by Alex Archer
“Yes, the site has been covered for the night. Luke and I intend to unearth the rest of the skeleton tomorrow. You get some good shots?”
“I’ll know in the morning when I can do some editing.” He yawned. “Let’s go, Annja. Today has been a long one.”
“You’re telling me.”
* * *
ANNJA DRIED OFF after her shower, and smeared the fog from the mirror with the back of her arm. Out in the other room, the two men munched more sausage and potatoes for breakfast. Doug was bent over the iPad to edit last night’s film footage, and Luke perched over the skull.
She didn’t mind the roommates, and hadn’t even thought to rent another room for herself. She could manage the expense but since no one had grumbled about sharing the room, why bother?
Now, she anticipated settling down with her laptop to research Bracks. Not that she expected to find anything on the business opportunist, but it was worth a shot.
She tugged on a T-shirt and her cargo pants, which were in need of a wash, but they’d do for another day. The hotel offered laundry service, but she’d grown accustomed to wearing her things well beyond their expiration date. Twisting her wet hair back into a ponytail, she secured it with a ribbon-wrapped elastic band, then tossed her towel onto the wet pile started by the guys, who’d had first dibs at showers. Chivalry? Ha!
Annja dove into her egg sandwich and was thankful for the orange juice Luke had mind to pick up from the grocery store when he did the run to the restaurant.
“Your jaw looks much better,” Doug commented. “That guy is an asshole. If I see him again—”
“You’ll what? Defend my honor?”
“You don’t think I’m capable?”
He was no match for Garin Braden, but Annja would never be so cruel as to say so. Very few could stand against that man. “You are, Doug. I guess chivalry isn’t dead, after all.”
Her producer beamed proudly.
“Well, this is interesting.” Luke gestured for Annja to join him at the table, and she crawled across the bed and leaned over his shoulder. With field tweezers, Luke carefully extricated a sliver of paper from inside one of two holes he’d discovered in the brick, which confirmed the find to be from the nineteenth or early twentieth century.
Annja felt Doug breathing over her shoulder. “Narrate, Annja,” he instructed, his arms holding the iPad out.
Jumping into her role, she turned to face the camera and gave details of the brick while Doug filmed Luke’s dramatic removal of the paper, which he held up so Doug could get a good shot.
“What does it say?” Doug whispered. He moved closer, nudging Luke in the back.
“You’re too close, man,” Luke protested.
“Oh.” Doug gave him the thumbs-up. “But what’s so interesting?”
“We can film this later,” Annja said. “Even reenact the removal process. Right now, we need to give Luke some space so he can look at the paper. One wrong move and he could damage it beyond repair.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Luke tossed out.
Doug set the iPad on the bed and, tucking his hands under his armpits, leaned over the desk Luke had commandeered for a lab table. The tarp was spread to catch the dirt from the skull.
Using tweezers, Luke carefully set the small coil of paper on a lab slide. “I’ll need humidity to properly unroll it.”
“Cool. How are we going to do that?” Doug wondered.
“Annja’s shower did run well into twenty minutes.”
Both men averted their gazes in a weirdly accusatory silence. What was this, the brotherhood of the shower patrol?
“I thought you were going to drown in there,” Doug finally commented. “But go, you. Now we’ve got the humidity the man needs to do his job.”
“That’s me,” she said, “always foreseeing the future.”
Luke carefully carried the slide into the bathroom, and Doug settled beside Annja to show her the footage he’d edited so far. He was good, she had to admit. Even using a device not designed for film work, he’d managed to get some great mood shots of the full moon silhouetted by dark, spindly tree branches, and the eerie forest shots were perfect. He camped it up with a running sequence, as if the person holding the camera was being chased, but she liked that, as well.
“When do you put on the fangs and ask me to chase after you with that fancy stake of yours?” she asked slyly.
“Annja, would you do that?” Doug handed her the iPad and stood, looking around the room. “Where are my fangs?”
“I was just kidding, Doug,” she said.
“Yeah, but I’m not. Give me a second to find my fangs!”
Grabbing her cell phone, she excused herself to get out of the room, and once again attempted to call Garin.
Chapter 11
A black taxi dropped Garin off at the corner down from his destination. Strolling the sidewalk that fronted a neighborhood of brick houses, his eyes shifted side to side and his strides moved his head occasionally to take in the periphery. The Chelsea neighborhood wasn’t far from the bustle of London’s city center. It had been bohemian in the sixties and punk in the seventies—its heyday—but now it was a quiet, wealthy area that offered the odd private business such as the massage salon he was currently passing, and the Happy Aging Clinic next door to it.
The day was growing long, but it wasn’t yet closing time. The next brownstone featured a small brass plaque on the iron gate that announced Middleston Antiques: Private Queries Only. Not what he was looking for, but it could be a clever front, and this was the address listed on the business card.
Garin shoved open the unlocked gate and strode up the brick steps to knock loudly on the door. He didn’t wait for an answer, and pushed open the door. The mood in the small reception area was subdued, furnished as it was in dark wood and Berber carpeting. An Adele song whispered out of the overhead speakers.
The receptionist pressed her black-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “Oh, Mr. Thurman?”
“Yes,” Garin replied, sliding a palm down the immaculate cut of his Armani suit. He’d stopped to catch a few hours of sleep and purchase some new clothing after the flight last night. The Ritz was always top-notch, and catered to him as if he was a king.
The business card had brought him—Mr. Thurman—here. Now, to learn what was up.
“We’ve been waiting. Though you are a bit early.”
“Wasn’t sure how long it would take to get here.”
“I understand, you being from Germany.”
She had that one right. “Exactly.”
“The goods have arrived and we’re just now authenticating them for the ritual. If you’ll come with me?”
“Of course.” The ritual?
He strode after the squat secretary whose nylons shushed with each step that brushed thigh against thigh. The goods were presumably the items in the white cooler. But the mention of a ritual clogged the back of Garin’s throat. He felt a little sick. Nothing good came of rituals.
There were four doors down the hallway, two on each side, and he noted the distinct odor of disinfectant. Taking a deep breath, he couldn’t place any other scents, and didn’t know what to expect. He was shown into a small, spartan room with two chairs and a stainless-steel sideboard. Much like a doctor’s exam room, without the hazardous waste disposal and rubber gloves.
“Will this take long?” he asked. “I have dinner reservations.”
“Not at all, Mr. Thurman. I’ll send someone in to process your purchase momentarily.” Closing him in the room, the secretary shushed away.
“Not feeling good about this,” he muttered. “Wonder where Mr. Thurman is?”
Obviously they hadn’t expected anyone but Mr. Thurman to arrive. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have so willingly in
vited him in, and without so much as an ID check.
If Annja were here, she would have never allowed them to be closed in this tiny room. Of course, she would have already called the police by now, which is why he’d had to knock her out. Bet she sported a beauty of a bruise. He could only feel a modicum of guilt for that.
Garin put his finger to his lips, and visually scoured the corners of the room. It could be bugged, even outfitted with a camera. He rotated his head on his neck, tilting it side to side. Antsy, he shook out his arms and began to pace.
There were no clues he could get from the room, or the little he had seen walking from the reception area and down the hallway. The smell bothered him. He wondered if some kind of medical shenanigans took place in any of the other rooms. It was the obvious guess, having seen what was contained in the cooler.
He needed to take a look in the other rooms. And the best way to do that would be...?
Garin opened the door to find himself face-to-face with a tall, thin Indian man holding a titanium box against his gut as if it were a prized relic. In fact, the box was decorated with arabesques and tiny red jewels that reminded Garin of Moorish design from centuries past.
“Mr. Thurman, I’ve got some instructions for the ritual. You have the cash?” he asked Garin.
Smoothly, Garin slid his hand inside his coat and produced the black envelope he’d received at the exchange. “We had agreed to...?”
“Five large,” the Indian man said huffily. “Hand it over.”
The exchange was made, and the man gingerly handed Garin the box. It wasn’t heavy, the only weight, he guessed, produced by the case itself. He decided against shaking it to see if anything rattled about. Was there a human organ inside? If so, he was breaking too many laws right now, and would not look.
“It must be tonight,” the other man said quickly. “Beneath the full moon. We’ve already emailed the ritual to the address you provided on your application.”
“Yes, of course,” Garin said.
“I cannot express how important it is to follow the ritual to the letter. If you wish to receive your greatest desire, then you must be fierce and bold. Do not be repulsed by the ritual.”
Now that didn’t sound like something he wanted to give a try. “I have a few questions first.”
“Ah? But those should have all been answered in the emails. I don’t do customer service, Mr. Thurman.” The man’s brow was rimmed with sweat beads. “I merely act as liaison, as you have been clearly told. You did read the emails?”
“Er, yes.”
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Mr. Thurman. I’ve just one more thing.”
He left the room and closed the door behind him, leaving Garin staring at the silver box. His thumbs worried at the raised decoration. He suddenly felt as if he were standing in the middle of a gun range, all barrels aimed directly at his head. Open, exposed, he didn’t feel right holding the mysterious box, yet he hadn’t brought anything along to put it in.
The idea of looking inside seemed obvious, but apparently he was supposed to have been informed, in an email, no less, about what was inside and what to do with it. And to follow the repulsive ritual to the letter. Whatever organ or blood he’d carried in the cooler was now inside this box; he knew that with strange certainty.
And it was time to start asking questions of the good doctor and his receptionist. Palming the pistol holster under his left arm, with his other hand clutching the silver box, he tried the doorknob. It was locked. Garin jammed his hip against the door but felt no give.
“Dead bolted from the other side,” he said. “Guess they figured out I’m not Mr. Thurman.”
Garin scanned the room, his eyes tracing along the ceiling and floorboards. No windows, either. Again, he charged the door, knowing it was going to hurt like hell. He swore. The door didn’t budge.
And now he smelled smoke.
Not the kindest way to put a man down.
“The bolts,” he said, looking around the room for a tool to use to pry out the hinge bolts, but there wasn’t much to search. A file cabinet, which was empty, and two chairs.
Setting the box on the floor, he grabbed one of the aluminum-legged chairs, inverted it and banged it up under the highest hinge. Unsure he wanted to open the door if he could hear the fire—he might open the door to a flaming wall—he continued to pound at the bolt. The first bolt popped free and landed on the carpeted floor with a muted thud. The next quickly followed.
He touched the door carefully, finding it wasn’t hot, but smoke purled under the bottom in a creepy wisp.
“Good thing I’m hard to kill.”
Yet if he inhaled the smoke, the oxygen deprivation could knock him out. And if the building burned, he’d be burned along with it, and, longevity aside, he didn’t want to test his ability to survive a blaze and recover from third-degree burns. He wore scars from injuries over the years, but he’d never tested fire. Not like Joan had. And after witnessing her death so many years ago, he never wanted to test it.
Besides, if the scars had stayed with him, so would the burns.
Using the hinges to pull the door inward released spumes of choking smoke into the room. Flames glanced at his legs as he rushed out of the room. Down the hallway where he’d wanted to investigate is where the fire had originated. But it was creeping along the bend where the floor met the wall, all the way up to reception. They must have laid down gasoline.
He cleared reception and ran out through the front door and immediately veered around the side of the building and to the back in case they were still there, waiting to count the casualties. The windows on this side of the building were already letting out smoke. He could see flames, as well.
Splaying his hands open, Garin realized he’d left the box inside.
“Damn it.”
The box was the only evidence that something shady had been going on here, and a feeble tie to Bracks, at best. He could go back for it, but the flames had already entered the room he’d been in.
He pulled out his cell phone, and dialed the London emergency number. He was not going to get any information now, and he worried the houses were so closely spaced it wouldn’t be long before the flames jumped to the next building. He reported a fire and gave the address, and decided he had about five minutes, tops, to get the hell away from the scene.
At the back, a tight alleyway marked with black tire treads revealed signs that someone had left in a hurry. Garin swore again.
“What the hell are you up to, Bracks?”
* * *
LUKE DROVE THE Jeep toward the dig site. In the back seat, Doug filmed the scenery. They’d muddled over the brick for most of the afternoon. Annja had made no headway in searching for information online about Bracks.
They’d decided to head back to the site before the sun set so Doug could get some local flavor shots. Later he would dub the narration into the edited footage, but he liked to record while filming, as well. There was a lot Luke didn’t know about what went into producing a television show, so he soaked it all up.
Of course, Doug wasn’t a cameraman or a film editor. But even Annja had to agree some of his footage wasn’t bad. He clearly knew enough to get by.
Quite the pair, these two.
Annja sat in the passenger seat, her focus on the laptop. The vehicle hit a rut, jogging Doug so that Luke grasped quickly over the seat, caught the man’s shirt and managed to yank him back to safety before he keeled headfirst out of the vehicle.
“Would you buckle up back there?” he said.
“Can’t get a good angle if I do that.” Doug did shift back onto the seat and, turning, began to film behind them.
That wasn’t where the action was, though. When Annja saw the black smoke billowing into the clear gray sky on the horizon, her heart sank and she swore. �
�Step on it,” she directed.
“What’s that?” Doug slid to face forward over the passenger seat. “Is that the dig site? There’s a fire! Hurry up, man. This is going to be good!”
Rolling her eyes at the man’s macabre enthusiasm, Annja gripped the row bar as Luke stepped on the accelerator. The bumpy road tossed them in their seats and the trowels and buckets in the back clattered. As they rolled onto the grounds before the dig site, Annja spotted the usual crowd.
A man stood out, holding a lit torch and shouting in triumph as he spied the Range Rover. The three hopped out.
“Guess they don’t have flashlights in the Czech Republic, eh?” Doug said, clearly delighted to see a burning torch. “Can either of you see anybody waving a pitchfork? That would be the money shot.”
“Do you know who that is?” Luke asked, ignoring him.
“Do you?” Annja saw that the guy with the torch wore a black T-shirt with some kind of death metal logo on it, but he didn’t look familiar.
“It’s the American hawker who was selling stakes and garlic,” Doug said. “What the hell?”
Luke stalked up to the man in the T-shirt. “You’ve destroyed an archaeological dig. I will notify the authorities and this won’t go well for you. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“We slayed the vampire, man!” the American shouted, and fisted the air. “As for the mullos over there...” The seller crossed his arms and nodded in pride. “They aren’t going to rise again any time soon.”
“Rise again? They’ve never risen!” Luke kicked the dirt. “I’m surprised at you. Is this how you increase your sales? By erasing the reason for selling the stakes in the first place?”
“I know these people. They needed a hero,” the man shouted. Another fist thrust rallied his odd crew of followers.
Luke punched the man in the jaw, and he went down without another word.
At that moment, another man appeared from out of the forest. The one who wore a sword on his back. He looked at Luke, who held up his fists ready in defense, then shouted for answers.
