After Glow

by Jayne Castle

  A for Amatheon, not Andrea.

  Clarence straightened, absently tucking the beads back inside the folds of his gown. He smiled benignly at Lydia.

  “You will forgive what no doubt appears to be our somewhat morbid interest in funerary artifacts, Miss Smith,” he said. “Please understand that locating the tomb and the sarcophagus of the great philosopher, Amatheon, is of extreme importance to our Order. Naturally, that goal has given all of us a fixation with ancient tomb relics of every kind.”

  As he spoke, the other five Greenies drifted away from the sarcophagus. She had the unpleasant feeling that they were starting to circle her like so many sharks.

  She was suddenly acutely aware of just how empty the museum was at this hour. The realization that she was alone with Greenies struck her with the force of a glacial wind. She was amazed that her teeth did not chatter.

  Trying to appear casual, she edged toward the nearest alarmed display case. It contained an array of tomb mirrors. A small quartz box sat atop a pedestal a short distance away. She slipped between the case and the pedestal.

  “No problem,” she said coolly. “Almost everyone is interested in tomb relics. Human nature, I suppose. Death rituals and preparations for the afterlife hold a deep fascination for most people.”

  Was it her imagination or were the Greenies closing in around her? She tried to count the robed figures but it wasn’t easy to keep track of all six in the deep shadows.

  “Have you read the Thirteen Steps to Bliss, Miss Smith?” Clarence asked gently.

  “No, actually, I haven’t had a chance.” She drew a breath and very casually put her hand on the top of the display case.

  Immediately she felt a little safer and more sure of herself. If she so much as jiggled the lock the alarm bells would sound throughout the museum, summoning Benny.

  “You really should read it,” Clarence said.

  “The thing is, I can’t even keep up with my professional reading,” she said lightly. “You wouldn’t believe how many journal articles, conference papers, and books I have stacked up in my office, just waiting for me to get to them.”

  Clarence regarded her with an expression of grave reproof. “Some things are more important than a journal article.”

  “You know, you’re right about that. I’ll have to get a copy of the Thirteen Steps this afternoon and take a look.” She could only count five Greenies now, including Clarence. Where was the sixth?

  Then she sensed the rush of movement directly behind her. The sixth Greenie.

  She started to spin toward him but she was too late. He clamped a hand around her mouth and placed a damp, medicinal-smelling cloth over her nose.

  The odor was shockingly, horribly familiar. She had breathed this foul stuff once before.

  One of the hidden memories of her Lost Weekend leaped forth from the dark depths of amnesia. The image snapped into crystal-clear focus.

  The hunters who had abandoned her in the catacombs had used this stuff to subdue her.

  She had no time to deal with the implications of the recollection. Another Greenie had grabbed her right arm. A third seized her ankles and hoisted her off the floor.

  Struggling not to breathe, she swept out her free hand, groping for the little box on the pedestal. Her fingers closed around it. Twisting, she smashed the relic into the top of the display case. Glass cracked and shattered.

  To her horror, no alarm sounded.

  Her first, outraged thought was that Shrimpton had neglected to pay the security firm’s bill.

  “Hurry,” Clarence ordered. “Benny told the van to pull up to the loading dock five minutes ago.”

  Benny, the new security guard, was in on this. No wonder the alarm hadn’t gone off.

  She could not hold her breath any longer. She had to inhale. The instant she sucked in air, the world around her wavered. Whatever had been used to soak the cloth over her nose was going to make her pass out quickly. She had very little time left in which to act.

  She still had the little box in her hand. She flailed wildly, slamming it against the chest of the nearest Greenie.

  “Ghost-shit.” The man released her involuntarily, bending over in pain.

  “Don’t let her go, you idiot,” Clarence said.

  “I think the witch cracked some ribs.”

  “I don’t give a damn about your ribs.”

  Lydia twisted in her captors’ grip. Her hand snagged on a string of beads. They all wore the amber necklaces under their robes, she realized.

  She ripped at the beads and felt the string snap. Amber gems clinked and tinkled as they hit the floor, scattering and rolling in every direction.

  “My beads,” a Greenie hissed. “She broke my beads.”

  “Forget the amber,” Clarence said grimly. “Benny will sweep up after we’re gone. Move, you fools.”

  The fumes imbedded in the cloth were working swiftly. Lydia felt her consciousness leak away like water down a bathtub drain. No matter how hard she tried to twist and writhe, her muscles were going limp. Her eyes closed against her will.

  She was vaguely aware that the Greenies were lowering her. At first she thought they intended to put her down on the floor. Maybe she was wrong about the amber bead connection. Perhaps what was happening was nothing more than a simple robbery.

  It occurred to her as the world faded away that she might have done her job too well here at Shrimpton’s. Before she had joined the staff, the quality of the relics had been mediocre at best. No serious thief would have looked twice at any of the antiquities on display. But in the past few months she had obtained some rather nice acquisitions for the museum.

  If these bastards were antiquities thieves, they would surely try to take the little dreamstone jar out of its special display case. It was far and away the most valuable relic in the place. They would have a surprise coming if they grabbed it. The alarm in that cabinet was not linked to the rest of the system. It was connected directly to the offices of Guild Security, Inc. The museum would soon be crawling with ghost-hunters.

  But instead of the cold floor she felt the unmistakable touch of quartz against her back and legs. A fresh wave of panic flashed through her. They were putting her into the sarcophagus.

  “Is she out yet?” Clarence asked urgently.

  “Just about.”

  “Get the lid.”

  Lydia got her eyes open one last time and wished she hadn’t bothered. The Greenies were lowering the cover of the sarcophagus onto the burial box.

  She was profoundly grateful when the last of her conscious awareness winked out.

  24

  EMMETT LEANED BACK against the desk and quickly scanned the file Perkins had just handed him. “What do you mean, both men have disappeared? Benefits is still sending out monthly checks to each of them, right?”

  Perkins twitched a few times, glanced uneasily at Verwood, who stood by the windows, and adjusted his spectacles with fingers that trembled ever so slightly. “Well, yes and no.”

  Emmett closed the file and dropped it on the desk behind him. “Explain.”

  “Yes, Benefits is still cutting the checks and putting them in the mail each month,” Perkins said patiently. “But, ah, when I tried to verify the addresses to which the checks were sent I learned that both men had signed forms indicating that they wished their monthly retirement pay to be donated directly to a charity. That is exactly what Benefits has been doing for the past few months.”

  “These two guys decided to contribute the entire amount of their hunter benefits to charity?” Emmett shook his head once. “I’m not buying that.”

  “It is a little odd, I must admit,” Perkins said. “But that appears to be the case.”

  “What’s the name of this charity?”

  “I made a note.” Perkins pulled out a small notebook and opened it. “Here it is. The Order of the Acolytes of Amatheon.”

  “The Greenies?” Emmett straightened slowly, unable to believe what he had just heard
. “Those two signed over their monthly retirement benefits to a cult?”

  “Apparently that would be the case, sir,” Perkins said.

  “It may not be as strange as it sounds, Boss.” Verwood rubbed the back of his neck. “I finally got a couple of leads on those two guys. They both disappeared into the cult a couple of months after that formal inquiry at the university.”

  “What does disappeared mean?” Emmett asked evenly.

  “Well, seems like when you enter the Inner Circle of the Order you leave behind all the stuff that ties you to your old life.” Verwood shrugged. “You ditch your friends, relatives, personal possessions, that kind of thing. You know how cults work.”

  Emmett set his back teeth. “And in this case, you sign over all of your assets to the organization.”

  “You got it.” Verwood snorted in disgust. “Not a bad racket if you’re the one running the cult. I did some checking. The Greenies opened up for business about three years ago. They’ve been growing steadily in numbers ever since. Got a couple of thousand members here in Cadence. Same in the other cities.”

  “Who the hell is running the cult?” Emmett asked.

  “Guy named Herbert J. Slattery. Leastways that used to be his name. Now calls himself Master Herbert. Claims to channel some old alien philosopher named Amatheon.”

  “Got an address for Slattery?”

  “Just the cult’s office downtown. But Perkins, here, could get Slattery’s personal address pretty damn quick if you want it. He’s good at that.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Verwood,” Perkins said, pleased by the praise.

  A lot of things were suddenly starting to resonate in what might prove to be a pattern, Emmett thought. He glanced at his watch. It was almost 6:30. Lydia was probably still at Shrimpton’s. She had left a message earlier today telling him that she had a special after-hours tour scheduled for that afternoon. With luck she would be finishing up right about now. He leaned over his desk and grabbed the phone.

  “Sir?” Verwood’s broad features tightened in a frown of bewilderment. “I don’t get it. What do those screwball Greenies have to do with this?”

  “Maybe everything.”

  He punched out Lydia’s number. There was no answer. He cut the connection and called her on the little phone she carried in her purse. When he got no response, he tried the town house. Then he dialed her apartment number. Too damn many phones these days.

  Out of options, he pulled out the short list of phone numbers he carried in his wallet and dialed Melanie’s home number. She answered on the first ring.

  “I left the museum just as she was getting ready to conduct the special tour,” Melanie said. “She should have finished by now. Why? Something wrong?”

  “I can’t get hold of her at any of the usual numbers.”

  “She’s probably in a place where the signal won’t resonate. Give her a few minutes and try again.” Melanie chuckled. “Don’t worry, I doubt that she ran off to join the Greenies.”

  He went cold. “What made you say that, Mel?”

  “Hey, it’s just a joke. Sorry.”

  “I’m serious. Why the joke about Greenies?”

  “I guess it popped into my head because that special tour she escorted after hours today was for half a dozen Greenies. I told her they’d probably be interested in the Tomb Wing, just like the Hunter-Scout troops.”

  “Sonofa . . . Mel, listen to me, I need the number of the guard’s office there at Shrimpton’s. Do you have it?”

  “Hang on, I’ll get it for you.” Melanie was starting to sound worried. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just get me the number.”

  “Here it is.” She rattled off a string of numbers. “The new guy’s name is Benny Fellows.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Emmett, you’re starting to scare me. What is this all about?”

  “Later.”

  He severed the connection and tried the guard’s number. When he got no answer he tossed down the phone and headed for the door.

  “Let’s go, Verwood.”

  Emmett drove, piloting the car through the busy streets with an intensity of purpose that other drivers noticed. Vehicles melted out of the Slider’s path.

  Night had fallen, the darkness complicated by a gathering fog. The streetlights created small circles of glare but not much in the way of useful illumination.

  He parked in front of the entrance to Shrimpton’s a short time later. Pounding on the front door brought no response. There was no sign of the guard.

  Emmett led Verwood around the side of the building, found the window he wanted, and smashed it open with the heel of his boot. Glass fractured, shattered, and then rained down in tiny shards.

  Verwood glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Uh, Boss, that’s bound to set off an alarm. Cops will be here any minute.”

  “You hear any alarm?” Emmett reached through the busted window and unlocked it.

  “Uh, no.” Verwood’s brows rose. “Now that you mention it, I don’t hear any alarm. Seems kinda strange for a museum.”

  “Yes, it does.” The lack of clanging bells and sirens was a real bad sign, Emmett thought.

  “You’d think a place like this would have a security system.”

  “It does.” Emmett went through the window.

  Verwood scrambled after him. “I gotta tell you, Boss, it might not look too good in the papers if you get arrested breaking into a museum. Know what I mean?”

  “Relax. The owner owes the Guild a couple of favors,” Emmett said, thinking of the dreamstone arrangements.

  Verwood brightened. “Oh, well, in that case.” He wedged his large frame through the open window.

  Emmett did a quick survey of the surroundings. The shelves full of journals, books, and gallery catalogs looked familiar. This was Lydia’s office, all right. In the gloom he could see a massive object on top of her desk.

  “What the hell?” He crossed the room, flipped on the light, and scowled at the sight of the huge bouquet. “Some bastard sent my wife flowers.”

  “Uh, Boss, maybe you could worry about the flowers later?”

  “I’ll bet it was Hepscott.” Emmett spotted the card lying on top of the desk and picked it up. “If it was, I’m going to have his head on a platter.” He ripped the card out of the envelope. “Your devoted slave. Charles.” Emmett tossed the card on the desk. “Charles. Charles. Rings a bell but I can’t place it. You know anyone named Charles, Verwood?”

  “Know a coupla guys named Chuck,” Verwood said. “And one who goes by the name of Chase. Don’t think I know anyone who calls himself Charles, though.”

  “When this is over, I want you to find this Charles.”

  “No problem, Boss.”

  Emmett went through the desk drawers quickly. “Her purse is gone.”

  “Probably means she left for the day and everything’s okay.”

  “Optimism is not a desirable quality in a security expert, Verwood.”

  Verwood exhaled heavily. “Yeah, Mr. Wyatt told me that once or twice, too.”

  They went down the hall, past the other offices, and then turned into the corridor that led to the museum lobby. A single fluo-rez tube burned in the empty office used by the museum’s tiny security staff.

  “Evening-shift guy is probably making his rounds,” Verwood offered. “Maybe he doesn’t know the alarm system isn’t working.”

  Emmett went back out into the hall. “Or maybe he had something to do with the malfunction.”

  “You know, you and Mr. Wyatt sure do think alike when it comes to figuring out what folks might be getting up to,” Verwood said admiringly. “It’s like you both zero right in on the worst-case scenario. Guess that’s why you both made Guild boss, huh?”

  Emmett decided to ignore that. The observation struck a little too close to home. It was, after all, Mercer Wyatt who had taught him how to analyze the motives and ambitions of others.

  “Melanie said the Greenies would be i
nterested in the Tomb Wing relics.” Emmett turned in that direction. “We’ll start there.”

  Halfway along the hall, he realized that there was something different about the Tomb Wing. Instead of being darkened entirely for the night or dimly lit with the creepy green lighting used for daytime display, all of the overhead fluo-rez tubes were ablaze.

  He halted at the entrance. The guard was inside the gallery, his back to Emmett and Verwood. He was busily sweeping up a lot of broken glass. The headphones he wore explained why he had not heard anyone approach.

  “Hell of a way to stand guard,” Verwood growled. “We could empty out the place before he even realized there was anyone else around.”

  “Wonder how he knew that glass display case was broken,” Emmett said.

  “Maybe he accidentally broke it himself.”

  Emmett went down the long gallery and tapped the guard on the shoulder.

  The man started violently. “What? What?”

  He dropped the industrial-sized broom and grabbed at the headphones, yanking them off his ears. Simultaneously he twisted around and tried to back away.

  The awkward movement brought him up against a low, wide green quartz bowl that looked as if it had been designed as a wading pool. Emmett had seen it on an earlier tour of the gallery and knew that Shrimpton billed it as an alien embalming tub.

  The guard tripped, cried out, flailing, and then toppled backward into the shallow pool. He landed on his back in an awkward sprawl.

  Emmett braced one foot on the edge of the quartz pool. “Benny, I presume?”

  “Yeah, I’m Benny. What’s going on here?” Benny levered himself up to a sitting position and glanced nervously at Verwood. Then he switched his attention back to Emmett. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Wait, I recognize you. Emmett London, right? The new Guild boss? I saw your picture in the papers.”

  “Then we can skip the formalities. I’m looking for my wife.”

  Benny’s jaw sagged. For a few seconds he seemed truly bereft of speech. Then he swallowed visibly.