Ark of Fire by C. M. Palov Page B

following all this, right?”
    “Yes, yes,” he assured her. “Please continue.”
    “Sometime around one thirty, Dr. Padgham called and asked if I would come upstairs to the administration offices.”
    “Why did he do that?”
    “He wanted me to take some photographs for him. I got the idea that he was working on some kind of special project. That’s why he was in the office on his day off. Obedient minion that I am, I went up to the fourth floor and took the photos.” As she spoke, Caedmon detected a note of sarcasm in her voice. “I was about to leave Dr. Padgham’s office when a cable came loose on his computer. Dr. Padgham conned me into climbing under the desk to tighten the connection.”
    Caedmon nodded. “Now that sounds like the Padge I know and love.”
    “You knew and loved . I told you, he’s—”
    “I know, he’s dearly departed. No need to belabor the point.”
    “No need to be so crabby,” she countered, proving she was no shrinking violet. “Anyway, I was still crouched under the desk when a man walked into Dr. Padgham’s office and shot him in the head point-blank.” As she spoke, her hands began to tremble. She wrapped both of them around her cup. “He was killed instantly. The killer had no idea that I was under the desk . . . that I witnessed the whole thing.”
    Caedmon stared at the curly-haired beauty sitting across from him, resisting the urge to pull her to him, to calm the fearful quiver that had traveled from her hands to her entire upper body.
    “How did you get away?”
    “I climbed down the fire escape. I was hiding in the alley when I saw the killer approach a D.C. cop. And this is where the story takes a turn for the worse.” She looked him in the eye, her gaze disturbingly direct. “The killer and the cop were in cahoots with one another.”
    Cahoots?
    By that, he assumed the two men were in collusion.
    “Did these two men see you hiding in the alley?”
    “No. But it didn’t much matter because the killer had already accessed the museum security logs. That’s how they found out that I was in the building at the time of the murder. That’s why they’re looking for me.”
    “Would you be able to identify the assailant?”
    “Murderer,” she corrected. “And, no, I didn’t see his face. He wore a ski mask. By the time he took off the mask, he was too far away to get a good look-see. Although he sported a military-style buzz cut. And he was big. Really, really big. Steroid big,” she added, using her hands to indicate height and width. If her measurements were to be believed, the killer had an improbable shoulder span of some four and a half feet. “That’s all I can remember.”
    “I see.”
    “Wait!” she exclaimed, cappuccino spilling over the brim of her cup as she excitedly jostled the table. “He wore an unusual silver ring on his right hand.” Opening her tote bag, she removed a sheet of paper. “Do you have a pen?”
    He wordlessly reached into his breast pocket, obliging her request. Pen in hand, she drew an intricate pattern. Tilting her head to one side, she reviewed her handiwork before sliding the sheet of paper in his direction.
    “Sorry, I’m a photographer, not an artist.”
    Caedmon examined the drawing, instantly recognizing the pattern.

    “How interesting . . . it’s a Jerusalem cross. Also known as the Crusader’s cross. The four tau crosses represent the Old Testament.” He pointed to the larger of the crosses. “And the four Greek crosses the New Testament. You’re certain this is the symbol that was on the, er, killer’s ring?”
    She nodded. “Is that significant?”
    “It was to the medieval knights who conquered the Holy Land,” he informed her, well acquainted with the topic, having had an interest in the Knights Templar when he was at Oxford. An obsessive interest, as it turned out, one that ultimately cost him his academic career. “In the twelfth century, this particular cross served as the coat of arms for