As soon as the taxi was out of sight, Peter and Davila hurried around the corner to the Fitzimmins' house. The rain had passed, leaving the slate shingles glistening and steaming in the sunlight. Sparrows buzzed and flitted through the shrubs.
Peter leaped up the front steps and knocked on the door, wondering if William and Helena had seen the news, if they were even home. Peter had tried to call ahead using the cabbie's phone, but no one answered. He knocked again, louder this time, but Davila held him back.
"Look," she said, pointing up. On the second floor, the plaster was darkened by water, trickling down over the bricks. She stepped forward and took the door handle with the cuff of her jacket sleeve. Finding it unlocked, she pushed inside, Peter close behind.
The entryway smelled of wet wool. Helena Fitzimmin's big straw hat lay on the floor. Clear, cold water dripped from the ceiling, drenching the entryway rug. Somewhere on the second floor, a spigot was running wide open.
Davila reached down, lifted the hem of her cargo pants, and drew a small black pistol from its ankle holster. She pulled the slide to chamber a round, but instead of letting it snap back, she guided it slowly into position, silent. Then she crept down the hallway, her stiff leg forcing her into an odd crouch. Peter followed. They passed William Fitzimmin's office, rounded the corner and climbed the sopping stairs. At the top, a sheen of water coated the hallway's wooden floor.
They hurried down the hall toward the sound of splashing water, the last door on the right. She paused with her back to the door, gun raised. With the cuff of her sleeve she turned the handle and pushed the door open an inch or two, the sound of splashing suddenly loud. Water gushed out around her shoes. Pivoting to face the door, she kicked it inward and crouched, swinging her pistol from side to side. Then she stood upright and signaled for Peter to come inside.
The scent of lavender lingered in the cool air. A half inch of cold, clear water covered the tiles. Helena Fitzimmin lay naked in overflowing claw-foot tub, spigot still gushing. Her arms were up on the sides, eyes closed, head thrown back in a frozen yawn. She might have been sleeping if not for the ghostly pallor of her skin and the crop of bloodless holes in her chest.
Choking back the rising bile in his throat, Peter stumbled out of the bathroom and hurried to the upstairs bedroom, Davila close behind. William Fitzimmin lay supine on the neatly made bed, arms splayed, face smothered by a bloody pillow. He wore his pajamas and slippers. His left arm jutted out over the edge of the bed, palm upturned. In it, Gryphus had left one of his tiny charms.
"Step back!" said Davila, eyeing something beneath the bed. It looked like a pile of ordinary cans, but their drab olive color and black stenciled letters marked them as military. Thin red wires connected each canister to a gray box no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. A green LED light flashed once per second.
"Run!" said Davila.
They flew down the stairs, Davila turning right toward the back door, Peter left, down the hallway toward William Fitzimmin's office. On the desk, the captain had left the leather folio of genealogy work, proof of his and Peter's descent from Simon the Apostle. On top of the folio lay the photo of William and two relatives standing in front of an old stone house. No sooner had Peter's fingers touched the photo than Davila grabbed him by the arm.
She dragged him from the office, down the hall, and through the kitchen to the back door. From the bedroom above came a series of muted pops, like firecrackers. And all at once the entire house groaned like it was drawing in a great breath of air, windows rattling. Davila turned the handle, and the door blew inward, slamming against the kitchen wall.
As the house went up in flames, they tumbled out into the sunny garden and fought their way through the brambles to a wide-open space beyond. Before them stretched an expansive field of rain-damp grass rimmed by autumn trees, their leaves all gold and rust. Here and there people strolled about, a couple, a young family, an old man and his little dog.
Davila spied a nearby bench partially concealed within a horseshoe of shrubs. They crossed the field as calmly as they could, while behind them, black smoke rose into the clear for all to see.
"It was Gryphus," said Davila as soon as they reached the bench.
Peter leaned over, hands on knees. "What were those things under the bed, those canisters?"
"Thermite bombs. They're not explosives. They're military-grade incendiary devices designed to ignite or melt anything in their vicinity. This is how Gryphus disposes of his victims."
Peter stood upright, hands trembling. It all fit. "Incendiary devices! That explains why the fire was so hot, why they had to use dental records to identify my dad's body." He recalled his meeting with the Medical Examiner in that dark and dingy room that smelled of sweat, the melted watch, the wedding ring still intact, the strange Hebrew letters.
Davila nodded grimly.
Peter sat on the stone bench and clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking. The stench of fire had reached his nostrils nowâso much like that awful night in Seattle.
Davila sat next to him, her breathing slow and steady now. "But something's changed."
"What do you mean?"
"Gryphus. His pattern has changed." She stared at Peter. "He's killing everyone you've been in contact with since arriving in London."
"Why?"
A pause. "The same reason he destroyed the Vindolanda Tablet, I think. He's trying to eliminate any evidence of the Mustard Seeds."
"Then they're not just a metaphor."
"No. I don't think so."
"Then what are they?"
She shook her head, brow furrowed.
Peter sighed. "Well, what do we do now? Go to the American Embassy? The Israeli embassy?"
She shook her head again. "I don't think either of them can protect us from Gryphus. No, our best option may be to find the Mustard Seeds before Gryphus finds us, expose whatever it is he so desperately wants to keep secret."
"How the hell are we going to find the Mustard Seeds if we don't even know what they are?"
Her eyes flashed. "We can start by being honest with each other."
"Oh, like telling me why an archaeologist carries a gun? And I don't want to hear anything about Indiana Jones."
Not even a smile. "I'll remind you that I work for the Robberies Prevention Unit, a law enforcement arm of the Israel Antiquities Authority." She patted the phone in her breast pocket. "I also have connections here in London, and access to certain resources, including firearms."
"You've been trained." At least it seemed that way to Peter. But what did he know? His only experience with guns involved a squirrel and a child's air rifle. And he never even pulled the trigger.
"I served in the Israel Defense Force, like all Israelis." She rested her hand on the edge of the bench, close enough that he could feel its warmth against his thigh. "Now it's your turn. What did the Fitzimmins tell you?"
Peter hesitated. William Fitzimmin had cautioned him against sharing their secret with others. Peter had sworn an oath over whiskey. Yet it was not an oath of silence.
"All right. I know why my dad was interested in your artifact. I didn't when you first asked, but I do now." Hastily, he summarized what he knew about the Sons of Simon, the claim of direct descent from Simon the Apostle, the ancient symbols of boat and flower.
Davila's thick eyebrows scrunched together. "That's an extraordinary claim. And extraordinary claims demand extraordinary evidence."
Sirens wailed in the distance.
"It was all in Fitzimmin's office, except for this." He handed her the photograph he had rescued from the fire. "That's William Fitzimmin in the middle."
She studied the photo intently. "Where is this?
"Somewhere in Ireland, I think."
"This house is unusual. The stones seem overlarge. Are these the symbols you mentioned?"
Peter leaned close. He had missed it before, but the keystone above the door was carved in bas-relief with the Barshman family seal, a long boat with a giant flower instead of a sail. Davila flipped the photo over. On the back, someone had penciled the following words:
Brothers Barshman
Smerwick, Ireland
1999
"Barshman. What an unusual family name. I've never heard it before."
Peter smiled. "Fitzimmin told me it's not Irish at all, or even French or English. It's Aramaic."
"Aramaic?" She looked up sharply, mouth agape. "Of course. Barshman. Bar Shimón. Son of Simon."
"Yep."
She handed the photo back to him. "We to need to meet these relatives of yours and find out what they know about the Mustard Seeds."
The sirens were close now.
"But how are we going to get to Ireland without Gryphus catching us first?" said Peter.
"I'll figure something out."
He nodded at the phone in her breast pocket. "Connections and resources?"
"Something like that."
________________
Author's note:
Thank you for reading Chapter 22!
Did the sparrows remind you of the bird that shot out of the Fitzimmins' House when Helena answered the door in chapter 18? In some parts of England, a sparrow that's gotten into the house is an omen of death.
All comments and questions welcome!
-Frode
Photo: Hampstead Heath in Autumn.
https://www.heath-hands.org.uk/blog/hampstead-heath-in-autumn