Judas the Apostle Read online

  Acclamation for Judas the Apostle

  “A thriller with theological underpinnings, set both in steamy south Louisiana and the Old City of Jerusalem… a fascinating fictional exploration of the least understood and most maligned figure in the salvation story… this is the most original work of fiction I have edited.”

  —Catherine L. Kadair, freelance editor.

  “Most Christians and many religious scholars accept the story that Judas betrayed Jesus for money. But did he? The author offers the reader a religious mystery every bit as gripping as The Da Vinci Code. Set in South Louisiana and covering three continents, this crisply written debut novel is a page turner full of suspense, with a fascinating look at the motives of one of history’s most loathed villains. Judas the Apostle presents the possibility of alternative groundbreaking biblical history that is also a compelling read.”

  —Jim Brown, Author and Syndicated Talk Show Host (Produced by Clear Channel Communications and syndicated by Genesis Communications, Minneapolis, Minnesota).

  “An edge of the chair thriller, a stunning history and geography lesson, and an unparalleled glimpse into the past of one of history’s most maligned figures…Judas the Apostle tells a great, and truly plausible story, against the rich and often diverse tapestry of Louisiana, America’s most colorful and mysterious region.”

  —Bill Profita, Radio Talk Show Host, 107.3 FM,

  Baton Rouge, La.

  “This is a page-turner with both mind and muscle. Its thrills and intrigue are offered up with an equal dose of historic heft. It carries you along as it makes you reconsider the well worn stories you thought you understood.”

  —Anne Dubuisson Anderson,

  Writing and Publishing Consultant.

  Judas

  the apostle

  Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  iUniverse, Inc.

  Bloomington

  Judas the Apostle

  Copyright © 2012 by

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

  iUniverse

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  www.iuniverse.com

  1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

  ISBN: 978-1-4759-3155-6 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4759-3153-2 (e)

  ISBN: 978-1-4759-3154-9 (dj)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911310

  iUniverse rev. date: 7/27/2012

  Contents

  Acclamation for Judas the Apostle

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  PART 1 Madisonville

  CHAPTER 1

  Madisonville, Louisiana

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  Jewish Quarter, Jerusalem

  PART 2 Baton Rouge

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  PART 3 Lyon

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  PART 4 Jerusalem

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  EPILOGUE

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not be a reality without the tireless support of my wife, Lorri, which is gratefully acknowledged. Hearts!

  I have also greatly appreciated the support of my family. Particularly appreciated is the support of my ninety-two-year-young father who read every page of every version and always asked for more.

  A special word of thanks is due to my editors, Anne Dubuisson Anderson and Catherine Kadair, both of whom were great and did not give up on a novice writer. Thanks, also, to all the great people at iUniverse.

  To my friends, colleagues, and fellow Louisianans, although this book is purely fiction, I hope you will find familiar places and profiles from our beloved common heritage. God bless.

  This book is dedicated to Mama Lo, now and forever.

  PROLOGUE

  AD 73

  Now on his knees, Elazar ben Yair hung upon the point of his own sword as he stared out from the western wall of the impregnable fortress, Masada. The sun was setting, blood-red, as his vision clouded. He had wedged the hilt of his sword in a small crevasse in the top of the wall to prevent it from slipping. Elazar had then crouched over the upright blade, placing it against his abdomen, and collapsed upon it. The pain had been unbearable at first, but now he felt little except the inexorable march of the razor-sharp point toward his heart as his body weakened from loss of blood. Soon enough, it would pierce his heart and his life, and the great revolution would be finished.

  His people, the Sicarii, had been in revolt against the authorities, chiefly the Romans, as long as Elazar could remember and longer—some sixty years. They had been branded assassins because they used short knives to dispatch their political enemies. When the Romans sacked Jerusalem in AD 70, Elazar had led the remaining Sicarii in their flight to Masada.

  The invincible Masada redoubt had been created by
a Roman, Herod the Great, one hundred years before as a refuge for himself in the event of a revolt in the new Jewish territories. A twelve-foot-thick wall, with multiple fighting towers rimming the one-thousand-foot Masada plateau, had been built as well as an abundance of residences, baths, and of course, the palace for Herod.

  When the Sicarii arrived at Masada, it was garrisoned by only a small Roman force encamped at its base, which the Sicarii had quickly overrun. Now, Elazar ben Yair and his followers had committed the ultimate insult of claiming Masada for themselves.

  The Sicarii had storehouses of grain and herds of animals. An internal cistern system built by the Romans guaranteed water. The 960 men, women, and children on top of the Masada mountain could remain there for years.

  Numerous sorties by the Romans up the paths to the fortress had all ended in failure and death for the attacking soldiers. Elazar had thought that once the Romans realized the futility of assaulting the stronghold, they would lay siege to it. Given the superior position and supplies of the Sicarii, this battle could last years, and the Romans might eventually give up. But to Elazar’s shock, rather than wait them out, the Romans had changed tactics. Elazar now reflected that his people had been defeated not by Roman soldiers but by Roman engineers.

  The Romans had brought fifteen thousand slaves, including many Jews, to Masada. Unceasingly, the Romans had driven them to build an enormous ramp of thousands of tons of rock and dirt on the shortest side of the plateau. Slowly, relentlessly, the ramp had taken shape and moved up toward the lowest and weakest wall of the fortress. With their simple bows and arrows, the Sicarii initially could slow the progress but not stop it. Eventually, the Romans had built large wooden shields so that the arrows of the Sicarii were useless. Finally, the ramp lay adjacent to the outer wall of Masada, and the Romans brought up their battering engines to breach the wall. Soon they would be inside.

  Elazar had called his people together and pressed them in the face of the final Roman assault. He had told them of the fate awaiting them and their wives and children at the hands of the Romans. Each would be tortured, and those who survived would be sold into slavery. Better, he told them, to die as free men.

  Every warrior knew the dirty business that was at hand, and none had shrunk from it. No soldier wanted to be thought last among equals even though his love for his relations, his wife and children, was unquestioned. Knowing Elazar’s plea to be just, with tears in their eyes they had put to death their families as if they were strangers. Elazar had looked into the eyes of his own wife and seen equal parts love and acceptance. To ease his suffering, she had laid his dagger against her throat and entreated him to finish it.

  When only the warriors were left, they had drawn lots, and of the hundreds, ten had been chosen to continue the bloody work to its conclusion. Willingly, all the rest had knelt by their kin and submitted gladly to the swords of the ten. When this was done, those left had drawn lots again, and Elazar had been chosen to complete the killing, which he did, afterward studying what had been wrought. Now sure he was the last of the last, Elazar had set fire to everything but some of the food stocks. The Romans would know that the Sicarii had not been driven by hunger but had died as free men.

  As the Romans breached the wall and approached like ghostly specters with weapons drawn through the smoke and fire, Elazar’s sword neared his heart, and he was glad. Although he was dying along with the others with him, he knew the Sicarii would survive to fight again.

  PART 1

  Madisonville

  Going home must be like going to render an account.

  —Joseph Conrad, English novelist (1857–1924)

  CHAPTER 1

  Madisonville, Louisiana

  Present Day

  He was angry. His plan had been to get to the old man’s house at least an hour earlier. But at 2:30 a.m. on the small-town streets, only two cars had been moving, his rental and the village’s only cop on duty. To avoid suspicion he’d had to drive on through and out of the town. Even so, the cop had followed him to the city limits before turning back. This had forced him to find a secure place to park and to hike back to the target. He was now an hour and a half behind his carefully planned schedule.

  “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. Like German trains, he always ran on time.

  But from the beginning, when he had gotten the call, this job had seemed alternately rushed, delayed, or out of kilter. Since this assignment was in the United States, he had flown commercial from his home base in the Cayman Islands to Canada. There he had simply walked across the border and, through a series of untraceable transportation legs, arrived here and now.

  Standing across the way from the old man’s Water Street house, he smoked a cigarette, with the glowing end hidden in his gloved fist. The black water of the river was at his back, visible now only as a deeper shade of dark against the bank. He was dressed in his usual work clothes: black trousers, black synthetic sweatshirt, and black soft-soled shoes with no identifiable tread. He wore a black backpack containing the tools of his trade. Since the light was dim, the moon having set, he could not be seen from more than a few feet away unless, of course, someone had on night-vision goggles, as he did.

  He stubbed out the cigarette carefully, capturing the butt and putting it in a small bottle he carried for the purpose. His DNA would not be found at this job. From the same bottle he took two partially smoked cigarettes he had picked up in the Canadian airport and laid them on the ground where he had been standing.

  Excited by the prospects of his work, he removed from his backpack a small crowbar and a silenced .38-caliber revolver, manufactured to police specifications, and headed toward the old man’s house. Others in his line of work favored automatic weapons, Glocks and the like. This dark specter knew that automatics sometimes jammed, and although they carried more rounds, the five shots in the jam-proof .38 were all a skilled person needed. And skilled he was. He was the best in his field. His employers required no less.

  He carefully worked his way around the side of the house. It was one of a number of small homes overlooking the river lining this side of the street. Everything was completely quiet at this hour, now after 4:00 a.m. Not even a dog barked. A small stoop led up to the back door. The door itself was wooden with an ancient lock, and a glass pane covered the top half of the door. He saw this would be easy. He wedged the crowbar between the lock and the door jam. Many of his ilk used lock picks, but in his experience the crowbar got him in faster and made the entry look like a burglary or a home invasion. The cops would waste time looking at local thugs and DNA from the Canadian smokers.

  As he started to lever the crowbar against the door jam, he had a thought. Could it be? He withdrew the crowbar, grabbed the door knob, and gently turned it. The door swung silently open. He had heard there were still places like this, but he’d never expected to find one.

  He entered the kitchen, knowing the old man’s bedroom was in the front of the house opposite the living room. The item he had come for was supposed to be in the living room. He would have to be very quiet. He gently closed the back door, and with the night-vision goggles in place, he carefully picked his way around the kitchen table and moved into the combination dining/living room.

  Standing in the middle of the living room, he scanned the mantelpiece where he had been told the object would be. Why such a precious thing would be kept in such a place was beyond his need to know. But there was nothing there. With growing anxiety, he surveyed the entire room carefully, but the item was not there.

  Shit! Now what? As he turned, he heard an alarm clock in the next room go off and saw a crack of light from under the bedroom door. He quickly ripped off the night-vision goggles and waited. The thief liked to kill, but this was not supposed to be a killing mission. Adrenaline spiked within his body as he crouched, partially hidden behind a recliner, in wait for whatever was coming. The door opened, light fro
m the bedroom flooded in, and the old man walked stiffly into the living room.

  “Wha—” He was able to get out only part of the word before the shadowy figure fired his weapon, silently spitting a .38 hollow point slug into the old man’s chest. He staggered, took a step, and then stumbled once. He went down hard and didn’t move. A pool of blood began to spread around his body.

  Satisfied the old man no longer posed any threat, the interloper tore through the front bedroom and then the rest of the house, searching for the item. After twenty fruitless minutes, he had rummaged through the bath, the rear bedroom, and the kitchen. The thief returned to the living room, lighting a cigarette as he walked, and there found a surprise. Where the old man should be lying dead, there was nothing but the pool of blood. He put the cigarette to his lips and drew in a long satisfying pull before bottling the stub and readying himself to hunt his quarry. He had not found the article, but at least he would have the satisfaction of putting the old man in his grave.

  Drawing the .38, he headed toward the front bedroom where the bloody trail led and where he knew the old man must have somehow dragged himself. He entered the bedroom looking left, and clearing that direction, he swung right. The old man, bleeding profusely, sat in an overstuffed chair next to the bed, holding a 12 gauge pointed directly at the thief’s chest. The intruder’s reflexes were like lightning as he sought to trigger the .38, but they were no match for the single-0 buckshot that poured with smoke and fire out of both barrels of the shotgun, tearing the thief’s chest and life away.

  CHAPTER 2

  Clotile Lejeune leaned back in the seat as the big Boeing 777 lifted off the runway in the direction of the sea-driven prevailing winds. Early fall mornings in Seattle were cool, and she had opted for a lightweight, gray wool travel suit. Her long-sleeved pink blouse picked up the faint reddish highlights in her dark hair.