by Eric Wilson
Clay used a pick to peel lettering from the marker on his bench. “Digs, how would you handle it if you could foresee bad things?”
“Still wrestlin’ with God, eh? Wonderin’ about his plans in this world?”
“It’s only natural, isn’t it?”
“There’s your problem in a nutshell. It ain’t about natural. It’s supernatural.”
“Just trust and obey, you mean? Blind faith and all that.”
“You tried doin’ it the other way yet? On your own agenda?” Clay nodded.
“Me, too,” Digs said. “Took years in the state pen to cure me of it. Let’s hope you learn faster than this white-haired fool. Don’t always got the answers, don’t even understand, but I do know God is good. That’s money in the bank.”
Since the discovery in the apartment a few nights back, Clay’s racing mind had caused him to sleep restlessly. What was the latest note’s meaning? Would August tenth be a day of disaster? How should he intervene? Was Jenni now a target too?
Thankfully, Officer Kelso had released him with a warning to avoid further late-night escapades. The officer knew nothing about a Mr. Bill Scott and laughed when Clay tried to indict Henna for visits to the same unit.
“Henna Dixon? We’d expect to find her up here,” Kelso had said. “She’s the one who first found John Doe. She does the majority of cleaning at the complex.”
“She’s a maid?”
“ ‘Interior overseer’ is her official title. The whole thing shook her pretty badly.”
“Yeah. I bet.”
Clay left it at that. He had nothing incriminating to present. Some vaguely threatening notes, yes, but little to suggest malevolence on Henna Dixon’s part.
“If we get split up,” Josee said, “just hit Highway 101 and head down to Florence, Bank of the Dunes. It’s on the north end of town.”
“I’ll meet you there,” Dmitri agreed.
“Hope you’re not wastin’ my time. I’m ready for some answers.”
“I know much about the Fabergé creations. You’ll be pleased.”
Josee’s turquoise eyes considered him from beneath a tuft of chopped black hair. Her fingers twiddled at her eyebrow ring. “Okay, let’s do this.”
Dmitri watched her climb into a red VW Bug with original hubcaps. The rear bumper dragged on the passenger side, creating occasional sparks as it struck the pavement. Keeping track of Josee would be easy. He set his cell phone on the seat of his rental car, followed the VW into early lunch traffic, and adjusted his mirror while trying to determine which car Oleg was using to tail them.
Horses, snakes, and skulls. The dream images returned.
Dmitri pictured Oleg’s choirboy face and his criminal background. The man was a walking mystery. Superb organizational skills, yet questionable allegiances.
In the forest Dmitri had feared Oleg might lash out at him for his words. Neudachnik? Da, it was the truth for any man who did not trust him. He was a man appointed by the Brotherhood of Tobolsk, by the Almighty himself.
Be careful, Oleg. Try to stamp on my head, and a snake will strike!
At that moment Dmitri spotted his comrade in a Chevy pickup, three cars back and one lane over.
“Did he take the note, A.G.?”
“He did, but he left the jogging shoe.”
Henna peered into the kitchen where the Osaga remained beneath the table. “Those shoes always did stink. No offense, but it’s the truth.”
“I refuse to take the blame.”
Henna folded herself into a lotus position on the living room carpet. She closed her eyes, her nostrils inhaling the aroma of sandalwood incense.
Asgoth admired her beauty but suspected her thoughts were somewhere else. On someone else. From the start he’d known of her obsession with Clay Ryker and used it to his benefit. Full of scorn cloaked as independence, Henna acted as though she had no more feelings for the man; yet all these years later, her willingness to take this course of action suggested a strong undercurrent of emotion.
“If given the choice,” he asked her, “would you select Clay over me?”
“What?” Henna’s eyes popped open. Her trance was broken.
“Forgive my insecurities, Henna. I shouldn’t push.”
“You always want more. That’s my main complaint. When it comes to a woman’s spirit, it’s better to simply enjoy what she gives you.”
“I’m impatient, it’s true. It’s a fault of my species.”
“Yeah, why is that so?”
Asgoth pondered. “We’re afraid you’ll see through us, I guess. We’re always concerned that you’ll close us off if you catch a glimpse of who we really are.”
“One little glimpse. Is it really so horrifying?”
“You tell me.”
“You’re a gentle spirit, A.G. You have your dark side, but who doesn’t?”
“Are you ready to tap into yours? We have only a few days until Jenni Ryker arrives. I’m sure you’d love to arrange something special for her.”
“It’d be my delight. What about Monde? Have we heard from him?”
“He says not to worry. He’s stirring up troubles between Dmitri and friends. It’s always fun to watch havoc ensue. Of course,” Asgoth said, “we’ll have to include Clay in Jenni’s ‘welcome home’ plans. We’ll wait until after the tenth, though. Clay’s been visiting with the JC police, and I think he’s enlisted their help in protecting the targets. Poor officers. They’re going to be very disappointed in him.”
Against the natural backdrop of windswept sand dunes, the Bank of the Dunes looked small. Josee parked off to the side, but Dmitri selected a spot near the entrance, ready for a getaway. He clipped the cell phone to his belt.
“Come on.” Josee knocked on his window. “You look pretty enough already.”
Dmitri gave an obligatory smile.
Together they entered the bank. To the left, wing chairs faced an accounts manager at a polished desk. Near the doors, a hefty security guard greeted customers on their way in and out.
“Give me a minute,” Josee said.
Dmitri stood to the side as she approached the next available teller. He saw her produce ID from a pouch suspended around her neck. He noticed also a wooden crucifix and a necklace of braided twine.
“Okay, Dmitri. All I have to do is sign in, and we can have a look.”
The security guard joined them, smoothed a leather-bound register on a podium near the vault. “Here ya go, ma’am. Print and sign.” He winked and held out a pen.
Dmitri watched her spell out the name: Josee M. Walker.
“And this gentleman’s going in with you?” the guard inquired.
“I hope that’s okay. I asked him to come.”
“It’s your deposit box. Got your key on ya, Ms. Walker?”
“Right here.”
“Lemme see. Number 89.”
The guard’s shoes clacked on marble as he led them past a door of reinforced steel bars into the vault’s tomblike space. A gun poked from the holster on his hip. At the correct box, he inserted his master key into the left slot; when Josee did the same on the right, the door clicked open.
“All yours, ma’am. Be right out here when you’re done. Just holler.”
Dmitri made sure they were alone before turning to Josee. His hand brushed his cell phone. He angled himself so that he would be less identifiable in the camera peering down over the viewing table. Josee had the safe-deposit box open with her hand already dipped inside.
“I have it here.” She hesitated. “Why am I doing this? I hardly know you.”
“You can trust me. We are safe here in the vault.”
“What if this thing’s a fake? I’d almost rather not know.”
“We can look another day perhaps. No need to hurry, Josee.” He shrugged, hoping she was deaf to the thumping of his heart against his rib cage.
“No. I’m not gonna wait any longer. Get over here.”
He stepped to the table. Josee removed a
felt bag. Her fingers loosened the drawstring so that he saw clearly a golden eagle stamped beside the Fabergé name. Without warning, a groan escaped his lips as she brought the jeweled egg into view. Translucent turquoise enamel covered the exquisite object. Above gold cabriole legs, rose diamonds formed a glittering band around the four-inch oval shape. A garnet-encrusted stem bore the initials H.W., while other symbols marked the base.
“You think it’s the real thing?”
“Very real.”
“Tell me about it, whatever you know.”
Dmitri quelled a rush of exuberant pride. Outside, in all likelihood, Oleg was waiting to see this prize.
He will see he can trust me. He’ll have no more words to say.
Dmitri directed his energy to the task of identifying and cataloguing the treasure’s specifics. With Josee’s permission, he lifted it and pointed out assay marks engraved into the bottom. He explained St. Petersburg’s city of origin symbol and the numbers which represented the gold’s zolotnik, or carats. He told her the stem’s initials stood for Henrik Wigstrom, Fabergé’s work master at the time of the Bolshevik Revolution, and he detailed the enamel process that had been unique to the House of Fabergé.
“Don’t most of the eggs contain hidden things?”
“Da. Many are ingenious, Josee. Very crafty.”
“Well, I must be freakin’ stupid. I’ve tried, but I can’t get it to open.”
“May I try?”
She nodded.
Dmitri studied the jeweled surface, enamored by its coolness in his hands. Gertrude Ubelhaar had spoken the truth. From Russia, through the hands of the Nazis and a greedy American soldier, this object had ended up here. Nearly eighty years old and still magnificent.
He tried pushing, pulling, poking at the creation.
In the vault’s even light, he detected Cyrillic letters, hovering, almost invisible within the translucent turquoise shell. He swiveled the egg. Spelled the Russian words in his head, but they offered no obvious clues.
“What is it?” Josee asked.
“Words. You see here, very faint. They say, ‘Tmu Tarakan.’ ”
“Even as the phrase left his mouth, the solid garnet stem seemed to loosen between his fingers. He moved with it. Guided and twisted it.
… k-r-i-k-l-i-c-k …
The sound was barely audible. The stem slipped up into the egg, and the cabriole legs flattened on hidden joints. The section seated above the rose diamonds lifted upward on the center stem as four golden miniatures eased outward. They sparkled, boasting tiny diamond eyes. Yet they were somehow disturbing.
“What are they, some sort of bugs?” Josee whispered.
Dmitri furrowed his brow. “Tmu Tarakan. Some say it as one word, tmutarakan, referring to one of Russia’s remote medieval regions. Others use it to mean ‘Place of Darkness’ or ‘Kingdom of Cockroaches.’ ”
During lunch Clay hurried to the downtown police station. He and Officer Kelso referred to the August tenth targets, creating diagrams of each person’s anticipated patterns. Kelso said he was in contact with the police department in Cheyenne, Wyoming, to see what they could do about Jason. Here in JC, the police had been checking residences and job sites, fleshing out details, but at this point they’d made no specific connection between the targets. Nevertheless, an officer would be assigned to cover each individual.
Wendy, Digs, Father Patrick, and Mylisha …
“Time and money,” Kelso said. “That’s what we’re investing.”
“The lives of four citizens are at stake. Maybe more.”
“And that’s why we’ll give it a shot, Mr. Ryker. Let’s hope it’s energy well spent.”
As he drove back to Glenleaf Monument, Clay dialed Jenni’s number. The other night he had caught Jason on his way to bed, and even though this call would be abbreviated as well, Clay wanted to hear his son’s voice again.
Jenni’s in-home day-care provider answered. “Mr. Ryker? Jenni said you might call. Hold on one moment. Jason’s eating a corn dog and watching SpongeBob.”
“Daddy!”
“Jason, little buddy. How you doin’?”
“Good.”
“I wish I could be there to watch the show with you. I haven’t seen that one in ages. Not since … well, not since I moved here. I’m living with Grandpa and Grandma Ryker now. They’re not big SpongeBob fans.”
“When you movin’ back?”
“Uh, that might be a while.”
“You can bring the bus. Mommy says it’s better when husbands and wives are together. Like Adam and Eve. Not good ‘for the man to be alone.’ ”
“She said that, huh? Were you guys talking about me?”
“I dunno. I guess so. Me and Mommy’s comin’ next week.”
“Can’t wait to see you, buddy.”
“Me too.”
“I’m gonna take you to the Scandi-Fest. There’s lots of food and costumes and dancing. Mommy’s been there before.”
“She told me. She says it’s fun.”
“Listen, Jason. I love you. I have to get back to work, okay? See you soon.”
“Love you too.”
“You listen to your mother and don’t do anything too crazy.”
“I’m a big boy now.”
“Yes, you are. Bye, Jason.”
“Bye, Daddy.”
43
The Switch
“Cockroaches?” Josee shivered in the vault’s cold space.
Dmitri lifted the Fabergé artifact. The four golden cockroaches were like points of the compass, projected outward by the garnet stem’s smooth corkscrew action. Each bore a mark. A single word on its back. Dmitri swiveled the egg, reading each in turn. Once again, the ingenuity of Henrik Wigstrom’s works impressed Dmitri. He cradled the long-lost treasure with the wild-eyed look of a man possessed.
“What do those words mean?” Josee’s question snapped him back.
“Four words … ‘Black King Is Key.’ ”
“Who is the black king? What’s he the key to?”
“I don’t have an answer,” Dmitri lied. He knew he should hurry this up. He needed to escape from this vault with the 1917 Fabergé egg in hand, and only Josee Walker and the bulky security guard stood in his way.
With gentle pressure on its turquoise point, Dmitri brought the egg’s halves back together. The golden miniatures retreated into the shell, the stem twisted downward, and the cabriole legs stood straight once more, forming a delicate base. Beneath the translucent surface, the ten letters still floated. Still taunted.
Tmu Tarakan … With this, I’ll track down Rasputin’s priceless relics.
Dmitri set the object back into the felt bag, grasped the drawstring. With the hand hidden from Josee, he powered up his cell phone and slipped it into position.
“I will take the egg now,” he said.
“What? No, that’s all the help I needed. Thanks, though, I appreciate it.”
“I am not asking permission, Josee.”
“But I don’t want it leaving this vault. It’s safe here.”
“Nyet. It is not safe, and you also are not safe. I have a gun, you see? This cell phone can fire four bullets. With only one, it can kill you.”
Josee’s eyes flickered toward the vault’s entryway.
In one motion Dmitri lifted his knee onto the viewing table and launched himself upward, thrusting his fist into the watching camera; he did not need witnesses to this theft or to the murder of a young woman. The device tilted. His finger hooked a cord on his way down and sparks arced from the connection.
Josee clutched at the bag. Yelled out.
“Sarge!”
Dmitri held tight, bringing his loaded phone toward her forehead.
Pain slashed through his arm as Josee’s fingernails dug into his skin. Her other hand flew to his hair like a vicious claw. With a hollow detonation, the Maksalov weapon fired a round, hitting the vault’s corridor wall. Josee drove her head up into Dmitri’s chin so that his te
eth clamped into his tongue and colors burst before his eyes. His grip on the bag loosened.
He had never fought a woman. He did not expect such tactics.
He yelled. Then pistoned his knee into Josee’s midsection.
She fell away with a gasp, a muffled cry. And a handful of his hair. His scalp burned. He kicked at her again. She was huddled on the floor, her arms drawn in, and the felt case was nowhere to be seen.
“Sarge!”
“Give it to me!” Dmitri shouted, convinced she had it beneath her. “Or I’ll kill you!”
With one thrust, he flipped her onto her back.
“Okay,” she sputtered through her pain. “Take it.”
He snatched the bag, but the security guard was coming straight for him, gun drawn, deep-set brown eyes assessing the situation.
“Don’t move,” the guard said.
“You’re a fool to stand in my way.”
The guard aimed his gun, but with Josee on the floor he looked unsure about using it. His eyes moved to her. “You okay, kiddo?”
“He kicked me.” She winced. “No big deal, Sarge. He’s a wuss.”
“Give the lady back what belongs to her.”
Dmitri lifted the Fabergé bag. “This? Nyet. It belongs to me.”
“My grandfather gave it to me,” Josee said.
“But it’s property stolen from the Romanovs. I’m from the Brotherhood of Tobolsk.”
“Who?”
“We were commissioned to protect our rulers. We failed once. Not again.”
“The Romanovs are dead.”
“Their bloodline still flows. Here in Oregon, a descendant of the Tsars lives!”
“You’re whacked,” Josee said.
“Do you know this name? Gertrude Ubelhaar?”
Sarge and Josee exchanged glances.
“Da. You do know it.” Dmitri inched toward the vault’s marble passageway. “She’s the mother of the last Tsar. She carried a child as part of Hitler’s strategy to unite nations. I will find this man and usher in a new era for Mother Russia.”
“Sarge, what’s he talking about? Does this have to do with Stahlherz?”
Dmitri came to attention. “Stahlherz? Who is this?”
