by C. M. Palov
“At the bottom of the escalator,” the guard said, pointing to the other side of the hall. “You want me to alert the museum security team?”
“No need. She’s not dangerous,” he assured the guard. “We just need to ask her a few questions.” Returning the photo to his coat pocket, Boyd headed toward the escalator.
At the bottom of the escalator, he took note of the white sculpture, unimpressed.
“If that’s art, I’m Pablo Pick-my-ass Picasso,” he muttered. The sculpture looked a lot like the molar he’d once knocked out of a drunken swabbie’s head. For years he’d kept that tooth as a good-luck charm, a souvenir of his first bar fight of any real note.
Entering a dimly lit gift shop, Boyd saw that the place was overrun with people pushing wheelchairs, people dragging toddlers, and people yakking on cell phones. Everyone he looked, people were mindlessly meandering about, like so many lost sheep. Perfect. No one would later be able to recall who did what when; large crowds were the best camouflage a hunter could have.
As he passed a stack of cards with a Nativity scene, he made a mental note that this might be a classy place to do his Christmas shopping. Not that these godless people would even know the meaning of Christmas. Or any other event described in the Bible. Nowadays people put a popular spin on the Word of God, forgetting that biblical text was not subject to New Age feel-good interpretations.
Only a deluded fool would paraphrase the Word of God.
The colonel had taught him that. The colonel had taught him a lot of things since that day four years ago when he’d ordered him to get down on his knees before the Almighty. Never having prayed before, Boyd had been wary, but once he got over the initial embarrassment, he discovered it was an easy thing to beg God’s forgiveness. And just like that, in one life-altering moment, he was forgiven all of his sins, past and present. The bars, the brothels, the brawls, all forgiven. So, too, the murder of wife and child.
Although it was a daily struggle, he tried mightily to be a perfect holy warrior. He didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Kept his body a temple unto the Lord. He wished that he didn’t cuss, but as he’d entered the Corps at age seventeen, that was proving a hard habit to break.
Always room for improvement, he thought as he left the gift shop and entered the food court.
Coming to a standstill, he scanned the chow hall.
She was here, somewhere in the crowd; fear made a person stand out, having an energy all its own. Its own stink, as it were. Like a bull’s-eye, her fear would lead him right to her.
But first he had to cover his ass.
Catching sight of a tall, big-gutted custodial worker lackadaisically pushing a yellow bucket on wheels, Boyd knew he’d found his man. For ten years, his father had pushed a similar bucket. Which was why Boyd knew that custodial workers of every stripe were invisible to the rest of the world. Most people didn’t favor them with a polite hello, let alone a sideways glance. Pleased that the op was going so smoothly, he followed the janitor through a door marked Custodial Staff.
In fact, he was thinking about his daddy—a mean, drunken bastard till the day he died—when he cold-cocked the unsuspecting janitor, knocking him to the floor with one well-aimed punch.
Not believing in chance occurrences, Boyd recognized the fortuitous appearance of the janitor for what it was—a gift from God.
CHAPTER 11
“Since its creation some thirty-five hundred years ago, the Stones of Fire have cost the lives of countless individuals.”
“Including Jonathan Padgham,” Edie pointedly remarked, not in the mood for any more of Caedmon Aisquith’s sidestepping.
“Sadly, I am inclined to agree with you.”
“Well, it’s about time. Most people, if you tell them that their life is in danger, are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
His red brows drew together. “And why is my life in danger? I understand why this masked killer would be searching for you, since you did, after all, witness Padge’s murder. But I have no involvement whatsoever in this nefarious plot.”
“Think again, C Aisquith at lycos dot com. The killer mistakenly believes that Dr. Padgham e-mailed you photos of the relic.” Edie jutted her chin at the camera still clutched in his hand.
Caedmon studied the camera for several seconds, a thoughtful look on his face. “That can only mean one thing . . . the thieves don’t want anyone to know of the relic’s existence. Since the discovery of the Stones of Fire would have made international headlines and set biblical scholars a-twitter, we must assume that the relic came to be at the Hopkins Museum via the back door.” Wearing a pensive expression, he slowly shook his head. “‘The perfect treasure of his eyesight lost.’”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying, that the relic was smuggled out of its country of origin and sold on the black market?” When he nodded, Edie said, “Well, that would explain why the breastplate isn’t listed in the museum’s permanent collection. Since I’m archiving the collection, I have the master list of every ancient whatnot owned by the Hopkins. The breastplate was most definitely not on the list. Why did you call it ‘the Stones of Fire’?” she abruptly asked, beginning to suspect that he knew more than he’d so far let on.
Caedmon Aisquith removed his gaze from the digital photo. “The name was first coined by the Old Testament prophet Ezra. Actually, the relic has been known by quite a few names. The ancient Hebrews called it the Urim and Thummim. There are also several biblical references to the Breastplate of Judgment or the Jewels of Gold.”
“The Stones of Fire. The Urim and Thummim. These names tell me nothing. I feel like the elevator doors just opened on the ground floor of the Tower of Babel.”
“Perhaps I should retrace my steps.” Caedmon pushed his empty coffee cup to the side and positioned the camera in the middle of the table, enabling her to clearly see the photo of the jewel-studded gold breastplate. “Bearing in mind that everything I am about to say is mere speculation, I believe that this relic”—he pointed to the image on the digital camera—“or askema, as it is known in Hebrew, may have been the actual breastplate worn by the Levite high priest when he performed the sacred temple rituals. What makes the breastplate utterly priceless is the fact that it was created by Moses himself as directed by God. So although it’s not his actual handiwork, the breastplate is the actual design of God.”
Edie, who had been silent up until this point, stubbornly shook her head. “But I saw it with my own eyes. It was just . . . just an old breastplate. You don’t really believe that that was designed by God?” She tapped the camera display for added emphasis.
“Who am I to dispute the Old Testament prophets? The Bible is inundated with naysayers struck down by the wrath of God.” The droll remark left Edie in some doubt as to whether Caedmon Aisquith actually believed what he’d just said.
“Since all that remains of the original breastplate are twelve stones and a few bits and pieces of gold, how can you be so sure it’s is the real deal?”
“The relic would be easy enough to authenticate, given the detailed description in the book of Exodus. Conceived as a square design, it was originally composed of laced pieces of gold linen, inlaid with twelve stones set in four rows of three.” Grabbing the same sheet of paper she’d earlier used to draw the Jerusalem cross, Caedmon sketched out a design. “Based on the account in Exodus, I believe the breastplate would have looked something like this.” He turned the sketch in her direction.
“As you can see, my artistic talent is rudimentary at best. Be that as it may, each of the twelve gemstones possessed a divine power. In the first row there was a sardius, a topaz, and a carbuncle . . .” As he spoke, Caedmon carefully wrote the name of each gemstone. “In the second row, an emerald, sapphire, and diamond . . . in the third row a ligure, an agate, and an amethyst . . . and finally, in the fourth row, beryl, onyx, and jasper. Rather gemmy, don’t you think?” He smiled slightly, making Edie realize that he was a handsome man. She didn’
t usually go for redheads, but there was something uniquely appealing about the man sitting across from her. And, of course, the accent didn’t hurt.
She glanced back and forth between the digital photo and penned sketch, suddenly able to see how beautiful the relic must have been eons ago. “Is there any significance to the fact that there are twelve stones?”
“It’s highly significant,” Caedmon replied. “The number twelve symbolizes the completion of the sacred cycle. In the Torah, or the first five books of the Old Testament, it’s written that the twelve stones represented the twelve tribes of Israel. Just as each tribe had a unique function, the Levites being of the priestly caste, for instance, so, too, each of the twelve stones symbolized a hidden truth or virtue.”
“Since emeralds are my birthstone, I know that they symbolize immortality.”
“Rather ironic, what with the relic mysteriously appearing after so many centuries of being hidden away, supposedly lost forever.” The awestruck expression that Edie had seen when Caedmon first looked at the photo returned. “If the relic can be authenticated, it would be a truly astounding discovery, the Stones of Fire having disappeared from the pages of the Bible several thousand years ago.”
She sat silent. Somewhere in the museum café Chinese food was being served; Edie could smell stir-fried vegetables and soy sauce. She swallowed back a queasy knot.
“According to biblical scholars, the breastplate disappeared during the Babylonian—Are you all right?”
“No, I feel—” About to tell a lie, she instead said, “I’m scared, hungry, and exhausted. Take your pick.”
“Would you like something to eat?” He gestured to the pastries and desserts on the espresso bar.
“I’ll pass on the dessert. But if you wouldn’t mind getting me another cappuccino . . . ?”
“I’d be only too happy.”
Excusing himself, Caedmon got up from the table; Edie followed him with her gaze. Although he spoke with a proper English accent and possessed a proper English name, albeit an antiquated one, Caedmon Aisquith’s red hair, blue eyes, and tall height fairly screamed of a Scot in the woodpile. A really smart Scot, Caedmon Aisquith was a one-man brain trust. That intelligence was admittedly a turn-on, the mind being the sexiest organ a man could possess. Had she and the strangely named Brit met under different circumstances, she could easily envision herself asking him out on a dinner date.
When Caedmon returned, setting a steaming cup of cappuccino in front of her, Edie smiled her thanks.
“Tell me, when you gazed upon the Stones of Fire, did you notice anything extraordinary, or strange, or even mystical?”
She gave the question a moment’s consideration. “No. Should I have noticed something out of the ordinary?”
“Difficult to say. Biblical scholars believe that once garbed with the breastplate, the high priest could foresee the future, as though the hand of God had momentarily pulled back the curtain of time.”
“So then the breastplate was used as some sort of divination tool?”
“Only secondarily. The primary function was that of a conduit between the high priest and God.” Caedmon paused a moment, letting the factoid sink in. Or maybe he was considering how much he should divulge. Decision evidently reached, he continued. “Specifically, the high priest used the breastplate to control and harness the divine fire contained within the Ark.”
About to take a sip of her cappuccino, Edie lowered her cup to the table.
“The Ark? As in the Ark of the Covenant?”
“None other.”
CHAPTER 12
. . . blessed be God Most High, who has delivered your enemies into your hand!
“Praise be, praise be,” Boyd Braxton whispered as he recited his favorite Bible passage. Finished buttoning the dark blue janitor’s shirt, he unzipped the pair of cheap polyester pants and tucked in the shirttails. Then, not willing to mess with his juju, he cupped his balls. “You’re the man, B.B. You are the man.”
He’d been out of boot camp only a few weeks when his mess buddies had taken to calling him “B.B.” As in Big Bang. As in the fact that he could outdrink, outfight, outfuck any man in the unit. The fighting part landed him in the brig more times than he could recall, Boyd damned with his father’s murderous temper. The colonel said his temper was a cross he had to bear. Like Jesus lugging a hundred and ten pounds of lumber all the way to Calvary. It was a daily struggle. Sometimes he took the day. Sometimes the day took him.
A quick glance at the name badge sewn on the front of the matching blue jacket indicated that the black man sprawled at his feet was named Walter Jefferson. Blood seeped from his head and dribbled from his snot box; the janitor had broken his nose when he hit the deck.
“Sorry ’bout that.” Boyd snickered, figuring it’d be a couple of hours before the man came to. Since the colonel had been adamant that everything be by the numbers—i.e., no more screwups—he’d taken the extra precaution of stuffing a dirty rag into the janitor’s mouth. Then, trussing him up like a big Butterball turkey, he’d secured his hands and feet with a belt. He’d fucked up at the Hopkins Museum, but this time there would be no more dumb-ass boot mistakes.
Removing his pistol, Boyd popped the mag. Fifteen rounds. He only needed one to kill the Miller broad, but it was always a good idea to have extra ammo. Just in case.
His movements quick and steady, he screwed a silencer onto the end of the barrel.
Locked and loaded, he shoved the Mark 23 into the small of his back, the janitor’s jacket hiding the telltale bulge. He jammed a leather scabbard next to the pistol; the Ka-Bar knife was his backup weapon of choice. Silent but deadly, a Ka-Bar could slice and dice a man in less time that it took to say howdy-do. Or a woman—Boyd having killed more than one bitch in his time.
Suited up, he grabbed the mop handle and steered the yellow bucket toward the closed door of the janitor’s supply closet. Gray water sloshed up the sides, forcing Boyd to slow his stride. Opening the door, he rolled the mop and bucket across the threshold. Then, covering his tracks, he reached for the keys dangling from his belt. It took a few tries, but he found the right one, locking Walter Jefferson safely inside. That done, he hid his rolled ball of clothes, including his leather jacket, under a nearby bench.
Approaching the crowded concourse, he surveyed the jabbering horde of touristos. Again, he thought that they’d make good cover; his plan was to kill the Miller bitch, chuck the untraceable gun into the bucket of water, and get his hairy ass out of the building before anyone realized what had happened.
Pushing the yellow bucket, Boyd could see that no one paid him any mind. Like he’d figured, he was just a big blue custodial ghost.
Perfect. He loved when everything came together.
’Cause God help him, he knew what it was like when the fucking floor gave way. When you were sinking in quick shit without a buoy in sight.
That’s how it was back in ’04 when he’d returned from his first deployment in Iraq.
Fallujah.
What a fucking shithole.
Every night he woke up in a cold sweat. One night he actually pissed the bed. If his wife, Tammy, so much as brushed her bare leg against his, he’d bolt upright out of the bed, reaching for his M16. Except he didn’t have his combat rifle at the ready. Didn’t even have a damned sidearm; Tammy refused to let him bring a loaded anything into the house on account of Baby Ashley. Six months old, Baby Ashley cried all night long. Just like those fucking raghead babies in Fallujah. One night he couldn’t take it any longer: Ashley bawling for a milk titty. Couldn’t the brat just shut the fuck up?! With each ear-piercing scream, the pounding inside his skull got louder. And louder still.
And then everything went eerily quiet, Ashley’s screams muffled with a pillow.
Just like that baby in Fallujah.
That’s about the time his wife ran into the room, jumped on his back, and actually sank her teeth into the side of his neck, the bitch going for his jugular. He’d
had no choice but to fling the rabid cunt off his back. She hit her head on a nearby rocking chair; the blow pretty much killed her on the spot. Not knowing what to do, he’d telephoned Colonel MacFarlane. Like he was his own flesh and blood, the colonel took care of everything, giving him an airtight alibi, making it look like a robbery gone bad. The local police bought the story. Even the dickheads at the Daily News bought it; the local paper speculated that it was one of a series of local robberies committed by strung-out junkies looking to make some quick cash. Unfortunate Tragedy Befalls War Hero.
The colonel said the same thing. Except he went one step further. He said God understood what it was like to be a warrior, to come home from a hard-fought battle only to have to fend off the devil.
Colonel Stan MacFarlane was a great and good man, and Boyd owed him. Big-time. Not just for saving his ass, but for showing him the Way. For leading him into God’s fold. And when the little dick bastards at the Pentagon drummed that great and good man out of the Corps, Boyd went with him.
Pushing the yellow bucket, Boyd scanned the crowd, his nose twitching at the faint smell of stir-fried chink food.
The Miller bitch was here. Somewhere in the jostling crowd.
Soon enough he’d find her. And when he did, it’d be like shooting ragheads in a rain barrel.
CHAPTER 13
“. . . The story of the Ark of the Covenant is an operatic drama played out on the stage of the biblical Holy Land,” Caedmon continued in answer to Edie Miller’s question.
“‘Operatic’? Don’t you think you’re laying it on a bit thick?” his companion sardonically remarked.
“Not in the least. As you undoubtedly know, the Ark of the Covenant, or aron habrit in Hebrew, was an ornate chest that was roughly four feet long, two and a half feet wide, and two and half feet high”—as he spoke, Caedmon spanned his hands first in one direction, then the other, approximating the proportions in midair—“inlaid with hammered gold. But what you may not know is that the Ark of the Covenant was constructed exactly like an Egyptian bark.”