Elisha's Bones Part 2

"I didn't have much choice about coming, Gordon. It's not as if billionaires are breaking down my door to offer me jobs. If nothing else, I have to find out what you have in mind."

"Curiosity is the paramount character trait for those in your line of work," Gordon says with a chuckle.

"I won't argue that."

Gordon is silent for a moment, his eyes on the fire. Suddenly he turns to me, casting a thoughtful eye my way, and says, "You haven't done any fieldwork in almost five years. Why?"

It's a germane question, but not one for which I have a ready answer. There is the obvious one, of course-that Will's death drove me from my profession, along with the weeks of trying to get first the Egyptian government and then the American consular office to investigate it as something more than an accident, only to run into one wall after another. Even Jim counseled me to let the matter drop, despite the fact that there was an obvious blast pattern, and that the strange visit by the SCA minutes before the accident could not have been coincidence. As I consider these things, Gordon's eyes hold mine, convincing me that he already knows everything I'm thinking.

"I was tired," is my only response.

Gordon remains silent through the time it takes him to drain half of the gla.s.s. The fact that I've been less than forthcoming- even when we are both aware of the other's un.o.bstructed view of the playing field-bothers me, but I remind myself that I do not know this man, and I owe him nothing-not even honesty. I don't have to validate public record.

"Are you well rested now?" he asks without a hint of judgment.

Despite what I have already told him, I've had a few offers during my time at the university. Some of them were unique enough ventures to tempt me into returning to a world outside of the staid confines of academia. In the end, I turned each of them down. I was not ready and, in truth, I'm not certain I am now. Perhaps Gordon Reese is catching me at the right time; maybe there's something in the wintry air that is making me antsy; or maybe I'm at some watershed moment in a long and undefined grieving process. Whatever it is, I'm here.

"That really depends on what you have to tell me, Gordon."

The expression on the billionaire's face indicates he appreciates my answer. He lapses into a thoughtful silence, his gaze back on the dancing flames, and I wait for him to speak. He brought me here for a reason, and he will tell me in his time.

"I trust you know your Old Testament," Gordon says.

I nod. "As well as most people do, I'd guess."

"A good deal more than most, I'd venture," he says, and a laugh shakes his thin frame. "It's practically an archaeological streetlamp. I wouldn't be surprised if half of all archaeologists, past and present, owe a good portion of their initial interest in the field to their childhood hearings of Old Testament tales."

I have to join him in his mirth because, in my case, his guess is spot-on. There's a decent chance that if I hadn't spent time during my formative years at the knees of my parents, listening to stories about ancient peoples and places, I might not have taken an interest in the study of civilizations arisen, fallen, and in some cases, pa.s.sed from collective memory.

"I see I've come close to the truth?" Gordon asks.

I nod and give him his due. "It may have had some influence on my education, yes."

He grunts an acknowledgment and then shakes his head. "It amazes me how such a seminal work can be so neglected once one enters into serious study. It's quite odd, really."

I do not respond, princ.i.p.ally because it seems such a childish thing to say coming from such a bright man. It's the equivalent of suggesting that a person earning his doctorate in English Literature should spend time studying children's books. While these books might have instilled in the doctoral candidate a love of reading, their usefulness has long been spent.

"I can tell by your expression that you do not agree with me?" There is no indictment in the question, but I sense a hint of sadness.

I let a few ticks pa.s.s in silence while I consider the question. I have no wish to offend this man, yet I have a feeling he would not be fooled by insincerity. I watch the flames dance over logs half consumed by their ravenous tendrils.

"The Bible does not teach a person the fundamentals of archaeology," I say. "While there are some interesting stories in there-some even corroborated by other doc.u.ments and excavations-you can't use the book as some sort of treasure map."

"That is certainly true, Jack. However, the treasures are there, if one knows where to look."

We're getting to the crux of it now. I can feel the reason behind the meeting looming just outside the edge of the conversation. I do not answer. It is his story to unravel, his request to make.

"Second Kings," Gordon says. "Chapter thirteen, verses twenty and twenty-one."

Of course, I'm silent. I could no more quote the contents of those verses than I could recite pi to the thousandth place.

Gordon looks once again at the fire, and when he speaks he's quoting the biblical pa.s.sage. " 'Elisha died and was buried. Now Moabite raiders used to enter the country every spring. Once while some Israelites were burying a man, suddenly they saw a band of raiders; so they threw the man's body into Elisha's tomb. When the body touched Elisha's bones, the man came to life and stood up on his feet.' "

From deep within my childhood experiences, I pull a memory that corresponds to what Gordon has just recited, although I remember hearing the pa.s.sage in Old English. It sounds different spoken in contemporary language.

"Do you know, Jack, that there's no other mention of this event after these two verses? Imagine that: a dead man is tossed onto the bones of a prophet and he comes back to life. Today, that would be quite a story. The media would be all over it."

"As they would the fact that this same man made an axhead float in water, and that he summoned bears out of the woods to kill children who made fun of his receding hairline." It's coming back to me now-these fanciful Bible stories. I remember not liking Elisha very much. It seemed petulant to use the power of G.o.d to get even with taunting youths.

Gordon picks up on my thoughts and nods. "Yes, the Bible is full of what seem to us abuses of divine power. But I think the work is richer for it. There is a certain weight-a believability- that is granted to a book that shows its heroes in all of their insidious splendor." Gordon's gla.s.s is empty and I'm beginning to wish I'd taken him up on the offer of a drink of my own. If nothing else, it would give me something to do during these pauses in the conversation.

"What's your interest in the story, Gordon?" Asking this question seems a better choice than engaging the man in a debate about the historicity of Scripture. That's not a discussion I'm prepared for, nor one I would want to partic.i.p.ate in even if my thirteenth-century Incan stone ducks were all in a row.

"In a way, I've already mentioned it." He leans forward, pus.h.i.+ng himself away from the embracing couch, closing the distance between us. Everything about his posture and his manner suggests conspiratorial excitement. "Tell me, what would happen if you and I were at lunch with the president and, halfway through dessert, he pulled out a gun and shot the waiter?"

It's an odd question considering the previous subject matter, and I'm left feeling stunned for a few seconds. Gordon, though, is waiting for an answer, so I take a stab at it.

"He'd be arrested and they'd haul him off to jail. President or no, you can't indiscriminately shoot people."

He looks irritated at my response and waves it off.

"My fault. You're using today as a frame of reference. Let's say that it's the 1960s and we're supping with Kennedy? What would happen then?"

I think I see now where he's going with this. "In that case, you and I would be whisked away and we'd never be heard from again. The waiter's death would be described as an accident, and anyone who saw anything would either be killed or cowed into silence."

"Ah, that's more like it. But the predominant characteristic of the event is that it would disappear from history, at least to the extent that something like that can be covered up. But there's always someone willing to talk, even if the history books are scrubbed clean. And that's where the absence of information attracts attention. It's the secrecy that draws people in, Jack. Tell people something, no matter how farfetched, and most will believe it. Tell them nothing-"

"And you've got a conspiracy," I finish.

"Right. It's the lack of information." Gordon's eyes bore into mine. "Just two verses, then nothing. Gone. Scrubbed from history-as much as could be done. But someone talked and so they couldn't erase it entirely. They minimized it."

A heavy silence settles over us, and it seems darker in the room. Gordon's face remains lit by the waning fire. It's difficult for me not to get caught up by his pa.s.sion, his magnetism. What makes it easier to retain a clinical distance is my understanding of what Gordon has implied, and then what he wants from me. Gordon Reese thinks-believes-that the bones are real. Worse, he wants me to find them for him.

I consider my words, but no matter how I try to couch my terms, I cannot dilute what needs to be said.

"Mr. Reese, I think you're reaching. You can't use a silence of historical record to prove a conspiracy-especially not in a doc.u.ment as old as Second Kings." I feel odd even using the word conspiracy conspiracy. "And if the story were true, who would try to cover it up? And why? Besides, there's no biblical precedent for hiding a miraculous event. Quite the contrary, in fact. Anything even remotely supernatural was doc.u.mented with great care."

Gordon leans back, but not enough to signify disengagement.

"One of the interesting things about the story-the thing that sets it apart from many others in the Bible-is that there were so few witnesses. This was not Elijah on Mount Carmel, or the Ark of the Covenant smiting the Philistines with boils. This was a small group of men, alone in a cemetery. A much easier event to keep quiet."

"Except that they didn't keep it quiet. It's right there in black and white."

"Only to the extent that the Roswell crash is recorded in underground journals, or in the fas.h.i.+on that people whisper about the mysterious circ.u.mstances surrounding the death of Marilyn Monroe. No, Jack, it looks to me as if the writers of this section of the Scriptures-and remember, this was likely penned by a group of scholars during the a.s.syrian captivity- chose to treat this as legend, since they could not force it out of collective lore."

A part of my brain is now charting my exit from this place, and the prospect of a disappointing flight home. Yet another part-the purely academic-wants to discuss the theory, especially with one of the world's richest men. At least then, when I'm back at Evanston and telling the story to Duckey, I can share with him that I sat in Gordon Reese's drawing room and debated theoretical antiquities.

Before I can say anything, Gordon grips the armrest and pulls himself to his feet. As he struggles to get himself upright, I have a fear that he might fall over. But he regains his balance before I can react.

"It's a comfortable couch," he explains, "but if I sit too long, I can't get up." He takes slow and measured steps to the fireplace and removes the poker from its stand. With his back to me, he slides the mesh curtain aside and prods the spent logs with the implement until there's a cavity in the center and the flames find fresh purchase. The task done, he returns the poker to its stand but does not turn around.

"You didn't ask me to come here just because of two Bible verses," I say. Now that I think about it, it makes sense that a man like Gordon would have done his research before initiating this sort of project. He knows something, and this piques my interest.

"I've spent a good many years in this pursuit. It's only been recently, however, that my search has taken on a heightened sense of urgency." He places a hand on the mantel and turns so that he can see me. I realize, then, that I'm looking at a man who is not just ill. He's dying.

His eyes, though, are alive with flame-with purpose.

"You'd be surprised at what I've discovered, Jack."

I would have to be a fool not to realize why he's so interested in the remnants of a dead prophet. His own mortality is catching up with him and, like all men, he is searching for something to save him from his fate.

"Even if the bones are real," I say after a long pause, "and that's a big if if-what makes you think they possess any kind of power?"

"Because the power of G.o.d does not fade over time, Dr. Hawthorne," he says, absolute certainty in his voice. "The bones are as alive with healing energy today as they were the day the Israelites tossed their friend's carca.s.s on them."

It is a claim I cannot argue. How does one contest against another man's blind faith?

CHAPTER 4

I wake up with sweat on my face and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I hate planes. I've always thought I have some inner-ear thing that brings me just south of ill on anything p.r.o.ne to unexpected movements. Planes, roller coasters, and big-city taxis all produce the feeling. wake up with sweat on my face and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I hate planes. I've always thought I have some inner-ear thing that brings me just south of ill on anything p.r.o.ne to unexpected movements. Planes, roller coasters, and big-city taxis all produce the feeling.

I look out the window but all I see is the thick cloud cover separating me from terra firma. My watch tells me it will be another hour before we start our descent into the Venezuelan capital-an hour to either sort through or ignore the mixed feelings I have about returning to a place I once knew well. On one hand, it feels good to be moving. For the first time in years I feel as if I've taken a step toward something. Still, there's a part of me that is not convinced this is a significant change in momentum. I tell myself that this job does not const.i.tute a return to my pre-teaching profession. This is a short-term business deal, after which I will return to Evanston and go back to the serious matter of molding young minds and flirting with Angie. What belies that line of reasoning, though, is the tingle at the back of my neck that I only get when I'm excited about something. And when I'm eating Lemonheads. And I have to admit that I feel more energized than normal, especially considering that I've spent most of the day in cabs, airports, and planes of dubious mechanical soundness.

Through a break in the clouds I see the ocean as a patch of darker blue. I came near to growing up on boats, and the sea has been a comforting image for me for as long as I can remember. My dad was a nautical spirit trapped in the body of a skinny, bespectacled inventor. I don't know how many patents he held, but there was more than enough money for him to be able to launch the boat when the weather warmed, and then to keep my mom, brother, and me sailing the Florida Keys all summer. When I think about the man, I see him on the deck of some long-lined wooden beauty, wearing a contented smile. Through the eyes of a child, he seemed larger when azure blue seas surrounded us, when the wind caught the mainsail, and the bow sent spray over my face. It's that snapshot of my dad that I carry in my mind.

He's been gone for almost a decade, but I wonder what he would think about this trip. I can see him leaning back in the brown leather chair in his office, his index finger tapping the armrest. He would look at me for a while, then ask a simple question. Something like, "Are you sure you're doing this for the right reasons?" Reasons were important to the man. He was as concerned with motivations as he was with results. He was fond of saying that doing something extraordinary for the wrong reason was worse than doing nothing. Of course, he had firmly established opinions concerning what const.i.tuted a right reason. Everything he did was filtered through the lens of his religious upbringing. If the end result, as he saw it, did not mesh with his faith, then it shouldn't be done. That's it. No room for argument. If nothing else, knowing my father's conviction made me think long and hard before I answered any question he asked. I probably have him to thank for my interest in Greek philosophy, especially Aristotle's treatises on logic. In this case, provided my answer was satisfactory, a gleam would have appeared in his eyes as he imagined the possibilities for adventure that a trip like this promised. That's another one of the gifts my dad gave me: a sense of adventure, a need to explore. Mr. Reese called it curiosity.

The man snoring in the seat next to me s.h.i.+fts position and slumps closer and I can smell the salt and vinegar potato chips on his breath. An exploration of the man's culinary tastes is not the sort of adventure I have in mind and I give him a shove sufficient to send him invading the personal s.p.a.ce of the unfortunate Korean gentleman in the aisle seat. The latter gives me a helpless look before s.h.i.+fting his shoulder so that the sleeping man is forced to perform some unconscious straightening maneuver or face the prospect of toppling over and testing the integrity of the seat belt. With a last hearty snort, the man achieves a precarious balance within the boundaries of the invisible walls rising up from his armrests. My Korean companion and I watch for a few seconds, avoiding each other's eyes, but ready for a resumption of the human Ping-Pong game that is international air travel.

I'm a bit surprised at the demographics of the flight, because-granting that it has been several years since my last trip to this part of the world-I cannot remember an instance prior to this one when the pa.s.senger profile was not ninety percent Latin American to ten percent white tourist. There are at least six American businessmen in the first-cla.s.s section of the 767, along with a number of the wealthier tourists. I've also counted at least half a dozen Asians, a large number of North Americans of more modest means, a smattering of Europeans of dubious origin, and one young couple sitting in the row behind me who speak Arabic in quiet voices. I've grasped enough of the hushed conversation to know that they're recently married and have already been to Paris and New York. The flight reminds me that much has changed since I was here last, and that Venezuela-or at least Caracas-has made impressive progress toward becoming a modern city. This is a caution to remain alert, and to realize it might take some time to clear the cobwebs from a long-unused portion of my skill set.

I console myself with the knowledge that what I'm doing here amounts to little more than advanced library work-even if Gordon's research, exhaustive to the point of obsession, makes a compelling case. Maps, symbols, ancient texts-all of it seeming to form a blurry multimillennial snapshot of something with great significance. It's the most intriguing prospect I've ever been presented, regardless of the fact that it cannot possibly be true. Do I believe G.o.d exists? Sure. Do I believe the Bible is the arbiter of theological knowledge? There it gets a little hazy. The Bible contains hundreds of fantastical accounts presented to us as fact. But can a reasonable, modern man accept that the earth was created in six days, or that Jonah survived in the stomach of a large fish, or that Joshua stopped the sun from moving? And since these things are presented to us as truth, how can we determine what, in the Book, is factual? Do I believe that a prophet of G.o.d died and that his bones contain divine power? That these bones can bring people back from the dead? The simple answer to that question is no.

Nevertheless, Gordon's doc.u.ments have brought me here, and it's up to me to either disprove or corroborate his theories. My belief is that I will catch my return flight having done the former, and I'm not sure if I can even hope for the other outcome. It's not the existence of the bones that I find troubling. Civilizations have been known to pa.s.s holy artifacts through the generations. Rather, what troubles me is the man's faith in the bones. The supernatural power he longs to find is a figment, and maybe it's the sympathetic part of me that thinks it would be better not to find the artifacts at all, rather than to deliver them to the man so that he can see his folly revealed.

My musings are interrupted when the plane's jostling sends my neighbor sliding into my personal s.p.a.ce. After a deep sigh, I serve to the Korean and then sit back, a small smile on my face as I wait for his next move.

Caracas sits in the oblong bowl of an open valley floor, lush green mountains rising up along the north and east. It is like an old friend. After a long separation, and after the initial awkward phase, I can slip with ease into its eddies. It's a city teeming with industry and purpose, as well as a certain necessary aimlessness woven into the fabric of any place that lures throngs of people into close proximity. The feeling I have now, walking down Avenida Lecuna, is the same one I have when traversing Third Avenue in New York, or Beale Street in Memphis, or Merchant in Dublin. It's individuals, with their small stories, producing something larger than the sum of their parts, something buzzing with expectant energy. It's the cold fusion of urban life.

As the car-filled street grinds to a halt, save for the motorcycles that slip around and through the gridlock, I'm glad that I'm on foot. A half mile back I let the car go that Reese rented for me, so that I could beat the pavement and relearn the feel of the city. One thing I'd forgotten is how the streets rival those of San Francisco in their steepness. My calves start to burn as I make my way uphill.

I turn off Lecuna onto Bolivar, a street that reminds me of those accidental side streets in Europe, where a foreigner can eat and shop like a local and still remain steps away from streets designed to ease anxiety in the same manner a kindergarten hallway rea.s.sures children on the first day of school.

I pa.s.s three businesses that share a common weathered redbrick front. After the last doorway and before the long wall gives way to a narrow alley, followed by a similar arrangement of stores in off-white stucco, a darkened entrance appears, one absent of any identifying marks. A set of stone steps lead up to an unlighted corridor. I enter and start up the steps, trailed by the scent of wet rock and mold. Once I reach the top, the corridor forces me to the right, to a single windowless metal door coated with an old layer of thick brown paint. It's hardly the sort of setup most business owners concerned with foot traffic would prefer. But Romero has never been interested in ma.s.s-marketing his wares. He caters to an exclusive clientele, the kind with a lot of money, and the refinement to understand the quality of his products. Me? I'm neither refined nor have I ever been loaded enough to fit Romero's customer profile-at least until now, when I'm playing with someone else's money.

I grasp the door handle and give a sharp tug and it opens with a metallic creak that must be audible back on the sidewalk. The thing that hits me first is the smell. It's flowery-lilacs, I think. What it means is that Romero has a wealthy client who has expressed an appreciation for the flower. And for the money many of his regulars drop here, he does not mind going out of his way to tailor the shopping experience to their liking.

When I enter, I see my friend do the cla.s.sic television double take and I smile at the surprise on his face and give him a little wink. I walk along the display of burial masks lining a portion of the street-side wall while I wait for the proprietor to finish with his customers. I imagine he's giving them the short sell now, just trying to get them out of the place. I run a finger along a well-preserved interment facade from Southeast Asia and wonder at the use of archaeology as interior design.

Most of his merchandise comes from this continent, with arrangements by period and by region. Past the burial masks is an a.s.sortment of Aztec and Toltec totems, their squat and grotesque bodies acting as scene markers for some events that can give me the w.i.l.l.i.e.s if I really think about them. I like that he's left the shop as it has always been-free of clutter, decorative color, or unnecessary artwork. Instead, it is mostly white walls, gray carpet, and black metal lighting fixtures. The minimalism suggests a proprietor who has confidence in the product selling itself.

Out of the corner of my eye I see the old couple leaving, the man's hand in the small of the woman's back. Their body language suggests that Romero has made them quite a deal, and the buyer wants to get out before the seller realizes he has made a mistake.

I am still facing the burial-mask display when I feel Romero come up behind me.

"It looks like you just made those folks very happy," I say as the door shuts behind the couple.

"Curse you for showing up unannounced and forcing me to undervalue my merchandise."

"With the prices you charge, consider it a rebalancing of your karma."

And then there are strong hands pulling me around and into an affectionate, too-tight hug. When he pulls away, Romero's hands remain on my shoulders and he regards me with warm eyes. Romero Habilla is a large man, but still refined. I would almost call him elegant, except that word is appropriate for someone of slighter frame. He is a well-groomed bull.

"You don't visit for six years and you expect me to concentrate on a sale?" He claps my upper arm and looks me up and down. "You've gotten heavy."

My arm stings.

"One of the curses of academic life."

He turns but leaves a hand on my arm, directing me toward a doorway on the other side of the showroom.

"Yes, I heard you were teaching. At first I didn't believe it, but then I pulled up the Web page of your university and there's your picture." He squeezes my elbow and adds, "It's not a very good picture."

Romero's office is a mirror of the man in its understated sophistication. It is small and spa.r.s.ely furnished but the few items in it are high-end. There is no true desk, but rather an immaculate teakwood table on which sits a dual-monitor computer, a phone, and a single notepad and pen. A comfortable-looking leather chair is behind the desk, and there are two smaller matching ones on the opposite side.

Romero leads me to one of the guest chairs and lowers himself into the other.

"It's good to see you," he says.

"It's nice to be back. A little strange, but nice."

"Yes, we're cosmopolitan now. Courting the world." He gives a dismissive wave. "It's veneer, my friend. The city is no different."

"That's not really what I mean."

He looks at me in silence for a moment before grunting and leaning forward.

"I'm sorry about Will. When Esperanza told me, I . . ."