The Apostles Secret’ “Conspiracy of the Twelve”

Prologue

Oh, God no—please, gasped the priest, straining at the rope. I don’t know—I swear.

The man in the dark suit massaged the back of his hand and glanced around the tent. The monsignor found something—something special. I know he told you. He glanced at the empty suitcases scattered near the entrance. Where were you going?

He told me to pack—nothing else, the young priest said, daring to look up, feeling the blood draining down his neck from the corner of his mouth.

The assassin raised his fist to strike again.

Father John clinched his eyes and dodged to the side, still struggling against the rope. After what seemed an eternity, he opened his eyes only to see the dark man watching curiously.

If you want to live, just tell me what I want to know.

If Monsignor Rubens found something, he didn’t tell me. I’m just an assistant. He doesn’t tell me everything.

Priests shouldn’t lie. The assassin removed the knife from the table.

The monsignor told me we were leaving when he got back—nothing more.

What did you pack?

John looked from the man to the rug covering the sand, strewn with books, papers, bits and pieces of parchment. Those, he said, indicating the litter at the assassin’s feet with a nod of his head. You’ve seen everything the monsignor had me pack.

The smell of canvas, along with the musky smell of hemp, choked John as he tried to think. The monsignor left him to face this killer. He would show the monsignor, the Pope—everyone that he was worthy of his vocation. He would keep the Church’s secret—die if necessary to protect it. Suddenly, he was stunned by another blow. The knife’s blade caught the side of his face as the man’s fist smashed his head against the back of the chair. John felt the blade grazed his cheek. The shock of the warm blood streaming down the other side of his neck helped focus him.

I tried to be civil, but you leave me no choice. I realize I must resort to more… primitive methods. Moving to the table, the man reached for the forceps hanging from the center pole. As he held the forceps overhead underneath the burning lantern, studying the rake at the end, he turned toward John. Do you know what these are for?

Oh, God please, no. If I knew what the monsignor found, I’d tell you. I promise, John pleaded, jerking his head to the side. He pulled against the ropes, realizing he could no longer feel his hands. His arms and shoulders burned as if on fire but his hands felt dead—lifeless.

The next blow rocked the chair, smashing him against the table. Opening his eyes, he tried to concentrate on the lantern hanging from the center of the tent.

Tell me what the monsignor found or I’ll use these.

John raised his eyes slowly to view the tong’s gleaming teeth. Cold sweat matted his shirt to his chest. He could smell his own sweat…it sickened him. The sight of the sharp metal teeth cramped his stomach from fear. This couldn’t be happening. He was a priest, a scholar, his father’s pride as the only man in the village to successfully become a priest. He tried to focus on the assassin’s voice as the man raised the curved blade, holding the forceps under John’s eyes. Do you know what I’m going to do if you don’t tell me?

John realized he was unable to speak—fear tightening the muscles of his throat and neck. He could only stare at the sharp teeth at the end of the forceps.

This is a special instrument for holding the tongue while I cut. With it, I can pull the tongue out far enough to cut it out at the base. Is protecting your monsignor worth not speaking the rest of your life?

Father John, stared at the instrument’s gleaming teeth in the lantern’s subdued light, turned his head and vomited, then fainted against the rope.

***

Slipping from the tent, Monsignor Rubens leaned against the canvas. Listening in the darkness, he concentrated on the smell of diesel and camel dung coming from the center of the camp. He held the stamped envelope against his chest, and then quickly stuffed the note inside and sealed it. He had to get this to the Pope. His Holiness must know of the existence of the sacred relic, the Epistula Sancta and the danger the church now faced before the holy relic disappeared once again, this time forever. Monsignor Rubens knew he had to do whatever it took to ensure his message reached Rome.

Dreading what he might hear, he turned his head in the direction of the tent located across the camp, pitched on the outskirts near the foot of the mountain. His stomach knotted as he tried to erase the priest’s cries from his memory since mercifully they had finally stopped. Now he heard only silence.

Poor John. He may not have had the courage of a lion, but he had the faith of a martyr. John had sacrificed his life to keep the Epistula Sancta a secret in an effort to buy time until he could get word to the Pope. He knew the existence of the sacred letter would set off a chain reaction; events, that once set in motion, would change how mankind viewed the church and religion in general. It was unthinkable to fail in his efforts to get this message to the Pope.

Quickly making the sign of the cross, Rubens uttered a prayer for the dead including himself. He knew John was dead and he would soon join him.

Staring across the compound in the white glare of the moon, he could see camels moving restlessly, pulling against their ropes where they were bedded under the palms. He could hear the occasional snort, stamping of hooves, and the lead camel’s bell. The camels were nervous—upset by John’s screams from the tent—with no one left in camp to sooth their anxiety. Everyone had abandoned the camp to celebrate the end of the dig at the local tavern miles away.

He and John stayed behind to hide the evidence of the discovery he made in the caves above the camp. He had decided to hide the sacred parchment in the crate bound for Tel Aviv with the rest of the materials found at the site. The letter would inform the Pope of his find and the consequences if he failed to obtain the relic. His Holiness must take immediate action, use his influence and that of the church to obtain the materials from the research center in Tel Aviv then have them shipped immediately to the Vatican. The light glowing inside the tent where John had been tortured was suddenly extinguished as he watched. He saw the profile of a shadow move against the side of the tent in the moonlight exiting from the flap then disappear somewhere between the tents. The assassin had begun searching for him.

He gripped the letter, glancing toward the Jeep parked in the center of the camp between tents. His Holiness had to be informed that the sacred relic was even more shocking than any of them had imagined. The Pope had to know before it was too late and the relic was stolen.

Watching for movement, he considered re-entering the tent to access the laptop. If he could just send a few words to his old seminary buddy, Martin Brandt, head of Secret Archives at the Vatican, Martin would recognize the importance of what he discovered. Martin would know what to do and could advise the Pope.

His chest tightened as he heard gravel crunch, sending ice through his veins. Rubens saw the faint glow of a penlight lighting the inside the canvas, disappearing into the dark interior. It would be only moments before the assassin searched the tent he stood next to. No time left to reach the computer.

Glancing toward the full moon whose bright light now obliterated the stars, he was tempted to flee into the desert, sacrifice himself to thirst and starvation—anything to escape the fear and horror he had heard in John’s screams. But that would betray the church as well as God. He couldn’t betray God any more than he could betray John’s sacrifice. Staying within the shadows, Rubens worked around the tent, keeping an eye on the Jeep parked next to the supply tent for any sign of movement.

He heard the tent flap snap open, and from where he stood, he could see the penlight’s ghostly image move across the inside of the tent he stood next to. Only the thick musky canvas now separated him from John’s killer. Taking advantage of the cloud temporarily masking the relentless glare of the moon, he bolted toward the Jeep and rounded it without looking, then threw himself into the gravel next to the tire. With any luck, the Jeep had already made its delivery and would be returning to the village with the camp’s outgoing mail.

He rolled next to the tire, struggling to catch his breath as he stared under the Jeep toward the tent. The dark profile of the assassin stood silhouetted against the white canvas in the moonlight, staring in his direction. The man saw where he was—he had seen Rubens run across the open area for the Jeep. Rubens jumped toward the rear of the Jeep, found the mail sack and quickly stuffed the letter to the bottom, ruffling the contents.

Rubens froze as he again heard the heavy crunch of footsteps approach. Quickly edging to the driver’s side and plastering himself to the side of the Jeep, he hoped it would appear as if he were trying to steal the vehicle—hoping the assassin had not seen him stashing the letter in the back. The letter had to reach the mail. The Pope had to know of the relic.

Glancing toward the full moon, he closed his eyes and uttered a prayer for the safe delivery of the letter into the Pope’s hands.

Suddenly, the assassin jumped in front of him, pinning him against the side of the Jeep. Rubens neck exploded in pain as the killer’s blade cut into the soft flesh of his throat—paralyzing him with fear. Rubens twisted violently, struggling to free himself, but his attacker was younger, stronger, and resisted his escape. Blood spilled over the front of his chest and down the front of his arms as the blade cut deeper into his neck. He fought to breathe. Moonlight broke through the clouds. He stared into the hollow eyes of his assailant, seeing only death reflected there. …Karab! he managed to choke out as he recognized the face. You?

What did you find? Karab growled, clenching his jaw, pressing the knife deeper into the soft flesh under his chin. Who have you told?

No one, the monsignor gasped, standing on his tiptoes to ease the pressure of the knife.

Liar! Karab smashed him across the face, tearing his lip, splattering blood across the side of the Jeep. If you want to live…

Rubens spit blood into Karab’s face. You have no intention of allowing me to live.

Karab raised him higher onto his toes with the pressure of the knife.

Then think about how you want to die. He crushed the knife deeper into Rubens’ throat, freeing fresh rivulets of blood, holding him fast. You can die quickly if you tell me what you discovered. Or slowly, in great pain—your choice.

Go to hell.

Ooh, that from a priest. A monsignor? Karab asked, slowly shaking his head.

Closing his eyes Rubens began to pray, conscious of the warmth flowing down his chest as the knife cut deeper. He could feel the drag of the blade, but could no longer feel the searing pain as the knife sliced into his flesh. Suddenly, he was aware of the stars surrounding the moon—so many they illuminated the desert sky—so bright they filled him with an overwhelming sense of peace. He had never noticed how beautiful the stars were against a black sky that seemed endless.

Rubens looked into the assassin’s face and watched curiously as Karab increased the pressure on the knife. Let’s see how deeply I have to cut before you confess what I want to know.

Chapter One

A death sentence. Martin Cardinal Brandt pounded the top of his leg with his fist. His doctor had made a mistake. God would not give him a death sentence the same day the Pope gave him the dream assignment of his life. At this very moment, ancient Christian documents were being uncrated in a basement vault of the Vatican—scrolls hidden for two-thousand years, parchments and fragments discovered in clay jars in a cave near Kirbet Qumran. Among the documents a smuggled parchment so disturbing His Holiness would only hint of its existence. The Pope had appointed him, his trusted friend, to oversee translating the ancient material. But, his doctor had told him he would not live long enough to carry out the assignment.

As he leaned back on his favorite bench, staring up at the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, he decided that he would not—could not—tell the Pope of his condition. He would not give up this assignment—not without a fight. His chest tightened as he glanced into the crystal blue sky, soaking up the morning sun. Just as he would keep it from the Pope, so would he also keep the news from his brother.

Cutter had already lost so much. Another blow might send him over the edge. His faith, if he retained any at all, was fragile at best.

Martin closed his eyes and uttered a prayer for restoration of Cutter’s faith, and then opened his eyes and sighed. Who was he fooling? He had to tell his brother and soon. If he waited and something happened, Cutter would see this as another betrayal—someone else deserting him without warning.

He leaned his head back against the bench, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun. Even though the temperature on the plaza at Saint Peter’s crept toward eighty degrees, he found it impossible to leave his favorite bench, languishing in the cool spray of the fountain. The courtyard to the Porta Sant’Anna was cool, protected from the morning heat.

He watched as pigeons swooped in, pooling at his feet. Bobbing their iridescent heads, they cooed the morning gossip, keeping a keen eye on the sack of food in his hand. Life surrounded him everywhere throughout the Vatican garden: the manicured lawn, the graceful trees, and the fountain. He slammed his fist on the bench, backing the pigeons from his feet. He would prove the doctor wrong. He would not die—not yet.

He stared at his cooing friends as they retreated into the shade under the bench. He tossed the last of the bread crumbs, dusting his hands together.

Where was his faith? Certainly God would not give him this opportunity without giving him the strength to complete it. The pigeons, next to his feet, nodded their heads in agreement as they greedily picked through the crumbs. Gathering his files, he stood, stretched, and then reluctantly started toward the Dome. He knew that from this morning on, his life would be changed forever.

For thirty-two years, Martin had been assigned to Vatican archives, relishing every moment spent in dusty records, ancient passages to another world, a magical place he chose to be every moment he could steal away from teaching seminarians. Shaking his head, he smiled. He had come so far, seen so much. From chalkboards and desks squeezed between administrative offices, to chairs, tables, and state-of-the-art video computers where he could stand at his marble podium and press buttons to illustrate anything he could dream of, in a teaching auditorium of his own.

Somehow he had managed to adapt and keep up with technology. However exciting he thought his life had been, he realized he had been on cruise control when the urgent message from the Pope arrived at his apartment late last night—the sudden meeting within His Holiness’ private chamber—then, receiving the assignment that had taken his breath away.

After years of negotiations with the Israeli government to release portions of its Christian archival material collected over the last ten years, something happened. The Pope had received something that had panicked His Holiness and spurred him to action. Martin had seen the anxiety on his friend’s face.

Around midnight, scrolls and parchment fragments began arriving at the Vatican by truck and were immediately shuttled to the lower levels by armed guards, supervised by Vatican security, safeguarded by Israeli guards. This was obviously not a routine acquisition. Even the Dead Sea

Scrolls had not warranted such a high level of security.

To Martin’s astonishment, he was told the scrolls contained information never seen before, and that these transformative scrolls could change the world’s view of the church.

The guarded material was being arranged in a secured, converted vault within the basement to be examined only by those personally cleared by the Pope. Reaching the entrance of Saint Peter’s, Martin quickly moved through the arches into the instant coolness of the Basilica.

Because of his expertise in organizing the Vatican archives and long held teaching position, as well as being a personal favorite of the Pope’s, he alone had been selected to curate the material too sensitive to risk public exposure. An hour after hearing the assignment, he listened to the message on his phone containing the latest lab results from his doctor. He paused next to the cool wall to catch his breath and allow seminarians to pass, excitedly discussing the day’s agenda. Had his secretary been listening when the message was recorded? Had she heard? He narrowed his eyes, allowing them to adjust to the darkness of the interior, and then fed into the busy traffic moving throughout the Dome.

Life was strange. The Pope had summoned him to his private chambers, clearly excited over the acquisition, but undoubtedly under restraints as to how much he could reveal to Martin—but restraints by whom? Clearly, there was much his old friend was not saying.

Reaching the head of the stairs, he raced down the marble steps toward the vault. From the look on the Pope’s face as he described them, the scrolls obviously contained something not on the inventory—something His Holiness could not yet acknowledge—something disturbing enough to cause the anxiety he saw on his friend’s face.

He had never seen his friend this troubled before, this concerned. The Pope had seemed agitated, anxious as he laid out Martin’s commission. Martin brushed past the newly posted guard with a quick nod as the man fumbled with setting up a table and chair near the entrance. Before the guard could object, he entered the vault, his new world of organized disorder, the surreal chamber of a hastily adapted Vatican vault. Martin stopped in his tracks.

The large room had been refitted with glowing, bright, color corrected, florescent lights, the walls freshly painted white. His Holiness was sparing no expense to find whatever it was he was commissioning Martin to find, while refusing to acknowledge what he was searching for.

Guards working through the night had successfully uncrated the last of the packing crates onto white, linen-draped tables lining the walls of the glaring morgue-like setting, leaving long tables in the middle of the room empty except for magnifying equipment and a state-of-the-art copying machine. Boxes of gloves were stationed next to several work stations under low-hanging, lights.

It was an archivist’s dream. With no questions asked, it was exactly what he had requested. His Holiness had it set up within hours, with neither objection nor expense spared

Turning, he considered the uniformed guard arranging the table outside the entrance to the vault. The guard’s uniform was unfamiliar. It wasn’t one of the Vatican guards. He stared at the amount of archival material already neatly arranged on the tables around the room, desperate to get started. He glanced at his watch; he had less than an hour to spare before he was scheduled to meet his next class. Martin would teach the class, excuse himself from the mandatory conference period, and then make his way through the bowels of the Vatican to keep a long overdue appointment with an old, entombed acquaintance. .

It had been years since he visited the tomb of Saint Peter—his secret place to rearrange his priorities and gather his thoughts. Sitting in the silence of the burning candles in front of the tomb had a way of clarifying his objectives, setting him on the right path.

He dusted his fingertips across the first dark fragment he picked up, and then moved to one of the tables under a glaring light.

Cardinal?

"Antoni," he said, looking up. I didn’t hear you come in.

Antoni’s eyes widened as he approached the tables. What is all this?

Martin glanced toward the guard who had finally settled just outside the vault’s entrance. He could see from the way the guard positioned himself, it was to be a permanent arrangement, something else he would have to contend with.

He turned to the young priest who stood staring at the interior of the vault wide-eyed, absorbing the details as his eyes scanned scrolls and pieces of parchment laid out over the long tables.

This is all from the Dead Sea area and contains material laid aside by the Israeli Government to translate at a later date because it was not material they were interested in at the time. It’s Christian material and may contain references to the early church—scrolls never seen—never translated. There’s something else here. Watching the guard near the door through the corner of his eye, he whispered, His Holiness told me there could be material not listed on the inventory that could profoundly affect the way we view the church. Antoni looked around the room. Are you suggesting some of this material is not here unofficially? Illegally obtained? Antoni whispered.

Recently, smuggled to us by a monsignor, an old friend of mine—went to seminary with me as well as the Pope. He is a very close friend of mine as well as the Pope’s. He leaned closer to the young priest so the guard at the door could not hear. Evidently, the monsignor found something in one of the caves—something critical to the Church’s existence. Whatever he found is somewhere within these documents. Apparently, his only vehicle for getting it to us was to get the Pope to negotiate the release of all the Christian material. I don’t understand why—because I don’t understand what Rubens found—at least not yet, Martin said. I think His Holiness is scared.

Scared of what? ask Antoni refocusing.

Martin shrugged his shoulders. At this point, your guess is as good as mine.

Great. So your assignment is to find whatever it is without knowing what it is, Antoni said, shaking his head. Rubens smuggled it out under the very noses of those searching for it. His Holiness is most anxious for us to locate the monsignor’s material as quickly as possible, and then notify him immediately. Stepping back, he considered the young priest apparently already planning where to start in the sea of parchment. When I spoke with His Holiness last night, he seemed almost desperate that we locate whatever it is as soon as possible.

Antoni’s eyes traveled over the partially wrapped scrolls spread throughout the room, glowing under the bright light. Did he give you any clue as to what you’re looking for?

That was all he could tell me. From the look on his face, I think he felt he had already said too much.

So no one, except the Pope, knows what’s here and he’s not saying. Yet he wants you to find it?

Martin nodded. That’s about it.

Antoni approached the table, trailing his fingers near the edge of a promising document. And the bulk of the scrolls, the ones not so critical, what are they?

Most of the material is from the same area of the desert the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered in, filtered through the Kislev Foundation in Tel Aviv. This material was not willingly released. The Kislev Foundation has an exclusive arrangement with the Israeli Department of Antiquities to receive all material from the Dead Sea area and catalogue it. Once the monsignor had contacted the Pope and informed him that he had discovered something, His Holiness immediately began negotiations to get the material transferred to us using every bit of leverage within his power.

How did the monsignor contact him? Antoni asked turning to him.

A letter. He sent the Pope a letter.

Once more Antoni swung around to face him. A letter?

I know, strange, but I could see the letter in the Pope’s hand as he spoke. Everything, including the material the monsignor smuggled to us, found its way here by way of Tel Aviv from the Kislev Foundation. His Holiness implied that the monsignor hid the material he discovered with documents scheduled to be shipped to the foundation. In the letter, the monsignor outlined what he was sending and urged the Pope to use his influence to obtain the material immediately. When His Holiness spoke of this, I could hear desperation in his voice—something I’ve never heard before. Martin glanced over the tables lined with scrolls. Whatever it is—it’s imperative we locate it as soon as possible.

Smuggled documents, we the Vatican—appropriated? You’ve got to be kidding?

Martin leaned back on the stool. All of the materials you see before you contain references to the early church. These documents belonged to us from the very beginning. Besides… He paused as he considered the young priest already absorbed in reading one of the fragments. He confided that the information in one of these scrolls might have the potential of destroying world order, Martin whispered.

What? Antoni exclaimed, glancing up from the fragment he scanned. What are you saying?

That’s all I can tell you, all he told me. You now know as much as I do.

And you expect me to embrace this conspiracy? Antoni asked, raising an eyebrow.

Martin looked over the top of his glasses at the young priest, scanning the fragment of another scroll in his hand. No problem, Antoni said, shrugging his shoulders. When will your friend, the monsignor, get here?

Martin sighed. Rubens tried to get a message to me by phone several nights ago but the call was dropped—never heard from him again. He hasn’t returned my calls. I’m getting worried.

Antoni looked up, glancing silently at the guard who had settled in his chair at the door and now watched through the corner of his eye. How many will be on the team besides you and I?

None.

Antoni’s eyes widened. Just the two of us? This is a lot of material, he said, looking up at Martin.

We do have a place to start. Start searching by language. The Pope said the document we are searching for will be written in Aramaic—the tongue of Jesus. The other material we’ll classify and translate as time allows before all of this must be returned to the Kislev Foundation.

Antoni ran a finger under his collar, flipping the white collar free, and then slumped over the table adjusting his glasses as he absently laid the collar on the table beside him. This could take a lifetime. He looked up. But what a way to spend a lifetime.

I’ve got class in an hour and then an errand, Martin said. I assume your answer is yes to compromising your morality in order to translate these documents?

Antoni’s eyes glazed as he sorted through the fragments next to him.

Why so much security? Antoni suddenly asked, casually glancing toward the guard. This room’s a vault, isn’t it? In fact, claustrophobic, he said, glancing around the thick walls. What do we need him for?

He’s not ours. Certainly not part of the Swiss Guard or part of the Secret Service However, he seems to be part of the arrangement, said Martin, stretching, glancing at his watch.

The vault makes it easy to protect the documents, and if you ask me, easy for us to be observed. It must have been part of the agreement the Pope made with the Kislevs. Nothing leaves this room or the entire lot goes back to Tel Aviv, a promise His Holiness made to the Kislevs.

How much leeway do we have? asked Antoni.

Anything we report to him must be disclosed to the Foundation. His Holiness feels honor-bound to follow the agreement to the letter—which means tell him nothing—until we’re certain we’ve found what we’re searching for.

A hint of what he’s looking for would be nice, said Antoni.

Martin looked toward the guard. I got the feeling he said as much as he could—as much as he dared.

Is most of this from the same area? asked Antoni.

Yes. From a cave located in was northeast of the Mar Saba Monastery in the Wadi en-Nar—an extremely isolated area in the desert.

Antoni looked toward the ceiling as he surveyed the vault through the corner of his eye.

No cameras, said Martin, shaking his head, if that’s what you’re looking for. And no microphones.

Martin moved closer as Antoni motioned him to his side.

Look, Antoni said in a whisper as Martin stepped next to him, lightly dusting a small fragment with his fingertips. Different carbonization. The pieces from this box are a different color from a different location, a different time.

Martin glanced toward the guard at the door. That’s why I chose you, Martin whispered. You know what you’re doing. Besides, you were always one of my best students.

Martin leaned over the fragment. His heart pounded. He massaged the building tightness in his chest as he looked up at Antoni. You’re right, he said, looking into the young priest’s eyes. This piece is much older—could be some of Ruben’s material. He glanced at his watch. I’ve got to get to the auditorium or I’m going to be late. Keep looking.

Oh, and do your own legwork as far as obtaining references. We can’t allow anyone to see what we’re looking at. I don’t want anyone else involved. Not even if they come by offering to help. I chose you. I want no one else. And another thing, be careful what you bring into the room from the outside as a reference. Everything is subject to inspection. Anything the guard approves coming into this room will be reported.

Reported to whom?

His Holiness didn’t mention any names. I don’t think he was free to discuss any of the circumstances of the acquisition.

Antoni narrowed his eyes at the guard as he pulled the fragment he was working on closer to his chest.

Even though there are no cameras in this room, make no mistake, we’re being watched. He raised his head, looking at the young priest through the bottom of his glasses. Apparently, these guys are highly trained. I want them to know as little as possible. Only you and I will have access to the vault, no guards, and no runners from the main library.

And the Kislev Foundation? Who reports to them? Won’t they be anxious for a report of our progress?

Let His Holiness tap dance around that. The Pope is clearly under a great deal of pressure as to what he can reveal. Martin straightened from the table, frowning as he glanced at his watch. There’s something else.

Antoni glanced up distractedly. What?

When His Holiness warned me to be careful—I didn’t like the look on his face.

Chapter Two

Cutter fumbled for the gun, shoving it further under the sheets as his fingers walked toward it. The pain in his head was excruciating. His mouth, scorched from a steady diet of alcohol, tasted as rotten as the room smelled. He pulled the damp pillow toward his head.

Every muscle in his body screamed. His fingers finally located the barrel of the pistol. The metal felt smooth, cool to his fingertips, the only thing in his life remotely clean.

He pounded the sheet next to his head. There was no one left to care whether he lived or died. He dragged the pistol next to his face, cooling his feverish skin. His finger on the trigger was reassuring, as if he had gained some measure of control over his life. Rolling onto his back, he dropped his hand to the carpet.

The ceiling continued to circle overhead when he cracked his eyelids. His fingers staggered along the floor toward the bottle—dead, lying on its side—a soldier killed hours ago or had it been days? He couldn’t remember—he couldn’t remember anything anymore. What did it matter other than he was going to have to find the energy to get another bottle.

Everything in his life was dead: his wife, the baby, everyone except Martin, the only one who actually gives a…

Oh God, Katie, he groaned, slapping his arm over his face. The baby. He tightened his arm over his eyes as if he could squeeze the memory out.

Maybe he would call Martin in Rome when the ceiling quit circling, after he found the strength to get another bottle. He needed his brother—not the priest—his brother. He balled the damp pillow under his head, searching for a cool, dry spot on its surface.

He hated the Church for what it had done to Martin; but most of all, he hated God—if there were such a thing. No God he could have believed in would allow the slaughter of Katie and the baby in that wreck—two innocents. He gripped the sheet in his fist, pulling it away from the damp bed. Martin was a fool to believe that bull—the ritual, the hypocrisy. Dragging the sheet under his chin, he closed his eyes. He needed his big brother. Martin had been both parents since their father died and their mother had abandoned them.

His finger located the pistol once again, startling him. He toyed with the barrel, edging his fingers to the trigger. The only thing stopping him from applying pressure was what his death would do to his brother. Life had taken everything he loved from him. He wouldn’t do the same to Martin—not after all his brother had done for him.

He dragged the gun next to his face, a balm to his wretchedness. Maybe he would just leave the metal next to his hot cheek, at least until the room stopped spinning.