The Face of the Seal
Jennifer Cumiskey
Copyright © 2019 Jennifer Cumiskey
ISBN: 978-1-7332478-0-1
Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Prologue
Southern China, 1858
He was trapped but didn’t know where. Like a wild animal caged he’d been circling frantically, looking for a way out. He crawled and groped, screaming, “Let me out!” But the wall of darkness was impenetrable, deflecting his cry with pitiless echoes, out . . . out . . . out . . .
The ground under his feet burst open, swallowing him whole . . .
Light as a feather, he was a ghost afloat in the dark. He could hear water gurgling nearby but he couldn’t see. There was only darkness.
You can’t see because your eyes are closed. Open your eyes, a voice above whispered. He stared into the darkness but saw nothing. “My eyes are open,” he shouted.
Open wider and look up, the voice commanded.
He raised his eyes, surprised to see an ink-blue sky above, dotted with a solitary glistening star. “Ah,” he uttered in awe. “I swear it was not there a moment ago.”
You were looking around in circles. The way out of the darkness has always been there, you just never looked up.
“Who are you?” he asked, eyes searching in every direction, willing the voice to materialize.
Silence. All he could see was the lone star in the sky above. As he gazed at the star, it flickered and began to dim. “Don’t go, please don’t go,” he begged. Didn’t the voice tell him the star was showing him the way out? Out of the darkness that had trapped him for so long? “Come back, please, guide me out of the darkness,” he cried, arms reaching to the sky as if he could grab onto the last sliver of light before it faded into obscurity. But the star was merciless. All was dark again.
He closed his eyes in despair. He’d met his destiny. He would die, become a mere ghost, with darkness as his only companion.
Don’t despair. To reach light you have to journey on a dark road, the voice whispered again, softly, tenderly.
He looked up—the star had descended from the sky to hover in the air right above him, its five-pointed shape glowing intensely. He turned away from the blinding brightness for a moment. When he looked up again the star had morphed into the form of a human body. He was looking at himself—naked, suspended midair, immersed in bright white light . . .
He was falling into a grey zone, a ghostly twilight. Roosters crowed nearby; flies buzzed around. The air was hot, heavy, putrid—the smell of death.
He was drifting back into consciousness.
He’d lost track of how long he’d been in this cage, custom made for him. Two heavy flat boards lay atop the cage, cuffing his neck, restricting his breathing. Only his toes touched the dirt ground, just barely. He’d been hovering between barely breathing, suffocating, and blacking out.
Just a few days ago he’d been delivering the Message of God, spreading His Word in a small village outside Canton, China. People there had not seen or heard Him yet, and that’s exactly why he, Jacques Bernard, the man of God from France, was there.
Doing God’s bidding had him trapped in this cage. But how could he refuse Him when He came knocking?
Jacques Bernard had been accused of not only preaching Christianity in unauthorized territory, but also seducing and raping village women. “Do you admit you have committed a crime against the Emperor of the Qing Dynasty and his subjects?” the local viceroy had asked him in front of the villagers. His answer was a resounding “No.” He would never consider spreading His Word a crime.
For his answer they flogged his face with a bamboo cane twenty times. The first strike drew blood, the last shattered his cheekbone.
After regaining consciousness, he was asked again, “Do you admit you have committed a crime against the Emperor and his subjects?”
Silence.
The bamboo cane came down, lashing until his back resembled ground meat. But he maintained his innocence. The local viceroy ordered him thrown in the cage and left at the market square for everybody to see what could happen to a western devil who violated the law of the Imperial Qing Dynasty.
Flies buzzed around, feeding on his rotten flesh. Scavengers perched on gnarled tree trunks and blackened tile roofs, watching, waiting for him to draw his last breath. He knew he was going to die—soon. His physical body might have already died for he no longer felt pain. The only part of him still lingering in this world was his soul, intact and assured. Jacques Bernard had answered God’s call and God soon would accept his soul.
“Father Bernard, it’s your lucky day,” a voice called.
He strained to lift his eyes. The sun was blinding, he could only make out the mere contour of an umbrella-shaped hat. “The viceroy has decided you don’t have to admit to the crime you’ve committed in public, but you’ll have to pay a fine of five hundred pieces of silver,” the man wearing the umbrella-shaped hat, a guard, offered.
“I don’t have money, I only have His Book.”
“You are a stupid, stubborn man, Father Bernard. I’ll make you a deal, how about three hundred?”
“I have His Books, you can take them.”
“You don’t seem to understand, you’ll be executed, today, if you don’t agree to pay the fine. After all, you did break the law of the Imperial Qing Dynasty. I doubt your God would approve of what you’ve done.”
“You are the one who doesn’t understand, for you don’t know God. I’m here to spread His Love and His Word. In His eyes, I’ve committed no crime. Do what you want with me.” Father Bernard closed his eyes.
*
The ancient gong at the market square began to toll, crashing wave after wave of metallic reverberation into villages and rice patties miles away. In the center of the town square, Father Bernard, in a dingy burlap robe, knelt on the dirt ground. The Pearl River—the river that had sustained the lives of the villagers and their rice patties for thousands of years—stretched ahead of him like a shining tapestry. Behind him, a headsman stood vigilantly, a three-foot-long sword hanging on his hip.
As villagers and peasants streamed into the town square, they were ordered to stand in a semi-circle facing the kneeling priest. When the last echo of the gong died, the local viceroy, in a long white robe and a blue satin sleeveless surcoat, addressed the crowd. He unfurled a silk scroll containing the Emperor’s imperial order:
The Emperor is willing to forgive Father Bernard’s crime of preaching Christianity in unauthorized territories and regions of the Imperial Qing Dynasty. Father Bernard is also accused of seducing and violating women in our village. If he is willing to confess these crimes and speak the names of the women he has seduced, the Emperor is prepared to absolve him completely and make him a free man. Otherwise, Father Bernard will be sentenced to death by beheading.
Having delivered the royal order, the viceroy rolled up the scroll and turned to face Father Bernard. “This is your final chance. Confess and save yourself,” he said, inching closer to the kneeling priest. “Look at the crowd behind me, just tell me which women you’ve seduced and you’re a free man.”
“I didn’t se
duce anybody. I only spread the Word of God and His Love and that’s not a crime,” Father Bernard declared, his voice thin but firm.
“All right, take a good look around then, because you’re a dead man.” The viceroy shook his head, made a gesture to the headsman, and stepped away.
Father Bernard’s sunken eyes scanned the crowd—men and women, old and young, most of them sobbing quietly. Many of them he knew well. A few men shouted, “You western devil, you must die!” They stepped forward and spat on him.
The priest remained motionless, only his eyes searched the crowd, urgently. The shadow of the headsman creeped up behind him.
The crowd grew agitated. The men who spat on him sneered and cackled with anticipation, they couldn’t wait to see his head roll and blood splash. Subdued sobbing gave way to praying. Women shielded their children’s eyes.
Then he saw her, pushing through the crowd toward him. Don’t come closer, don’t come closer. Yet time seemed to have slowed down. She continued to press her way toward him. Stop, please stop! He almost cried out.
Suddenly, she seemed to have heard him. She stopped, standing frozen at the forefront of the crowd a few yards away from him. He could see tears brimming in her eyes, her pale face glistening with tears. Her lips, devoid of their natural pink rose color, quavered.
He gazed at her ravenously, taking her in before darkness could devour him forever. His eyes came to rest on a stone nestled in the deep hollow of her throat—it looked like a speck of blood.
“Sarnai,” he whispered.
The last sound he heard in this world was the hissing of a sword. A flash of white light crossed him. He was eternally embraced by darkness.
Chapter 1
New York City, present day
Tony Ryan dropped to his knees in front of the grave. It had been over two decades since his father had been taken away from him. Grief had pierced a hole in his heart, and he didn’t know how to mend it.
He brushed away the withered leaves on the base of the headstone and laid down a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. Dad had often brought the same bouquet home for mom—that was a time when they both were vibrant and full of life.
A breeze rustled by, the flowers quivered in the bright morning sunshine. Their petals seemed otherworldly white as they brushed against the simple inscription on the tombstone:
Mike P. Ryan
1953- 1996
Tony Ryan was only fifteen when his dad, an NYPD cop, had been fatally shot during a drug raid. For two generations the Ryan family was a cop family, and everybody had expected Tony to carry on the tradition when the time came. But the teenage Tony had his own dreams. He loved to read the works by the old masters: William Shakespeare, Thomas Hardy, and Oscar Wilde— especially Oscar Wilde. Young Tony had considered the great Irish playwright and poet his countryman, though the only man in the Ryan family who had been born in Ireland was his grandfather. Tony was fascinated by Master Wilde’s prose: witty, disarmingly simple yet incredibly profound, illuminating the tenderness of a human heart by shining a light on its darkest corners.
Tony Ryan wanted to be a writer. And to everyone in his family he used to be a weird youngster, carrying a notebook all the time, scribbling and doodling while most boys his age played sports and began to take an interest in girls.
When his father died, along went Tony’s dream. He wanted to carry on his father’s legacy and avenge his death. Tony became a cop, then a narcotics and homicide detective. He still scribbled in his spare time. Now and then that ‘what could have been’ still nipped at his thoughts. But he liked being a detective, he was good at reading people. His literary talent came in handy while observing and questioning suspects. He could see through the masks they wore. Detective Ryan knew how cold and dark a human heart could be. He knew what human beings were capable of doing to their own.
His cell phone buzzed in his suit jacket pocket, nudging him out of his deep state of reflection. He leaned closer to the tombstone, pressed his hand on his lips then on the stone where his dad’s name was engraved.
He stood up and reached for his cell. The screen showed “Ivelisse Rica, NYPD.” He hit answer and Detective Rica’s urgent voice came through, “Ryan, sorry to bother you, I know you took a personal day today but we just got a call, homicide . . .”
“Where?”
“Crystal Palace, near 6th and 58th. I’m on my way there right now.”
“Thanks, Ive, I’ll see you there.” He slid the phone back in his jacket pocket and turned to look at the grave one more time. “Sorry Dad, I’ll see you soon,” he whispered and started to walk back to his car.
*
As soon as he turned onto 58th Street from Sixth Avenue, Ryan stopped the car, shut off the engine and got out. The street was teeming with cops, their cars, vans, and motorcycles. A half a block ahead, black and yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the chilly early March wind, barricading the residential entrance of Crystal Palace, one of the most elite and luxurious hotel condominiums in Midtown Manhattan.
“Tony Ryan, Homicide.” He showed his badge as he approached a freckle-faced young cop guarding the entrance.
“Morning, Detective Ryan. Detective Rica asked me to tell you she’s gone up to the penthouse,” the young cop said, nodding solemnly and lifting the tape to let him pass.
“Thanks.” He patted the young man on the shoulder and proceeded to the giant pewter-paneled door.
Once inside, he realized Crystal Palace indeed lived up to its name—crystal chandeliers, crystal wall sconces, crystal wall panels, crystal sculptures, their sparkles bounced off one another enough to light the lobby without electricity. He’d never expected to set foot in a place like this. But a year had barely gone by since the condo construction was completed and here he was, about to examine a crime scene.
He showed his badge to a woman behind the front desk. Gloomy faced, she told him to use the private elevator around the corner.
The mirror-paneled elevator ascended quietly. Ryan hardly felt any movement. With a muted ding, the elevator glided open. He was facing the imposing dark mahogany double-door to the penthouse. Ryan again pulled out his badge and the cop at the door gave him a nod and pushed it open. The room inside was expansive, flooded with natural light from the arched glass ceiling and the tall windows on every wall. Ryan didn’t know much of architectural design, but stone columns, dark wooden floors, ornate chandeliers, and spiraling glass stairs clearly showcased the architect’s style, at once modern and retro. For a crime scene the place seemed undisturbed. He was about to go up when somebody called him, “Ryan, over here.”
Across the room, amid an assemblage of curved sofas and stuffed settees, Ivelisse Rica, in a red turtleneck sweater and blue jeans, waved at him. She was sitting on a couch next to a diminutive woman who had her head buried in her hands. He hurried over. “Hi Ive, how’re things going?” he asked, glancing at the woman next to her.
“Ryan, this is Carmen, she is the cleaning staff who found Mr. Blackwell dead in his bed this morning.” Ive laid a gentle hand on Carmen’s shoulder and spoke in Spanish, “Carmen, this is detective Ryan, he needs to ask you a few questions, is it okay?”
Carmen was no more than twenty. She wore a grey uniform and a crisp white apron. She looked up, her teary eyes fixed on Ryan for a second, then nodded, “Sí.”
“Gracias,” he spoke one of the limited Spanish words he knew and glanced at Detective Rica.
“I’ll translate,” said Ive.
Ryan pulled over a chair from the dining room behind Ive and Carmen. He sat down, facing Carmen from a comfortable few feet away. “Carmen, how often do you clean Mr. Blackwell’s place?”
“Three times a week, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”
“When did you arrive this morning?”
“About nine. Unless Mr. Blackwell called to change the time, I always arrive at nine.”
“How do you get in?”
“I get the key from the manager’s office, but I al
ways ring the bell first. Sometimes Mr. Blackwell answered the door. If he didn’t, I’d let myself in.”
“What happened this morning?”
“I rang the bell, nobody came to the door, so I used the key. I said, ‘Good morning, Mr. Blackwell,’ but there was no answer. I thought he was out. I went upstairs, I always clean upstairs first. Then I saw him, in bed, on his back, naked . . . it’s terrible . . .” Carmen’s voice trailed off, she buried her face in her hands for a moment before speaking again. “His tongue was sticking out, his eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling, and there was blood on his body. I was so scared I ran downstairs to the manager . . .”
“So, the manager called the police.”
“I think so,” Carmen sobbed.
“You did the right thing, Carmen.” Ryan leaned in, gently touched her arm. “Can you stay here for a while? Detective Rica and I are going upstairs to take a look and we’ll be back with you in a bit.”
Carmen nodded.
On the way upstairs, Ive said, “CSU’s still wrapping things up. They’ve questioned Carmen and she was free to go but I asked her to stay a bit longer in case you have questions after looking at the crime scene.”
“Good, did you get some preliminaries from them?”
“Yes, I took some notes.” Ive reached for the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a small dog-eared notepad. “Let’s go up there.” The chunky heels of her ankle boots hit the glass staircase, Ryan in tow.
Upstairs, at the door to the master bedroom suite, Ryan and Ive were handed latex gloves and foot covers. They put the gear on and entered the room. Two forensic technicians in white bunny suits were busy at work, one on all fours looking at a patch of carpet by the night table with a magnifying glass, the other holding a wine glass up to the light by a window across the room. A white sheet covered a mass on the super king-sized four-post bed, giving Ryan the odd impression of a snow angel.
“According to CSU, William Blackwell IV, a British citizen, was strangled in bed. But no signs of forced entry, no violent struggle, nothing valuable was missing,” Ive said as they stood by the footboard of the bed.
The Face of the Seal Page 1