by Gregg Loomis
Lang checked the note he had left on his iPhone and pushed his way through glass doors. A short way down a hallway was Lecture Room 5, featuring stadium-style seating. At the center, leaning over a table stacked with papers was Dr. Abram Wildstein.
Perhaps by coincidence but more likely by careful cultivation, Wildstein bore no small resemblance to Albert Einstein. Same unruly halo of white hair, same drooping mustache. The sweater with the blown out elbows was missing, however, as were the wrinkle-furrowed forehead and sleepy looking eyes. He wore an Oxford cloth button-down, tie at half-mast, khakis that might remember a crease and some sort of moccasin-type shoes with no socks. A rumpled linen jacket was folded (or tossed) over a lectern.
Lang had met him during the aftermath of the murder of a Tech professor in connection with what Lang referred to as the Sinai Matter. Lang had hired the professor to do some electrical experiments and he had been killed by the people seeking the same answers Lang had been trying to find. Lang was unsure of Wildstein’s place in the academic hierarchy, but the professor had made a nuisance of himself as far as the police had been concerned by inserting himself into their investigation.
Whether or not he would be more useful now was a moot point. He was the only person Lang knew in Tech’s physics department.
The professor looked up as Lang shut the door. “Ah!” he exclaimed as though making a great discovery. “Mr. Reilly!”
Lang walked down the rows of seats, each a step. “Professor.”
“Good to see you again, Mr. Reilly. Even more so without the, er, unfortunate circumstances of last time.”
Even better since the professor no doubt knew of the Foundation’s several donations to research at Tech. There is nothing more obsequious than an academic in the presence of large sums of money.
He stuck out a hand for Lang to shake. “And what do you need with a professor of astronomy?”
Lang had had no idea what the man’s specialty was. He shook hands and then produced the object from his coat pocket. “I’d like to know what this is.”
Wildstein turned it over in his hand, found the catch and opened it. “Tell me about it.”
“Not much to tell. It supposedly belonged to the Elizabethan John Dee. Not sure if you’re familiar with him.”
Wildstein smiled. “There are few serious scientists who aren’t. He dabbled in just about every field known to the science of those days.”
“For all I can figure out, it could have been his pocket watch.”
The professor frowned, still turning the object around. “Don’t think so. Watches, as opposed to clocks, were just appearing in the mid-sixteenth century, but they were heavy, bulky, drum-shaped. People wore them on chains around their necks or pinned to a garment.”
Lang suppressed a grimace. Academics, like lawyers, were good at giving answers to question other than the one asked.
“Your guess as to what purpose it served?”
Wildstein hunched his shoulders, more a flinch than a shrug. He extended a hand holding the opened object. “I’m speculating there was something attached to the brass pin in the middle of the face.”
“Like a compass needle?”
A nod of the head. Or was it a shake? “Elizabethan compasses weren’t like this. They consisted of a magnetized needle fastened to the underside of a card on which the thirty-two points of the then compass were marked eleven point two five degrees apart.”
“Looks like there may have been markings on the face there.” Lang pointed. “They’re pretty faded.”
The professor squinted. “Looks like one is water. Another is fire.”
“The four elements of antiquity: Fire, water, air and earth?”
A definite nod this time. “Perhaps. But I don’t get the other two. Looks like a tree or plant and maybe human figure. I don’t see them representing air and earth. I . . .”
A sound at the back of the hall.
Both men looked up at the tiered seating where a young woman wore collegiate sloppy: jeans and a T-shirt proclaiming, “MIT, the Georgia Tech of the North” was making her way down. Ebony, shoulder-length hair rippled with each step. Only at the last moment before she reached them did Lang note she was one of the many Asians who would be taking American education and technology out of the country upon graduation.
“Professor Wildstein?
“Ms. Kim?”
She proffered a manila envelope. “The sunset observations from last week.”
“Thanks.”
She bobbed her head, gave a curious glance at Lang and started back up the stairs.
“Trouble with teaching,” Wildstein muttered softly, “is dealing with the students.”
“What about that object in your hand?” Lang asked.
The professor blinked twice, remembering the interrupted conversation. “Let me have it for a few days, run a test or two. You have a card?”
Lang handed him one, wondering about the wisdom of putting in his hands something the Russians wanted badly enough to rough someone up or worse for. Not to mention the United States Navy’s somewhat more gentle interest. Lang knew that could change in an instant if a certain element were given orders to retrieve it.
He also pondered the advisability of mentioning any of that. He decided the chance of anyone knowing the Dee object, as he had come to think of it, was here at Tech was small.
Instead, he shook Wildstein’s hand. “Thanks, professor. I’ll hear from you in few days?”
The professor pocketed the object. “If I can’t figure it out by then, there’s not a lot of hope I can at all.”
15.
472 Lafayette Drive
Atlanta, Georgia
7:22 That Evening
Strains of Glenn Miller’s Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree with vocal by the Modernairs bounced across the den as Lang studied an empty fireplace. He took a sip from a glass. Ice tinkled in single malt Scotch. T.S. Elliot had never spent a March in Atlanta. March, not April, was the cruelest month. Today: Sunshine and spring-like temperatures. It could just as easily snow tomorrow.
Lang didn’t wear his trousers rolled, either.
He was trying to decide if it really was cool enough for a fire, a fire that entailed carefully arranging kindling to begin a small blaze and then adding the larger logs progressively. Both he and Gurt distained the artificiality of both gas logs and gas starters. Lang, in particular, took pride in his ability to arrange twigs and logs in such a manner that a single match produced a roaring fire. He supposed laying in a fire was one of the few pioneering skills left since it was no longer practical to hunt down dinner nor were there any marauding savages against whom the home need be protected. Well, no Native American savages, anyway.
“You could join the twentieth century if not the twenty-first and install a gas starter.” Father Francis, dinner guest, reading his mind.
The priest, in blue jeans, turtle neck, and dog collar also held a glass.
“I like playing Boy Scout and building my own fires. Acti labors iucundi.”
“Vel caeco aoareat. You must enjoy it considering the labor you put in to it. And the vocabulary when it goes out.”
“We having a fire tonight, Daddy?”
Manfred, fresh from his evening bath, hands extended. Ever since Gurt had declared him old enough to shower rather than be bathed, she and Lang conducted inspections of hands, back of the neck and other parts that might have escaped the eight-year-old’s attention. Behind him stood his constant shadow, a large shaggy dog of indeterminate lineage.
Grumps had belonged to Lang’s sister and his adopted nephew. He suspected Janet had picked out the dog because the mutt was the ugliest in the pound and, therefore, the least likely to be adopted. When they died, Lang had rescued the cur from the vet, more because that was what Janet would have wanted than any need for a dog. The animal had been a loyal, sometimes boisterous companion to Lang, once even saving his life.
Manfred had appeared when Grumps’s coat was showing
as much white as dark. The dog had accepted the child as though Manfred were his own. Daily, he had howled piteously at his departure when the little boy had begun nursery and then grade school.
Finally reconciling himself that his young master would return, he was an immovable fixture at the back door until he heard Gurt’s car pull into the drive around 3:30 in the afternoon. Then he began to run in circles, barking joyously until Manfred was inside.
Lang liked to think Manfred’s return was the cause of the dog’s exuberance, not the fact the first thing the child did when he got home was to feed him. Either way, the animal wasted no further energy. He could usually be found snoozing near Manfred.
In fact, he was curling up now, indifferent to the vagaries of fire or no fire.
Lang answered his son’s question. “I think maybe it’s too warm.”
Mild disappointment on the boy’s face. “I like it when you make a fire.”
“And why is that?” Lang asked.
“Because you say so many bad words every time it goes out.”
The was a muffled snicker from the bar where Francis was refilling his glass.
Gurt entered, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Are you going to make a fire?”
“I was thinking it is too warm.”
“Then perhaps we can have dinner outside.”
There was a brief silence punctuated by the sound of another old vinyl 78 record dropping onto the turntable. The Glenn Miller Orchestra began Little Brown Jug.
Lang stepped to the bar and picked up the Scotch bottle. “I’m not sure of the correlation between a fire and where we have dinner.”
The twinkle in Francis’s eyes told him the priest was anticipating previously unexpected entertainment.
“If it is warm,” Gurt said, “we frequently eat dinner on the picnic table by the pool. When it not warm, we use the dining room.”
If Gurt had an unattractive feature, a subject certainly up for debate, it was what Lang suspected was her difficulty in recognizing degrees. To her, “warm” meant outside, “cool” inside. There were rarely in betweens.
“It would be uncomfortably chilly outside tonight but not enough inside for a fire.”
Gurt rolled her eyes, an expression that could mean anything from frustration to total indifference. Frequently, the two were the same. She turned, headed back from the kitchen. “I will set the table, then” floated over her shoulders along with the fragrance of roasting chicken.
Wordlessly, the two men toasted each other.
Lang looked closer at his friend. “That’s not the usual crucifix hanging around your neck. It has a circle around the top.”
In a motion Lang guessed was reflexive, the hand not holding the glass went to the collar. “Celtic Cross. I wear it in honor of St. Patrick’s Day every year. Consuetudo quasi altera natura.”
“Cesar was right: Custom becomes habit. But St. Paddy’s day was almost two weeks ago. But then, I doubt God cares which cross you wear.”
Francis feigned exaggerated astonishment. “I can’t believe my ears! That is perhaps the closest to an admission I’ve heard from you that there is a God.”
Though close friends, the pair generally avoided religious issues, an armistice if not a truce, between the priest’s faith and Lang’s lack of it. Good natured jibes were the exception.
Ignoring his parents’ repeated admonitions, Manfred jumped into the conversation. “That’s not the Cross Jesus was nailed to! It didn’t have a circle around it!”
The hazards of a Christian private school, Lang thought. Hope he’s as sharp with the three R’s
Francis stooped, bringing his face to about the level of the little boy’s. “Sit down, Manfred, and I’ll explain.”
Manfred immediately plopped down, splay-legged on the floor. He always enjoyed the priest’s stories.
Grumps opened a single eye, closed it, assured Manfred wasn’t going anywhere and was snoring before Francis, also sitting on the floor, began.
“Long, long time ago there were some people called ‘Celts.’ They lived in Western Europe. They had many gods. . . .”
“But there’s only one God. . . .”
“Manfred,” Lang said, “you know better than to interrupt.”
Francis looked up at Lang, grinning. “Interruption welcome. I’m glad to know someone in this house isn’t headed for eternal damnation.”
He turned back to Manfred. “Yes, there’s only one God. But back then, people, including the Celts, believed in many. In fact, these Celts worshipped more than most. They thought every tree, every river had a god. Skills such as blacksmithing and healing had gods as did directions such as north and south.”
Manfred chuckled at the absurdity.
Francis continued. “Over the years, wars with other peoples forced the Celts to live in what now is England and Ireland. The English Celts became Christians but not the Irish. Then, a man named Patrick went to Ireland to convert them, but they would not give up their gods, particularly the sun. So, Patrick placed a circle behind the cross, combining the two religions.”
“He’s the dude who chased all the snakes out of Ireland, right?” Lang asked.
Manfred pointed. “Daddy, now you are interrupting!”
Gurt stood in the doorway. “Francis, you can finish over dinner.”
The priest awkwardly got to his feet. “Wouldn’t want dinner to get cold.”
“In that case, make the blessing short,” Lang suggested.
Francis would have bet the blessing was not said in his absence. It was a measure of the friendship he was requested to repeat the ritual whenever he was a guest at the table.
Once said, Manfred piped up. “Uncle Francis, tell me about Patrick running the snakes out of Ireland.”
Francis cleared his throat but not before shooting a glance at Lang, an unmistakable I’ll-get-you-for-this look. “Well, we don’t really know he did. Do you know the difference between legend and history?”
16.
472 Lafayette Drive
Atlanta, Georgia
2:20 AM
Three Days Later
Leon Frisch saw an opportunity to repay Gurt and Lang for turning his life around.
After a bruising encounter with Gurt a year or so ago, the petty criminal and methamphetamine addict had found religion and cure in the Fulton County jail. Once out, he had turned up on the Reilly doorstep to make amends. Instead, he had taken a bullet meant for Lang. That and his ability to fix about anything with moving parts won him a place in the household as maintenance man, part-time nanny, yard keeper and general Keeper of the Palace, never mind that a six-foot black man with shoulder length dreadlocks drew more attention in WASPish Ansley Park than would a wagon of Gypsies.
Well, maybe at least as much.
Gurt paid him slightly more than the cost of the pool and landscape services he had replaced, neither of which provided baby-sitting, plus three meals a day and a room in the pool house. The latter he kept scrupulously clean. Lang’s only complaint was the man’s abstinence.
Lang didn’t completely trust anyone who didn’t drink.
Leon, though, was fast proving an exception.
Two hours ago, Leon had turned off the lights in his room and pulled the covers up. Just before shutting his eyes, something caught his attention: Automobile headlights that seemed to pull up in front of the main house before going out.
He couldn’t be sure because the house itself blocked his view of the street, limiting it to that place the driveway intersected Lafayette Drive. But he had seen the lights. Lang and Gurt were out of town with Manfred for Spring Beak, leaving Leon and Grumps as the only residents. He was almost equally certain anyone prowling about at midnight wasn’t up to anything beneficial.
He had good reason for the opinion: Since he had known Gurt and Lang, there had been two home invasions. Make that two attempted home invasions. He had arrived just in time to get shot during the first. The second . . . Well, let’s say breakin
g into that house wasn’t going to end well for whoever did the breaking.
He reached for the cell phone beside the bed, his first impulse being to alert Lang. No. What if this were just some late-night reveler pulling over to the curb to relieve himself? He’d look pretty foolish.
The room was illuminated only by the photosensitive pool lights still on. He glanced around it.
The closest thing to a weapon he saw was the long-handled net used to scoop up objects too large for the automatic sweeper. Like the tennis balls Manfred and Grumps played with but rarely took with them when finished. At least twice last summer Leon had had to disassemble the pool’s pump and filtration system to retrieve a furry, chartreuse ball.
He got out of bed as quietly as possible as if someone in a car fifty yards away might be able to hear. Armed with the net, he opened the door just wide enough to slip outside just like he had seen agent Jack Bauer do a hundred times on 24 Hours. Ghostly shadows cast by the pool lights through ever=circulating water shimmered across the lawn. Twice before he reached the back of the house Leon was certain he saw something move only to be mistaken.
It was then he realized he was barefoot. He could only hope one of Grumps’ surprises wasn’t awaiting him in the dark. Jack Bauer never had that problem.
Flattening himself against the side of the house, he edged toward the front and the orange hue of sodium vapor street lights, the long handle of the net held at the ready.
He heard a car door open. Peeking around a corner of the house, he noted no interior light went on with the door open. That was suspicious enough. He was almost certain this morning he had seen the completely vanilla Ford Taurus parked across the street despite the no parking signs. In Ansley Park, Ford Taruses were less common than BMW’s, Volvo’s, Mercedes and any range of child, dog and grocery friendly SUVs.
Two men got out. At least Leon thought they were men. Both dressed in black complete with ski masks, the space for the eyes pale in the early-morning darkness. They skirted the puddles of light from the street lamps, hunched over as though moving against a headwind.
