‘Who am I to dispute the Old Testament prophets? The Bible is inundated with naysayers struck down by the wrath of God.’ This droll remark left Edie in some doubt as to what C?dmon Aisquith actually believed.
‘Since all that remains of the original breastplate are twelve stones and few bits and pieces of gold, how can you be so sure it’s the real deal?’
‘The relic would be easy enough to authenticate given the detailed description in the Book of Exodus. Conceived as a square, it originally comprised laced pieces of gold linen inlaid with twelve stones set in four rows of three.’ Grabbing the same sheet of paper she’d earlier used to draw the Jerusalem cross, C?dmon sketched out a design. ‘Based on the account in Exodus, I believe the breastplate would have looked something like this.’ He turned the sketch in her direction.
‘As you can see, my artistic gifts are rudimentary at best. Be that as it may, each of the twelve gemstones possessed a divine power. In the first row there was a sardius, a topaz and a carbuncle…’ As he spoke, C?dmon carefully wrote the name of each gemstone. ‘In the second row an emerald, sapphire and diamond; in the third a ligure, an agate and an amethyst; and finally, in the fourth row, beryl, onyx and jasper. Rather gemmy, don’t you think?’ He smiled slightly, making Edie realize that he was a handsome man. She didn’t usually go for redheads but there was something uniquely appealing about the man sitting across from her. And of course the accent didn’t hurt.
She glanced back and forth between the digital photo and penned sketch, suddenly able to see how beautiful the relic must have been aeons ago. ‘Is there any significance to the fact there are twelve stones?’
‘It’s highly significant,’ C?dmon replied. ‘The number twelve symbolizes the completion of the sacred cycle. In the Torah, 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 C?dmon 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 cafe Chinese food was being served. Edie could smell stir-fried vegetables and soy sauce. She swallowed a queasy lump in her throat.
‘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 desserts. But if you wouldn’t mind getting me another cappuccino…’
‘I’d be only too happy.’
Excusing himself, C?dmon got up from the table, Edie following him with her gaze. Although he spoke with a proper English accent and possessed a proper English name, albeit an antiquated one, C?dmon Aisquith’s red hair, blue eyes and height screamed a Scot in the woodpile. A really smart Scot, the man standing at the Espresso Bar a one-man brains 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 C?dmon 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, 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. Some biblical scholars believe that, once garbed with the breastplate, the high priest could foresee the future, as though the hand of God momentarily pulled back the curtain of time.’
‘So 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.’ C?dmon paused a moment, letting the factoid sink in. Or maybe he was considering how much more 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.’
12
‘ “… blessed be God Most High, who has delivered your enemies into your hand!” Praise be, praise be,’ Boyd Braxton whispered as he finished reciting his favourite Bible passage. Buttoning up the cleaner’s dark blue shirt, he unzipped the cheap polyester trousers and tucked in the shirt-tails. Then, not willing to mess with his juju, he cupped his balls. ‘You’re the man, BB. You are the man.’
He’d been out of boot camp only a few weeks when his mess buddies had taken to calling him BB. 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 onto 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 cleaner having 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 numbers, he’d taken the extra precaution of stuffing a dirty rag into the man’s mouth. Then, trussing him up like a big 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 mistakes.
Boyd popped the mag on his pistol. 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. He shoved the Mark 23 into the small of his back, the jacket hiding the telltale bulge. He jammed a leather scabbard next to the pistol, the Ka-Bar knife his backup weapon of choice. 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 towards the closed door of the cleaners’ storeroom. Grey water sloshed over the sides and Boyd slowed his pace. 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 own clothes, rolled into a ball inside his leather jacket, under a nearby bench. Approaching the crowded concourse, he surveyed the jabbering hordes of tourists. Again he thought they’d make good cover, his plan 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 was happening.
Pushing his bucket, Boyd could see that no one paid him any attention. Like he’d figured, he was just a big blue ghost.
’Cause, God help him, he knew what it was like when the fucking floor gave way. When you were sinking in shit without a buoy in sight. That’s how it was back in ’04 when he returned from his first deployment in Iraq.
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 sit bolt upright in the bed, reaching for his M16. Except he didn’t have his
