C. Palov - Ark of Fire

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.”

CHAPTER 12

. . . blessed be God Most High, who has delivered your enemies into your hand!

“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.

Approaching the crowded concourse, he surveyed the jabbering horde of touristos. Again, he thought that they’d make good cover; his plan was to kill the Miller bitch, chuck the untraceable gun into the bucket of water, and get his hairy ass out of the building before anyone realized what had happened.

Pushing the yellow bucket, Boyd could see that no one paid him any mind. Like he’d figured, he was just a big blue custodial ghost.

Perfect. He loved when everything came together.

’Cause God help him, he knew what it was like when the fucking floor gave way. When you were sinking in quick shit without a buoy in sight.

That’s how it was back in ’04 when he’d returned from his first deployment in Iraq.

Fallujah.

What a fucking shithole.

Every night he woke up in a cold sweat. One night he actually pissed the bed. If his wife, Tammy, so much as brushed her bare leg against his, he’d bolt upright out of the bed, reaching for his M16. Except he didn’t have his combat rifle at the ready. Didn’t even have a damned sidearm; Tammy refused to let him bring a loaded anything into the house on account of Baby Ashley. Six months old, Baby Ashley cried all night long. Just like those fucking raghead babies in Fallujah. One night he couldn’t take it any longer: Ashley bawling for a milk titty. Couldn’t the brat just shut the fuck up?! With each ear-piercing scream, the pounding inside his skull got louder. And louder still.