Sonia heard what Sam was saying. She caught on to what he suggested and she loved it. Instantly, her eyes softened and she exhaled long and gently. “I understand.”
“Good,” he said in a lighter tone. “I am leaving in an hour. Do not fret about anything, okay? We will be in touch.”
“We?” she asked.
“Myself and Dr. Nina Gould,” he replied.
“The historian you always work with?” she persisted.
“Aye,” he answered as he collected all Carlos’ pertinent documents. “The reason for her involvement is a bit of a long story to share right now, but trust me, she has a very strong, personal motive for being involved in tracking down this son of a bitch with me. You have allies in this, Sonia. Just please, do not divulge information to anyone. Nobody can know that I am more than an investigative reporter on this and nobody can know that we are investigating for a retired police inspector.”
“Hey, I am not a dumb little housewife, Sam,” she replied with a supportive tap on his hand. “I know what is at stake here and there is no fucking way I am giving this to the police. There are higher powers of justice and I believe you and your associates are emissaries for this power. Why would I ever stand in the way of my son’s avengers?”
“Good, then we have an accord,” he smiled. “I will be meeting Nina at Peter Carroll’s house and from there we will seek Finn out.”
Back in Edinburgh, Sam met up with Nina at Peter Carroll’s home in the country. After the pleasantries, the threesome laid out everything they had collectively obtained about the case, from three separate angles. They had locked the house, switched off their phones and gathered around Peter’s table with some Bogota coffee and cigarettes to lock down on their suspect.
Sam looked through the record kept by the late Carlos Cruz, concerning the dire ritual that had been taking place for over sixty years, at regular, but undetected intervals.
“Nina, Peter caught on to the sporadic child slayings and he determined that this Finn character had been doing this for decades. What we need to know, is why,” Sam told his partners. “Then only, can we figure out what to anticipate before we find the bugger.”
“Aye, and we have to find out what the Meisters have to do with the Perceval Chapter. I suspect that this branch of the Black Sun was a splinter, specifically chasing the Holy Grail,” Nina disclosed.
“These Meisters,” Peter asked her, “are the people who framed your stepbrother?” She nodded affirmatively. He sighed laboriously. “Their leader is this Terry bloke you had a run-in with?”
“No, Terry Jones works for the leader, an Irish national called Keating. He is also on the picture with Harper, Cruz and Finn,” Nina elucidated, pointing at the faces of the men on the black and white photo.
“You have Terry’s confession implicating the Meisters and Keating, in particular, right?” Sam asked.
“Aye, here it is,” she said, tapping on her cell phone, where she recorded Terry’s confession on video. “I also forwarded this clip to your respective e-mails as well as my own, just in case something happened to me.”
“Good call,” Peter winked at her. “I will hold on to that to submit to my contacts at Interpol and the British High Commission in Dublin as soon as you have dispatched of the child killer.”
Sam smiled. The other two gave him an amused and quizzical stare, upon which he replied, “I just wish Sonia Cruz could hear what you just said, Peter.”
“She would approve?” the former inspector asked.
“I venture to guess that she would kiss you,” Sam chuckled. “Now, let me fill you two in on what our late ally in Portugal furnished me with.” He proceeded to read from the more hard-hitting documents pertaining to the case, to enlighten his companions on the more intimate facts.
According to Carlos’ writings about the Second World War, about his time in the Perceval Chapter, he described the killings of the children. In detail that challenged Sam’s fortitude for the gruesome acts of men, Carlos wrote of their exploits while transporting the Holy Grail to the Hellfire Club at Montpelier Hill.
The leader of their unit was Captain Dylan Finn, a cheerful and moral man. Typical of his Irish upbringing, Capt. Finn was deeply religious, and considered the task of protecting the Holy Grail from the Axis forces, an epic honor. As Sam read more, however, it became evident that Capt. Finn became possessive of the relic, even reporting false location intelligence about the progress of the Perceval Chapter, altering their ETA’s to superiors of the Allied agencies.
As the men endured skirmishes, many fell while others marched on suffering severe injuries. Subsequently, by experiment, Capt. Finn attempted to heal his injured soldiers by giving them water from the Grail. Proving useless, the pious commander fell into a bout of despair, complaining that his faith was born on a lie.”
Sam held his breath for the next paragraph, and underlined it to show Nina.
“One of his men, a Templar called Harper, suggested the horrible alternative to water, his reason based on the premise that the grail was a receptacle not of water, but blood.
“Oh my God,” she mouthed softly.
Reluctantly, the commander Dylan Finn allowed the terrible conjecture to be put to test. When they next engaged in battle, they used one of the dead enemy to bleed into the chalice in order to heal their wounded. Unfortunately, most men who drank the blood from the Grail would improve only for a matter of hours before succumbing to their malady. It took desperation and constant repetition of the sickening deed to confirm that healing only occurred by the youth of the donor. Ultimately, they established that young male children held the best healing power, those who drank from the chalice were male.
“Jesus, Father Harper started the bloody rite of the Perceval Chapter,” Sam muttered, noticing Nina’s downcast eyes. Feeling sorry for her disappointment in the late priest, Sam continued to relay the information in Carlos’ paper.
By the time they reached Portugal’s northwestern coast, on their way north to traverse the Celtic Sea, Capt. Finn had facilitated the absolute healing of all the men left in his unit. Naturally, this was not enough. By the nature of mankind, they became greedy. If blood from the Holy Grail could heal them, imagine what it could do for a well and intact man to drink from it. This introduced the next wave of murders upon children in Portugal and Spain, mostly runaways and war orphans.
“This is how they could still look like me in their forties and fifties,” Peter remarked. “The blood from the Grail preserved their youth to some extent.”
“Or retarded aging?” Sam guessed.
“That is all good and well, gentlemen,” Nina observed, “but what then, does it mean that children are still being killed over the European continent for this purpose? Were these men trying to maintain their youth? Were they killing to stay young or to live forever, perhaps?”
“I have a theory,” Sam smiled eagerly. “From what I have dug up on Dylan Finn, I can almost safely suggest that he is solely responsible for all the killings over the last sixty years.”
“How so?” she asked.
“None of the other members have the Holy Grail, right?” Sam speculated. “You are Father Harper’s successor. Is the Grail among his Templar archives and relics?”
“Nope,” she affirmed confidently.
Sam continued, “Carlos did not have it. Harper did not have it. According to Terry Jones, obviously Keating does not have it. The only remaining living member of the Perceval Chapter in this equation is Finn.”
“But do you think Mario Cruz was a coincidence? Did Finn know that he was killing the son of one of his men?” Peter asked. It was a valid point none of them had previously considered. Sam had a new factor to investigate. “Peter, you have something there! I have to find out what the child victims had in common with the men in the unit.”
“You think he intended to target the sons of the Perceval Chapter?” Nina gasped. “Good point, indeed!”
“Well, there is only one way t
o find out,” Peter shrugged.
“That is correct, my friend,” Sam agreed. “We will have to mission to his home in Ireland to go and ask him.”
“Be careful, you two,” Peter warned. “He might be over a hundred years old, but he has the strength of a young man.”
“Strong? He kills children. I will have his hide,” Nina scowled, her cigarette hopping between her lips as she spoke.
“Nina,” Sam smiled. “May I have this dance?”
27
Relatively Bad News
Purdue was in intensive care. By his side, Jane tried repeatedly to get hold of Sam Cleave and Nina Gould, but to no avail. The personal assistant was distraught at the turn of events at Wrichtishousis, but she was grateful that her employer and colleagues were still alive. Purdue had suffered a near-fatal stabbing. The doctors used words like rupture and critical, which only exacerbated Jane’s tension. They said stuff like pneumothorax, and, upon her enquiry, the attending physician explained that air entered the space between Purdue’s rib cage and his lung, causing the latter to collapse.
Although he was receiving the best medical care, his mortality was in the red. In a room down the corridor, his butler was fighting a similar battle. Charles was attending to Purdue when the bomb in the purse exploded. It took off Principal Willard’s face and practically ripped his head from his torso, leaving the butler in close range where he was craned over his master. In essence, Charles’ body absorbed most of the explosion, shielding Purdue from its immediate destruction.
The security men who were apprehending Willard, wore the issued uniform – Kevlar reinforced overalls and gloves. This was their saving grace. However, their faces were exposed to the explosion and left two of them with permanent scarring and one man deaf in one ear. Charles had second-degree burn wounds on his back and arms, and his lungs dangerously affected by the toxic smoke.
Jane had to take over for the time being, having secondary signing rights to staff business. She had to lodge medical insurance claims for the in-house security detail of Scorpio Majorus, as well as insurance claims for damage to the house, paying excesses and signing off on repairs after supervising assessors’ visits. She was exhausted. Only now did she truly appreciate the stress of being David Purdue. Like so many others, Jane had always thought that it must be nice to be king, until she realized just how much responsibility the billionaire had on a daily basis. With so many people in his employ, and with such a hoard of priceless belongings, it took a lot of planning, invention and adjustment on his part.
News of the Gracewell school principal’s death spread across Glasgow and most of Scotland, remaining vague on the ‘accident’ at the ‘undisclosed venue’. Jane would have loved to see Willard’s misdeeds reported on, but she had learned by now to leave that to Sam Cleave. Sam never allowed the papers and television media to downplay evil people into victims or similar psychological excuses, a sad reality in a world where a false reputation was the privilege of celebrity criminals. Jane knew that Cleave would not stand for what she heard on the news. If only she could get hold of him.
Until she could find Nina or Sam, Jane was left alone at Wrichtishousis with poor, frail Lillian, the housekeeper and mother hen of the staff. Since the incident, Lily had been baking non-stop to distract her from the tragedy, feeding Jane into another dress size. For now, the two women held the fort at Purdue’s mansion, waiting for their master to heal enough to return home.
“Miss Napier? Could I see you for a minute, please,” the doctor whispered around the door to summon Jane. She promptly rose form her seat and followed Dr. Jonas, a female specialist who recently joined the medical staff at Scorpio Majorus chain of private clinics. Dr. Jonas led Jane to her office and asked her to sit down. When she closed the door, Jane reckoned that the news was not good.
“I know that you are not really a relative of Mr. Purdue’s,” the doctor said, “but as far as we could ascertain, you are legally the next in charge of Mr. Purdue’s medical care. You hold the authority to make decisions in respect to his health, should he be incapacitated.”
“That is an awful responsibility, much as I am honored,” Jane shrugged. Under her reddened eyes, dark circles had formed and she clutched at her Burberry leather briefcase as if her life depended on it. Dr. Jonas had met Jane before, like the day the critical care physician was employed by David Purdue as resident intensivist at Salisbury Private Care. She knew what Jane Napier looked like under normal circumstances – the painfully neat and professionally attired assistant with not a hair out of place – the antithesis of the woman who was sitting opposite her right now.
“Believe me, I understand how you feel. Trust me when I tell you it is no walk in the park to have to lay this heavy burden on people on a daily basis,” the doctor attempted to convey her sympathy. “Sometimes I wish I had become a dentist instead.”
Jane cracked a weak smile. “And be feared?”
Dr. Jonas shrugged and smiled, “It is better than being hated. Try being the harbinger of bad news all the time, having to see people mourn, worry, crumble under responsibilities they did not ask for.”
Jane gave it some thought and had to concede. “You are right, doctor. I guess we never put the shoe on the other foot with these things, so engrossed in our own troubles.”
“I was by no means trying to induce your pity, Miss Napier, though it may have sounded as if I wanted to compete with your predicaments,” Dr. Jonas quickly apologized.
“No, no,” Jane protested. “I did not mean to imply that you did that. God, no. I was quite sincere in my remark and I must admit ruefully that this glimpse of your profession’s toils did elevate my mood ever so slightly. Honestly.”
“Well, then, as long as we can empathize with one another, it would be beneficial for Mr. Purdue,” Dr. Jonas reckoned. “If we understand the duties we both have towards this unfortunate time, I am sure we would be more efficient in our endeavors, right?”
“Yes, that makes good sense. Having said that, please tell me that the news is not as bad as I expect,” Jane beseeched Purdue’s doctor.
Dr. Jonas folded her hands on her desk and took a moment. “What I have to tell you is not necessarily bad news. Bad news has several levels, in my opinion. Some people will make a big thing of something that others might see as a little digression, so the term is quite relevant to the person.”
Jane’s expression did not change. Dr. Jonas read her face as saying something to the effect of ‘Great. Now give me the bad news’ and she abandoned her attempt at softening the blow. “Miss Napier, we have found that Mr. Purdue’s wound exhibits no signs of hemostasis or coagulation, even though we have analyzed his blood for platelets and eliminated the possibility of prolonged infection…”
“Doctor,” Jane interrupted politely, “please relay that to me in common terms.”
“His wound is not healing,” Dr. Jonas revealed, “even though we have fixed the infection caused by whatever dirty steel he was stabbed with.”
“Can you give him something to clog the blood or something?” Jane asked. “Is there a way that you can alter his blood’s composition, maybe? Will it just take more time?”
“We certainly can give it more time, but the fundamental stages of healing have not yet started, which is a great concern. So far, Mr. Purdue’s wound is still bleeding, although in minute amounts, when it should have started hardening, so to speak. That is as plain as I can put it to you,” Dr. Jonas told Jane.
“What can I do?” Jane wanted to know, sitting forward in her chair as if waiting to be given a list of magical herbs to gather.
“There is nothing we can do, Miss Napier, but wait and see,” the doctor clarified. “All I wanted to do was give you an update on his progress, to let you know what concerns we have. For now, all we can do is to keep his hemorrhaging under control and perhaps give him a transfusion, if need be.”
“Oh God, what if the wound does not heal?” Jane whined, her face distorted in panic.
Jane preferred the last part of the doctor’s prognosis. Deep inside, she could not help but resent Dr. Gould for not answering her phone or e-mails. If anything happened to Purdue, Jane did not wish to be the one to blame for not being able to elicit help from his friends.
28
Finding Finn
Peter Carroll accompanied Sam and Nina on their trip to Ireland, after some discussion where all three decided one two things – Peter needed to get out a little and also, Sam and Nina could use the presence of a high-ranking police veteran, though retired. According to the yacht sales agent and registration papers, Dylan Finnigan, or Finn, lived in the mountains of western Ireland. They doubted that the address was genuine, though, but it would be a good start to be in his country. Having arrived at the airport in Dublin, they rented a vehicle. Two hours into their Irish conquest, Nina, Sam and Peter were traveling along the M7 towards Limerick in the Munster province.
Neither Nina, nor Sam ever thought of calling Jane back after she had left messages asking them to respond at their earliest convenience. Nina was going to return her call, but not before she had completed her quest for the Holy Grail. Besides, she was convinced that the call concerned Purdue’s concern that had him sending a local security firm to check on her the other night. It was a lovely gesture, she thought, but hardly worthy of a rush response. Nina was in the back seat of the car, conversing via satellite connection to a contact in Edinburgh.
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