by Brandt Legg
Rip stepped out. “Over here.”
“Come quick.” Topper hollered, waving his arm.
“Wait here,” he said to Gale, as he handed her his pack.
“Ripley, you’ve got to go,” Topper said, as soon as Rip reached him. “The FBI knows you’re here.”
“How?” Rip looked over his shoulder to the driveway and then to Gale.
“You remember the Hamilton boy?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t matter. I just ran into him at the farm supply. He’s a state trooper, and they just called him in on his day off. A big operation, the feds are pourin’ into town.”
“Damn it.”
“Take my car.”
“Maybe it’s not us.”
“That’s not all. The radio is filled with reports of nine law enforcement officers being killed while trying to arrest a fugitive wanted for theft of government property.”
“That couldn’t have anything to do with us. No cops have died.”
“The wanted man also perished, an archaeologist named Larsen Fretwell.”
Rip covered his eyes with one hand and sank to the ground. Gale ran over.
“Sorry, son.” Topper gripped Rip’s shoulder. He repeated the news to Gale. “You have to go.”
“This is totally out of control,” Gale said, crying.
They packed up in minutes. Rip reluctantly left the casing locked in the secret room with the original Clastier Papers. Gale carried the English translation in her pack; he had the Odeon and the Eysen in his. They’d photographed the casing from every angle with Topper’s digital camera, and Rip could continue to study the photos on his laptop from the road.
“I packed you some food in the car,” Topper said. “You might not want to stop. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on things”
“Hopefully, the FBI won’t find the connection to my relatives here.”
“The bigger worry is if the Vatican agents figure out you’re a descendent.”
“That’s an awfully big leap for them to make,” Rip said, staring out the car window at his old friend for a moment. Topper had helped raise him. Clastier wasn’t the only secret they shared. The silence of their farewell was shattered by the loud roar of an approaching helicopter. Rip scooped up his pack and grabbed the door handle, ready to run. Gale cradled hers, guarding the Clastier Papers. Topper looked up; the trees partially shielded them, but their car was visible from the air.
“They can’t know we’re in the car,” Rip reminded Gale.
“Depends on who is in that bird,” Topper said. It made several more passes before giving up. They watched the chopper fly off, devastated that the feds really were in Asheville, and wondered if it was already too late to slip out of town.
Twenty minutes away from the house, Gale suddenly pulled over into an elementary school parking lot, and began sobbing uncontrollably.
“Gale, what’s wrong?” Rip asked.
“Larsen is dead. It’s too much,” she said between soft sobs.
Rip was surprised by her intense reaction. Larsen had been his closest friend and somehow he was holding together. “Gale, come on, you weren’t this upset when Josh died; you hardly knew Larsen.”
“That’s not true. We were together. We’d been dating for a couple of months.”
At first Rip was speechless. “That’s why you were there?” he said quietly.
She nodded and wiped her eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Larsen didn’t want to. He knew how mad you were and figured it would make you angrier.”
“It does.” He didn’t want it to, but he couldn’t shake it.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” Rip studied her. “How serious were you?”
“He’d been working so much, but it was getting there. We met when I covered his dig in Alberta last year, but it wasn’t until he ran into Josh a few months back and my name came up. Josh gave him my number. I was at the camp that day to tell him we either had to get serious or part ways.”
“What did he say?”
“We never got the chance to have that talk. You showed up and we found the Eysen instead. I’ve lost two dear friends in two days.”
Rip hugged her. “We have to go.”
When Booker heard the news about all the deaths in the Atlanta Grand Escape Hotel disaster, he immediately phoned Kruse, who was just leaving his Knoxville office to drive the two hours to Asheville. A loner, Kruse had been with AX, Booker’s security service, since a long-retired senior officer had recruited him out of college. During the intervening ten years, Kruse had become one of the go-to guys in AX. Raised in a military family, he cherished honor and loyalty above all else. A good fit for Booker.
Kruse had the look of a commando, although he’d never served in the armed forces, a fact that bothered him. Yet he’d traveled the world for Booker, and had seen a fair amount of action. Three ghosts visited from time to time, but Kruse didn’t put up with tormenting memories of people he’d killed; they all deserved it. Protecting people, getting them out of trouble, sometimes got messy. They once asked him to serve in Black-AX, an elite crew within AX populated by former special ops soldiers, who routinely did assassinations and other nasty deeds, but he had declined. Although Kruse could handle trouble when it came, he didn’t like to go looking for it.
He was intrigued by what he’d been able to piece together about Gaines from the news and the briefs he received from AX. He looked forward to meeting the man that had become a reckless obsession for his normally careful employer. Kruse didn’t know that this would turn out to be his most dangerous assignment.
“It’s nothing less than divine intervention,” Pisano told Nanski. “When we heard that Sean Stadler had boarded a bus to Asheville, North Carolina, we routinely cross-checked all the data we had about this case in our computers.”
“Same as the FBI,” Nanski said.
“Yes, but we have access to their computers, too, and that is not a luxury they enjoy; no one has access to the Vatican’s database. Our computers contain an obscure fact about Mr. Gaines. It seems his cousin is the beneficiary of a small trust fund. One of the assets of that trust is a secluded home outside of Asheville.”
“How convenient,” Nanski said.
“Far beyond convenient. This is a house the Church has tried to purchase on numerous occasions. In fact, our agents have covertly entered the home three times during the past century.”
“Divine intervention sounds like the only explanation,” Nanski said, smiling, although the news caused him some uneasiness. “We are meant to find Gaines and Asher, and recover the artifacts before the FBI does.”
“Yes,” agreed Pisano. “I’ve emailed you the floor plans to the house, the layout of the grounds and the locations of neighboring homes.”
Nanski wanted to ask Pisano why the Church had tried to buy the property and was even more curious as to why they had broken in three times over the course of a hundred years, but he would save those questions for the Cardinal in Rome. He tried to concentrate on the matter at hand, but he had a terrible feeling that, rather than being close to resolution, the crisis was widening. The fact that the two biggest, seemingly unrelated, threats to the Church in the modern era had a common denominator – a brilliant archaeologist named Ripley Gaines – terrified him. The fact that a former investigative reporter, a liberal-minded woman, no less, who owned a copy of De Ente Et Essentia was with Gaines, shook his very being.
Chapter 34
Dixon Barbeau waited in the reception area, outside the Director’s office, in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. He’d never met the current Director. The prior Director had brought him in twice during the Rudolph investigation, and those weren’t pleasant experiences. Tired and frustrated, he expected this to be less of a meeting and more of a chewing out, a continuation of the Attorney General’s lecture. Instead, when he entered the private office, the Director came around his desk, and shook his hand.
“You look awful, Dixon.”
“It’s been a rough week.”
“That’s an understatement, huh? Each day getting worse.” the Director sat on the edge of his desk and stared at Barbeau. “Great Escape Hotel, Atlanta . . . one of the worst days in the Bureau’s history. I couldn’t make the press conference, because the President had summoned me to the White House.”
Barbeau looked surprised. He had wondered, as had many reporters, why the Director of the FBI hadn’t appeared on such a dark day. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are. But I’m not blaming just you. There’s plenty of blame to go around. The engineers who designed that damn catwalk for one, the hotel owner, the local law enforcement, me, you . . . it’s a long list. Mostly though, it was just damn bad luck.” He walked to his window and glanced down to the city. “The President asked for my resignation.”
Barbeau couldn’t hide his surprise. The Director stared back, assessing him.
“Are you asking me to resign?” Barbeau stood.
“No, Dixon. You’re not a big enough scapegoat. The President has reconsidered my position, but this is a tricky business you and I have landed in.” He watched Barbeau closely.
“I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”
“The President didn’t want my resignation because of those tragic deaths in Atlanta.”
“Then why?” Barbeau remained baffled.
“He wanted my resignation because Ripley Gaines has not been apprehended. Capturing Gaines and recovering the artifacts, in the President’s words, ‘is the highest priority for the Bureau and a grave matter of concern for our national security.’ Now, please tell me why that is.” The two men stood eye-to-eye.
“Sir, I cannot even begin to imagine what part of this case would cause the President of the United States to make such a statement.”
“You’re missing something, Dixon. Think about everything you know concerning this situation. Gaines, Asher, the artifacts, the dead photographer, Larsen Fretwell . . . what?”
Barbeau sat down and remained silent for several minutes. The Director returned to the window and stared out across the cityscape of the Nation’s capital.
“What the hell are these artifacts?” Barbeau finally said.
“That’s all I can think of, too.”
“You mean you don’t know?” Barbeau had thought he was being tested.
“No. I pressed the President, but he declined to provide further details, saying that he investigation was my department. When I told him more information would help me bring this to a quicker resolution, he said, ‘not necessarily.’ It’s puzzling, to say the least.”
“What made him change his mind about firing you, if I may ask?”
“Five minutes after I arrived, the President took a phone call. Afterwards, he said I could have a little more time to resolve the matter. That’s when he launched into the part about how critical it was to capture Gaines, but refused to say more. He abruptly ended the meeting, and an aide ushered me out.”
“I assume you’ve spoken to the Attorney General.”
“He is on the same page with the President. In fact, they are meeting again as we speak.”
“Director, may I be blunt?”
“Please.”
“Why didn’t he fire you? What changed his mind?”
“He may be saving me as a scapegoat. Based on what he said, the Atlanta nightmare is minor compared to the stakes of this investigation. If something goes wrong, there are ultimately three highly visible people to blame . . . ”
“The President, the Attorney General and the Director of the FBI,” Barbeau finished his statement.
“Exactly,” the Director said.
“So back to the original question . . . the artifacts.”
“Let me tell you what we’ve learned in the past twenty-four hours.”
Kruse approached the Asheville house cautiously. The old car in the driveway definitely didn’t look like a rental car. He hadn’t expected trouble, and now wished another AX agent had accompanied him. After pulling out his Glock-19 handgun, he circled the large house cautiously, looking in windows where possible. The humidity hung in the absence of a breeze, and he missed his car’s air conditioning. Chirping birds broke the eerie silence. The door off the back deck was open; the screen door wasn’t even latched, and squeaked when he opened it. He stood there absorbing the sounds of the house. Too quiet. Gaines and Asher could be asleep, but fugitives napping at that hour of the day, with the back door open seemed unlikely.
Even though he sensed that the house was empty, experience had taught him to be alert. Room by room, he searched, thoroughly. Big. Damn. House, he thought. Time to hit the second floor. Even before he stepped onto the wide staircase, he saw the body.
Chapter 35
Rip pushed himself onto the floor of the rental car’s back seat; figuring he was the more wanted of the two. Gale pulled her blonde curls into a ponytail and stuffed it under a ball cap. She drove past what she believed were plainclothes agents in a sedan. A state trooper slowed as he passed in the opposite direction, but no one stopped her. After crossing the French Broad River, she told Rip he could sit up. Traffic grew heavier.
“Too many cars for a Sunday, the FBI must have a roadblock set up on I-40 that’s slowing everything down,” Rip said.
“Check the map; find us another route,” Gale said.
“Here, follow signs to Smokey Park Highway. That turns into US-19 and runs parallel to 40. If we can make it to Jonathan Creek Road, we’ll be able to pick up the interstate again, well past the roadblock.”
“Get down!” Gale yelled. Two state troopers were driving toward them. As soon as they passed, she sighed with relief. A helicopter flew low, but it turned out to be a news-chopper covering interstate traffic. She turned on the radio and found a local talk station. They had interrupted their Saturday oldies program for updates on the breaking story.
The announcer described backups on interstates leaving Asheville in four directions. So far, the North Carolina State Police had declined to comment on the subject of their search. Law enforcement helicopters were also doing aerial sweeps of the area. Officials were working to close Hendersonville Road, Smokey Park Highway, Merrimon Avenue, and the Blue Ridge Parkway.
“I’m looking for alternate routes,” Rip said. “There are a bunch of secondary roads. They’ll never be able to cover them all.”
“This is nuts. Where are they getting all this manpower?”
“And why?” Rip asked. “Someone knows exactly what we have.”
“Yeah, someone who knows a lot more about it than we do,” Gale said. “Oh, my God, Look!” She pointed to the incoming lanes of the interstate they had just passed under. The sight terrified her more than anything that had happened so far. A convoy of military vehicles exited onto the ramp. “There must be fifty of them!”
Just then the radio announcer stopped his ramblings and said, ”Word just in from News Ten’s copter crew that a substantial number of National Guard troops have entered Asheville from the west. We’ll try to confirm if this is an actual deployment, and if this is connected to the roadblocks.”
“We’ve got about twenty miles or so until Jonathan Creek Road. Hopefully, getting back on I-40 won’t be a mistake.”
“Then where?” Gale asked.
“Booker is our only hope.”
Another chopper flew overhead. Not far behind, they could see another roadblock being set up.
“We might make it,” Gale said. “Are you sure we can trust Booker?”
“I’m sure,” Rip said.
“Maybe we should find someone we know we can trust, who can help us make sense of the Eysen?”
“I’m all for that. Any suggestions?”
“Clastier.”
“He’s been dead for more than a hundred years.”
“That doesn’t mean he can’t help us.”
“Where do you suggest we find him?
“Taos,
New Mexico.”
“You want to go two thousand miles to the high desert of northern New Mexico to find some dead man? How is that going to help us? Why don’t we just let Booker stash us somewhere really safe?”
“They found Asheville, so don’t you think they’ll find Booker? This is the FBI, the Vatican, and God knows who else. They can find your connection to Booker.”
“Maybe, but Booker’s pretty powerful himself.”
“So is Clastier, and there’s no way they can connect us to him.”
“I think you’re losing it, Gale.”
“Taos is as good a place as any to hide.”
“Have you ever even been there?”
“No.”
“So maybe it’s not a very good place to hide. Not to mention we’re short on cash and would need to sneak across the whole damn country to get there.”
“Rip, I know it sounds weird, but I think Clastier will protect us.”
“How could he?”
“You’ve spent your life looking for something in his Divinations.”
“Clastier’s a proven prophet, and was an amazing man, but – ”
“This is meant to be. Do you think we just happened to wind up together?”
“Gale, you followed me.”
“But why was I there? We didn’t find the Eysen by accident, and you didn’t simply happen to grow up reading Clastier. There’s just no such thing as a coincidence.”
Chapter 36
Kruse, Booker’s employee, climbed the grand staircase slowly. With his Glock cocked and ready, he stopped after each step to listen. By the time he reached the body at the top, he believed he was alone in the southern mansion. The wiry old man had no pulse. Nothing. Kruse carefully fished a wallet out of the dead man’s pocket. Topper Windom; he lived next door. No sign of foul play. Poor guy probably took the stairs too fast and had a heart attack. Wonder what he was doing in the house? Probably hasn’t been dead too long. After quickly searching the rest of the place, Kruse called Booker.
