The Doomsday Prophecy

Chapter Twenty-Five

It was late by the time Molly drove Ben back to Hinesville. She squeezed his hand and wished him good luck. He smiled and watched her take off into the rainy night, then climbed into the Chrysler and headed for Savannah. In his canvas bag on the seat behind him was Skid’s Freedom Arms.475 Linebaugh hunting revolver and a box of hollowpoint shells.

Ben drove into Savannah and checked into a hotel. For a long time that night, he sat in his room pondering and staring out of the open window across the Savannah river. He was dead tired but sleep was impossible with a thousand thoughts swirling in his mind.

If things had seemed unclear when he was in Greece, the picture was fuller now. And uglier. Working through the pieces, he could see that the chances of finding Zoë Bradbury alive had just slipped further away.

So now he knew the name of the rich, powerful figure who’d felt threatened enough by her to take some kind of drastic action. A hundred million dollars and aspirations to the Governorship of Georgia – you couldn’t get much richer and more powerful than that, without going all the way to the top.

He also knew now why the name Cleaver had been in her address book. How and why Zoë had been blackmailing him was still a mystery. But one thing was clear: she’d named too high a price. Ten million was easily enough to get him thinking about ways to avoid paying her. From his point of view, he had no way of knowing that he could trust her not to keep coming back again and again. He’d pay her the ten, then a year or two later, if what she had on him was really such a threat to him, she could pop up wanting another ten. And on and on, until she’d bled him dry. Once she’d tasted the money, she might never go away.

There was only one way to eliminate the threat properly and permanently. The logic was chilling, but Ben saw that it was the only answer to Cleaver’s dilemma. Zoë’s life was worth a lot less than ten million dollars.

That left Skid McClusky. From Cleaver’s point of view, the lawyer was just another loose end needing to be tied up. The first attempt had failed, but sooner or later Cleaver would get him, and McClusky knew it. He wasn’t going to stop until he’d silenced anyone who might know anything about this. First Nikos Karapiperis, then Charlie.

Now him. It all suddenly made very clear sense. If Ben didn’t go after Cleaver and put an end to this, Cleaver might very well put an end to him. A hundred million buys a lot of hitmen, and there would be no way to anticipate when and where one might turn up.

As he sat and worked his way through the mini-bar and his cigarettes, his thoughts turned to Tom and Jane Bradbury. How was he going to tell them that their daughter was almost certainly dead?

Then he shoved that thought behind him. He could worry about it later. For now, there was just one objective. Get Clayton Cleaver.

The next day dawned in a blaze of sunshine. Ben waited until just after nine, then called the number Skid McClusky had given him for Augusta Vale. A grave, solemn man’s voice answered with, ‘The Vale residence.’ Ben explained that he was a close friend of the Bradbury family, just happened to be passing through Savannah, and was hoping to pay Miss Vale a visit. In an even graver voice the man told him to hold on.

When Miss Vale came on the phone, Ben liked her immediately. She sounded like a strong, confident old lady. Her tone was formal, but there was a glowing warmth to it. She told him how delighted she was to hear from a friend of the Bradburys. Why didn’t he come over for coffee? She had some affairs to attend to, but she’d be free after eleven.

Ben used the spare time to explore the old town and buy some clothes. He went for smart, casual and simple – crisp black jeans, white shirt, black jacket. Then he went back to the hotel, and drove the Chrysler to the Vale residence in the Squares.

It was more than a house. The towering white colonial-style mansion stood away from the street, surrounded by verdant gardens filled with flowers and trees. He walked up to the front door and was met by the solemn, deep-voiced man he’d spoken to on the phone. The butler ushered him inside the house, into a wide entrance hall with chequered marble floor and gilt-framed paintings on the walls.

‘May I take your bag, sir?’ the butler asked.

‘I’ll hold on to it, if that’s OK,’ Ben said.

A grandfather clock chimed eleven as the butler led the way to the drawing-room. He knocked, pushed open a set of polished walnut doors and announced, ‘Mr Hope to see you, ma’am.’

Miss Augusta Vale stood up and walked across the room towards Ben, smiling. She was tall, upright and very elegant, maybe seventy-five years old but radiantly beautiful. Her skin and teeth were perfect and her hair was more platinum than grey. She was wearing a string of pearls over a silk blouse and a black tailored skirt. She offered her hand, and a diamond glittered in the sunlight that streamed through the bay windows.

‘So pleased to meet you, Mr Hope.’

‘Please call me Ben.’

‘Ben. Is that short for Benjamin?’

‘Benedict,’ he said. ‘But everyone calls me Ben.’

‘But Benedict is such a very fine name,’ she replied firmly, as though deciding that that was what she was going to call him.

She invited him to sit down, and asked the butler to bring coffee and cake. She lowered herself daintily into what looked like a Louis XIV settee. Underneath it, a small Pekingese dog eyed him suspiciously and growled quietly.

‘You have a beautiful home,’ Ben said.

‘Thank you. It’s been in the family since the Declaration of Independence.’ She smiled. ‘So you’re a friend of the Bradbury family,’ she said, watching him closely.

He nodded. ‘Tom and Jane send their regards.’

‘Lovely people,’ she said. ‘And Oxford is a fine city. I mean to visit there again in August, for the summer school.’

‘I gather you have a great passion for archaeology.’

‘Indeed I have,’ she said. ‘That’s how I met Zoë. Such a talented young lady. Very intelligent. A little headstrong, perhaps. And rather wild, too.’

‘That’s what people say.’

‘Have you seen her lately?’

‘The last time I saw her, she was about this big.’ Ben held his hand three feet off the floor.

She smiled. ‘So you’re not one of her young bucks, then.’

‘No, I’m not one of her young bucks.’

She didn’t reply to that, but he thought he could see a look of relief and approval in her eye. ‘What do you do, Benedict?’ she asked sweetly.

‘Ben. I’m a student. In fact I’m Tom Bradbury’s student at Oxford.’

‘My, that’s wonderful. You’re a theologian.’

‘I was planning to be.’

‘Then you should really be using that beautiful name of yours. You know what it means, don’t you?’

He said nothing.

‘It means “blessed”,’ she said.

‘I think I’m more cursed than blessed.’

She held his earnest gaze for a second, then laughed. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that. Tell me, Benedict. Where are you staying?’

He told her the name of his hotel, and she shook her head and clicked her tongue. ‘I won’t have it,’ she said. ‘You must come and be my guest here.’

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘You won’t. You can have the old carriage house. It’s a special guest quarters adjoining the house. You’ll be no trouble to me, and I’ll be no trouble to you.’

‘It’s very kind of you,’ he said.

‘Not at all. I’ll have one of the staff collect your luggage from the hotel.’

He pointed to his canvas bag. ‘This is it.’

Miss Vale laughed. ‘You certainly like to travel light, Benedict. And of course, you’ll have dinner with us tonight.’

‘Us?’

‘With myself and Clayton. He is a regular visitor to the house.’

‘Would that be Clayton Cleaver?’

‘Why, you’ve heard of him?’

‘Who hasn’t?’ he said.

‘Then you must be familiar with his book,’ she said.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of reading it yet.’

‘Then I’ll give you a copy right away.’ She rang a little bell, and a handsome black woman came into the room. Miss Vale smiled at her, and introduced them. ‘Benedict, this is my housekeeper, Mae.’ She turned to Mae. ‘Could you have one of the girls fetch down a copy of Mr Cleaver’s book from the library?’

‘Right away, Miss Vale.’ Mae nodded and left briskly.

Augusta Vale’s eyes sparkled. ‘You must read it,’ she said to Ben. ‘It changed my life. You know, Clayton personally received Divine illumination from the eternal Spirit of St John the Apostle.’

‘It sounds like quite a book,’ Ben said.

After a few moments a maid entered the room with a large hardback book in her hands. She handed it solemnly to Miss Vale. The old lady dismissed her with a kindly smile. She turned the book lovingly in her hands, and then passed it to Ben.

He thanked her and laid it in his lap. The heavily embossed gold script on the cover read, ‘JOHN SPOKE TO ME, by Clayton R. Cleaver’.

‘Clayton distributes it free to all the poor and underprivileged families,’ Miss Vale said, glowing. ‘He is truly a wonderful man.’

Ben opened the cover. Inside was a foreword by the author. He scanned it quickly.

Ten years ago, I completed the manuscript of this book in a moment of Divine revelation and sent copies to every publisher in the USA. Not one of them wanted to publish it. But I already knew they wouldn’t, because that is what John told me. He told me to persist. That this book had to get out there. I sold my car. I sold my house. I sold everything I had. I lived in a trailer and invested every cent to set up my own publishing company and bring this book, dear reader, into your hands.

John was right in every word He said. The book was so successful that within the year I had every major US publisher begging me for the rights. To date, the Word of John has gone out to more than twelve million Americans …

‘So what do you think, Benedict?’ the old lady asked.

‘It certainly looks interesting,’ Ben said.

‘Take it,’ she said instantly. ‘I have many copies.’

‘That’s very kind, Miss Vale. I look forward to reading it very much. I’m looking forward to meeting the author too.’

She beamed at him. ‘I believe this must have been meant to happen. I just know you and Clayton will get along.’

Mae showed Ben to the carriage house. The guest quarters were situated at the back of the mansion, on the ground floor. It was a substantial apartment in its own right, with two bedrooms, a kitchen, bathroom, living room and even its own dining room. The furnishings were exquisite. Ben tossed his bag onto the four-poster bed and walked back to the living room. French windows looked out over a magnificent subtropical garden filled with palm trees and Spanish moss, and roses of every colour imaginable.

Looking around him at his elegant surroundings and thinking of his amiable, obviously very generous and charming hostess, he couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing with a thug like Clayton Cleaver.

He wondered what kind of man Cleaver must be. He looked at his watch. In a few hours he’d find out.