Chapter Eight
It was as if Benson Crow was fastened to the sofa. He wanted to move. He just couldn’t. Not until the lamp beside him shattered into a million pieces. Reflexes kicked in and he sprinted for the door. He opened it and almost tripped over the corpse of the housekeeper. He gasped. She lay face down with a bullet wound in the back. Crow desperately looked around the foyer. Whoever killed these two was now inside. He bolted past the staircase toward the rear of the house. He jiggled the knob one more time than was necessary to realize it was locked. Back around the staircase to the other door leading to the back. Locked. He stopped. That’s when he heard it. A high-pitched hum. It was coming from outside. In front of the house. He listened intently to the hum and squinted his eyes to bring what he was looking at into clearer focus. A gleam of sunlight was piercing through the dimness of the foyer. It passed through a small hole in the dirty window by the front door. The lint and dust that hung in the air created a perfect line of sight for the now lifeless body of the housekeeper by the library door.
He rushed to the window and rubbed clean a fist-sized clearing just in time to see the source of the hum. A drone. A small flying contraption just large enough to carry a gun turret like one might see on the belly of a B-17 Flying Fortress, but in miniature. It was rising away from the house. He cracked open the front door and watched through the slit as the drone shrunk smaller in the afternoon sky. Why didn’t it stick around to kill him? Did it not see him? When it shot the lamp next to him, did it assume it had a hit? Or were real humans on their way to finish the job? He wasn’t about to stick around to find out. After scanning the sky to make sure he wasn’t being lured out into the open, he darted across the porch and through the gravel to his rental car, started it up, and sped away. Crow strained through the windshield then out the driver’s window to detect even a speck in the sky as he drove.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he insisted. “Two dead. Dr. Benedict Grumbling and his housekeeper. I dropped a pin and sent it to your phone. Contact the police. Give them that address.”
“Who would want them dead?” Thomas Browning asked.
“I’m not sure. There are two groups, and one is as suspect as the other.”
“Two groups? What two groups?”
“It’s rather involved and it’s a little hard to believe, so I need you to reserve judgment until after I’ve told you the whole story. Understand?”
“I understand,” his publisher said.
Crow craned his head again to make sure no drone was following him. “I did the book signing in Montreal and this odd character gave me this really old book written by Nostradamus. Next thing I know, they’re fishing him out of the river. I saw who killed him.”
“You saw the man killed?” Browning asked in disbelief.
“No, I saw them stuff him into a car while he was alive. Next thing I know, I’m watching the police pull him from the river on the news. I got on the Internet to find an expert on old books and I found a lady out of Boston.” Then it dawned on him. “Crap! Tom, I’m gonna have to call you back.”
Crow terminated the conversation then fished feverishly in his pants pocket until he produced the business card. He dialed Dr. Rosenfeld’s direct line. As it rang he scanned the sky.
“Dr. Sidney Rosenfeld,” the voice answered on the other end.
“Dr. Rosenfeld! It’s me, Benson Crow. I think your life may be in danger.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Dr. Grumbling’s been murdered.”
“Oh my God! What happened? Who killed him?”
“I’m not sure. It was a sophisticated hit. They used an armed drone.”
“A drone? Why would anybody want to kill him?”
“Probably the same reason someone killed the man in Montreal. Listen to me. I was apparently followed from Montreal all the way to Virginia, which means they know I talked with you. You’ve got to get out of there. If they killed Grumbling just for talking to me, you’re bound to be a target.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“You need to be scared. Get out of there now. Go someplace secure.”
“I’m coming to you,” she said.
“No! It’s not safe to be around me.”
“Look, Crow. I’m not going to sit around here waiting for them to track me down. I know quite a bit about this. I can help you.”
“I can’t risk it,” he insisted. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Have you called the police?” she asked.
“My publisher is doing that right now, but I’ve got to hide. It’s complicated. There’s a group of people involved. It’s hard to explain, but I can’t go to the police myself. Grumbling told me these people are everywhere.”
“The First Face of Janus?”
Crow held the phone down to his leg for a second in exasperated frustration then lifted it back to his ear. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about them when I was in your office?”
“Because I had no idea who you were. You could’ve been one of them for all I know. Knowledge can be a deadly thing.”
Crow’s phone beeped. He held it out and looked. “That’s my caretaker on the other line. I’ll be right back.”
“Caretaker?”
“Hold on just a second. Don’t hang up. I’ll be right back.” He hit the button on his phone. “Gordy?”
“Mr. Crow, you all right?” his caretaker said on the other end. The weathered man stood by a tractor dressed in overalls. The bill of his hat cast a shadow from the afternoon sun on his concerned tanned face.
“I’ve been better. Why?”
“There were two men just here at the farm asking about you.”
“What kind of men? What did they look like?”
“Very serious. Suits. Well-built fellows. One white and one black.”
“What did they say?”
“They asked if I knew when you would be back,” Gordy said. “They seemed to already know you weren’t here.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them you were out of the country and I didn’t know when you’d be back. Is everything OK?”
“I’m not sure. Look, I need for you to get out of there for a few days. Go visit your sister. Tell Maria up at the house to take some time off, too. Lock everything up and get out as soon as you can. Hey, Gordy, don’t talk to anybody about this. Understand? Not even your sister. As soon as I know what’s going on I’ll let you know.”
“You gonna be all right, Mr. Crow?”
“Sure. I’ll be fine. Just take a few days off. I’ll call you when it’s safe to come back.”
“Well, OK, if you insist.”
“I do. Gotta go.” He hit a button on his phone. “Dr. Rosenfeld.”
“Yes, I’m here,” she said, stuffing items into her purse.
“They’ve been to my house.”
“Look, Crow, you’re going to need my help. It sounds like the prophecy has already begun. If they think you’re standing in the way of that prophecy, they won’t stop until you’re dead.”
“Crap,” Crow said under his breath. “That’s what Grumbling said.” He looked around frantically in search of a solution. “OK, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to leave there right now. Don’t take your car. Take another way out of the building other than the way you normally come in. Make sure no one is following you. Grab some things from home you’d need for a few days’ travel but no big bags. Just a shoulder bag. And grab your passport.”
“My passport?”
“Do you have one?” Crow asked.
“What kind of rube do you take me for? Why do I need my passport?”
“To give us options. Obviously, they’re watching my place. We can’t go there. We may have to leave the country.”
“And go where?”
“I don’t know where,” he almost shouted. “Do you still have the card with my number?”
“Yes.”
“Call me when you’re away fro
m the building and you’re sure no one’s following you. Got it?”
“I got it.”
“Listen to me,” Crow said. “Whatever you do, do not let these people find you.”
Chapter Nine
“Have you finished the book I loaned you?” one of the gentlemen seated at a booth in the rear of the cafe asked of his dining companion in Spanish.
The heavyset, mustachioed man behind the counter worked a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and looked at nothing in particular out the front window of his cafe. His attention was focused on what was coming from the earbuds in his ears. They connected to a phone in his pocket that was set to record.
“I do not understand,” the second man said.
The man behind the counter pressed a finger to tighten the left earbud. The two gentlemen had come to his cafe several times before. The mustachioed man seated them this time at a special table, the one with a tiny microphone inside the plastic flower that sat in the waterless vase.
“Did you finish Don Quixote?” the first man asked.
“Oh, yes, I did finish it,” the other diner replied. “Excellent read.”
“He was the fallen angel.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Honey is sweeter than blood,” the first diner said.
The proprietor’s mustache twitched. He pulled the toothpick from his mouth and eyed the men over his shoulder.
“Is that so?” the second man said.
“Yes, my cousin Montserrat told me that. He heard it from a couple near the fortress.”
“Near the fortress?”
“Yes,” the first man said, “there is a knight at the tower.”
“A real knight?” the second asked.
“No, do not be silly. Not a real knight. I think he was called the Knight of Death. Sort of the enigma of Hitler.”
“A terrible man.”
“He was a monster. They say the apparition of monsters presages the outbreak of war,” the first man said.
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
A frown passed over the cafe proprietor’s face.
SIDNEY ROSENFELD GRABBED her scarf from the coat rack and slid out the side entrance of Rothschild’s showing no intention of following Crow’s advice. She was determined to take her own car. It was the fastest and safest way to her place and away from Boston. Her car was across the street from the front entrance in a parking lot. She approached the sidewalk and froze in her tracks. A man was watching the front entrance of Rothschild’s. Her pulse quickened. She backtracked and took an alleyway between two buildings which dumped her out on the street a block away. She hid among the crowd at the crosswalk, watching the man in the distance. The crowd moved across the street and she moved with it ever watchful of the man on the street a block away. Once on the other side, she used the cover of the other cars in the parking lot to make her way to her own vehicle.
After grabbing some personal items from home, as much as she could cram into a shoulder bag, she headed out. Once she was back on the road she dialed up Crow.
“Where are you now?” he asked.
“I’m driving south on I-95.”
“You’re driving? I told you not to take your car.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a big girl, Crow. I can make my own decisions. What’s your plan?”
“I’m still working on that. Ditch the car and meet me in Washington. You can take the 4:15 out of South Station and be here just after eleven tonight. I’ll meet you at Union Station.”
“South Station?”
“Yes.”
“I’m nowhere near that. I just passed Newton.”
“Hold a second.” He consulted a map on his phone then put it back to his ear. “OK, then hit Westwood Station. It’s about fifteen minutes later.”
“Fine. I’ll see you then.”
“Make sure you’re not followed.”
“I’m not an idiot, Crow.”
Westwood Station saw just under a half-million passengers per year, a quiet station compared to the 11 million who hustled through Boston’s South Station in the same period. Easier to get lost in the crowd at South Station but much easier to spot someone following you at Westwood. Rosenfeld loitered around the terminal eying the waiting passengers. She bought a paperback at a newsstand then waited until the last possible moment to board the train, taking care to make sure no one boarded after her. She made herself comfortable for the six-and-a-half-hour trip to Washington.
Before she settled in, she examined with suspicion each person who walked down the aisle until she was satisfied no one in her car was a threat. After the conductor came to collect her ticket, she read a few chapters of her book. By New Haven, Connecticut, she was gazing out the window at the daylight that still lingered among the pink ribbons of clouds. The gentle sway of the train carried her off to a deep, if fitful, sleep. She awoke with a start just after the New York stop to see a man sitting next to her.
“Sorry if I scared you,” he said softly.
“No, that’s OK,” Rosenfeld said, still wooly-headed. She sat up in her seat. It was dark outside. “Where are we?”
He looked past her out the window. “Just left New York. Where ya headed?”
“Washington,” she said.
“Business or pleasure?”
“Uh, pleasure. I’m meeting a friend.”
“Hmm. I envy you. I’d love to go to Washington just once and not have to go to a meeting.” He paused a moment. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”
He extended a hand. She shook it.
“Sidney.”
“And what do you do, Sidney?”
She hesitated, not feeling comfortable revealing anything about herself to a complete stranger. “I’m an antiquarian.”
He laughed. “A what?”
“An antiquarian. I study old things. Mainly old books and manuscripts.”
“Sounds a lot more interesting than what I do.” He waited for her to ask the logical question. She didn’t. “I’m a lawyer, by the way,” he volunteered after an awkward pause. “I have to meet with our elected officials from time to time. That’s a different breed. Now, some of them are good people, but too many of them get down there and get Potomac Fever and never want to leave.”
Rosenfeld forced a smile. The Acela Express glided down the rails at 150mph. The lights of the small towns whizzed past the window. Passengers used overhead lights to read newspapers and books. Some worked on their computers.
“But here’s another thing about congressmen. They expect rose petals at their feet,” Marcus said. Rosenfeld tried to keep her sanity. He hadn’t stopped talking since New York. “And they expect me to pay. That’s the gall of these guys. Hell, I’m paying already. You’re paying, we’re all paying. Our tax dollars are paying their salaries. I mean, we’re their bosses, and their handlers make sure we call them ‘Congressman.’ The congressman likes this, the congressman wants that. You know what they call me? They don’t call me ‘Mister.’ They call me Marcus. That is, when they can remember my name. You know why? You know why they call me Marcus? Did you ever see It’s a Wonderful Life? Remember when George Bailey goes to talk to Mr. Potter about a job? He sits down in that chair and it’s so much lower than Mr. Potter’s? That’s why they do it. It’s so they can look down on you. That’s why these congressmen want to be called ‘Congressman,’ and they call you by your first name. Doesn’t that just infuriate you?”
She felt as if she were being ear-raped. She pulled out her paperback and opened it to a dog-eared page. Marcus started to speak again but picked up on the not-so-subtle hint. He looked down at her book and smiled to himself then pulled out his newspaper.
They rolled along down the Northeast Corridor in silence. The only sound was Marcus rattling his paper as he turned pages and the muted hum of the steel wheels on the track. The Acela floated along with hypnotic grace.
The conductor made his way through the car as the train left Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station. Rosenfel
d continued to read. Her new travel mate was fast asleep with his newspaper folded across his chest. Just after Baltimore’s Penn Station, Rosenfeld drifted off to sleep again with the book in her lap. She shook gently with the motion of the train. Her lips were turned up in a slight pout that made the now-awake Marcus wonder what she must be dreaming.
He gave her a gentle nudge and she was brought back to reality out of a deep sleep. “We’re pulling into Union Station,” he said.
She rubbed her eyes. “What? Oh, thanks.”
She peered out the window at the drab interior of the platform. Marcus grabbed her overnight bag from the luggage rack for her, and she thanked him politely, not locking eyes with him for fear it would start him talking again. The groggy column of passengers heading for the terminal resembled the walking dead. They trudged toward Union Station, most heading for the front of the station and the cab stand. Rosenfeld hurried past the sluggish herd and saw Crow standing to the side waiting just inside the station. A second or two later, Marcus passed by.
“See ya, Sidney. Have a nice visit.”
“Thanks,” she answered.
“Who was that?” Crow sounded like a jealous husband.
“Some guy I sat next to on the train.”
“You don’t need to be talking to anybody. We don’t know who to trust.”
“Look, Crow, I’ve lived a long time without your help. I don’t need you telling me what to do.”
They began walking to the right then turned left toward the front of the train station.
“I’m just concerned about your safety, that’s all.”
“Well, that’s very sweet of you, but I can handle myself.”
Crow looked around and lowered his voice. “I don’t think you understand who we’re dealing with.”
“I know exactly who we’re dealing with, and if you want my insight, I’ll be happy to give it to you.”
They walked out through the automatic doors of the train station. The warm air hit them in the face. Even at eleven at night it was still muggy. Just a block from the train station was the Phoenix Park Hotel.
The First Face of Janus Page 6
