Secret of the Scroll (Greg McKenzie Mysteries)

by Campbell, Chester D.

  “They have to have something to collect dust around the house,” I said.

  Jill frowned. “No snack for you when you get home.”

  “I didn’t think we’d left any food in the house.”

  “You have a point,” she said.

  Our bags rolled around quickly this time, and we were soon in the van headed out I-40 toward Old Hickory Boulevard. We lived in the Hermitage area, an eastern suburb named for Andrew Jackson’s historic home, which lay a couple of miles northwest of us. Our house was out Chandler Road near the county line.

  “It’s awfully dark out this way,” Tim Gannon said. He was driving past expensive houses built well back from the road. “You’d better warn me before we get to your driveway. Dad said you’re hidden back in the woods.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “Greg likes to be heard but not seen. I guess it goes back to his OSI days.”

  I shrugged. “We weren’t as bad about keeping a low profile the last few years, following the reorganization in the early nineties.”

  “Had you been working undercover?” Wilma asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Oh, he’s still good at working under cover,” Jill said.

  “She didn’t say ‘under the covers,’” I corrected her.

  Sam laughed. “I’m not going to touch that one.”

  “Slow down, Tim,” I said. “That’s our gate coming up on the right.”

  Actually, there was no gate, just wooden gateposts and short pseudo fences. The mailbox showed only the street number. It looked like the entrance to a farm or ranch. With all the trees, you could see only a gravel drive heading off into the darkness.

  The only visible development lay across the road beyond the railroad tracks, where a new subdivision fronted an out-of-view street. Jill had befriended a young mother of twins who lived there. She had bought gifts in Jerusalem to give the kids.

  Tim slowed and turned into the drive. “How’d you ever find your way out here, Mr. McKenzie?”

  “Actually, Jill found it. From the air, of course. An agent had shown us a couple of places in the area, and Jill was checking them out with her Cessna. She spotted this place and loved it. We found the owner’s wife had died, and he was thinking about selling.”

  “Wait till you see the house,” Wilma said.

  About a hundred yards into the woods, the drive angled to the right. As the headlights hit a structure, a ring of floodlights illuminated a large, two-story log house. A porch stretched around the front and one side. Its roof formed a deck off the master bedroom on the second floor. A three-car garage opened in the rear.

  As Tim slowed I found my eyes making a sweep of the area. It happened almost unconsciously, a check for anything that didn’t appear just right. A touch of caution, the old survival instinct aroused.

  “Cool. What a layout,” Tim said. “I love it.”

  “People like you with a bunch of boys should live here,” Jill said, “instead of a couple of crotchety old characters like us.”

  “Okay, you old characters,” Sam said as Tim stopped the van in front of the house. “Grab your bags and we’ll be out of here. Maybe we’ll make it home before daybreak.”

  Groping in the dark since the overhead light was out, I fished our luggage from the clutter where the third seat had been removed while Jill thanked the Gannons for the ride home, plus all they had done to make the trip a success.

  “You know you’re going to have a hard time topping this,” she told Sam.

  “Right now I’m too tired to care,” he said. “Talk to you tomorrow. Or today. Whatever it is.”

  I toted the two big bags up onto the porch and pressed the entry code on the keypad beside the front door. An electronic beep sounded and I pushed the door open. A musty odor welcomed me as expected. The place had been closed up for over two weeks.

  Although we had lights triggered by motion detectors, I didn’t feel the need for an alarm system. There was little crime in this part of the county. And hidden back in the woods, the house did not present a target of opportunity. I also had little fear of retribution from any of the bad guys I had put away during my OSI career. After several years of retirement and countless moves about the country, we would not be easy to track down. All government or other official correspondence was directed to a box at the Hermitage post office.

  I had just shoved the last of our travel gear into the entrance foyer when Jill came from the kitchen and looked around. “Where’s my carryon?”

  I looked over the assortment of bags and other gear. “Damn. I must have left it in Sam’s van. Do you need it now?”

  “It’s got my cosmetics case, but I don’t guess I need to doll up for you. I have another toothbrush in the bathroom.”

  “Maybe you can survive until morning.”

  The country kitchen with its horseshoe-shaped array of cabinets and appliances was one of Jill’s favorite spots–she liked to cook almost as much as she liked to fly. We had just sat down to enjoy a cup of decaf when the phone rang.

  “I hope you weren’t in bed yet,” Sam Gannon said.

  “Hardly. Jill and I are having coffee and Scottish shortbread. I haven’t gotten organized enough to get to bed.”

  “When I was unloading the van, I found Jill’s carryon bag,” Sam said. “Does she need it now?”

  “No. Just stow it away. I’ll come over after daylight and pick it up.”

  Sam sighed. “Not too early.”

  “Don’t worry. Sleep tight.”

  “Must have been Sam,” Jill said. She leaned her elbows on the table, sipping her coffee. “What a dear man. If you’d said I needed the bag, he’d have jumped in his van and driven back over here.”

  “Yeah. We’ve got some great people in that class. I’m glad you talked me into going on the trip. I got to know some of them a lot better.”

  Jill sat in silence, staring into her cup. Then she looked up. “Don’t you dare mention this, Greg, but Wilma told me tonight that she and Sam were worried about you.”

  “Why on earth–?”

  “The way you acted on the trip. Blowing up when somebody angered you, like that boy in Jaffa. She thought you were ready to punch somebody out a couple of times.”

  I exhaled a noisy breath. It was clear she hadn’t liked my performance either. I hated that, but ever since the Twin Towers attack I had felt myself slipping back into old ways. I had been in law enforcement too many years not to feel the pressure. After getting fired by the DA, however, I wasn’t just being watchful, I was looking for trouble. Combative as a youth, I’d had no problem using my fists as a police officer. The knot on one side of my nose came from a petty thief who’d thrown a lucky punch, catching me off guard. I was a bloody mess when the fight ended, but the perp had to be carted off on a stretcher. Truth be known, I loved a good fight. But for years now, for Jill’s sake, I had worked hard at curbing my violent tendencies.

  “Sorry for the backsliding, babe,” I said. “I know how you dislike the hostility and the cussing. Honest, I’ll try to do better. I guess the Tremaine thing has been working on me more than I realized.”

  I had resisted signing up for the Holy Land venture at first. It came up about the time my troubles began over the John Peterson case, and I didn’t want to go to the Middle East giving the appearance that I was running away from something. My problem stemmed from the way some news outlets had jumped on my Tremaine quotes to belittle the entire police department. I was never able to do anything to correct it. I also never managed to counter all the harassment I got. Things like being stopped for speeding three miles over the limit and forced to take breathalyzer tests, even though I hadn’t had so much as a glass of wine in two weeks, and getting ticketed for parking at a meter that was covered and posted NO PARKING TODAY (trouble was, the meter had not been covered when I parked there). Even more maddening were the phone calls warning I had better not step out of line.

  I was about to realize how unjust and destructive things co
uld really get.

  Chapter 6

  I walked into the bedroom with a cup of coffee, set it on a bedside table and opened the flowered drapes. Sunshine streamed through the French doors and played over the blanket that covered the king-size bed.

  I looked out and took a deep breath. This was the time of day I would once have sat on the deck with a cup of coffee and enjoyed my first morning cigarette. I’ll have to admit Jill never enjoyed it. She tried for years to convince me it was a habit that would one day kill me. But I had started smoking in college, developing the habit of lighting up to free my mind to concentrate on reviewing for quizzes and exams. Later I would use a smoke to cope with a troubling question in an investigation. I thought about trying to stop a few times, but it wasn’t until back in the summer that something brought it all home with agonizing finality. My closest friend in the Air Force, Lt. Col. Breezy Hollo, a lovable Hungarian with more talent and drive than anyone I’d ever known, flew in on leave and spent a few days with us. We sat out on the lawn for hours and talked and laughed and puffed our smokes. I noticed Breezy had a nasty cough but thought nothing of it. A few weeks later I got the message: he was dead of lung cancer.

  When Jill did not stir. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Wake up, sleeping beauty. Your coffee’s waiting.”

  She rolled onto her back, yawning with full sound effects. “What time is it? My, that sun is bright.”

  “What do you expect at ten o’clock in the morning?”

  “How long have you been up?” She pushed her pillow against the headboard and scrunched into a sitting position.

  “Since about nine,” I said. I handed her the coffee cup. “I walked up to the road and got the paper. They started delivering it again right on schedule. I don’t know why I still pay for the damned thing, though, after what they did to me.”

  She reached over to give my hand a squeeze. “You want to know if they’re talking about you again. But they’ve got plenty of other dirt to dig in now. Maybe they’ll leave you alone.”

  “I should hope so. What are your plans today? I guess you’ll need to get in a little flying time soon.” She kept her Cessna 172 at Cornelia Fort Air Park, not far from Hermitage.

  “I’ll get in a few hours in a day or so. I’d better head to the grocery this morning.”

  I pushed myself up from the side of the bed. “Since we have no milk, I guess it’ll be instant oatmeal for breakfast. As soon as I eat, I’ll go over to Sam’s and get your bag.”

  “Good.” She picked up the coffee cup and gave me a sly grin. “Who knows, I might entertain a shopping trip later, if you insist on dragging me off to the mall.”

  “Who’s dragging whom?” I said.

  It was after eleven when I arrived at the Gannons’ brick ranch with its manicured lawn. Even this time of year, when the grass had stopped growing, it looked trim and green, bordered by white and purple pansies. I envied Sam’s dedication to his yard work, but the operative word there was “work.” Bending over a spade did not appeal to me.

  Sam ushered me inside. He had all of his travel brochures and guidebooks in one stack on the dining room table, rolls of film from the trip arranged in another area and a conglomeration of souvenirs beyond that.

  “Nobody can say you didn’t make it to Israel,” I said.

  Sam shrugged. “You’re the one that documented it all with your movies. I can’t wait to see what you shot.”

  “I’ll have to do some work with it first. I bought a new program recently that will let me edit it right in the computer.”

  “I haven’t even mastered e-mail yet.”

  I laughed. “I’m sure it’s a lot easier than flying airplanes.”

  “That reminds me.” Sam motioned me to follow him. “Come on in the den. I want to show you something in the new Air Force Magazine.”

  The colorful monthly put out by the Air Force Association runs a lot of nostalgia pieces on musty old wars designed to jog moss-covered memories. Sam had found an article about a B-26 bomb run back in 1952. The mission involved the 8th Bomb Squadron, the outfit he had flown with out of Kunsan Air Base in South Korea, known then as K-8. It was a hairy tale of one engine shot up and a wing ventilated by 30-caliber fire during a bombing run.

  An Oklahoma farm boy, Sam had gone into the Air Force right out of ag school. After Korea, he graduated to KC-135 tankers, eventually moving up to skipper a monstrous C-5 transport. He had met Wilma at the U. of Oklahoma, where she was in a nursing program. They were married following the Korean unpleasantness and had lived a nomadic service life for even longer than Jill and me.

  Sam got wound up telling war stories and before I realized how long I’d been there, Wilma walked in and planted her hands on her hips.

  “So, you staying for lunch?”

  I glanced at my watch. “Christ, it’s one o’clock. I’d better get on home. Surprised Jill hasn’t called looking for me.”

  “I saw her at the store,” Wilma said. “That was well over an hour ago. She was talking to a lady with two little kids.”

  Like Jill, Wilma was a Nashville native. The two had become close friends after we joined Gethsemane United Methodist Church. Wilma had grown up on what she called the more plebeian side of town. She liked to kid Jill about attending Hillsboro High School. “We called them ‘tea sippers,’” she had said with a laugh.

  I finally did what I came for–picked up Jill’s carryon bag–and headed back toward Chandler Road in my mud-brown Jeep Grand Cherokee.

  With a five-acre plot, I fancied myself something of a gentleman farmer. But what I managed to grow best was weeds. The Jeep could be used to haul mowers, timbers and fertilizer. Jill preferred a sporty-looking red Camry.

  I was surprised to find no sign of the Camry in the driveway or the garage. The unaccustomed chill brought a shiver as I stepped out of the Jeep behind the house, and a stiff gust of wind tugged at me. Something was wrong. Deep down, I knew it before I stepped into the garage. All the old fears burst loose. The OSI instincts raged full bore as I ran for the door.

  7

  I came in through the back way and confronted chaos. Canisters on the countertop had been tipped over. One containing cookies had fallen off. Chocolate chip chunks were scattered on the floor. Cabinet doors were open. Some swift hand had swept aside bottles and tins of spice. The air reeked of vanilla.

  Funny how old habits come back. For me they came in a rush, leaving my comfortable world of retirement in shambles. Years of OSI training and experience, untold hours of probing and digging and fitting pieces together landed squarely on my shoulders. Annoying incidents in the Holy Land and beyond fell into a pattern–getting singled out at the border, the luggage labels, the missing luggage locks. I looked in other rooms. Books knocked from shelves. Drawers hanging open. My camera bag was unzipped, but the camcorder was untouched.

  That’s when I first called out for Jill.

  I got no answer. I ran from room to room, then took the stairs two at a time for the bedroom. No Jill. But there was my Beretta in the bedside table drawer. It was a chopped version of the 9mm weapon I carried in the Air Force. I jacked a round into the chamber, put the safety on and slid it into my belt. It had a comforting feel.

  I called out again for Jill, then headed back downstairs. That’s when I saw the grocery bag tucked away beside the refrigerator. Jill ordinarily placed the bags on the kitchen table. The fridge revealed a half finished job of putting away orange juice, milk, chicken breasts, onions–she was planning a favorite meal of mine. I fumbled for my chewing gum, then headed for the couch. I had to think, get my wheels turning.

  They had Jill.

  I didn’t know who or why, but they had her. They’d be getting in touch. Soon.

  My first impulse was to call the police, but I hesitated. I had no proof she’d been taken. She could have gone back to the store for something she forgot. The house trashing could have occurred after she left. I didn’t believe it for an inst
ant, but that’s what a busy detective would say.

  I had to report the break-in to the cops, though. I stroked the butt of the Beretta. Think.

  There was an outside chance of a note, but no such luck. Wilma Gannon had talked about seeing Jill with a woman and two kids, twins. No doubt her young friend from across the way. But no go. Someone had taken Jill. Anger and fear gripped me. Had they seen me come up the driveway? They’d be getting in touch soon.

  Anytime now . . .

  I dialed the police non-emergency number, putting the plan together as I dialed. I gave my name and address and reported we’d had a break-in. The house had been vandalized. Play to the obvious, Greg. Meantime, think.

  “What did they take?” the officer asked.

  “I’m not sure yet. Some of the big things are still here. TV, computers. I haven’t had time to inventory yet. But they trashed the place.”

  “Okay. We’ll send someone over to check it out.”

  I sat in the living room waiting for either the phone or the doorbell to ring. I sat on the couch thinking, easing the clip from the Beretta and palming it back into the butt. A soothing rhythm while anger and fear roiled inside. Think.

  When the cop came I’d be open and confused by the break-in. Surprised at what was taken and what wasn’t. You’ve got me, officer . . . Lead him along while I worked through what I was going to do.

  When the doorbell finally rang, I slid the pistol under a couch cushion. I could see a blue-uniformed cop through the window. All told the response time was mighty quick. Too damned quick. I filed the thought away. He was in his late thirties, short, with close cropped hair and restless eyes. A three-striper.

  “I’m Sergeant Christie,” he said as I invited him in. “You’re Greg McKenzie. I recognize you.” He did not offer his hand and neither did I.

  “Like to see the mess?”

  “Let’s get the particulars first.” As he looked around the large living room I got the feeling he was surprised at the affluence.