by C. M. Palov
“Drink some more coffee.”
She gulped down the last of her cappuccino. Seeing a faint brown smear on her upper lip, he unthinkingly picked up a paper napkin and wiped the smudge clean. Then, guiltily aware of the trespass, he crumbled the napkin into a ball, tossing it onto the table.
“Dr. Padgham was in the process of sending you a digital photo of the relic when he was killed.”
“A digital photo? Why would he have done that?”
Opening her tote bag, she removed a camera. “He didn’t say. As a back-up, I-I saved the photograph on the camera’s internal memory. Here—” She shoved the camera at him. “That’s the relic that was stolen.”
Holding the camera within a few inches of his face, Caedmon examined the digital photo, as through a glass darkly, disbelieving what he was seeing.
His breath caught in his throat, her outlandish story suddenly making perfect sense.
“Bloody hell . . . I don’t believe it. I absolutely don’t believe it,” he whispered, unable to draw his gaze from the photo.
“I take it from your stupefied expression that the relic is valuable enough to steal.”
“Most assuredly.”
“And how about killing? Is it valuable enough that someone would kill to obtain it?”
He lowered the camera, keenly aware that Edie Miller was in very grave danger.
“Oh, I think a great many people would kill to obtain the fabled Stones of Fire.”
CHAPTER 10
There will be in these last days many deceivers and false prophets and many who will follow them: For many deceivers are entered into the world.
With reverential care, Boyd Braxton closed the gilt-edged book and replaced it in the glove compartment. The Warrior’s Bible, leather bound and emblazoned with the Rosemont Security Consultants emblem, had been personally given to him by Colonel Stanford MacFarlane. And though he was in a beaucoup hurry, the colonel always said that it was important to give the Almighty his due.
Reaching under the Bible, he removed an official police permit and placed it on the dash of the Crown Vic. The permit gave him the right to park anywhere in the city. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t on the Metropolitan Police force. He looked like a cop. And he drove a cop car. No one would think twice.
Parked directly in front of him, covered in a light layer of newly fallen snow, was a black Jeep Wrangler. Just as he figured, no sooner did he leave her pad than the bitch crept out of her hidey-hole.
“Stupid cunt,” he muttered, getting out of the Crown Vic. Walking over to the Jeep, he slapped a magnetic tracking device on the metal underbelly. He could now monitor the vehicle’s every move on his cell phone, the tracking device programmed with an automatic call-out feature.
“You, bitch, damned near cost me my job,” he muttered as he walked toward the museum.
And being Colonel Stan MacFarlane’s right-hand man at Rosemont Security Consultants was a job he took real seriously. Just like he’d taken his stint in the Marine Corps real seriously. A former jarhead, he still wore his hair high and tight, having served fifteen years in the Green Machine. Now he served Stan MacFarlane. If it hadn’t been for the colonel, he’d be eating institutional slop and lifting weights alongside the brothers in the state penitentiary. No chance of parole.
Juries didn’t look kindly upon gunnery sergeants who’d murdered their wife and child.
A lot like that dark day four years ago, he’d fucked up royally today at the Hopkins Museum.
But soon enough, he’d make it right, proving to the colonel that he was still a hard charger. That he was still worthy of his trust. That he was still a holy warrior.
Swinging open the glass door that fronted the Fourth Street Entrance, Boyd entered the National Gallery of Art.
Beautiful. Not a metal detector in sight. The Ka-Bar knife and Mark 23 pistol would pass undetected.
Like he was a cop on official business, he strode over to the guard station. Which was a joke because the guard station didn’t amount to much more than a cloth-covered table manned by a pair of rent-a-pogues. Opening the flap of his leather coat, he removed a very official-looking Metropolitan Police badge.
“Is there a problem, Detective Wilson?” the gray-haired guard inquired, straightening his shoulders as he spoke.
“I’m looking for someone. Have you seen this woman?” Boyd held up a photograph of one Eloise Darlene Miller.
The guard reached for the pair of reading glasses hanging from his neck. After several seconds of careful scrutiny, he said, “Yeah, not too long ago, as a matter of fact. If I’m not mistaken, she headed down to the concourse.”
Never having been inside the National Gallery of Art, Boyd glanced around the cavernous marble-walled lobby. “Where’s the concourse?”
“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-aim
ed 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 conside
ring 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.