Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) (19 page)

“Teach us, Good Lord,

To love thee as thou deservest

To give, and not to count the cost,

To fight, and not to heed the wounds,

To toil, and not to seek for rest,

To labor, and not to ask for any reward,

Save that of knowing---that we do thy will,

Amen.”

—
Saint Ignatius Loyola

Following the short Jesuit prayer, the six
priests in the black robes rose somberly from their places of worship and filed one by one toward the stairway door beside the altar. They had all arrived within the past two hours, most were tired from their journey and tempers were heated. The discussions thus far had been impassioned and vociferous, as Redington suspected they would be. Talk of the Collector and his intentions always elicited passion even in the most diffident among these scholarly holy men. Discussions about the artifact brought passions to a fevered pitch. Its rightful place in the human scheme had always been a deeply contested issue. They all believed, as did Redington, that the object was some sort of path to God, a sacred and rare artifact that, in the right hands, had the power to bring peace and stability to a troubled world, or in the wrong hands, upset humanity’s balance, causing chaos and destruction.

But whose hands were the right hands? Ah yes, this question had always been at the center of a very long and troublesome debate. History had been witness to the object’s fickle powers and none wanted the church to relinquish it to the wrong custodian, someone that, for all they knew, would use its magic for his own ends, or worse still, allow it to find its way to a much greater evil. Careful guardianship of the object had always been the key to a stable future here on earth. Or so these men passionately believed.

Now Paul Redington’s guardianship was being questioned, a plot twist in this long and convoluted drama he had never expected, and he was reeling with the implications of it, trying to decide how he would pursue this new angle and appease these men long enough to do what he believed deeply needed to be done.

“McArthur is the one the object was meant for,” Redington insisted. “Or rather, his unborn child is. But McArthur is the one who must tend the artifact until the child is old enough to know the path. Don’t forget, I have seen t
wo separate visions of the future.”

“So you say,”
one of the elders said, cutting Redington off. He was a small, bent, white-haired man named Jacob Dougherty.

Redington glared at the man. “
Starbird entrusted the object to me and to me alone, because he understood that my visions were the truth and had faith that I would make the right choice when the time came. Well, the visions are becoming more vivid and I am strongly suggesting that the object be passed before it is too late.”

“But there’s no proof, other than these so-called visions of yours, that McArthur is the
intended recipient,” Dougherty said.

“Correct,” said Redington, having to hold his temper in check. “No proof, other than my so-called visions. It appears that you gentlemen are just going to have to put your faith in these . . . so-called visions. Remember, proof was never a prerequisite. Don’t forget, I have always been free to entrust the artifact with impunity.”

“We have not forgotten,” Dougherty said icily, “and that’s what worries me.”

“What’s going on here?” Redington said. “You men all know McArthur’s history. We’ve been watching him since childhood.”

“As have others,” Dougherty said, his small beady eyes drawing down on Redington in suspicion. “Lord knows his . . . escapades are no secret.”

“I would hardly call them escapades.”

“What then? He was hit in the face by a young friend. That’s when he supposedly began seeing the Collector. And it didn’t take him long to go public—”

“He did not go public,” said Redington. “Lord, he was just a child. The
incident made national news and the press ran with it.”

“No matter,” said Dougherty. “The
entire world soon knew about the cursed child with the terrible sight. Something the church has been successfully keeping secret for nearly seven-hundred years was suddenly and inexorably thrust into the spotlight. How do we know—how do
you
know—it wasn’t some sort of trick?”

“Trick?” Redington said, unable to believe Dougherty’s level of skepticism. “He was
seven years old.”

“Exactly. Did it ever occur to you that he might have been manipulated?”

“By whom, for God’s sake?”

“Come now, Paul. The devil works in mysterious ways.”

“You think it was the . . . Collector? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Paul, he sees the fallen one, or so it seems, a vindictive demon cast out by God
—”

“There is no evidence that creature was cast out by God. Truth is we don’t know what it is or where it came from or even what its real intentions are.”

“Be that as it may, he is an unholy creature that has somehow managed to exist here on earth among mortals for God knows how long. McArthur witnesses the atrocities the fallen one commits in the name of the very artifact you wear around your neck. He does not see God; he does not see good, he sees only evil. Are we to believe that this man will be a good custodian of the artifact? You want us to blindly trust that his unborn child is the chosen one?”

“He’s not even a holy man,” a
second voice railed in protest, picking up the thread of dissent and running with it. He was a tall middle-aged man named Conyers, an annoyingly intelligent and analytical individual who possessed several doctorate degrees in fields as diverse as quantum physics and Greek Mythology. “For God’s sake, he doesn’t even attend church.”

“The
Lord
works in mysterious ways,” Redington replied calmly, although he was seething inside. “There was never a guarantee that the chosen one would be a holy man.”

“But from the very beginning all have been holy men,” Dougherty argued.

“All Jesuits, actually,” Redington reminded them, even though he knew they were all aware of this simple fact. “At least since the thirteenth century, when that soldier pulled it from the mud and handed it over to the Collector. Don’t forget, it was the Collector that placed it in Jesuit hands for safekeeping.”

“So the legend goes,” said Dougherty. “I’m not sure I ever actually believed that.”

Redington was fuming. “It does not matter what you believe. What matters is I have the artifact. The Jesuits have been good custodians of the object, but it has been known from the beginning that the artifact was meant for something . . .  greater; that it might not always remain in Jesuit hands.”

“Something greater?” Conyers said. “What do you suppose this great purpose is?”

“No one really knows,” said Redington. “Perhaps mankind’s very salvation.”

“Or it’s destruction,” added Dougherty.

Redington smiled but to him it felt more like a grimace. “Exactly as the two opposing visions suggest.”

“What if it
is
a trick?” a third priest asked. His name was Isaac Ross and he was head of the Order’s security force. “Suppose this man—this so called chosen one—or even his unborn child, turns out to be the anti-Christ? We’ve been protecting him and his wife for years, calling them the chosen ones. All because of these . . . visions of yours.”

Paul Redington stared long and hard at
Ross, trying to decipher the man’s thoughts with the sheer power of concentration. But it was no use. Redington could not read minds. Finally he said, “And the visions of my predecessor. And of his predecessor and his before him. They are more than visions, Isaac.”

Ross heaved a deep sigh.

“Be that as it may,” Conyers interjected. “What if this is just more of the Collector’s clever trickery?”

Redington
glared at the man. He could not talk sense to these hopeless conservatives. There were things he’d sworn never to confide and it was useless to go on this way. He just needed to appease them long enough to do what had to be done. “The most pressing matter is the destruction of the chosen one’s home this morning and the blatant attempt on their lives,” he said. “These matters need to be addressed now.”

“And what would you have us do?”
Ross said.

Redington’s eyes drew down on the man.
“What we have sworn to do,” he said. “Protect them! Something we failed to do this morning. Something
you
failed to do this morning.”

“
Obviously there was some sort of security breach,” Conyers said, his attention now focused on Ross.

“I hope you’re not making accusations, brother Conyers,” Ross said.

“Tell me, how did this happen?” Redington asked. “Do we have a traitor in our ranks?”

“
Why don’t you ask the young woman who was in charge of the security detail this morning, Brother Redington? The woman you yourself placed in that position against my better judgment. Perhaps she could shed some light on it.”

“I already have,” Redington said. “Actually we’ve had a long conversation, and we do have some theories.”

“Oh, I see. And what might those theories be? What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. Only that we should be very careful.” He raised a suspicious eyebrow, looking from face to face trying to recognize any sign of deceit. His scrutiny elicited grunts and groans of discontent from the men around him.

“Come now, gentlemen, this is hardly the time to start questioning loyalties,” Ross said.

“My
loyalties are being questioned,” Redington shot back.

“No,
Paul,” Conyers said. “It is not your loyalty that is being questioned.”

“What then?”

“I believe Brother Conyers is speaking of . . . good judgment,” Dougherty said.

“This is about good judgment?” Redington said with astonishment. “I was chosen
because
of my judgment.”

“Yes, correct,” Dougherty said and Redington
detected a certain measure of arrogance in the man’s tone. “The Order has always had its . . . chosen one. That does not necessarily mean the judgment of the one doing the choosing has always been sound. As you well know, human judgment is fallible.”

“Do not make accusations,
Brother Dougherty.”

Dougherty raised an eyebrow. “I was speaking of your predecessor,
Paul.”

“I am well aware of what you are implying. You
are saying that Father Starbird used poor judgment in choosing me?”

“Or something else entirely.”

“What do you mean?” Redington’s voice had turned hard.

“Well, we all know your history.
Of how your two seminary friends drowned and how Starbird came to the rescue. And of how . . . close you two became.”

Redington glared at his
accuser. “Go on.”

“I’m only saying that his judgment might have been misguided.”

“How so? I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

“Well, perhaps he saw something in you other than
. . .”

Redington held his hand up to silence the man. His barely-controlled rage began to make its way to the surface. But he could not allow it to do so. There was too much at stake here and he did not need an out and out mutiny. He was well aware of what these men were implying. Somehow he needed to steer them
clear of the dangerous path they were heading down, and he needed to stay calm to do so. It was as if something had gotten into their minds and was twisting everything around, some doubt, some sort of . . . persuasion. He glanced around the great room, feeling suddenly ill at ease. Everything felt wrong. The atmosphere seemed weighted, dead, and he was having trouble breathing.

“My biggest concern,” said Conyers, “is that you want to place the artifact, perhaps an object with potentially the greatest power the world has ever seen, in the hands of an ordinary man. It does not seem like good judgment to me.”

“Please,” Redington said. “Let us retire to the downstairs meeting room where we can discuss this matter in comfort and at length. For some of you, coming here has been a long and tiresome journey. Food and drink has been prepared and is waiting. Perhaps sustenance will add perspective to our arguments.” He gave a tired smile, already weary of trying to sway these staunch conservatives. In the final analysis it did not matter whether they agreed with him or not, he had the power to make the decision with or without the council’s approval. And of course the decision had already been made. All the rest was simply polite formality.

The six men began slowly making their way toward the door that would lead them to the basement meeting room.
Before following after them, Paul Redington turned and carefully scanned the inside of the great temple as if it was the first time he’d ever really looked at the place. And then the thought struck him strangely that perhaps it was the last time he would do so. Some mysterious sense was telling him to be on guard. Yes, something was wrong, and not for the first time since calling the meeting did he regret bringing the elder body together in one place.