To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Three: Murder on the River Wye

       Rebecca always prepared a picnic lunch for their outings as her way of paying Carl for the ammunition she used in practice. One warm August morning, she was ready with a large basket, filled with fresh fruits and fried chicken, Carl's favorite. They planned to travel much farther than normal, to the estate of a friend of Carl's, one they had visited once before. They would stay three nights at B & Bs, in separate rooms he had wryly emphasized. It was a perfect four days they had planned with Rebecca taking two extra days off.

       This morning she had dressed especially casual, but her casualness exuded sensuality. Her white, light denim blouse was designed for outdoors, but she knew its open throat and the way the white contrasted with her carefully brushed hair and tanned throat was attractive to Carl. Her designer jeans complemented her ensemble, which was complete with comfortable black low-cut boots for the countryside. Several changes of clothing plus walking shoes were in the overnight bag.

       She was waiting on the sidewalk when the always punctual Carl drove up. She didn't want to seem anxious, but she was. The entrance to the flat faced north, so she stood away from the building to catch the full force of the morning sun, bright at nine in the cloudless sky. Her hair glowed as though afire. Carl lingered in the car to savor the image.

       His reaction was her reward. As he approached her, he murmured, "I can't get my breath," faking a gasp as though hyperventilating. Then he gave her a kiss that took her breath away. He followed it with a quizzical expression. "Are you trying to win our matches by making me lose my concentration?"

       She giggled, loving every minute of it. "The bows are in the flat. I brought down the thing you're most interested in—food."

       He threw up his hands, protesting his innocence. "Not true! The thing I'm most interested in is you!"

       He opened the back of the Land Rover to load the blankets and food. She looked in and saw his ever present briefcase, and next to it a flat locked box. "What's that?"

       "I store my geography and geology maps in there as well as the maps I've made from my visits to various Norman castle sites. The maps show the castles in relation to natural resources and trade. I'm trying to determine how the Normans paid for those castles and forts. I was out yesterday wandering around, and I forgot to take it in last night." He was tempted to expand on the subject, but he knew his interest was reciprocated by only a few scholars. "However, that's why we're stopping at Hay-on-Wye first. There are two bookstores there that have very old map books I've been looking for. And you can update your medical book."

       Rebecca also was a book hound and was constantly seeking medical books to help her improve her nursing. She welcomed the side trip to Hay-on-Wye, not their first such visit, a town noted for its many used book stores.

       "What's that thing," she said, pointing to a large, odd shaped contraption tucked against the back seat.

       "Usually I load shells at the flat, but we'll use a lot of ammunition, so I brought my loader, powder, and spare blank cartridges. You can't just stick powder in a shell and put the bullet in. For one thing, the shell probably won't fit your rifle after it's been fired, and it certainly won't fit after its been fired twice. That's why I need this loader , though I normally don't carry it."

       He moved the books, rifles, and ear protectors to make way for the basket of food, then pointed to a couple of dismantled pistols in a case. "I thought we might spend one day with pistols this week. You can't improve much more with the rifle."

       They retreated to the apartment to pick up the bows and quivers. Carl used that private moment to embrace Rebecca, holding her close and kissing deeply. He could feel her through every nerve of his body as she melted in his embrace.

       Only a door slamming elsewhere in the building broke the spell. He was first to speak. "We'd better get going, or I'll find reasons to stay behind."

       He grabbed her wind breaker from a coat hook as they left the flat. Her thin denim shirt wouldn't be warm enough in the late afternoon. The August days had been warm and clear, but a late afternoon wind usually sprang up and brought cool evenings.

       This was a special summer day, and both of them knew it. It had nothing to do with the weather. It had everything to do with their love for each other. They thoroughly enjoyed each other and looked forward to these moments together.

       Carl reached in the back seat for the Triple-A road map of Great Britain. It was far too large for the glove compartment, but its very size was ideal for the kinds of exploring he had often done on his own until he met Rebecca. He traced the route on the map. "We'll stay on the main highways then cross the countryside through Golden Valley to Hay. It shouldn't take more than two hours. The firing range is northwest of Black Mountain Park."

       "You drive, I'll guide."

       Carl snorted, but to himself. Rebecca could get lost going to a strange grocery store. She had little sense of direction.

       They drove off toward Hay-on-Wye, loaded with weapons, ammunition, and even blankets for the picnic, unaware that they soon would need everything they had—and more.

       Their stay in the town was short, too short for Carl's taste, but he found a copy of the American edition of Classical Geography by Hughes and Long. The British copy had been out of print for over a century. He already had large, colored copies of every map in the book, courtesy of the Bodlein Library's copy center, but the book was what counted. While he browsed for books Rebecca shopped for a copy of Gray's Anatomy as her copy was threadbare. She found an up-to-date book on diseases to supplement her bio-terrorism materials. She also stumbled across an Eighteenth Century book on native herbs of England and their pharmacological uses. She had once considered pursuing pharmacology, but the degree took too long and cost too much. She looked at the price, then set it back just as Carl arrived.

       "Going to get it?"

       "No, it's a little steep for my taste." She longingly fondled the cover of the book, then started away.

       Carl reached over, grabbed the book, and flipped open the cover. The price was steep, but it was a perfect gift for what he hoped would be a perfect weekend. I'm going to give her a ring, why not a book as well?

       Both of them were book hounds, a good trait to have in common. As they drove, he commented on it. "Give me a book, a fireplace, and thou by my side, and I'll be quite content."

       Rebecca responded just as lightly. "I accept."

       An exit appeared ahead, and he quickly pulled off onto a country road. Circumnavigating the ever present roundabout he pulled to the edge of the modest roadway and stopped. By now Rebecca wondered whether she had gone too far. He took her hands in his and grew very serious. "It wasn't intended as a proposal, but I do love you, and I want to marry you. But . . ."

       Rebecca flushed, not knowing whether to look at her hands or into his eyes. Then she tossed her hair and leveled with Carl, a smile grazing her lips. "I'm happy to hear that since I love you, too, and I wondered if anything would come of this relationship—beyond skill in shooting a rifle." Her quip broke the seriousness of the moment, but it didn't hide his unfinished sentence.

       He continued. "We've had wonderful times together, and I've grown to love you beyond understanding. But I'm concerned about a couple of things. . ." he paused, searching for the right words.

       She interrupted before he could find them. "I know. It has to do with our different classes. I was afraid that being the daughter of a pub owner, and a nurse to boot, without a peer sitting anywhere on my family tree, was too much to overcome."

       He flinched at the assertion, then grimaced. "You know me better than that! Class is rubbish—except to those who have it, I suppose."

       "No, it isn't rubbish!" She was adamant. "The lower class feels its position more than the upper class. You just take it for granted. Look at all your friends."

       "Me?" He gave a hearty laugh. "My father owns an automobile repair shop and has a high school education. He was a rancher for many years before we moved into town. My mother is second generation German skilled in playing the violin. She never finished high school. And my friends are peers, I guess, but they are friends because we enjoy each other and have common interests. One of them served in Afghanistan. And, now that you say it, because they accept me."

       He saw the shocked look in Rebecca's eyes. She did think I was worried about class.

       He got out of the car, went to her door and opened it. She stepped out and stood next to him. He put both of her hands in his.

       Her eyes dropped to the ground before she spoke. "You probably don't, or can't, understand that even in modern England class is still very important. We marry across class boundaries, it's often done, but the couple must share certain attitudes—class attitudes—or both of them will be miserable all their married life."

       "I suppose that's true," Carl said, reaching to stroke her hair, "but I'm concerned about something more important, which has nothing to do with class. That's the difference in our religious backgrounds. I know what you believe, but your church traditions are different from mine."

       Her hands tightened, and he pulled back slightly.

       He looked down the road and across the fields toward the horizon. The past few months have been exquisite, the most enjoyable in my life. Yet, I might lose Rebecca because of our differences in religion. It's a terrible price to pay.

       "I don't understand," she said. "You and I believe in the same Savior."

       "Yes, we do, though I have many questions. But our church differences are very real and very old. The men of the Church claim the right to stand between man and God as intercessors or supplicants, and they claim Catholics can—or should—marry only Catholics. Because of my love for you, I will attend Mass with you, but I can't become a Catholic." He said it with conviction, not knowing that the point soon would be moot. "But if you marry me without requiring that I join the Church, I will love you and cherish you all the days of my life."

       "Then this is a proposal?"

       "Yes, of course, squirrelly as it is. I want to marry you and take you back to the States, carrying you across the waters on the mighty arms of a 777." He had to get some levity into this affair. He knelt to one knee. "To make it formal, will you marry me?"

       Her heart nearly burst. "I will, I will," she exclaimed, and then she threw herself into his arms, almost knocking him over. They stood, her head on his shoulder so she turned and whispered in his ear. "We'll work out the differences. You know I've rejected many of the Church's policies myself."

       Carl interrupted with a chuckle, then moved so she nestled her head against his chest. "I know you better than that. The teachings of a lifetime aren't erased so easily." He went against his own belief that such a marriage could breed conflict somewhere down the years. Love can overcome reason. "But together we can make it," he said. "Right?"

       Rebecca's voice was muffled against his gingham shirt. "Right, but what's my face doing down here when your lips are up there?"

       With a laugh, Carl met her lips, savoring the moment. Two thoughts flashed through the jumble of his emotions: This has got to be the most unusual proposal on record, and the practice sessions will be worthless. The last thought would profoundly affect the rest of their lives.

       "Oh, I forgot," he said. And he handed her a little box with a diamond in it. Not a big diamond, but a diamond nevertheless. Her response said it all.

       He had one more gift. Reaching into the back seat, he pulled a glass slipper from a well padded box. "Speaking of class," he murmured, "will you be my Queen?"

       Her eyes widened at the sight of the slipper. He fit it over her foot.

       "How did you know the size?" she asked.

       "Angela loaned me a couple of your dress shoes. The glass company did the rest. Does this qualify as making me a Prince Charming? I guess we're aristocracy after all."

       She embraced him again, overwhelmed by his romantic touches.

       He reluctantly eased her away. "Let's drive on to the pasture, instead of going to the range. We need to talk about our future, and I want to hold you close." He paused. "And eat that chicken, of course."

       She gave a fake pout, "I knew it was my chicken!" and a wide grin broke through.

       They had used the pasture for a picnic once before because it was on land owned by Freddy Packerson's father, a mile outside of Brobury. Freddy was Carl's friend and one of the shining lights of Oxford, although an indifferent graduate student. A narrow country road wound north mile-after-mile, each mile bordered by hedgerows growing close to the edge of the road. Carl hated the road because there was too little room in which to pass another car, and English country drivers seldom slowed when they met each other. To make matters worse, even after two years he still had to concentrate on driving on the left side of the road.

       Half a mile from the gate was a gravel road that served as a shortcut to the pasture. He almost took it, until he glimpsed a car distantly through the trees. The narrow access road was little more than a gravelled city alley. It circled west close to a two-story stone house on property adjacent to Lord Packerson's pasture. A large grove of trees forced the country road far east before it curved again to a northwestern route where it met the alley at the gate to the pasture.

       The first time they had seen the grove, Rebecca said, "I'll bet this is the result of environmentalists. This is the only grove of trees in this entire area. Good for them."

       Carl was the skeptic. "Perhaps, but there may be other reasons, too. In any case, neither of us knows the real reason." That ended any discussion.

       When they arrived at the gate to the pasture, he looked back and saw two cars parked beside the stone house. Someone peered from an upstairs window.

       On the west edge of the pasture flowed the River Wye, low this time of the year. Carl parked the car in the pasture because there was little room on the side of the road. He closed the gate out of habit for there no longer were cattle or sheep in the pasture. Avoiding dried cow pies scattered here and there, they walked to the oak near the center. It protected them from the sun and gave them something to lean against. Though a tall hedgerow along the south side of the pasture blocked a view of the field from the house, they unconsciously spread blankets on the north side of the oak to create a private zone.

       After an early lunch, Carl sat leaning against the tree, peeling an apple with his Swiss Army knife, which he kept in the glove compartment. Rebecca returned the picnic basket to the car. There was always a problem with ants if the basket was left on the blanket.

       "I'll carry it!" he offered.

       "No need, I want to get my jacket." The wind had come up and though the day still was warm, she was preparing for a long stay.

       When she reached the car, Carl called out, "Rebecca, bring my Bible from the glove compartment."

       He had her sit next to him when she returned so they could read alternating passages from The Song of Songs. "Here," Carl pointed, "we'll start reading at 1:9 to, let's see, to 2:6, and I'll point out where you're to start." Rebecca nestled in the crook of his arm.

       "To my mare harnessed to Pharaoh's chariot I compare you, my love." Rebecca giggled at the imagery.

       He continued. "Your cheeks show fair between their pendants and your neck within its necklaces.

       "I shall make you golden earrings and beads of silver."

       Rebecca interrupted: "It says, 'We shall'."

       "I gave you the Senders translation."

       Rebecca began, her melodic voice catching the cadences of the poem. "While the King rests in his own room my nard yields its perfume.

       "My Beloved is a sachet of myrrh lying between my breasts."

       Carl began to recite from memory. "My beloved is a cluster of henna flowers among the vines of Engedi."

       "How beautiful you are, my love, how beautiful you are!

       "Your eyes are doves."

       Rebecca's eyes began misting, and she stumbled as she tried to read through the tears. "How beautiful you are, my Beloved, and how delightful!

       "All green is our bed."

       The sweep of his hand encompassed the pasture, then he pointed to the tree above them. "The beams of our house are of cedar, the paneling of cypress."

       She followed his finger along the passage. "I am the rose of Sharon, the lily of the valleys."

       He broke in, kissing her ear and whispering, "You really are," then continued reading. "As a lily among the thistles, so is my love among the maidens."

       She flushed lightly. "As an apple tree among the trees of the orchard, so is my Beloved among the young men.

       "In his longed-for shade I am seated and his fruit is sweet to my taste.

       "He has taken me to his banquet hall, and the banner he raises over me is love.

       "Feed me with raisin cakes, restore me with apples, for I am sick with love.

       "His left arm is under my head, his right embraces me."

       Carl closed the Bible and placed it on the blanket.

       She turned her lips to his and drank deeply of his love. When they finally broke, he quipped. "This is to 'restore' you," and offered her a bite of his apple.

       They spent several hours planning their future, munching on the remnants of the fruit. The sun had passed its zenith long ago. The breeze freshened and Rebecca, already wearing her jacket, began to drowse, snuggling close to Carl, curling her legs under her. He offered a short, silent prayer of thanksgiving. Life was full when one loved and was loved in return.

       Suddenly, a shout rising above the continual hum of the river caught Carl's attention. He raised himself and turned west to see two fishermen on the far side of the river, gesturing to each other and shouting loud enough to be heard from the center of the pasture. It was too far for Carl to make out what they were saying.

       His movement awakened Rebecca, her eyes blurred. "What happened?"

       "Sorry. Do you see those fishermen?"

       It took a moment before her eyes focused. "They seem to be excited about something, but I can't make out what they're saying. Are they yelling to us?"

       "I don't know, I'll . . ." before he finished, the scene altered before their eyes.

       The fishermen were struggling to get out of the river, flinging poles and tackle aside as they scrambled up the bank. Carl caught a glimpse of movement from the direction of the house, beyond the hedges and the trees near the river. They heard the crack of a rifle, rapidly repeated three times, and saw the men almost simultaneously clutch their backs as they reached the top of the bank. They paused, as though suspended on wires, then slowly pitched backward into the river. It was over in a moment, and the bodies, now still, bobbed to the surface and slowly tumbled in the current.

       Carl jumped up, as though to go after the fishermen.

       Rebecca yelled. "We've got to get out of here. If they killed those fishermen, they'll kill us, too."

       "Yes, of course." He lowered his voice. "Keep quiet, stay low, and run for the car. I'll grab the blankets and follow. But don't get in until I'm there, or the . . ." he stopped, catching a glimpse of a white shirt making its way between the hedge and the river.

       "Forget it, run for your life!"

       Rebecca began running, stumbled, and sprawled. Carl snatched the blankets, enfolding the Bible in them even as he raced toward the car. He quickly caught up with Rebecca. Lifting her with his right arm he carried her two yards before her feet hit ground, then moved to her right side to shelter her from the gunman as they raced across the pasture. It was a large piece of ground. Now it seemed to be the length of a soccer field. Carl chanced a glance toward the river in time to see the gunman break cover and move toward them. He was carrying an Uzi-type weapon. It could spray a lot of bullets around, but it was inaccurate over the distance that separated them from the gunman.

       The Rover still faced northward, where Carl had left it. Berating himself for not having prepared for a getaway, he sprinted ahead to get the car started, throwing the blankets into the back seat. Rebecca arrived as the engine coughed then sprang to life. Before she could put on her seat belt, he whipped the car in a tight circle away from the gunman.

       "Keep your head below the window," he yelled, and she obliged by bending low. The gunman stopped running and started spraying bullets across the field as the car turned. Carl heard the slugs hit metal, but the roar of the engine drowned out the soft grunt from Rebecca. She had been hit through the closed door. He circled one hundred and eighty degrees to face the gate before he remembered he had closed it. He berated himself once again.

       "Brace yourself and cover your face, we're going to break through the gate." Bullets hit the car again, breaking glass in the rear side windows, but the car was jumping and bucking over the uneven pasture, disturbing the gunman's aim.

       With a rending of metal against wood, they smashed through the wooden gate. A piece of wood broke loose, pulverizing the windscreen before bouncing over the top. He dropped his arm in time to see a car skid to a halt in front of them, blocking their way to the main road. A glimpse of weapons being raised in the windows forced him to brake hard, then whip the car right and across a hump of turf that almost tipped it over. It hung precariously on its left side while Carl fought to stay in his seat before it righted itself. He felt a cold sweat across his shoulders for suddenly they were on the gravel road leading to the house. This is the wrong way! he screamed in his mind, but he had no choice. The only hope lay in moving so fast the occupants of the car or the house couldn't hit them.

       Within moments he had neared the house, wheels whining, seeking a footing on the loose gravel. He skirted a large hole near the edge of the gravel. Only one car was left, and for a moment a great relief flooded over him for no one was in the car. The alley started to curve left, back to the country road . As they skidded around the curve, he yelled, "I think we're going to make it!"

       Then their surroundings grew brighter than a thousand suns. He slammed on the brakes for he had lost control of the car. His mind was befuddled with a terrible whirling sensation. His stomach churned, and he felt like vomiting. The sudden, overpowering brightness was quickly followed by a darkness so deep, so intense, he could feel it.