Ark of Fire (17 page)

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 had a fall from grace, but it appears he bounced into a very lucrative career running a security contracting firm.” She derisively snorted, the story a common one in D.C. “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 worrisome, 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 Metropolitan Police force. If we go to the authorities, MacFarlane will find us.” Edie despondently stared at the newspaper article. “Religious fanatics . . . not good. Try searching for this ‘Warriors of God,’ will ya?” She tapped her index finger against the computer screen.

A few seconds later, Caedmon found MacFarlane’s Web page, the domain address none other than
www.warriorsofgod.com.
It featured a scathing rant against homosexuality.

“Did God not make Jonathan Padgham as he made you and me?” Caedmon softly whispered.

“Do you think that’s the reason why they killed Dr. Padgham, because he was a homosexual?”

A sad look in his eyes, Caedmon slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t think that was the reason why they killed Padge. Although in another place, and at another time, that might have been sufficient reason to take his life. But it wasn’t the reason this day.”

Edie took several deep breaths, opened her mouth to speak, then found she had nothing to say. The day’s events had unraveled 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 hateful chatter, it scares the bejesus out of me.”

Having had her fill, the diatribe bringing to mind her own religious upbringing, Edie turned away from the computer. Her grandfather had been a hardcore evangelical Christian, fervently believing that the Bible was a literal transcription. From God’s mouth to the prophets’ ears. And like those towering figures of the Old Testament, Pops had been a rigid taskmaster, daily force-feeding his family an ultraconservative brand of hellfire and eternal damnation. Unable to bear it, her mother had left home at age sixteen. Edie lasted a bit longer, beating a hasty retreat on her eighteenth birthday, managing to escape via a full scholarship to George Washington University. The day she boarded the northbound Greyhound bus was the last day she spoke to her maternal grandfather, Conway Miller.

For the first couple of months, she’d made a halfhearted attempt 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 nonperson. It was another fifteen years before she stepped foot inside a church. The congregation at St. Mattie’s was an eclectic mix of female priests, gay deacons, and multiracial couples. People of all stripes and colors, 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 turned up the dirt above his gravesite.

“It would appear that Stanford MacFarlane is the kingfish in a very murky pond,” Caedmon said, drawing Edie’s attention back to the computer screen. “In my experience, men consumed by a burning hatred, who cloak themselves in God’s love, are the most dangerous men under the heavens.”

“Just read the newspaper. Religious fanaticism is a global phenomenon.”

“Which raises the question . . . why did a group of fanatical Christians steal one of the most sacred of all religious r elics?”

Edie turned to Caedmon, shrugging. “I have no idea.”

“Nor I. Although I am keen to uncover the answer.”

Outside the hotel room window the day had dawned, damp and cold. No glimmer of sunshine to cast even a smidge of false 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 plate glass window.

“All is not lost,” Caedmon 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 mercenaries-for-hire contracting firm, would have had Dr. Padgham murdered?” She held up her hand, forestalling an objection. “I know. In the world of biblical artifacts, the Stones of Fire are out there. 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 doormat. Door closed and relocked, she quickly flipped through the newspaper, ignoring the front-page story regarding 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 regarding 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 security guards.” She tossed the newspaper onto her unmade bed.

“It’s been less than twenty-four hours since the murders were committed,” Caedmon 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 muscle-man tank, 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 Caedmon’s mouth quirked upward. “Hardly a fugitive.”

“Well, okay, a person of interest. Isn’t that what they call them on cop shows?” She peered at her mussed reflection in the wall mirror. Feeling the sting of tears, she turned her back on Caedmon, worried the dam might burst.

Since yesterday afternoon she’d been fighting the onslaught, and, truth be told, she was tired of fighting. Tired of being strong. She just wanted to curl up in her unmade bed, pull the pile of stiff covers over her head, and cry her eyes out. But she couldn’t. She barely knew Caedmon 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 leave her untended 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 Caedmon 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 redheaded pillar of strength.”

“Not true.” Gently he turned her in his direction, pulling her into his arms. Because he stood somewhere in the neighborhood of six foot three, her head perfectly fit into the niche of 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 had she been tempted to climb out of her bed and get into his?
Too many to count.

Worried she might give in to those wayward urges, sex being 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 that was wedged between the TV armoire and the dresser drawers.

“Given that we’re very much in the dark, I think that’s a wise idea. Although make no mention of what you saw or witnessed yesterday at the museum.”

Nodding, Edie dialed the main number for the Hopkins Museum. When prompted by the automated phone 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 Caedmon 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 time card 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—” Caedmon mouthed the words
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, isn’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.”

Caedmon’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.”

A finger to her lips, 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 bloodstained carpet?” Caedmon prompted.

“Per 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 carpet.” Edie pulled out the chair in front of the desk and plopped into it. She glanced at Caedmon’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 devise an accident for Padge in London. No one on this side of the Atlantic will question Padgham’s sudden death except to say that it was a tragic misfortune he didn’t see the lorry in the roundabout.”

“I think they killed Dr. Padgham’s partner.”

“More than likely they did,” Caedmon replied, his crisp accent noticeably subdued.

“How in God’s name did the thugs at Rosemont pull off such a well organized cover-up?”

Caedmon seated himself on the edge of the bed. “With inside help, I dare say. Who captains the ship?”

“At the Hopkins? That would be the museum director, Eliot Hopkins.”

“Call him. Set up 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?”

“In the hopes that Mr. Hopkins will spill some gilded beans.”

“You’re a fine one for wishful thinking. I can’t think of a single reason why Eliot Hopkins would agree to meet with us, let alone give us the straight scoop.”

“Try coming at the problem from a different angle. Why would the venerable Mr. Hopkins agree to participate in the theft of a relic he already owned?”

“That’s easy. Insurance fraud. He intends to collect on the policy.”

“But I suspect that the Stones of Fire was purchased on the black market.”

“Meaning the relic wasn’t insured,” Edie said, beating him to the punch.

“Ergo, Eliot Hopkins had nothing to do with Padge’s murder. But I believe he had something to do with the subsequent cover-up.”