Gregg Loomis - The Coptic Secret

One of his problems was he had no real clues as to who it was that wanted him to drop the matter of the Gospel of James. The obvious answer was some fanatical religious splinter group of Catholics. Problem was, which one? He couldn't name them all. He could eliminate the Pegasus organization as having too much to lose in the event of his violent death. Besides, Pegasus's killers were professionals. The men who had made attempts on his life, at least in Rome and Prague, hadn't been, a fact for which he was extremely grateful. There was no way to tell whether the bombing of his condo had been the work of a true pro or some Timothy McVeigh wannabe. Ever since the tragedy in Oklahoma City, anyone could mix up an explosive mixture of sulphur nitrate from recipes on the Internet. And this particular bomber hadn't had to. Natural gas had worked just fine.

A comforting thought.

He had no clue, nothing other than the untranslated gospel and the hope it would help identify those who were more willing to kill him than have it see daylight.

He pushed his seat back to a near-reclining position, punched a series of buttons on the in-flight entertainment system and began watching some mindless comedy.

Macon

Bibb County, Georgia The Next Day

Larry Henderson had thought he might be in trouble when Jerranto found the man on Larry's property. Clearly from the city, the trespasser was all dressed up in blue jeans newer than Larry'd seen in a long time. Shiny new boots, too. Had a pair of binoculars around his neck, a camera with a long lense and a book with pictures of birds in it. He said he was a bird-watcher, come down to the crick because he heard some kind of woodpecker was there.

What man would tromp around with rattlers and cottonmouths just to see a woodpecker? Hadn't made sense then.

But it made a lot of sense now, to Larry's misfortune.

Particularly as the man was close to two things Larry'd just as soon keep folks away from: the current crop of marijuana and a couple shallow graves containing the men who had shot up the house belonging to that Atlanta lawyer.

After he thought about it, Larry decided the man's story smelled like a mess of catfish that had been out of the water too long.

And he was right.

Two days later, the federals were swarming all over the place like fire ants when somebody's kicked over their hill. It took them less than a minute to find the crop, as if they knew where to look.

Now Larry was in deep shit.

More specifically, he was in the federal pretrial detention center in Macon.

Good thing that Atlanta lawyer, Lang Reilly, told him he'd be happy to return the favor if Larry ever needed it. Just out of curiosity, Larry had Googled him one night when there was nothing on TV. Reilly had five or six pages on him.

Reilly had defended the previous mayor of Atlanta against all kinds of corruption charges and got him off with a couple years for tax evasion. He'd also pissed somebody off big-time, had his house blown up, in addition to the men who shot up his place.

Whoever was mad enough at Reilly to want him dead wasn't any of Larry's business. He'd done Reilly a huge favor and now he was asking to be paid back.

Larry was just sitting down to his prison lunch of peanut butter sandwich, french fries and strawberry Jell-O when two of the guards came over to his table in the mess hall.

The man had to holler to be heard above the noise of a couple hundred men all talking at once. "You got a visitor, Henderson."

Although he knew it was routine, Larry's face burned with embarrassment when one of the guards snapped on leg shackles while the other watched. None of the other prisoners seemed to notice anything but the food left on Larry's plate.

Larry shoveled as much of the sandwich as he could into his mouth and followed the lead guard, the other one behind him. His fellow inmates were welcome to the Jell-O, but he hated leaving the fries even if it was the fifth time in as many days they had been featured on the noon menu.

They went down on an elevator and through a series of doors that hissed shut before the next one opened; then he was led into an eight-by-eight room divided by a metal table at which were two chairs. In one of them was the lawyer Reilly.

Lang stood and extended a hand as the guards removed the shackles and withdrew. Larry's bright orange jumpsuit was less than becoming.

"'Lo, Larry. How goes it?"

Larry looked around the room. "Stone walls a prison do not make, but this sucks."

Richard Lovelace? The value of a liberal arts education: recognizing cavalier poets.

Dumb question, anyway. Lang started over. "Looks like I'm going to have the chance to repay the favor."

" 'Preciate anythin' you can do." Larry sat in unison with Lang. "Guess you know the federals impounded all the cash I had. All the cash Momma and I had," he added bitterly. "I ain't astin' for charity, but…"

Lang waved his hand. "You're not getting charity. You're allowing me to repay a debt, a very big debt I owe you on my behalf as well as my family's."

Larry felt better already. The Hendersons had never been rich, but they'd never been beggars. This lawyer might be from Atlanta, a place so evil they let women dance naked in bars, or so Larry heard, but Reilly talked like he had the same principles as people in Lamar County.

Lang slipped papers out of a briefcase and handed them across the table. "Here's a copy of the indictment. Basically, you're accused of growing marijuana for purposes of distribution. That encompasses several other crimes such as transporting for sale, sale, etcetera."

Larry's heart sank as though suddenly cast in lead. "I done it. I'm guilty. How long'll I be in jail?"

Lang shook his head with just a trace of a smile. "You may or may not have done it, but you aren't guilty till a jury says you are. Tell me exactly what happened."

And Larry did just that. Starting with the bird-watcher whom he vaguely connected with his problems, he finished with the raid on his home.

"Can you tell me the exact date you found this person on your property?"

Larry scratched his jaw, thinking. "Was a Tuesday, 'cause Momma has her hair done ever Tuesday. An' it was a Tuesday, las' Tuesday, I was arrested."

Lang glanced at the papers from his briefcase. "And the indictment was handed down thirteen days after you saw the bird-watcher."

"You reckon he had any thin' to do with it?"

"I reckon he had everything to do with it."

"Shoulda shot him when I had the chance."

If past experience was any indication, he wasn't kidding.

Lang put his elbows on the table, making a steeple of his fingers, "If you'd shot him, you would have been in a lot more trouble than you are now."

"It's for sure he would be. Look, how long will I have to spend here?"

Lang puffed and blew out his cheeks. "Frankly, I have no way to know. If you're found guilty, or decide to cooperate…"

"Cooperate?"

"I'm sure the DEA boys would be delighted to know to whom you sold, stuff like that…"

Larry shook his head. The Hendersons weren't tattlers, either. "Not gonna happen."

Lang stood, snapping his briefcase shut with finality. "That is, of course, up to you. But in any scenario, we are a long way from talking prison time, a very long way."

"But if I done it…?"

Lang leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "The government is a long way from even getting to whether or not you did what they say. A bit of advice: drop 'I done it' from your vocabulary. Second, remember, there are men in here who will swear you said just about anything so they can trade for a lighter sentence."

Larry watched the guards unlock the door and Lang start to leave. Slightly skeptical men would actually bear false witness against each other for their own benefit. There must be some very bad people in here.