Stones of Fire

he wheeled the chair around the columned perimeter, Edie caught sight of a homeless man sound asleep in a wroughtiron chair, oblivious to the alarm and automated message blaring on the PA system. Exiting the courtyard garden, C?dmon increased his speed as they traversed the long, barrel-vaulted sculpture hall. On either side of her, Edie saw familiar flashes of colour in the adjoining galleries — Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir — the history of ninteenth- century French art reduced to blips.

Straight ahead of them, like mighty old trees in a virgin forest, loomed the huge black marble columns of the main rotunda.

‘We can exit at the rotunda,’ she said, turning in her seat to look at him, clasping her hands together in a beseeching gesture.

Her proposal met with a whirr, the wheelchair advancing full speed ahead.

It’s like entering one of Dante’s lower circles, Edie thought, a few seconds later, as they entered the domed rotunda. Everywhere she looked swarms of people were haphazardly congregating in undulating lines that meandered in the direction of the main entrance. In front of the exit doors uniformed guards were patting down each and every visitor before permitting them to leave the premises. Edie assumed they were searching for the gunman.

‘It would appear that all roads lead to Rome,’ C?dmon remarked as he steered the wheelchair on.

Like the courtyard garden, the rotunda was jungle humid on account of all the potted plants. Afraid Padgham’s killer might be lurking, Edie tucked her chin into her chest, making herself as small as possible.

No sooner did they clear the rotunda than C?dmon started running.

Bronze sculptures. Flemish still lifes. Della Robbias.

Famous works of art passed at such a dizzying speed, Edie feared she would lose the contents of her stomach.

‘Slow down, will ya? You’re giving me a bad case of motion sickness.’

If C?dmon heard her, he gave no indication, the man fast proving himself a well-spoken hard ass.

Having crossed three quarters of the museum in less than two minutes, C?dmon wheeled her into the West Garden Court, a mirror image of the open space at the opposite end of the museum. Swerving sharply to the left, he somehow managed to maintain control as the chair took the turn on one wheel. A few seconds later Edie could see the marble wall that marked the end of the main hall.

‘Quick! Put on the brakes!’ she screeched, a full-length statue of St John of the Cross looming directly in front of her. She grabbed the padded arms and held on tight as C?dmon brought the wheelchair to an abrupt halt mere inches from the stern-faced saint.

‘Bloody hell.’ He turned his head from side to side. ‘There’s supposed to be a lift at the end of… Ah, yes, there she be, starboard bow.’ C?dmon rolled the wheelchair to the elevator, which was tucked away to the right of them.

Edie reached out and pushed the button, the metal doors instantly sliding open. No room to turn the wheelchair around, she sat facing the back wall of the elevator. Within moments, they’d be free of the museum, the 7th Street exit located on the lower level.

Readying herself for the last cavalry charge, she opened her bag. She rummaged through it, her hand finding the now soft-sided box of melted spinach.

‘What are you doing?’

Edie spared C?dmon a quick glance. ‘I’m searching for the car keys.’

‘Driving your vehicle would not be a good idea.’

Placing her arm over the back of the chair, she twisted her upper body so she could look him in the eye. ‘You’re kidding, right? The Jeep is our only means of escape.’

‘How do you think the gunman found you? I’ll bet it was no guess.’

‘Maybe it was an educated guess. And let us not forget about the old lucky guess,’ she retorted, then, realizing how childish she sounded, ‘Okay, he followed me here. But I can promise you that he won’t be following us when we leave. I know this town like the back of my hand. Trust me, C?dmon. I can get us out of here.’

She watched as he mulled over her proposal. He was tempted, she could see it in his eyes.

‘There’s a back service alley one block away at Federal Triangle. If we’re being followed, it’s the perfect place to lose a tail.’

The elevator door opened with a melodic ping. C?dmon backed the wheelchair out and turned it towards the 7th Street lobby, the scene almost identical to what they had witnessed in the rotunda.

Seeing all the hustle and bustle, the mass confusion, the absolute chaos that reigned within the marble- walled space, Edie breathed a sigh of relief.

The end was in sight.

18

Holding a museum map in front of him, Boyd Braxton rechecked the exits.

He had Sanchez on the Mall exit, Harliss at Constitution, Napier across the street at the East Wing, Agee manning the 4th Street exit and Riggins posted at the 7th Street exit. Experienced war fighters one and all, each was equipped with a Ka-Bar and two ID photos, one of a curly-haired bitch and the other of a tall red-headed bastard. And the best part? To a man, they were decked out in DC police uniforms. Given that the National Gallery of Art was swarming with every badge the city could rustle up, no one would give them a second glance.

The op in play, Boyd secured a communication device to his right ear enabling him to speak to all five of his men. ‘You’ve got your orders. Take out both targets. Edged weapons only. We want this to go down swift, silent and deadly.’

‘Copy that, Boss Man,’ Riggins replied, speaking for the group. An expert at close-quarters fighting, Riggins knew how to wield a knife with lethal proficiency. Better yet, he enjoyed wielding a blade, close combat appealing to a particular kind of warrior. That being the kind of warrior who liked to look his victim in the eye when he went in for the kill.

‘Okay, boys and girls. Let’s go have some fun,’ Boyd said, grinning, confident that this time there would be no more fuck-ups. ‘And don’t forget, we go with God.’

‘Amen, brother.’ This from Sanchez, a former army ranger and Afghan veteran well experienced in slaying the godless.

As he headed towards the 4th Street exit, Boyd glanced at the ring he wore on his right hand, the cluster of silver crosses a constant reminder that he and his men were soldiers in God’s army. Holy warriors not unlike the crusaders of old. The colonel often spoke of the men who a thousand years ago had gone forth to conquer the Holy Land: Hugues of Payen. Godfroi of Bouillon. Yves of Faillon. Boyd felt a kindred link to those knights of old who had fought with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other. The sword he had great experience with, having spent fifteen years in the Corps. The Bible was something new to him, his old man not holding the good book in very high regard. In fact, Joe Don Braxton hadn’t held much of anything except a bottle of Old Crow. And he’d held that damned near every night. Rumour had it there was a half-drunk fifth of bourbon clutched between Joe Don’s thighs the night he drove his Dodge pickup into a stand of poplar trees.

Approaching the museum lobby, Boyd jutted his chin at the Rosemont man standing sentry near the cloakroom — Agee, a good man to have in a tight fix. The silent greeting was returned with an innocuous nod.

Not about to stand in line, Boyd slid his hand into his coat pocket and removed a leather wallet. Flipping it open, he thrust the DC police badge at the same guard he had flashed when he entered the museum.

‘Detective Wilson,’ the guard said by way of greeting. ‘Hell of a mess we’ve got on our hands, huh?’

‘Just another day in sin city. Anyone get a look at the bastard who fired the shots?’

‘As a matter of fact, one of the museum patrons was able to video some of it on his cell phone.’

Hearing that, Boyd froze.

Within hours his face would be plastered all over YouTube and the major news outlets.