Mark Stone - The Judas Line

She couldn’t meet my eyes. “Every time I dreamed of you, I felt overwhelming danger,” she said timidly.

Strange things, unseemly and unnatural things, had been happening to me all my life, so that bit of news barely registered on my Strange Crap-O-Meter. However, Mike and I did exchange a look or two. “The Grail?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Had to be.”

“What? Do you mean the Holy Grail?” Nigel’s body tensed.

“Yes, like the Holy Grail,” I replied with a sigh.

Leslie’s head wobbled around like a bobble-head doll’s. “Seriously?”

Mike placed his hand on hers. “Yes, Ms. Winchester.”

She turned from him to me, finally able to look me in the eye. “Who are you? Why did I dream of you?” I noticed the fine crow’s feet fanning from the corners of her eyes.

“Tell them, Jude,” Mike said with a sigh. “They have what we’re looking for, so they deserve to know.”

“Mike …” I warned. “They’ll sic the men in white with the butterfly nets and wraparound jackets after us.”

“No, Jude. I’m going to have to insist on this one.” His face settled into familiar stubborn lines. “It’s the decent thing to do. The right thing.”

I groaned, “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“What?”

“Well, Nigel,” I began. “Let me start by saying that I love your accent.” Nothing. Not a smirk or chuckle. Tough castle. “Okay, this story begins in Omaha ….”

Mike filled in the blank spots with what he’d already read, allowing us to keep the story to less than two hours. Through it all, Nigel and Leslie’s mouths opened and closed several times in surprise.

“Oh my word, I heard of the Sicarii beggars before, but we always reckoned they were a small for-hire group only,” Nigel remarked, his tea cold and forgotten. “Either that or they were affiliated with those South American drug blokes.”

“How high was your clearance?”

“Been with the SAS for near thirty years, so I heard many things.”

“Gad, I nearly got my ass handed to me by an old man? I’ll never live it down.”

Leslie beamed, running a slim hand down Nigel’s arm. He didn’t seem to mind at all. “Not so old to me.” She said. An answering grin blossomed on his homely face, which handsomed him up considerably.

Mike cleared his throat. “We think the silver brooch, which is really the Grail, somehow gave you those dreams, maybe as a warning, or to prepare you for Jude’s arrival. Interpreting dreams is not an exact science, you know.”

“Leslie, you said it was me or someone who looked like me.” I took a sip of cold tea. “Think, was it me? Look at me now and think back to your dream … Are you sure it was me?”

“I think so … It’s been so long.” She worried her bottom lip in such a way that I wanted to add mine to the mix, but I’d probably have to fight Nigel for the privilege.

“Leslie, why did the dreams stop?” Mike asked.

When she didn’t answer, Nigel spoke up. “Because she doesn’t have the bloody artifact anymore,” he whispered sadly. She nodded.

I laid my forehead on the table. “Aww … Jiminy Christmas … I’d hoped this would be easy.”

“Easy? Easy?” blurted Mike. “You think what we’ve been through is easy? Elementals, serial killers and Nigel the British Mike Tyson? Not to mention that fresh notch in your ear.”

My felt like a lump of lead. “Yeah, Mike … considering that my Family is involved, this has been a cakewalk.”

“Which means?”

“It’s only going to get harder.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“You guys sound like Danny Glover and Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon , you know that?” Leslie hid her smile behind a slim hand.

The bloom must have faded from the rose of Mike’s teenage crush because he gave her a rather crusty look. “Thanks tons, that’s so comforting.” He snorted. “At least I get to be Danny Glover.”

“Okay, as amusing as this is, let’s get back on topic.” I pierced Leslie with my own hard look. “The brooch … the Grail. Nigel said you don’t have it anymore, so where is it?” It wasn’t as if I was surprised. For most of my life, Murphy’s Laws have been a constant I’ve never been able to escape or dodge. Believe me, even Words are of no use in avoiding them.

Nigel bowed his head and Leslie toyed with her teacup for a moment before saying, “My son stole it.”

Mike goggled. “Your son stole the Holy Grail?”

Nigel bristled at his tone while I just put my head in my hands. “What? It did not look like the bloody Holy Grail.”

“All right, all right, everyone. Chill out,” I said into the palm of my hands. “Tell me what happened, please.”

Leslie sighed. “My boy, Alexander, came ’round about six months ago in an old ’82 Pan Head that his father had given to him for his fifteenth birthday, said he wanted to come to see his mom, but what he really wanted was to take whatever he could fit in his backpack.”

“Of course.” Artifacts like the Grail have an unsettling habit of eluding those who search for them. I think God reckons that man should not muck about with them, at least not the ones who know their power. I passed my thoughts on to the group.

“So you think God made my son take the Grail?”

I phrased my reply carefully. No need to irritate mama bear. “I think God provides the opportunity and lets us talking monkeys decide if we want to take advantage.” The last of the tea slithered its way down my throat. “But let me put it to you this way: there are dozens of powerful artifacts in the world, all loaded with their own special powers, so why doesn’t mankind know about them all? Why hasn’t there been an amazing discovery, documented and publicized?”

Nigel squinted at me. “Because they don’t want to be found, do they?”

“Got it in one.”

“So what now?” Mike asked.

“Now we go have a word with Alexander.”

Leslie bristled in full mama-bear mode. “Don’t you hurt my boy! He’s not perfect, but he is mine.”

I donned my most sincere look. “Not a problem, ma’am. Just want to have a word or three with him. If you want, I’ll let Mike do the talking.”

Nigel patted Leslie’s hand. “You won’t find the little bleeder without his mother. He rides with a motorcycle gang. Moves around like a gypsy.”

“Do you know where Alexander is now, Leslie?” Mike asked gently.

She nodded. “I can find out. He gave me a number to call if I needed to get in touch. But first I want reassurances.” Her face shut down hard and fast.

Looking at her, I knew she wouldn’t budge and from Mike’s expression, he knew it too.

“What do you want?” I asked cautiously.

She held up a fist and her pinky rose. “One: I want your promise you won’t hurt my boy.” Another finger joined the pinky. “Two: I want to see that Silver you’ve talked about.” The third finger made an appearance and she leaned toward us. “Three: I want to see some more magic.”

Mike and I exchanged a look. “Done and done,” we said in unison. Strange that the spontaneous Healing of Nigel hadn’t been enough for her.

“Bloody Lethal Weapon , indeed,” muttered Nigel under his breath.

I ignored the comment, but inside was pleased. Obviously I was the Mel Gibson character, Riggs. Dipping into my backpack, I pulled out a plastic liter bottle, empty except for a little dribble at the bottom, and the cardboard cylinder containing the Silver. I removed the top, the camouflage tablets and pulled out the fishbowl. Only a few drops of black fluid rolled around on the bottom like maleficent mercury. Just looking at it prickled the hairs on the back of my neck.