Stones of Fire

A lot like that dark day four years ago, he’d fucked up royally today at the Hopkins Museum.

But soon he’d make it right, proving to the colonel that he was still a hard charger. That he was still worthy of his trust. That he was still a holy warrior.

Swinging open the glass door that fronted the 4th Street Entrance, Boyd entered the National Gallery of Art.

Beautiful. Not a metal detector in sight. The Ka-Bar knife and Heckler & Koch Mark 23 pistol would pass undetected.

Like he was on official business, he strode over to the desk. Security didn’t amount to much more than a cloth-covered table manned by a pair of rent-a-cops. Opening the flap of his leather coat, he revealed a very official-looking police badge.

‘Is there a problem, Detective Wilson?’ the grey-haired guard enquired, straightening his shoulders as he spoke.

‘I’m looking for someone. Have you seen this woman?’ Boyd held up a photograph of one Eloise Darlene Miller.

The guard reached for the pair of reading glasses hanging from his neck. After several seconds of careful scrutiny, he said, ‘Yeah, not too long ago, as a matter of fact. If I’m not mistaken, she headed down to the concourse.’

Never having been inside the National Gallery of Art before, Boyd glanced around the cavernous marble- walled lobby. ‘Where’s the concourse?’

‘At the bottom of the escalator,’ the guard said, pointing to the other side of the hall. ‘You want me to alert the museum security team?’

‘No need. She’s not dangerous,’ he assured the guard. ‘We just need to ask her a few questions.’ Returning the photo to his coat pocket, Boyd headed towards the escalator.

At the bottom of the escalator, he took note of the white sculpture, unimpressed.

‘If that’s art, I’m Pablo Pick-my-ass Picasso,’ he muttered, the sculpture looking a lot like the molar he once knocked out of a drunken swabbie’s head. For years he’d kept that tooth as a good luck charm, that being his first bar fight of any real note.

Entering a dimly lit gift shop, Boyd saw that the place was overrun with people pushing wheelchairs, people dragging toddlers, people yakking on mobiles. Everywhere he looked there were people meandering about like so many lost sheep. Perfect. No one would later be able to recall who did what when, large crowds being the best camouflage a hunter could have.

As he passed a display of cards showing a Nativity scene, he made a mental note that this might be a classy place to do his Christmas shopping. Not that these godless people would even know the meaning of Christmas. Or any other event described in the Bible. Nowadays people put a ‘popular’ spin on the Word of God, forgetting that biblical text was not subject to New Age feel-good interpretations.

Only a deluded fool would paraphrase the Word of God.

The colonel had taught him that. The colonel had taught him a lot of things since that day four years ago when he had ordered him to get down on his knees before the Almighty. Never having prayed before, Boyd had been wary, but once he got over the initial embarrassment, he discovered it was an easy thing |to beg God’s forgiveness. And just like that, in one life-altering moment, he was forgiven all his sins, past and present. The bars, the brothels, the brawls, all forgiven. So, too, the murder of wife and child.

Although it was a daily struggle, he tried mightily to be a perfect holy warrior. He didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Kept his body a temple unto the Lord. He wished that he didn’t cuss, but having entered the Corps at the age of seventeen that was proving a hard habit to break.

Always room for improvement, he thought as he left the gift shop and entered the Cascade Cafe.

Coming to a standstill, he eye-fucked the place.

She was here, somewhere in the crowd. Her fear would make her stand out, having an energy all its own. Its own stink, as it were. Like a bullseye, her fear would lead him to her.

But first he had to cover his ass.

Catching sight of a tall, big-gutted cleaner lackadaisically pushing a yellow bucket on wheels, Boyd knew he’d found his man. For ten years his father had pushed a similar bucket. Which is why Boyd knew that maintenance workers of every stripe were invisible to the rest of the world. Most people didn’t favour them with a polite ‘Hello’ let alone a sideways glance. Pleased that the op was going so smoothly, he followed the cleaner through a door marked CUSTODIAL STAFF.

In fact he was thinking about his daddy — a mean, drunken bastard till the day he died — when he knocked out the unsuspecting cleaner with one well-aimed punch. Not believing in chance occurrences, Boyd recognized the fortuitous appearance of the cleaner for what it was — a gift from God.

11

‘Since its creation some thirty-five hundred years ago, the Stones of Fire has cost the lives of countless individuals.’

‘Including Jonathan Padgham,’ Edie pointedly remarked.

‘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.com. The killer mistakenly believes that Dr Padgham emailed you photos of the relic.’ Edie jutted her chin at the camera still clutched in his hand.

C?dmon 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 is it called the Stones of Fire?’ she abruptly asked, beginning to suspect that he knew more than he’d so far let on.

C?dmon 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 Judgement 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.’ C?dmon 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 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 while not his actual handiwork, the breastplate is nevertheless the 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.