Scott Mariani - The Sacred Sword

The first thing Wesley had done on reaching the end of his terrifying journey had been to take the precious fibreglass case straight down to his vault. Built for storing artwork and other valuable items when he wasn’t around (there was no crime to speak of on the island, but you could never be too careful), the vault was buried ten feet beneath the foundations of the house within walls of reinforced concrete that could (according to the architects) withstand a nuclear blast. It was unshakeably secure, fire-proof, flood-proof, humidity-proof, fully air-conditioned, and a whole host of other fancy features for which Wesley had shelled out large amounts of cash and then duly pushed to the back of his mind.

Only when the sword had been safely stored away on Wesley’s arrival had he truly been able to relax, helped by a few tots of best Bourbon to restore his shattered nerves after the nightmare trek east. Calm down. You’re alive. Nobody knows you’re here. For a while he’d basked blissfully in the knowledge that he was safe. He had everything he needed, enough supplies and food to live comfortably for months without venturing near a town.

But now the pressure was returning, and so were the worries. Wesley was sporadically haunted by visions of death and carnage. Poor Coleman, and Hubert Clemm, and Abigail, and Kat the receptionist at the motel whose name he couldn’t even remember. All these people who’d been senselessly slaughtered. And the reality was that these ruthless killers were still out there, searching for Wesley while he sat on his ass doing nothing.

Why wasn’t Simeon answering his phone any more? Had something happened to him? In a moment of panicky insecurity, Wesley had taken a heavy cavalry sabre down from one of his wall displays. It had last seen action at Waterloo but the blade was still shaving sharp. The weapon was propped against a chair behind him now as he stood at the window, close to hand, just in case.

It was time to start planning his next move. He walked away from the window, picked up the sabre by its steel scabbard and carried it over to the old-fashioned Bakelite dial telephone. The mechanism whirred as Wesley carefully dialled in the prefix that would block his caller ID, followed by Bob Mooney’s direct line at his offices in Rochester.

The instant the lawyer heard Wesley’s voice, he exploded. ‘Jesus Christ, Wesley. Why haven’t you called? Where in hell are you?’

‘Best you don’t know. Somewhere far away.’

‘What’s going on? Everyone here is frantic with worry. The cops need to talk to you. In case you’d forgotten, there’s a murder investigation going on at your house. You can’t just up and disappear like this.’

‘Am I a suspect?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, but I know the way cops think and it doesn’t help that you run off like a fugitive and don’t tell anyone where you’re going.’

‘I have my reasons, Bob. You’ll find out soon enough. That’s not why I’m calling. There’s something I need you to do for me. Can I count on you for this? It’s important.’

Mooney sounded hurt. ‘Hey, how long have we known each other?’

‘Here’s what I want. Find out who’re the best personal protection team in the country. Whatever they charge, pay them double, triple, just make sure you hire them. I want the meanest, toughest sons of bitches you can dig up. I’ll contact you again in twenty-four hours and you give me the number to call.’

A moment’s appalled silence on the phone. ‘Wesley, if you’re in some kind of trouble here-’

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘Why do you need protection?’

‘Will you do this for me or not?’

‘Naturally I will. Give me your number there so I can put these people in touch with you.’

‘No, Bob.’

‘I’ll know it anyway.’

‘I withheld it.’

Bob seemed amazed that Wesley should be savvy to such modern trickery. ‘Come on, Wes. You gotta give me something.’

‘When it’s the right time, I’ll tell you where I am.’

‘When will that be?’

‘Once everything’s in place. Then I’ll fill you in as best I can. Until then, I’m keeping my mouth shut.’

Mooney let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Is it serious trouble? Tell me that at least.’

‘Pretty serious.’

‘Does it have to do with what happened at the mansion?’

‘Uh-huh. And more besides.’

‘For Chrissakes, Wes, even I can’t hold back the tide for ever. You’ve got to come forward with this. As your lawyer I have to tell you that the weirder you act, the less you’re gonna look like the chief witness and more like the chief suspect. That’s how the cops, and everyone else, are going to see it.’

‘That can’t be helped for the moment,’ Wesley said. ‘I trust you, Bob. Talk to you tomorrow.’

Wesley hung up the phone, picked up his sabre and walked through the airy house to the kitchen to check on how his steak was defrosting. A bottle of 1993 Bordeaux was sitting opened on the side, nothing too ostentatious, a modest little hundred-dollar table wine to go with his dinner. Thinking he’d like to replay those Bach Goldberg Variations that he’d been listening to earlier, he turned back towards the living room.

A man he’d never seen before was standing in the hallway, looking right at him.

‘Wesley Holland?’ the man said.

Wesley sucked in a great lungful of air and felt his knees turn to jelly. He staggered back a step. ‘I’m not Holland. Who the hell are you?’

‘We spoke on the phone,’ the man said. ‘And I never forget a voice.’

‘You get away from me,’ Wesley rasped. He gripped the hilt of the sabre and rattled the weapon out of its steel scabbard.

‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ the man said, moving forward a step.

Wesley didn’t believe that, not for one moment. He could see the purposeful look in the stranger’s eye, and was ready to make a lunge with the blade and then run like hell for the vault. He’d lock himself in down there, even if it meant starving to death. Anything was preferable to what these people would do to him.

‘Another step closer and I’ll run you right through, mister. I mean it.’ His hand was shaking so badly he could barely grip the sabre hilt.

‘Why don’t you put that down, so we can talk?’ the stranger said.

‘Who are you?’ Wesley quavered. ‘What do you want from me?’

At that moment, another figure appeared in the hallway. He was a younger man of about twenty, with a shock of fair hair. Wesley peered at him. He could have sworn the young man looked familiar.

‘I’m Jude Arundel,’ he said. ‘You were a friend of my father’s.’

A stunned silence in the hallway.

It was Wesley who broke it. ‘What do you mean, I was a friend of Simeon’s?’

‘He’s dead,’ Jude said tightly. ‘So is my mother. They were killed by the same people who are after you.’

Wesley suddenly felt unsteady on his feet. He staggered over to a chair and slumped heavily into it, dropping the sabre to the floor and sinking his face in his hands. ‘Oh, no. I warned him. I told him to be careful.’

‘We’ve come a long way to see you, Mr Holland.’ Ben picked up the fallen sabre, replaced it in its scabbard and propped it against the wall. ‘My name’s Ben Hope. I’ve known Simeon and Michaela Arundel for twenty years, and I was with them when they died. I was staying at their home the night you called there.’

‘How did you find me here?’

‘Not too easily, you’ll be pleased to know,’ Ben said. ‘You did a pretty decent job of covering your tracks.’

‘I was lucky, that’s all. They very nearly got me on the road.’

‘Have you told anyone where you are?’