piece of paper. “Give me a call when you’re ready,” he said. He held up Brother Gregory’s rosary. “I’ll be back with this soon.”
The Abbot nodded and replaced the lid of the cardboard box. “I just hope you’re wrong,” he said. “I can’t bear to think of a good man like Brother Gregory dying at the hands of Godless Satanists.” He shuddered. “The world can be a terrible place at times.” He crossed himself and shuddered again.
“You’re telling me,” said Nightingale.
CHAPTER 21
Nightingale got back to San Francisco at three o’clock in the afternoon. He drove to Mission Street library and found a free computer. He needed to recharge his crystal before using it again. There were several options including burying it in the Earth for twenty-four hours or leaving it soaking in sea salt for a whole day, but the quickest was smudging and smudging was best done by a professional. He Googled crystal smudging and came up with a shop called Crystal World on Market Street and a contact name - Rowena Feinstein.
Then he went to Wikipedia for a list of the Apostles. Much to his surprise, there was no definitive list of Christ’s original twelve followers. The names varied from one Gospel to another, and John’s Gospel only mentioned eight of them. Matthew in one gospel equated to Levi in another. Thaddeus could be Jude. But it wasn’t the names that Nightingale was interested in, so much as their deaths. But Father Benedict had been right, as far as he’d remembered. St Andrew had been martyred on an X-shaped cross, and St Peter had also shared Christ’s fate, reputedly asking to be crucified upside down, so as not to be compared with his master. Simon had been sawn to pieces. Thomas had been killed with a spear, while Bartholomew had been flayed alive with a knife. Thaddeus, or Jude had been shot to death with arrows, while John had been poisoned. The only one of the original Apostles not to have been martyred was Judas Iscariot, who was generally thought to have hanged himself in remorse for taking his thirty pieces of silver to betray Christ.
He printed out the information he had and then spent the next half hour researching the career of Lucille Carr, and another half hour watching YouTube videos of Kent Speckman. ‛The Specter’. He was tall, lithe and muscular with zig-zags shaved into his short hair. With his gold helmet on, there was nothing much to distinguish him from his scarlet and gold uniformed team mates. Until he started to run. Then everything changed. Nightingale watched, fascinated, even though he was no fan of American football. He didn’t seem any faster than anyone else, or any stronger, but according to the commentators he’d broken records for rushing and touchdowns that season. The more Nightingale looked at him, the more he thought that the other team had just agreed not to get in his way. When he was carrying the ball, he seemed to be able to sway round any attempts to tackle him. Rarely did any of the opposition manage to lay a hand on him. When he was running to catch a pass none of the defensive team looked as if they wanted to block him. The man seemed almost to have an exclusion zone around him, as if all the other players just moved according to his wishes. But that would be quite impossible. Wouldn’t it?
He went outside, programmed the SatNav with the shop’s address and fifteen minutes later he was talking to Ms Feinstein, who was around forty, small with long gray hair, dressed in something long, flowing and purple. Nightingale explained what he wanted.
“Of course, sir,” she said. “We can do that while you wait.” Smudging meant fanning incense over the crystal for thirty minutes, and Nightingale decided to use the time replenishing his wardrobe. He’d arrived in San Francisco with only the clothes on his back. When he returned half an hour later with new socks, underwear and a couple of shirts, his crystal was ready for
The Abbot nodded and replaced the lid of the cardboard box. “I just hope you’re wrong,” he said. “I can’t bear to think of a good man like Brother Gregory dying at the hands of Godless Satanists.” He shuddered. “The world can be a terrible place at times.” He crossed himself and shuddered again.
“You’re telling me,” said Nightingale.
CHAPTER 21
Nightingale got back to San Francisco at three o’clock in the afternoon. He drove to Mission Street library and found a free computer. He needed to recharge his crystal before using it again. There were several options including burying it in the Earth for twenty-four hours or leaving it soaking in sea salt for a whole day, but the quickest was smudging and smudging was best done by a professional. He Googled crystal smudging and came up with a shop called Crystal World on Market Street and a contact name - Rowena Feinstein.
Then he went to Wikipedia for a list of the Apostles. Much to his surprise, there was no definitive list of Christ’s original twelve followers. The names varied from one Gospel to another, and John’s Gospel only mentioned eight of them. Matthew in one gospel equated to Levi in another. Thaddeus could be Jude. But it wasn’t the names that Nightingale was interested in, so much as their deaths. But Father Benedict had been right, as far as he’d remembered. St Andrew had been martyred on an X-shaped cross, and St Peter had also shared Christ’s fate, reputedly asking to be crucified upside down, so as not to be compared with his master. Simon had been sawn to pieces. Thomas had been killed with a spear, while Bartholomew had been flayed alive with a knife. Thaddeus, or Jude had been shot to death with arrows, while John had been poisoned. The only one of the original Apostles not to have been martyred was Judas Iscariot, who was generally thought to have hanged himself in remorse for taking his thirty pieces of silver to betray Christ.
He printed out the information he had and then spent the next half hour researching the career of Lucille Carr, and another half hour watching YouTube videos of Kent Speckman. ‛The Specter’. He was tall, lithe and muscular with zig-zags shaved into his short hair. With his gold helmet on, there was nothing much to distinguish him from his scarlet and gold uniformed team mates. Until he started to run. Then everything changed. Nightingale watched, fascinated, even though he was no fan of American football. He didn’t seem any faster than anyone else, or any stronger, but according to the commentators he’d broken records for rushing and touchdowns that season. The more Nightingale looked at him, the more he thought that the other team had just agreed not to get in his way. When he was carrying the ball, he seemed to be able to sway round any attempts to tackle him. Rarely did any of the opposition manage to lay a hand on him. When he was running to catch a pass none of the defensive team looked as if they wanted to block him. The man seemed almost to have an exclusion zone around him, as if all the other players just moved according to his wishes. But that would be quite impossible. Wouldn’t it?
He went outside, programmed the SatNav with the shop’s address and fifteen minutes later he was talking to Ms Feinstein, who was around forty, small with long gray hair, dressed in something long, flowing and purple. Nightingale explained what he wanted.
“Of course, sir,” she said. “We can do that while you wait.” Smudging meant fanning incense over the crystal for thirty minutes, and Nightingale decided to use the time replenishing his wardrobe. He’d arrived in San Francisco with only the clothes on his back. When he returned half an hour later with new socks, underwear and a couple of shirts, his crystal was ready for
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