The Spider Stone

by Alex Archer

  Annja silently agreed. "Maybe the explosion didn't kill them all at once. Whoever that was may have tried to cut the Spider Stone out of Yohance. But either he couldn't find it in the darkness or the stone had already entered the intestines."

  "He tried to do that in the darkness?"

  "We didn't find a lantern that seemed to survive the explosion." Annja directed her beam at one of the nearby lanterns they'd found in the room. The glass was shattered and the frame was bent. "I think he tried to do it in the dark. By feel."

  Someone made gagging noises.

  "Committed," Hallinger commented.

  "Very," Annja agreed. She glanced at the Spider Stone again. What secrets do you hold? She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. "Okay, we've got a few more hours before it gets dark. We found one of the things we came down here for, but there's still more we need to do. Let's get it done."

  More quietly than before, and maybe a little enthusiastic about their find, the group started sifting through the rubble.

  "What about the treasure?" one of the students asked.

  "That story is hundreds of years old. I doubt it's still there," Annja said. But she realized that didn't mean everyone else who knew the legend of the Spider Stone felt the same way.

  Chapter 11

  "You don't look like an African prince."

  Icepick leaned across the table in the club and smiled at the young blond woman seated across from him. "And what does an African prince look like?" he asked.

  The blonde gave him a cool look, as if she were merely humoring him. "Like Eddie Murphy."

  Icepick grinned. The young woman had a sense of humor. He liked women with a sense of humor. When he scared it out of them, they were more docile than women who worked out of anger.

  "I am an African prince," he told her. "I promise."

  He thought he could have been a prince, too. He was tall and well built, with a shaved head and tribal tattooing that marked his arms, the back of his neck and his shoulders. He wore black jeans and a turquoise T-shirt that fit him like a second skin. A black leather jacket hid the SIG-Sauer semiautomatic pistol he had snugged into a shoulder rig. A gold Rolex watch, gold chains and a gold cap on a tooth completed the ensemble. His dark skin was flawless except for the tattoos.

  The blonde looked like a professional, an executive or a lawyer. She looked sleek and beautiful in her business suit.

  At another time, Icepick would have been more willing to chase her. But he was at the club on business. He glanced around, taking his eyes from the woman for the moment partly to make sure his men were paying attention and partly to remind the woman that she wasn't the only female in the room.

  Terrence and Pigg sat at another table nearby, flirting with women. All of them looked as if they had money, so attracting women was no problem. Terrence, tall and rakish, would have attracted attention anyway. Pigg was a solid, blocky mass of a man with a vicious underbite that had helped give him his name.

  The club was small but successful, a new business growing red-hot by word of mouth in Atlanta. It was called Nocturne which had something to do with night, Terrence had told Icepick. Terrence had been to college.

  Icepick was part owner of the club. He'd been a silent investor when it had opened. He didn't invest because he'd expected it to be successful, but because it was a good place to sell drugs – his main business. He'd hoped to create a market where he could deal directly with a younger crowd and so he could move his operations off street corners. He hadn't expected the club to become successful and start drawing some of the new money in Atlanta.

  Then Lyle, whom Icepick had met on the streets, looked at how much money he'd started making at a legitimate business without selling the drugs he'd helped sell for the past five years on street corners. Now he seemed to think he was too good for that business.

  Icepick was there to remind Lyle that he had a past and a commitment that wouldn't go away.

  "You don't seem like royalty," the blonde told him.

  "What do I look like?" Icepick asked.

  She considered him for a moment. "A drug dealer," she said.

  Icepick put a hand over his heart and grinned. "You wound me."

  "Or maybe a government assassin."

  "Is that a step up? Or a step back?" Icepick loved playing the game with women who thought they held all the cards.

  "Sorry. I just call them as I see them."

  "What would it take to convince you I'm an African prince?"

  "A crown."

  "My father doesn't let me take it out at night," Icepick joked.

  The blonde thought. "Maybe a royal bodyguard."

  Icepick pointed to his men.

  "They look like thugs," she said.

  "And how is it a royal bodyguard should look?"

  "I don't know. Royal?"

  Icepick knew the woman was rounding the corner from humor to sarcasm. "I'll show you something." He waved to Hamid, one of his bodyguards.

  Hamid came over at once, carrying a sleek briefcase that was chained to his wrist.

  "Put it on the table and open it." Icepick didn't glance at the briefcase. He knew what it contained. He'd put it there.

  Producing a key, Hamid opened the briefcase. Inside, in specially cut foam inserts, lay a mask made of gold and crusted with rubies, topaz and diamonds.

  The jewels caught the woman's eyes at once. She reached for the mask, then pulled her hand away. "Did you steal that?"

  "No." That was the truth. The mask was going to be a bribe for another deal he was working on.

  "What is that?"

  "A funerary mask."

  "What's a funerary mask? Like something made after a person's dead?"

  "Yes."

  "That's a really ugly mask."

  Icepick knew the woman was lying. She'd been captivated by the jewels and the gold. And now that he knew he had her hooked, he also knew he could trump her with guilt. "It was my grandfather's." Of course, that was another lie.

  "Oh, I'm sorry." She looked embarrassed and shocked.

  Both of those emotions were weaknesses, as far as Icepick was concerned. "You couldn't know. After all, you don't believe I'm an African prince." Icepick waved Hamid away.

  The man closed the case and returned to his seat just a short distance away.

  "What are you doing with your grandfather's death mask?"

  "I'm taking it back to my country. It was loaned to the Jimmy Carter Library and Museum in Atlanta. It was part of the exhibit 'The African-American Presidents: The Founding Fathers of Liberia, 1848 - 1904.' It was released back into my custody this afternoon. Now I'm flying back home in two days. But first I wanted to see more of this city. I've only been here a few times. I'm visiting family on my mother's side."

  Icepick had lived in Atlanta for many years, though he had been born in Senegal. His mother had never left that country.

  "I'm really sorry," the woman said.

  "It's all right."

  She shrugged. "It's just that, you know, I'm a woman here by myself. I get hit on a lot when I go to a bar by myself."

  "That's totally understandable. If I were so inclined, I would hit on you."

  "You're not?" she asked.

  "At first, I just thought I would get to know you. Now..." Icepick shrugged. "Of course, if you find my interest in you unwelcome, all you have to do is say so."

  "No. That's all right."

  "I'm glad."

  "So," the blonde said, "what country are you prince of?"

  Returning his attention to the young woman, Icepick said, "Nigeria. West Africa," Icepick told her. "Right on the coast of the Atlantic."

  She nodded and sipped at her drink, but Icepick thought that was just to let him know it was empty again.

  Icepick waved a server over and ordered another round.

  "You're a prince of Nigeria?" the blonde asked.

  It would have been easy to simply say yes, but Icepick had learned to be elaborate with hi
s lies. People believed an elaborate lie wrapped around a hint of truth more often than a simple lie.

  "No," Icepick said. "Nigeria is made up of what used to be several African empires. Have you heard of the Yoruba people?"

  She shook her head.

  At that moment, Terrence stood and attracted Icepick's attention. He nodded toward Lyle, who was walking through the club with a couple of his own bodyguards in tow.

  Lyle was tall and dapper, in his early thirties. The dark blue suit he wore looked expensive. Icepick had good suits back home in his closets. Despite the darkness filling the club, Lyle wore sunglasses and looked like a young Ray Charles.

  Irritated with Lyle's timing, Icepick stroked the back of the blonde's hand. "The Yoruba are a proud people," he said.

  "How long did you say you were going to be in town?" the woman asked.

  "A few more days."

  The blonde smiled. "Maybe we could get together. I could show you around."

  Icepick smiled. "I'd like that."

  "Do you have a card?"

  Icepick hesitated.

  Then the woman shook her head. "That was stupid. You're not from here. Why would you have a card?" She rummaged in her tiny purse and produced a business card. "That's me. Sandra Thompson."

  "It says attorney-at-law."

  "That's right. I specialize in corporate law. Mergers. Tax shelters. That kind of thing."

  "You must be very smart to do something like that."

  "I like my job and I'm good at it."

  Lyle walked into his office, never looking around. He was totally secure in his environment.

  Icepick was about to change that. "If you'll forgive me, I've got something I need to attend to," he said.

  "Sure." The woman glanced at her watch. "Actually, I'm about to turn into a pumpkin. I've got to go." She swept her purse from the table and flashed him a smile. "You have my card. Call me." Then she was gone, and the heads of several men turned in her direction as she crossed the bar.

  Icepick watched her all the way to the door. Then he got up and walked toward the office. Terrence, Pigg, Hamid and three other men fell into step with him. By the time they reached the office door, all of them had suppressor-equipped pistols in their hands.

  Nodding to Terrence as they stopped at the door, Icepick stepped to one side. Terrence lifted his pistol and fired into the locking mechanism. The muzzle-flashes were lost in the light show, and the sound of the bullets crunching through the lock was covered by the music.

  Icepick kicked the door open and shoved his head and shoulders through.

  The office was small and filled with electronics. Monitors showed pictures from a dozen different angles inside the club, and each of those rotated through still other cameras.

  Lyle sat at the big desk in front of the monitors. His two bodyguards occupied chairs on either side of the desk. Both of them were on their feet and trying to draw their weapons, no doubt alerted by the monitor system.

  Icepick shot the first man through the head twice. Before the corpse had time to topple backward, Terrence shot the second guard through the chest and neck. The second man took a little longer to die, but he was dead within seconds.

  Lyle stood, throwing his hands high. "Don't shoot! Please! Don't shoot!"

  Crossing the room, Icepick grabbed Lyle's suit coat and shoved him back into the chair. Terror widened Lyle's eyes. Then Icepick closed them when he pistol-whipped the man across the face with his gun. Without a word, he pressed the pistol barrel into Lyle's throat, pinning him against the chair.

  "Move and I will kill you." Icepick ripped Lyle's sunglasses from his face. The man's pupils were pinpricks, advertising the drugs in his system.

  "Don't kill me," Lyle whispered. "Please don't kill me."

  "You've been cheating me," Icepick said.

  "No!" Lyle shook his head desperately. "No! I haven't been cheating you! I swear!"

  "I've got someone in the club. You've been skimming."

  "That's a lie!"

  "It's not a lie." Icepick slapped Lyle with the gun butt again.

  Lyle's cheek opened up and blood ran down his face. He whimpered and tears spilled from his pinprick eyes. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll pay you back!"

  "Put your hands on the table, Lyle."

  "No." Lyle's refusal came out as a whimper.

  "Put your hands on the desk or I'm going to blow your head off."

  Reluctantly, Lyle put his hands on the desk.

  Reaching into his jacket, Icepick took out an ice pick.

  "Don't," Lyle pleaded. "Please. Please don't."

  Without a word, without mercy, Icepick plunged the ice pick through Lyle's right hand and impaled it on the desk.

  Lyle cried out in pain.

  Icepick plucked the handkerchief from Lyle's jacket pocket and shoved it into his mouth.

  Still sobbing, Lyle fell forward when Icepick released him. He reached for the ice pick. The handkerchief in his mouth muffled whatever sound he was making.

  "Don't touch that," Icepick ordered. "You try to pull that out and I'll kill you."

  Lying on the desk, staring in agony at his maimed hand, Lyle cried.

  "I helped you get where you are today, Lyle," Icepick said. "I talked to my uncle for you. He agreed to set us up in business. He fronted the money you spent on this place. He expects a return on his investment. Not to be ripped off. Do you understand?"

  Lyle nodded.

  "If we have to have this discussion again," Icepick promised, "I'm going to ship your head to my uncle."

  "It won't," Lyle gasped, "happen...again."

  "Good." Icepick released the club owner and stood. He looked around the office. "Get this place cleaned up. Quietly. I don't want any of this rolling back on me. If my ankles get covered from now on, I'm going to bury you in whatever I'm looking at during that moment."

  Turning on his heel, Icepick walked to the door. He shoved the SIG-Sauer back into the shoulder leather. Pigg opened the door without a word.

  As he left the club, Icepick's cell phone rang. He fished it out of his jacket pocket and flipped it on. "Yeah."

  "Nephew," Tafari said in the Yoruban language, "I need you to do a task for me."

  "Of course. All you've ever needed to do is ask."

  "There is something I want in a small town outside Atlanta," Tafari said.

  "Anything," Icepick answered, but he was thinking about his uncle. Tafari was a hard man. He wouldn't have let Lyle live. But somebody had to get rid of the bodies, Icepick reasoned.

  Almost twelve years ago, Tafari had sent his sister's only son to Atlanta to start managing some of the illegal trade in African artifacts that brought in so much money. Icepick had shown resourcefulness and an understanding of the criminal economy that his uncle had been pleased to discover. Icepick had negotiated a small drug-dealing business, then shipped the drugs to Tafari. Once the drugs reached Senegal, Tafari sold them to merchant ships in Dakar. The crews in turn took the drugs to other ports of call.

  Everybody made a profit. It remained a constant source of revenue for them.

  "The Spider Stone has been found," Tafari said.

  Outside Nocturne, Icepick froze, caught in the glare of the neon signs. Cars passed in the street, but he hardly noticed them. The whole time he'd been growing up out in the savannas, his uncle had talked of many things. Legends and myths, and tales of gods. But one of the most repeated legends had been the one of the Spider Stone. The Hausa village that had possessed it had been said to have been blessed in trade. Supposedly, there was a treasure trove awaiting anyone clever enough to find it.

  "Where is it?" Icepick asked.

  "In a small city outside Atlanta. A place called Kirktown. Can you get there?"

  "Of course," Icepick replied. "I can be there before morning."

  "Do that. It would be best to work under the cover of night."

  It would, Icepick thought. Ever since he'd left Africa, then changed his name to his curren
t one, he'd been aware of the magic in the night. Predators thrived there.

  And he was one of the best predators his warlord uncle had ever reared.

  Chapter 12

  "What have you gotten yourself involved in?"

  Bleary-eyed and tired, Annja really wasn't in the mood for any remonstrations. Especially not from the man currently connected to her by cell phone.

  Roux was the only name she had for the old man. At least she thought "Roux" really was his name. He sometimes used others and "Roux" might have been just as false.

  "Nothing." Annja straightened her back, stiff from being in a cramped, bent-over position for hours. She and Hallinger were working together in a small warehouse not far from the old textile mill. Other units in the warehouse were rented out as garages and paint-and-body shops, and the stink of the chemicals filled her nose.

  The university had hired a small security service from Atlanta. The men sat around the archaeologists drinking coffee, reading gun magazines and reliving past postings with each other.

  Having the men there didn't make Annja feel particularly safe. She felt more invaded than anything else.

  Body bags containing the remains of the slaves who had been killed in the furnace room lay on the floor. Hallinger and Annja had commandeered tables for use in studying the various artifacts they'd recovered.

  There were a few artifacts, most of them related to the Civil War. But the thing that caught their attention now that the slaves had been identified was the Spider Stone.

  Roux snorted.

  Annja sighed. Despite having spent months around the man, she truly didn't feel that she knew Roux any better than she had when she'd first met him. There was so much that he hadn't told about himself, and probably most of it he would never tell.

  How could you live five hundred years and not have left traces of yourself everywhere? she wondered. How could you keep all those stories bottled up?

  None of that made sense to her.

  Garin – who also went under other names these days – was easier to understand. He was a self-motivated person, and all she could truly count on him to do was look after his own interests. Garin had tried to kill her shortly after he'd found out that she had the reassembled sword. He was convinced that he was going to start aging at any time now that the sword was whole and in Annja's hands.