“I am not.” Selucca sounded irritated.
Sorina shook her head. “He has turned you down five times already. He will never come here, and I can’t say I blame him. It shows he has, at least, some of the intelligence he’s reported to have.”
Selucca’s eyes narrowed. “He will come. He is a man of honor. He just needs to be reminded of it.”
“Honor?!” Sorina choked. “All accounts say he’s no more than a thief and a murderer.”
Selucca smoothed her long, dark-green wool skirt. “You should know yourself, how tales can be greatly… exaggerated.”
Sorina stared incredulous. Her grandmother was making excuses for this man. Why? And why did her grandmother have so much faith in a man she had never met? Put all that aside, what was left to offer? The old woman had already promised a king’s ransom. It was obvious the old woman knew more of the man than she was telling, but it would be easier to tear down this castle with a toothpick than pull the truth from her.
Sorina turned to face the sun. The warmth of the brilliant yellow orb felt good on her skin; not that she would have admitted to being chilled before the shawl was draped over her shoulders. The sky was a bright blue, the air crisp and clean. It was so peaceful on the tower balconies; so distant from the world of troubles below. Even now more sounds were drifting up from the courtyard, this time not as muffled. The fog was melting away, though not enough to see anyone, yet. She gave serious thoughts to pushing her grandmother over the railing. It would be easy, even if the old woman fought with everything she had. Sorina figured she could be in another country before nightfall. She could visit all the places she had read about, Paris, Berlin, Geneva. She could…
Sorina took a deep breath, shaking her head. She followed her grandmother to the tower stairs. Duty has a price all must pay. Her father had told her that. She hated him, and her mother, for giving their lives to this place. Things were supposed to be different for her! Her father had promised. He kept telling her she had been blessed by a gypsy woman. I was supposed to fall in love so hard the angels would weep with joy. He would love me more than life itself. Our first kiss would make the heavens tremble, and together we would see the world in one grand adventure after another.
The two women moved silently through the tower corridor, past dusty chairs and tables, doors of neglected rooms, and faded tapestries depicting the glories of battle – an idea so absurd it had to come from the mind of a man. Three flights down, the corridor split to the north and south. The rooms of the north wing were as neglected as those above. The last time a noble or foreign dignitary stayed in this castle was long before Sorina’s grandmother left the cradle.
Sorina thought she might receive a respite from her grandmother’s presence once they reached her room, but no. The old woman sat in a side chair, idly fidgeting with a letter opener as Sorina changed. Sorina slipped into a blouse made of heavy white cotton and a dark-green, wool skirt that stopped just above the ankles. Her grandmother preferred the skirt long enough to dust the floor, but would say nothing since Sorina had one fitted two inches above her knees, and wore it for three days straight.
The courtyard was bustling with activity; men and women were scurrying about, tending to various tasks. The gates were open, and two men were wheeling Greggor’s body in on a rickety old wooden cart. It was a gruesome sight, even with the tarp draped over the body.
Sorina followed as Selucca pushed past a few men staring at the cart. The old woman pulled back a corner of the tarp to reveal Greggor’s face, still frozen in his last scream. The rest of him was like the others: belly ripped open, and flesh torn from bone.
“I thought he was supposed to be on the wall last night,” Selucca snapped.
Both cart-bearers bowed their heads. “He was, Madam Selucca,” one replied. “He walked the north rampart.”
A chill ran down Sorina’s spine. The outer wall was nearly forty feet tall. He must’ve become disoriented in the fog and fallen. She told herself, knowing it was a lie.
Maria Tere’s waling was echoing off the stone walls as several women did their best to console her. Poor woman. First her husband was killed last month, and now her only son.
Sorina forced herself to look at Greggor’s face. He had always been a kind and gentle boy. Those pale-blue eyes seemed to be staring into hers, pleading for help she could not provide.
Sorina turned away before the tears started again, and walked. She had no idea of where she was headed, but standing before the gates of Hell would be preferable than the courtyard at the moment.
Damn you, Papa, for leaving me here…And damn that gypsy woman, for putting fool thoughts in your head!
Chapter 2
Detective Everet “Monty” Montgomery stood ankle-deep in muck, with moisture slowly seeping through his leather shoes, as dozens of F.B.I. agents and C.S.I.s from most of Florida were in the process of removing bodies from a mass of graves in the southern Glades.
It was a grisly detail. There were so many bodies in varying degrees of decomposition, it was doubtful anyone working here for the past few days would sleep well for months, if ever again.
This is turning into a circus sideshow, the detective thought, watching a police helicopter order yet another news chopper from the area; the third this morning. The bastards keep screaming about the First Amendment, but refuse to acknowledge their part in fucking a solid case all to hell!
Montgomery had been with the Miami-Dade police for twenty-one years – the past sixteen with homicide. During that time he had witnessed the aftermath of some of the most brutal crimes in recent history; things that had driven good men to drown their memories in a bottle. Sometimes he wondered how humans could do the things they did to other humans. Today, it seemed, all those vile scenes were merely a warm-up for what was unfolding around him. This was… this was something else entirely.
Montgomery rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands, but it did little to soothe the throbbing that was making him dizzy and remind him how little hair he had left. His ass was sore and his legs were feeling numb from leaning on the front fender of his unmarked patrol, but there had been little he could do over the last thirty hours – not since the F.B.I. took over his find.
Find... that was a strange phrase. The only reason half of Florida’s finest were ass-deep in human remains was the phone call he had gotten, telling him where to look. Without that, it may have been decades – if ever – before this place was uncovered.
How that son-of-a-bitch got his personal cell number was as big a mystery as to the identity of the caller. He assumed it was a man behind the digitally modified voice, a well-educated one by the choice of words spoken.
At first, Montgomery thought it was a joke; his fellow officers were notorious pranksters, especially those in his department. In his line of work, you needed an outlet to relieve the tension to keep your sanity. Jokes, women, or booze… but that only slows the downward spiral to Hell.
Luckily, the name Diana Summerfield got mentioned before he got the chance to hang-up. No one would ever joke about that case: it was well beyond a sore subject, and had been for the last eighteen years. He felt he had that right. When your next-door neighbor’s seven-year-old daughter comes-up missing, and they keep looking to you for answers you can’t give them, you take it personally. That beautiful little girl’s name got Montgomery’s undivided attention, and suddenly, the unnamed voice on the other end of his phone became the most important person in the world.
Finding this place wasn’t easy, without the G.P.S. location Monty could’ve been searching the swampland forever. The thick brush in this area provided excellent camouflage. It took lowering the helicopter to the treetops, and an eagle-eyed pilot, before they discovered what they were looking for.
The detective quickly discovered he was in way over his head.
Just two minutes from a dirt road alligator poachers and drug smugglers used, was a makeshift cemetery roughly the size of a football field, complete with small, alabaster-
colored rocks for headstones. He made the call to his captain, and before Montgomery could blink, the F.B.I. had taken over. Riding in just like John, fucking, Wayne.
He had little more information to give the F.B.I. than he had received an anonymous tip over the phone – he left-out the fact it was his cell. He wasn’t sure why, but he did. The Feds decided there was nothing more he could do at this point, and assured him he had been a valuable asset to their ongoing investigation. That was F.B.I. code for “go away now, let the big boys do their work”, because no one but the F.B.I. had the intelligence to solve this case; though they’ve gotten no further than he had in finding that poor little girl. Less, actually, but that was beside the point as far as the F.B.I. was concerned. So, here he sat; his ass hurting and his legs going numb.
Monty was exhausted, but no matter how hard he tried, sleep avoided him like the plague. Not that he tried that hard, anyway. He had had enough coffee and shitty fast food the past few days, it took effort not to shake like a crack addict, but the mosquitos were leaving him alone. My blood is probably a death sentence to the little bastards, now. So life isn’t all bad.
The sound of Harold McKenna calling his name got his attention. The young C.S.I. was waving him over, and trying to be discrete about it.
Montgomery moved toward where the younger man stood, trying not to look like a gimpy old man as his circulation started to return to his legs. Harold turned without a word, heading for one of the graves. Montgomery followed him to the hole in the older section of the makeshift cemetery; judging by the thickness of the stumps left behind, these graves had been here for years. They stopped next to the grave a slender young blonde was sifting through, with the care of an archeologist.
“This is Monty, Savannah,” Harold said to the sweat-covered woman. He looked around nervously. “Show him what you found.”
The blonde looked around, then at Montgomery. She was pretty, and very young, probably just out of college. Why the hell did she want a gruesome job like this? She reached into her shirt pocket and handed Montgomery a plastic bag containing a small laminated card. “We’ve found one of these in every grave,” she said in a quivering voice.
“This is the first I’ve heard of this!” Montgomery was irritated. It was bad enough to be told to sit on your hands like a schoolboy , but to be left out of the loop completely was unacceptable!
Harold leaned closer. “The F.B.I. told us not to say shit to anyone… including you, Monty.”
“I’m a fucking cop! The very one that lead those assholes to this spot!” He wasn’t surprised, though, the F.B.I. pulled this kind of shit all the time.
Harold placed a hand on Montgomery’s arm. “Read the card, Monty.”
Montgomery looked closely. His eyes were tired from three sleepless nights, but he could make-out the face on the card plain enough. It was little Diana Summerfield. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying. Of course she was crying, she was scared to death. Her name was printed on the card, along with the day she disappeared. Next to that was the number 37:52. What the hell does that mean?
He looked into the grave, seeing the small skeleton for the first time. Roots had grown between the tiny ribs, and wrapped around other bones. He was not surprised to find a tree root had crushed her skull. The way vegetation grows around here, her grave would’ve been completely covered in a week. If nothing else, the bastard that did all this picked a prime spot to hide the bodies.
His heart was breaking, not for the first time for this little girl he had let down. God knows he did everything he could to find her; a fistful of reprimands, threats of a lawsuit – he dodged a bullet on that one – and a month-long suspension proved that, but he always came up empty. It was as if Diana vanished off the face of the earth. Oh, Diana, I’m so sorry. I’ll find the son-of-a-bitch that did this to you. I’ll…
Who the fuck was he kidding? Too much time had passed. If he was going to find anything, he would have done it nearly twenty years ago. This poor girl’s only hope of justice was the mysterious caller. Montgomery tried to get any information on that call, but there was nothing that showed conversation even happened.
He handed the card back to the pretty blonde. “What’s 37:53 mean?”
Savannah tucked the card into an envelope beside the grave. “I don’t know, sir.”
“The funny thing, Monty,” Harold said, “nobody else does, either. The cards from the other graves identified the others, and even the days they all disappeared, they all checked out, but the other numbers are all different. The Feds have checked everything from Bible verses to astrological signs to G.P.S., and came up dry.”
“Great.” Montgomery mumbled.
“It is great.” Harold smiled. “Two years after Diana, the killer started putting his name on the cards.”
Suddenly Montgomery wasn’t tired anymore. “Who?!” he tried not to shout.
“Russell Jenkins,” Harold replied quietly, his eyes darting nervously. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
Russell Jenkins?! That bastard lived right across the fucking street at the time Dianna disappeared. He had eaten dinner at Montgomery’s house, joined the goddamn block watch after Diana disappeared, and even searched for the little girl. How?... Why? Russell was ex-army, Montgomery liked the man…
He looked Harold directly in the eye. “You sure, son?”
“He had a letter in a safety deposit box with every name on it, and a confession. Apparently, Jenkins assumed the graves wouldn’t be found till after his death.”
That was a great assumption. It took him and an eagle-eyed helicopter pilot twenty minutes to find it, and we knew exactly where to fucking look.
Montgomery wiped sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand. Rage was welling-up inside him, growing stronger by the heartbeat. “Bodies have been coming out of here for two days. I assume Jenkins is in F.B.I. custody?”
“No, sir,” Savannah said, squinting up at the detective. “He was kidnapped four days ago from a convenience store parking lot. Half a dozen witnesses saw the incident, but it happened out of view of the surveillance camera.”
Montgomery’s headache came rushing back in full force. This whole thing was turning into a sick joke. Only he wasn’t the mood to laugh… or was he? The heat and lack of sleep were catching up to him. He squatted down next to the grave… Dianna’s grave, looking Savannah in her pretty blue eyes. “How was Jenkins kidnapped?”
The young C.S.I. thought a moment, then nodded. “A man – descriptions vary from average height to almost seven feet – but definitely a white male, well dressed, with brown hair walked up to Jenkins, and dropped him with a single punch to the jaw. Then, as calm as everything, slung Jenkins over his shoulder and dumped him into the trunk of a dark-blue Ford Crown Victoria, and drove away. “
Montgomery felt as stunned as Russell Jenkins must have felt just before the lights went out. How the hell did one man manage to drop an ex-army sergeant with a single punch in broad daylight? The getaway was easy enough to understand. Most people lacked the skill to defend themselves, let alone a stranger.
The varying descriptions were easy enough to understand, eyewitness descriptions rarely matched. Fears and other emotions play a big part of those memories. Sometimes, the best you could do was settle somewhere in the middle, and hope for the best.
“So,” Montgomery said eyeing the young woman suspiciously, “how did you come by this information?”
Savannah looked to Harold.
“We’re all on the same team,” Harold said.
The blonde woman nodded, then met Montgomery’s gaze. “My brother is Special Agent Paul Young.”
Yeah, that sounds like the F.B.I.. Let’s keep the Detective working the case for years in the dark, and spill your guts to your rookie sister.
“Don’t worry, girl,” the Detective said with a smile. “I won’t hold that against you.”
The kidnapper’s description triggered something in the back of Montgomery’s mind. Rumors
and fantastic stories he had heard over the years, of a man more ghost than living flesh by the way people spoke of him. A well-dressed white man, appearing from nowhere, then disappearing with someone very bad. The only problem with that scenario, no one ever saw or heard from the bad person again. From what Montgomery understood, the F.B.I. and Interpol had a suspect with a funny name but couldn’t prove a damned thing.
“Did any women witness the attack?”
Harold shrugged. Savannah replied; “One… I think…. Why?”
“Just wondering,” Montgomery said. Because, he thought, I’d bet a month’s wages, her description was right on the money. I’ll never say a word, though. Not one goddamn word. Let the geniuses at the F.B.I. figure that one out on their own.
Montgomery rose, steadying himself against a slight dizziness. God, I’m getting old. “I’ll let you two get back to work.” He turned, heading back to the car.
He eased behind the wheel and closed the door. He made his way slowly through the mess of other vehicles dotting the field, then headed for the highway. His gut was telling him he was going to get another phone call from a mysterious stranger. He had to make sure he was alone when he got it.
Please, please, please, God, let him be that ghost. He’s the only one I can trust at the moment.
Chapter 3
Thor Odinsson lifted himself onto one elbow, amazed at the effort the simple gesture required. He felt as if he had run a succession of back-to-back marathons against an elite athlete determined to run him into the ground. The competition – And it was a competition; fierce and grueling as any ever recorded. – ended in a tie; both contestants conceding defeat and claiming victory at the same instant.
The sheet beneath him was sweat-soaked and only half covering the mattress, the pillows nowhere in sight. His breathing was quick gulps, but slower and steadier than a few moments ago. Somewhat slower, at least. His heart pounded in his ears like frantic drumbeats, and it took several seconds for his eyes to focus on the figure standing at the open window.
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