their personalities in a strange way. They would often speak identical sentences at the same time, and their movements would at times appear to be synchronised, almost choreographed.