Hunt for the Lost Treasure

Chapter 27 — The Fear of God

Purdue was not aware that several days had elapsed since he’d been flung into the oubliette and forced to listen to the brutal murder of the man who’d kidnapped him. Between the pain and the starvation, he was uncertain where the true agony had been born, but after all the cries for help Purdue realized that the worst anguish came from the knowledge that he was wasting away where he would never be found.

“You Scots are certainly a cold-blooded bunch,” he recalled Mother saying to him at some point during his ebb and flow of consciousness during the most recent hours of his incarceration. Her coarse voice had drifted through the air holes in his prison, so that she could better torment him while he suffered a slow death. “I have heard so many old legends of Scottish castles and their masters, Mr. Purdue; stories that were so perverted I could not help but feel… inspired… by their methods.”

Purdue could not utter a sound that did not constitute wailing in pain or the effort of begging for food, therefore refraining from provoking the deranged old woman and coming to the receiving end of more malice. For days now he had witnessed, only by ear, the habits of the supreme matriarch of the Black Sun organization. She drank incessantly, so heavily, that he was amazed by her resilience, especially at her ripe age.

What terrified and repulsed him the most was Mother's idea to drop the limp corpse of Jonathan Beck unceremoniously into the oubliette with Purdue. The night before, after he’d heard the cadaver's bones break under the velocity of his fall from the trapdoor, the malefic matriarch invited Purdue to feast on the corpse if he became too ravenous, or suffer his company and stench. She loved talking while she drank herself into an immobilizing inebriation Purdue construed as some false psychological attempt to drown her guilt for all the malevolent deeds she’d ordered and exercised.

“I like, especially, how your lairds killed their own children over land,” she spoke with snide reprehension, draining the bottom of her fifth bourbon that Purdue knew of. “What left an impression on me, though, is the way in which the genetically inferior men of your breed locked their wives in towers to waste away from hunger for bearing daughters.” She let out an unearthly cackle of ridicule. “Mein Gott! What a bunch of barbaric idiots your ancestors were! Did they not consider that their seed determined the gender of their children, that they in themselves were responsible for the horrid female offspring they so loathed? Probably not. Even if they did, they would have overlooked their error on account of some masculine rule.”

He could hear her pacing with those long, gracious legs, and follow her position by the sound of her baleful speech. “You know, Mr. Purdue, I am no feminist, but misogyny has always kindled hellfire in me. And to punish women for the deeds of men solely for their sex has cultivated a special hatred for those Jewish systems of oppression over women. That book that instills more evil than any, that book compiled by the Roman hypocrites, it only reiterates that the Führer was the true Messiah.”

From there on Purdue's mind began to fade again. The pain had relinquished its power to that of hunger-born fatigue. Somewhere in his head he could hear Mother carry on. “This is why I’m leaving you in my oubliette, to wane like the wives of your ill-begotten forefathers and their pious villainy…”

The lanky body of the trapped explorer, ex-Renatus of the Order of the Black Sun (by some work of trickery) and enemy of all Nazi sympathizers, rolled over next to one of the massive iron spikes on the floor. He was too weak to even acknowledge the threatening gangrene in his leg. After all, he was not going to make it to the amputation before his frail heart surrendered.

Where he lay, curled up and delirious, Purdue pondered upon the type of pen he was snared in. Oubliette, he thought, searching his knowledge for the definition of the thing. 'French…oblier, right? Oublier is to… like, to… forget. It is to forget. How goddamn apt they… to forget…

“I am… forgotten,” Purdue murmured before his eyes refused to open and his mind shut away reality.

Maria and Sylvia drove from the train station in Dalmally, heading toward Oban. Sylvia had arranged with her husband, Dr. Lance Beach, to transfer the money as Maria had instructed. She could not even revel in her husband's elation at hearing her voice while the gun bruised the tender skin of her temple, but she hoped to soon be reunited with Lance. He wept with happiness when she first spoke to him, and even if Maria put that bullet in her head right now, Sylvia would die happy at having heard his affectionate voice.

When Lance spoke to Maria, she agreed to deliver his wife in a public place to prevent her from being singled out in a deserted place she did not know.

“What did he say?” Sylvia dared ask. “Where are we meeting him?”

“We aren't. I will be a safe distance away while you will wait for your husband across the road from the basilica,” Maria said. “The second payment just came through. Maybe you were right, Mrs. Beach. Maybe he needs you more than I thought.” She gave Sylvia a suggestive look. “You must be good at something. You know?”

“You're disgusting,” Sylvia mumbled.

“Such hypocrites, you little faithful housewifeys,” Maria sneered. “Like you never get on your knees outside of church…” she scoffed and smiled wickedly, “…or perhaps you do, in church too.”

Ignoring, with great moral toil, the onslaught of her kidnapper, Sylvia bit her tongue for the rest of the journey. She put her thoughts into a positive light, thinking only of Lance and her children and seeing them again.

An hour later they had arrived in Oban, but Maria kept her leverage until the third transfer had transpired. She started the car on the top of the hill where she could look over the coastal town. From there she could see the roads leading up to her location. If she saw one single police unit approach, Sylvia would be done for. When the transaction was complete, Maria was a different person.

“Okay, Sylvia. Off you go, honey. Nice doing business with you,” she smiled. “Go!”

Sylvia did not take another second to ponder the possibility of deception. Without a goodbye or a final word of disdain she flew out of the car and ran down to the park where Lance was to pick her up twenty minutes later.

Apprehensive, she waited under the lamp post where she was supposed to be. She was told not to speak to anyone, or engage acquaintances and friends. Sylvia was a rule-keeper. She always found that it was better to comply and be done with it. Across the road, two blocks up the hill at St. Columbanus' Church, Maria Winslet was climbing up the bell tower with her Remington 700 rifle, adamant to make sure Sylvia Beach would never remember her face and her name — ever.

From the top of the tower she could see the pale sun dip its face into the sea and she hoped to drop Sylvia while the light was still right for an accurate shot. From a block to the left of her scope she noticed Dr. Beach's car slow down. That was her cue to change lives.

Two black markers lined Sylvia's face, her unsuspecting, holier-than-thou goodness. It made for a pleasurable target as Maria placed her index finger on the trigger, careful not to fire off too soon on the sensitive rifle.

Without warning a pair of large hands swept the long barrel upwards, claiming the rifle before Maria realized what was going on. In a split second she saw a tall, dark figure in front of her. He promptly shoved the butt of the rifle hard into her face, knocking her senseless. Maria fell at Father Harper's feet as he looked down at her and said gently, “Thou shalt not kill.”

Dr. Beach picked up his shaken wife after a heartwarming reunion. She sobbed like a baby in his arms and all he did was to kiss her crown and rock her from side to side. When she’d calmed somewhat Lance took a call that just came through on his cell. “Excuse me, darling.”

Sylvia stayed close against him, not interested in his conversation, but craving the security of his protective presence. “Father Harper? Yes? I have her, mostly unscathed, thank the Lord. Of course. No, problem. The children are staying with my sister. Alright, we're on our way.”

“What was that about?” she asked. “Father Harper?”

“You are not going to believe this,” Dr. Beach smiled, amused. “He knocked the bejeezus out of Maria! He says we must meet him to find out where Dr. Gould is.”

“Dr. Gould is fine. She is in Canada, relic hunting, which is why I was mistaken for her,” Sylvia explained, before gasping, “Oh my God, Lance! The man that took me, his name is Jonathan Beck. They kidnapped Dr. Gould's friend and were going to ransom him to someone who wants to kill him!”

“Wait, what?” Lance asked.

“True!” she shrieked in panic. “We have to save Nina's friend… I don't recall his name now…”

“Easy! Easy, Sylla,” her husband calmed her. “Think. Okay? Slowly. Where did they take him?”

“I have no idea,” she shrugged, looking distraught. “They did not discuss that loudly enough. But I know this guy was going to bring them millions because he was some famous explorer these client's of Beck's were looking for, specifically.”

“Famous explorer friend of Nina Gould?” Lance asked. Being a long time resident of Oban and a medical professional, he knew much more about Oban's famous Dr. Gould than his wife did. “Sweetheart, is his name David Purdue, perhaps?”

“That’s it! Purdue!” she exclaimed. “But Beck was supposed to come back days ago already, and Maria thinks he may be dead because, well, that’s how nefarious those clients of his are. That’s why she resorted to selling me for ransom.”

Ten minutes later Father Harper was being enlightened with the same news as the three of them sat in his office at St. Columbanus. Sylvia was dying to know what he had done with Maria, but the absence of police units at the church told her that the authorities were not supposed to know about Maria Winslet. Sylvia smelled a cover-up and she was remarkably comfortable with it.

Father Harper pressed his lips together, his hands in a steeple in front of him on his desk as he rolled around the information in his head. “So Dr. Gould is unharmed? She is where?”

“I heard them talk, Father. They said that when they’d collected the money for Purdue they would chase after Dr. Gould to kill her and seize everything she discovers on her expedition! Maria overheard a phone tap conversation, and Nina is on the trail of a treasure,” she trailed off.

“As always,” Father Harper smiled.

“The one hidden treasure of Alexander the Great,” Sylvia said.

“Jesus!” Father Harper exclaimed at hearing the name. “Excuse me,” he flushed awkwardly. “The one buried treasure of Alexander III of Macedon?”

“That's what Maria told her boyfriend, yes,” Sylvia nodded.

“By the saints! Do you have any idea what value that hoard holds?” Father Harper asked, still astonished. His two guests were quite oblivious to ancient history and legend, so he filled them in. “Alexander the Great flaunted his power, believing himself to the son of Zeus; a god in the flesh, if you will.”

Lance looked up at the wall-mounted crucifix in the office, depicting Christ's suffering on the cross. “I see a pattern here.”

“Lance!” Sylvia nudged him to shut up, but Father Harper chuckled at the doctor's honesty.

“I wasn't always a priest, you know,” he smiled. “There is no doubt there are some very suspicious parallels in the Bible to various pagan practices and gods. Keen observation, doctor.”

“Carry on about Alexander, please, Father,” Sylvia requested.

“It was said that Alexander never bothered to bury the treasures he seized from the empires he conquered, because in essence entire kingdoms belonged to him. He adorned everything in his name, and gold was to him like wine or weapons,” Father Harper recounted as he paced along his book shelf. “But there is a story that has been prevalent along clandestine orders and secret scholars through the centuries, that Alexander's greatest treasure was an incantation from his mother, Olympias, chiseled on three tablets of malachite. Upon the invocation of this mantra the holder would attain godlike dominion over his enemies — over empires — and would be undefeated and become the world conqueror.”

“Father, what have you been drinking?” Dr. Lance jested.

“Wine. Since I clobbered that poor woman I’ve had to have two glasses just to steady my nerves, doctor,” Father Harper confessed. “But wine is a cunning poison in our lives. Olympias was a devout member of the Cult of Dionysus.”

“The god of wine?” Sylvia asked. Father Harper nodded and lifted his glass before drinking the last of it.

“Dionysus was associated with a great many creatures and plants, but it is said his Cult worshiped serpents,” the priest told them. “So, dear Nina is off hunting after something she is not equipped to discover while she thinks it is gold and diamonds she is looking for. That concerns me. But Mr. Purdue is our first concern. Shall we find out where he is from Miss Winslet?”

“Where is she?” Sylvia asked, terrified to see the face of her nemesis again.

“She’s in the confessional, Mrs. Beach,” he answered respectfully.

“And if she doesn’t disclose the location?” Dr. Lance asked.

“She will,” Father Harper assured him. “Because I am about to put the fear of God into her.”