by Tom Bont
“Who has the kind of skill to produce something like that?”
“Me, maybe a dozen other people around the world,” Mark guessed. “But even we would have a hard time. The tree to make the shafts went extinct over 500 years ago.”
Angela pulled out a custody transfer form. “Thanks for your help. I’ll need the arrow back.” She had a mental flash from Raiders of the Lost Ark and a large warehouse full of Greek arrows. “And that list of names. You can use this email address here.” She handed him her business card.
“No problem,” he agreed with a large smile. “It’s in the spectroscopy lab.” He held the door open for them to follow him.
They headed down the hallway to another room. Mark unlocked the door, and Angela stared around at what could have been a scene from a 1960s science fiction show. Computer screens populated half a dozen desks. Cables ran from behind them, up along the walls, and converged in the middle of the ceiling where they dropped down to a large, off-white metal box. “This is the mass spectrometer.” Numerous smaller contraptions hung off the larger box where colored lights blinked off and on. He pushed a few buttons on the side and the large door on the main box opened.
It was empty.
Mark stared at the barren interior before stepping back and scanning the laboratory. “I don’t understand. It was here this morning,” he said, concern blanching his face.
Angela and Danny wandered around the lab and lifted sheets of paper here and there and looked for the arrow while Mark opened up cabinets. “I personally saw the arrow this morning. Other than me, a couple of graduate students have a key, but they’re not scheduled to work today. Well, security has one too, but they never come down here.”
“You have a security camera?”
He snapped his fingers “Yes, I do! Lots of expensive machinery. Insurance demanded it.” He pulled up a screen on one of the computers, and they spent the next two hours scanning through the various camera feeds.
Four hours earlier, the screen flashed white as if a bright flare lit up the room. When the image cleared, a woman dressed in hunting attire reminiscent of the Ben Hur movie stood there. Flowing hair rippled down and around her breasts in a non-existent breeze. She elegantly brushed the length of it back over her shoulder as she strode across the room, her face a bright smudge.
Squinting at the image, Danny asked, “Can’t you clean that up a bit so we can see her face?”
Fiddling with the controls, Mark made confused and frustrated noises as nothing he did cleared the screen. The woman took the arrow from the large stainless-steel chamber, and in another blinding flash of light, she was gone. The entire picture was clear, except the smudges in the video obscuring her face.
Mark slid back into his chair, crossed his arms, and tugged at his earlobe. “You know, we were joking a few minutes ago about Artemis being alive. But seeing that woman?” He pointed at the screen; complete awe etched his face. “That is exactly how I would expect her to be dressed.”
Later that evening, sitting at her desk, Angela reviewed a report from Michigan. The Michigan field office had captured Wallace Ingraham and brought him in for questioning. He fessed up to selling drugs out of his office—explaining why he rabbited when the word spread the FBI was there—but not to murder. They were convinced of his innocence due to his airtight alibi. His uncle had passed away, and forty mourners all vouched for his presence at the funeral on the same day Lisa Reilly had been killed. After the events at the museum, she was convinced they were hunting for a woman anyway.
She badgered the tech department to get some decent facial shots from the video, but they claimed there wasn’t enough to work with. The techs insisted the light where her face should have been was real. She sighed and sent an APB and a BOLO to all field offices in the continental U.S. She resisted calling the woman Artemis, but that was their working name until they had an actual suspect.
Suspect. We’re dealing with someone who’s probably a Greek goddess, for Christ’s sake, and we’re calling her a suspect.
Angela knew what everyone would say when they saw the pictures of the woman in her costume even if the face was smudged out—the same thing she would have said before being assigned to Task Force W. To-ga! To-ga!
Let the ribbing commence.
Angela was careful not to let the glass and wood frame door slam shut behind her. The Arlington winds were blustery, and she didn’t want the rickety door to shatter on impact. A cardboard sign on the back of the door read, “Thanks for visiting The Dusty Spine bookstore.” The fragrances of mildew, old glue, paper, and spilled coffee greeted her as she pushed it shut.
A young man with black hair, brown eyes, and more ink on him than a tattoo parlor wall sat behind a worn-out wooden counter flipping covers on a stack of books and making notes in a notepad. At the sound of the door closing, he looked up. “Can I help you?”
“Maybe,” Angela said. “I’m looking for some information on Greek gods.” She held up the book in her hand. “And more books by Mr. Lovecraft here?”
“Mister Lovecraft.” A welcoming smile lit his face as his gaze drifted to the book. “I see you’re a recent convert.” His smile was genuine, and his voice wavered to the tenor.
“How can you tell?”
“That book looks brand new.” He stepped around the corner to greet her. He wore sandals and shorts, and tattoos decorated his legs too. “And nobody,” he teased, “would refer to Lovecraft with such an honorific. The man was nuts. A genius of horror, but nuts.” He held his hand out politely and raised his forehead as he tilted his head at the book. “May I?”
Angela handed the book over, and he flipped through it. “No brown thumb marks on the pages, no coffee stains. Tsk, tsk, tsk. You read it so fast, it didn’t have time to cure properly.”
Angela couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve always been a fast reader.”
“A fast reader.” He flipped to the front cover. “And a repeat customer. Thanks! I predict a lucrative relationship here.” He winked at her.
“I bought it a couple of weeks ago.”
“Let’s see if my salesman skills are as good as I think they are. Follow me.” He took off down an aisle of tall bookshelves at a brisk pace. “I’m Randy, by the way. Randy Tracer.”
“I’m Angela.” She struggled to keep up with him. He wasn’t that much taller than her, but his long strides ate up the floor in a methodical, practiced way.
“Did you like it? The book?” he asked over his shoulder.
She hadn’t considered whether she liked it or not. She liked to read, and her tastes did tend towards the paranormal, but reading it was less about the potential for enjoyment than it was for research from her last case. She thought about it— “Yes, I did. Thanks.”
“No problemo.” He stopped when he got to a shelf with an entire collection of Lovecraft books. “I’ll let Tiffany know she picked out a good one for you.”
Tiffany was the young girl who’d sold her the book on her first visit. “Is she your sister? Y’all look alike.”
“Sister?” His eyes twinkled, and his mouth split open into a wide grin. “No, she’s my daughter. But thanks for the compliment.”
“Daughter?” she exclaimed. “Well, you’re holding onto it!”
“Must be the tattoos.” He grinned.
“You own the store then?”
“Yes. It used to be my wife, Lucy, and me. She died a few years back. It’s just Tif and me now with the occasional high school or college help.”
“Sorry.”
“Thanks, but it’s okay.” He ran his finger along the spines of a series of Lovecraft books. “Let’s see. Most of his books are collections of short stories. Need to find one without a bunch of duplicates from the one you just read.” He stopped when he came to one named Dream Cycle and pulled it off the shelf. “This one’s got some good stories in it. You should like it.”
Angela took the book, scanned the front and back. “I don’t suppose he’s ever writte
n about something called the Forsaken Dweller, has he?”
Before he had the chance to answer, a young woman squealed in surprise and a loud crash from an aisle over startled them. “Tif!?” he yelled, concern in his tensed-up shoulders. With a start, he bellowed, “Watch out!” as the bookshelf fell towards them. Angela crouched and prepared to jump to the side, when he hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her to the floor, landing on top of her and shielding her from the avalanche of books. Luckily, the heavy wooden shelf leaned against the wall and stayed there.
When the last of the books finished toppling around them, he slowly lifted himself off her. “You okay?” They kept eye contact the whole time as they sat up.
He hadn’t been on her long, but his scent still lingered and left her with a brief flash of him giving her a backrub. She shook the thoughts away and did a quick check of arms and legs. Other than a few minor bumps, “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks. You, though—” Blood ran down his forehead. She grabbed his hand and pressed it against the wound. “Hold it here. Where’s your first aid kit?”
“Tif, you okay?” He scanned around looking for his daughter. “Should be some bandages behind the counter.” He crawled for the end. “Tif!?”
“I’m okay, Dad,” she answered. “Sorry!”
“What the hell were you doing…?”
When Angela got back with the box of bandages and some sanitized wipes, Tiffany was standing in front of her dad with a chastised look on her face. “Well?” he demanded from his daughter.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she whispered. “I was on a ladder. I heard you two talking. I eavesdropped. Leaned too close to the shelf.”
“Why were you eavesdropping?”
Angela let them sort it out. She took out a couple of the wipes, blotted his forehead, and put a butterfly bandage on it.
“Maybe I should leave,” she offered.
“No, don’t do that,” he begged. “Are you gonna sue?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m okay. Accidents happen, right?” She questioned Tiffany with a stare.
The young woman sighed. “My dad hasn’t laughed like that since mom died. I got nosy.”
Both Angela’s and Randy’s faces flushed.
“Oh,” Angela uttered. “Sorry.”
Randy softly ran his fingers over his bandage and looked at the shelf. “This is going to take all day to sort out. Get started, young lady. Your bowling party is canceled.”
“Dad!”
“We’re not leaving tonight until we’ve righted everything, Tif.” He turned back to Angela. “You were asking something when my personal hurricane interrupted.”
Angela thought back. “Oh, yeah! Forsaken Dweller. Has Lovecraft ever written about it?”
Randy puckered his lips to the side and frowned. “Not that I’m aware of. Sounds like something from his mythos though. Leave some contact information, and I’ll check for you.”
“Okay, thanks.” She cradled her new book close to her chest.
“No problemo,” he replied. “In fact, if you want, I’ll trade you this one—” he held up the other book she’d brought in “—for that one.”
Angela tilted her head to the side. “How do you stay in business making deals like that?”
The twinkle in his eyes returned. “Least I can do for dropping my store on you.”
Angela laughed. He did have a sweet smile. “Okay. Sure.”
“Good.” He slipped the book under his arm. “Anything else I can help you…oh, that’s right. Greek gods. Anyone in particular?”
“Artemis?”
“She’s my favorite. Early supporter of women’s suffrage. D’you know that?”
“I know she didn’t put up with uppity menfolk,” Angela teased.
“Ha! That’s one way to put it. But you have to appreciate how immature the Greek gods were compared to the Romans’.” Angela’s confusion must have shown. “I take it you’ve never raised a teenager.” He glanced over at his daughter as she piled books against the outer walls. “No? A friend of mine, Scott, explained the difference one day over a bottle of Fighting Cock. The Greeks and Romans shared gods and goddesses. Different names, but the same jokers were always sticking their noses in man’s business. Scott theorized the only difference between the two versions was the Roman ones had gone through puberty; they weren’t as childish as they’d been three centuries earlier. He thinks that explains why the Roman Empire was so much larger. The gods were tougher. I don’t buy the theory, though I do agree with him on their maturity levels. In either case, I’ve got a whole shelf on Greek mythology.” He spun around and took off at a quick walk, stepping over spilled piles of books. “If it’s still standing. Tally Ho!”
Angela put the book to her nose and inhaled the scent of book paper as she tried to keep up with him.
Angela placed a pile of reports on Kent’s desk. “Here’re the follow-ups from those chupacabra sightings.”
He grimaced at the stack. “Got a shorter version?”
Angela pointed at the stack. “That is the short version. DNA report also came back. Part dog. Part pig. Someone’s gene-splicing.”
Kent took a sip of coffee from his Ohio State Buckeyes mug and leaned back in his chair. “I saw Danny came back from Orlando a few days ago. Haven’t seen him around the office though. Where’s he been?”
“Down in the tech department.” She sat down. “He’s been giving the guys hell for calling it quits on the museum video restoration so fast. He’s a closet nerd, by the sounds of it.”
A soft ping from Kent’s computer interrupted her.
He set his cup down and clicked his mouse a few times. He turned the monitor around for her.
A flush zipped up her neck as she stared at the face on the screen. Her phone beeped. “Hollingsworth.” She put it on speakerphone.
Danny’s voice echoed back. “Have you opened the picture yet?”
“Yeah. Kent and I are in his office looking at it now.”
“Who is it?” Kent wanted to know, frowning at the picture.
“You’re probably going to fire us,” Angela groaned, “but that is Diana Mastier, ACME Insurance Underwriter’s Comptroller.”
Kent resized the picture, so it filled his entire screen.
“I can’t believe we stood two feet from her, Danny,” Angela ground out.
“Me either,” he grumbled.
“That’s Artemis.” Kent blinked and pursed his lips. “Danny, anything in your history about the moon goddess affecting your lupus infection?”
“Hmm. Like what happened in Michigan when I was around her? No, sir. Voodoo witches have been known to cast spells that can interfere with it, though.”
“Voodoo’s real?” Angela asked.
“It’s all real, Agent,” Kent said, as if the distraction was an annoyance, “until we find out it isn’t.”
“So, we’re gonna accept this, too?” she demanded, standing straight. “She’s the moon goddess until we find out otherwise?”
“Correct.” Kent ordered, “I’ll issue an arrest warrant.” He picked his cup of coffee back up. “Danny, thank your new friends down there.”
“Oh, they’re most happy with the result. Or should I say, they’re happy I’m leaving.”
A few minutes later, Danny hopped into the gang room with a soda in his hand.
Angela stared at the can as he set it on his desk. “Soda,” she muttered.
“What was that?” Danny asked.
“Soda,” she repeated. “Diana didn’t say pop. When you left us in her office. She said soda. People from Michigan say pop, not soda. I didn’t catch it at the time. She’s not a Grand Rapids native.”
Angela and Kent forwarded the restored pictures to Michigan. What they got back didn’t make them happy. Diana quit the same afternoon she’d met with them, packed a suitcase, and drove off. She left her cell phone on her kitchen table. They located her car at the airport. No cameras showed her anywhere near the terminal though.
“Dig into her past,” Kent ordered. “Find out everything you can.”
ACME Protection Underwriters sent over their files on her. Diana Mastier, or at least the woman everyone knew as Diana Mastier, didn’t exist before eight years ago, one week before ACME had hired her. All of her references were bogus and no longer traceable. Angela refused to believe she’d only been working at ACME for eight years, not with all the connections between the victims.
With dead ends stacking up like cordwood, Angela pulled out her remaining bullet. She instructed the onsite ERT techs to scan for any information on any other women working at ACME who quit or retired shortly before Diana hired on there. Two folders appeared in her inbox within the hour. The first one was Sabrina Garcia. Her Hispanic features ruled her out. The other one, Diana Imarets, didn’t look like her either. She’d worked there for 25 years before retirement.
Same first name, but Diana is not uncommon.
Angela didn’t like coincidences, but the two women didn’t look anything alike to the naked eye. She set them off to the side, typed their names into her report, and stopped, her finger wavering above her mouse before she saved the file. She stared at her screen and muttered, “No way!” She grabbed the book on Greek mythology she’d bought at the Dusty Spine and opened it to a page near the center.
“Danny, listen to this: ‘Sometimes, when the gods wished to walk among men, they would change their names to a riddle, for instance, rearranging the letters. If a mortal ever figured out the deception, they were usually granted a boon.’” She slid the pictures over to him.
He picked them up and read the names. First one, then the other, and back to the first one. “Mastier. Imarets.” He laughed aloud. “Artemis. Didn’t Canard say Diana was the Roman version of her?”
“Yeah.”
He took the two pictures back down to the tech department, much to their chagrin, and ran a facial recognition batch. There was a greater than 93% probability it was the same woman. The bone structure was near identical.
