Soul Thief (Blue Light Series)

by Mark Edward Hall

  He had to let it go because he did not have the strength or the wit to delve too deeply into it now. He’d been mostly asleep for the past couple of months. And Lucy was right about one thing. He did need to get his strength back. He really didn’t have much of a choice. He lifted the artifact up off his chest and inspected it, this time more thoroughly than before. To him it looked old, but otherwise unimpressive. Its surface was green and pitted, worn by the ravages of time. He remembered how he’d thought it had turned to gold when he’d first held it in his hand, but now he wasn’t sure of anything. Perhaps he’d dreamed that part of the story. It seemed so long ago, impossible now. Finally he let the object fall back in place and heaved a deep sigh. Suddenly he felt very tired.

  “I remember everything now,” Doug said, his voice a mere whisper. “An old man who said he was a priest gave this to me. He said it was meant for me. He’d been shot and he was dying. He tried to kill Annie’s father but failed. When he gave me the object he told me that it was both magical and a burden for the one that carried it.”

  Doug watched Lucy’s eyes fill with tears.

  “You knew him, didn’t you?”

  Lucy nodded. “He knew he couldn’t kill De Roché. He also knew that you wouldn’t believe anything he said. He sacrificed his life so that you would believe.”

  “Jesus,” Doug said.

  “I want to tell you a story,” Lucy said. “Think you’re up for it?”

  “Yes. I need to know what’s going on.”

  Lucy told him about the massacre at the church the night before the artifact was passed to Doug and about members of the Order being slaughtered. Doug listened without responding through the entire story. Finally Lucy said, “There’s a traitor in our ranks. We were supposed to be watching you and Annie, protecting you, but something went terribly wrong on the morning your house was destroyed. That should never have happened. And then Paul Redington called a meeting of the elders. He should not have done that, either, but he didn’t feel he had a choice. As it turned out, his instincts were correct.”

  Doug stared. “Where does that leave your organization?”

  “The Order is still very much alive but obviously less healthy. They’ve survived worse in their history.”

  “Such as?”

  “On October 13, 1307, a day so infamous that Friday the 13th would become a synonym with ill fortune, officers of King Philip IV of France carried out mass arrests in a well-coordinated dawn raid that left several thousand Knights Templar, sergeants, priests, and serving brethren—in chains, charged with heresy, blasphemy, various obscenities, and homosexual practices. None of these charges was ever proven, even in France—and the Order was found innocent elsewhere—but in the seven years following the arrests, hundreds of Templars suffered excruciating tortures intended to force confessions, and many more died under torture or were executed by burning at the stake. They were hunted nearly into extinction.”

  “I’ve read about the Templars,” Doug said. “Are you telling me . . .?”

  “Yes, Doug, the Jesuit Brotherhood of the Order is a direct descendent of the Knights Templar. The massacre of 1307 forced them underground where they’ve remained for seven hundred years. They have become one of the most powerful, yet secret organizations on earth . . .” Lucy stopped and waited for her words to sink in. She watched Doug pick the object up off his chest and gaze at it. She saw the question in his eyes.

  “Paul Redington was their grand master,” Lucy said. “And that object you now hold in your hand is one of the most sought after artifacts in human history. He sacrificed his life to make sure you received it.”

  “This is what they were really after, isn’t it?” Doug said. “I mean back in 1307.”

  Lucy nodded. “History is skewed on that question, but the real truth has been safe inside the Order for more than seven hundred years. Many have given their lives protecting that truth.”

  “So where did it come from? I mean, how did the Templars acquire it?”

  “This is the part that’s going to be difficult for you to accept,” Lucy said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it involves Annie and her father and ultimately it involves you and your unborn child.”

  Doug said nothing.

  “The artifact was found on the bank of a silt-filled river near a muddy battlefield during the end of the Norman domination of France under King Philip Augustus,” Lucy said. “That was in 1204, more than a century before the Friday the thirteenth massacre. Legend has it that an ordinary soldier found it, and supposedly that’s when the Collector appeared for the first time—like an angel or a devil—depending on which version of the story you prefer, and he bargained with the soldier to obtain it. Legend also says that the soldier was mortally wounded and that after the bargain he was miraculously healed. Supposedly, he told his comrades that he’d given the demon the artifact in exchange for immortality. The soldier went on to found a great French dynasty. There are legends that say he outlived children and grandchildren. Then he was lost to history.

  “Templar lore says that the Collector placed the artifact in their hands for safekeeping and that on Friday the thirteenth 1307 more than one hundred years after it was passed to the Templars a traitor within their ranks brought the artifact to the attention of King Philip IV and subsequently to Pope Clement V, which set that entire Friday the thirteenth chain of events into play.

  “They were shockingly effective,” Lucy continued, “instantly chopping off the head of the Order. Or so they thought. Phillip obviously had a hit list of the most important knights to nab. Accounts differ wildly, but the most respected ones agree that 625 members of the Order were arrested in the first wave. These included the Grand Master, the Visitor-General, the Preceptors of Normandy, Cyprus, and Aquitaine and the Templars' Royal Treasurer.

  “The arrested Templars, whose average age was 41, were put into isolation and immediately subjected to the gruesome tactics of medieval "interrogation" on the very first day of their arrest. The technique of the strapaddo was common. It involved binding the victim's wrists behind his back, passing the rope over a high beam, pulling him off of the ground, and suddenly dropping him, snapping his arms and dislocating his shoulders. Stretching the victim on the rack was another favored method. Perhaps the most horrible was coating the victim's feet in lard or oil, and then slowly roasting them over a flame. Subjected to these agonies, the overwhelming majority of the knights confessed to every charge that was put to them except for one. When asked about the artifact and its whereabouts none would admit knowing of its existence. Many went to their deaths protecting the secret.

  “So the Order survived and its secret survived with them, and they did it by going underground where they remain to this day.”

  “That’s some story,” Doug said.

  “Yes,” Lucy said, “it is.”

  “So, tell me again why I have this thing?”

  “Because you are the only one who can be trusted to see that it is placed in the hands of its rightful owner.”

  “Who just happens to be my unborn child?”

  Lucy nodded. “The name of the soldier who found the artifact has been passed down through the generations. It is very firmly set in Templar lore.”

  Doug remained silent.

  “His name was De Roché,” Lucy said.

  Doug said nothing but Lucy saw the acquiescence in his eyes.

  “Once again there are traitors in our ranks,” she said. “It’s why you were discovered at the hospital, and it is why we had to run for our lives.”

  “But that was the government chasing us.”

  “Doug, it’s all connected.”

  “So you’re saying that the traitors within the Order are connected to the government.”

  “Perhaps not in a direct and blatant manner, but yes they are connected.”

  “How?”

  “They want the same thing. And they’re not the only ones who want it.”

  “S
o it’s only a matter of time before they find me again,” Doug said.

  Lucy shook her head. “I’ve gone rogue this time, broken all the rules. They don’t know where I am and they don’t know where you are.”

  “You said this place belonged to friends. If they want to find you they’ll find you.”

  “These friends are special. Our friendship is different than normal friendships. The Order knows nothing about them. I know that nothing I say will put your mind totally at ease, but you have to trust me on this.”

  Doug sighed. “I guess I don't have a choice, do I?”

  For a long moment Lucy was silent. Finally she said, “Are you a superstitious man, Doug?”

  Doug frowned. “Superstitious? I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  He gave his shoulders a casual shrug. “Not really. I grew up in a Christian family. We went to church, but not on a regular basis. After my parents were killed . . . well . . . I suppose I decided it really didn’t matter. I realized that bad things often happen to good people. Christian, Jew, Muslim. What the hell’s the difference? It’s all about one philosophy telling the rest of us how we should live our lives because theirs is the right way.”

  “If we were to step back and really look at it, we all essentially believe the same thing,” Lucy said.

  “I don’t know,” Doug said, as if he was struggling with Lucy’s philosophy. “To me, faith requires a suspension of intellect, and that’s what fundamentalism is all about, at the cost of everything else. I’ve never been willing to live my life with blinders on. Against all odds I’ve always believed in logic, scientific evidence, rationality.” Doug picked the artifact up off his chest and gazed intently at it. He looked at Lucy and then back at the artifact, a question in his eyes.

  Lucy nodded as if answering his unspoken question. “Difficult to explain that thing using your criteria. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Let me get this straight,” Doug said. “You’re telling me that this is one of the most sought after, yet carefully guarded secrets in the history of the world.” Doug paused and cleared his throat. “You expect me to believe it has magical properties? You expect me to believe that De Roché was the soldier that made the bargain with the Collector more than seven hundred years ago? I’m supposed to believe that the Collector placed it in Templars hands for safe keeping. It makes no sense. Why would he do that? He’s a monster.”

  “Maybe he’s not the monster we all think he is,” Lucy said. “Maybe he’s so different from us that we’re totally unable to comprehend who he is or why he does the things he does.”

  Doug sighed in frustration. “So now I’m supposed to believe his intentions are noble?”

  “Maybe not noble exactly,” Lucy said, “but certainly debatable.”

  Doug stared at Lucy for a long silent moment. Finally he said, “Am I supposed to believe that this thing is a fragment of the spear that pierced the flesh of Jesus Christ on the day he was crucified?”

  “No one knows that for certain, Doug, but it is what the Order has always believed. It forms the foundations of their very system of beliefs. It is why they exist to this day. They have fought and died for centuries because of that belief.”

  “So how did it end up on the bank of a river in France more than twelve hundred years after the fact?”

  “That’s another story for another time.”

  Chapter 58

  The next morning Doug woke with sunlight slanting in through the bedroom windows. He got out of bed and tentatively stood up. His legs were rubbery but he realized they were strong enough to carry him. There was a stack of clothing on the chair beside the bed. He sat down on the bed and inspected the clothing; underwear, socks, a pair of sweatpants, a simple pullover sweatshirt and a pair of size eleven running shoes. The tags had been removed but it was obvious that the stuff was new. He undressed, slinging his stale pajama bottoms on the floor, and went into the adjoining bathroom.

  It was a spacious and well-lit room. Freshly laundered towels hung on a rack. There was a shower as well as a bath. He switched on the mirror light. Lucy had laid out a complete shaving kit for him; razor, shaving cream, cologne, all unopened. He gazed at himself in the mirror and was shocked by what he saw. His face was gaunt, covered in weeks of hair growth—nearly a full-fledged beard. His skin was anemic, his eyes black-rimmed, sunken and pale, his cheeks hollow. His greasy hair hung in strands to the tops of his shoulders. The artifact lay against his chest, dull and unglamorous. He picked it off, inspecting it, perhaps hoping it would communicate something to him. But of course it did not, so he dropped it back down with a sigh.

  The night before, Lucy had told him a story, that under any other circumstances, he would have dismissed out of hand. Even now, after all that had happened, he was having trouble making sense of it. He sighed again. Oh well, he thought. Nothing I can do about it now. My first order of business is to get strong.

  He stepped away from the mirror and began removing his chest bandages. The pain was excruciating as the hair peeled away with the surgical tape. Once all the tape had been removed he inspected his wound-scars. That’s all they were now, just scars. Lucy had said that he’d reopened one of the wounds during his flight from the hospital. How long ago had that been? Thirty-six hours? Impossible. Yet, he knew his eyes weren’t deceiving him. During his flight one of the wounds had opened up and had bled profusely, now they were both small pink puckers. He was healed. He touched the scars and felt no discomfort. He turned around, craning his neck to get a look at the exit wound Lucy had mentioned. This one was larger than the entrance wound and ragged around the edges. Exit wounds most always were. Especially when hollow point bullets were used. He suspected that’s what he’d been shot with. He wasn’t supposed to have survived. A network of alternating pink and white striations fanned out from a round and pink epicenter like the leftover scars of a volcanic eruption. Even so, the wound appeared completely healed.

  Doug stepped over to the bath and ran the shower lukewarm. Stepping in he lathered himself from head to toe with spring-scented soap. The water was stimulating, like standing in a warm, clean rain. His body began to tingle with life. “I’ve been dead, he thought, and now I’m coming back to life.

  He rinsed and then indulged himself with a repeat of the ritual, this time turning the tap to hot. The assault was invigorating. The bathroom filled with steam.

  When he stepped out of the shower he moved to the mirror and cleaned the condensation off with a towel. The water had brought some new color to his cheeks.

  He thoroughly lathered his beard and mustache with the shaving cream. It took quite a soaking to sufficiently soften the coarse hairs. The razor blade protested and so did his skin, but his diligence paid off as parts of his beard hit the sink in a slop of suds.

  Finished, he re-inspected his face in the mirror. It wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought. Amazing what a little soap and water and a sharp razor can accomplish. He wrapped a towel around his waist and sauntered back into the bedroom. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began donning his new wardrobe.

  It took no more than a sense of smell to lead him to the kitchen. Lucy stood at the stove dressed in sweats and running shoes. She was frying bacon while fresh coffee brewed.

  She turned as he entered the kitchen. “You look chipper,” she said. “How do you feel?”

  “Pretty good, actually.”

  Lucy smiled. “You’re as handsome as that day in the airport when we first met.” She turned quickly back to the stove trying to conceal a blush. Nevertheless Doug saw it, his discomfort mounting.

  What’s going on here? He wondered. Why is this woman coming on to me? Was it possible that his mind was in overdrive, reading too much into Lucy’s comments and body language? No! He knew the signs. He’d been here before. He knew the effect he had on certain members of the opposite sex, although he didn’t understand it. A sudden sense of foreboding struck Doug like a lance tellin
g him to be very careful. But before he could articulate the feeling, Lucy said, “A fine morning for us to get started.”

  “Started?”

  “We’re going for a little walk.”

  The kitchen door was open. Doug crossed the expanse of the room to survey the day. It was beautiful. A clear sky, sun breaking above the trees. In the distance he could see what looked like tennis courts, and beyond them, a stand of forest. He was aching to get outside and taste the day.

  “I’m going to feed you first,” Lucy said, sensing his longing. “Then we’ll go. How does that sound?”

  Doug nodded his approval.

  Lucy served up a huge breakfast. Bacon, eggs, hash browns, pancakes with maple syrup, lots of hot, black coffee. Doug ate ravenously. And as Lucy had promised, afterward, they went outside. There were trails which circumnavigated the estate. They walked slowly at first, taking in the sights, and as they did so they talked, mostly about Annie and the unborn child, about De Roché and his intentions, the mysterious organization known as the Brotherhood of the Order, and about Lucy’s part in it all. Absent was the flirtatiousness Doug had sensed at breakfast, and again he caught himself doubting his own instincts.

  Of course, it didn’t matter if Lucy did have designs on him. He was hopelessly in love with Annie, obsessed with Annie, and all he could think about was getting back to her. He had to fight the nearly uncontrollable urge to run and find a phone and let her know that he was alive. But Doug was no fool. He understood the implications of breaking his silence. This knowledge, however, did not help to ease the burden of his grief; in Annie’s heart he was a dead man. How did she feel about that? What were her days like now that she had accepted his death? And what about her nights? He certainly knew how he would feel in the same situation. Alas, for the time being, at least, there was nothing he could do to ease her pain except wait and wonder. Annie had a child to deliver and he knew it would take every ounce of strength and courage she had left in her to accomplish the task.