Ark of Fire (40 page)

Turning away from her, MacFarlane walked over to the nearby kitchenette; the stone-walled room was a big open space with matching sofas on one side, a dining room table in the middle, and a kitchen on the opposite end. She watched as he pulled two clean mugs from a shelf. He then opened two packets of instant cocoa. That done, he poured hot water from a carafe.

Even as he handed her one of the mugs, he glared at her. A dark, impassioned glare that sent a chill down her spine. She didn’t dare refuse the cocoa.

“I know you and your kind, Miss Miller. You think that by putting your carcass in the pew every Sunday, God will look kindly upon you, that perfect church attendance will equal a free pass into heaven.”

“You’ve got me mixed up with some other person. Personally, I think it’s important for . . .” She searched for the right word. “. . . the
betterment
of one’s soul to engage in good works, Christian charity being the touchstone of—”

“Spare me the secular soliloquy. As if volunteering at some inner-city soup kitchen will gain you entry into heaven. Faith, not deeds, will secure you a place among the righteous.”

“Don’t you mean the self-righteous?” she retorted.

“You and your kind are an anathema unto the Lord.”

“Then we clearly worship two different gods.”

“At last, something we can agree upon.”

And as Edie knew full well, it was an agreement based on a bitter divide.

Truth be told, she was taken aback at how much Stanford MacFarlane reminded her of Pops; her maternal grandfather had held to a very conservative interpretation of the Bible. At the time she’d thought it a stifling interpretation. But when espoused by a man like MacFarlane, it went from stifling to scary. Put a black robe on him and Stanford MacFarlane would have made the perfect Spanish inquisitor.

“Speaking of a free pass into heaven, if you think that finding the Ark is your stamped ticket, think again,” she said, refusing to go quietly into the funeral pyre.

About to raise his mug to his lips, MacFarlane lowered it. For several seconds—seconds that conjured images of burning bodies—he stared at her.

“Unlike you, I will die and rise with the Old Testament saints.” Then, as though he’d simply made a passing comment about the weather, he calmly took a sip of his cocoa.

Edie stood silent.

There was no way to argue with a zealot.
The years spent with Pops had taught her that; the memory still weighed heavy. Like a giant millstone on her heart.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a gossamer strand of cobweb dangling from the wood-beamed ceiling. Staring at it, she suddenly felt very much like the fly ensnared in that deceptively beautiful web.

But unlike the ensnared fly, she had an out.
Caedmon.

Above all else, she knew he would come. If not to rescue her, then to find the Ark.

Hearing a sonorous knock, Caedmon turned in his chair. The guesthouse proprietor, a florid-faced Welshman, stood in the doorway, no doubt baffled as to why the door had been left ajar. Simply put, he had not seen a need to close it.

“You’ve got a call,” the other man announced, clearly annoyed at having had to climb four sets of stairs to convey the message. “You can take it at the front desk.” Announcement made, he took his departure.

Caedmon rose to his feet. As he walked toward the door, he glimpsed the sketched drawing of the Canterbury window, along with the handwritten translation of the quatrains. Both left in plain sight on the wooden bench. A stark and painful reminder that Edie’s abduction had everything to do with the Ark of the Covenant.

Knowing he would have need of both, he retrieved the two sheets of paper, slipping them inside his anorak pocket. That being the only thing of value in the room, he trudged after the proprietor, closing the door behind him.

A few moments later, standing at the rough-hewn counter that masqueraded as a front desk, Caedmon lifted the heavy handset of an old-fashioned telephone. “Go ahead. I’m listening,” he said, refusing to engage in the hypocrisy of a civil greeting.

“I do hope you’re having a pleasant evening,” the American male on the other end smoothly, and hypocritically, said in turn.

“Sod off! Is she still alive?”

“You know that she is.”

“I know no such thing. If we are to continue the conversation, I require proof of life.”

“You’re hardly in a position to make demands.”

“I am not demanding,” Caedmon countered in a calmer tone, reining in his unruly emotions. “I am requesting, as a show of good faith, you give me proof that Miss Miller is, indeed, your captive.”

The request was met with silence, and then Caedmon could detect a muffled command being issued.

Then, a few seconds later, “It’s me, Caedmon. I’m . . . I’m all right.”

At hearing Edie’s voice, he glanced heavenward.

“Have they harmed you in any way?”

“No, they—”

“Satisfied?” her captor snarled into the phone.

“Yes, I’m satisfied. What must I do to ensure her safe r eturn?”

The other man chuckled, obviously amused by the question. “Find me the Ark of the Covenant, of course.”

Caedmon fell silent.

Hearing the proviso so bluntly spelled out—in clear, concise, unequivocal terms—made him acutely aware that MacFarlane might very well be asking the impossible. For nearly three thousand years the Ark had remained hidden. Naught but a legend. Many before him had tried—and failed—to find it. Somehow, against impossible odds, he had to succeed.

His stomach muscles painfully cramped; he was afraid that the challenge might prove insurmountable.

Knowing the negotiations would come to a horrible end if such doubts were hinted at, let alone verbalized, he strove for a confidence he didn’t feel. “Do I have your word that when I find the Ark, Edie Miller’s life will be spared?”

“My word is my bond,” the other man promptly replied. “As soon as we hang up, I want you to leave that rathole of a hotel and head three blocks south. Turn left at the telephone booth on the corner. There’s an alley halfway down the street. My men will be waiting for you. Don’t try anything foolish. If you do, the woman dies. And, trust me, it won’t be a pleasant death.”

Instructions issued, the call was unceremoniously disconnected.

For several long seconds Caedmon stared at the telephone, events unraveling at a faster pace than he would have liked.

Needing to be on his way, he banged his palm against the silver bell on the counter. When the Welshman appeared, he slid his hand inside his coat pocket and removed his billfold. “I would like to check out.”

The proprietor suspiciously stared at him. “Where’s the missus?”

“She has gone ahead without me.”

Bill paid in full, he left the guesthouse and proceeded south as directed, his progress slowed by an almost impenetrable fog, the gray mist as dense as Irish oatmeal.

On his right, he passed a pub, its yellow light spilling onto the pavement. Earlier in the evening, he’d glumly sat in that same pub, staring at a full pint of lager. Knowing alcohol would do nothing to resolve the unsettled business with Edie, he’d handed the glass to an inebriated local before wordlessly slinking out.

Had he not succumbed to a moment’s weakness, the abduction might have been thwarted.

Caedmon shoved the thought aside. He couldn’t change the past. He could only affect the here and now.

As he made his way through the dense fog, sound became muffled to such an extent that he couldn’t discern whether a honking vehicle was to his left or to his right. The alarming scene was so cinematic, he wondered if MacFarlane had somehow magically conjured the foul weather on command, such notions reminding him anew that all he had at his command was the nail file hidden beneath the leather insole of his right oxford.

Again, he rehearsed the plan in his mind’s eye.
A jab to the eye. A deep puncture to the neck.
If used correctly, the metal file could become a deadly weapon. He’d killed before. He could do so again.

Approaching a red call box, he turned left as he had been instructed. When he came to the alleyway, he made another left. At the end of the deserted lane, he sighted two men leaning against a parked Range Rover.

MacFarlane’s bully boys.
Dicey characters, the both of them.

Though he had no concrete evidence, Caedmon assumed that MacFarlane recruited his mercenaries straight out of the U.S. military. Special Forces, more than likely.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, touching his fingers to an imaginary hat brim.

Neither man acknowledged the greeting, although one of them pushed himself away from the vehicle and stepped toward him. Without being asked, Caedmon raised his arms, grasping the back of his head with his clasped hands. The other man impersonally patted him down, searching every crevice where a weapon might be concealed.

Search concluded, Caedmon slowly lowered his arms.

“Strip off your clothes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me—strip off your clothes.” To ensure that the order was obeyed, the other man pulled aside his jacket lapel, revealing a holstered gun.

There being nothing he could do but comply, Caedmon removed his anorak, dropping it onto the ground. Then, giving every indication that he was a man with nothing to hide, he toed off his right leather oxford, purposely kicking it in his escort’s direction.

The subterfuge worked; his surrendered shoe warranted little more than a disinterested glance.

As he divested himself of his garments, he noticed that the thick fog provided a surreal modicum of privacy.

Naked, he stood before his captors. He couldn’t think of a time when he’d felt more vulnerable. “I know. I should probably be more diligent about my exercise regimen.”

Neither man responded, although the one with the holstered weapon did reach inside his jacket pocket. Removing a dark length of fabric, he tossed it at Caedmon’s bare chest.

“Put on the blindfold.”

“Such measures seem a bit draconian, don’t you think?”

Evidently not draconian enough; the other man’s response was quick and unpitying. Removing the gun from its holster, he stepped forward, smashing the revolver butt against the side of Caedmon’s head.

A myriad splash of color, like a Jackson Pollock abstract, instantly flashed behind his eyes.

An instant later, the colors bled together, turning a deep, dark inky shade of black.

Lucidity still beyond his grasp, Caedmon shuffled into the room, clutching his wool jumper and various undergarments to his chest. He heard himself nattering on about something. George Eliot and
The Mill on the Floss
. Or some such nonsense.

He tried to focus, but couldn’t contain his flyaway thoughts. Couldn’t stop the ringing in his ears.

Bloody hell, but his head hurt.

“Caedmon! Are you all right?”

He turned, his vision still blurred.

“I’m fine,” he lied, uncertain to whom he spoke.

He blinked several times, willing the particulars to come into focus. They came in bits and bobs.
Two parallel worry lines between two equally worried brown eyes. Long curly hair. A red bruise on a pale cheek.

“Edie . . . thank God . . . are you all right?” He immediately realized that it was an asinine question; he could see that she wasn’t.

“I’m fine.”

Hearing her automatic reply proved that they were woven from the same piece of fabric.

His vision clearing, he surveyed what was obviously the first floor of an old millhouse. All around him he saw solid eighteenth-century construction. Shuttered windows. Wood-planked floors. Thick stone walls. It was a prison from which there would be no escape, even if he could somehow disable his adversaries, of which he counted four. He wondered which of the quartet was responsible for the bruise on Edie’s cheek; any one of the brutes appeared capable of hitting a defenseless woman.