Ark of Fire

by C. M. Palov

  “We can always go to the police,” Edie suggested, the first to break the unnerving quietude.

  “And promptly be accused of two murders we didn’t commit.” He forcefully shook his head. “We can’t go to the authorities unless the situation absolutely warrants it.”

  “And who gets to make that call, you or me?”

  “We’re a team, are we not?” As he spoke, he slung an arm around her shoulders, marrying trunks, hips, and thighs, one to the other. “‘She winters and keeps warm her note,’” he murmured into her ear, reciting the lyric from an old English song.

  Edie wrapped an arm around his waist. Turning her face upward, she smiled. “Yeah, I’m with you. I much prefer to make love than war.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Oh, man, he wanted to fuck her.

  So bad his johnson had been standing on end for the last couple of hours. Ever since, with his peephole video camera shoved against the hotel room door, he’d had a front-row seat on what turned out to be an unbelievable fuck fest.

  At first he’d been pissed that he’d been given the graveyard surveillance shift. Small wonder Sanchez had been grinning when he relieved him of duty. Who the hell would have thought the curly-haired bitch had the moves of an experienced whore? It’d been all he could do not to hump himself against the adjoining hotel door like a Pakistani raghead in an Islamabad alleyway.

  The colonel was fond of saying, “When lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin. And sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.” The Bible verse helped keep his lusts in check. Usually.

  Placing a hand over his crotch, Boyd Braxton rearranged his equipment.

  A shopkeeper hauling a bucket of flowers behind a plate glass window glared at him. He glared right back and continued on his merry way, Aisquith and the woman one block ahead of him. The streets were practically empty of pedestrian traffic, so shadowing them was a piece of cake. Besides, the redheaded Brit was too intent on whispering sweet nothings into the bitch’s ear to even realize he had a tail on his six.

  On account of the audio surveillance, he knew they were headed to the local bus depot. His job was to head them off at the pass, grateful for the chance to redeem himself after the goat-fuck four days ago in D.C.

  He adjusted his stride, quickening the pace.

  As he did, his heart excitedly pounded against his breastbone.

  He couldn’t wait for the takedown. Knowing it would happen in ten, nine, eight . . .

  CHAPTER 51

  Craning her neck to examine a storefront window display, Edie caught a sudden flash of movement reflected in the plate glass.

  She turned her head. First stunned, then shocked.

  It was Dr. Padgham’s killer. No more than twenty feet behind them.

  Without thinking, she pivoted on her booted heel, placed both hands on Caedmon’s shoulder and shoved him as hard as possible. Right off the curb and into High Street.

  “Caedmon, run!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, realizing too late that she’d pushed him directly in front of an oncoming vehicle.

  Car horns blared. Tires screeched.

  Deciding that Caedmon would be safer in the roadway than in the killer’s line of fire, she took off running, sparing a quick glance over her shoulder.

  As hoped for, the killer, forced to choose between the two of them, decided to pursue her rather than Caedmon.

  Up ahead, Edie caught sight of an aproned man pushing a wheeled handcart loaded with cardboard boxes. A second later, he disappeared into a building that fronted High Street. Without thinking, she followed the delivery guy, surprised to discover that the entry led to an indoor shopping arcade, its narrow corridors snaking out in several directions. As if he’d vanished into a big, black hole, the delivery guy was nowhere in sight.

  Not so Padgham’s killer; the behemoth had followed her into the shopping arcade.

  Edie willed her legs to move that much faster as she veered down a deserted corridor. All of the shops were closed, their darkened windows decked out in Christmas greenery. Pet supplies. Home accessories. Jewelry. Leather goods. It all passed in a blurry flash.

  Hearing a heavy footfall directly behind her, Edie, frantic, grabbed a carousel of Christmas cards that had been wedged into the doorway of a closed gift shop. With a yank, she hurled it to the ground, spilling the cards willy-nilly onto the floor. Roadblock erected, she kept on running.

  A second later, she heard a muttered curse. Then a crash. Evidently, her assailant had slipped on a greeting card.

  Good. She hoped the bastard broke his neck.

  Catching sight of what looked to be plucked and trussed birds hanging from a wall, she ran in that direction, making a sharp left when she reached the poultry shop. The course adjustment took her down a different corridor, this one well lit. Several shops—a greengrocer, a coffee emporium, and a butcher—were actually open for early-morning business, although paying customers were few and far between. And the ones that were afoot gave no notice to the harried woman running past.

  On the periphery of her senses, she became aware of an almost nauseating swirl of fused scents—Stilton cheese, ground coffee, fresh meat. As though a hundred years of smells had coalesced into one uniquely weird odor. She opened her mouth and gulped down a breath of air.

  Which is when she ran headlong into a pimply-faced, tattooed youth carrying a wooden box of iced fish.

  “Silly cow!” the teen bellowed as iridescent fish and white blobs of crushed ice arced through the air, pelting him on the head and shoulders. A scatologically detailed rant immediately ensued.

  Managing to stay afoot after the collision, Edie muttered an apology as she sprinted forward. Her energy flagging, her leg muscles now protested each and every forward stride. And she didn’t have to turn her head to know that her assailant was fast closing in on her, the collision with the fishmonger voiding whatever gains she’d made.

  No more than ten yards away, Edie saw what looked to be an exit; the lock bar across the steel door made her think it was intended for emergency use only. Fast running out of options, she raced forward. Slamming her palms onto the metal bar, she pushed for all she was worth.

  The door swung open.

  A heartbeat later, she emerged into a narrow alleyway. At a glance, she could see that there wasn’t a soul in sight, only a cluster of parked delivery vans.

  “Don’t even think about it, bitch!”

  Hearing that gravelly-voiced command, Edie spun around. The moment she opened her mouth to scream, her assailant slapped a hand over her mouth as he grabbed a fistful of hair. With one strong-armed tug, he yanked her toward him.

  Slamming into his chest, Edie tried to jerk free. Anticipating the move, he let go of her hair and cinched a hand around her wrists. Maliciously smiling, he yanked her arms above her head, pulling her onto her toes. With few defenses left to her, Edie tried to bite down on the hand that covered her mouth. His smile widening, her assailant pushed all the harder, mashing her lips against her teeth. Blood gushed into her mouth. Still grinning, he shoved her between two parked delivery vans, ramming her against a limestone wall. Completely out of sight.

  Unable to use her hands, Edie tried to knee him, but discovered she couldn’t move her lower body; her assailant’s hips and thighs were pressed flush against her own.

  Oh, God! She was completely immobilized against the wall.

  “I’ve got a little gift for you,” the behemoth hissed as he crudely and repeatedly shoved himself against her pelvic bone. “Nice, isn’t it?”

  Edie stared into his face—noticing the heavy shadow of whiskers, the flared nostrils, the thick lips—noticing everything and anything in a desperate attempt to block out what he was doing to her.

  Still thrusting his hips, he licked her face, his tongue moving from her jaw to her temple. “Baby girl, I’m gonna split ya right in two.”

  Like salt on a wound, old memories flashed in front of her eyes.

  Terror quickly turned to
rage.

  This time she’d fight back! No way in hell would she let this animal rape her.

  Writhing, squirming, Edie did everything she could to free herself.

  But it was like fending off the monstrous devil-dog Cerberus.

  Her assailant grunted. “You want it bad, don’t you, bitch?”

  Belatedly realizing that her struggles excited him, Edie went still.

  Within seconds the dry-humping ceased.

  “Fucking cock tease!” Crisscrossed vessels bulged on either side of his head. Ready to blow.

  Able to feel that he’d gone soft, Edie contemptuously snorted against his hand. Her would-be rapist removed his palm from her mouth. Fist balled, he reared back his arm.

  Closing her eyes, Edie braced herself for what she figured would be a bone-crushing blow.

  It never came.

  Instead her assailant loudly grunted as he rolled away from her. Edie opened her eyes, surprised to see blood pouring down the side of his face, gushing from those crisscrossed vessels. She was even more surprised to see Caedmon standing a few feet away, a broken bottle gripped in his right hand. Lurching forward, she ran to his side.

  A tense stalemate ensued.

  Then, like the coward he was, the bloodied behemoth scurried down the alley. Edie saw what looked to be a gun protruding from his waistband. She and Caedmon stood silent, watching him depart. When he reached the end of the alleyway, he vanished.

  “Did you see that? He had a gun! Why didn’t he use it?”

  “He may yet.” Caedmon tossed aside the broken bottle. Edie could see that he was furious.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I simply followed the swath of destruction that followed in your wake.” As he spoke, Caedmon glanced up and down the alleyway, his eyes settling on a deliveryman who’d just exited the market.

  “The upended box of fish was an accident.”

  “Tell that to the fishmonger. Come on! We’re wasting time!” Grabbing her by the elbow, he steered her toward a black service van, the words Morton & Sons emblazoned on the side panel in a fancy Edwardian script. Exhaust fumes snaked from the muffler.

  Caedmon reached for the chrome handle on the back door.

  “Get in!” he brusquely ordered. “Before the driver takes off!”

  Edie glanced inside, surprised to see a row of trussed fowls swinging from a metal rod.

  “You’re kidding, right? There’s no way I’m hitching a ride with a bunch of dead birds.”

  “Don’t make me put my boot to your arse.”

  Having been manhandled enough for one day, Edie wordlessly climbed into the back of the van.

  CHAPTER 52

  Positioning himself near the rear of the lorry, Caedmon shoved his foot against one of the double doors, ensuring that they wouldn’t be locked inside the refrigerated vehicle. As the lorry took off, the door gently bounced against the sole of his shoe.

  “How long do we have to stay cooped up in the chickenmobile?” Edie grumped, her head and shoulders slumped to avoid being broadsided by the swinging fowl overhead. She held his wadded handkerchief to her mouth, blotting the blood from a cut lip.

  “We remain in the lorry as long as I deem it necessary. And the birds in question are geese.” Bound for Christmas tables all across the shire.

  He spared Edie a quick glance, still furious about her foolhardy sprint through the Covered Market; the woman had more blasted moves than the Bolshoi Ballet.

  Bloody hell. She’d nearly got herself killed.

  Had he not arrived in time, she would have suffered a grievous injury, the goon’s fist on the verge of making contact with her cheekbone.

  “I figured he’d take you out first,” Edie explained. “That’s why I pushed you into the street. To cause a diversion.”

  And to ensure that the assailant chased after her, not him.

  Good God, but he wanted to throttle her.

  “Like the repentant thief crucified beside our Lord, you are quick on your feet. But that doesn’t mean that you made a wise or reasoned decision,” he chastised, not in a forgiving mood. Then, dreading what her answer might be, “Did he harm you in any way?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say he violated my person, but he did take a few liberties.”

  “Bloody bastard!”

  “It was nothing. Trust me. Other than a cut lip, I’m fine.”

  Caedmon stared into Edie Miller’s brown eyes and saw the scared, vulnerable child she once had been. He fought the urge to pull her to him, worried that he might say something utterly asinine.

  Evidently suffering from no such qualms, Edie crawled toward him, nearly losing her balance when the lorry made a sudden left turn. He snatched the bottom of the door with his hand, preventing it from swinging wide open. Despite the anger, he stretched out his free arm, cradling her face in his hand.

  “It’s cold in here,” she complained, nestling alongside him.

  Caedmon gently rubbed his thumb over her swollen lip. “Thank God you’re all right.”

  “What now?”

  “Taking any form of public transportation is out of the question, as MacFarlane’s men will undoubtedly be monitoring the coach depot and the train station. Therefore we’ll remain in the lorry until we’ve safely departed Oxford. Hopefully, we’ll be able to find a sympathetic motorist willing to take us to London.”

  “Maybe we should notify the authorities.”

  “It’s not as though we can have the villain brought to book. And given your rampage in the market, should you contact the police, you’d probably end up an overnight guest of the Thames Valley Authority.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “Floundering about like two—”

  “Geese,” she interjected, staring at the trussed birds swinging overhead.

  “I was about to say two landlocked mackerel, but I suppose a pair of frightened geese would suffice.”

  “No. I’m talking about the first line of the fourth quatrain.” Snatching the airline bag, she unzipped it, removing the folded sheet of paper with the translated quatrains. “Here it is,” she said, underscoring the line as she read aloud. “‘The trusted goose sorely wept for all of them were dead.’ Do you remember I told you that I once wrote a research paper on the Wife of Bath from Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales?”

  He nodded, wondering where this particular projectile would land.

  “Well, the swinging geese overhead reminded me of a line from the prologue to that particular tale. Mind you, it’s been more than ten years, so I’m paraphrasing big-time, but Chaucer wrote, ‘Nor does any grey goose swim there in the lake that, as you see, will be without a mate.’ In fact, the whole premise of my paper was that women in the Middle Ages had to wed. Or join a nunnery. Those were the only two options available.”

  Admittedly baffled, he raised a brow. “Your point?”

  “I just remembered that in medieval literature the word goose always refers to the good housewife. Yesterday, you said that the goose was a symbol for vigilance. And you’re right. Who in the medieval world was more vigilant than the good housewife? I suspect no one ever considered the possibility that the quatrains were written by Mrs. Galen of Godmersham, Philippa being the ‘trusted goose.’” She folded her arms over her chest, theatrically rolling her eyes. “Male chauvinism at its academic best.”

  “I admit that your theory about Philippa has rich possibilities. However—”

  “Think about it, Caedmon. How would an eighty-five-year-old man hide a heavy gold chest? What do you want to bet that Galen’s dying wish was an urgent plea to his much younger wife to hide his precious arca from the looters rampaging the countryside during the plague? Sir Kenneth told us that everyone in Godmersham perished from the plague.”

  “Save Philippa,” he murmured, her premise beginning to ring with perfect pitch. “And once her husband was dead, Philippa hid the gold arca somewhere on the grounds of St. Lawrence the Martyr Church.”
/>   “Actually, I’ve got a theory about that, too,” Edie countered, surprising him yet again.

  “Brains and beauty. I am totally bewitched.”

  Edie playfully hit him in the arm. “Hey, you forgot to mention the brawn.” Then, her tone more serious, she continued, “I’m beginning to think that we got the martyr part of the quatrains all wrong.”

  “I take it that you refer to the third line of the last quatrain?”

  “Correct. ‘But if a man with a fully devout heart seek the blessed martyr’ does not refer to St. Lawrence the Martyr. At least I don’t think it does. I’m thinking it refers right back to the goose.”

  “I’m not following your argument.” Unhindered by ego, he didn’t care who exposed the truth; only that it be found.

  “Okay, we now know that the goose refers to Philippa, the good housewife,” Edie replied, ticking off her first point on her pinky finger. She next moved to her ring finger. “Per Sir Kenneth, Philippa was the daughter of the justice of the peace for Canterbury.” She delineated the next point on her middle finger. “And Canterbury, as you know from having read Chaucer, is where medieval pilgrims journeyed—”

  “—to see the sight where the archbishop, Thomas à Becket, was killed in 1170 by Henry the Second’s henchmen,” Caedmon finished, well acquainted with the historical incident, the murdered archbishop a victim in the conflict that raged between church and state. “Within weeks of the murder, wild rumors began to circulate throughout England, those who came into contact with the bloodied vestments of the now-dead archbishop attesting to all sorts of astonishing miracles. Soon thereafter, the Catholic Church canonized Thomas à Becket as a martyred saint.”

  “And thus the cult of St. Thomas was born.”

  With perfect clarity, Caedmon knew that Edie was absolutely correct. When they originally deciphered the fourth quatrain, they misread the clue. As Philippa no doubt intended.

  Edie leaned against the metal wall of the lorry, a satisfied smile on her lips. “It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Philippa, entrusted with hiding the Ark, takes it to the only place other than Godmersham that she has any familiarity with, that being the town of her birth, Canterbury.”