Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) (17 page)

Something stirred in Paul’s memory and he began to feel slightly uncomfortable. Then, as Paul stared, something miraculous happened. The object began to change shape and color. It elongated to about six inches and began to broaden, like the head of a spear. Then it changed color, going from an aged patina to a lustrous golden hue. Paul blinked his eyes. The illusion was disorienting, causing his head to spin and his heart to beat wildly.

“I’ve been wondering how it would react to you,” Starbird said in a quiet voice.

Paul looked
numbly at Starbird who was still holding the dangling object before his eyes. “How it would react to me?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean? Objects cannot react to people.”

“Ah, but sometimes they can, if they are very special objects,” Starbird said. “This one reacts differently to different people.” And as Paul stared, the object seemed to vibrate, as if it was attempting to alter it
s shape again. It began to glow like it was bathed in golden fire. “It has accepted you,” Starbird said.

“Accepted me?” Paul echoed in amazement. “What on earth is it?”

“It is a fragment of an ancient weapon,” Starbird replied with another conspiratorial smile.

There was utter silence as Paul’s jaw hinged open. He was totally speechless. The obvious question was there on his lips but he did not dare ask it, so terribly afraid that his mentor would think him a fool.

“Of course, now you’re wondering why I would be carrying the fragment of an ancient weapon around my neck,” Starbird said.

“The thought did cross my mind,” Paul said, his composure completely shattered.

“First let me tell you that it is much more than just an ordinary weapon fragment,” Starbird said.

Paul’s eyes were bright with anticipation. “You said that it once belonged to a Roman soldier.”

“That is correct.”

“Not . . .?” Paul hesitated as that dim and uncomfortable memory stirred again. He shook his head as he felt the blood rush to his cheeks.

“Perhaps,” Starbird said.

“You’re not telling me . . .?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.”

Paul scratched his head. “Let me get this straight—”

“You will, young Paul, you will. There’ll be plenty of time for explanations. Right now there are more pressing matters that need to be addressed.”

Paul looked back at the object in Starbird’s hand. Actually he could not take his eyes off it. “But it changed shape and color.”

“Yes,” Starbird said with a smile. “Miraculous to say the least. A most wondrous object.”

Paul nodded even as his expression fell deeper into confusion. The object’s golden light reflected in Starbird’s eyes. Paul could not seem to close his mouth. His jaw felt literally unhinged. “I’ve never seen anything do that before,” he said. “How is it possible?”

Starbird shrugged his frail shoulders.

“How long have you had it?”

“A very long time. But it is not mine. I am only its keeper.”

Father Starbird was talking in riddles. Had he lost his mind?

“Before that it belonged to another worthy soul,” Starbird went on, seeing the confusion on his student’s face. “And before that another, all the way back to the beginnings of Christianity. It has been passed down in the Jesuit society from worthy hand to worthy hand for more than seven hundred years. Of course it is much older than that. Its destiny was written eons ago, its secret entrusted to the Jesuits in the thirteenth century. There are those who believe it is the only true path to enlightenment.”

Paul’s eyes were
bright with wonder. “You mean there are others who know of it?”

“Oh, dear me, yes, young Paul
. The human race is a busy and curious lot and its existence is the stuff of legend. The artifact has had its scholars, of course; there are many who believe it is rooted in myth and doubt its existence entirely, and there are others who believe implicitly in its existence and its powers and have sought it with fervor. But the secret of its location has been kept well. And only a very few know its true purpose.”

“But you’ve been wearing it around your . . . neck,” Paul said with more than a bit of amazement in his voice. Then he hesitated, making a gesture with his hand. The other hand went over his mouth as if to stifle an outburst of laughter, or surprise. He remembered, of course. He was quite familiar with the object. Father Starbird had never attempted to hide it from him. He and the Father had bunked together on
numerous occasions. Paul had never really studied the object, although he knew it was there. He’d just assumed that it held some sort of personal meaning to the older man and had never questioned him about it. Starbird was smiling widely now.

“Oh my God . . .” Paul said and smiled along with him.

“Exactly,” Starbird said. “What better place to hide an object of great mystery and desire than around someone’s neck. Who would think to look in such an obvious place?”

Paul nodded. “It’s beautiful,” he said, almost as if it was the first time he’d looked upon it.

“Yes, young Paul, it is.”

“So the myth is true?” Paul said.

Starbird smiled. “True?” he said.

Paul cleared his throat, unwilling to say the words that burned in him.

“The only certainty in this life, young Paul, is that nothing is certain,” Starbird said. “There have always been stories and rumors, and each man has his own truth. It most certainly is a miraculous object, there’s no doubt of that. As I said, I am merely its custodian.”

“I understand that you need to be cautious,” Paul said.

“My duty is to simply pass it on to its next guardian.”

“And who would that be?”

“Why, you, Paul. Who do you think?”

Paul was visibly stunned. He was not sure he’d heard Father Starbird correctly. “What did you say, sir?”

“I said that I am to pass the object to you.”

“Me? I don’t understand.”

“Sit back, young Paul Redington and relax. It is time I told you a story. Do you remember the question I asked a moment ago?”

Paul nodded. “You asked me how I would react if I was to learn that there
was a dangerous cabal on this planet that threatened the very existence of humanity as we know it.”

“Exactly,” Starbird said. “Well?”

“Well, I guess I’d do everything in my power to thwart these spoilers.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes.”

Paul swallowed nervously, wondering where this insane line of questioning was leading.

“Well?” Starbird prodded.

“Well,” Redington began, “I guess because humanity is worth saving. Because the alternative is unthinkable. I may not be very old or wise but I believe I’ve seen the truth of our species. In Africa I saw things I never thought possible. I saw a starving man offer his last scrap of food to a dying stranger. I watched a mother sacrifice herself to armed and dangerous thugs to save her only child. I sat with disease-ridden children who had no right to hope and listened to their wonderful dreams, and knew then that hope is all that we have. That compassion and humanity are synonymous and that these things together are the true path to God.”

“Good answer,” Starbird said beaming. “Very good answer. Young Paul, I have something to tell you, but first you must accept this gift.” He held the artifact out to Paul. Paul slowly extended his trembling hand. Starbird placed the object and its chain in the palm of Paul’s hand and closed his fingers around it, forming the young man’s hand into a fist. “I cannot stress the extent of responsibility it will require to keep and to covet such an object.”

“I understand, sir,” Paul said.

“Well, then,” Starbird said. “It is yours. Now I can rest.” The old priest sat back in his chair with a deep sigh of relief. It was as if the air had suddenly been pulled from his lungs by some unseen force. He looked deflated and much older and wearier than Paul had ever remembered seeing him. In the same moment Paul felt that he had been given some sort of new strength, that suddenly he could accomplish things he had never before imagined. The numbness went from his legs in an instant and although he did not try to stand, he knew that when he did try it would no longer be difficult; he understood on some elemental level that the passing of the artifact had somehow weakened Starbird and strengthened him.

“What is it you wish to tell me, sir?” Paul said, still holding the object tightly in his closed fist and staring at his master in amazement.

“My son,” Starbird said. “I am dying.”

Paul could not believe his ears. This was the last thing he’d expected. “No,” he said, as tears stung his eyes. “I don’t believe you.” He thrust the fist with the object in it back toward his master. “Here,” he said bitterly, “I don’t want it.”

“Ah, but it is too late, my dear boy. Once the object has been
accepted it can never be returned. Those are the rules. You have been chosen to be its custodian not by me but by a much greater power. Do not take the responsibility lightly.”

Paul stared sadly at his master, both sorrow and inquiry on his face. “I don’t understand any of this,” he said.

“You’re not expected to. At least not now.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Keep it, covet it . . . protect it at all costs. If you are lucky, if the stars are all in alignment and God has not given up on man, some day you will give it to another worthy soul, perhaps the person it was intended for. But that will be a long time from now, for the person has not yet been born.” Starbird smiled at the distressed look on Paul’s face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to die this very instant.”

“When?” Paul asked, and there was a deep and profound hurt in his heart.

Starbird shrugged. “Six months, maybe a year. The doctors tell me that although the cancer is fatal, it is progressing at a snail’s pace. It will be several months before I’ll have to be hospitalized.”

Paul stared.

“Now,” Starbird said, “it is time for you to hear what I have been waiting for so long to tell you. Listen very carefully because it is important and you cannot afford to miss a single nuance. Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Paul said with an astute nod, and as he listened, the most extraordinary tale he’d ever
heard began to unfold.

By the time Rick Jennings left the scene of the murdered family in
Exeter, New Hampshire it was late and he was severely depressed and weary with fatigue. He knew very little about why a seemingly disaffected family had died the way they had, and even less about why their young daughter had literally disappeared without a trace. The more he thought about it the more he believed that CSI Kohler had been right when he’d said that something supernatural had happened to them. It was the only explanation that made sense, tasteless as it was. Jennings knew a little something about the supernatural. He’d known Doug McArthur since the kid’s first supernatural incident, and had come to believe—at least to the extent his logical mind would allow—that there were things in this world, perhaps things out of this world, that defied convention.

He too had felt something in that house, he could not deny it, not the evil itself—the evil would have turned all their brains to fossils if it had still been there; he was utterly certain of that—but some sort of spine-chilling residue left there by the evil. Perhaps it had been left on purpose, like a calling card:
I’m back
,
so be warned.
Jennings had felt chilled to his marrow.
Ten years gone and now the elusive Collector had returned.

On the flight back to Portland Jennings had felt unclean. He’d wanted nothing more than to go home and shower the evil residue off his skin. And that’s exactly what he did.

Afterwards, feeling restless, he drove to the station. Traffic was light on the boulevard. An emergency vehicle sped past silently, lights flashing hypnotically. Suddenly everything seemed to have a surreal quality about it. His life came into sharp focus in his thoughts and he did not like what he saw.

The truth was, his life sucked. He worked all the time and on the rare occasion that he wasn’t working, he had no social life. He lived alone in a small unpretentious second floor apartment;
Spooky, his beloved cat had died last year. Now he had no pets, no hobbies and precious few people he could call true friends. He had been married once years ago but it had ended tragically when an undercover police investigation discovered evidence that Emily, his wife of three years, was sleeping with a high ranking city official. They’d met at a department Christmas party and the charismatic official had seduced her. Just like that. Way to go, asshole. It wasn’t enough that Jennings had been ignorant of the affair; he’s the one they’d assigned to investigate the corrupt councilman. And his supposed buddies on the force, the bastards, didn’t tell him the truth until it was too late.

When the smoke cleared five people were dead: the corrupt councilman, two police officers, one of the councilman’s body guards, and tragically, his own deceitful wife. She’d been innocent of all crimes except one.

When the corrupt councilman realized the gig was up he’d turned the gun on Emily and then on himself. Jennings wondered often how he could have been so naïve. He’d wanted desperately for someone to suffer for the crimes committed, but alas, the guilty parties were all dead. He had spent the better part of his career between then and now trying to make up for his inadequacies. He’d ended up alone, his self-respect in shambles. He had never found it in his heart to forgive Emily. He doubted he ever would.

That was about the same time he’d met McArthur and his family. After McArthur’s parents were killed he’d felt sorry for the kid and had taken him under his wing. He’d become more attached to the boy than he ever intended. Doug had become the son
Jennings never had, a replacement for all the misguided love and heartache in his own life. Now Doug, one of the only people he truly cared about in this world, was in trouble and he’d been told to get lost. This time he wasn’t having it. They’d almost destroyed him once. They would not get another chance. And no way were they going to destroy his son.

It was after six by the time he got to the station. Rosemary had gone home for the day, but the usual array of night duty slackers hung out. Jennings exchanged polite greetings with the sergeant at the desk and went to his office. He checked his answering machine: nothing. Rosemary had left him a note saying she believed Doug and Annie had gone to Florida and that she would discuss details with him in the morning. Jennings was too tired or too depressed to pursue anything more today.

Realizing he hadn’t eaten
, he decided that sustenance was just what he needed to lift his spirits. It was almost seven o clock before he settled into his booth at Chang Hop’s. He had occupied the same table there at least three nights a week for the past dozen years or so. Chang served up the best Chinese food north of Boston, and he always gorged himself, eating in one sitting what his diet lacked in nutrition and excellence throughout the rest of the week.

As he wait
ed for the menu, he could not get the day’s events out of his mind. Why that family? Why that little girl? Her name was Ariel. Why did that ring some sort of vague bell? Like a slippery eel something tried to surface in his mind, but when he tried to grab hold of it, it slithered away.

The biggest question of all, of course, was why Doug and Annie? Why had their house been destroyed? Why were they on the run? What connection did they have with the
New Hampshire incident, and what was Spencer’s involvement? Something was eluding him. Something important. He felt it strongly but could not see it. He needed to think, to get his head on straight.

Jennings
suddenly felt sick. He decided that food was the last thing he needed.

When Carl, his waiter, brought him the menu,
Jennings told him to bring him a double shot of bourbon on the rocks. Carl looked quizzically at him. He was a small Asian man with sparkling eyes and a perpetual grin that showed two rows of brilliantly white, perfectly aligned teeth. Jennings had no idea how he’d gotten the name Carl. Carl was a name that belonged more to a strapping Scandinavian with blond hair and bib overalls than a sawed-off Asian waiter.

Carl did not move. Just stared.

“Carl, did you hear me? I asked for a double bourbon on the rocks.”

Carl’s perpetual smile suddenly decayed into something that resembled a frown. “Bourbon,
sir?” Carl asked, as if he had not clearly heard the order.

“Yes Carl, I said bourbon. I’d like it now, please.” Carl shuffled quickly away and in a moment was back with the liquor.

Jennings brought the glass to his lips and stared at it for a long moment. “Screw it,” he said, upending the glass. He decided he liked the bite of it on his tongue and the vast, spreading warmth in his gut; like a visit with an old friend. He felt better almost immediately.

He considered the day. What should he do? He’d been warned off the case, yet, according to Spencer, he was back in. Why? And who’d made Spencer king of the world? Did Spencer think he could lead him to Doug? Was that it? It didn’t make sense. All Spencer had to do was check with De Roché. It would be that easy.
Federal agents moved with impunity. They
were
kings of the world. They could do anything they wanted to do. It made the most sense that that’s where Doug and Annie had gone. So why did Spencer need him? Why didn’t he just go and get Doug if that’s what he wanted. There had to be something more to Spencer’s involvement, something he wasn’t seeing.

The waiter shook him from his reverie, all grins. “Are you ready to order,
lieutenant?” Only he pronounced it ‘rieutenant’. Carl held his pencil to the pad waiting for instructions.

“What?”

Carl’s grin did not falter. “Order?” he said.

Jennings
shook his head.

Carl’s unblemished face sagged. “You no eat?”

“No, just bring me another drink.” Carl shuffled away, moving like a mentally challenged child, scratching his head and mumbling unintelligibly. By the time the second drink was gone Jennings decided he felt better than he’d felt in a very long time. He picked a fortune cookie out of the bowl on the table in front of him, broke it open and read the message:
Genius is the answer. Do you remember what the question is?

Jennings sat for a minute staring at the tiny strip of rice paper with the printed message wondering what kind of a crazy fortune it was. Then an explosion went off inside his head. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “That’s it. Why didn’t I see this before?” He put the scrap of paper in his pocket, got up and left the restaurant.