Mission (3 page)

Through a colleague, Miriam had got in touch with an obliging lady botanist who was able to identify the thorns as coming from a
prickly shrub called
Palerius.
It was one of several similar types to be found in Israel and the Middle East generally. As evidence, it wasn't particularly conclusive but it didn't help our mental campaign to turn the Saturday night mystery into a non-event.

I asked Miriam if she was going to try and have the thorns carbon-dated.

‘No need,' she replied. ‘Alison found traces of sap on the base of the thorns. She reckons that the branch they were growing on had been cut from the bush within the last couple of weeks.'

Which, when you think about it, seemed to make sense.

It was with the blood sample that things got a little sticky and the story we concocted eventually fell apart, but it was the best we could come up with at the time. Miriam had asked a friend of hers called Jeff Fowler to analyse it. He was the head of some research team or other that was working on blood fats. When he called Miriam back he had sounded distinctly twitchy so she fixed for the three of us to meet at my place.

As he came in through the door, he said, ‘Where did you get this sample from?' We hadn't even shaken hands.

‘Before I answer I want to know one thing,' I said, stalling for time. ‘Is it human and, uhh – what would you like to drink?'

‘The answer to your first question is a qualified “Yes”. And I'll have some of that Jack Daniels. On the rocks.'

Miriam went into the kitchen to get the ice.

I put my back between Fowler and the bottle and poured out three thick fingers of Sippin' Whisky. ‘That really surprises me. I thought it might be chicken blood. Or maybe pig.'

‘No, it's human,' said Fowler. ‘Only more so. That's why I want to know who you got this from.'

Miriam returned from the kitchen. I took the ice and sent her in to bat. ‘What exactly do you mean, Jeff?'

‘Just what I've said,' replied Fowler. ‘The blood is human but it differs from any other sample I've seen in two important respects. First, it appears to have been subjected to a heavy dose of radiation – ‘

‘Not unreasonable.' I handed over the glass of bourbon in the hope that it might sap his zeal for the truth. ‘My client had been receiving cobalt therapy for cancer of the stomach.'

Miriam eyed me and did her best to look as if she knew all about it. ‘And the second thing?'

‘The red cell structure is abnormal,' said Fowler. He didn't seem to have noticed that the ice cubes didn't touch the bottom of his glass.

‘In what way?' I asked.

‘Do you know anything about blood?'

I shrugged. ‘I know it retails at ten dollars a pint.'

Fowler gave up on me. ‘It's too complicated to explain in detail. What I really need is a bigger sample to run more tests but if the abnormality I found was reproduced throughout the body, it would arrest the ageing process.'

‘I wish I knew the secret,' said Miriam.

‘I'm not kidding,' said Fowler. ‘This is dynamite. Whose blood is it?'

I put on my blandest expression. ‘It, uhh – belongs to a gentleman who paid several visits to a centre for psychic healing in the Philippines. As Miriam had probably explained, I'm a lawyer. My client's family had reason to believe that the treatment was fraudulent and we were preparing a law suit against the people involved.'

‘Got it,' nodded Fowler. ‘Some of those guys are pretty smooth operators.'

‘Exactly,' I said. ‘It took months of planning and skullduggery to obtain a sample of the blood that allegedly came from the stomach of my client after one of the ‘operations'. The last thing I expected was that it would be human.'

‘Group O,' said Fowler.

I grimaced disappointedly at Miriam. ‘My client's blood type …'

‘Where is he?' asked Fowler. ‘Can we run some more tests?'

‘I wish it were possible,' I said. ‘He died last Friday. I'm acting for the family.'

It was Fowler's turn to look disappointed. ‘I see. Has he, uhh – been buried yet?'

‘No, cremated,' I replied. ‘But if the blood cells were transformed in the way you suggest, it would seem to imply that some of these people actually
do
have paranormal powers. If the word got around it might weaken our case. Apart from which, it could be embarrassing for you.'

‘How do you mean?' said Fowler.

‘Well – ‘ I shot a sideways glance at Miriam. ‘You want to come out in public for faith healing? Even if it worked? Isn't your research program funded by one of the big multi-national drug companies?' I sat back and let the poison do its work.

Fowler's eyeballs bounced off the rims of his glasses as he figured out the implications. ‘You're right,' he mused.

I shrugged. ‘No point in rocking the gravy boat.'

‘No,' said Fowler. ‘And anyway, why should I help line the pockets of those dinks. Screw 'em.'

‘Good thinking,' I said. Then added helpfully, ‘Jeff, why don't we play it like this? You keep the samples. Junk them or work on them all you want, but let's agree to keep this whole thing under wraps. It's going to make life a lot simpler. Okay?'

Fowler looked at each of us then nodded. ‘Okay. But don't be surprised if you hear from me again. I'm going to stick with this until I come up with a satisfactory explanation.'

I threw up my hands and quoted the Bard. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Jeff. Let me give you a refill.' I gave my fellow-conspirator a loaded look.

Miriam smiled sweetly. ‘Leo, why don't you call Carol and see if she can make up a four for dinner?'

Carol was my friendly neighbourhood nymphomaniac. If she got on Fowler's case he would soon forget about abnormal blood samples. In fact, by the time she was through, he wouldn't even remember the difference between red and white corpuscles.

Luck was certainly on our side on that particular night. Or so I thought. Now, of course, I know better. But don't let's jump the gun. Not only was Carol free, she was bowled over by Fowler's blend of academic diffidence and Old World courtesy that he probably picked up from watching
Upstairs, Downstairs
on Channel Thirteen. Frankly, I found Fowler to be something of an asshole but with the aid of some spurious goodwill we managed to pass an agreeable evening over some Szechuan specialities then sent them both off in a taxi to finish what they had started under the tablecloth.

Miriam and I went back to my place with similiar intentions but I made the mistake of first seeking praise for the way I'd handled Fowler's questions about the blood.

‘Yes, it was very good,' she said flatly.

‘Very good? It was a goddamn stroke of genius,' I crowed. ‘All we have to do now is to keep him sedated with heavy doses of stunned admiration.'

‘Yes,' said Miriam. ‘Unfortunately, Fowler isn't our only problem.'

I stopped nibbling her ear. ‘How do you mean?'

‘Well,' she began. ‘I meant to tell you earlier but then Jeff arrived
and – etcetera. The thing is, I was having coffee this morning with some of the hospital administrators and just by chance somebody mentioned the ambulance.'

I felt my lustful passions wilt. ‘What ambulance?' As if I didn't know.

‘The ambulance that answered the NYPD call and brought the body to the Manhattan General. Instead of taking it to the city morgue.'

My eyes were riveted on hers. ‘Go on …'

‘It was stolen from the Gouverneur Hospital.' she said. ‘The two paramedics who drove away with the body did all the right things but nobody knows who they are. It certainly wasn't any of the regular crews. I asked Lazzarotti about them. All he can remember is that they were both tall slim guys. Like basketball players.'

‘How about the police?' I asked.

‘You mean the squad car that escorted them to the hospital? They don't know more than we do.' Then added with a shrug. ‘Listen, an ambulance is an ambulance. When one answers a ten fifty-four, who asks questions?'

I reached for a cigarette and stiffened my nerves with a quick drag. ‘Has it been found yet?'

‘Yes, the same night. They left it parked outside the Manhattan General.' She borrowed my cigarette for a couple of puffs then put it back between my lips. ‘I'm going to make some coffee.'

I followed her mechanically into the kitchen. My mind was in overdrive. Figuring all the angles. ‘Do you realise what this means?'

She nodded as she put some beans into the grinder. ‘I think so. But go ahead and tell me anyway.'

For once I had to force the words out. ‘It means that – that someone must have known he was – coming.'

‘Exactly,' said Miriam. ‘The question is – who?'

Who indeed? I had been besieged with questions all week and now more were crowding into my overworked brain. How could they have known? What was their role in all this? Where had they come from? Were they people like us, or had they come from beyond time and space as he had? Why, of all the hospitals in New York, had they chosen the Manhattan General? And did whoever ‘they' were, know about us? I can at least tell you one thing for sure. When something like this is dropped in your lap at one a.m. in the morning, all carnal thoughts fly out the window.

The following Saturday, I drove up to Sleepy Hollow. On top of the metaphysical turmoil created by the mystery man at the hospital, it had been a pretty heavy week at the office and on the back seat of the Porsche I had a caseful of papers that I'd promised myself I'd read through by Monday morning. Miriam was working but hoped to make it up-state on Sunday after lunching with her parents in Scarsdale. Normally, I'd have stayed in my apartment. I think the real reason I left town was because I wanted a moment of relative peace and quiet to reflect on what had happened. At least I like to think that was the reason. That I had a choice, and not because it had all been worked out for me.

Around five in the afternoon I was sitting at my work table in the living-room, reading through an inch-thick deposition on a patent infringement case I was preparing. I glanced idly out of the window towards the trees that mark the western edge of my modest spread. Between the house and the trees is this big open stretch of grass. Miriam likes to call it the lawn, but to me it's only lawn when it looks like astro-turf. This is grass. At least some of it is. My neighbour took great pleasure in telling me that most of the green bits were clover. Anyway … there I was, gazing through the window, thinking that (a) I would have to get the mower fixed, and (b) that it was time for another cup of coffee. I mention this because I am absolutely certain about what I did or, to be more precise, did not see.

As there were only thirty pages of the deposition left, I decided to finish it off first. I read through a couple more pages then looked out of the window again. And there was this guy in a pale brown robe and white head-dress walking across the grass towards the house. Now it
had taken no more than a minute to read those two pages. There was no way he could have got to where he was unless he had stepped out of thin air. I sat there, glued to my chair, and watched him come closer. Then I saw the bandages and knew I was in trouble. It was our friend from the Manhattan General …

Was I frightened? Yes, a little. I think what I really felt at that particular moment was a sense of wonder. Amazement. I just could not believe that this was really happening to me.

I used a slip of paper to mark my place in the deposition and went out on to the porch. I saw him pause to look at my car before he came on up the steps through the rock garden to the house. It was the same guy all right but he looked a lot better than he had at the hospital. The swollen bruises on his face had disappeared and his nose had been reset. He stopped a couple of yards away from me. His eyes were tawny brown; his gaze, that had haunted me, very direct. I stood there and eyed him back, trying to manifest a subtle air of assurance. Listen, it's not every day that you find the Son of God, or whatever you want to call him, standing on your doorstep. Because, believe me, that's who it was. Miriam had been right. It wasn't the victim of some gangland killing that the police had found in that alleyway. It was the body of the Risen Christ. And he'd come back. The Man was here. In front of me.

Impossible? Of course it was. That's what I tried to tell myself. It made no sense. Yet it had happened. Even so, my mind still refused to accept the evidence of my own eyes. And that was because an inescapable choice was being forced upon me. Something I hate. If I resisted up to the very last moment it was because of the fear that to accept his presence would totally change my life, just when I had reached the point when I was happy with the way things were. I could live with the world's imperfections. Doing so enabled me to comfortably ignore my own.

He glanced back at the Porsche with an admiring nod. ‘Nice.'

That really threw me. It was so totally unexpected.

‘Your name is Leo Resnick, right?'

I gulped wordlessly and nodded.

‘We met at the hospital,' he said. ‘Do you know who I am?'

I finally managed to loosen my larynx. ‘Yes, I think so. What can I do for you?' What a question. But at the time, I had no idea where it was going to lead me.

The Man just stood there, weighing me up with those deep-set
eyes. There was something unnerving about the way he would look at you. It reminded me of a falcon. The way they fix on you as they sit on their handler's gauntlet. After what seemed a long while he answered me. ‘I'm not sure yet.'

I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. It was the ‘yet' that did it. It meant that I was involved. That he not only knew my name but also had my number. And I remember cursing my luck and thinking if only it hadn't been raining last Saturday I would have found a cab. I would have got to the hospital on time. Miriam and I would have left before the ambulance that brought him in had arrived. And maybe – who knows – maybe I could have stayed out of all this. If you had been in my place you would probably have felt the same way.