Judas Silver

by J. R. Rain

  Finally, Camerlengo paused before a heavy oak door that looked more like a drawbridge to a castle. The holy man uttered a sacred prayer and the lock suddenly snapped open in his hand.

  Trey did a double-take. Did he just see what he thought he saw? “Neat trick,” he commented.

  “No trick, Mr. Jordan,” Camerlengo answered. “As they say in America, you ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.”

  Camerlengo pushed the door open, and the three entered yet a still more ancient cavernous room. Once inside, the heavy door groaned shut behind them. Camerlengo and Franzini each grabbed an unlit torch from the wall and proceeded to light them from what appeared to be an eternally burning candle set in the wall.

  Ever curious, Trey inspected the candle. “Is this candle, um, always burning?”

  “Yes,” Camerlengo answered. “We call it Angel Fire.”

  “How...?” Trey began.

  “We don’t know,” Camerlengo answered with a grin. “This way, Mr. Jordan.”

  Both men held their torches high as Camerlengo led the way deeper into this seemingly forgotten chamber, deep beneath the Vatican City.

  Inky shadows crawled along the walls. The flickering lights revealed row after row of ancient suits of armor, looming out of the darkness as if awakened from a deep slumber. If Trey wasn’t so tough, he might have been nervous. He did swallow hard a couple of times, though.

  Camerlengo and Franzini slowed a little, making their way through the darkness. This allowed Trey to focus on the next set of treasures. He ogled the many ancient weapons fastened to the walls: battle axes, swords, crossbows, maces. One sword in particular grabbed his attention. It was a long broadsword, and gleamed supernaturally. It was mounted within a clear glass box.

  Franzini held no compassion for Trey’s curiosity and infatuation, but Camerlengo did. He stopped in front of the encased sword. “These are all weapons of the Crusade, Mr. Jordan,” he explained. “The sword in front of you was once owned and wielded by Richard the Lionhearted.” He stood back as Trey stared in stunned silence, jaw dropped, at the relic. “Surely a blessed sword,” Camerlengo continued, “but not the reason we are here. Come along.”

  Trey reluctantly tore his gaze away, leveled his stare at Camerlengo. “And just why are we here again?”

  Franzini tapped his foot with impatience.

  Camerlengo grinned. “You shall see.”

  The trio headed deeper into the darkened chamber and soon came upon another door. Camerlengo uttered another prayer, and a bolt snapped open. Franzini dismissed the small miraculous event as if he’d seen it dozens of times.

  They stepped through the doorway into a small gallery, already lit, apparently for them. Compared to the hallways and relics Trey had just encountered—and memorized, piece by piece—this room was a little gloomy. Mounted on the walls, standing oddly erect and with no hint of smoke, were a half-dozen more eternally burning flames. More Angel Fire, Trey acknowledged.

  Franzini maintained his stature of Intelligente professionalism, remaining silent. His job was to protect the Vatican at all costs, and he understood fully the risk of bringing Trey Jordan into these sacred, secret sections.

  Camerlengo kept up a congenial rapport. “Welcome to our Special Collections.”

  Dozens of glass cases filled the small room. Swords, weapons and various artifacts hung suspended within the cases.

  Trey moved eagerly to the first case. “What makes them so special?”

  “They are blessed,” Camerlengo told him. “Or cursed.”

  The case in front of Trey contained a sword, apparently animated in mid-air. The sword was very narrow, smaller than the others he’d seen. The blade was pointed upward.

  “This sword was made for a woman.” Trey’s expertise was accurate.

  “Very good, Mr. Jordan,” Camerlengo confirmed. “Joan of Arc, in fact.”

  The thief’s mouth dropped open. He tried to speak, but words failed him. Finally, he found his voice. “Why...why is it here? In Special Collections?”

  “Because it can lay waste to entire armies,” Franzini now spoke. “It can change the course of history.”

  Camerlengo nodded. “In the wrong hands, Mr. Jordan, this sword would be extremely dangerous.”

  But the opportunist in Trey thought that in the right hands—his own, in fact—the sword would be extremely valuable. Priceless, in fact. The Vatican officials sensed his thoughts and moved on.

  The next case contained an iron spear. Like the Sword of Joan of Arc, the spear pointed up and was suspended by supernatural means. This spear was rather crude, made of iron and attached to a blackened wooden staff.

  “Let me guess,” Trey said. “The Holy Lance.”

  Camerlengo nodded. “The Spear of Destiny. The one and only.”

  “He who controls the Spear controls the world,” Trey said reverently. “But I thought Hitler had the Spear.”

  “He did, until we stole it from him,” Franzini remarked. “But that is another story.”

  Trey moved to the third case, still fascinated. Inside this one was a rusted dagger. This menacing relic was pointed down.

  Camerlengo kept his distance from this case. “The scalpel of Jack the Ripper. I’d rather not discuss the havoc it can wreak. It always gives me the creeps, if the truth be known.”

  Trey was about to speak, but Franzini glanced noticeably at his watch, and Camerlengo moved them on. Although intrigued, Trey left the scalpel behind.

  As the trio passed various swords, staffs, and other ancient relics, Camerlengo rattled off their names. “The Staff of Aaron. The Sword of Saint Peter—yes, the one he used to remove the centurion’s ear. There, we have a wooden stake from the True Cross. Vampires beware! That one is the Dagger of Sinan, yes, the Old Man of the Mountains, leader of the Assassins. The Spear of Achilles.”

  Now Camerlengo paused. “Ah, here we go. I assume you will be intimately familiar with our next display.”

  Trey peered inside the glass case. Suspended within was the Staff of Saint Patrick. Trey shuddered, swallowed hard. “As you like to say, let’s move on.”

  Finally, they arrived at the last display. Inside, hanging at an angle and gleaming dully was a long iron nail. Almost as big as a stake, the nail was crudely made, although surprisingly rust-free. A leather strap looped through a hole at the nail’s head.

  “The Fourth Nail.” Now it was Camerlengo’s turn to be reverent. “Have you heard its tale?”

  Trey blinked in disbelief. “What thief hasn’t? We all know that Christ was nailed to the cross with three nails. But there was supposed to be a fourth. It was stolen by a Gypsy.”

  Camerlengo nodded. “Thus sparing Christ some pain, and thereby granting the Gypsies clemency for the sin of stealing for all eternity.”

  “That’s the part I like.” Trey grinned. “I am, after all, a Gypsy at heart.”

  But Camerlengo and Franzini ignored this last remark. Camerlengo muttered his secret prayer, and as he did so, the glass door swung silently open. He reached slowly inside and carefully removed the Sacred Fourth Nail.

  Trey was humbled and honored by its mere presence.

  “Go ahead,” Camerlengo encouraged Trey. “You can touch it.”

  Ever so lightly, Trey ran the tip of his fingers along the Forth Nail. He glanced from it up to Camerlengo. “Wow,” was all he could muster up.

  “The Fourth Nail is the only defense against the Judas Coins.” To Trey’s amazement, Camerlengo slipped the leather strap reverently over Trey’s head. The Nail hung down just inside the thief’s shirt, now concealed. It felt cool against his chest.

  “So, what do I do with it?” Trey asked. “Nail the bastard to death? Does it come with a hammer?”

  “Rather than making jokes, Mr. Jordan,” Camerlengo’s tone was grave, “perhaps you should pray for guidance.”

  “Please pray for me, Father,” Trey answered. “I’m a little rusty.”

  Chapter Eight

  Fortunately for Tre
y, he had the uncanny and undeniable ability for sleeping on planes. So, when the two Vatican officials put him on a private jet from Rome to Philadelphia, he arrived well rested.

  He’d been briefed with every piece of information they could give him, and he was armed with the Fourth Nail, which he kept hidden under his clothing. Trey was also humbly forced into having a tracking device injected into the back of his calf. That was almost a deal-breaker. In the end, though, he’d consented. The device was essential, Franzini told him, because it not only tracked him, but Franzini would know when—“If,” Trey had insisted—the thief died.

  So, even though a soft rain drizzled down on the Old Town section of Philly, Trey whistled as he made his way through the streets, enjoying the ambiance of the ancient brick and plaster buildings. The sidewalks were almost empty, and he was at peace, on his own, at least for a little while.

  Eventually, he came to the building he sought: a small coin shop called Pennies From Heaven. He knew the place, had been there before. He knew that there were two floors and that the second floor served as an office/apartment for Eve Friday. In fact, he’d been there recently. Very recently.

  Now he peered into the shop to find Eve working behind a glass display, talking with a customer.

  Trey frowned and entered unseen, thief-like. This wasn’t just any customer. He could smell a weasel or rat a mile away, and he knew Eve usually could, as well. He sensed that something was off with Eve today.

  The customer donned a long black overcoat to match his black hair and goatee. His small, twitchy features belied anxiety. As Trey moved into a shadowed corner, he heard the man speak to Eve contemptuously, words enunciated crisp and sharp.

  “That one there,” the man pointed out.

  Eve Friday unlocked the display case and removed a gold coin contained in a protective plastic sleeve.

  “How much?” The man asked.

  “Seventy-eight hundred,” she answered.

  “Remove it from the sleeve,” the man demanded.

  Eve disregarded his nasty attitude. She carefully removed the glistening coin. The man held his hand out; she reluctantly dropped it into his palm, now watching him closely.

  Good girl, Trey thought. But he was ready, nevertheless.

  The odd customer held the coin up to his face, grinning broadly. He turned the coin over and over in his pale fingers. “Yes...yes...very nice.” As he turned the coin, something almost imperceptible happened. Eve wasn’t sure, but it looked like the coin disappeared very briefly. In an instant, the coin reappeared, the man turning it around and around between his thumb and forefinger, as if nothing had happened.

  Trey watched Eve frown and catch her breath. The man looked at her, a dark grin on his creepy face. He stopped spinning the coin and handed it back to her.

  “Very nice,” he said, “but I’ve seen better.”

  Eve inspected the coin. It gleamed, looked as nice as ever. But she continued to frown, her eyebrows drawing together.

  “Go on,” the man urged, “take it. I don’t want it anymore.”

  Eve was now breathing deeply, her chest rising rapidly under her University of Philadelphia sweatshirt. She drew her other hand back, reached inconspicuously inside a drawer under her counter.

  She set the coin down, grabbed the man’s hand and pulled him across the counter. Her other hand drew out a small pistol and shoved into the man’s rat-like face. Her finger tightened around the trigger.

  “I hate thieves,” her voice low and deadly. “I really hate thieves.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” the man exclaimed.

  “Give...me...back...my...coin.”

  “I don’t have your fucking—”

  “Move, and I blow your brains out.”

  Silence. Both were motionless, deadlocked. Neither blinked.

  Trey decided this would be a good time to come out of the shadows. Neither Eve nor the man acknowledged him. He paused just behind the man. Slightly amused, he quipped, “So much for the customer always being right.”

  The man, still frozen in place, said, “This bitch has gone crazy.”

  Trey Jordan, super confident in his new duds and smoothly shaved face, leaned onto the counter, and faced the man. “Let me guess, you palmed a coin.”

  The man said nothing, although his eyes shifted uneasily from Eve to Trey. Trey gave him a big, shit-eating grin. The man didn’t answer, so Trey allowed his gaze to flick over to Eve. The beautiful shop owner didn’t take her eyes off the man, nor her grip on the gun, but allowed her head to nod once.

  Trey nodded as well. “Oldest trick in the book.” He quickly pushed Eve’s hand away and grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt. “You can put the gun away, Eve.” His smile gone now. “Women and guns make me nervous. In exactly that order.”

  Eve lowered the gun, exhaling loudly. A thin film of sweat coated her upper lip and brow.

  Trey went to work. He ripped open the man’s trench coat, reached inside and dug into a hidden pocket. The man fought back, but Trey promptly head-butted his nose, breaking it. Blood spilled down the man’s chin.

  This slowed the man down. “Christ, you broke my nose!” he exclaimed in dismay and pain.

  Trey ignored him, still rooting around in the pocket. Finally, he removed his hand triumphantly. Holding the man at bay with one hand still gripped onto his shirt, Trey opened his other hand for Eve. In his hand was the gleaming gold coin. This one, the real deal.

  “Eve, give me the gun,” he demanded. “I’ll show him what we do with thieves here.”

  Eve gave over the gun in exchange for the gold coin. “Just don’t make a mess this time.” Her voice was cool once again. “I hate cleaning up all the blood.”

  It was clear that she trusted him completely.

  The man’s eyes darted around crazily. He was utterly freaked. Trey held the pistol to the other thief’s head.

  “Please. Please, no!” he pleaded.

  “Just take it like a man,” Trey soothed.

  There was a splashing sound from below. Trey looked down. So did Eve. The man had pissed himself.

  “Oh, gross,” Eve said, disgusted.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Trey said.

  The weasel-faced man pulled himself loose from Trey’s grip, screaming. He slipped on his own urine, scrambled up and fumbled for the door. He took a final look back at Trey, who was tracking him from behind the sights of the handgun, grinning.

  “BANG!” Trey shouted. The amateur thief squealed and threw open the door. He dashed off down the street and out of sight.

  Trey chuckled and lowered the gun. The man had left dirty, wet yellow footprints all the way to the door.

  But suddenly, a mop smacked Trey on the shoulder. Eve shoved a bucket over with her foot as well.

  “You scared the piss out of him. Now, you get to clean it up.”

  * * *

  A few hours later, Trey found himself walking casually with Eve through the mostly-empty streets under a steady summer rain in the dark of the night. Trey held an umbrella over the two of them. Eve strolled close to him, her hand lightly holding his forearm.

  “It usually takes a thief to catch a thief,” Trey commented. “You did good work back there.”

  Eve laughed. “I’m still trembling. What an asshole.”

  “Me or him?” Trey quipped.

  Eve’s full lips drew together as she contemplated. “It depends. Are you still a thief?”

  “I’ll have to plead the Fifth,” he answered.

  They walked on in silence, the rain the only sound around them.

  “There was a time when you didn’t think I was so bad,” Trey’s voice was low, almost a whisper.

  “I was young and stupid,” Eve answered in an equally soft voice. “Now I’m old, and not so stupid.”

  “I’m not here to change your opinion of me.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Trey didn’t miss a beat, or a step as he answered. “I’m h
ere for the Judas Coin.”

  This did stop Eve. She whipped her head around, eyes narrowed. A hint of fire smoldered just behind her pupils. She withdrew her hand from his arm and strode away, taking in the rain on her hair and face.

  Chapter Nine

  “Dammit.” Trey hurried after her. When he matched her stride, he took her hand.

  She spun around, angry. “How do you know about that?” Eve demanded.

  “I can explain.”

  “Explain? Explain what! Once a thief, always a thief. God forbid that I thought you came here to see me.”

  “Yeah, I know, this looks bad.” Trey fumbled for words. “But please, Eve, let me explain. This is important.”

  Eve released his hand with a vicious tug. “Yeah. Important. Let me guess. You’ve got a thievery job?”

  “Yes...no...oh, crap.” Trey tossed the umbrella aside and they both stood in the rain, each facing the other with their own convictions.

  “Kiss my sweet ass, TJ.” Eve turned away again, but Trey moved in front of her. He raised his hand and she was about to strike it away, but he brushed her wet hair away from her face.

  “You trusted me once,” he told her.

  “Like I said, I was young and—”

  “Yeah, I know. So was I. But please, Eve, if you ever cared for me...let me tell you how it is. This isn’t just any job. I swear.”

  Trey’s hand moved from her hair to her face with a gentle caress that calmed her.

  “Just a coffee?” he asked. “Just coffee. I’m asking.”

  * * *

  Rain still drifted outside the brightly lit coffee shop window. Trey and Eve sat opposite each other in a back booth, away from the other customers. Trey acknowledged Eve’s possessive, irrational demeanor. He sensed something was wrong, but he knew not to push her.