by Joanne Pence
The king asked Duke Su to allow his daughter, Daji, to become his concubine—a request that the king considered to be a high honor.
To his amazement, the duke refused. At that, the king sent an army to persuade him, but the duke met them with an army of his own. Their clash resulted in the deaths of many good men.
The fighting continued until the duke’s son was captured and threatened with death, and the duke realized he must give in, or he and his people would be annihilated. His heart broke, but he agreed that in exchange for the return of his son, he would give Daji to the king.
The duke arranged to travel to the palace with his daughter, knowing that once she became a concubine, he very likely would never see her again. He included a retinue of fifty warriors to protect them both.
Now, the Thousand Year Vixen had watched all of this with great interest.
When the retinue stopped at an inn for the night, the duke chose a large room for himself, his daughter, and ten of his most trusted retainers. He and his daughter were given soft feathered mattresses, while the guards slept on the floor. At one point a great chill came over them, and all the candles went out, leaving the room in darkness. The guards murmured “yaojing,” meaning a demon must be near.
Frightened, Daji cried out and sat up from her bed.
“Are you all right, Daughter?” the duke asked.
“Yes, Honorable Father,” she said meekly. “Thank you.” With that, she quietly lay back down. She was a gentle, modest girl of fifteen years, who had lived a soft and pleasant life. She and her mother had shed many tears at her departure, but she knew she must obey her father’s decision to save her brother’s life. Thoughts of the king and what was to come filled her with dread.
Now, she felt something near her. She would have cried out, but did not want to again disturb her father. Whatever crept near—something she could feel, but not touch; sense but not see; smell but not hear—covered her and pressed her down hard against the mattress. At first it seemed like an animal, a fox perhaps, but then it changed, and grew much, much larger. It covered her mouth and slowly sucked out her breath, her very essence, her life …
The guards continued to whisper their fears.
“Quiet!” the duke roared as he ordered his servants to relight the candles. “It was only a gust of wind, you fools!”
He saw that his daughter’s eyes were on him, and she stretched out her hand. He went to her and sat. “Daughter, don’t be frightened. All is fine.”
She turned onto her side facing him, letting the blanket that had modestly covered her slide down to her narrow waist. From there, it rose over full, lush hips. As she leaned closer to the old duke, her nightdress gaped open, allowing him a glimpse of her breasts. Then she looked coyly up at him and smiled. Something about her eyes gripped his attention, something almost alien …
In a voice lower, huskier than she had ever used before, she murmured, “I’m fine … Daddy … now that you’re here to protect me.”
The duke’s chest swelled with pride at her use of “Daddy”—she had never been so bold as to call him that before, even as he was taken aback at noticing the lushness of his daughter’s body. She placed her hand on his knee and squeezed, then slid her hand up onto his thigh as she met and held his gaze. As their eyes met, in hers he saw something knowing, inviting. No, he told himself, impossible. And yet, he felt a quickening in his loins. Suddenly, he not only could understand the king’s demand for her, but he felt a surprising and deep stab of jealousy … and desire. He gasped and turned away, horrified and disgusted with himself, ashamed and sickened by such evil thoughts.
The party continued on to the king’s palace without further incident.
When King Zhou Xin learned of the arrival, he considered killing the duke for having defied his initial order, but his ministers convinced him that the duke should live since he sought peace and had brought his daughter to the palace. The king decided the duke’s life or death would depend on what he thought when he finally looked upon the woman that had cost so many lives.
When the time came for the daughter of Duke Su Hu to be escorted to stand before the king, Zhou Xin entered in his palace hall early and took his seat at the end of a long corridor. He was excited, but anxious at the prospect, sure he would once again be met with disappointment.
Daji dressed in white and pink silk robes that skimmed, but did not completely hide, her lithe figure. She entered the hall on the arm of her father, but then walked in tiny steps, her head bowed, until she was about five feet from the king. Liking what he saw thus far, the king’s heart pounded in anticipation.
Then she lifted her head. Boldly she met his gaze and held it a long moment before she said, “I am Daji. May my king, my lord, live ten thousand years.”
Although King Zhou Xin was sitting, he felt weak all over at the sight of her. She was more than he had imagined, more than he had dared to dream. All he could think of was a desire to possess such perfection. He immediately jumped to his feet and walked around her several times, then he took her arms and held them out wide as he inspected her up close. She swayed towards him, as if desiring him as much as he did her. He smiled, nodded, and ordered his servants to take her to his rooms to await his visit.
His ministers were dismayed. They wanted him to get over his fascination with the Goddess Nüwa, but they never expected him to lose his head the way he seemed to at the very sight of the duke’s daughter. To them, she was lovely, but not enough to cause King Zhou Xin’s strange reaction.
The king sent the duke home with vast quantities of food for his people, and then rushed off to be alone with his newest concubine.
Chapter 19
Florence, Italy
Michael had set up his cell phone to give him a special alert whenever an email, text, or call came in from Jianjun. When it sounded in the middle of the night, he opened up the email. The news about the seven men in Berosus’ photo was mind-blowing.
Each of the seven had become important in his own right. But it wasn’t as if they were top graduates of the U.S. Naval Academy or some other university. They had all enlisted out of high school.
Jianjun had listed the men’s names and titles:
* * *
Gene Oliveros—Highest paid movie director in Hollywood.
Daniel Holt—Federal Appeals Court Judge, 9th Circuit; top prospect for U.S. Supreme Court
Kevin Wilson—U.S. Senator from California, said to be a top candidate for a Presidential run.
Jonathan Vogel—Director of JV Global Energy, world’s largest energy-based hedge fund.
Scott Jones—Owner and publisher of the Los Angeles Post, second only to the L.A. Times in influence on the West Coast.
Stuart Eliot—Founder of Powermore Industries, top mining company in the U.S., now retired.
Hank Bennett—Founder of VaultGuard, the top internet security company in the world, now retired.
* * *
Jianjun also included a lot of accompanying information. He noted that movie director Gene Oliveros had died two days earlier. The evidence indicated that he blew up the deck of his house while he, his wife and daughter stood on it, killing all of them instantly. No one could understand why he would have done it. The next day, Judge Daniel Holt had died under mysterious circumstances. The news report’s description of his death hinted at murder or suicide, but gave no details as to why the FBI was confused. The piece also stated that Holt’s daughter often worked as a criminal profiler with the FBI. A photo of her leaving her father’s home ran in the news article, and Jianjun had included it with the e-mail.
Michael’s nerves went on alert at the odd expression on the woman’s face. Sadness, disbelief, and even lack of emotion due to shock were common expressions at such times, but one that evinced horror was not.
Recent news photographs of Daniel Holt showed him to be surprisingly youthful for a man sixty-two years of age. Even judges liked face lifts, Michael guessed. Gene Oliveros looked equally young, but that was p
ar for the course with Hollywood types.
Vogel, the hedge fund manager, Eliot from Powermore Industries, and even Jones, owner of the L.A. Post, had nothing but public relations blurbs and puff pieces about them on the internet. Senator Kevin Wilson had more information than anyone would ever want to read, and Hank Bennett had apparently scrubbed the Internet clean of all information about him, as would be only fitting of the man whose security systems were used by the Pentagon.
Michael saw that Oliveros’ death happened after Father Berosus died.
Three men, dying one after the other, all somehow connected by a photo taken years earlier. Why? How?
Michael studied the documents Jianjun sent. As usual, his assistant was incredibly thorough. His phone rang. It was Jianjun.
“Hey,” he said when Michael answered. “I got into the FBI database, and what I found deserved a phone call.”
“Fantastic!”
“You better believe it. You know, Michael, I wouldn’t mind a trip to Los Angeles. I’m a little bored up here in Vancouver. I mean, not that I haven’t got anything to do, and I’m here with my wife and all, not that she’s boring—well, maybe—but if you’d like me to head south to L.A., Hollywood, Disneyland, I’m just saying, I wouldn’t refuse.”
Michael rubbed his forehead. Jianjun didn’t fool him. His assistant was ready for action. He wished he felt the same. “Tell me what you’ve got,” he said.
Jianjun’s information was straightforward. The men varied in age from eighteen to twenty-four when they enlisted in the Navy. They all joined in 1975 or 1976 and came from all over the country. “The seven were on the U.S.S. Saratoga in nineteen seventy-seven, part of the Atlantic fleet. They were given leave at the same time and apparently all ended up in Cairo. For over a week, they dropped off the grid. When they reappeared, they were late returning from leave and all ended up in the brig. The strange part was that none of them remembered what made them late. Reports from their superiors, who had sent out search teams, was that they arrived back at the ship on their own volition, confused and terrified. The military blamed it on them having been drugged—either on purpose or because someone spiked their food or drink. In any case, after their tours of duty, every one of them went back to school. That was baffling because, before being drafted, these guys weren’t the top of the heap, if you know what I mean, most of these guys were a banana peel away from a life behind bars.”
“And then they all went to college,” Michael observed.
“They gravitated to the Los Angeles area, started out in junior colleges, did well, and from there went to universities where they all graduated at the top of their class Afterward, each one went onto a mega successful career in various and unrelated fields. I know your country has this mystique about the American Dream and all, but as they say in my country, if it smells like bull shit, it probably is.”
“So," Michael puzzled. “What happened to them during the week they can’t remember? And why are they being targeted now?”
Chapter 20
—The new keeper of the pearl has identified our old friends.
—We can make sure they don’t meet.
—Or, make it even more interesting if they do.
—Then, we can kill them all at once.
* * *
Idaho
Hank Bennett rode his all-terrain vehicle five miles over rugged, roadless mountains to the home of Stuart Eliot. They helped build each other’s log cabins, but despite being the other’s closest neighbor, neither cared all that much for the other and rarely visited. They communicated every week or so via e-mail, more to make sure the other was still alive than anything.
Since the ATV could be heard several miles away, Stuart stood in his doorway as Hank arrived. Stuart was a big man, pushing two-hundred eighty pounds in a six-foot two frame. He had wavy brown hair, thinning at the crown.
Hank followed him into the cabin. The small main room had a TV, sofa, and a recliner on one end, and a table and chairs on the other covered with papers, three computer monitors, and a printer/scanner/copier/fax. The kitchen area looked more like a chemical laboratory than a place to prepare food, with a multitude of beakers, flasks, heating equipment, glass and metal tubing, plus a large number of containers of chemicals, rare earth elements, and ores.
Stuart, like Hank, traveled every month or two northwest to Elk City to pick up mail and products ordered online. Both had set up false identities for all public interactions. Elk City claimed a population of two hundred, but Hank was sure that included tourists and bears. When they needed more anonymity, they would head southeast to Salmon City. That, however, rarely happened.
On a corner table sat an automatic espresso machine that Stuart used to make Hank a strong Americano. He also gave him a shot of whiskey, neat. Hank knocked back the whiskey in one swallow, then said, “It’s time to leave.”
“Leave? Why? We’re safe here.”
Hank grimaced. “Don’t you believe in any of the work we’ve done? All we’ve studied and learned? We’ve figured out how to keep ourselves safe anywhere, but if one of the others gets the pearl, we can’t be sure they won’t cause a huge problem. Right now, with proper precautions, we’ll be fine.”
Stuart’s heart pounded with fear at the thought of leaving the area he had called home for nearly ten years. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
“I can’t do it alone,” Hank said. “And you know I’m right.”
Stuart took a shuddering breath, then nodded. “Okay, where do we start?”
“Do you remember hearing of an archeologist named Michael Rempart?”
Chapter 21
Los Angeles, California
Seventeen hours after he received the news from Jianjun about the strange deaths of two of the men in Berosus’ photo, Michael walked through LAX to the car rental area. At first, he told himself to ignore the deaths. They had nothing to do with him. But they ate at him. Father Berosus had called the pearl evil and said it would harm people. Plus, it was a philosopher’s stone, something he took personally. Ever since he looked at it, he sensed its presence, felt as if it were near and watching.
The only personal object the priest had carried was a photo of seven men, and now two of those men were dead. Even if nothing mystical was involved, the deaths had to be more than a weird coincidence.
Michael found himself particularly haunted by the frightened look on Judge Daniel Holt’s daughter’s face in the newspaper article Jianjun sent him. Finally, he gave up arguing with himself, and headed for Los Angeles.
The bright, cloudless sky, warm sunshine, and rows of palm trees filled him with the beauty of southern California as he drove away from the airport. Whenever he came here and saw weather like this, he wondered why he didn’t simply move back to his beach house a couple of hours north.
The feeling usually lasted until he got stuck in traffic on the 405. Then, sanity prevailed. He had bought the house some years back after hearing his father was going to sell it. He lived in it for a while, but now used it solely as a mail drop and “permanent” address when needed.
Jianjun had given him information on how to reach Kira Holt. He wanted to speak to her and hopefully get some answers about Father Berosus and the men in the photo. Maybe even about the pearl. He first went to the offices where she conducted her private practice and was told she was on “sabbatical.” Next, at the FBI office, he learned she would be out of the office a while, taking some personal days.
He doubted he would find her at the crime scene, but he wanted to see it, and drove by Judge Holt’s address. He found a small home on a million dollar location in Laurel Heights. From there, he went to Kira Holt’s townhouse in Santa Monica.
A woman opened the door. She wore no make-up, and her blue eyes had a look of deep sorrow. She was tall and stood ramrod straight. Bright red hair pulled into a pony tail revealed a high forehead and lightly freckled pale white skin. “Miss Holt?” he asked.
Her face and demeanor stiff
ened. “If you’re a reporter, you should be showing your credentials. But don’t bother because I have nothing to say.” She began to close the door.
He put his hand out to stop it. “Wait. I’m not a reporter. I have information for you.”
She regarded him with caution, her brow wrinkled. “You seem familiar. Have we met before?”
“No. My name is Michael Rempart,” he said, and then felt relief when his name meant nothing to her. During the short time he lived in the area, he had become a bit of a television “darling” because of his archeological exploits, hosting a couple of National Geographic channel specials, dating Hollywood stars, and appearing regularly in People and other magazines. That prior fame—or infamy—had caused the press to take notice when he became involved in the Idaho disappearances last year. He was glad to have nothing more to do with that phase of his life and felt vaguely disgusted that he had ever embraced it. “I was living in Florence, Italy, when I received some startling information. The newspapers describe the deaths as possible suicides. I don’t believe it.”
The way she scrutinized him was so fierce it felt like an assault. “What do you know about them?”
He lifted his hand. “Only what was reported. I’m here to ask you what happened.”
She folded her arms. “Who are you that I should tell you anything? I suggest you leave before I call the cops.” She again reached for the door.
“Look at this.” He held, at eye level, the photo of the seven sailors. “We need to talk about it.”
She scrutinized his face as if trying to remember where she had seen him, or if she dared to trust him. “Come inside.”
She led him past a living room done in tans and browns and devoid of personality—sofa, two chairs, end tables, coffee table, and a big screen TV. The eating nook had a little color—yellow cushions on the two chairs at a small round table. The kitchen wasn’t much bigger than his alcove in Italy.
