“And he is collecting King Solomon’s diamonds to make sure they cannot be used to thwart his workings?” Prof. Imru inquired with as much passion as Penekal had had when he first presented the predicament.
“That is correct, sir. We have to get our hands on the rest of the diamonds, numbering sixty-eight in total. As my poor friend Ofar suggested in his infinite and foolish optimism,” Penekal smiled bitterly. “Short of buying the stones that are in the possession of the world’s famous and rich, we will not be able to obtain them before the Magician does.”
Prof. Imru stopped his pacing and stared at the old astronomer. “Never underestimate the ludicrous aims of the optimist, my friend,” he said with an expression between amusement and renewed interest. “Some suggestions are so preposterous that they usually end up working.”
“Sir, with respect, you do not seriously consider buying over fifty well-known diamonds from the world’s wealthiest people? That would cost… uh… a lot of money!” Penekal struggled with the concept. “It would amount to millions, and who would be crazy enough to spend that much money for such a fantastical conquest?”
“David Purdue,” Prof. Imru beamed. “Master Penekal, can you come back here in twenty-four hours, please?” he implored. “I might just know how we can help your order battle this Magician.”
“You do?” Penekal gasped, elated.
Prof. Imru laughed. “I cannot promise anything, but I know a lawless billionaire with no respect for authority and a lot of zest for troubling powerful and evil people. And as luck would have it, he owes me and is on his way to the African continent as we speak.”
21
The Portent
Under the gloomy skies of Oban, the news of the local doctor and his wife’s vehicle accident spread like wildfire. Shocked, local shop owners, teachers, and fishermen all shared the mourning of Dr. Lance Beach and his wife, Sylvia. Their children were left in their aunt’s temporary custody, still reeling from the tragedy. Everyone had liked the general practitioner and his wife, and their gruesome death off the A82 was a terrible blow to the community.
Hushed whispers made their rounds through the supermarkets and restaurants about the senseless tragedy befalling the poor family so soon after the doctor had almost lost his wife to the nefarious couple who kidnapped her. Even then, the citizens of the town were surprised that the Beaches had kept the events of the abduction and Mrs. Beach’s subsequent rescue such a well-guarded secret. However, most people just assumed that the Beaches wished to move on from the terrible ordeal and did not wish to talk about it.
Little did they know that Dr. Beach and the local Catholic priest, Father Harper, had been forced to venture past the lines of morality to save Mrs. Beach and Mr. Purdue by giving their reprehensible Nazi captors a taste of their own medicine. Obviously, most people just would not understand that sometimes the best revenge on an evildoer was — revenge — good old Old Testament wrath.
A teenage boy, George Hamish, was running through the park at a rapid pace. Known for his athletic ability as the high school football captain, nobody found his focused racing at all strange. He was clad in his tracksuit and Nikes. His dark hair was at one with his wet face and neck as he ran at full speed across the green rolling lawns of the park. The rushing boy was not paying attention to the tree branches that hit and scratched at him as he ran past and under them towards St. Columbanus Church across the narrow street from the park.
Barely dodging an oncoming car as he darted over the tarmac, he leapt up the stairs and slipped into the darkness beyond the open doors of the church.
“Father Harper!” he cried, out of breath.
Several congregates present inside turned in their pews and hushed the daft boy for his lack of respect, but he didn’t care.
“Where is the Father?” he asked, unsuccessfully begging for information as they only looked more frustrated with him. An older lady near him would not take the youth’s disrespect.
“You are in a church! People are praying, you insolent brat,” she scolded, but George ignored her sharp tongue and started running down the isle toward the main pulpit.
“There are people’s lives at stake, lady,” he said in flight. “Save your prayers for them.”
“Great Scott, George, what the hell…?” Father Harper frowned when he found the boy hurrying toward his office just past the main hall. He swallowed his choice of words when his flock scowled at his uttering and dragged the exhausted teenager into the office.
Closing the door behind them, he frowned at the boy. “What the hell is with you, Georgie?”
“Father Harper, you have to leave Oban,” George warned, struggling to catch his breath.
“Excuse me?” the Father said. “What do you mean?”
“You have to get far away and don’t tell anyone where you’re going, Father,” George implored. “I heard a man asking about you at Daisy’s curio shop when I was making out with h… uh… while I was in the back alley,” George corrected his tale.
“What man? What did he ask?” Father Harper.
“Look, Father, I don’t even know if this bloke is right in the head for the stuff he claims, but you know, I just thought to warn you anyways,” George answered. “He said you were not always a priest.”
“Aye,” Father Harper affirmed. In fact, he’d spent much time relaying the same fact to the late Dr. Beach as well, every time the priest did something men of the cloth were not supposed to know. “This is true. Nobody is born a priest, Georgie.”
“I suppose, aye. I never think of it that way, I suppose,” the boy stammered, still out of breath from the shock and the running.
“What exactly did the man say? Can you be clearer about what made you think he was going to do me harm?” the priest asked, pouring the teen a glass of water.
“Many things. It sounded as if he tried to rap your rep, you know?”
“Rap my rep?” Father Harper asked, but soon got the meaning and answered his own question. “Ah, hurt my reputation. Never mind.”
“Aye, Father. And he was telling some of the people in the shop that you were involved in killing some old lady. Then he said that you’d kidnapped and killed a woman from Glasgow a few months back when the doctor’s wife had gone missing… he just went on. Also, he was telling everyone how you are a sanctimonious bastard who hides behind your collar to make women trust you before they disappear.” George’s telling poured from his memory and his shivering lips.
Father Harper sat down in his high back chair, just listening. George was surprised that the priest did not show the faintest sign of offence, no matter how vile his recounting became, but he chalked it up to the wisdom of clergymen.
The powerfully built, tall priest sat staring at poor George, leaning slightly to the left. His folded arms made him look thick and strong and the index finger on his right hand was brushing gently along his bottom lip as he took in the boy’s words.
When George took time to empty the glass of water, Father Harper finally changed position in his chair and rested on his elbows on the desk between them. With a great sigh he asked, “Georgie, can you remember what this man looked like?”
“Ugly,” the boy replied, still swallowing.
Father Harper chuckled, “Of course he was ugly. Most Scottish men are not known for their fine features.”
“No, that’s not what I meant, Father,” George explained. He set the dripping glass down on the priest’s glass-plated desk and tried again. “I mean, he was ugly, like, a monster from a horror flick, see?”