by Joanne Pence
Darlene visited her a few times, but her father had poisoned Kira so much against “the mother who didn’t want her” that the visits grew increasingly strained, with Kira being as nasty and cruel as only a teenage girl could be. Eventually, her mother stopped visiting altogether.
Back then, Kira wore a youthful “righteous indignation” over her parents’ divorce as a badge of honor, but now she felt nothing but sadness and disgust over the way she had treated mother, and their resulting alienation.
Now, in this empty house where she had experienced such joy as a child, hatred and disharmony as a teen, and indifference as an adult, Kira never felt more alone.
Kira entered her father’s den. Accolades for Holt as a DA and judge filled the book-lined room.
Nothing seemed to be missing from it, or anywhere else in the house, except for Oscar, her father’s terrier. If the poor little thing ran away because he was scared, he probably became a coyote’s meal. These hills were crawling with the predators. But how he had gotten out of the house troubled her.
She called Scoggs. He had already contacted the housekeeper who claimed that in the morning of the day the judge died, she had received a text message from the judge telling her that her services would not be needed that day. When he checked her phone records, he found that the message, although signed with the judge’s name, had been sent from a burner phone.
That piece of information told Kira her father’s death had been premeditated murder.
She went into his bedroom, looked around a bit, and then checked the closet. In the back, on the floor, she found a cardboard box. She took it out, and inside found paperwork, medals, and badges from her father’s time in the Navy. At the bottom was a photo.
It was the same photo as she had found hidden in Gene Oliveros’ house.
She sat on the floor and looked at her father and wondered what had happened that made him so different from the happy young man in the picture.
And more importantly, perhaps, why had two men in this photo been killed? Were the others in danger? And was one of them the killer?
Chapter 15
Florence, Italy
Michael felt uneasy about calling one of the people who had been with him in Idaho last year, wondering if those awful events would cause her to simply hang up on him. But Charlotte Reed was such a treasure trove of information about Middle Eastern antiquity, he decided to try. He didn’t have her cell phone number, but he suspected the sheriff of Lemhi County, Idaho knew how to reach her.
He had Sheriff Jake Sullivan’s office, home, and cell phone numbers. He rang the number of Jake’s home first and wasn’t completely surprised when Charlotte answered. As soon as he said his name, Charlotte warmly greeted him, and they quickly fell into the easy rapport they had once shared. Charlotte was relieved to learn that Michael’s arm and shoulder had healed well, and with physical therapy his shoulder was slowly regaining strength and mobility. He didn’t mention the pain his recent fights caused so he wouldn’t have to explain why he had been fighting—not yet, anyway. Of course, she asked about women in his life. Beneath an academic, brainy exterior, Charlotte was an incurable romantic and wanted to see Michael find someone to break through the walls he had built around himself. She understood his connection to the supernatural, and specifically alchemy—once, it nearly killed her—and his fear of ever inflicting that kind of danger on anyone else. But she thought he was wrong, that women were stronger than he gave them credit for being, and that he was a good man who deserved more than to hide away because of what might turn up next in his strange life.
He learned that she was quite happy living with the sheriff and kept busy using her knowledge of antiquity to study Indian artifacts found in the Bitterroot Mountain area. She was also becoming quite a Lewis and Clark scholar and was pursuing an investigation of the secret expedition that had followed Lewis and Clark across the continent. Of course, she could never say what actually became of them, but thought the story of their heroism and disappearance was fascinating, even if it was only half of the story. She believed it was something the country deserved to know.
Michael then broached the subject of his call. He told her about the strange visit he had from the Chaldean priest, and Father Berosus’ tale of Marco Polo stealing a red pearl from the Nestorians and bringing it to Venice. “One more thing,” Michael said. “You may now decide I’m officially crazy, but while Berosus was here giving me the pearl and telling me the whole, unbelievable tale, he was supposedly in a hospital dying.”
“Maybe he left the hospital for a while, knowing he had to give you the pearl,” she suggested.
“He was in a coma for three days before his death.”
“Oh.”
Michael waited, but Charlotte was quiet. He could picture her brow furrowed with concentration as she pondered his words. “So tell me,” she said finally, “what does this mean? Why are you involved?”
“Berosus suggested I find the Nestorians and give them back the pearl, that they would know how to stop it from continuing to cause evil deeds.”
“I thought there were no more Nestorians,” she mused. “But aside from that, I guess I know why the priest went to you. A red stone, or a red pearl, is often used as a description of a philosopher’s stone.”
“Could be,” he confessed.
“Yeah, right.” He could all but see her mouth wrinkle. “Your family background doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Okay, I’ll admit that it isn’t a real pearl,” he said. “It’s an amalgam of some kind. Since the old priest called it a pearl that might be its historical identity.”
“A pearl …” Charlotte murmured. After a moment her voice turned bright. “Since the pearl came to you from a Chaldean, I can think of one story from that general part of the world. It has to do with King Herod of Biblical fame. The legend says he had a secret amulet—a red pearl—that he believed brought him wealth and great power. While he praised the good it did for him, others saw something quite different. They believed it drove him mad. As he aged, he became increasingly evil. Everyone knows the story of how he insisted all newborns in the vicinity of Bethlehem be murdered because he was so fearful of the birth of a new king. The rottenness of his personality became so bad it eventually turned into a physical malady as well as mental and spiritual one. Some called it ‘Herod’s Evil.’ Finally, he became so filled with pestilence, it’s said that his body burst open and all manner of worms, putrefaction, vermin, maggots, and flies spewed out, killing him.”
“Gross,” Michael said.
“Isn’t it? The amulet was supposedly destroyed so that no other man would come under its evil influence.”
“That does sound much the way the red pearl was described by Berosus. But if it was destroyed, it wouldn’t be the one that was hidden in China with the Nestorians.”
“Unless it wasn’t destroyed. If it went instead to Chaldea, in what is now Iraq, the followers of Nestor living there might have taken the pearl with them when they were driven out of the area and headed for China.”
“Maybe.” Michael was dubious.
“You’re right. Forget it.” Charlotte agreed. “In fact, many scholars now believe Herod most likely died from some combination of kidney disease and gangrene. I’ll do some research and call you back as soon as I find anything. But isn’t the story of Herod’s exploding stomach fun?”
“Kaboom,” Michael deadpanned. “Thank you, Charlotte. I appreciate your help.” He was heartened by how happy she sounded—a far cry from the dour woman he’d first met. “And give my best to Jake.”
Chapter 16
Los Angeles, California
Kira sat at her desk in the FBI office and logged onto the agency network. She wanted to see what the LAPD had posted on its investigation of Oliveros’ death. They hadn’t yet officially requested the FBI’s help in the case.
No explanation of where the bomb came from, or how it came to be at the house, had yet been uncovered. The housekeeper
had survived the blast thanks to the thickness of the glass and walls of the house. She confirmed that all the guests had left the party and only Oliveros, his wife, and child were on the deck. But she also told them about the guest who had arrived late. She gave a detailed description of the attractive woman who had brought a birthday gift. A sketch artist was brought in and created what the housekeeper called a very good likeness of the woman. The housekeeper was emphatic that all earlier presents had been opened before the party ended, so none of them could have caused the explosion.
The LAPD was attempting to locate that late arriving guest, but they were having no luck. They knew for certain that she wasn’t Verity’s mother, as she had claimed to be. Verity’s mother not only had short blond hair, but tipped the scale at around two-hundred fifty pounds.
Reading about the crime scene, Kira remembered sneaking into one of Oliveros’ zombie movies when she was only ten years old. It was so gory it had an R rating. Her father had a fit when he learned she had seen it, saying that sort of thing would rot her mind. His anger only made her want to see even more horror films. No matter how many such films she saw, Oliveros did them best. He understood the legends and psychological fears that underlay human reactions to evil, and particular the demonic. As a result, his films went beyond shots of blood and gruesome ways to die. They toyed with one’s deepest, unspoken fears.
She remembered that the philosopher Nietzsche once wrote, What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in your loneliest loneliness…? It was that innate, Jungian collective unconscious fear of demons and evil that made Oliveros’ films powerful, and made him rich.
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Scoggs said. Kira jumped, so startled was she by his voice. “Take some bereavement time off. You need it.”
It took a moment for her to breathe again. “Please, have a seat.” She pointed at the guest chair by her desk. “I have something to show you.”
She placed the photo of the seven Navy men flat on her desk. It was in a clear evidence bag. “I took this from my father’s house last night. Here’s my father”—she pointed to one sailor—“and this”—her finger moved to another—“is Gene Oliveros. Do any of your investigators know that Oliveros was in the same squad as my father? Has anybody else discovered this connection? It’s too much for a coincidence.”
“Whoa! Hold on a minute!” Scoggs picked up the photo. His expression went from skeptical to astonished. “What is this? It sure as hell does look like Oliveros.”
“It is Oliveros. This photo matches one we put into evidence from Oliveros’ home two days ago,” she said. “Has anyone paid any attention to that photo? Looked to see who the other sailors were with him?”
“Not yet,” he replied.
She gritted her teeth. “This is exactly why I need to be in this investigation, not home licking my wounds!”
“We’ll look into everything, but it takes time.”
“I know it takes time! That’s why I want to help. I want to do more than sit on my ass waiting for the murderer to waltz in here and confess.”
“Kira, calm down.”
“What about the burner phone and the text to my father’s housekeeper? That proves it was a premeditated murder.”
“How many people knew your father’s housekeeper’s name or her cell phone number? We haven’t found a single person. Do you?”
“No, but—”
“It could have been him, Kira. Those phones are a dime a dozen.”
“No way! There’s a reason those two men were killed within a day of each other.” She rubbed her forehead, trying to make sense out of all this. “This picture proves there’s some connection between them.”
He grimaced. “This is Los Angeles, lots of people die here every day. We hadn’t found any connection between Oliveros and the judge until right this second. Cut me some slack, okay?”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Two deaths in two days is just a big, fat coincidence? Shit happens, is that it? What I want you to do is investigate the connection between the two men.”
“We will, Kira—now that we know there is a connection. Tell me, did your dad ever talk about Oliveros?” Scoggs asked, trying to remain unruffled at her harangue.
“My dad didn’t talk to me about anybody.” She tried to make it sound as if it didn’t matter. “Anyway, the proof is right in front of your eyes. Are you going to check into this or not?”
“Sure thing, Killer,” he said, with a shake of the head. “Do you take me for an idiot? I like my balls where they are. Look, I know sitting this out is hard on you, but you’ve got to think of the whole picture. And the public. They have it in for the Feds, say we protect our own. If word got out among the newsies, those who don’t know you and only heard rumors that you and your old man … well, you know.”
“Didn’t get along? Barely spoke to each other?”
“That sounds harsh,” Scoggs said, trying not to meet her hard glare.
“Don’t give me that bull crap.” She tried to calm down. “None of that means a thing when it comes to investigating his murder.”
“Kira, you can’t get involved any more than you have. You’re too close to it, and if you take part it could even cause some trouble-makers to get suspicious. We don’t know it’s a murder,” Scoggs whispered. “I’m sorry.”
She froze, then stared at him. Her shoulders sagged at the implication behind his words. She had no business taking her anguish out on the closest thing she had to a partner in the FBI. “Suicide? You can’t be serious. That’s such shit!” She bit her bottom lip, trying to measure her words. “He was too proud, too arrogant. He would never harm himself. I’m supposed to be the profiler around here, except no one I work with believes me when I talk about my own father.”
“Kira, that’s not it.”
Her hands curled into fists of despair. “I always hoped my father would eventually see that I had become a halfway decent clinical and forensic psychologist, and in time would get over being pissed off that I didn’t follow in his footsteps to become Judge Holt numero dos. Maybe he was right. Maybe I’ve just been fooling myself.”
“He wasn’t right,” Scoggs said. “You’re good at what you do. Just like him.”
“I’m like him?” She grimaced. “Is that a joke?”
“Would I dare to joke with you, Killer?”
“Screw you, Scoggs,” she muttered, hurt and distraught.
He stood, giving her a look filled with pity. “I’ll see what I can find out.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “For now, go home and take care of yourself. We’re on this.”
She nodded and looked away. Her eyes got misty at his words and tears were the last thing she would let him see. She hated it when people were nice to her, and she despised their pity.
She took a deep breath then placed her hands on her computer keyboard. She needed to do more investigating on her own.
Chapter 17
Idaho
“I could not find it, my friend.” Lorenzo Fermi spoke softly, then stopped, and waited for the explosion from the other end of the phone line.
“You’re saying it’s gone?” Bennett roared.
“All I can tell you is that the man asking questions about the old priest is an archeologist named Michael Rempart.”
“An archeologist?” For some reason, the name sounded familiar to Bennett. “Are you watching him?”
“More than that, we searched him and tossed his apartment. As well as checking out Chaldean monasteries. We found Rempart at one of them. I think he doesn’t have the pearl. He told us he didn’t, and if he did, why would he have gone to the Chaldean monastery?”
There was a long silence, and Fermi became hopeful, but then Bennett’s harsh, ugly voice said, “Of course, he would never lie to you!”
“Well …” Lorenzo Fermi hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to say, all he knew was that this whole business had spiraled way over his head.
“One. Hundred. Thou
sand. U.S. dollars.” Bennett’s words were crisp, distinct. And then he lost all control. “That’s what you’ll get when you hand me the fucking pearl. I should think that would be enough incentive for you to search a little bit more!”
“I’ll try, signore.”
Bennett slammed down the phone without as much as a goodbye, then didn’t move for a long while as he tamped down his anger. He wasn’t a patient man. He had already waited long enough for this day. Waited for it. Expected it. Feared it.
Two sailors down—Oliveros and Holt. Five to go. Including him.
His living room was filled with computer equipment, and he had set up a powerful network, knowing that someday this might happen. Eventually, he would use it to search for Michael Rempart, but that would have to wait. Why the hell was that name so god-damned familiar?
He shoved it aside. His first task, as always when he sat before the network, was to run a search on the known quantities.
The satellite reception for his computers was working as it should, and he quickly saw that no new evidence had turned up in the murders of Oliveros and Holt. He hadn’t expected any. At least no one else had died … yet.
Chapter 18
Anyang, China 1150 B.C.
The young King Zhou Xin could barely eat or sleep after looking upon the face and figure of the Goddess Nüwa. None of his wives or concubines could hold a candle to the beautiful goddess. Finally, in despair, his advisors suggested he search for the most attractive human female in the kingdom, and use her to help him forget about the one he could never possess.
Eventually, word came to him that the woman he sought was the exquisite daughter of the powerful Duke Su Hu of Ji.
