by A D Davies
At another mention of Koreans, Toby wanted to butt in, to ask the others if they recalled Father Pandi’s reference to two Korean men asking after the room with the fresco. He resisted speaking, reluctant to interrupt Tane’s flow.
“There are people in our country doing similar research, but they are miles behind. We just want to be sure you are not in more danger than you need to be.”
“Danger?” Charlie said. She had lowered her hands, but now touched her ear. It seemed Phil was getting worried.
“We know certain people have been following the same trail as you.” Tane looked directly at Toby. “Saint Bernard’s, London, Alabama. We noted your particular interest in Sally’s work on the museum’s grounds.”
Tane’s phone rang. All eyes fell on the handset. Tane once again moved his gun so everybody could see it, then picked up the call, receiver to his ear. He nodded at whatever was said, then replied, “Thank you.” He hung up. “Okay, you check out. We find no connection to our North Korean friends. Or any private individuals.”
“Private individuals” could be many people, from the reclusive Valerio Conchin to Colin Waterston or even Jules Sibeko himself—if the lad had checked out Toby’s proposal, he may have flagged on NZSIS’s background checks.
“Are the North Koreans looking for the shield?” Toby asked. “If they are, they may want to reverse engineer the technology.” The implications gave him pause to consider a potentially wider conflict. “If they are able to take the kind of kinetic energy absorbing technology used in protecting the orbs we found in Scotland, and apply it to—”
“Should we be talking about this openly?” Charlie said.
Toby felt tired, exhausted at these types of stilted conversations. “If we can’t trust New Zealand over North Korea, then the world really is upside down.”
“Thank you, brah,” Tane said, slipping into a more casual dialect.
Harpal smiled at that. “We don’t have any evidence that the shields are anything but symbolic. Functional.”
“But there is some distant connection between the Guardians and the Witnesses.” Toby caught Professor Garcia’s look of confusion. “You don’t know about that, do you?”
“The shield,” Garcia said. “I’ve heard things. But it’s never been my focus.”
Toby’s brow scrunched as he tried to think back to what else they may have missed. “You’re not looking for the shield?”
“What’s up with her?” Tane asked, gesturing towards Charlie.
Charlie had turned away, looking out the window, coming back to the group, focused on Toby and Harpal. She held up a finger to Tane.
“You know, I still have this.” Tane tapped the Glock’s trigger guard.
“Yes,” Charlie said. “It’s very nice. But my amateur husband is inside the school mainframe. The security system. There’s activity on the roof.”
“What’s wrong?” Harpal asked, seeing the same urgency in Charlie as Toby had.
“I can barely hear him.” Charlie pointed at Tane’s mobile phone. “Check it.”
Tane paused, then seemed to twig and snatched it up. “No reception. Sally, the phone.”
Garcia, who had almost faded into the background in the past few minutes, picked up a desk phone, held it to her ear, and reported, “Dead.”
“He’s gone,” Charlie said. “They’re using a jammer.”
“In broad daylight?” Harpal said.
“Must have an old-school listening device in here.” Tane bustled towards Professor Garcia. When she leaned away from him, he held up a placating hand. “I am a trained bodyguard. Close protection. I wasn’t lying. The only reason for this kind of cut-off is ahead of a breach. They are on their way. Do everything I say. If you can, we’ll all get to live.”
Chapter Ten
Alabama Freedom Museum, Alabama
“Are you certain we aren’t being monitored or followed?” Bridget asked.
“Positive.” Dan Vincent was never one for panicking the people around him. He remained on constant alert for tails, for eyes lingering longer than they should, or odd behavior from vehicles and passers-by, but especially since Phil delivered the news of gremlins playing havoc with the comms. He had asked Jules to drive so he could concentrate on the world around them. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. We’d see them coming a mile off.”
Bridget stood in the entrance to the main house that made up the Alabama freedom Museum, a sprawling mansion, far larger than her own home. Spanning three hundred acres, consisting of fields and dozens of structures, and Dan had not expected to be impacted by the history of the place. It leached up through his feet and spread through his body, forcing him to think about what went on here. It was a similar sensation to entering Auschwitz as a teenaged soldier on an R&R break. What had once been a distant history lesson turned into a solemn education in human evil.
Jules said, “See who coming?”
“No one,” Dan replied. “There’s no one we know of.”
“And the gun on your leg is just a comfort blanket, is it?”
Dan tapped his left shin with his right toe. “We’re in Alabama. Isn’t being armed at all times mandatory?”
Bridget tutted. “Stereotyping. Let’s go.”
She led the way into the main entrance, the original door having been widened to allow more people to queue at once, although it was currently empty. They waltzed up to the reception and paid their fee to the elderly black lady behind the glass whose name badge said Telah Willis.
“There’s a school party in today,” Telah said in the ubiquitous Alabama drawl. “Either avoid ‘em, or tag along if you wanna learn something.”
They had clearly renovated the inside to accommodate foot traffic, and signs informed everyone that the tourist dollar was invested directly into the upkeep of the museum and poverty projects in the surrounding region. The first display of note was a gilded framed portrait of a white man in a light-colored suit with the bearing of a nobleman, the plaque beneath stating the figure in question was Jacob Carr, and the portrait was donated by Roger and Audrey Carson.
The next portrait along presented a weathered, gray-haired black gentleman in long tails, a suit that wouldn’t have looked out of place at the Oscars.
“Denbe Willis,” Bridget said. “The first black landowner in these parts. Jacob sold him the farm for a dollar.”
Jules stared at the man, hands in pockets. He said nothing. It was the sort of background information he normally scoffed at, but maybe—like Dan—he felt a duty to hear this.
“Dan, you there?” Phil said in Dan’s ear.
As the three of them moved on, Dan fell back, holding up a finger to his ear to show he was listening. Jules and Bridget stood by the painting of bedraggled black men carrying a shield which they’d seen in the codex, while Dan listened to Phil.
“I have eyes on the college. But I’m struggling to get a visual on our guys. There are no alerts, so no one else has dialed 911. Which is good because it probably means there’ve been no gunshots yet.”
“But comms are still down?” Dan said.
“Affirmative. And I think it’s being jammed. Could be college kids screwing with the faculty, but we’d have bypassed that.”
“Okay, keep us informed.”
Dan continued on, hiding his concern. Despite the lack of exterior input, no 911 call, or visual confirmation, his gut told him the California branch of the excursion had not gone to plan. How severe the issues were, only Phil could find that out.
He said, “They’re still dark, but no evidence of problems.”
“What would count as evidence?” Jules asked.
He repeated what Phil told him, and that seemed to appease Jules. But not Bridget. She remained quiet as they toured the house. The route led outdoors onto a narrow concrete path with more arrows suggesting the route. It funneled them to bungalow-like buildings that a sign informed them had been restored to their original specs, a place where slaves would have eaten, sl
ept, and bathed. Here, they caught up with the party of twenty schoolchildren, a near equal mix of white and children of color, the latter encompassing Hispanic and black kids alike. They wore uniforms, and all listened to the guide in silence. The 70ish man’s oversized name badge on his blazer read Andre Willis.
Jules came between Dan and Bridget, put his arms around them on the shoulders, which freaked Dan out a little. Jules was not the most tactile of people.
He said, “Let’s get on with this. If things are going south in SoCal, we need to be ready. Bridget? Which way?”
Bridget hesitated a moment. “The library. It isn’t open to the public, but we need a way in. It’s a family business and they won’t say yes without a good reason.”
Inside the main house, Bridget appeared to know the layout, taking them up a set of stairs that seemed to be part of the regular route.
“Can’t you demand access?” Jules said.
Bridget gave a smile. “That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?”
They veered away from another room, full of what appeared to be items owned by wealthy people, towards a dark alcove barred by a velvet rope. Dan didn’t realize they used these anymore but was happy to see it rather than a locked door.
Jules said, “Is demanded access ruder than sneaking in?”
“I don’t think so,” Bridget said. “Dan?”
“No,” Dan answered. “Sneaky is better than demanding stuff.”
They stepped over into the kind of area Dan would expect to see in a British university like Oxford or Cambridge—all dark wood fittings, desks, and small gooseneck lamps, surrounded by bookshelves. It wasn’t a huge space, a fraction larger than Dan’s last studio apartment. Lights flickered on and Dan ducked into a crouch, ready to go for his ankle holster.
“Relax,” Bridget said. “The lights are on motion sensors.”
“You’ve been here before.” Jules turned a full circle, taking in the room. “Once or twice?”
“Closer to twice.” Bridget wandered the aisle to her left, the floor-to-ceiling shelves forming a horseshoe around the study tables. “I always enjoyed being here, as well as the larger museums and libraries in the cities. This was the closest to my house growing up.”
Dan took in the scene, standing back. “I suppose every nerd needs an origin story.”
“What are you doing in here?” said a deep voice from the entrance.
Dan spun, backtracking towards the wall, assessing the scene for a threat. His adrenaline didn’t spike, experience telling him it was more than likely benign.
The newcomer was a black man somewhat older than Jules, who looked to be in his thirties, wearing a smart pinstripe suit, hands behind his back, feet parted. The way he held himself made Dan reconsider how harmless this man might be, his legs bent in a subtle ready stance—a military bearing.
“Darkeen!” Bridget said, her southern Belle lilt front and center.
“Bridget?” Darkeen said. “Been a few years.”
Bridget swept forward and stopped next to Dan. This told him although she recognized the man, she was not a hundred percent sure about him.
“You can’t be in here,” Darkeen said. “Who are these people?”
“Friends of mine. I’m sorry, we should have called ahead. We are looking for information down on your southern spike. Who owned it back in the late 1700s, that kind of thing.”
“We did. The Willises.”
Darkeen Willis. Andre Willis. Telah Willis. A family business.
“Any more Willises we need to know about?” Dan asked.
Darkeen faced Dan. “Why would you need to know anything?”
Jules stepped up next to Bridget, probably reading the same military bearing that Dan had. “Hey. We’re just lookin’ for some books. And your family didn’t own this place back then. We’re assuming Jacob Carr or his family did, but we need to find out.”
“Why?”
“Because we want to excavate part of it.”
“Right. Well, at least you didn’t just trespass.”
The direct approach had not been part of the plan, but Darkeen appeared to appreciate that.
“Darkeen,” Bridget said. “There’s something there. We’re sure of it. If we can locate it, it may be a significant find connected to the railroad that Jacob and your family organized. Something… spectacular.”
Darkeen shook his head. “We’ve had archaeologists poking around the southern spike before. There’s nothing but rocks and caves big enough for snakes and a small colony of bats.”
“Our Intel says otherwise,” Jules said.
This time the direct approach did not go down so well. Darkeen unhooked the velvet rope and held it to one side pointedly. “If you wouldn’t mind, this area is closed to the public.”
Dan waited for Bridget to lead them out as she had led them in, but she remained fixed to the spot. Her usual bright demeanor had dulled, and she sighed heavily.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I must insist.” She spoke these words with exaggerated southern-belle-ness, like a bad actor doing Blanche Dubois, even though they were in the wrong state.
Darkeen angled his head and narrowed his eyes. “Insist on what?”
“On access. You can throw me out, but do you really want my father to reassess his grant following a lack of… good, southern hospitality?”
Darkeen considered that. “I know your father better than I know you. And I very much doubt he would withdraw funding just because his spoiled princess of a daughter turned up and… impolitely… demanded we accommodate her.”
“Then call him.”
“Okay, have it your way.” Darkeen fished a cell phone from his inside pocket.
This was not going to go their way. Dan wasn’t sure how long they should persist with the bluff, given Roger Carson’s reluctance to play ball.
“What’s going on here?” a woman asked as she entered.
It was Telah Willis from the reception desk. Although she was clearly over seventy and moved stiffly, there was a strength to her, an aura that demanded attention.
“I’m dealing with it, Nana.” Darkeen showed her his cell phone, on which he was yet to hit dial.
“I heard how you were dealing with it.” She roved from Jules to Bridget to Dan, then back to Bridget. “I thought that was you on the way in, but my eyesight isn’t what it was. You think you’ve got something worth our time?”
“I do.” Bridget fixed her with a firm stare, meeting the old lady as equals. She appeared to intimidate Bridget less than she did Darkeen. “We just need some clues about where to look. About who owned the land, and who might have had access.”
Telah Willis considered it for longer than Darkeen had, a loud humming accompanying her thoughts.
“Nana,” Darkeen said, “this isn’t right. They can’t just—”
“What can’t they just do?” Telah asked.
“Come in here and start pushing us around.”
“Oh, just hear yourself. If little Bridget wants to do some research with her friends, I don’t see any harm in it.” The old lady faced Bridget, glanced at Dan and Jules, but nothing more. “Knock yourself out, honey. Do let us know what you find, won’t you?”
“I will.” Bridget beamed a big smile, nodded towards Darkeen, and backed away, placing her bag on the nearest workstation. “I promise, I’ll come to you before we do anything.”
Darkeen sighed and put his phone away, rolling his eyes as he stepped out.
“Umm,” Dan said. “Can we order pizza in here?”
Darkeen ducked back in. “You can order it. But you can’t eat it near the books.”
“No problem.”
Darkeen and Telah left them alone, and Jules asked, “Where do we start?”
“I’ll be over here,” Dan said, pulling a chair up to the window on the sole wall with no books.
“Still not worried about anything?” Jules asked.
Dan tapped his ear to show he was on it. “Phil, any news
?”
For a moment Dan thought Phil wasn’t going to answer. Then, he came through. “I’m busy dealing with it. I’ll get in touch soon.”
Dan read the tension between Bridget and Jules, clearly hoping for confirmation all was okay. “No change. But that means nothing. Now, I’m planning to sit over here and play some old-school Tetris on my phone while admiring the view.”
But as soon as he sat, his feet and shoulders shivered, his leg muscles restless, his body demanding he act. Do Something. He could not remain static.
“Actually, I’m gonna take a walk, keep a wider scope on things. Unless you need me to lug some books around.”
Bridget and Jules accepted the plan, such as it was, and nobody voiced what must have been on all their minds: that if they heard nothing from Toby’s group soon, they would all start to fear the worst, and this quick research trip might require more than an ankle piece to get them safe.
For now, Dan had to trust that Phil had the matter in hand. But something told him being “busy dealing with it” had more of an undercurrent than the words themselves. It told Dan there had been progress.
Positive or negative, they would soon learn.
Chapter Eleven
Arnold, Southern California
Harpal cracked the door. The corridor to his left appeared empty. He risked opening it all the way. Checking to the right, he spotted only a man in his fifties reading a stapled sheaf of papers as he walked. Balding, short, and mostly round in body shape, he wore brown cords and a sport coat with leather elbow patches. If a director had cast him as “stuffy professor” in a movie, Harpal would have thought it a lazy piece of work. But, he supposed, certain stereotypes existed because they were real.
Mr. Stuffy Professor diverted through a doorway without glancing up.
