Whitmore smiled thinly.“They have their purpose.”
“Ever heard of apugio?”
“A Roman dagger.A broad thrusting weapon.Very effective.It leaves large wounds not easily stitched.It was designed to pierce the heart of an opponent with a single hard thrust.”His upper lip curled.“I assume this was the weapon with which justice was executed against Derek Hammond and Maricela Santana?”
“Why do you assume that?”
“For what other reason would you ask?”
Kate and Marcus frowned at each other.If they’d wanted to catch him in a lie, they’d flubbed it badly.
“Would you like to search my apartment and confirm that I possess no such weapon?”James asked.
“If you’re all right with that.”
He spread his arms.“Be my guest.”
The agents began where they stood in Whitmore’s living room.Kate doubted like hell they would find a knife.Whitmore wouldn’t volunteer to let them search if he thought he was going to incriminate himself.That didn’t mean they wouldn’t find something else incriminating, though.
Such as no fewer than eight different translations of the Christian Bible.Kate noted all four of the translations used in the ciphers so far along with the New International Version, Revised Standard Version, New Living Translation, and a reprint of the Septuagint from which much of the more modern translations were derived.
“Any reason why there are so many translations here?”Kate asked.
“I enjoy comparing them,” Whitmore replied.“I find each lends its own unique emphasis to God’s word.”
“I see.You wouldn’t happen to be into shorthand, would you?”
“Shorthand?I’m not sure I follow.”
“Stenography.The type of writing court reporters use to keep up with spoken words.”
He shook his head slowly.“I’m afraid I’m not familiar.”
“Kate.”
Marcus’s voice from the bedroom carried a tone that chilled her.She had a feeling she knew what she would find.
She walked to the room to see Marcus standing in front of the dresser, staring soberly down at something on top.Kate walked over to it, and the blood drained from her face.
On the desk was a picture of Whitmore, younger, smiling happily.Next to him, shaking his hand, was a priest, also smiling, although his smile ended well before his intense, piercing eyes sitting below close-cropped gray hair.
Elijah Cox.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Hey, Dad, it’s Laura.I’m coming over, so if you can arrange to at least have boxers on underneath your robe, I would really appreciate it.I’m bringing bagels and coffee from Paulie’s.They have that gross, slimy salmon stuff you like.Floss or Flox, or whatever it is.”She made a face.“It smells like crap, and now my car will smell the same way for like a month, so thank you.Anyway, I’ll see you in a minute.I’m walking up now.Bye!”
She hung up and got out of her car, taking the bagels and somehow managing not to spill the coffee as she juggled all of that out of her car and up the stairs to her father’s front door.She saw the pile of mail in the box and rolled her eyes.She’d have to go through that with him in case there was anything important.
A pang ran through her chest.He was declining so fast.It wasn’t dementia.His mind was still there.He just lacked the will to care for himself after losing her mother the past winter.
"Forty-seven years, Laura," he'd told her the day after the funeral.Laura distinctly remembered the smell of the cologne her sister, Ashley, had picked out for him, pungent and cloyingly sweet like bananas fried in maple syrup.Forty-seven years we were together.And I never got used to her.She was never in the background, always in the foreground.Always the one I looked for."
Over the past seven months, Laura had watched her strong, proud, confident father collapse into an apathetic, listless shell.It was as though he'd died already, and what was left behind was only the remnant forced to remain when his soul followed Diane into Heaven.Laura had lost both parents the day her mom died.
A tear fell on her hand, searing an icy circle onto the second knuckle of her thumb.She blinked and realized she was still holding the key up to the lock.She blinked the rest of the tears away and opened the door.
The smell struck her like a wave, thick and rich, like a pot of honey barbecue sauce had been spilled on the floor and left to ferment.She gasped and cried out, "Oh, God, Dad!Open a window!"
