Stones of Fire

C?dmon nodded. ‘Now that sounds like the Padge I know and love.’

‘You knew and loved. I told you he’s —’

‘I know. No need to labour the point.’

‘No need to be so crabby,’ she countered, proving she was no shrinking violet. ‘Anyway, I was still under the desk when a man walked into Dr Padgham’s office and shot him in the head point blank.’ As she spoke, her hands began to tremble. She wrapped both of them round her cup. ‘He was killed instantly. The killer had no idea that I was under the desk… that I witnessed the whole thing.’

C?dmon stared at the curly-haired beauty sitting across from him, resisting the urge to pull her to him, to calm the fearful quiver that had travelled from her hands to her entire upper body.

‘How did you get away?’

‘I climbed down the fire escape. I was hiding in the alley when I saw the killer approach a DC cop. And this is where the story takes a turn for the worse.’ She looked him in the eye, her gaze disturbingly direct. ‘The killer and the cop were in cahoots.’

‘Did they see you in the alley?’

‘No. But it didn’t much matter because the killer had already accessed the museum security logs. That’s how they found out I was in the building at the time of the murder. That’s why they’re looking for me.’

‘Would you be able to identify the man?’

‘Murderer,’ she corrected. ‘For starters he had a military-style buzz cut. And he was big. Really, really big. Steroid big,’ she added, using her hands to indicate height and width. If her gestures were to be believed, the killer had an improbable shoulder span of some four and a half feet. ‘That’s all I can remember.’

‘I see.’

‘Wait!’ she exclaimed, cappuccino spilling over the brim of her cup as she excitedly jogged the table. ‘He wore an unusual silver ring on his right hand.’ She hunted around in her bag and pulled out a creased sheet of paper. ‘Do you have a pen?’

He wordlessly reached into his breast pocket. Taking his pen, she drew an intricate pattern. Tilting her head to one side, she reviewed her handiwork before sliding the sheet of paper in his direction.

‘Sorry, I’m a photographer not an artist.’

C?dmon examined the drawing, instantly recognizing the pattern.

‘How interesting… it’s a Jerusalem cross. Also known as the crusader’s cross. The four tau crosses represent the Old Testament. That’s these T shapes.’ He pointed to the arms of the larger cross at the centre. ‘And the four smaller Greek crosses are the New Testament. You’re certain this is the symbol that was on the, er, killer’s ring?’

She nodded. ‘Is that significant?’

‘It was to the medieval knights who conquered the Holy Land,’ he informed her, well acquainted with the topic having developed an interest in the Knights Templar when he was at Oxford. An obsessive interest, as it turned out, one that ultimately cost him his academic career. ‘In the twelfth century this particular cross served as the coat of arms for the short-lived kingdom of Jerusalem. Although the European knights…’ He self-consciously cleared his throat. ‘I apologize. I’m rambling. Do you recall anything else?’

Edie Miller sucked her lower lip between her teeth, enabling him to see that she had slightly crooked front teeth. And plump beautiful lips.

‘No, sorry. But you do believe me, don’t you? About Dr Padgham being murdered?’

He shook his head, uncertain what to make of her fantastical tale. ‘Why in God’s name would this masked man kill Jonathan Padgham? Padge was as harmless as the proverbial fly. Annoying, at times, I admit, but utterly harmless.’

She stared at him long and hard. As though he’d just asked a fool’s question.

‘He was killed on account of the relic.’

‘Relic? This is the first that you’ve made mention of a relic.’

A confused look crept into her eyes. A second later, shaking her head, she said, ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. So much has happened. I’m getting everything mixed up. Like my brain is starting to short-circuit.’

Again, he was tempted to pull her into his arms. While her travails may be imaginary, her panic seemed real enough.

‘Drink some more coffee.’

She gulped down the last of her cappuccino. Seeing a faint brown smear on her upper lip, he unthinkingly picked up a paper napkin and wiped the smudge clean. Then, guiltily aware of the trespass, he crumbled the napkin into a ball, tossing it onto the table.

‘Dr Padgham was in the process of sending you a digital photo of the relic when he was killed. When the killer left he took the relic.’

‘A digital photo? Why would he have done that?’

Opening her bag, she removed a camera. ‘He didn’t say. As a backup, I saved a photograph on the camera’s internal memory. Here.’ She shoved the camera at him. ‘That’s the relic.’

Holding the camera within a few inches of his face, C?dmon examined the digital image as through a glass darkly. His breath caught in his throat, her outlandish story suddenly making perfect sense.

‘Bloody hell… I don’t believe it. I absolutely don’t believe it,’ he whispered, unable to draw his gaze from the photo.

‘I take it from your stupefied expression that the relic is valuable enough to steal.’

‘Most assuredly.’

‘And how about killing? Is it valuable enough for someone to kill for it?’

He lowered the camera, keenly aware that Edie Miller was in very grave danger.

‘Oh, I think a great many people would kill to obtain the fabled Stones of Fire.’

10

‘There will be in these last days many deceivers and false prophets and many who will follow them: For many deceivers are entered into the world.’

With reverential care Boyd Braxton closed the book and replaced it in the glove compartment. The Warrior’s Bible, leather bound and gilt-embossed with the Rosemont Security Consultants emblem, had been personally given to him by Colonel Stanford MacFarlane. And though Boyd was in a tearing hurry, the colonel always said that it was important to give the Almighty his due.

Reaching under the Bible, Boyd removed an official police permit and placed it on the dash of the Ford. The permit gave him the right to park anywhere in the city. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t on the force. He looked like a cop. And he drove a cop car. No one would think twice.

Parked directly in front of him, covered in a light layer of newly fallen snow, was a black Jeep Wrangler. Just as he had figured, no sooner had he left her pad than the bitch had crept out of her hidey-hole.

‘Stupid cunt,’ he muttered, getting out of the Ford. Walking over to the Jeep, he crouched down and slapped a magnetic tracking device on its metal underbelly. He could now monitor the vehicle’s every move on his mobile.

‘You, bitch, damned near cost me my job,’ he muttered as he walked towards the museum.

And being Colonel Stan MacFarlane’s right-hand man at Rosemont Security Consultants was a job he took real seriously. Just like he’d taken his stint in the US Marine Corps real seriously. He still wore his hair high and tight, having served fifteen years in the Green Machine. Now he served Stan MacFarlane. If it hadn’t been for the colonel, he’d be eating institutional slop and lifting weights alongside the brothers in the state penitentiary. No chance of parole.

Juries don’t look kindly upon gunnery sergeants who murder their wife and child.