by P. W. Child
He had always preferred to be visible, an active and pleasant participant in whatever little universe he was infiltrating. It served him well when the proverbial feces hit the fan too, because he would be just another face in the crowd, without being perceived a stranger. Without the label of outsider, Jonathan could easily join the mob of astonished onlookers to the very operations he facilitated.
Dr. Nina Gould would be one of his easiest assignments thus far, he reckoned, because she had no social support system and she was by no means close to her neighbors, isolating her beautifully from those who could have made alarm had she gone missing. He had been watching her for a mere three days and yet she had only spoken to two individuals, if you counted the big orange cat at home. Beck found her fascinating to watch, not only because she was beautiful, but because she had such a peculiar way of doing things.
It was a pity, he thought, to disrupt the life of such an engaging woman for the sake of ensnaring someone else, but that was what he was paid to do and he had a reputation to keep. Times like these made him second guess his choice of career since he had resigned from the government, although the atrocities he had to perform and accept did not dwindle in magnitude against that which he was paid to do when in service at MI5.
Jonathan had only three more days to deliver David Purdue or the woman to Joseph Karsten and the Order of the Black Sun, otherwise he would surely join the fate of the billionaire explorer. Either way, Beck had no choice in what was to come. Walking down the main street he visited the florist, the butcher, and the local soup kitchen before having lunch at one of the diners, claiming that he was moving to Oban and looking for the best neighborhood to buy a home. The latter was Beck's favorite lie of all, making him seem nice and helpless while he charmed his way into the hearts of the people here.
It didn’t take him long to get invited to church after he beguiled the owner, Mrs. Hennessey, at the diner. Jonathan Beck had a special smile that exuded confidence and resourcefulness, the very two things mercenaries never lacked. He played his apple pie, dimple-cheek role splendidly to move closer to his prey. Beck sat sipping his Earl Grey in the diner, peering through the large window beside his table, the sea breeze bringing in saline air to the glass and making it hard to see through in detail. Looking at the passers by who each had their own mundane agenda for the day, he could not help but revel at the remarkable ease with which Dr. Nina Gould had strolled right into his web.
When the rather observant priest had spotted him, Beck had just tapped Nina's landline, gaining access to all communication running via the line, including her e-mail correspondence. He had also managed to hack into her cell phone service provider to locate her while sending all call information to his assistant at his office in Paisley, just a few miles south-west of Glasgow.
Maria Winslet, Beck's assistant and current lover, was running his covert office and keeping track of all digital and satellite taps he managed from several of his assignments, most of which involved merely basic intelligence gathering. Still, he kept her involvement secret from all his clients as a fail-safe for both of them. If he went missing there would be someone who knew who he had been dealing with, leaving a trail to rescue him from. At the same time, keeping her a ghost would not only protect her against the bad people her partner worked for, but also cover their bases in case they had to flee for their lives. Even without Maria's watching eye, though, Dr. Gould's presence made their mission easy.
But he was not prepared to share his windfall with his employer; oh no, because that would diminish Karsten's appreciation for him. It had to have looked like a feat of grand difficulty to have apprehended Dr. Gould. For now, he was going to bide his time until night when he intended to bag the pretty academic. He knew that she was at the church and that after this she would head home, a delightfully uneventful life that suited him perfectly.
***
“So, Dr. Gould, have you been playing long?” one of the snobs asked. She was a tiny, mousy creature with large brown eyes, not unlike Nina's own. Her name was Sylvia Beach and she’d fallen into the Oban Bitch Society by accident when she married the mayor's personal physician, Lance. Before that, she’d been an intern at Edinburgh's stately Napolitan Medical Research Facility, a prestigious organization for the education of the next generation of medical specialists. Nina guessed that this was where she’d met Lance Beach while he’d been on one of his lecturing tours in 2012.
“I started piano lessons when I was eight, but I haven’t played much since I was fourteen.” Nina felt obliged to participate in the impromptu conversation. Sylvia was an unintentional shrew. It wasn’t her fault that she’d ended up playing for the fishwife league. “But I confess that I’ve forgotten most of the pieces I used to play by second nature.”
The solitary Sylvia smiled genuinely as Nina rolled through the keys of various hymns and old laments she could rip from her carefully buried past as a young girl. Father Harper stood by listening in awe.
“By the sounds of it, you haven’t forgotten a thing,” Sylvia praised. She seemed truly captivated by Nina's playing, although she admitted that she herself had not a musical bone in her body.
“Thanks,” Nina smiled, trying hard not to surrender to the warm pleasantries of her former prowess and the exaltation that used to come with it. She didn’t want to get involved with this part of Oban again, so she kept her answers guarded and her humble thanks to reserved brief statements. A few mistakes later she halted her attempt and sighed, “Father, I’ll need some serious practice before tomorrow's funeral. I have the sheets at home.”
“Would you like to go and get them?” he asked. “Nina, we would appreciate it very much. If you wish, you’re welcome to practice here as long as it takes. I’m still going to be doing some administration in my office downstairs so you can practice until late.”
“I can come with you when you fetch the music sheets, Dr. Gould,” Sylvia offered.
“Oh no, please, there is no need for that,” Nina quickly objected as kindly as she could. But with the priest's urging she really had no choice but to take the latest member of the bitch squad with her. Father Harper spoke under his breath to remind Nina, “Just in case you’re being watched again, Nina. Take Mrs. Beach with you. You never know what wolves are salivating out there in this wicked world of ours.”
And so Nina and Sylvia drove to the historical house the historian owned to retrieve the music sheets for the funeral. It alarmed Nina how she was suddenly attending so many funerals after going through two decades without religion, church, or services pertaining to religious ceremony or dogma. She made a mental note not to allow the world of religion to seep through into her life and corrupt her as it had so many of her family and friends long ago before she found her purpose in life by pursuing true accounts of events that presented proof in archaeology and history.
“Here we are,” Nina announced when they stopped in front of her house. “I'll be quick.”
“Don't be silly,” Sylvia replied. “I’m coming with you.”
“My house is a mess,” Nina warned as she fled up the walk to her porch, keys at the ready.
“I have three children under the age of eight, Dr. Gould. Your messy house will not scare me,” Sylvia chuckled.
“Alright, then,” Nina cocked her head as she unlocked her front door. “It's your funeral.”
Pausing momentarily, the two women fully grasped the ironic humor in Nina's statement before laughing. Feeling guilty, they both brought it down to an apologetic giggle as they entered Nina's home.
“I'll be back in two shakes,” Nina said, and she made for the side hallway that led up to her once grisly little attic, now stylishly converted into a proper archive and library she often used as a study. In her wake Nina could hear Sylvia Beach befriend the cat, her high pitched gibberish permeating through the lobby and kitchen under Nina's floor where she was rummaging through her old music books and loose compositions.
“What’s his name, Nina?” the doctor's wife crie
d.
“Bruichladdich!” Nina called down. “Bruich, for short!”
Suddenly the mousy woman appeared on Nina's upper star landing, cuddling Sam's cat. Quizzically, she asked, “You named him after whiskey?”
“Aye,” Nina chuckled, “but it wasn't me. He belongs to my friend, Sam. I’m just cat-sitting for a bit. Sam loves whiskey almost as much as he loves his cat. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”
“Ha!” Sylvia exclaimed, pacing about the attic as she stroked Bruich's lavish coat under her well groomed fingers. “This is a lovely old house. They say it’s haunted. They say it used to belong to a warlock and that something out of H.P. Lovecraft lives under it. I’ve always wanted to see this house on the inside, Dr. Gould,” she confessed. “I have to admit it is part of the reason why I wanted to come with you.”
“Howard Lovecraft is my favorite fiction author, you know?” Nina admitted
, smiling and winking at her new acquaintance as she collected the sheets she’d finally located. Had it not been for semantics, the accusations toward her home may very well have been accurate, but such truth was something reserved for the less impressionable. “It’s only haunted by me and the cat, Mrs. Beach, but then again, I believe that it is the mind of the individual that fuels their perception. Maybe I just don't encounter specters because I deny them. Maybe they are here, for those who summon them by belief.” She held up the papers. “Got the music pieces.”
Sylvia put the cat down with a wavering nod. “Right, I'm spooked. Let's go.”
Just before they exited the lobby Nina's home phone rang. Perplexed, she frowned at the phenomenon. She used the line mainly for Internet access, although it was a phone line too. In all the time she’d lived here Nina had received no more than two phone calls on it. In fact, she was amazed that anyone would even have this number. She excused herself and while Sylvia waited outside in the midday sun Nina answered the mostly ornate device.
“Nina?” she heard a female voice on the receiver. “Is that Nina Gould?”
“Aye, this is she. Who is this?” she asked the caller.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe I got hold of you! Your cell phone number is inactive, did you know?” the woman said.
“I am aware,” Nina answered. “Listen, who is this?”
“Oh, oh, sorry. This is Joanne Earle. Doubt you'll remember me,” the woman said. “I was an undergrad at…”
“No way! Jo, I remember you!” Nina exclaimed. “We did our PhD in Modern History together, right?”
“That's right!” Joanne cheered. “That was me. Listen, I believe you are a lecturer and freelance historical adviser.”
“Aye,” Nina affirmed. “I’m based in Oban and Edinburgh. Where are you now?”
A brief moment of silence passed before Joanne replied in a hushed tone. “Listen, Nina. I can't really talk now, but is there any way you can get to Labrador, Canada anytime soon?”
“How soon?” Nina asked, keeping an eye on Sylvia outside while getting her coat and shouldering her bag.
“Um, the first chance you get?” Joanne requested. “I am not sure of this, but that is why I need you to come and clarify it for me. I believe I have found a very valuable piece of history while on a school field trip here. This could be huge or it could be nothing, but I need an expert's opinion, and I cannot take the risk of e-mailing a picture of what I found.”
Nina was hooked. “Jo, what is it you think you found?”
“It could be nothing, as I said,” Joanne whispered. “But it might be a piece from the Treasure.”
Nina's interest was arrested. “Which treasure?”
Joanne whispered, “The Treasure of Alexander the Great.”
Chapter 8 – Beware of the Camel's Nose
Two hours later, two hours after the fateful call had been placed to Dr. Nina Gould's home phone, a dark figure exited a large vehicle only two houses down from her residence. It was time to scoop her up and Beck was ready to get it done swiftly and with as little commotion as possible. In his gloved right hand he held a bottle of chloroform, clutched tightly as he watched Nina park her car. It was dark and foggy, perfectly set for what he was planning.
The private investigator in him now stepped aside for the covert enforcer, and as Nina stepped onto her porch, fumbling with her keys, he moved quickly through the hazy ghost of the street light in front of her house. Waves of mist clouded his stealing shape as he turned onto the walk and crept up, hastening so that she would not leave him locked out once she’d entered. Beck had to move faster, resorting to a crouching jog as she opened the door.
Rapidly his footfalls sped up to make it in time. Surely she would notice her assailant and no doubt scream if she saw him in the bright porch light before he could seize her. Thanks to the weather conditions of the evening, Beck could not fail to apprehend Dr. Gould before she knew what hit her. But this was no average woman he was trying to capture. Unlike previous missions, where his targets were to be seized alive, and mostly, unharmed, Beck did not realize that such an apparently harmless lady could be so alert to her surroundings.
Feeling something amiss, she turned to survey the path that led from the car to the porch, finding his large silhouette right there, much as the priest towered in black on the very same porch in the very same way. Beck was met with a taser, shoved hard into his inner thigh.
“Oh, for fuck's sake!” he groaned just before the voltage was pushed through him. As he lost control of his bladder, the electrical surge of the device ripped through his nervous system and shut down any muscular function he thought he had.
What she did not know, however, was that her stalker had been trained by Special Forces and was not particularly susceptible to the perils of most weapons unless they involved some sort of explosive. He collapsed from the momentary disruption in his brain, but he was far from knocked out. Unlike an untrained man, he would soon again wake…and he promptly did. Beck mumbled a torrent of curses as he strained to recover in as little time possible. On his knees, groping his thigh, Karsten's private investigator moaned under the veil of floating fog that traversed the yard and the eerie house's stoop.
Inside the dark house he could hear the din of panic ensue. In fact, he could trace her movements by the noise she was making. Beck smiled. “Not so easy, hey, sweetheart? Now you have just pissed me off.” He stumbled to his feet and disappeared off the side of the porch to make his way to the side of the old nine-bedroom house.
Since he’d discovered where Nina lived, Beck had been doing his homework on every corner and niche of the building so that he could stalk better, track better and sweep her off comfortably. Frankly, he probably knew Nina's house better than she did. Still fighting off the hideous numbing sensations in his skin and his disabled motor skills, Beck knew he had to get to Nina before she could call for help. He had already cut her home phone line, so he slipped around the back where there used to be a makeshift trapdoor used by the previous owner, the reputed warlock, who had actually been actually just an experimenting physicist.
Gaining entry through the rotten wood of the hidden door, Beck quietly stalked up the steps of the basement and used his lock pick tools to dislodge the padlock stay. Every few seconds he stood still, listening to her movements in the darkness.
“You can keep the lights off, darling,” he whispered as he propped up the kitchen trapdoor. “I don't need any lights to navigate your little maze.” Beck's heart had jumped once before when she sent electricity through him, but now his rapid heart rate was caused by his defiant quarry, rousing his rage by the audacity she displayed. He did not mind a challenge, but being pained in this way humiliated him and that elevated Nina Gould to a higher punishment scale in his book of rules.
Adamant on delivering her reprimand with some physical infliction, Beck raced to the bottom of the corridor where he could hear her trying to dial from her cell phone. The light of the screen betrayed her position and in no time Jonathan Beck had caught up with her
, grabbing the phone from her hand. Swiftly he followed up with a self-rewarding punch to her pretty face, catching her limp body before she could hit the floor.
“And dressed for the occasion too,” he grinned as he pulled the hood of her sweat suit over her head to avoid identification when he carried her out. He endeavored the arduous task of searching for her bag, but ultimately realized that it was probably still in the lobby at the front door where she must have dropped it to the floor after retrieving her phone.
And Beck was correct. Her bag was lying on the wooden floor a few inches from the front door. With her body dangling over his shoulder he quickly picked up the strewn contents and lightly booted the hissing cat out of the way before leaving the house as dark and quiet as it had looked through his binoculars.
Chapter 9 – Purdue's Itch
LOCAL ACADEMIC ABDUCTED – the second page headline read in the Glasgow Post three days later. Similar tags were seen in local newspapers around Edinburgh and the northern areas, as well as one or two features in smaller print at the bottom of online news report websites. Oddly enough, the news of Dr. Gould's abduction garnered almost no coverage, based on the confusion surrounding her reported disappearance. Be that as it may, Nina's kidnapping did not escape the keen eyes of Purdue. It could not, because in his current status he had to watch the press carefully to remain undetected, to know where to move and when to lie low.
He was deeply upset by the report, but for the first time in his life, his stature and wealth could not aid him in obtaining the necessary information he needed to solve his predicaments. As a matter of fact, it was the first time Purdue had felt what it was like to have no friends, not to exist to anyone, to be cut off from the world, to have a name that was both redundant and powerless.
“Sam Cleave, please,” he said in a low tone over the phone he’d begged from the bartender in Queens, New York, the latest seat of his vigil. Paranoia was something Dave Purdue had never before had to deal with. After the life of privilege he’d been born into, accented by his scientific genius and charm, he would never have imagined that he could possibly suffer the demons of anxiety. “Could I leave him an urgent message, please? Tell him that Mr. Hoffa called on him and that he can reach me at...”
