The Fox Knows Many Things: An Athena Fox Adventure

by Mike Sweeney

  I jammed the Nikes against the metal as the thing started spinning. Mustache was already cracking comments in what I assumed was a thick Bavarian dialect, and from the reactions of the crowd, salty as hell. The first few girls slid off without fuss. I leaned back, trying instinctively to move my center-of-gravity closer, and my leg muscles tightened as I pushed my feet as flat as they would go.

  Someone to my left let out a short shriek as friction lost the fight. She flailed, screaming in laughter and spinning sideways, taking out two others. And me. I lost one leg and felt the twist starting. Grabbed for the bare shin of someone sitting a little closer to the sweet spot.

  No. I let go, physics took over, and I made an undignified exit. I straightened the dirndl and I was sure mustache was commenting about me but it was all in good fun. Flushed and laughing, I gathered myself together, clapped for the victors, and moved on to the next tent in my search.

  It was at the Hacker Festzelt — one of the newer tents — that I spotted Vash.

  It wasn’t hard. He was in proper Tracht, if you ignored the high-visibility lime green hat topped by an ostrich feather taller than he was.

  Also, as I came in, he was demonstrating “Spartan kick!” to his circle of fans. I went right across the table in one long leap and tackled him to the ground.

  “I didn’t realize how deep it was!” he protested the moment he had his wind back.

  I’d put it together in an eye blink. Vash knew I’d studied the Persian War. That hoarse shout was to disguise a voice I’d recognize otherwise. He’d been hoping I would crawl out and tell everyone I’d been attacked, and when I didn’t, he posted it himself. Anonymously, of course, because he had more sock puppets than I had socks. It was all because a little violence made the whole affair at the dig that much more interesting for his audience.

  And he wasn’t the person who’d tried to kill me. That had been a coldly taken moment of opportunity. And from how he’d just reacted, Vash didn’t even know. So he hadn’t seen anything.

  “Why don’t you give me a kiss while we’re down here?”

  I slapped him. “Oh, I hope someone was filming that,” he said as he got up. The security were already heading this way. “It’s okay, guys,” he called. “She’s with me.”

  Oh, gods rot it. Play it his way or get thrown out and then I wouldn’t learn a thing.

  “Cochon! Peeg! Les carottes sont cuites!” I thrust out my dirndl-framed chest, pouted, and looked betrayed.

  “What do you do this time, big guy?” one of his friends laughed.

  “Helooooo, French Nurse!” A little slow, but points for the reference.

  “Ah, ma petite Renarde!” Vash smirked horribly. “Can you possibly forgive me?”

  Renarde? Renard the Fox? My little vixen? Even in French, he was beating me up.

  The security frowned hard at us both, the way only a German can frown, but let us be.

  Time to take the offensive. How far could a sympathy bid go? “How could you the such things do?” I said bitterly.

  Uh, no. Back it off with the mangled syntax. Thank you Océane, but her contribution had used up the last of my actual French. Why had I even picked that character? Mimi, in that play I couldn’t even remember? That had been high school and a bit part besides.

  “We were only talking.” Vash parroted the stock reply so many men had used so many times.

  Stall. Had to stall. Reached into the Uta Hagen bag of tricks. A little cry. Nothing ugly, just a nice bit of tears. Dammit, Gally. That was my velvet pony! Served her right to have to give Flopsie to me in exchange.

  “Damn, Vash, what did you do?” One of the peanut gallery. He actually sounded sympathetic.

  Vash’s lip twisted a little despite his control. His eyes flicked. He was watching the audience, measuring how they were reacting.

  I used the chance to orient myself. Lovely blue sky, little white clouds like a level from Super Mario Brothers, hand-painted scenes on the wall, contemporary. It looked like a theatre set. It made me feel oddly like I was on home ground. Was that why my instincts had gone in such a strange direction?

  A server came around while we were stopped to catch our breaths and our wits. “Maß and a Brezen for the lady,” Vash ordered for me. The server looked at me, raised an eyebrow. I nodded, letting her know it was okay.

  Vash turned his full attention back to me. He gave me a little nod. Then spoke to his gang. “Fellows, this is Jenny. Bright as a penny, but about as French as Dolly Parton.”

  Well, that was a way out. Trap and all. “I’m nothing like Dolly Parton!” I retorted.

  “You can say that again!” he chortled.

  Okay, time to regroup. This, I reflected, was not the smartest thing I’d done all week. Basically, I’d bearded a lion in his den, and I didn’t mean the Löwenbräu one.

  He was looking at me again, and it wasn’t a leer. Leers I could deal with. No, it was worse than that. It was analytical. It was a look that said who are you and what can you do for me. I knew that look. Burbank girl. It came with the territory.

  Vash had power, he had connections. I’d seen what the power of the unleashed chans could do to someone. Outsiders liked to laugh about how what happened on the Internet wasn’t real. “Sticks and stones,” they’d say. As if sticks and stones had ever launched a DOS attack against a storefront. Some of us had money tied up in this thing. It wasn’t just influencers that lived or died depending on how well they weathered the tempests of the social media teapot. Actors had lost opportunities, books had crashed, politicians had made hay. Or should that be Russian hackers?

  The beer showed up. I set mine down to work on the pretzel. Wow. As much as I disliked the fellow, I had to admire his taste in food. Concentrate. I still hadn’t found what I came here to find. And there was danger here.

  Right. “What happened at the dig, Vash?”

  He shook his head. The slightest gesture, meant to be hidden from his fans. He wanted me to do something different. I suppressed a small shiver. His game, his grounds. Play it his way or get hurt.

  Fine, then. I dropped the coquette body language. Stood straight, arms akimbo. “Fellows,” I gently mocked his address. “I think it is time we came clean. I am an archaeologist.”

  Vash blinked. Then after a long pause, flipped me a two-finger salute. He’d offered me a chance to play to his audience. I’d chosen to play to him instead. Give him a rival and that made him look important. It was crass manipulation and he recognized it and that is what he was saluting.

  I thought.

  “She was at the Bad Münster excavation,” Vash told his fans. Yup. He was going with it.

  “And he pushed me into a nineteenth-century cistern,” I said, rough but playful.

  “I didn’t realize how deep it was!” he owned up with a rueful laugh. Not the greatest apology, but hell, I’d scored again.

  “Wait, slow down,” one of the peanut gallery interrupted. He had a narrow, flattened face that made me think of an Afghan Hound. The hair didn’t help. “The Warrior Fragment? She’s the one who took it?”

  I showed my teeth.

  When I turned back to pick up the Maß someone was in the way. The someone looked right at me, as if he knew me from somewhere, but I didn’t recognize him. He kept going, vanishing into the crowd, and for some reason I felt a shudder going over me. There had been something oddly blank about the man.

  Brainy Barker was still talking. He all but had his hand up. “So the story is real? Spartan Kick and all?”

  I forced a laugh. The violence up there was coming back to me, a little too strongly. “Leave us some secrets,” I said. I took another long swallow from the Maß to try to calm my nerves.

  The question was, did I win Vash’s little game, or did I just play right into it?

  “She is on the side of truth, like we are,” Vash said.

  Truth, huh. I felt a headache coming on. Conspiracy nut jobs. Was I willing to play along with them in order to get answers? Was
that what Vash had been trying to get me to do? Support his crazy theories? I shivered again, stronger this time.

  “Please,” I said. “Just once, be honest. Why the sherd? Why does someone want it so bad they are willing to kill over it?”

  His mouth formed the words, “Dramatic, much?” but he didn’t say it. He’d seen my expression. For a moment, empathy was there. “You don’t look so good,” he said.

  “Long weekend,” I said. The tension wouldn’t leave my body. Another shiver. Felt the sweat break out, cold on my skin. “He tried to stone me,” I murmured. Gulped at the beer again, frowning at the bitter taste.

  “Money,” he told me. “It makes people do dangerous things. If I were you, ‘Jenny,’ I’d be very cautious of that girlfriend of yours in Athens. Your Ariadne.”

  And that was it. That was what I’d come to Munich for. Vash and his conspiracies and his sympathizers were just as much a sideline as the heathenists. Whatever the sherd meant, whatever made it worth killing over, the secret was back in Athens.

  A sharp pain in my temples, almost bringing me to my knees. The room tipped, and the edges of my vision were going gray. I looked at the beer. Bitter. Why bitter? I could feel my heart beating way too fast, blood tingling in my veins with the cold sweat.

  Bitter. Drugged! Why…no, who?

  It was the man from the Rotenfels. Had to be. If the blond German could find me, so could he. But…how?

  I stumbled, the pain in my head jagged now. I could barely see. Gods! What would happen when I passed out? Typical American tourist, dump her outside on Vomit Hill with the rest of the Bierleichen and let her sleep it off. I couldn’t let that happen! It was the cistern all over again, only this time I’d really be at his mercy!

  Terror trip-hammered at me. Safe place. I needed a safe place. Couldn’t walk. Could barely see. I’d never make it. There was only one thing I was sure of. Vash. He was selfish as shit and what he wanted from me was nothing good and that made him the only person in the room that I could be sure of.

  “Heh, that good German beer a little stronger than you get at home, eh?” He’d finally noticed something was up. “You’ve got to know your…”

  “Fuckthatnoise!” Grabbed him. Vision just a tiny tunnel heart fluttering so fast too fast where were my legs where was the floor which way which way helpless too late killer would never… “Sichere Wiesn!” I got out as it all went black.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “HOW DO YOU feel?”

  She had a kind face. She was speaking softly. I was in a hospital bed with privacy curtains around me. Oh, no, oh no, oh no.

  “I…don’t know.” Looked at her again. “Did we talk before?” Body awareness was slowly returning.

  Scraps of memory were chasing themselves around. Babbling. Someone helping me walk. The Red Cross tent. Scissors. I felt a huge wash of relief. I’d heard the horror stories. Take part of my memory from me, you took part of my self.

  “My dirndl!” My poor, poor dirndl. They’d been about to cut it off.

  “You wouldn’t let them cut it,” she said. “You insisted on taking it off yourself. It’s right there, on the chair.”

  My dirndl! I remembered that. I remembered cool cool ice, frowns, the brief sting of a shot. It was jumbled, out of context, but it was all there.

  “What happened?” My ploy had worked. Vash had brought me to safety. I bet he hated that!

  “How long have you been taking medication for your anxiety?” she asked instead.

  “For my — what?”

  “It is okay.” The gentle voice was back again. “Many of us find large crowds of people stressful. It is not a shame to feel that way.”

  Again, what? Why would that… “Medication?” I asked.

  “The MAO Inhibitor,” she said. Some of that German briskness was re-asserting itself. “You were experiencing a hypertensive crisis.” Sternly, now. “Your physician should have advised you against drinking while taking such a dangerous antidepressant.”

  Antidepressant? Crowds? It was coming together. She thought I had some sort of social anxiety and had been medicated for it. And maybe doubled my dose to face Oktoberfest.

  “I’d had a drink before…” I temporized.

  “You can not drink at all while taking those medications!”

  I was being offered a story. I could carry it off, easy. A little lip tremble, some remarks about an imaginary family physician. But I didn’t want it. The killer had tried for me, and he’d shown one thing very clearly; he didn’t care what kind of collateral damage he might cause.

  “I don’t take any medication.” Very firmly. “Someone doped my drink.”

  She blinked at me. I could see the ideas flitting across her head. Paranoia, hallucinations. I firmed my lip. “Ma’am, someone slipped something in my drink and I want to be damned sure he didn’t slip it in anyone else’s.”

  That started a lot of things moving. I got to talk to one of the doctors next. “We’ve seen an MAOI reaction here before,” he told me. “Though rarely in someone so young. You responded very well to the Diazepam. There’ll be some paperwork later.”

  “Of course,” I said dryly.

  “We need to keep you under observation for several more hours, but it looks like we won’t be transferring you to hospital after all.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” I said. I couldn’t imagine the paperwork that would be involved with that.

  “This is why adulterating drinks is so dangerous.”

  “Oh?”

  “You only drank a little.”

  “Ah. Paracelsus.”

  He gave me an odd look. “The dose makes the poison,” he said. “You are an interesting young lady. As well as a lucky one.”

  “How high did you say my blood pressure got?”

  My curtains went back after a bit and I talked to far too many people. I had a sinking feeling the paperwork from this episode was going to follow me for the rest of the trip. The cops were particularly fun to talk with. Of course I had to talk to them. Doping a drink was serious business and this was Oktoberfest. If you couldn’t trust the beer, what did you have left?

  “Unfortunately, the older MAOI are irreversible,” a male nurse was telling me. “I am sorry to tell you that you must observe strict dietary restrictions until your serum levels have restored themselves. Two weeks at a minimum.”

  “There goes Oktoberfest,” I sighed.

  He looked at me sharply. “I’m afraid we can’t let you back in. Too much risk of temptation.”

  “What if I have someone to watch me,” I ventured half-jokingly. “The guy that brought me in?”

  “Perhaps.” The male nurse flipped the papers back on his clipboard, stood up. “We will let you know.” He stopped at the curtain. “Your friend is in the waiting area if you will permit him to visit.”

  “I will.”

  A few minutes later a tall, gentle man poked his head around the curtain. “How are you?”

  Robert! “I thought…”

  “That strange fellow who helped bring you in? He left as soon as I’d introduced myself. Seemed glad to be rid of you.”

  “Glad to be rid of the responsibility for me,” I said. Oh, yeah, Vash had hated that. It went against all that carefully tended image. It was that very same paradox that I’d had to rely on.

  “He muttered something about being cheated out of his victory. Do I even want to know?”

  “With luck, you never will.” I tried to sit up properly. “Wow. I’m still pretty weak. So thanks for coming to see me.”

  Robert shook his head with a smile. “Actually, I didn’t come here because of you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Remember how I thought I could use your help at a gig later? Well, this is that gig.”

  This was the Red Cross tent. The usual falls and sprains and more than a few sads. A few lost children, even. All looking a little lost, a little quiet, a little disappointed at being away from the show.

 
; “You…” My voice softened. “Well, then. Close that curtain so I can get dressed.”

  It wasn’t that simple. I could walk, although it was slow and I felt weak as a kitten. But the staff wouldn’t hear of it. They got me into a wheelchair. Me, some sheet music, and a dirndl with a nasty splotch of blood I hoped would come out. Apparently my nose had been dripping blood furiously by the time they got me in.

  Robert played some quiet music on the guitar as the walking wounded moved a little closer. The first couple sounded traditional. I just sat there and smiled at him. Then a pop song. Then — no, really? — “Edelweiss.”

  He had a nice voice. He sang it in English. On the last verse he gestured to me and I joined. First almost tentatively, but he only gestured with that palm-up hand gesture I knew so well from so many pit conductors.

  Looked like he approved. My voice was a light soprano, a little higher than my speaking voice, not a great tone but at least it was well supported. Or so the harried chorus master had told me after a few years of struggling to teach us the rudiments.

  “Here,” he said, sorting the pages for me. “Very traditional at Oktoberfest,” he twinkled. “But not for the lazy, this time. We’re going to do the whole thing.”

  “Country Roads?” Was he kidding?

  Apparently it was traditional. As we launched into the old John Denver vehicle the audience was nodding along, tapping feet and smiling, and when we hit the chorus, mouthing the words along with us.

  Us. He joined me on the chorus, but the verse was all me. I put my heart into it. When I sang of West Virginia, a little country twang was in my voice. Tears were in my eyes, and at the last chorus my voice almost broke. This was where I belonged.

  A sniffle from one of the audience. A girl of no more than twelve. She was trying to keep it under control. “Kommen Sie.” I held out my hands. She came into my arms and sniffled into my shoulder.

  Robert put aside the guitar. He spread out his hands to the audience, gesturing for them to sing as slowly and softly as he did. I joined. So did the girl, mumbling it into my shoulder. “Ein prosit, ein prosit…” A toast, a toast, to cheer and good times. “Eins, zwei, drei, G’suffa!” I spoke the last line instead of singing it.