by Chloe Palov
Admittedly intrigued by the brainy, street-smart man with masculine hands, she decided to prise the lid a bit higher. ‘Earlier today you said something about being on a book tour.’
‘I recently wrote a book about the Egyptian mystery cults. Which permits me to put the word “author” on my curriculum vitae.’
‘That would make you – what – a historian?’
Cædmon keyed in the log-on code given to them by the porter. ‘Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a rehistorian.’
‘Last time I looked, that particular word hadn’t made it to the pages of Webster.’
‘Nor the Oxford English Dictionary. But seeing as there’s no word to accurately describe what I do, I was forced to improvise.’
‘And just how does a rehistorian differ from your standard garden-variety historian?’
‘A historian gathers, examines and interprets the material evidence that remains from the near and distant past,’ Cædmon replied as he brought up the Google home page. ‘In contrast, a rehistorian reveals that which has remained hidden from view; scholarship and speculation going hand in hand.’
She smiled. ‘Well, you did lay claim to being an iconoclast.’
‘So, I did. But enough about me.’ Leaning forward, he grabbed a pad of Holiday Inn notepaper lying on the desk. He then removed a fountain pen from his breast pocket. ‘I want you to tell me every pertinent detail you can recall from your earlier ordeal.’
‘You mean at the Hopkins Museum?’ When he nodded, she propped her chin on her balled fist. ‘Well, I already told you about the ring with the Jerusalem cross. But what I didn’t tell you is that right after he murdered Dr Padgham, the killer called someone on his cell phone. I counted seven digital beeps, so it had to be a local call.’
Cædmon scribbled ‘DC phone call’ on the pad.
‘And I remember that the killer said something about going to “London at nineteen hundred hours”.’ Edie bracketed the last five words with air quotation marks. ‘Or maybe the cop mentioned London. I’m not sure. Sorry. I don’t remember. No! Wait!’ Excited, Edie slapped her palm on the desk. ‘The killer mentioned a place called Rosemont.’
‘Let me make certain that I have this correct: DC phone call, London nineteen hundred hours and Rosemont.’ When she nodded, he ripped the sheet of paper from the pad.
‘Now what?’ Edie dragged the green bin closer to the desk so she could see the computer monitor.
‘Now, we delve into the abyss.’
Edie nudged him in the arm with her elbow. ‘Thanks for that bit of heightened drama. Like I wasn’t scared enough already.’
Cædmon glanced first at his arm, then at her face. For several seconds they wordlessly stared at one another. Two strangers drawn together by a trio of seemingly unconnected clues.
As she continued to gaze into Cædmon’s blue eyes, Edie detected a fire. A passion. But for what, she had no idea. History. Religion. The ‘occult sciences’. Hard to tell.
The first to break eye contact, Cædmon typed ‘Rosemont+DC’ into the search field. ‘Since the London reference is too vague, we’ll start with this.’
‘You know, I remember the good ol’ days when everyone used to have what was quaintly referred to as a private life.’
‘Yes, little did Orwell imagine that Big Brother would come in the guise of a desktop computer.’
‘Looks like we’ve got a hit,’ she exclaimed a half-second later, pointing to the computer screen. ‘It’s a Wikipedia entry for Rosemont Security Consultants.’ Quickly, she scanned the brief description. She turned to Cædmon. ‘Some sort of security firm headquartered in Washington.’
Cædmon clicked on the link. To her dismay, only one scant paragraph appeared. Cædmon hit ‘Print’, the HP printer whirring to life.
Edie read the particulars aloud. ‘“Founded in 2005 by former US Marine Corps Colonel Stanford MacFarlane, Rosemont is one of several security consulting firms created in the wake of the Afghan and Iraq conflicts. Specializing in security consulting, stability operations and tactical support, Rosemont has security contracts in twenty-two nations worldwide.”’ As the information began to sink in, Edie’s shoulders slumped. ‘A security consulting firm… That’s a polite way of saying Rosemont specializes in mercenaries.’
‘So it would seem.’ Cædmon typed a new entry into the search field. ‘Damn. Rosemont Security Consultants doesn’t have a website. Although I shouldn’t be surprised, given such companies prefer to operate out of the public eye.’
‘You know what this means, don’t you? It means we’re not dealing with one or two armed bad men. We’re dealing with an entire army of –’
‘We don’t know that,’ Cædmon interjected, still the voice of reason. ‘Padgham’s killer may simply be in the employ of Rosemont Security Consultants. The firm may have nothing to do with Padgham’s murder or the theft of the Stones of Fire.’
Suddenly recalling something she’d failed to mention, Edie threw her right arm into the air, waving it to catch the teacher’s attention. ‘One last premature leap, okay? I remember that the killer asked to speak to “the colonel”.’ She snatched the printed sheet out of Cædmon’s hands. Turning it towards him, she underlined the first sentence of the Wikipedia entry with her index finger. ‘It says here that the man who founded Rosemont Security Consultants is an exmarine colonel by the name of Stanford MacFarlane. Do you think there’s a link? That this might be who the killer called on his cell phone?’
‘Possibly,’ Cædmon replied, obviously not one to leap without looking. He quickly typed ‘Stanford+ MacFarlane’ into the search engine. A dozen entries popped up, most of them dated 2005.
‘That one,’ Edie said. ‘The Washington Post article dated March 20th.’
Cædmon clicked on the entry.
In silence, they both stared at the photograph that accompanied the front-page story, of a group of military officers, some in dress uniform, some in combat fatigues, linked arm in arm, their heads reverentially bowed.
Edie read the headline aloud. ‘PENTAGON TOP AIDE CONDUCTS WEEKLY PRAYER CIRCLE. And according to the photo tagline, that guy in the middle with the thinning grey buzz cut is Colonel Stanford MacFarlane. I think you better –’
‘Righto,’ Cædmon said, hitting ‘Print’.
As the page printed, they silently read the article. Edie’s gaze zeroed in on the last paragraph: ‘Found guilty of violating military regulations regarding religious expression, Colonel MacFarlane was officially relieved of his duties as intelligence advisor to the undersecretary of defense. In a news conference held late yesterday, Colonel MacFarlane announced that he intended to operate a private security firm specializing in defense contracts while continuing his ongoing work in the religious organization Warriors of God.’
‘MacFarlane may have fallen from grace, but it appears he landed a very lucrative career in security contracts.’ She derisively snorted, the story a common one in DC. ‘Talk about a golden parachute. Last I heard, there’s tens of thousands of these armed paramilitary types running around Iraq, most of them ex-special forces.’
‘Even more worrying, Colonel MacFarlane probably maintains his high-level contacts within the Pentagon. The man did, after all, work for the undersecretary of defense.’
‘I have no idea who’s on his Christmas list. All I know is that MacFarlane has at least one inside man working for the DC police. If we go to the authorities, MacFarlane will find us.’ Edie stared despondently at the newspaper article. ‘Religious fanatics… not good. Try searching for these Warriors of God, will ya?’ She tapped her index finger against the computer screen.
A few seconds later, Cædmon found MacFarlane’s website, the domain address none other than www.warriorsofgod.com.
‘Did God not make Jonathan Padgham as he made you and me?’ Cædmon softly whispered.
‘Do you think that’s the reason why they killed Dr Padgham, because he was gay?’
A sad look in his eyes, Cædmon
slowly shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think that was the reason they killed Padge. Although in another place, and at another time, that may have been sufficient reason to take his life. But it wasn’t the reason today.’
Edie took several deep breaths, opened her mouth to speak, then found she had nothing to say. The day’s events had unravelled in such a helter-skelter fashion, she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to untangle the skeins.
‘While some might dismiss that –’ she jutted her chin at the computer screen ‘– as your run-of-the-mill hate chatter, it scares the bejesus out of me.’
The hate-filled diatribe bringing to mind her own religious upbringing, Edie turned away from the computer. Her grandfather had been a hard-core evangelical Christian, fervently believing that the Bible was the literal transcription of God’s word. And, like the prophets of the Old Testament, Pops had been a rigid taskmaster, daily force-feeding his family an ultra-conservative diet of hellfire and eternal damnation. Finally unable to bear it any longer, her mother had left home at sixteen. Later, Edie had gone to live with her grandparents. She lasted a bit longer, escaping on her eighteenth birthday via a full scholarship to George Washington University. The day she boarded the northbound Greyhound bus was the last day she ever spoke to her maternal grandfather, Conway Miller.
For the first couple of months she’d made halfhearted attempts to keep in touch with her Gran, but when the letters were returned unopened, she got the message. She’d not only left the family, she’d left the flock. She had officially been branded a non-person. It was another fifteen years before she set foot inside a church. The congregation at St Matilda’s was an eclectic mix of female priests, gay deacons and multiracial couples. People of all stripes and colours, joined together in mutual joy. A blessed gathering. Edie didn’t know if it was a form of rebellion against the religion of her youth, but she loved attending Sunday service at St Mattie’s. No doubt, Pops weekly spun in his grave.
‘It would appear that Stanford MacFarlane is the big fish in a very murky pond,’ Cædmon said, drawing Edie’s attention back to the computer screen. ‘In my experience, men consumed by hatred who cloak themselves in religion are the most dangerous men on earth.’
‘Just read the newspapers. Religious fanaticism is a global phenomenon.’
‘Which begs the question, why has a group of fanatical Christians stolen one of the most sacred of all religious relics?’
Edie shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Nor I. Although I am keen to uncover the answer.’
24
Outside the hotel room window the day had dawned damp and cold, no glimmer of sunshine to cast even a suggestion of hope. Through the leafless trees Edie stared at the snaking procession of headlights, the early-morning motorists lost in an enviable world of undone Christmas shopping, overdue bills and holiday office parties.
She sighed, her breath condensing into a cloudy smudge as it struck the glass of the window.
‘All is not lost,’ Cædmon said from behind her, his voice taking her by surprise.
Edie turned to face him, unaware that her glum mood had been so obvious. ‘Then why am I having so much trouble finding an answer that makes any sense? I don’t know about you, but I tossed and turned all night trying to figure out why an ex-marine colonel who now owns and operates a mercenary contracting firm would have had Dr Padgham murdered?’ She held up her hand, forestalling an objection. ‘I know, the Stones of Fire… But did they have to go and –’
Hearing a thud, Edie rushed over and unlocked the door to their hotel room, snatching the just-delivered complimentary copy of the Washington Post off the mat. Door closed and relocked, she quickly flipped through the newspaper, ignoring the front-page story on the terrorist attack at the National Gallery of Art. Instead, she searched for a headline, a photo, a story tucked away in the ‘Metro’ section, anything about a triple homicide at the Hopkins Museum.
‘There’s nothing in the paper. How can that be? Surely by now someone has found Dr Padgham and the two dead guards.’ She tossed the newspaper onto her unmade bed.
‘It’s still less than twenty-four hours since the murders were committed,’ Cædmon calmly reminded her. He had just showered and shaved, which explained why he was half-dressed, his red hair matted to his skull. Attired as he was in a white vest, Edie could see that he had broad shoulders and a lean, rangy build.
‘Yeah, but the night shift should have found the bodies. The guards are supposed to make the rounds of the museum every thirty minutes. And I know for a fact that Linda Alvarez in payroll arrives at the museum at seven o’clock sharp. She has to walk right past Dr Padgham’s office to get to –’ Edie stopped, hit with a sudden thought. ‘Once they access the computer logs at the museum, the police will know that I was at the museum when Dr Padgham was murdered. Which makes me a fugitive.’
One side of Cædmon’s mouth twitched. ‘Hardly a fugitive.’
‘Well, okay, a person of interest. Isn’t that what they call them on cop shows?’ She peered at her reflection in the wall mirror. Feeling the sting of tears, she turned her back on Cædmon, worried the dam might burst.
Since yesterday afternoon she’d been fighting the onslaught, and truth be told she was tired. Tired of being strong. She just wanted to curl up in her bed, pull the pile of stiff covers over her head and cry her eyes out. But she couldn’t. She barely knew Cædmon Aisquith, and if she scared him off, she’d be left to fend for herself. Like she’d had to do so many times before. When she was a kid, her mother used to ignore her for days on end.
‘I’m sorry for getting all emotional on you. I just –’ She sank her teeth into her lower lip, struggling to hold back the tears.
As she stood there, her back still turned to him, she heard Cædmon pad over to where she stood. Then she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.
‘There’s no need to be ashamed of your emotions.’
‘Easy for you to say; you’re a red-headed pillar of strength.’
‘Not true.’ Gently he turned her round, pulling her into his arms. Since he stood somewhere in the neighbourhood of six foot three, her head fitted perfectly into his freckled shoulder.
Edie closed her eyes, drinking in his warmth, his solidness. It felt so good to be held in his arms. Good in a way that made her think of the sleepless night just passed. How many times were you tempted to climb out of bed and get into his? Too many to count.
Worried she might give in to her urges, sex the best balm of them all, she extricated herself from his arms.
‘I need to call the Hopkins and find out what the heck is going on,’ she said, striding over to the desk wedged between the TV and the dresser.
‘Given we’re very much in the dark, I think that’s a wise idea. Although make no mention of what you saw yesterday at the museum.’
Nodding, Edie dialled the main number for the museum. When prompted by the automated system, she keyed in the four-digit extension for the payroll department. Hearing a perky voice answer ‘Linda Alvarez. How may I help you?’ Edie motioned Cædmon to silence.
‘Hey Linda, it’s Edie Miller. I’m sorry for pestering you so early in the morning, but I really screwed up my timecard yesterday… Oh… Really? Huh.’
Edie placed her palm over the handset, whispering, ‘According to Linda, I never clocked in yesterday. But I know for a fact that I did.’
She removed her hand from the phone. ‘Silly me, huh? You’d think after all these weeks I’d be able to get it right. I, um, was in and out so quick that I guess I forgot to –’
Cædmon mouthed, ‘Ask for Padgham.’
‘Is Dr Padgham in his office by any chance? He asked me to take some photos for a special project and I was just… Oh, gosh, that’s terrible. Well, um, since he’s not at the museum, would you be a dear and walk down the hall to his office for me? I spilled a cup of coffee all over his Persian carpet and I just wanted to make sure the cleaning crew took care of – Yeah, he is a bit of a priss, is
n’t he? Thanks, Linda.’
Again, Edie placed her palm over the handset. ‘You’re not going to believe this. She claims that Dr Padgham’s longtime partner was killed yesterday in a hit-and-run accident and that Dr Padgham flew to London to take care of the burial arrangements.’
Cædmon’s blue eyes narrowed. ‘They’re trying to make it appear that Padge is still among the living. My, my, what a tangled web we weave.’
She again motioned him to silence. ‘That’s great. Well, I, um, gotta run. Thanks a million, Linda. I’ll catch you later.’
Edie hung up the phone, stunned.
‘What did she say about the blood-stained carpet?’ Cædmon prompted.
‘To Linda Alvarez’s eagle eye, there’s no stain on Dr Padgham’s carpet. No bloodied bits of brain matter. No noxious pile of vomit. Nothing but a beautifully vacuumed Persian rug.’ Edie pulled out the chair in front of the desk and plopped into it. She glanced at Cædmon’s reflection in the wall mirror. ‘It’s a cover-up. A huge wipe-the-slate-clean cover-up.’
‘Since the last thing that the thieves want is for the police to become involved, they’ll undoubtedly invent something to kill off Padge in London. No one on this side of the Atlantic would question Padgham’s suicide, say, grief-stricken at his partner’s death.’
‘I think they killed Dr Padgham’s partner.’
‘More than likely they did,’ Cædmon replied, his crisp accent noticeably subdued.
‘How in God’s name did Rosemont pull off such a well-organized cover-up?’
Cædmon seated himself on the edge of her bed. ‘With inside help, I dare say. Who captains the ship?’
‘At the Hopkins? That would be the museum director, Eliot Hopkins.’
‘Call him. Ask for a meeting for later this morning.’
Edie cast him a long, considering glance. ‘Tell me why exactly I want to set up a meeting with the museum director?’
