Pulse

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Impossible,” Rook said as he tried lifting the safe. “This thing weighs a ton. I doubt four men could move it.”

  “Do you know the combination?” Queen asked from the door where she was keeping watch.

  “Nine, seventeen, nineteen, ninety-five. That was supposed to be their wedding date. George and Julie.”

  Rook ignored her and dialed in the numbers. He opened the safe a moment later. Inside lay a single piece of wood, shaped like a bust, but worn and indistinct. He took it out and placed it on the desk. “Great, another chunk of old wood.”

  “George wouldn’t have saved this without reason.” Gallo looked at it up close. She could just make out what used to be a face, possibly wearing a helmet, which led to a slender neck, shoulder, and pair of breasts. On the right shoulder sat a figure, whose details had not yet fully faded. An owl. Gallo gasped. “It’s... She’s... Athena. This must have been a small part of the Argo’s prow.”

  “But why would George want us to find this?” Rook asked.

  “The prow of the Argo was made from a tree taken from the sacred forest of Dodona, where the world’s first oracle presided. From prehistoric times up through Greek history the site was revered as a place of prophecy. It was believed that the prow of the Argo held this power, too, perhaps aiding Jason in his quest.”

  A prophetic tree,” Rook said. “What’s it got to say for us now?”

  Gallo leaned in close. “Maybe nothing.” She dug her finger into an odd notch where the neck met the head. She could see that it had been worked recently, pried at, probably by Pierce. Something clicked and the head twisted to the side revealing a cylindrical space within the neck. “Maybe everything.”

  Filling the space was a single cylinder. It slid easily from the bust, where water had not yet reached. It was a tube-shaped piece of pottery that had been sealed with wax, but had already been carefully cut. Gallo traced a finger along the cut. “This is what he wanted us to find.”

  She opened the tube and found a parchment inside. She pulled it out, laying it on the table. Defying everything she knew about archaeology, Gallo slowly unrolled the parchment, which was in extraordinary condition. Her only consolation was that she knew Pierce had already done the exact same thing. Flakes fell from the sides, here and there, but the document was still intact.

  “A map?” Rook said looking down at the image. Several coastlines had been hand drawn on both sides of a large island. Text filled the spaces of the land masses to the left and right. “The text is ancient Greek and faded. It will take time and equipment to enhance and translate.”

  Queen left her post by the door. “Could George have translated this?”

  “Too much of the text is faded. A few words here or there maybe, but not on his own. Besides, I don’t think it’s the text he wanted you to find.”

  “What then?”

  “I recognize this island,” Gallo said. She looked at each of them, stopping at Queen. “It’s Gibraltar, twenty-five hundred years ago.”

  “You’re sure this is it?”

  Gallo lifted the map and held it in front of the lamp. The backlit map revealed a watermark at the center of the island—a circle with two lines through it. “The Herculean Society.”

  “What’s in Gibraltar?” Rook asked.

  Gallo shrugged. “Maybe nothing.”

  Rook grinned. “Maybe everything. Right, I get it.”

  “Whatever it is, George believed it might help.”

  “And it’s all we’ve got.” Queen rolled up the map and reinserted it into the bust, which she placed back in the safe and spun the lock. “Did Pierce keep a weapon?”

  “In his top desk drawer. He got it after he was attacked.”

  Rook found the tipped drawer and searched beneath it. He found a 9mm Glock. “Not bad.”

  “Am I coming with you?”

  “Did those things see you?”

  Agustina thought on it. “No. They never looked in my direction.”

  “Then you’ll be safer staying here.”

  “But I’ll be arrested.”

  Queen took her by the shoulder and looked her in the eyes. “Go back to Sebastian. Wake him. Cut him loose. Tell him you were coerced, that we would have killed you both if you didn’t cooperate.”

  “What if he doesn’t believe me?”

  “He will,” Queen said, then delivered a hard slap to Gallo’s face, splitting her lip.

  Gallo cringed in pain, but understood the reason for it. “Thank you.”

  Then, as easily and quietly as the two wraiths, Queen and Rook entered the hallway and disappeared into the darkness.

  43

  New Hampshire

  Three days had passed without incident. Knight had reconnoitered much of the forested mountainsides within the borders of Pinckney without finding any evidence of construction. King had spent the time getting to know the locals, who he skillfully interrogated without ever raising an eyebrow. He’d asked everyone he came across about new construction in the area, convoys of trucks, everything he could think of. No one had seen a thing. Bishop remained holed away in the Honeymoon cabin, researching the area on the Internet, mapping out a search pattern for Knight, and meditating his rage issues away, which was made simpler thanks to the relaxed environment provided by the cottage and surrounding natural world.

  But they were all getting anxious. The clock was ticking.

  As had become habit, King took Thor for a walk, leading him out across the large grassed quad that led to the Tabernacle, then the trailer park, and the official “dog walk” beyond. The time alone provided King with an opportunity to think and take stock of any changes in the scenery.

  But nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Birds chirped from the fringes of the forest. Morning dew clung to the quad’s close-cut grass. Gleaming white clouds rolled past in the distance, behind Stinson Mountain. The air smelled clean, despite the yellow clouds of pollen that filtered down from the pine trees with every stiff breeze. And always, the sounds of children, both seen and unseen, called from all corners of the campground.

  He paused to take it all in. The place was a haven. All the more reason to find and stop Ridley, King thought. He gripped the leash hard in his hand and his frustration at their inability to find Manifold. Three days. Three damn days.

  As he stared at the ground, thinking about what tactics might work better than the current subtle approach, King failed to notice the car bearing down on his position. It wasn’t until the brakes were applied, screeching the car to a stop, that he looked up and saw the front end of an old station wagon stop five feet short of barreling him over. Through the brown dust kicked up by the stopping car, he caught site of a figure moving swiftly from the driver’s side door.

  He reached under his T-shirt behind his back, gripping the hidden handgun. Just as he was pulling it out, the newcomer emerged from the dust. King shoved the handgun back into his pants and put on a smile.

  “Now just what in the name of Pete do you think you’re doing?”

  Mrs. Scranton. Eighty years old, white-haired and wearing a loose-fitting light blue, flowered dress. Full of fire, and apparently brimstone as well.

  “Mrs. Scranton. How nice to see you again,” King said. He’d first made her acquaintance two days ago when she commented on his choice of T-shirt—his Elvis T-shirt no less.

  “This mongrel is...is relieving himself all over the quad!”

  King looked down. Thor stared up at him with his big innocent eyes, still squatting. A fresh mound of rank feces sat behind him. At that moment, King missed Rook. He tried to imagine what Rook would say in such a situation, but failed miserably in his attempt. “Guess he needs to lay off the bran, huh?”

  The old woman’s sour face reminded King who he was talking to. Bran issues probably hit too close to home.

  “I do hope you brought a plastic bag for that mess?”

  King’s smile said it all. Nope.

  “What was your name again?”

&
nbsp; King missed the question as he caught site of a woman standing outside the Snack Shack. She was looking right at him. After a few seconds of eye contact, more than could be chalked up to a casual glance or even physical attraction, she ducked inside the building and disappeared into the darkness within. King tensed. The way the woman carried herself—like a soldier—stood in stark contrast to everyone else he’d seen in town.

  A shrill scream snapped his attention back to Mrs. Scranton. Thor, feeling frisky after relieving himself was kicking dirt with his back legs, all over Mrs. Scranton. She huffed and made her way back to the car. A series of contorted facial expressions mixed with more than one kind of grunt, gasp, and growl told King she was going to tell the campground’s higher-ups and anyone on God’s green earth that would listen about this incident. He gave as friendly a wave as he could muster as she started the engine, but it only seemed to enrage her further. Pedal to the metal, she nearly ran them over as she peeled away, rounding the quad, turning toward the campground exit and skidding to a stop in front of the registration building. As she stormed inside, King looked down at Thor. “We’re supposed to be undercover. That means not drawing any unnecessary attention you dumb mutt.”

  But the incident had given him something, though he didn’t know what yet. He headed toward the Snack Shack, determined to find out who the mystery woman was.

  Knight followed the dirt road that rounded a corner and up a hill at the backside of the campgrounds. The road didn’t exist on the campground map and was too covered with trees to see where it went via satellite. It was one of the few patches of terrain in Pinckney he hadn’t checked out, so he decided to have a look. He doubted he’d find anything worthwhile, though. The campground owned hundreds of acres going back into the mountains, and no one would have been able to build up here without the campground’s knowledge. But there wasn’t much territory left uncovered and he doubted he’d missed anything.

  He stayed five feet in from the road, just in case someone drove past. It wouldn’t do him much good to be seen dressed in all black, carrying a MSG3 selective-fire rifle over his shoulder. That kind of news would travel fast in a small town. It might not be believed by the locals, but if Manifold caught wind, they would send out the hounds for sure.

  At the top of the hill, Knight found an abandoned horse stable and three large, brown buildings. An old kids camp by the looks of it. The largest building, a long, rotting structure full of broken windows, bore a sign that read “Mess Hall.” The other buildings, smaller and in equal disrepair, held signs that read “Administration,” “Nurse,” and “Snack Shack 2.” The place had once been a part of the campground below, but had been left to rot long ago. Nothing of interest, though.

  Knight continued on, following the dirt road. He passed a rainwater-and tadpole-filled in-ground swimming pool and a rusted swing set. A small utility building full of deflated inner tubes came next. Then, after a sharp turn and short hill, he arrived at what looked like a kid’s camp straight out of a B horror movie. There were twenty-odd brown cabins arranged in a U. The dirt road ran up and around the cabins, exiting into the forest on the other side of the campground.

  He crouched low, hidden by a pine branch, and swept the area, keeping track of the sounds and smells of the place. Convinced no one was around, he entered the campground. The wooded center of the camp was full of campground obstacles in disrepair. Tires half buried in the ground. A zip line now tangled in branches. A tire swing with no tire. The place looked like it would have been fun once. Now it was a ghost town.

  A distant sound caught his attention. A hum. An engine. Perhaps a semi on route 27 echoing off the mountains. Perhaps something else. Knight made his way to the back of a cabin, climbed a nearby tree and threw himself to the cabin’s roof as easily as a chimp, breaking off and taking a pine branch on the way. He lay flat, covering his head with the pine branch, and peering over the top with a pair of reflection-free binoculars. A glint of light caught his eye. A blue pickup truck. Nearly as old as the camp by the looks of it.

  He took aim with his rifle. The weapon didn’t have the range or power that his assortment of sniper rifles did, but it was amazingly accurate at a distance—more so in his hands—and its automatic fire made it the superior choice for a wooded firefight. The truck drove slowly through the campground, working its way around potholes and fallen branches.

  Knight noticed three things right away. For an old car the engine sounded mint, powerful even. When it did strike a pothole, the suspension handled the jolt with ease. But it was the two clean-shaven, serious men in the cab that really caught his attention. Not only did they look too well put together to be vacationers, but their eyes looked harsh—something he had yet to see in the small, friendly town. As the truck passed, Knight saw that its flatbed had been covered by a blue plastic tarp. They’re hiding something in there, he thought. Could be anything from pot to manure, but he decided it was worth his time to find out what.

  Moving quickly, Knight shed his backpack and weapon. He placed his GPS locator inside the backpack and activated it. The device would alert the others to come looking and let them do so with ease. But GPS wasn’t without its limitations. Inside a cave, or underground facility, the GPS would fail and his trail would disappear. Luckily, they’d prepared for such a possibility. He removed a small spray can labeled SprayTrack from his pants pocket and pointed the nozzle at himself. He doused his body in a cloud of clear mist. The odor wasn’t strong, not to people, but it would be easy for Thor to track. The dog would be able to follow his scent for days, following the smell well beyond the range of a GPS transmitter. The GPS tracker would get the team here. Thor would take them the rest of the way.

  With the truck twenty feet past his position, Knight jumped down from the cabin and ran through the woods to catch up. Without the weight of his backpack and weapon, he covered the distance in near silence. Running low, he bolted from behind a tree and clung to the backside of the pickup, feet on the bumper, hands on the rear hatch. So far, so good. Getting inside without being seen in the rearview—that was the trick.

  After thirty seconds, he got his chance. The truck hit a series of pounding bumps where spring floods had washed away the road. As the truck thundered up and down, Knight used the momentum to fling himself over the back and under the tarp. He closed his eyes as his body struck the flatbed with a thud, hoping he wouldn’t be found out. When the truck continued on its way, he sighed and opened his eyes and looked to see what secret the truck held.

  A pair of dull gray eyes stared back at him.

  44

  Rock of Gibraltar

  The chartered flight, courtesy of a U.S. government spending account, touched down at Gibraltar airport shortly after dawn. It was the fastest way to cover the distance, but the small airport’s lax security also allowed Rook to sneak along Pierce’s Glock. Rook had also used the change of scenery and mission as an excuse to change his clothing. He now wore more functional cargo pants, T-shirt, and hiking boots. Queen had changed into similar clothing. Gibraltar was built on a steep incline that descended from the base of the “rock” to the ocean. The combination of ancient fortresses, caves, tunnels, and sloped city streets translated to a lot of hiking. Rook noted that even in cargo shorts and a tank top, Queen managed to still look more European than he did. Too much “backwoods and flannel in you,” she’d explained.

  Unsure of where to begin their search, they took a “tour the rock” taxi, which drove them to all the local sites, starting with downtown Gibraltar. The city, being property of the United Kingdom, was a mix of British pubs, shops, and bright red phone booths better suited to a London street corner than a Mediterranean city. But the population density of the city made finding any kind of clue as to the location of the Herculean Society impossible.

  They continued the taxi tour, requesting to be taken to the oldest sites on the island. With the Society being so interested in history they hoped they would make their home, as Gallo had, as close
to an archaeological wonder as possible. St. Michael’s Cave, a stalactite- and stalagmite-filled cavern sometimes used for operas and ballets, proved to be an impressive site, but home to nothing more than tourists and a large, out-of-place auditorium.

  Next came the Great Siege Tunnels, which Rook hoped would turn up something. The labyrinth of tunnels were one of the island’s first true defense systems. Built and used to defend the island between 1779 and 1783, they were later used during World War Two. The dark, low ceiling tunnels were full of history, violence, and death, but were vastly predated by anything as old as Hercules.

  Visibly discouraged, their cabbie and personal tour guide, Reggie, took their mood to be a result of discontentment. He was a kind man, full of smiles, but his British name combined with dark skin and rigid features made his true nationality a mystery. His mixed accent, as well, was impossible to place, at times sounding Indian, other times Spanish, and occasionally British. “I will show you the best Gibraltar has to offer and introduce you to our most famous residents.”

  It sounded like a lead worth following, so neither argued. They became even more interested as they approached a large fortification high above the city. “The Tower of Homage,” Reggie explained. “The oldest structure in the city.”

  The car stopped in a large parking lot, nearly full. The tower itself stood to their left, tall and impressive. The double-door entrance was closed. “What’s in the tower now?” Rook asked.

  Reggie answered from his rolled-down window. “Her Majesty’s Prison Service.”

  Rook shook his head. “Well, there goes that theory. Unless her majesty is in league with the Herculean Society.”

  Queen ignored him, walking to the hillside wall. The view of Gibraltar below and the blue-green sea beyond was impressive. Once again, they found themselves in an ideal vacation spot for history buffs and revelers alike. Rook stood beside her. “I’m not a big fan of needles or haystacks. Put them together and I’m bound to get pissed.”