Ark of Fire

by C. M. Palov

  “This better be worth fifty dollars,” she muttered under her breath as William wordlessly took his leave.

  Caedmon examined the drawing, pleased with the result. “I’d say it’s bang-on perfect.”

  Thrilled that all was going well, Caedmon watched the play of colored lights as they bathed Edie’s smooth complexion in shades of blue and gold. Unthinkingly, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Fancy a quick bonk?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “What? Here? In the middle of Canterbury Cathedral?”

  So rapidly did she put the brakes on his suggestion, Caedmon could almost smell the stink of burning rubber. Although her lack of enthusiasm did little to dampen his ardor. “We earlier passed a dimly lit niche on the other side of the choir.”

  “Are you crazy? In case you haven’t noticed, O horny one, we’re in a cathedral.”

  That being the stuff of fantasies, he smiled. “Nothing the Almighty hasn’t seen countless times before.” Then, determined to win her over, “Come on, Edie. Surely you can spare me a moment of your time?”

  “Not with all the angels and saints watching from on high, I can’t.” She pointedly glanced at a haloed figure in a nearby stained glass panel. “But just so you don’t think me a complete killjoy, I might be amenable to being bonked in a hotel room.”

  Hearing that, Caedmon grabbed her by the hand, hastily making his way to the exit. “We passed a guesthouse on Mercery Lane. If we hurry, we can be between the sheets within the half hour.”

  CHAPTER 55

  “It’s not the Savoy. But then again it’s not the almshouse,” he’d drolly remarked, surveying their modest accommodations.

  Edie glanced at the iron bedstead. “What now?”

  “A drink, I think. No, better yet, let’s skip the pleasantries and get right down to it, shall we? In the prone or upright position? Your choice, love.”

  Giving it a moment’s thought, she picked the latter. . . .

  Trousers refastened, Caedmon bent down and retrieved a pair of lacy knickers from the threadbare carpet. Somewhat sheepishly, he handed them to Edie. His embarrassment stemming from a decided lack of finesse, he glanced at the un-mussed bed.

  He could do better. He would do better.

  He’d always considered himself a considerate lover. But for some inexplicable reason he’d acted on his animal urges, behaving like a testosterone-driven oaf.

  “I just need to, um, you know, freshen up.” Her cheeks flushed, Edie pointed to the adjoining bathroom.

  “Er, right.”

  A few moments later the bathroom faucet opened, followed by a muttered complaint about the lack of hot water. Unable to find a vacant room at an accredited B&B, they’d been forced to take lodgings at a small guesthouse, the only available room being in the garret. In an attempt to add some charm to the claustrophobic space, both the walls and the steeply pitched ceiling had been papered in a blue toile, the prancing maids in farthingales and the sad-faced Pierrot straight out of a Watteau canvas.

  “Shall we have a go at the stained glass window?” he inquired when Edie returned.

  “Sounds like a plan. Since there’s no table to sit at, how about we pull that pine bench over to the side of the bed?”

  Caedmon obediently fetched the bench in question, the two of them sitting side by side on the mattress, their shoulders lightly touching. In front of them, spread across the bench, was the sketched drawing of the stained glass window, the handwritten copy of Philippa’s quatrains, a blank sheet of paper, and two sharpened pencils.

  “When deciphering code, ‘no stone unturned’ is the best rule of thumb,” he instructed. “Prison is full of thieves and murderers.”

  “No kidding. Your point?”

  He smiled at what was fast becoming her familiar refrain. “Look for the obvious. Every link in the chain is somehow relevant.”

  “Well, the two geese in the basket are pretty obvious, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed. But what is the significance of the pair? We know that one of the geese represents the good housewife Philippa. But what of the other?”

  Edie shrugged. “I have no idea. But the fact that Philippa purposely led us to Canterbury Cathedral makes me think she may have given the Ark to the church. Not to mention, the scene in question details the Holy Family inside the Temple of Jerusalem.”

  For several seconds, he pondered the notion. Though the idea had merit, something about it didn’t ring true.

  “‘I know not how the world be served by such adversity,’” he said, reading aloud from the quatrains. “It’s clear that Philippa attributed the plague to her husband’s ill-gotten treasure. Good Catholic woman that she was, Philippa would not have burdened the church with that same ‘adversity.’”

  Getting up from the bed, Edie walked over and retrieved the Virgin Air bag from the room’s one and only chair, a lumpy Marquise reproduction upholstered in the same pattern as the wallpaper. She removed a metal nail file from the zippered pocket.

  “I broke a nail.”

  Intuiting that she was in no mood to decipher the drawing, Caedmon moodily stared at the pine bench. In truth, he wasn’t at all surprised by her lack of enthusiasm, the day’s events having no doubt taken a heavy toll on her.

  “Will you be spending Christmas with your family?”

  Caedmon’s head jerked, caught off guard by Edie’s unexpected query. Although he knew she’d eventually inquire about his private life, he’d foolishly hoped it wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

  “My father died some years back. But even when he was alive, we were never big on the holidays, and Christmas fell by the wayside when I was a young lad. I suspect the lack of holiday cheer came about because there was no woman in the household. My mother died in childbirth,” he added, anticipating her next question.

  “This is the first you’ve made mention of your family.”

  “My father and I had what you might call a strained relationship. A strict taskmaster, he eschewed frivolities of any sort.” Such as “hanging the stockings by the chimney with care.”

  “He sounds like a real hard-ass.”

  “Actually, he was a solicitor.”

  Edie laughed aloud. “Sorry. It’s just the way it came out. It sounded . . .”

  “Absurd?” The old wounds not nearly as painful as they’d once been, he managed a half smile. “Yes, in retrospect there was a certain absurdity to our relationship.”

  “Absurdity aside, I bet your father was proud of you. Going to Oxford and everything.”

  At hearing that, Caedmon derisively snorted. “Hardly. When I left Oxford, the shame of it killed him.”

  “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a weensy bit?” With thumb and index finger, she indicated a “weensy” unit of measure.

  Shoving the pine bench aside, he rose to his feet. There being few places to roam, he walked over to the fireplace. The act of confession an uncomfortable one, he turned his back to her.

  “Within days of my Oxford debacle, I was summoned to St. Anselm’s Hospital, where my father was undergoing tests for an intestinal complaint.” Able to see the sterile white room in his mind’s eye, he frowned, the vividness of the recollection unnerving. “My father wore a light blue hospital gown; it was the first time I’d ever seen him in a garment that had not been properly pressed.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “A most dignified man, my father.”

  Although she made no reply, he could see that he had a captive audience; Edie was leaning forward in the chair.

  “The morning sun was shining through the window adjacent to my father’s hospital bed, casting upon him a soft light, making him appear as a kindly older gentleman. An aged putti, I irreverently thought at the time.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Something that was years in the making.” He turned and faced his confessor. “At this juncture I should mention that I spent the first thirteen years of my life fearing the bastard and the next thirteen loathing him becaus
e of that fear.”

  “Did he physically abuse you?”

  He tersely shook his head, disavowing her of the notion. “No. In fact he never laid a hand on me, not in anger nor affection. His was an emotional abuse, a systematic shunting that left little doubt he rued the day that I was born. On those few occasions when he did take notice of me, it was always with a critical eye.”

  “I’m guessing it all came to a head when you went to visit him in the hospital.”

  Caedmon nodded. “No sooner did I arrive than my father informed me of precisely how much it had cost to support my studies at Oxford. He then point-blank told me that he expected due recompense. With interest, I might add.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Her stunned expression was near comical.

  “I told the old bastard to bugger off. That said, I took my departure, perversely pleased with myself for finally standing up to him. Twelve hours later his doctor rang me up, notifying me that my father had unexpectedly died from an embolism.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  The question was so typically American, their culture grounded in the visceral, that he should have anticipated it. Should have, but didn’t.

  “If you’re asking if I felt complicit in my father’s death, I did not. Although, admittedly, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time trying to understand my father’s motives.” He shrugged, indicating that it had been a futile endeavor. “All I know is that my father had a singular inability to love.”

  Good God! Did he really just say that?

  Horrified, he self-consciously cleared his throat, refusing to meet Edie’s disarmingly direct gaze.

  “Maybe he did love you; he just didn’t know how to express it.”

  “To know the man was to know better.”

  Getting up from her chair, Edie walked toward him. “I think your father was an idiot for wasting his life the way he did. It’s what Herman Melville referred to as the ‘horror of the half-lived life.’ So, what about the rest of your life? Have you ever been married? Do you have any kids?”

  Caedmon stared at the threadbare carpet, the conversation having veered into uncomfortable territory, his unsavory past about to rear its ugly head. The ghost of his murdered lover, Juliana Howe, lurked in the near vicinity. If he told her about Jules, he’d also have to tell her about his murderous rampage in the streets of Belfast.

  Arms crossed over his chest, he listened as the mantel clock relentlessly ticked off each passing second with an air of funerary gravitas.

  Edie placed a hand on his forearm. “Look, whatever it is that you’re afraid to tell me, I’ll understand. Really, I will.”

  Angry that he’d been shoved into a tight corner, he moved away from her. “You’ll understand? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you first made my acquaintance four days ago. Barely enough time to know how I take my tea, let alone understand me.” He snatched his anorak from the nearby wall hook. “There’s a curry house several blocks down the street. I’m going to get some takeaway.”

  CHAPTER 56

  Edie yanked the black turtleneck over her head, tossing it onto the wood toilet lid. Placing her hand into the claw-footed tub, she swirled the sudsy water, testing to make sure she had the right mix of hot and cold. Evidently, it had yet to occur to the Brits that a single faucet was a whole heck of a lot better than dueling hot and cold water taps. But as she was quickly learning, the Brits were a strange and curious lot.

  Unhooking her bra, she let it drop onto the linoleum floor. At seeing the small hickey next to her nipple, she smiled, remembering. Caedmon had surprised her with his passion, morphing into a lusty alpha male the moment he removed his wools and tweeds. A lot of things about Caedmon surprised her. The way he would dunk a cookie into his coffee cup then immediately apologize, as though he’d committed the gravest of sins. His almost boyish exuberance when it came to anything even remotely esoteric. His insistence on opening doors and preceding her down the steps. His sweetness. His tenderness. His unrelenting resolve when it came to the Ark.

  God, he could be a hard-ass. She suspected that he took after his father more than he realized.

  Yeah, she’d pushed him. But he’d pushed back even harder. Short of killing a man in cold blood, she’d understand whatever deep, dark secret he kept under lock and key. She was certainly no saint.

  What she needed to do was back off. Enforce a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. When he was ready, when he felt more comfortable with the relationship, he would open up.

  Clothes removed, she walked over and shut off the taps. Tentatively, she stuck a big toe into the tub. Then, a hand braced on either side of the claw-footed tub, she slowly sank into the frothy water, having found a half-used bottle of lemon-scented bubble bath.

  “Perfect,” she crooned, her tensed muscles finally relaxing. She stared at the pitched ceiling, the light from the adjoining room turning the surface a pretty shade of cotton-candy pink.

  She reached for the washcloth she’d earlier draped over the curved lip of the tub.

  “‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la. ’”

  Belatedly realizing that it was one of those songs that wore better after a couple of glasses of eggnog, she switched gears, instead humming “The Little Drummer Boy” as she soaped up the washcloth.

  Raising her right leg out of the water, she washed it from toe to knee.

  Again, her thoughts turned to Caedmon. Christmas had to be a difficult time of year for him given that his father—

  “Getting all cleaned up to do the dirty, huh?”

  At hearing that deep-throated voice, Edie swung her head toward the open bathroom door.

  Oh, God. It was him.

  CHAPTER 57

  Stunned to find her Oxford assailant negligently leaning against the doorjamb, Edie thought her heart would explode.

  Overcome with fear, she helplessly gripped the sides of the tub.

  “And in case you got any notions about screaming or hollering or complaining to the management, you might want to reconsider,” the intruder drawled, slowly pulling a gun from the waistband of his military-style cargo pants. “The two of us are gonna do this nice and quiet.”

  Edie stared at the dark lump of steel clutched in his meaty hand. She didn’t know much about firearms. But she knew a silencer when she saw one. He could kill her in cold blood and no one in the guesthouse would be the wiser. Just like he’d killed Dr. Padgham at the museum. Just like he’d probably killed God knows how many people.

  Gun in hand, he strolled over and retrieved her bra from the floor. As he did, Edie noticed the surgical tape on the side of his head. Evidently, he’d had to have sutures after Caedmon hit him with the broken bottle. Like he wasn’t scary enough already; the little pieces of white tape made him look like a turbo-charged Frankenstein.

  Holding her bra up to his face, the behemoth read the inside tag. “Thirty-four C. Nice. They ought to fit my hands just perfect.”

  Hearing that, Edie wanted to puke.

  “H-how d-did you find me?” she nervously stammered, hoping that if she changed the subject, she could somehow change his intentions.

  Grinning, he dropped the bra. “Amazing how you can hunt down a person anywhere in the world with a microdot tracking device and a Palm Pilot. And the beauty of it? It doesn’t cost more than two hundred dollars. That’s the good thing about them chinks and how they mass-produce everything on God’s green planet. Keeps down the cost of running surveillance.”

  “That’s why you attacked me in Oxford, so you could plant a tracking device on me.”

  “Aren’t you the clever bitch?” He gaze slowly moved down her soap-covered body, stopping at her quivering breasts.

  Edie sank deeper into the mound of bubbles, her head being the only thing that remained above water. If she could have, she would have squeezed herself right down the drain.

  “He’s going to be back. Any minute now. So you better leave while you still have th
e chance.” She pointedly glanced at his sutured skull, hoping to drive home her point.

  “Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots. Besides, I’ve got my doubts about your redheaded honey returning any time soon. Last I saw him, he was sitting at the corner bar, downing a cold one. So, it looks like it’s gonna be just me and you, sweet tits. But after what I saw last night, I think you can handle it.” Lewdly grinning, he winked at her. “I got last night’s fuck fest on video. Hot. Real, real hot.” Reaching down, he cupped his crotch with his free hand, pursing his thick lips in an exaggerated air kiss.

  “I’m going to be sick,” Edie moaned, leaning over the side of the tub, gagging.

  “The fuck you are!”

  Charging forward, her would-be rapist grabbed her by the hair. Lemon-scented water splashed onto the floor as he yanked her up and out of the tub. Arms flailing, Edie reflexively slammed her balled fist into the bandaged wound on the side of his head.

  “Fucking shit!” he bellowed, instantly releasing his hold on her.

  Edie seized her chance, running into the other room.

  A weapon. She had to find a weapon.

  Her eyes quickly darted from the floor lamp to the bed to the lumpy chair.

  The metal nail file.

  Oblivious to the fact that she was stark naked, she lunged toward the fake Louis XIV chair. That was where she’d been sitting when she filed down her broken nail.

  From behind her, she heard the thud of heavy boots.

  Where the hell was the nail file?

  She shoved her hand alongside the seat cushion, her search coming to an abrupt end when a muscled arm snaked around her waist, yanking her away from the chair. Frantic, she tried to twist free, but it was as though she had a giant vise grip clamped around her midsection.

  “Think again, cunt,” her assailant snarled, lifting her bodily off the ground. Pivoting, he tossed her onto the bed, the iron frame noisily clanging against the wall. Edie immediately rolled to her right side, but anticipating the move, he grabbed her by the ankle, pulling her back to the middle of the bed.