Ark of Fire (9 page)

Not believing in chance occurrences, Boyd recognized the fortuitous appearance of the janitor for what it was—a gift from God.

“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.”

“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.