by C. M. Palov
Edie unzipped her messenger bag and retrieved the computer, silently passing it to him.
Tablet in hand, he examined the satellite photo. Moderately relieved, he nodded his head and said, ‘There does seem to be a structure several hundred meters to the west.’
A determined look in her eyes, Edie stuffed the iPad back into her bag. ‘Okay. Let’s hit it. This place is giving me the creeps.’
And me, as well. Although if the firing squad was waiting at the caretaker’s cottage, the brutes would be made to wish that they’d never left the egregiously named Mercy Hall. He would need little incentive to pull the trigger on his newly purchased weapon.
Leading with the shotgun, Caedmon took the point position as they wended their way back to the hallway. With each footfall, his eyes blinked rapidly. Akin to a camera shutter clicking off each individual surveillance photo, he committed to memory doorways, corridors, staircases. Information he would need should they suddenly come under enemy fire. Like Edie, he worried that the priest was dropping enticing breadcrumbs that would ultimately lead them into a deadly trap.
Seeing a recessed emergency fire cabinet, he came to a sudden halt. Peering into the glass-fronted case, he inventoried its contents: in addition to the standard red extinguisher, it also contained other fire-fighting paraphernalia.
‘Stand back,’ he ordered just before he forcefully slammed the butt of his shotgun into the locked case, smashing the glass on contact.
Edie stared, button-eyed. ‘What the heck are you doing?’
‘A man can’t have too many weapons,’ he informed her, plucking a rubber-handled fire axe out of the cabinet. Twelve inches long and weighing approximately two pounds, the short-handled axe could puncture, slice or pry. A very handy weapon, indeed, he thought, tucking it into the nylon band on his waist pack.
‘How about me? Don’t I rate a weapon?’ Edie griped under her breath as they continued down the hallway. Obviously, she was still peeved that he’d put his foot down at the gun shop, refusing to let her purchase a second shotgun.
‘One deadly weapon in the family is quite enough.’
A few moments later, they emerged from Mercy Hall. In the short time that they’d been inside, fast-moving storm clouds had squeezed the last bit of sunshine from the sky, casting plum-colored shadows on to the mansion and surrounding landscape. In the far distance, thunder rumbled.
‘Looks like a killer storm is brewing,’ Edie said worriedly as they descended the porch steps.
More concerned with the danger closer at hand, Caedmon raised the Persuader, pressing the butt snugly against his shoulder. His finger hovered over the trigger. Should they have a run-in with anyone whom he deemed a threat, he would unload a blast of double-aught buckshot. The ‘shoot first, ask questions second’ rule had gone into effect the moment they’d entered the Sanguis Christi grounds. This was enemy territory. The fact that the priest had disappeared was worrisome and he now wondered if some nefarious plot was about to unfold.
As they hurriedly made their way across the manicured gardens that bordered the mansion, his gaze darted from side-to-side, searching the shadows for any sign of movement. Off to one side, he saw a stone chapel. In the opposite direction he sighted a large six-bay carriage house.
They’d gone approximately one hundred meters when the neatly trimmed lawn gave way to an overgrown grassy meadow. A wide swath had recently been mowed, creating a path capacious enough for a vehicle. The path led down the hillside, disappearing into a wooded glen. Given the deeply incised tire treads in the mashed earth, a heavy vehicle had recently passed that way.
More breadcrumbs? he wondered as he scanned the surrounding area.
‘I want you to stay here while I go find the caretaker’s cottage,’ he told Edie.
‘But you might need me to –’
‘I do need you, Edie,’ he interjected. ‘I need you to stand sentry.’ He pointed to a thick-waisted maple. ‘Right over there behind that tree where you can maintain a visual on both the mansion and the mowed swath. Should you see anyone, you’re to immediately call me on the mobile.’
Wearing a crestfallen expression, Edie nodded her head, no doubt realizing that it was the most prudent course of action. Caedmon wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, soundly kissing her on the lips.
‘Call me the moment that you find Anala. And please be careful, Caedmon.’
‘“Excuse me, then. You know my heart.”’
Not feeling nearly as jaunty as his farewell suggested, he set off down the mowed swath, shotgun at the ready.
At the bottom of the hill, he entered a dark glen. Towering trees ominously swayed under the force of a powerful wind gust. It was a dark, unruly landscape that reiterated what he already knew.
Every Eden had its snake.
73
‘Good thing I’m not superstitious,’ Edie muttered as she caught sight of a lone raven circling overhead. ‘Because that is not the best of omens.’
She dragged her gaze away from the moody gray sky, the frail sun half-hidden by combative storm clouds, and resumed her surveillance of the Sanguis Christi grounds. As she stared at Mercy Hall, a breeze rustled the trees, causing goose bumps to instantly pop out on her bare arms. Attired in a black tank top and a pair of khakis, she wished she’d worn a summer sweater, the day having turned cool.
A building that size, you’d expect to see a few people hanging around, she thought for the umpteenth time. But there wasn’t a soul in sight.
Unnerved, Edie glanced at her wristwatch, a chunky digital sports edition with a lime-green band. Equipped with more functions than she required – as if she’d ever need to know the altitude – the only thing her snazzy timepiece couldn’t do was tell her if Caedmon was safe. Or if he’d found Anala alive and well.
Please, God, please.
‘I don’t think he could bear it if –’
She clamped her mouth shut, unwilling to think let alone articulate that dire scenario. It was one of those dark thoughts that you didn’t want to casually toss out into the universe for fear someone might actually be listening. Earlier, during the drive from Rhinecliff, she’d asked Caedmon about Anala. Studiously avoiding her gaze, he’d mumbled something indecipherable. The way in which he’d sullenly turned inward had put Edie in mind of a great wounded bear lumbering off to its den.
And yet he was willing to risk life and limb to save the daughter he’d never met.
Never good at hand-wringing, she folded her arms over her chest. A few seconds later, a blurred flash of motion snagged on the edge of her peripheral vision. Turning her head, Edie saw a black-clad priest scurrying across the expansive yard.
Father Gracián Santos!
She gasped in surprise, pressing herself closer to the giant maple as she surreptitiously observed the dastardly dog disappear into Mercy Hall. Her fingers dug into the tree bark. He’s plotting a deadly ambush. What other reason could there be for the priest having earlier vanished into thin air?
Shuddering, Edie shot a quick glance at the dense foliage at the bottom of the hillside.
Come on, Caedmon! You need to hurry up and find –
Suddenly hearing a car engine, she peered around the gnarled bole. In stunned disbelief, she watched as a white SUV roared down the driveway, the driver stopping in front of Mercy Hall’s massive stone porch. Disbelief immediately mutated into dread shock when the three banditos – Hector Calzada, Javier Aveles and Roberto Diaz – jumped out of the parked vehicle. Broadly smiling, Calzada then assisted a short, balding man garbed in a black cassock from the back passenger seat.
‘It’s Cardinal Franco Fiorio!’ Edie croaked on a serrated breath. Unclipping her mobile phone, she hit the speed dial to warn Caedmon.
Getting nothing but dead air, she hurriedly redialed.
No! No! No!
Seized with an explosive burst of fear, she stared at the phone in utter disbelief.
There’s no mobile phone service!
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74
The devil at his back, Caedmon ran through the tall sweep of grass towards the dilapidated stone cottage. To one side of the abandoned house there was a low-lying fieldstone enclosure that was overgrown with weeds and the odd sapling. On the opposite end, a forlorn, rusted-out truck was parked under a metal lean-to, the structure completely covered in a tatter of tangled vines. By all appearances, the ramshackle cottage had been tenantless for a number of years.
He pulled up short, panting heavily as he swiped the back of his hand across his beaded brow, each ragged breath drawn from a heavy curtain of ozone-infused air. A violent tempest was on the way, gray clouds storm-trooping across the horizon.
So where’s the sodding root cellar? Was it inside the cottage or was it a separate –
‘There it is!’ he rasped, espying a trapdoor half hidden in sward of field grass and wild bramble, approximately twenty meters from the cottage.
Still huffing madly, his muscles burning with pain, he charged forward. Worse for wear, as they say.
Seeing the sturdy padlock on the top of the trapdoor, Caedmon set down the shotgun and snatched the fire axe that dangled from his waist pack; grateful now that he’d had the foresight to pinch it. Going down on bent knee, he put his mouth close to the narrow crack that separated the two sides of the trapdoor.
‘Anala! Are you in there?’
The query met with a weighty silence.
Fear instantly ballooned, on the verge of bursting with a deafening pop! He didn’t want to consider the worst-case scenario. But given that there’d been no reply, what else was he to think?
Seized with a fierce urgency, Caedmon began to chop at the weathered planks of wood, chunks and chips arcing through the air. His bruised ribs protested each and every swing as he hacked and clawed with a feral resolve. Although he was on the verge of full-blown panic – Why didn’t she answer me!? – he stayed focused. If he lost his concentration for even a split-second, it could prove disastrous. It was a very sharp blade.
The relentless chopping paid off, Caedmon soon able to rip away enough wooden slats to create a large opening. From his side of the breach, he could see that there were four crudely carved stone steps that led into a dark and dank cellar.
Silent as the grave.
Anguish ripped at Caedmon’s throat, before sinking its talons into the sinews of his heart.
Fumbling with his waist pack, he removed a small flashlight. He quickly flipped it on and shone it into the dark depths. Unable to see anything other than cobwebbed shelving, he took a deep breath . . . braced for the worst . . . and stepped into the subterranean pit.
In the far corner of the cellar his torch beam landed on a mound; a body curled in the fetal position, back turned to him.
Gasping, Caedmon rushed forward and knelt beside the unmoving body. His hand shook as he rolled Anala towards him. Despite the fact that her clothing was filthy and there were brambles in her hair and dirty smudges on her cheeks, he instantly recognized her from the photograph that Gita had given to him.
Just as he was about to check for a pulse, she opened her eyes.
She’s alive!
A giddy tsunami of relief crashed over him.
‘Piss off, you prick!’ she rasped in a weakened voice; down but by no means out.
Taken aback by the rude welcome, Caedmon’s jaw slackened, Anala Patel having succinctly delivered a defiant jab. For some inexplicable reason, her spirited reply pleased him immensely.
Still glaring at him, she muttered, ‘Can’t a body die in peace?’
The sullen addendum caused Caedmon’s heart muscle to painfully constrict.
‘There’s no need for alarm,’ he hastened to assure Anala, his voice sounding unnaturally gruff. ‘My name’s Caedmon Aisquith. Your mother, Gita, sent me to find you.’ He purposefully mentioned Gita’s name, hoping it would convince Anala of his honorable intentions.
Moaning softly, she levered her torso off the ground so that she could better see his face. ‘The priest told me that you’re . . . is it true?’ Blue eyes, identical in color to his own, stared, unblinking, as she waited for his reply.
Caedmon assumed that she was asking, albeit in a rather butchered fashion, if he was her biological parent.
He nodded. ‘Yes, Anala. I’m your father.’ Those three simple words – ‘I’m your father’ – incited an emotional insurgence. One that he was wholly unprepared for.
As their gazes locked, he fought to keep his emotions in check.
The disheveled young woman mewled softly. She’s as lost in the swirl of emotion as I am, Caedmon realized belatedly. As though to prove the point, a translucent tear meandered down Anala’s grimy cheeks. She looked like a street urchin who’d just wandered out of a Dickens novel. His larynx instantly tightened.
Is this what’s meant by having one’s heart in one’s throat?
Having been so focused on finding her, he’d given no thought to what he would do or say once they finally came face-to-face.
Bloody hell.
The battle lost, Caedmon said nothing as he gently pulled Anala to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. She briefly resisted before collapsing against him, sobbing noisily. He suspected the opened floodgate had more to do with the realization that she’d survived her horrendous abduction than the fact that she’d just met a heretofore unknown parent.
Long seconds passed before Anala pulled free of the embrace. Frowning slightly, she said, ‘I wouldn’t have thought a redhead was my mother’s type. God blind me!’ she exclaimed on the next breath. ‘Did I really just say that? A knight in shining armor, that’s what you are.’ Clearly embarrassed, she extended her right hand. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’
Caedmon took the proffered hand and gave it a businesslike shake. ‘Likewise.’ Later, when they were clear and free of the Sanguis Christi Fellowship, they could sort out the emotional jumble. Now was not the time.
‘Right. Time to beat a hasty retreat.’ He gestured to the gaping hole in the trapdoor. ‘Shall we?’
75
‘I must end this,’ Gracián Santos murmured as he stumbled over to his desk.
A desperate man, he’d gone to the chapel to beg for Divine guidance. His plea, however, had fallen on deaf ears. Resigned to his fate, he knew that he must now make restitution for having abducted the Indian woman. Yes, he’d been lied to and manipulated by an ambitious cardinal. But had he been more firm in his faith, more steadfast in his convictions, he would have seen through the duplicity.
Needing to turn himself over to the authorities, and publicly expose Cardinal Fiorio’s wicked plot, Gracián picked up the telephone receiver and began to dial the three-digit emergency telephone number. Nine. One –
‘Hey, G-Dog! I’m back!’ Hector Calzada announced as he stepped into the office.
Startled, Gracián dropped the telephone receiver on to the floor, the handset clattering against the wood parquet.
‘You seem oddly perturbed, Gracián,’ Cardinal Franco Fiorio remarked as he stepped across the threshold.
At a loss for words, Gracián stared at the two men standing across from him: one dressed in urban street garb and the other attired in a red-trimmed black cassock.
‘Your Eminence, I . . . I didn’t think that you . . . would arrive so soon.’
‘Traffic from JFK airport was surprisingly light,’ the cardinal remarked conversationally as he approached the desk. ‘I trust that everything is going according to plan?’
‘Er, yes . . . yes, the plan,’ Gracián stammered, too emotionally distraught to concoct a lie.
The cardinal arched a quizzical brow . . . just before his gaze narrowed suspiciously. Stepping behind the desk, he bent over and retrieved the fallen phone receiver. He studied it for several seconds.
Gracián went stock-still, fervently praying that the cardinal didn’t glance at the display screen, the numerals ‘9’ and ‘1’ still clearly visible.
Reaching across the desk
, the cardinal was about to set the receiver in the cradle when he suddenly gasped. An instant later, he physically recoiled. As though he’d just been struck by an unseen hand.
‘You betrayed me!’ Cardinal Fiorio rasped. Still holding the phone receiver, he accusingly pointed it in Gracián’s direction.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Your Eminence.’
‘Don’t play me for a fool!’ the cardinal snarled. His face contorted with rage, he slammed the telephone handset on to the desk. ‘You were about to dial 9-1-1.’
‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ Hector exclaimed, rushing over to where they stood. After verifying for himself that the incriminating numerals were on the display screen, he hurled the telephone console across the room, the heavy frame smashing into the fireplace mantle. He then whipped a Glock semi-automatic pistol from his waistband.
Hearing the deadly grind of metal on metal as Hector yanked on the slide to chamber a bullet, Gracián swayed unsteadily on his feet.
‘I don’t have to tell you how the Diablos deal with traitors.’
Gracián wordlessly shook his head. No explanation was necessary. Blood in, blood out.
‘Stand down!’ the cardinal ordered gruffly, using the authority of his position to stop Hector from pulling the trigger. Noticing the piece of yellow paper that was adhered to the computer monitor, he peeled it off the screen. ‘“Your daughter is in the root cellar at the caretaker’s cottage that’s located due west of Mercy Hall,”’ he read aloud before angrily balling the slip of paper. ‘I assume this means the Englishman has already arrived at Sanguis Christi? Is he still here?’
‘I have no idea,’ Gracián answered truthfully. ‘We spoke on the telephone, but I . . . .’ His voice faded into silence.
‘Why, Gracián? Why did you betray us?’
