Authors: Shawn Hopkins
Scott moved his tired eyes up to the rearview mirror and could see most of Cindy’s body lying across the back seat. He wondered what the future held for her, wondered why she was helping them. Was it fear? Did she think they’d kill her or leave her out in the middle of nowhere if she refused? It had obviously been simple attraction that got her involved back at the diner, but the cop coming back in with the shotgun propelled her seemingly innocent decision to help him into something else entirely, changing her whole life in a matter of moments. He felt indebted to her, responsible in part for ruining her life, but he couldn’t take care of her, couldn’t take her with him. She’d get him killed.
Turning his thoughts away from the guilt swirling in his conscience, he decided to grapple with the priest’s books instead.
“Mayhew,” he whispered as he reached over and shook him.
“Yeah?” He was awake.
“Here.” He handed the messenger bag over to him.
Mayhew sat up in the seat and took it from him, pulling the two books out. “What are these?”
“The priest gave them to me.”
“What?” he asked, surprised.
“I didn’t tell you earlier because I didn’t know if I could trust you.”
Without commenting, he reached up and turned on the interior light. “What are they?”
Scott glanced over while Mayhew flipped through the pages. “You tell me.”
“You didn’t read any of them?”
“Only a paragraph or two.”
“What did the priest say about them?”
“He said they were keys to the puzzle.” He sighed and looked down at the fuel gauge. Quarter of a tank. “Why don’t you read it.” It wasn’t a question. “And then paraphrase for me.”
Flipping to the first page, Mayhew announced, “Says it’s the
Testament of Solomon
.” He looked over at Scott, surprised.
“You’ve heard of it?”
“No.” And then he started reading.
Fifteen minutes later, Mayhew closed the book and stared out the window in silence.
“What?” Scott asked, impatient.
Mayhew shook his head. “This is some pretty weird stuff.”
“Did it say what the ring is?”
“It talks about
a
ring. But if it’s the same one…” His voice trailed off.
“Tell me what it says.”
“It starts off with this boy who’s working on the Temple having his soul sucked out of him by a demon. He’s one of Solomon’s favorites so Solomon decides to do something about it.”
Scott interrupted. “This is King Solomon? From the Bible?”
“The son of King David. Remember, David and Goliath?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“First and Second Samuel records that David wanted to build a temple for the Lord but that the Lord wouldn’t let him. Said his hands were too bloody. But He told him he could gather all the material for the Temple and that his son could build it. So that’s what Solomon did, built the Temple.
Solomon’s
Temple.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“So this is supposed to be the same Solomon. Anyway, Solomon prays for help and is answered by the archangel Michael granting him a magic ring that controls demons.”
Scott frowned.
Mayhew continued. “Michael tells Solomon that the ring can be used to force demons to help build the Temple. The next day Solomon calls the boy and gives him the ring, tells him what to do with it.” He opened the book back up again. “The boy throws the ring at the chest of this Ornias demon, and Ornias promises the boy great wealth if he’ll let him go. The boy doesn’t, instead delivering him to Solomon like he was ordered to.”
“Sounds like a bunch of crap to me,” Scott interrupted.
“Then Solomon starts interrogating all these demons, and the text gets pretty heavy with astrology…” He flipped through more pages, coming to a stop and reading, “‘And I Solomon having heard this, and having glorified the Lord, ordered her hair to be bound, and that she should be hung up in front of the Temple of God; that all the children of Israel, as they passed, might see it, and glorify the Lord God of Israel, who had given me this authority, with wisdom and power from God, by means of this signet.’” He closed the book. “The signet. The ring.”
Scott raised an eyebrow. “
The
ring? As in the one in your pocket?”
Mayhew shrugged.
“And what’s it supposed to be the key to?” Part of him wanted to throw the book out the window.
Mayhew shrugged again, intent on finishing his summary. “So Solomon has demons build the Temple. And then people from all over come bearing gifts to see the Temple of God and to witness Solomon’s wisdom. One of those people was the Queen of the South and is described as being a witch. She hears his wisdom and glorifies the God of Israel…
“But then Solomon falls into idolatry, turns his back on the God of Israel and begins sacrificing to pagan gods.” Opening to the back of the book, he read, “‘And when I answered that I would on no account worship strange gods, they told the maiden not to sleep with me until I complied and sacrificed to the gods. I then was moved, but crafty Eros brought and laid by her for me five grasshoppers, saying: Take these grasshoppers and crush them together in the name of the god Moloch; and then will I sleep with you. And this I actually did. And at once the Spirit of God departed from me, and I was obliged by her to build a temple of idols to Baal, and to Rapha, and to Moloch, and to the other idols. I then, wretch that I am, followed her advice, and the glory of God quite departed from me; and my spirit was darkened, and I became the sport of idols and demons. Wherefore I wrote out this Testament, that you who get possession of it may pity and attend to the last things, and not to the first. So that you may find grace forever and ever. Amen.’ There are all kinds of footnotes here about other translations and stuff…”
“It all makes sense now,” Scott grumbled.
Mayhew opened the other book. “This one looks pretty similar to the
Testament
. Same handwriting, I think. It’s got a title, but it doesn’t look like a translation, just simple notes on the
Book of Tobit.
”
“Tobit?”
“I think it’s a book in the apocrypha.”
There was some movement in the back seat and then a tired feminine voice. “That was a weird story,” Cindy remarked. “What was it?”
Mayhew exchanged a quick glance with Scott while slipping both books back into the bag.
“Nothing,” Scott said. “Just some stupid legend.”
She was silent for a while, gathering her senses. “How long have I been asleep?”
“For a while.”
“Where are we?”
But before Scott could answer, the lights flickered off, the engine died, and the car rolled to a stop.
22
B
efore they could even get out of the car, headlights were racing at them from all directions.
Scott was just about to push the door open when a sudden blinding light filled the car. Shielding his eyes, he sighed in surrender, slowly raising his hands. He knew there was no point in resisting now. He couldn’t see them, and they probably had ten guns trained on him. He wanted to tell Cindy that everything would be alright, but he couldn’t get his mouth to form the lie. He knew from personal experience that things would definitely
not
be alright.
Then came the sound of feet stampeding toward them, hands grabbing him and ripping him out of the car. He couldn’t see anything, only silhouettes whenever a figure moved in front of the light. His world became a symphony of ambient noises — the mass of sliding feet over concrete, breaths of exertion against the back of his neck, clothes being pulled… And then he was being slammed against the car. Hands were moving up and down his body, his arms twisted violently behind his back and plastic wire ties suddenly digging into his wrists. A blindfold was put over his eyes, transporting him from glaring light to absolute darkness while duct tape was slapped over his mouth.
Scott heard Cindy resisting, heard her scream. There were no voices answering her questions, and he could only hope that she would be spared from discovering just how low the depravity of man descended.
After they zip-tied his ankles together, they pushed him over, sending him crashing into the street head first. He felt blood oozing above his right eye. And then strong hands were grabbing him under his armpits and thighs, carrying him face down to one of the vehicles. He was sat upright in the back seat and could feel two men slide in on either side of him, still not saying a word. The doors shut, and he knew Mayhew and Cindy must have been taken to other vehicles. Or executed on the side of the road, depending on who these people were and what they knew.
What Scott figured had to be an SUV started moving, and he imagined the others falling in behind as they sped off into oblivion. With the blindfold on, all concept of time evaporated, and memories of Iran — of being blindfolded and feeling the rusted teeth of a saw against his flesh — were filling the void left to his senses. In order to keep himself from a mental break, he tried to set his mind on something else, a puzzle, something mathematical that would keep his mind occupied… the
Testament of Solomon.
An angel who gave Solomon a ring that controlled demons. Perhaps a ring that had something to do with the one Mayhew had. But why would the priest relate it to what was taking place in the world today? Why did different governments want it? To control demons themselves? It didn’t seem remotely plausible that any government would believe in magic rings let alone fund black operations in order to attain them. He had to be missing something. Maybe the other book,
Tobit
, had more answers.
He
certainly couldn’t come up with any. All he knew was that there were at least two factions of Jews involved, the Holy See, NAU Intelligence, and — sitting next to him now, he believed — the CIA. And that, in order for all these people to want the ring
now,
it had to be of monumental importance, its implications reaching across the globe. And then, of course, there was Roswell…
A bump in the road jostled his brain back to his current problem, and he began to wonder what his captors were after, if this was really about the ring like he supposed. If so, both he and Cindy were of no value to them, Mayhew the one with the ring. But if they somehow knew who Matthew Scott really was… A series of chills ran up his spine and the saw blade was at his neck again. He tried to talk, to provoke some kind of response that might offer a clue as to what was going on, but only managed muffled noises through the tape over his mouth.
And then a voice whispered in his ear. “Extraordinary Rendition.”
Extraordinary Rendition. Scott knew it all too well. The extrajudicial transfer of a suspected terrorist from one state to another, usually to places known for their practice of torture. President Clinton had given the CIA permission to practice rendition in 1995, but its use exploded during the War on Terror that was, of course, still ongoing. No judge, no jury, no evidence, no phone call. A cold sweat beaded his forehead. In a lot of ways, it could be considered poetic justice. Karma. Reaping what he’d sown. Whatever.
The SUV pulled off the road and onto a bumpy path, the vehicle bouncing on its shocks until coming to a grinding halt, and all four doors were flung open.
Scott wondered if this was it, the end of the line. A muzzle pressed against the back of his head and a shallow grave?
Really?
Everything suddenly seemed so pointless. Surviving Iran, hiding out all the years since… for what?
He was shoved from behind, and he fell to his knees. His heart was beating fast and, though he couldn’t see anything, he heard the other SUVs pulling up behind him and their doors opening too. He envisioned the ditch before him, the one that he would spend the rest of time sharing with Mayhew and Cindy, and he tried harder to pull apart the plastic that bound his wrists. Blood dripped into his hands.
Then came the sound of a huge engine starting up, whining loudly from somewhere unseen. He was lifted up and carried toward it. He could feel the empty space around them and knew they were walking through an open field… knew what was waiting for them.
A jet.
It wasn’t over yet, one more chapter of his pathetic life left to be told.
As he was taken onto the plane, he could hear Mayhew and Cindy being carried up behind him. Once on the plane, he was pushed down into a seat, his hands still bound behind his back. Sensing that someone was standing over him, he anticipated either the removal of the blindfold or a sound-suppressed shot that would blow his head apart, though the latter would have made more sense while he was in the field. Why make a mess of the jet?
The blindfold came off.
Looking past the shape standing before him, Scott saw men in black jumpsuits and ski masks strapping Cindy and Mayhew down five rows ahead of him. Once finished, they turned and exited the plane.
Wondering why his blindfold had been removed, Scott finally moved his gaze up to the person standing over him. This guy was wearing a suit and tie, and there was a strange smirk sitting perched on his lips. He was holding a syringe in his hands.
Scott thought about head-butting him, leaning forward and swinging his head down like a wrecking ball right into the guy’s nose. It was a move he’d used before, and, using the right technique, he could cave the guy’s face in. He could then whip his hands up under his feet and take his gun…
But then he got a better look at the syringe and saw that its plunger had already been engaged. That’s why the guy took the blindfold off, and that’s why he was smiling. But something wasn’t sitting right. Why was this suit standing over
him
? Why wasn’t he standing over Mayhew and announcing with an arrogant grin his victory at having captured the ring? Why wasn’t he even holding the ring? It was all wrong.
And then he spoke.
“I hope you enjoy the flight, Joshua Cavanaugh.”
And Scott’s heart froze in his chest, his vision darkening, the man’s taunting gaze the last thing he saw.
23