The Resurrection File (43 page)

“I'm going to see him,” Will said starting to get up. “I have a message for him.”

“Yeah, I bet,” the other man said. “So give us the message, and then get off this property in thirty seconds or we start shooting.”

Will noticed that they both had Western-style handguns in holsters at their sides.

“I'll give this message directly to Warren Mullburn. And if he doesn't get it from me right now, I think he will be very upset. And if that happens, I have a feeling that you guys are going to end up being a meal—you know, for the desert animals that come out at night.”

The two looked at each other, then one of them spoke into his headset. He reached around and grabbed Will's wallet out of his pocket, carried it over to the carlight, and flipped it open to his driver's license.

“Will Chambers,” he said to his remote contact.

There was a pause.

“Yes—he's right here in front of me. Yes, I'm sure.”

Another pause.

“No. He's on foot.”

A few more seconds.

“No. He's alone. I don't know. Maybe he hitchhiked.”

The man listened and nodded, and then he told Will to sit in the front seat of the Land Rover. While he drove, his partner sat behind Will. They sped up the dirt road for several miles, bumping and jostling, and occasionally jolting so hard it made Will's teeth chatter.

The unpaved road intersected with a paved one further into the desert, and after a few minutes on the paved drive they approached a large gate with a guardhouse. The driver stopped. The guard nodded to him and then they continued on for a couple more miles until, over the crest of a hill populated with only cactus and tumbleweeds, the road dipped down, and Will could see it.

Under the stars that were beginning to appear, “Utopia” shone forth, like a small lighted city below in the valley.

As they got closer, Will could see it was a complex of ornate white stone buildings that were connected with red brick walkways and lighted paths. The buildings were interconnected, and resembled the steps of some modern pyramid—like a mammoth, ascending temple of white stone terraced into the desert cliffs. Off in the distance he could hear music playing and voices laughing.

The Land Rover pulled up into a circle drive and stopped. He saw a Ferrari and and Rolls Royce parked to the side. There was a wall of glass in the front of the central building, with the word “Utopia” lettered in huge black-and-gold script across it. There were cascading fountains everywhere and hanging gardens of desert plants. Several peacocks ambled through the grounds, screeching now and then.

The two guards escorted Will toward the glass wall, which separated as they approached. Will entered a vast portico, with trees growing through holes in the terra cotta floor and up through openings in the roof. He was told to be seated on a couch. The two men stayed standing.

After about ten minutes, a tanned man in a bathrobe, accompanied by two muscular bodyguards, one of them a big blond, came striding into the portico.

The man in the bathrobe looked vaguely familiar. Will thought he might have seen him in a late-night TV infomercial years back. Will noticed that his hair was damp and his feet were leaving wet prints on the floor.

“I am Warren Mullburn,” the man in the bathrobe said. “And you, sir, interrupted my evening swim. I do twenty laps. Olympic-size pool.”

“Shucks, I forgot to bring my swimsuit,” Will said, standing up.

“What do you want? Make it quick.”

“I have a message for you.”

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am,” Will replied.

“Oh, yes. My assistant called ahead and told me. He said your name is Will Chambers.”

“Mr. Mullburn, the fact is that you already knew who I was. That is why I was picked to deliver this message to you.”

“Message? From who?”

“Abdul el Alibahd.”

“You're insane,” Mullburn laughed contemptuously.

“Am I? Perhaps you ought to hear what he has to say.”

At that, Mullburn waved away the two men who had picked up Will on the road. They turned and left, leaving only Will, Mullburn, and the two bodyguards.

“Let's hear it,” Mullburn barked.

Will paused. For a moment, he summoned up the mental image of Audra—making her hair, her features, her presence as real as he could. Then he recited what he had been told to memorize on the freighter.

I, Abdul el Alibahd, the obedient of Allah, know that you are the Great Satan. I know of the agreement you are making with OPEC, and what you wish to do with Saudi Petrol Company. I also know that you, Warren Mullburn, are no true follower of Allah. I know how you try to play the harlot between the Christian infidels and the believers of Islam, and try to destroy the purity of Islam. If you do not withdraw all of your evil plans, my followers will visit you in the night. First they will kill your bodyguards. And then they will come to you with their long, sharp, knives. And all night they will cut you apart, piece by piece, while you still live. And the last thing they will cut out of you will be your heart. And then they will bring your heart to me, Abdul el Alibahd, for I am the avenger of Islam, the leader of the Great Jihad.

When Will had finished speaking, he saw that Mullburn's face was scarlet with rage.

Mullburn walked up to Will until he was so close that Will could feel his breath.

“Who told you this?”

“I already explained. Abdul el Alibahd.”

“Why would he pick you? An alcoholic lawyer with a failed career who goes around chasing the memory of his dead wife—why would he pick
you
to come here to tell that to
me?”

“Because you have been tracking me. Because you must have a really big stake in the lawsuit that Dr. Albert Reichstad brought against my client,” Will responded firmly. “Because you know all about the deaths of Harim Azid and Dr. Richard Hunter—you're probably the one that planned them. Because you're involved in dirty deals with Kenneth Sharptin and OPEC. Because, even if Alibahd thinks you are the ‘Great Satan'—you know what? I don't agree. You're not the ‘Great Satan.' You and this Alibahd creep both work for Satan, but only as middle-level employees. You're nothing more than a demonic bureaucrat.

“And most of all, I'm here because you killed my dog and burned down my house. I wanted to see what kind of sick puppy would really do something like that.”

Mullburn glanced quickly over at the big blond bodyguard, then looked back at Will. Mullburn managed a crooked smile.

“Well. You have quite a vivid imagination, Mr. Chambers. It was interesting to meet you. But I'm afraid that you and I will not be seeing each other again.”

Then he turned to the big blond bodyguard and said, “Bruda, see Mr. Chambers out, won't you? I wouldn't want him to disappear in the desert at night. It can be dangerous out there.”

Bruda Weilder walked up in back of Will and spoke to him from behind as Mullburn disappeared.

“Mr. Chambers, how would you like some new religion?”

“Actually, the old-time religion is beginning to look better every day,” Will replied softly.

“Too bad,” Weilder said, and then he put something hard against the back of Will's head. It felt like a gun barrel. “'Cause, when we get into the desert, I'm going to fill your brains with some really powerful karma.” With that, Weilder and his partner snickered.

Suddenly there was a noise of engines outside, along with the sound of tire screeches echoing off the buildings.

One of the guards ran in and said something to the other bodyguard in a low voice. Weilder quickly disappeared, and a moment later four uniformed police officers strode into the portico area.

“Warren Mullburn?” asked the one in front, as the other three scanned the scene.

“No,” Will replied, “I think he's enjoying his Olympic-size pool.”

“Do you know anything about this?” the officer demanded, holding up a piece of tan paper towel with writing on it. Will smiled as he recognized his message:

HELP! I'VE BEEN KIDNAPPED! THIS IS NO JOKE. I'M AT THE MULLBURN “UTOPIA.” SEND THE POLICE NOW!

Just then Warren Mullburn breezed into the room, still in his bathrobe.

“I wrote that,” Will Chambers said, nodding toward the paper-towel note.

“Are you saying that Mr. Mullburn here is kidnapping you?”

“Certainly not,” Will responded. “I'm not being kidnapped, am I, Mr. Mullburn?”

Mullburn smiled through a tight grin. “Of course not.”

“Would you like to explain this note?” the police officer asked Will.

“I will be glad to,” Will replied, “but if you don't mind, why don't we talk in one of your squad cars?” Then Will looked at his watch. It was Sunday night, midnight, East-Coast time. The court hearing before Judge Kaye would begin in nine hours.

“I've got a plane to try to catch,” Will added.

54

J
UDGE
J
EREMIAH
K
AYE SWEPT INTO THE COURTROOM
of the U.S. District Court in Washington, D.C., his robe flowing, and he perched himself behind the mahogany judge's bench. His reading glasses were perched on the top of his head. His white hair was slightly unkempt, and a shock of hair hung down over his left eyebrow. His pale, wrinkled face was set in his characteristic early-morning smile—an expression whose good nature was subject to change depending on the level of good faith, cooperation, and intelligence of the attorneys who were to come before him on that day's docket.

With the Great Seal of the United States behind him on the wall, Judge Kaye leaned over to his deputy clerk and whispered something. She said something back, and after they had both had a chuckle, the judge turned to the courtroom.

“Case number 01 CV 767,
Reichstad vs. MacCameron and
Digging for Truth
Magazine,”
the court clerk called out.

J-Fox Sherman was at the counsel table with two of his associate attorneys. Dr. Reichstad sat at the end of their table.

At the opposite counsel table, Reverend Angus MacCameron was sitting alone. There was an empty chair next to him where Will Chambers should have been sitting.

Sherman rose to his feet.

“Jay Foxley Sherman, counsel for the plaintiff, your honor. We are ready to proceed. I do note the absence, however, of opposing counsel, Mr. Will Chambers.”

“Reverend MacCameron, where's your attorney?” the judge asked.

“I am not entirely sure, your honor,” MacCameron answered. “I am certain he will be here directly.”

“Uh-oh,” the judge said, looking over at his clerk. “This is not a good way to start out a Monday. Not a good way to start my docket at all. Here I came into this courtroom, having spent my weekend reading the voluminous briefs filed by both sides in this case. Prepared to listen to argument this morning—ready to decide the theological mysteries of the ages—I guess that's what this case is about, right? Somebody's going to be asking me to take sides on no less a question than the resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth—isn't that what's behind all of this?” With that, the judge smiled.

“Not really, your honor. Not even close.” Sherman was smiling confidently.

“I was just pulling your leg a little, Mr. Sherman,” the judge remarked. “I do understand the legal issues here. But it does raise the question—”

That was when Will Chambers strode quickly through the swinging doors in the back of the courtroom, accidentally banging them loudly.

Will noticed Jacki Johnson sitting in the audience section, and he darted over to her and whispered, “Jacki, give me a legal pad, will you?”

She tossed a yellow legal pad to him. Will grabbed it and walked quickly up to the counsel's table, carrying nothing but the pad of paper in his hand.

Judge Kaye carefully studied him.

“You're a mess, Mr. Chambers!” the judge exclaimed. “Look at you!”

Will's crumpled suit had several obvious grease spots, and the right knee of his pants leg was torn. Although he had gallantly tried to comb his hair in the airplane bathroom, his long tangled mane of hair sported several cowlicks. His white shirt had a few slightly cleaned-up bloodstains on it, and one of the buttons on his shirt collar was missing, causing one side of the collar to stick out slightly. His bruised face bore the stubble of having not been shaved all weekend.

J-Fox Sherman smirked and quipped to the judge, “Your honor, Mr. Chambers has obviously taken up a new legal specialty—homeless law!”

Sherman's associates burst into laughter.

Judge Kaye was not amused.

“Thank you, Mr. Sherman. Your compassion for the underprivileged in our society is a real comfort to the court.”

Then the judge turned back to Will.