by C. M. Palov
“How old were you when your mother died?”
“Hmm?” She belatedly realized that Caedmon had asked a question. “Oh, eleven.” Eleven going on forty.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to you when your mother died?”
Gnawing on her lower lip, Edie debated whether to tell him. But like a runaway train that couldn’t put on the brakes, she went ahead and answered the question put to her.
“I was put into a foster home. There were five of us. Some older, some younger. The older ones knew the drill; the younger ones were clueless.”
Caedmon’s brow furrowed. “What drill? You’ve lost me.”
“Lonny Wilkerson, my foster father, the man who signed a contract with the state of Florida agreeing to furnish me with a safe, clean, and healthy home, had a fondness for young girls.”
“Bloody bastard! Don’t tell me that he—”
“I have to tell you,” she interjected. Please, Caedmon. Let me tell my story. Let me give birth to this hideous memory. In the hopes that I can finally be free of it.
“One night Lonny came into the room that I shared with the two older kids and he . . . he put his hand over my mouth, he pulled down my panties, and he . . . he raped me.” As she spoke, she kept her eyes downcast. She didn’t want Caedmon’s sympathy. She didn’t want his outrage. She just wanted a witness. “To this day I can’t recall any of the details . . . it was too much to process. All I can remember is that it was painful, it was quick, and I was afraid I would suffocate.”
Taking a deep breath, she glanced up at him. Just as she figured, his expression was equal parts anger and sorrow.
“That’s all I remember,” she said with a shrug. “That and the fact that it happened once a week for the next two months. When Lonny moved to a new girl, she promptly told the social worker what was happening and we were all moved to different homes.”
Edie paused, battling the old recriminations.
“I should have been the one to expose that monster but”—she caustically laughed—“I was afraid of being abandoned. Of having to make a new start.” Yet again.
“You were a child,” Caedmon insisted.
She shook her head, unwilling to negotiate the point. “Anyway, to make a long story not nearly so long, a few years later a social worker took pity and went the extra mile to track down my maternal grandparents. I stayed with them until I was eighteen.” And then, like her mother before her, she took a Greyhound bus out of Cheraw. Never to return.
Getting up from the table, Caedmon walked over to where she sat on the edge of the bed. Wordlessly, he sat down beside her, his hip brushing against hers.
“Don’t get me wrong or anything. I’m not some emotionally scarred person who can’t cope with the real world,” she matter-of-factly informed him. “I cope just fine.”
“Yes, I know. But the old memories have a way of creeping up on us when least expected.”
Something in his voice made Edie think he spoke from experience. Maybe his childhood hadn’t been Masterpiece Theatre wonderful after all.
“You trod the path to hell at a tender age. But somehow out of the depths of that pain, you forged a new path for yourself.” As he spoke, Caedmon took hold of her hand. “You are a most remarkable woman, Edie Miller.”
“Remarkable enough that you want to go to bed with me?” Turning her head, Edie looked him straight in the eye. “You see, that’s why I came clean. Every relationship I’ve ever had has been wrapped in a lie. This time I wanted a clean slate.”
Caedmon let go of her hand. “Are you sure that’s what you want, for the two of us to sleep together?”
Edie watched the conflicting emotions on Caedmon’s face. At times, and this was one of them, he could be too much the gentleman.
“I came very close to climbing into bed with you the other night. And just so you know, this isn’t a puzzle that you can reason your way through. It’s just sex, okay?”
Seeing the uncertainty in his eyes replaced with desire, Edie rose to her feet and stepped toward the nightstand.
Caedmon grabbed her by the wrist, stopping her in midstep.
“Where are you going?” There was a decided huskiness in his normally cultured voice.
“I thought I’d switch off the lamp.”
With a quick tug, he pulled her onto his lap.
“Leave the light on.”
CHAPTER 47
Having verified that the gaping hole in the church wall was indeed empty, Stan wearily sat down on the nearest pew. The powerful Maglite cast an otherworldly glow onto the small parish church. Looking down from the adjacent stone walls, stained glass saints silently castigated him. His two men, one holding a sledgehammer, the other a pickax, stood at the ready, waiting for orders to be issued.
For the first time in twenty-five years, Stan worried that he might not be able to fulfill his obligations to God. With the Ark in his possession, he could change the destiny of the world according to God’s holy plan. But first he had to find it.
I have to find the Ark.
Those six words reverberated in his head, like an emergency broadcast message playing on a continuous loop.
He pushed himself off the pew. A soldier of God would not, and could not, surrender.
As he stepped toward his men, he kicked aside several pieces of broken marble, the centuries-old bas-relief detailing the life of St. Lawrence destroyed in the excavation. The thick Saxon wall had not given up without a fight; nearly an hour of labor had been required to expose the glaringly empty stone cleft.
Stan straightened his shoulders, ready to fight the next battle. His rest would come when the mission was completed.
“Looks like we’ve hit another dead end, huh?”
Stan turned his attention to the Harvard scholar. Stoop-shouldered and shivering, he stood next to the pile of excavated stone.
“Yes, my thoughts exactly.”
Suddenly intuiting that all was not right in the world, the scholar’s gaze furtively moved from man to man. If it had not occurred to him before, it did now. He was outnumbered three to one.
“Hey, fellas! Why so grim? The clues are there, embedded in the quatrains. We just need to go back to the drawing board.” When he received no reply, the scholar held his arms out, motioning to each of them in turn. “All for one and one for all, right?” When that received no reply, he tried a different tack. “I say we talk this over. All those in favor of peace talks, raise your hand.”
Stan wordlessly stared at the scholar. The sniveling malefactor wanted to engage in pointless conversation in the hopes that they would shake hands, forgive their differences, and begin again.
“There is nothing more to be said.”
Intuiting that the death sentence had just been issued, the scholar turned on his heel. Like a church mouse scurrying in the shadows, he ran toward the vestibule. Toward the oversized exit doors.
“You li’l fuckwad!” Dropping the pickax, Boyd Braxton reached for the .357 Desert Eagle secured in the holster under his arm.
Stan slapped a hand over the gunny’s raised forearm, physically barring him from shooting the fleeing scholar.
“Not in the house of God,” he sternly ordered.
“Yes, sir!”
Both of his men, their weapons drawn, raced from the church in pursuit of the scholar, who had betrayed them.
In no particular hurry, knowing the prey would soon be quarried, Stan headed for the double doors at the back of the church. Tomorrow morning the denizens of the small hamlet of Godmersham would wonder at the jumbled pile of marble and stone. Teenage vandals would be blamed. No doubt an endless slew of bake sales would be held to pay for the damage.
Stuffing his Maglite under his arm, he reached into his pants pocket and removed a gold money clip. He quickly unpeeled three Franklins and shoved them into the wooden slit of the collection box.
Amends made, he stepped outside, pleased to note that the rain had finally tapered to a manageab
le drizzle. In the adjacent cemetery, he saw a bobbing pinpoint of red light. The laser beam from the gunny’s pistol. He headed in that direction.
Trapped en route to the Range Rover, the scholar now stood before Galen of Godmersham’s exhumed grave, his arms raised in a show of surrender.
“‘God swiftly traps the wicked,’” Stan murmured.
Boyd Braxton placed the barrel of his Desert Eagle against the other man’s temple. “I think we’re gonna have to rename him Mister Twinkletoes.”
“Do you guys have any idea the sentence for murder?” the scholar wheezed, his arms unsteadily wavering in midair. Like bedsheets flapping in the breeze.
“I answer only to God’s law,” Stan replied. Then, giving the scholar an opportunity to atone for his depraved existence, “‘Except ye repent, ye shall die in your sins.’”
“Hey, I didn’t do anything wrong! You’re the guys sneaking around, breaking into churches, carrying guns. I’m just a debt-ridden grad student trying to make an honest—”
“Man up! For you are soon to meet your Maker.”
“Christ! Don’t do this! I’m begging you to—” The soliloquy was cut short by a mewling whimper.
“Whew! Somebody needs a Depends,” Boyd Braxton muttered, the scholar having lost control of his bowels.
Disgusted, Stan nodded at the former gunnery sergeant. “Kill him. He is an abomination unto the Lord.”
A single shot reverberated in the night.
Like the tolling of a church bell.
“Now that’s convenient,” the gunny remarked, gesturing with his gun barrel to the nearly headless body crumpled in the bottom of the exhumed grave. Stuffing the powerful pistol into his holster, he bent at the waist and retrieved a shovel. “All in a day’s work, huh, sir?’
“God derives no pleasure from the death of the wicked. Neither should you.”
His faith renewed, Stan knew that Eid al-Adha was four days away and counting. Time enough to find the Ark.
Like the good Marine that he was, he had a contingency plan.
“Has Sanchez checked in yet?” Sanchez was the man tasked with surveillance.
“About three hours ago, sir. Aisquith and the woman are holed up in an Oxford hotel room. Sanchez snagged the room next to theirs. Since there’s an adjoining door between the two rooms, he’s keeping an eye on the pair with a peephole video camera.”
“I want hourly status reports. If the Brit so much as sneezes into a snot rag, I want to know about it.”
CHAPTER 48
“Leave the light on.”
His request, not hers.
Believing the sex act a give-and-take exchange, Edie had wordlessly complied.
The golden glow from the bedside lamp illuminating their every move, they had undressed one another, fingers and hands slightly trembling. Both of them succumbing to an awestruck hesitancy. A bashful sort of voyeurism as more and more flesh was revealed. Torso. Breast. Pelvis. Thigh. Until they finally faced one another, completely, and disarmingly, naked. In that moment, she became acutely aware of her own body. Her breasts brushing against her inner arm. Her puckered nipples. The slight quiver in her knees. It’d been three years since her last lover. She wondered if she measured up.
“You are lovely.”
Pleased with the compliment, Edie stepped forward, coming within arm’s reach of Caedmon. Needing to make contact, she ran her hands over his chest, surprised to discover that he had the lean, tight build of a younger man.
Moving closer, she pressed her mouth against the pulse at the base of his throat, able to feel the blood course through him with each rapid beat of his heart.
He was nervous.
For some strange reason, that excited her.
Bending her head, she lathed his nipple with her tongue. Teetering slightly, Caedmon moaned her name, the cultured accent nowhere in evidence.
Taking the lead, she slowly backed him to the mussed and divided bed. When the backs of his knees hit a twin mattress, she shoved him to a seated position. She then straddled his hips.
Caedmon’s hands glided along the tops of her thighs, up the sides of her rib cage, before finally stopping at her breasts. A nipple popped between the V of his fingers. It was a lurid, but strangely beautiful sight. She was glad they’d left the light on.
Intuiting what she wanted, his hands slid to her waist. His eyes having turned an iridescent shade of blue, he helped her find the right angle.
“Ready?”
“Set, go,” she replied.
A second later, with her hands stabilized on his chest, she started to move. Gripping her thighs, Caedmon groaned, the guttural sound competing with the strident piano chords in the background.
Edie clenched her muscles. Then released. The movement merited another groan. Caedmon’s grip tightened. Go faster.
She came. Quickly. Powerfully. Caedmon held her gaze, silently pleading with her to keep moving. Reaching behind her, she touched him. Then watched as he shuddered, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.
The crisis past, Edie fell forward, crash-landing against his torso. Tears in her eyes, she struggled to catch her breath. With her damp cheek nestled against his equally damp one, she softly laughed.
“I don’t know about you, but I now have a whole new appreciation for classical music.”
CHAPTER 49
Caedmon raised a hand to his mouth, stifling a yawn.
“Sorry. I’m a bit knackered. Last night was—” He laughed softly. “No need to tell you. You were there.”
Walking alongside him as they made their way down High, Edie nudged him in the ribs. “Was I ever.”
With their paltry belongings stuffed into the Virgin Airways shoulder bag, they checked out of the hotel immediately after breakfast. The plan was to take a coach to Heathrow, and from there to hire a vehicle for the drive to Godmersham; they were presently en route to Gloucester Green. The hotel clerk had informed them that the airport coaches left Gloucester Green every twenty minutes. Caedmon and Edie agreed that St. Lawrence the Martyr Church might well prove a false lead.
He glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes past seven. It explained why High Street was nearly deserted. Smiling, Edie pressed closer. Returning the smile, he silently acknowledged that desire was born in the one who desires. Like most men in the initial throes of lust, he wondered if he fancied Edie a bit too much, his thoughts frequently settling upon her.
The events of the previous evening had unraveled so quickly, he could only cull them to mind in flashes. The quiet hum of rain pounding against the window pane. The not-so-quiet hum of guttural moans and lusty sighs. Round one had ended in an exhausted tangle. Round two had been more subtle, more seductive. They’d eaten mandarin oranges in bed, Edie squirting the juice onto his lower abdomen then lapping it up with her tongue, a mass of curly hair falling to either side of his hips. Unable to control himself, he’d grabbed her head and pushed her lower.
The pleasure that ensued had been near unbearable.
“You’re smiling. Broadly, I might add. Just what the heck are you thinking about?”
“Hmm?” He glanced at his companion, imagining breasts like smooth melons, legs falling open to expose an overripe fig. “I am contemplating the most erotic fruit bowl imaginable,” he replied.
Edie laughed; the woman was no prude. “I hear tell you guys have one of those thoughts every ten seconds. Amazing that you ever get anything accomplished.”
“A penciled list greatly helps.”
She laughed all the harder.
As he’d already discovered, understanding Edie Miller was one thing, sorting her out another thing altogether. Her early life had been one of abuse and betrayal. And unfathomable pain. Yet somehow she persevered.
Simply put, he was awed by her strength.
“What if we actually find the Ark of the Covenant hidden at St. Lawrence the Martyr Church?” Edie inquired out of the proverbial blue. “Have you given any thought as to what we would do with i
t?”
In truth, he’d given it scant consideration, focusing, instead, on deciphering the quatrains.
“I mean, do we hand it over to a museum? Or do we give it to a church or synagogue?”
“Perhaps we should wait until we find the Ark before consigning it to a second party,” he evasively answered.
“Or maybe you intend to keep the Ark for yourself,” she pressed, refusing to let the matter drop. “Fodder for your next book.”
“Bloody hell! I must have talked in my sleep.”
“I’m serious, Caedmon. So far, you’ve refused to give me a satisfactory answer as to why we’re on this insane quest.”
“I believe you’ve just hammered the nail square on the head. It is a quest, is it not? Like a knight of old, I seek knowledge and enlightenment.”
“Oh, puh-leeze.” Her voice fairly dripped with derision. “Henceforth, Sir Gawain, I would appreciate it if you gave me a straight answer rather than a canned sound bite.”
Caedmon inwardly cringed at the comparison. In later Grail legends, Sir Gawain, possessed of a singular arrogance, failed to grasp the holy import of the quest. He suspected that Edie had purposely plucked the name from the Round Table cast.
“All I’m saying is that we need to give this a little forethought before rushing off like a pair of fools into the great unknown. And what about MacFarlane and his holy warriors?” She stared at him, clearly apprehensive. “What happens if we run into them while wandering around in Godmersham?”
Although most fringe groups were all mouth and no trousers, he knew MacFarlane’s group to be the exception to the rule.
“Rather than succumbing to fearful scenarios, let’s concentrate on finding the blasted Ark.”
A pronounced silence ensued. Uncomfortable, he feigned an interest in the passing shop windows.
