The Spider Stone

by Alex Archer

  The driver immediately took evasive action, swinging the steering wheel wildly. The van took out a line of trash cans, filling the air with the noise of tearing metal and grinding. Sparks shot out as trash cans remained stuck beneath the van.

  Bullets tore through the thin metal of the van's roof. They missed Annja, who dropped to one knee and reversed the sword so that she held it point down. Using all her strength, she plunged the sword down through the roof.

  Annja missed the driver by inches. The sudden appearance of the sword slicing through the van's top startled the driver. He pulled hard to the right, slamming the van into a wall in an effort to dislodge Annja.

  Grimly, she hung on to the front of the van. She didn't want to let the men escape, not only for wounding the college student, but also because she wanted to know the reasons for the attack in the first place. Why was the stone so important?

  Sparks cascaded along the van's side, coming in a deluge as the vehicle left scarred building walls in its wake. The grinding sound erased all but the shrill cries of the police sirens. The van gained speed.

  Annja didn't know if the men could manage to escape from the police. They seemed well organized, but she didn't want to take any chances. Bullets ripped along the van's rooftop, missing her by inches.

  Moving quickly, she vaulted forward and landed on the hood in a crouch. On the other side of the cracked windshield, the driver and the passenger looked incredulous. The passenger finished reloading his machine pistol and leveled the weapon.

  Annja struck first, shoving the sword's point toward the driver and shattering the glass. The driver ducked, pulling hard on the steering wheel.

  Already off balance from the impacts against the wall, the van slid to the left, then came up on two wheels in a slow roll. Annja jumped clear, hurling herself from the path of the sudden explosion of bullets.

  Annja landed in a crouch, allowing her legs to absorb the shock of the landing. Surprise filled her for just a moment. Then she accepted what she'd just done by instinct. Having the sword or simply reforging the sword had changed her. She still wasn't sure of everything that had occurred or would continue to occur. But it no longer shocked her or scared her.

  The van careened over on its side and skidded along the street. Even before it slammed to a stop against one of the buildings, the rear cargo doors opened and three men rolled free. Annja ran toward them, catching up with the first one before he got to his feet. She swung the sword and brought the hilt down on the man's head, knocking him unconscious with the blow.

  Ducking the second man's attempt to pull up his machine pistol, she swept his legs from beneath him with her own, then grabbed his hair through the mask and slammed his head against the street. He went limp and the gun clattered to the ground.

  The third man snarled curses at her as he pointed his pistol. Before he could fire, Annja rolled and came to her feet. She swung the sword and knocked away the pistol. The bullet missed her by inches as the weapon went flying.

  Recovering almost immediately, the man launched himself at her, punching and kicking. Annja recognized him at once as she stepped clear of his attack. He was the leader, the one who'd so coldly shot the college student.

  Tossing her sword to the side, Annja felt its absence as it phased back into the otherwhere. Taking another quick step back, she set herself, left forearm raised in front of her and right hand clenched at her hip. She blocked the man's attacks in rapid succession, turning aside a punch with her forearm, two kicks with her lead leg, then stepped in low to deliver a kidney blow as he tried to set himself.

  He cried out in pain.

  Savage satisfaction lit through Annja as she heard him. Still in motion, slipping to the man's right, she reverse kicked, bringing her foot high enough to collide with the man's face. Incredibly, he remained standing.

  Okay, Annja thought, that's not good. She bounced back on her toes, setting up with her right leg forward this time, changing strong sides so he'd have to adapt.

  The man spit blood.

  "That's DNA evidence," Annja taunted. "Even if you got away, which you won't, the police would be able to track you down."

  He snarled, "You won't know how that ends up." He curled his hands and tucked them in close to the sides of his face, elbows out to block. "I'm going to kill you," he said. Then he attacked.

  Annja gave ground, knowing his weight was an advantage that she couldn't meet head-on. Her hands and feet flew, blocking, parrying, turning. Despite her skill, the impacts would leave bruises.

  She escalated her defense, still giving ground but circling now. Then the rhythm changed. His breath started coming faster, his lungs sounded like stressed bellows pumps. For every three punches or kicks he threw, she threw one back, each one placed with telling accuracy, thudding into his face, his chest or his legs. She patiently allowed him to exhaust himself.

  When she saw his strength was flagging, she stepped in close and swept his legs. As he fell, Annja hammered him twice in the face. He tried to get up, but she grabbed the back of his head with her hands and kneed him in the face.

  His nose broke with an audible crunch. Unconscious, he rolled over on his back.

  Police sirens screamed as they closed in.

  Annja didn't want to be caught there. The police would have too many questions about how she had overcome a van full of armed men. She turned and ran into the night.

  ****

  Annja looked up from the stone she'd been working on since the Kirktown Police Department had shut down all activity at the warehouse and brought everyone to the police station. Annja was seated at a borrowed desk in the detectives' bullpen.

  The man standing beside the desk looked as though he was in his early thirties, with curly brown hair, dark green eyes and a square face. He wore jeans and a white snap-button Western shirt, cowboy boots and a tan corduroy blazer with leather elbow patches. He dropped a black cowboy hat onto the desk beside the stone covered in Hausa writing.

  "I'm Detective Andrew McIntosh." He extended his hand.

  Annja took it, feeling his flesh hot against hers in the semicooled office space. "You don't look like a detective," she said.

  McIntosh reached into his back pocket and brought out a badge case. He flipped it open to reveal the badge and ID.

  Annja kept her eyes on his face, studying him, but she read the ID from the corner of her eye. "It says you're from Atlanta. Not Kirktown."

  McIntosh smiled. "Most people don't see past the badge."

  "I do," Annja said.

  "Kirktown doesn't usually find murder victims 150 years old. Or have running gun battles with terrorist weapons in their streets. Since both happened more or less on the same day and appear to be connected, the captain of detectives here in Kirktown asked for some help on this one. I volunteered."

  "Are things that boring in Atlanta?" Annja was responding to the cocky smoothness the man demonstrated. The overconfidence rankled her.

  He smiled, and she could see the mischievous little boy he'd probably been twenty-something years ago. His cheeks dimpled.

  "Actually, that's a funny story. I'm on administrative leave." McIntosh pointed to a chair beside the desk. "Mind if I sit?"

  "The police station would seem to belong more to you than to me," she said coolly.

  "This is Georgia, Ms. Creed. Some of us still have manners. My momma always said it was impolite to sit with a lady without asking."

  He was a charmer, Annja was amused to discover. She wondered if the down-home good-ol'-boy routine was an act. If it is, it's a good one. She was intrigued. She turned a hand toward the chair. "Please."

  McIntosh sat.

  Around the bullpen, several of the students and Professor Hallinger sat with detectives while giving statements.

  Annja waited until he was settled. "Why am I being interviewed again?"

  "You've been interviewed before?" McIntosh seemed surprised by that.

  "I have been. And you know that. I just saw you
talking to the detective who interviewed me."

  McIntosh grinned like a kid who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I could have sworn you were totally involved in that rock."

  "I am. I could be more involved if I wasn't trying to translate it while sitting in a police station filled with people."

  Leaning forward, McIntosh looked at the lettering and the pictographs. "You can read that?"

  "That's what I'm trying to figure out."

  McIntosh glanced at the notebook Annja had been working in.

  Annja shifted just enough to shield the notebook.

  Smiling easily, McIntosh leaned back in the chair. "You're an interesting woman, Ms. Creed."

  "Thank you. But you didn't answer my question."

  "Actually, I did. I was asked to interview you again because you're so interesting."

  "How interesting?"

  "Well, it's interesting that Professor Hallinger decided to call you in – "

  "Because I have a little familiarity with the Hausa language," Annja said.

  McIntosh nodded. "It's also interesting that the men tried to swipe that stone shortly after you arrived."

  "They waited till after it got dark. Otherwise the police officers would have spotted them entering the warehouse," Annja said.

  "Maybe."

  Annja arched an eyebrow. "Or maybe I arranged for them to be here?"

  "Someone did."

  "It wasn't me."

  McIntosh smiled at her. "I hope that's true. You're a good-looking woman, Ms. Creed. But you were also the one they decided to take with them when they fled the scene."

  "Because I could read some of what's written on this stone."

  "How did they know that?"

  "While they were taking us prisoner, they asked."

  McIntosh raised his eyebrows innocently. "So you just told them you could?"

  "Like you, they saw my notes," Annja said, no longer concealing her irritation.

  McIntosh grinned. "See? That's interesting, too."

  "I escaped from those men, Detective McIntosh."

  "That's what I was told."

  "Then what do we have to talk about?"

  "Let's see if we can come up with something," he said. Reaching into his jacket pocket, McIntosh took out a small bound notebook and a half-dozen pens held together with a rubber band.

  "Why are you on administrative leave?" Annja took a sip from the cup of coffee she'd been given. It had gotten cold, but long hours at her work had accustomed her to that.

  "What?"

  "You said you were on administrative leave."

  "I am."

  Placing her elbows on the desk, Annja leaned forward and looked into his eyes. "Tell me why."

  McIntosh sighed. "Are you really going to make me tell this story?"

  "Yes."

  "It's embarrassing."

  "I like stories. Otherwise I'm going to call a lawyer in and have him ask you and the Kirktown Police Department why my time is being wasted. Not only that, but I'm going to return my producer's phone call. Maybe I can help increase the media attention you're getting here."

  McIntosh feigned a frown, but Annja knew he was a natural-born storyteller. As an archaeologist, she'd learned to recognize people like that. Sometimes they helped on a dig site and sometimes they hindered. She needed to know what McIntosh was – a help or a hindrance.

  "I was on stakeout," McIntosh said. "My partner and I were working a serial burglar downtown. Guy was working hotels. For a city with a lot of tourists that come in, that's not a good thing."

  "I can see that," Annja said, sitting back.

  "In addition to stealing valuables, the guy also had a pantie fetish." McIntosh paused. "I don't want to offend you."

  "Hey. I live in New York. Talking about underwear isn't going to offend me."

  McIntosh appeared to relax. "I'm gonna remember you said that. Anyway, I got the idea to use a bloodhound to track the guy. The chief has one of the best at tracking men, but the dog is one of his favorites. I kind of borrowed him without telling the chief. I guessed that maybe the thief was someone staying at the hotel. Thunder – that's the name of the chief's dog – hit on a scent almost immediately."

  Annja grinned, enjoying the laconic way the detective spun the tale. The experience was even more amusing because she knew he was lying, probably making it up on the spot.

  "Well, Thunder lit out. I did my best to keep up. But you have to imagine the scene. We're talking a five-star hotel here. Thunder is racing down the hallway, hits the stairwell, and down we go. He's baying to beat the band. You ever heard a bloodhound working a trail?"

  Annja nodded, grinning wider now.

  "I'm talking about those long, loud, mournful howls. If you don't know what it is, you might think somebody was getting killed. Or maybe it was some kind of monster loose in the hotel. Well now, there were a lot of people in that hotel who hadn't heard a bloodhound baying before."

  "Must have really gotten a lot of attention," Annja said.

  "We did. Way more than I ever wanted to. The chase ended up in the hotel lobby. The guy was there checking out when Thunder hit him. His bag popped open when it hit the floor. Jewelry, cash and panties scattered everywhere. The thief pulled a gun and shot Thunder before I had a chance to clear leather with my pistol."

  "Poor dog."

  "Nah. Thunder's all right. Just grazed his scalp. But it was enough to leave him scarred and gun shy. The chief wasn't happy about that." McIntosh shrugged. "So that's how I ended up on administrative leave."

  "And you were the first person the Kirktown Police Department thought to call when things got out of hand here." Annja smiled in mock wonder. She started clapping, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

  McIntosh had the decency to look embarrassed. Maybe he really was, she thought. He reached over and took Annja's hands, stopping her from clapping.

  Annja twisted her hands from his and leaned back, crossing her arms over her breasts. "That's the most creative load of BS I've seen someone come up with on the spot in a long time."

  "What are you talking about?" McIntosh looked mystified.

  "You're a Fed, McIntosh. You're using the Atlanta PD as a cover. No one around here would know you."

  Some of the easygoing demeanor dropped from McIntosh's face. His features took on a distant hardness. "You are an interesting woman, Ms. Creed."

  "One that has a job to do, and I can't do it here. So either cut to the chase or let me call my attorney."

  "I'm with Homeland Security. We have power you haven't even seen. The attorney happens when I say it happens," McIntosh said firmly.

  "Great. There's nothing more I like than being threatened by my own government. I get enough of government meddling when I'm on digs overseas." Annja took a deep breath. "I've been on the phone with the producer of the television show I work for every thirty minutes since I've been here." She wondered if her pseudo-celebrity status could actually be useful.

  "I'm aware of your television presence," McIntosh said, sounding unimpressed.

  "I've talked him out of hiring a crew out of Atlanta to cover this." Annja paused for dramatic effect. "So far. But one missed phone call, you can bet he's going to send someone in."

  McIntosh reflected on the situation for a moment. "You get more interesting the more I know you."

  "You should see me in action with an attorney and a camera crew, then."

  "Have you had dinner, Ms. Creed?"

  A glance at her watch told Annja it was almost two in the morning. "No."

  "Let's get out of here and get something to eat. And I'll tell you why Homeland Security is interested in this."

  "Can I bring the stone?" she asked.

  McIntosh hesitated for just a second. "Sure."

  Chapter 4

  The Clover Bee Truck Stop lay west of Kirktown along the highway that connected the city to Atlanta. The diner glowed against the darkness. Several 18-wheelers sat parked for t
he night in the lots outside.

  "Not exactly haute cuisine," McIntosh apologized as he parked the car. He reached into the back for a slim metal briefcase. "But at two o'clock in the morning, you're not going to get much to choose from in Kirktown."

  Annja slung her backpack over one arm and picked up the cloth bag holding the stone. Professor Hallinger had looked at her in surprise as she'd left with the artifact, but he hadn't asked any questions.

  "Trust me. An all-night diner is great compared to having to eat powdered eggs out of a cup while holding your hand over it and hoping the dust doesn't completely wipe out the flavor. You swallow the eggs without chewing so you won't have to hear the grit grinding," Annja said.

  McIntosh held open the door.

  Inside the building, the convenience-store area occupied the left side, filled with spinner racks containing DVDs, books, audio books and maps. Phone-card vending machines shared space with video games and packaged, single-serving traveler's aids. Shelves in the center of the store contained everything from snacks to phone accessories to DVD players.

  The restaurant area was rustic, made of large timbers and bathed in the golden glow of lamps mounted in wagon wheels. Glass tops covered red-and-white-checked tablecloths.

  "Well," McIntosh said, "it's better than I'd hoped."

  A short, heavyset woman led them to a booth. Even though it was dark, Annja wanted to sit by the window after having been cooped up down in the warehouse's furnace room and the police department.

  McIntosh sat across from her. He put the briefcase on the bench seat beside him.

  "Bowling ball?" the woman asked when Annja put the cloth bag on the table.

  Annja smiled. "Paperweight."

  The woman shrugged. "Must be for a big stack of papers. Do you know what you want to drink?"

  "Diet Coke. Do you have breakfast?" Annja asked.

  "Twenty-four hours a day, hon."

  "The cook any good?"

  "I eat here."