The Artemas Link

By Bennett Cole

Young Pastor Mark Mercer's search for a treasure—a lost epistle of St. Paul—leads him to Salonika, Greece, and to an attractive young American archeologist, Priscilla Krikorian. An initial personality clash gives way to a serendipitous combining of their respective abilities as they embark on a whirlwind sleuthing adventure that takes them to Seville, Spain. Their budding romantic relationship is interrupted when Priscilla is kidnapped, but Mark devises a bold and clever plan to rescue her. Will it work? And what is the treasure that he brings back to the U.S.?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781611606881

Book preview

THE ARTEMAS LINK

by

BENNETT COLE

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright Ó 2013 by Bennett Cole

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-61160-688-1

Cover Artist: Gemini Judson

Editor: Tricia A. Isham

Printed in the United States of America

Prologue: Circa 61-63 A.D.

Venerable old Lucilio was unique among believers in Hispalis. Believers there were always of modest means and social position, but not Lucilio, for he was a Roman nobleman. He was also different intellectually. In fact, there was a persistent rumor that he had been in his youth equally gifted as his fellow scholar, the great Seneca. In any event, what was certain was that he had become head elder not because of his lofty standing in the world—for this tended to make one suspect among common believers—but rather in spite of it.

On this particular morning, Lucilio slowly made his way to the fore of the tiny band of worshipers gathered in his home, greeting each with a fatherly embrace. As was their custom, after their opening exercises they had prayed and sung hymns of praise to their risen Lord. Lucilio would now report any news received from other congregations who followed in the Way and, if any visitor should be present, he would be introduced and given the opportunity to address the congregation. While visitors from beyond Hispania were a rarity, this in fact had been the case about a year ago with the arrival of the man called Paul. Sent out as a missionary from the church at Antioch of Syria—a place so far away as to be at the edge of what they of Hispania usually called the Eastern Limit––he appeared quite unexpectedly one Sabbath morning. After addressing those present at length on the place of the Law in the lives of those who followed in the Way, he prayed with some of the brethren who were sick. At the close of the meeting, he accepted Lucilio’s invitation to stay in his home and to minister to them for a few more days.

The congregation had marveled at the little man’s perseverance in traveling such a great distance in spite of his frail health and fragile physique. He had come to them from Rome, and his recent imprisonment there had certainly not enhanced his condition any. Then one morning he vanished from Hispalis almost as suddenly as he had appeared.

The people now grew silent as Lucilio turned to address them. Unfolding some papyrus, he smiled warmly. We have at last received greetings from our dear brother Paul.

A murmur of elation passed through the gathering, followed by an almost reverent stillness.

He writes to us from Macedonia, Lucilio continued, where he is once again, and asks that we make copies of this epistle and share them with all the churches of Hispania. Alas, however, his messenger Artemas, who is with us this morning, has told me that our good brother is in imminent danger of being arrested and remanded to the authorities in Rome once again. Yet his spirits are high and, in the event of his arrest, he expects to be allowed to plead his case in person before Caesar himself.

His prefacing remarks concluded, Lucilio paused, glanced briefly at the crestfallen faces before him, cleared his throat, and began to read:

"Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ, and God the Father, who raised him from the dead, and all the brethren which are with me, unto the Church at Hispalis, and all the churches of Hispania; Grace be to you and peace from God the Father and from our Lord Jesus Christ. To all those that be in Hispalis, called to be saints.

"First, I thank God upon every remembrance of you, always making known my request for you with joy in every prayer of mine. Ye know that when we were with you our instruction came not only in word but in power and in the Holy Ghost and in the deeds of love made manifest before your very eyes.

I beseech you, brethren, therefore, that, as ye have received of us how to live justified by the Lord Jesus Christ and not by the Law, and how ye may be enabled through a deeper communion with Him by the power of the Holy Ghost, that ye might communicate this teaching to all men in the regions round about you with the same urgency that I brought it to you. For God has not placed within you a spirit of complacency, but rather one of...

Lucilio’s voice faded as he left off reading; he paused, his countenance beset by a troubled look, his head cocked slightly to one side as if he were straining to hear better. Yes, now he was sure, and fearfully so, for it was indeed the same terrifying sound he had heard once many years ago, a sound so distinctive it could never be mistaken for any other. The people began to listen, too, some beginning to hearken back to a similar recollection. Their eyes roamed upward and about desperately as they began to sense the groaning and trembling of the ceiling and walls.

Quickly! To the corners of the room! Lucilio shouted. Pray! Women, collect your children! Everybody under the tables—quick! Artemas—to the reception hall with me! Hurry!

All braced for a possible second tremor; from outside high-pitched screams and the frenzied pounding of footsteps could be heard as people in the streets scrambled madly in all directions.

A wild-eyed Artemas pleaded, What must I do? just as a second rumbling commenced.

Lucilio’s voice rose above the clamor. There—that large stone under your feet—remove it. It’s my family’s secret vault for valuables. Hurry!

Plaster, wall ornaments, and other debris began to rain down upon them as Artemas did as he had been told. Lucilio quickly dropped the epistle into the hole in the floor.

Replace the stone, shouted Lucilio. Quick! Yes, that’s it! Good! Now it will be safe no matter what happens. Back to the brethren, Artemas—we must usher them out and away from the house before...

It was an utterance never to be completed. A third rumble commenced sharply. Simultaneously, the earth, Lucilio’s house, and the surrounding buildings were thrust up on the crest of a great spastic convulsion of the earth’s crust, and then, just as suddenly, released to fall back again. Where seconds before had stood the near-palatial home of a revered Patrician of Hispalis, nothing now remained but rubble, billows of dust, and a deathly silence.

Chapter 1

He dropped the receiver into its cradle with a klunk. Well, isn’t that just wonderful! he muttered sarcastically. A three-month vacation sounds great, but it’s not at all what I need just now. A little trout fishing this spring would be fun, but certainly not three months of it!

He was annoyed by his talking aloud to himself again. It was an irritating habit unintentionally acquired from rehearsing his sermons aloud.

He plopped down in disgust on the sofa in the parlor. The musty old Victorian-style parsonage had just welcomed him as its newest tenant that very morning. Surrounded by a disarray of clothes, jogging shoes, and boxes overflowing with books, young Reverend Mark Mercer glumly reflected on the chain of events that had led up to this frustrating moment.

A three-year tenure on the Sugar Grove circuit of tiny country churches had been followed by reassignment to a single, larger, church in nearby Elk Falls. It was a typical early career move for young pastors in his denomination, one that indicated he was considered ready for greater responsibilities. It came as no surprise to him to discover that his new home was in a lamentable state of repair; that was not uncommon for a parsonage in a poor rural community. What did surprise him, however, was the just-concluded phone call from his District Superintendent.

Good morning, Mark, my boy, his D. S. had said. He was always calling him my boy. Mark hated that. But he hated even more the news that his predecessor at Elk Falls, Reverend James, being somewhat short of qualifying for full retirement benefits, was to be retained for an additional three months at the Elk Falls Church. Fortunately, Reverend James was now living in nearby Bristol and thus did not need to reoccupy the parsonage. In compensation for the inconvenience accruing to Mark as a result of this administrative oversight, etc., he was to receive a small stipend and allowed to remain in the parsonage. For the next three months, however, he would be an underpaid pastor without a flock!

Just consider it a three-month vacation—go trout fishing or something, my boy, the D. S. had jovially remarked as he hung up.

As Mark now alternately fumed and pondered the various ways in which to use the time profitably, his gaze came to rest on a family portrait atop a box of books. He owed his family a long-overdue visit. Maybe that would help him decide how to best use the time.

If you were to closely inspect that same family portrait, the family’s collective good looks and beaming countenances would bespeak their happy lot in life so convincingly that it might lead you to suspect that the truth was in fact otherwise. Not so; they actually were as they appeared.

They were an old Virginia family, not old like the celebrated Lees or the Randolphs of the Tidewater plantations, but old like the plain, solid Scotch-Irish pioneer folk who first settled the western mountains of Virginia. Mark’s most distant forebears had all been frontiersmen, farmers, and merchants—in that chronological order—but his great grandfather, grandfather, and father had all been ministers of the gospel. His mother was from an old and respected—but not aristocratic, mind you—family from Abingdon. His only sister, slim, pretty, and vivacious, was a high school honor student and cheerleader. His two brothers, both older and the epitome of southern charm, manners, and masculine good looks, had wandered aimlessly but nevertheless with some measure of success into teaching and insurance respectively when the glories of their college football days had faded away.

Mark resembled his brothers both in looks and interests up to a point. In fact, as a fleet halfback on the Emory and Henry College team, he had set several school scoring records. But in one important way, he was very different.

As a child, he had always identified closely with the calling of his father and so, when as a high school student, he sensed God’s call upon his life, he had eagerly responded. At that very moment he began to lay clear-cut plans for college, seminary, and beyond, and then had set about fulfilling those plans; that was just Mark’s way. And it was precisely because he was such a planner that he perceived this morning’s unexpected news as a nuisance rather than a blessing.

Three whole months, he muttered wonderingly. All those sermons I’ve been storing up in my head will fade away. But maybe now’s the time for that trip to Europe I’ve been dreaming about for so long. Or maybe to the Holy Land. On the other hand, I could.... No! I’d better consult the Lord on this one, for sure. In the meantime, he said while grabbing a box, it’s up to the attic with this load of books.

Up two flights of stairs to the attic he bounded with the box. Depositing it on the floor momentarily, he fumbled fruitlessly in the dim light for a light switch. His eyes slowly began to adjust to the available light. It was just a typical old attic; scattered about lay an assortment of items apparently left by previous pastors and their families over the years: a broken tricycle, a box of rusty hinges and screws, an old cracked plastic raincoat, and a moth-eaten sweater. Dust balls in the corners and cobwebs streaming from the rafters hinted strongly at a long absence of human intrusion.

In the gloom of one corner stood a rusty old filing cabinet, looking like a relic from Noah’s Ark. After eyeing it curiously for a few seconds, he approached it. The two bottom drawers were ajar and empty, but the top one was closed. Curiosity triumphed; he gave a tug on the handle. Stuck! A second tug produced no better results. An overly ambitious yank on the third try met with unanticipated success; the drawer broke free and flew out and off its tracks, knocking him backwards and down, and sending its contents flying and fluttering in all directions.

Just what I get, I suppose, for being so nosey," he chided himself as he scrambled to his feet and dusted himself off.

He stooped to recover some of the spilled contents: bills, receipts, a few canceled checks, and the like. Most of the stuff looked old and bore the name, Reverend Jesse Crockett. Squinting in the dim light, he could barely discern the dates on some of the papers—1925, 1928, 1934, 1937…. Whoever Reverend Crockett was, Mark surmised, he’d left the file material there, and subsequent occupants hadn’t bothered to expend the effort required to open such a tightly stuck drawer.

Hey, that drawer may not have been opened for fifty or more years! he conjectured half-aloud.

With that he picked up the drawer to slip it back on its tracks. As he did so, his eyes fell upon a crumbling old shoebox lying intact in the bottom of the drawer. A frayed, yellowed cord bound it together. He slipped the cord off, lifted the lid and peered curiously at its contents: envelopes with foreign stamps on them and a collection of articles clipped from what appeared to be scholarly biblical journals. Gently, he picked up the top article and, holding it close, examined it.