5

Flying was the fastest way back to Indy's house. Rory had traveled west towing a small camper, but he was quick to dip into the funds he'd been entrusted with to purchase his own ticket for the flight. The problem was that Rory was terrified of flying, and so he remained unconscious for the bulk of the journey, leaving Indy to relax with his thoughts knowing the thief wasn't going to resort to any trickery while they were in the air. The red-head remained groggy when they landed, forcing Indy to try and walk him like a drunkard to the nearest taxi stand. He dumped the guy into the rear of a cab, and then gave directions to his place. Once he was home, he helped the younger fellow onto his Davenport, and then went to make coffee.

McKenna revived slowly, gazing dully about his new surroundings with heavy-lidded, bruised-looking eyes while eating a sandwich and some canned soup along with the coffee he'd been given. When he finished his meal, he stood, stretched, and performed a few mild calisthenics to get his circulation going. "Sorry 'bout that."

"You travel much?"

"It's how I make my livin'," he answered.

"But you're scared to fly."

"So I keep a bottle of sleeping pills on me at all times."

Indy chuckled. "At first I thought you might be some poor man's version of me, but now I just feel sorry for you."

Rory settled into a high-backed chair. Indy had dragged cardboard boxes into the room and set them around his coffee table.

"This is everything I have," he said, emphasizing the idea that some of his father's effects were elsewhere and probably not easy to get to. "So let's see what we can turn up."

Rory tugged a box closer and began to carefully flip through pages and papers, taking time to review whatever had been written or sketched.

"My father had an interest in Medieval studies. He was also obsessed with legends concerning the Grail of the Last Supper."

"Why would they lift a cup from the dinner setting?" Rory queried.

"Excuse me?"

"Did one of the Apostles ask if he could get his beverage to go?" Indy half-smiled. "Then he either dumped his drink to catch the blood of Christ in the cup-"

"Or he'd been holding onto it, waiting for the chance to toss the empty somewhere."

"Perhaps he considered it a souvenir."

"If you're Irish, do you happen to be Catholic?"

"'tis so," Rory admitted.

"Doesn't that conflict with the Commandment not to steal?"

McKenna leaned back in his seat. "My upbringing left me with more questions than answers, Dr. Jones. I'm a prayerful man, but I have not attended mass in many years."

"Do you seek forgiveness for your sins?" Indy asked.

"I do not," he said, leaning forward to deposit some sheaves of paper on the table. "I prayed to God to grant me abundance and swore I would share with those less fortunate than myself, but I grew up in poverty regardless. I asked Him to help me become a better person that I might better embody His ideals for mankind, but my life has been rife with violence, deceit, corruption, and the only way I've been able to support myself or my family is by making do with what I've been given and taking these jobs where I sometimes…sometimes pay people off to acquire what I'm supposed to and at other times I steal."

"God did not lead His Son to abundance and a better life."

McKenna lowered his head and sighed. "I know, I know. My reward is in heaven. But if God truly loves us and wants us to succeed at good things, then why are so many wicked people blessed with good fortune, and why…why do so many good and, and innocent people suffer? How can anyone expect them to thrive and help others toward a better world when they can barely take care of themselves? Look at all the children who suffer and perish young worldwide: what has God got against innocent children that He would allow them to die in numbers from lingering, terrible illnesses? To suffer horrific abuse and be led unknowingly along dark paths? It isn't a choice when you don't know any better."

Indy was quiet for a moment. "You find no solace in religion, only torment." He saw Rory's light-colored eyes lift and focus on him. "I had a little sister who died of a lingering, terrible illness."

"There's that," muttered the red-headed man softly, nodding as his gaze dropped again. "I was raised in a very strict household. My father blacked my eyes, split my lips and broke my leg. He believed it was for the best. I was only an innocent small child…."

"Then why cling to religion?"

"Because…because it's familiar. It can make me feel good like nothing else can. When he beat me, when my mother could do naught but complain about me…I would retreat to my room and whisper to the crucifix that hung on the wall over my bed. I thought Jesus would punish them if He knew what I was going through. I begged Him to forgive me, prayed for some kind of a release from them, prayed they would one day see what they were doing and realize it was wrong. And despite it, we still attended church regularly where they apparently thought showing up was enough to earn them each a ticket into heaven, and I begged God to open their eyes and forgive them so we could live like a real family…what I thought was a real family with love, there for each other…."

"You could use psychiatry more than you could use a priest."

Rory smiled slightly. "Were you close to your family growing up?"

"At first, maybe…but over time, after my mother died, my father and I…drifted apart." Indy looked at the papers he held containing the thoughts of his now departed father. "If family is so important, then why do you do this? Why do you travel? Why not find some sort of steady work closer to home?"

"I have a temper," McKenna admitted softly, lifting a notebook to thumb through. "I was never shown compassion. Never experienced patience. I love my child…but his helplessness…bewilders me. And every time I blow my top, I see my old man unfastening his belt."

"Psychiatry," Jones repeated.

"I don't want him to grow up like me."

"God is not a genie."

"He's not…but where is He when I genuinely need Him?"

"Oh, boy," Indy said softly.

"Sorry. Can o'worms with me."

"No." Indy lifted a piece of paper that seemed a little fresher than the rest and gazed at it. In his father's impeccably neat hand he saw a curious list down the left side with entries of one to four or five words listed after them. A few words were circled or underlined and appeared unrelated. If anything, it looked like possible answers jotted down in response to questions from a game. He wasn't aware of his father wasting time with party games, so he flipped the page back and forth a few times before setting it aside. The next sheet followed the same format, but contained different words.

McKenna had noticed his sudden silence. "What have you, then?"

"Oh. I don't know. Notes of some sort."

"Notes about what?"

"Nothing I can tell. Just lists of some sort."

"May I, please?"

Indy handed the first sheet over. As Rory scanned it, his eyes grew wide with excitement. "This is it! I think this is it! Are there more?"

Once he knew what to look for, it was easy for Indy to locate more pages. There were even a few stashed in another box. "So, how do they relate to the Apocalypse?"

"Well, that I don't know. I was told they were the key."

Indy frowned. "This person you work for can decipher it?"

"I don't know. I never met the guy."

"You're paid in cash."

"Always."

"How?"

"I'll receive a call or a missive telling me to go to a particular post office box, maybe a locker somewhere. A few times I've been met by people who handed it to me in thick envelopes."

"Suppose I let you take these. What's your next step?"

"I have a phone number memorized."

"So you call someone. They tell you where to deliver the goods or meet you. You're paid. End of story."

"Pretty much."

"But, what becomes of all the items you collect? Are they part of a private collection? Are they sold on the black market?"

Rory shrugged.

"Then it's likely criminal."

"I've never hurt anyone I didn't have to," the younger fellow blurted defensively. "Never done no harm. If these papers had been at your father's house and I'd found them, you'd likely never even have known they existed."

"Someone knows," Indy told him. "Someone who knew my father, or met him, perhaps while he was doing research on…"

McKenna guessed, "On the Apocalypse?"

"Revelations."