my children, think of it. Four. That is the number-four. Four represents accomplishment, finality, wholeness. That is the belief of the cabalists and alchemists-religions lost in time, before Christ himself. Yet it holds true, in Christian teaching, that this number is a highly charged, holy number and has been since time's beginning. It represents the four elements, the four stages of life: infancy, youth, midlife, and old age. And so we believe-and so we all believe as one mind-that our fourth crucifixion will provide the answers sought by all: all the answers ever asked by all mankind. The mysteries of the universe revealed to those who believe, and they alone. For it came to pass that they alone sought true and utter purity and rapture. That all others were made blind and dumb to the sound of His voice.”
But dissension, inevitable among even Jesus' followers, invaded the temple. One of their number pointed out, “But we have chosen badly and wrongly.”
A second angry voice cried out, “None of those targeted to die on the cross have been a right and righteous choice.”
“Wrong,” their leader insisted.
“How so, wrong?” pressed a follower, another doubting voice.
He clearly, calmly, evenly pointed out, “In order to find and make the right choice, wrong choices are a necessary part of the process of getting from here to there. God is testing us one and all, my friends. Only through adversity does the spirit enter this world. So only through mistakes and pain and suffering can Christ come to us at this the time of the actual millennium. We were all made fools by thinking it was 2000, but as we now know 2001 is our true millennium.” Another of their number pointed out, “If the integer four means accomplishment, then the integer eight would mean accomplishment twofold, would it not?”
“If it is God's will that we crucify eight whom we choose to go before us, then so be it,” their leader replied sharply. If it take a hundred, then so be it.” The battlelike discussion inside and out of the mosque of mind and the synagogue of soul within their leader had raged now for days.
In the meantime, they'd crucified no one. “We must stop getting in the way,” he told them in simple terms, “in our own way, slowing progress toward any completion. Now, I tell you that the number four is, after all, special, any way we may look at it.”
“So, we look for number four…”
“Number four…”
“Number four,” they took up the chant.
Their leader breathed a bit easier, seeing that his persuasive hold on them and his struggle to maintain control had, for the time being, won out.
“Number four!” he shouted to the earthen ceiling of this place, his enormous voice seeming to shake the huge cross behind him.
Scotland Yard Crime Lab and Postmortem Room
Theodore Burton's body, still as glass, a fishy underbelly-white hue overall, lavender with touches of purple- where bruises had formed-spoke nothing to Jessica. It lay before Jessica hard as linoleum from its time in the cooler, shriveled, and now the sheetlike skin with multiple folds looked back at her as if to say, Go ahead, I challenge you to read anything from this body.
Certainly the body stood in stark contrast to Tattoo Man back in the States. Not a mark on Burton save those obvious and horrid wounds to hands and feet that spoke volumes about exactly how Theodore Burton-the Mole-met his end: stark death via crucifixion.
Standing about the postmortem room, ostensibly to watch over Jessica's shoulder, Boulte and Sharpe showed signs of restlessness. More so Boulte than Sharpe, but Jessica had long stopped paying heed to either man. She did a mental Houdini, making them vanish from both the room and her focus.
Burton had once been heavy, but the thin frame looked as if he'd suffered some debilitating disease late in life, causing both body and face to wither. The punishment to the features seemed obvious to Jessica, and this also contributed to his ferretlike features. One certainty: He'd been completely out of shape, that much the body assured her. Certainly, he was in no shape to withstand the rigors of a crucifixion of many hours. He likely succumbed early to the torturous stress placed on his muscles and lungs.
Jessica found herself staring across the body at a dark-skinned doctor whose height challenged Jessica not to look down on him. His small head and beaky nose gave him the appearance of a rodent, yet his smile appeared genuine. He tried to put her at ease with his name by pronouncing it slowly and carefully as, “A1… just call me Al. It's easier than Al-Zay-don Ray-hill.”
“And I'm Jessica,” she replied, reading his nameplate: dr. al-zadan raehael.
They shook hands and Jessica asked, “Did you check for any signs of cancer, Dr. Raehael?”
“I am assistant M.E. for Dr. Karl Schuller, the attending autopsiest here at Scotland Yard crime lab. Such an order must come from him, unless I have the body. That is, unless it comes to my attention first. Rules, but to answer your question, I rather doubt it.”
“So, no general interest in disease prior to death?”
“Ahhh, no, we did not search for that. I did not, not specifically, no. Dr. Schuller saw no need for that. Mr. Burton died of asphyxiation from hanging for hours on a cross, Doctor.” The last came out in a derisive tone that the genteel Egyptian accent could not mask.
“Hours,” she chorused. “Exactly how many hours did Dr. Schuller surmise?”
“What difference?”
“I merely wondered if he'd been suffering from any malady before his death. If so, perhaps Mr. Burton thwarted the killer.”
“How is it do you mean?”
“Any abnormality may have contributed to a curtailing of the Crucifier's fun and games, as well as to a lessening of the victim's suffering.” On the defensive now, Dr. Schuller's assistant replied, “What good does that information do in circumstances of this nature?”
Jessica examined the assistant more carefully. He was a black-eyed, black-haired little man. Somewhat round, his skin was pockmarked and rough, his attitude both subservient and challenging all at once. The small man's eyes bore into her, watching her every move, suspicious perhaps, and from his tone of voice, obviously unimpressed with her.
Sharpe wanted to hear more on this matter. “We brought Dr. Coran from America because of her reputation, Dr. Raehael.”
“Yes, we have all heard at Scotland Yard how attention to detail is your trademark, Dr. Coran. However, the man's illnesses or lack of illnesses-had we done tests to ascertain either-hardly contributed to his slow, heinous, and torturous death. Does your FBI still rank the degree of torture to the victim as the most important fact in prosecuting offenders?”
Evasive fellow, Jessica thought even as she replied. “We still have a torture chart with levels to plot out the extent of torture endured by a victim, yes. This would-given the amount of time the victim suffered-be calculated in the upper levels, something of a tort nine, perhaps even a ten.”
Sharpe directed the conversation back on course, telling Raehael, “Dr. Coran didn't say that Burton's condition and health before his crucifixion would have contributed to his death, quite the contrary,” corrected Sharpe. “What Dr. Coran is suggesting, if I'm hearing her correctly, is that Burton may have died a less torturous death-at least in terms of time in suffering-if he were in a weakened condition to begin with.”
“That about sums it up,” Jessica agreed.
Sharpe continued for Raehael's sake while the small, dark man nodded appreciatively and in silence. “The healthier our victim, in this case, the more time on the cross. Is that not what you're saying, Dr. Coran?”
“Precisely.” Jessica bit back her anger at the complacency of the assistant M.E. and turned her attention back to the deceased, wondering why the dead man spoke to her-even in his serene and solemn silence-more intelligently than the living man standing across from her. Still, the body, like a ship with a hardened outer shell now, defied the scalpel- defied her as well-to unlock its secrets. Secrets locked away in a dark chamber called death. Nothing new in and of itself, but something more seemed at play here. Something grimly pleasant about the dead man's expression also defied logic; he appeared at absolute peace.
As if reading her thoughts, Sharpe broke in with, “Odd, that expression on his face, wouldn't you say, Doctor?”
“Death wears any number of masks,” she replied, reminding herself of a favored Holcraft quote: “Even bodies
