by Nick Thacker
But it would still have the same beautiful backdrop she’d come to love.
Every day on her walks or runs she felt like she was moving through a computer’s screensaver. The picturesque wilderness surrounding them was immaculate, and the cabin’s tiny frame, always pumping out smoke from its tiny chimney, seemed like heaven to her.
She and Ben had no idea what the final addition would look like. Part of their acceptance of this new role with the newly formed Civilian Special Operations was to turn over a chunk of land adjacent to the cabin’s current location for an addition that Mr. E and his wife would manage. There would be a small hallway connecting the two buildings, but other than the addition being two stories tall, neither of them had any idea what it would look like.
She focused again on the television as Mr. E began to speak. His words were chopped a bit as the small satellite dish on their roof worked to keep up, and after a few words the audio came in more smoothly.
‘ — her way — up… now. She will arrive in Anchorage early tomorrow morning, but I do not know when she will arrive at the cabin. I predict it will be early afternoon, but I do not have that update just yet.
‘However, she will stay behind in the new addition to your cabin only for a few hours, to test some of the communications equipment I am installing. Assuming everything is in order there, that will give us two points of contact with you during your travel. Your travel documents are already being processed, and your final briefing will happen upon your arrival. Before all of that, let me get you all updated with the full situation.’
He paused, and Julie saw him sip from a bottle of water. He swallowed, closing his eyes, then continued.
‘At roughly 3:15 am, two days ago, a small pawn shop in St. Louis was broken into. Nothing of note was stolen, even though the shop contained a total of nearly four-hundred thousand dollars worth of electronics, antiques, and furniture.’
“‘Nothing of note?’ What does that mean?” Ben asked.
‘Well, there was one item, according to the shop’s owner, that was found missing. She alerted the authorities the next morning about the break-in, but it took her a few hours to even notice that the item was gone.
‘The piece was a small glass vial that contained some sort of mineral specimen, quantity and weight unknown, though she said it appeared to be silver. She had just purchased the vial — for what I believe to be a very generous price — from a local widow in St. Louis. It seems she was doing the widow a favor, as early reports state that the women knew each other and may have been friends.’
“May have been?” Joshua asked. His arms were crossed, and he had a slight frown and his chin was lifted. Julie observed him, trying to read his expression.
He hasn’t heard this part of the story yet, she realized.
‘Yes, past tense,’ Mr. E replied. ‘The widow, Gloria Rutherford Braxton, was found dead in her home yesterday.’
Joshua's chin tilted back farther.
‘Local police have all but determined the cause of death to be accidental overdose on her prescription medications, and no one is claiming that the two events are related. ’
“No one but you ,” Reggie said.
‘Correct. I am curious as to the nature of this mineral. Why it was protected in a vial like a sliver of gold, and why it was the only item sought out in the theft. I am also curious as to how Ms. Braxton came to own this vial, and why she would feel the need to pawn it.’
“Local police aren’t doing anything about it?”
‘No, but their hands are tied, really. The break-in was an obvious attack, the place is in shambles, and the front windows are all broken. Braxton’s house, on the other hand, shows no sign of breaking-and-entering. Not even anyone’s else’s fingerprints anywhere.’
“So the two would seem unrelated.”
“Probably on purpose,” Ben said.
“Obviously on purpose,” Julie added. “But I get it. Authorities have enough to deal with, and it’s an unfortunate truth that if the evidence is stacked up to point to a suicide, and there’s not really a scandalous reason to keep digging, they’ll stop digging.”
“True,” Joshua and Reggie said almost in unison. Then Joshua sighed. “What was the price Braxton was paid for this little gem, if I may?”
‘Yes, of course. I said I believed it to be a generous price. Apparently the proprietor of the establishment, Ms. Monique Delacroix, paid Braxton, in cash, the sum of $18,000 in exchange for the mineral.’
Julie coughed. If she had been drinking or eating anything at the time, she would have choked on it.
“You — you’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. “$18,000? That’s… absurd. Even if it was gold in there, or diamonds.”
‘As I said, I believe the transaction to be partly related to their relationship. Perhaps Ms. Braxton had fallen on hard times — why else would she have felt the need to pawn something sentimental like this? And why would the price be so high? I believe there was, at least partly, a desire for both women to feel as though there was a real transaction, so Ms. Braxton didn’t simply receive charity from the pawn shop owner.’
“Where is Delacroix now?”
‘She left on a business trip to Australia late last night. A massive conference in Sydney about antiquities and pricing structures for rarities dealers.’
“Sounds like a bucket of fun,” Reggie said.
‘I want to find this woman and offer our protection,’ Mr. E said. ‘She may be targeted next, for her knowledge about the vial and its contents. If the two cases are related, there is a strong possibility the attackers will want to silence anyone with any information about this.’
“Yeah, good call,” Joshua said.
“So we’re going to Australia?” Reggie asked. Julie could see the excitement on his face.
‘No, you are not. I will be sending Mrs. E to Australia to collect Ms. Delacroix and bring her back after she confirms that our communications equipment is in place and online, so I can access it remotely. When they return, I can offer Ms. Delacroix safe haven, at least until we know she is in no danger.’
Reggie looked bummed, but he shook it off and smiled again. “Well, we can’t find the bad guys here, I guess. So that means we’re off on a grand adventure once again. Where to then? Someplace exotic?”
‘No. Philadelphia.’
Chapter Fifteen
“GROSS. REALLY?”
ONSCREEN, MR. E nodded. ‘Indeed. Specifically to the American Philosophical Society. There is a museum in the original building.’
“The original building of what?”
‘The original building of the same society, built by Benjamin Franklin to meet with the society he helped to form. Today it is a museum that sits near Independence Hall in the old historic district. The museum is really a revolving collection of items of its own archives and those of visiting exhibits, all of which are part of American history.’
“So what are we going for?” Ben asked.
‘I want you to speak with a curator of the museum. The curator is a friend of one of the military representatives on our board. He told the curator that the CSO would be perfect for this type of work.’
“Talking to a crotchety old museum guy?”
‘Speaking with the female curator about a recent theft of one of their items.’
Julie’s ears perked up. She was starting to see a link in the chain of events Mr. E had described. She straightened her back, pressing forward on the bed.
‘The curator believes that one of the Society’s prized collections has been raided and one of the possessions has been stolen.’
“I — I don’t get it,” Joshua said, interrupting. “She doesn’t know it’s been stolen?”
Mr. E shook his head. ‘Well, actually, it’s a bit more nuanced than that. The item in question is a journal. A leather-bound book, about the size of a large index card. The curator was very explicit in her description of the artifact, which tells me that she has a very intim
ate knowledge of the item, and has perhaps handled it personally.
‘Yet she was also hesitant in her description, as if its mere existence is, well…’
“Secret,” Ben said.
‘Correct. She was only convinced to speak to me about it because of her relationship with and trust in our board member. She wanted to be clear that this topic is — how did she put it — ‘rather touchy’ with the Society. Apparently they have not ever disclosed their ownership of this journal.’
Julie nodded. She now understood what the man was trying to say. A prized possession, owned by one of the oldest clubs in America, had gone missing, and they couldn’t talk about it openly because, well, no one knew they had it.
She raised her hand, then felt silly, so she lowered it and started asking her question.
“Still, it seems like if they just said, ‘hey, we’re sorry, we messed up. We’ve had this other journal for a while now, but it just turned up missing; can you help us find it’ they would be fine. What am I missing?”
‘Well,’ Mr. E began, ‘this journal is one that no one knew existed in the first place. She was clear that there are very few people in the organization who knew about it at all, and outside of the organization — no one.
‘And it would be a major embarrassment, and perhaps a major legal snafu for the Society, if it was discovered they had been hiding a journal like this. All of the other journals and notes from this collection are well-documented, protected, and public knowledge.’
“Wait… ‘other journals?’ What collection?”
Mr. E cleared his throat. ‘My understanding is that this journal was part of the original Lewis and Clark Expedition Records, and was written by Lewis’ hand himself. It was kept secret from all the rest, and even his partner, Captain William Clark, did not have knowledge of the journal or its contents.’
“And now it’s gone missing,” Julie said. “Fascinating.”
Joshua’s arms were still crossed. “E, when we spoke earlier, you told me that this mission would be ‘quite simple.’ Yet you don’t even have a suspect, and we’re supposed to fly to Pennsylvania — all of us — and just meet with this curator?”
Reggie nodded. “Right, why all of us? And how are these three things — the ‘suicide’ of old lady Braxton, the break-in at Delacroix’ place, and this ‘missing journal’ related?”
‘For one simple reason — the chronological chain of events. The first thing, the break-in at the pawn shop, led to the second — the death of Widow Braxton. And I only learned of those first two events because of the third thing — the missing journal and the personal request of one of our board members on the CSO to look into it.
‘It turns out our curator at the APS told me one other thing, and this was the clue that led us to believe it was a break-in, and not just a case of a misplaced notebook. The museum was in perfect order upon her arrival. She inspected the first floor for its daily opening procedure, then headed down into the basement to repeat the process before she could open the facility to the public.
‘In the basement, she noticed a single chest had been disturbed — not where the journal was kept, mind you — but she noticed it because it had been slid back into place and in doing so had upset the fine layer of dust that had fallen to the floor over time. She happened to notice that the dust was streaked and marked through where the heavy chest had been rotated.
‘When she opened the chest, she saw the locked wooden box with a glass top where the Society had stored an old exhibit. About a foot by eighteen inches, and about eight or nine inches deep, the heavy case is segmented to separate multiple small artifacts found within it, and the glass top allows visitors to see through into the case.’
Julie had seen such a box before. When she was a child, her parents had gotten her a similar case to fill with plants and stones she found during what they had called Julie’s ‘scientific phase.’ She remembered walking through her yard and surrounding fields, picking up and turning stones over in her hands, and finding specimens of flowers and sticks that looked interesting, then carrying them back home to put on display in her tiny museum.
“Let me guess,” Reggie said. “Something was missing from the case?”
‘Something was missing,’ Mr. E continued. ‘She noticed that the lock — a simple mechanism on the front side of the case — was still engaged, meaning it had been picked or opened with the key, then closed afterward. Considering she was the only key holder, she assumed it was a simple procedure to unlock it with a paperclip or something of the sort.
‘Anyway, she saw immediately that the contents had been disturbed. She opened it and browsed through the inside until she came to an empty slot. The case had been full, each section housing some small item or artifact, so it was an oddity indeed that there was nothing in this slot.’
“That’s how she knew it was a break-in,” Julie whispered.
‘Correct. The item that was missing was nothing of note, she thought, but it been taken nonetheless. As she described it to me, I took notes, and ran a quick search for some of the terms she used. It turned out that this break-in shared a remarkably similar trait with the break-in at Ms. Delacroix’ shop.’
“A little glass vial?” Ben asked.
‘Yes, Harvey. A small glass tube, filled with a single sliver of stone, speckled with a quartz-like sediment that sparkled and shone in the light. She was unsure as to the specific name of this stone, and the museum had no detailed records of how they came to acquire it, but when she opened the case and read her reference sheet of its contents, she realized that this single, small vial of stone — as well as Lewis’ journal — had been stolen.’
Chapter Sixteen
BEN SAT CLUTCHING TWO THINGS inside the tiny Cessna. His left hand was squeezing Julie’s right, with a white-knuckled grip that probably would have crushed her had she not already expected such treatment.
His right hand clutched a flask that Reggie had passed him just before takeoff, full of some sort of cheap whiskey that was only barely better than the feeling of helplessness and lack of control he was experiencing.
Ben hated flying, more than he hated anything else. He didn’t like to travel in general, especially when he was already in a spot he liked. Whether it was the couch in his living room or the cabin in Alaska, he didn’t want to get up to walk to the fridge or take a vacation to a beach paradise.
He was already in a place he liked to be in, so why would he want to change that?
Julie had pressed him on a few times, and the best answer he could come up with was ‘I just like things the way they are, especially if they’re good.’
She seemed mildly satisfied with that answer, so he doubled down on it and used it as an excuse whenever she mentioned traveling for fun.
Flying was the worst way to travel, he thought. Sure, it was faster than just about anything else, and it was an efficient way to move around the world, but it was against the laws of physics. A giant metal tube full of explosive liquid shouldn't be able to float through the air.
Not to mention they floated through the air at thousands of feet of elevation and at hundreds of miles an hour.
Above the hard ground.
He hated it, and the best therapy he could find was squeezing Julie’s hand to death and taking a long, slow sip of something that burned.
The whiskey did, in fact, burn. It had to have been no more than ten dollars for whatever bottle this terrible moonshine had come from, but he wasn’t about to complain. Or talk at all.
Not until they were ‘safely’ up in the sky, breaking the laws of physics and the sense of acceleration had given way to the calm, steady, vibration of the plane’s engines.
Of course, that calmness may not set in at all — there were flying in a peashooter of a plane. A human-sized matchbox, crammed together like sardines, and flying through a terribly windy season in Alaska.
He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for things to settle down.
“Ben!” J
ulie yelled.
He hated that she’d yelled — it probably meant they were all about to die, and he would rather have just been surprised about it — but he also knew that yelling inside the plane was the only way to get someone else to hear you. Even if they were sitting right next to you.
He opened one eye and saw Julie staring up at him.
“What?” he yelled back.
“How you doing?”
He shook his head. What kind of stupid question is that? he thought. She knows how I’m doing.
To underline his point, he forced back another shot of the fiery liquid sewage Reggie called whiskey.
The shot burned, and he coughed.
He saw Reggie smile from the cockpit. He wondered how the man had seen him — or heard him cough — but he knew Reggie was laughing at him.
Reggie was a decent pilot and had put in a lot of hours since their hair-raising experiences in Antarctica and the Amazon, and he was getting better at not terrifying Ben while they flew.
If Ben was honest, he had to admit that Reggie was a fine pilot, it was just Ben’s own insecurities that caused him anxiety when they flew.
Still, he wondered if they always flew around in these tiny planes because the others were in on some prank against Ben, or if they were in fact more economical in some way.
He looked up at the cockpit again and noticed that Reggie was staring at him. Reggie shouted something, but Ben couldn’t even hear a single word. He shook his head.
“What?” he yelled.
“— the flask —”
Did he just ask for the flask?
Ben thought he must have misheard the man. He shook his head again, and mouthed the words I can’t understand you .
Reggie smiled, then pointed at the flask in Ben’s hand.
