Arkana Archaeology Mystery Box Set 2 Read online

  “She’ll be alright,” Faye consoled. “Once she’s been around more young people her own age, she’ll absorb it as a matter of course.”

  “I hope you’re right,” the boy commented worriedly. “They’ll think she’s a real weirdo if she keeps talking the way she does now.”

  “Do keep in mind that her principal thinks she’s been home-schooled by her aged grandmother. Once that story trickles down to her peers, any oddities in her social behavior will be attributed to my influence.”

  “Smart move, Gamma.” Zach nodded appreciatively. “She might not get a seat at the cheerleader table, but at least they won’t think she’s mental.”

  By this time, Hannah was threading her way back through the tables in the Food Court.

  A youth blocked her path. He wore a letterman jacket sporting a fierce feline and the words “Emerson Tigers.” Smiling at her appreciatively, he asked, “How you doin’?”

  “How am I doing what?” The girl looked lost.

  Zach sprang out of his chair. “Hey, buddy. Don’t you have an elsewhere to be?”

  The letterman towered over his competition and gave him a contemptuous glance. Turning once more to address Hannah, he added, “See you around,” before sauntering off.

  The girl blushed in confusion. “I’ve never seen him before in my life. What did he mean? See me around what?” She sat down, flummoxed by the encounter.

  Zach resumed his seat, all the while staring at the retreating jock. Incensed, he turned to Faye, “Did you see that? He’s wearing an Emerson varsity jacket. It’s like I told you. Those Emerson guys are all hormonal time bombs.”

  “Time bombs,” Hannah repeated, growing even more disturbed.

  “And I suppose you’re not?” Faye cocked an amused eyebrow.

  “Me! I’m a perfect gentleman. No funny business,” Zach countered.

  “He is, you know,” Hannah hastened to his defense. “When we go to the movies together, he always treats me nicely.”

  “And I’m sure the Emerson boys would do the same,” the old woman retorted.

  “I can’t believe you, Gamma!” Zach sounded appalled. “Do you want her going out with every guy at school? You’re a bad influence.”

  Faye chuckled. “It sounds to me as if you’re worried about a little rivalry, dear. After all, you’ve had Hannah to yourself lo these many months. It’s time for her to get a taste of the wider world.”

  “A taste, sure. But she doesn’t have to chow down at the boyfriend buffet. You need to keep an eye on her.”

  “Zachary, what are you getting so upset about?” Hannah remonstrated.

  He stood up again. “I can’t do this right now!”

  “Do what?” the girl countered.

  “Have this conversation with you two. I’ll catch up with you later. I have to do some shopping of my own.”

  “Oh?” Faye inquired mildly. “What do you intend to buy?”

  “Pepper spray!” Zach shot back over his shoulder. “It’s not for me. It’s for Hannah. She’s gonna need it!”

  Hannah leaned over and whispered in Faye’s ear. “I don’t understand. Why does he want to buy me seasonings?”

  The old woman patted her young charge on the arm reassuringly. “Never mind, my dear. Before you start school, let’s put in a little more time honing your understanding of slang, shall we?”

  Chapter 3—Shop Talk

  Doctor Rafi Aboud paused on the threshold of the bar at the Peninsula Hotel. After so many months sequestered in an underground lab in the countryside, he took a moment to savor the luxury of his surroundings. Dark wood, leather upholstery, an Art Deco-inspired design. Everything he saw exuded grace and elegance. He loved grace and elegance as much as he loved the wealth which could buy both. Soon, if all went as he hoped, he would have enough money to surround himself with an endless supply of the finer things of life.

  He walked through the open doorway. It was mid-afternoon, and there were few patrons at the bar. That suited his purposes well. He scanned the faces of the clientele to be sure his contact hadn’t arrived yet. Satisfied that he was the first on the scene, he motioned to the bartender. Placing his order, Aboud then strolled to the upholstered sofas flanking the fireplace at the far end of the room and took a seat where he could keep his eyes on the door. Aside from his desire to immerse himself in opulence, however fleetingly, he’d chosen this particular venue for another reason. He could easily tell if he’d been followed. There was an off-chance that Abraham Metcalf might have sent one of his minions to spy on the good doctor.

  Metcalf’s stubborn insistence on sartorial conformity among the Blessed Nephilim held an unexpected advantage for Aboud. The brotherhood’s regulation garb of white shirt, black suit and tie looked as anachronistic as a CIA operative circa 1960. Aboud had seen no such oddity dogging his footsteps among the beau monde strolling down Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. He settled back and took a slow sip of the twenty-five-year-old Scotch the waitress has just set down on the table before him.

  The warmth spread through his limbs. He gave a relaxed sigh and drowsily watched the fire leaping in the hearth. Although the weather was hardly chilly for early September, he enjoyed the play of the flames. A few minutes later, his attention was drawn to the sight of an exceptionally tall, muscular man entering the bar. The newcomer spotted Aboud immediately.

  He took a seat on the opposite couch. When the waitress approached he said, “Stoli chilled and a dish of pickles,” before turning his attention to the doctor.

  “Hello, Vlad,” Aboud said. “It’s been a long time.”

  The man nodded in agreement. “Many years.” His eyes flicked over his acquaintance, registering the custom-made suit and Rolex on the doctor’s wrist. “You’ve done well for yourself, I see.”

  Aboud noted that despite a decade spent in America, Vlad’s accent was still heavily Slavic.

  The waitress returned with the man’s order and carefully placed it on the table.

  The Russian raised his glass. “Za vashe zdorovie.”

  Aboud mirrored his action. “And to your health as well.” They both drank and set their glasses down.

  Vlad cast a wary eye toward the bar, but nobody seemed to be paying them any attention. He leaned forward. “I am told you have a very interesting product for sale.”

  Aboud also sat forward and replied in a subdued voice. “It’s still in the development phase and not quite ready for market. I thought it was time I began to shop the idea around. Of course,” he hastened to add, “I immediately thought of you.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Vlad replied approvingly. “I know very few of the details. A form of pneumonic plague?”

  “The most lethal form imaginable,” Aboud concurred. “I have created a strain that is resistant to all known antibiotic treatments. In fact, I still haven’t developed an antidote for it. That will take additional time.”

  “Impressive.” Vlad took another sip of vodka.

  “It’s only a start,” Aboud retorted. “Thus far, I have only tested the effects on animal species. I have yet to learn how quickly human subjects succumb to the virus.”

  The Russian raised skeptical eyebrows. “Collecting test subjects who won’t survive is not an easy task.”

  “Not so difficult as all that,” the doctor demurred. “My benefactor has already made arrangements to supply me with as many live bodies as I require.”

  “Ha!” the Russian gave a bark of a laugh. “Your benefactor must have a long list of people he doesn’t like!”

  “Quite true, since practically everyone offends him in some way, including me.” Aboud peered sourly into his now-empty glass.

  “Who are you working for, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “A lunatic.” The doctor rolled his eyes. “The leader of a group of religious fanatics.”

  “Ah!” Vlad exclaimed in disgust. “It’s always the religious nuts who want to start trouble
. Of course, I shouldn’t complain. They’re good for business. This leader of yours, is he Taliban? Al-Qaeda? ISIS?”

  “Worse. He’s a fundamentalist Christian. I’m developing a lethal strain of airborne plague for him, and I have no idea who his intended target is.”

  “Like all religious crackpots, it’s somebody who doesn’t believe exactly what he does.” Vlad consumed a few slices of dill pickle before downing the rest of his vodka. He motioned for the waitress to bring him another.

  Aboud also beckoned for a refill before continuing. “The real problem with religious types is that they have no capacity for strategic thinking. Their vendettas against a particular enemy blind them to the big picture. The global potential of this product I’m developing has clearly eluded my benefactor.”

  The waitress set down their drinks and discretely retreated out of earshot.

  “And that’s where I come in?” Vlad asked, reaching for another pickle.

  “Precisely. You understand that nations, not demented individuals, should wield the power of this weapon.”

  The Russian gave a sardonic smile. “I also understand which nations would be most eager to obtain such a valuable item.”

  “And which among them would be willing to pay the highest price to get it,” Aboud completed the thought. “What I have to offer is really a bargain to the purchaser. No need to bear the cost of research and development. My benefactor has already assumed that burden. At some point in the not-too-distant future, I will be able to deliver a fully-tested biological weapon.”

  “In that case, I would be happy to broker this transaction for you.”

  “For a significant fee, I assume?” Aboud asked pointedly.

  “Of course,” Vlad agreed. “We all must make a little something.” He chuckled and raised his glass. “To a successful transaction.”

  “To a successful transaction,” Aboud echoed as they clinked glasses. “I’ll keep you posted of my progress.”

  ***

  Leroy Hunt sat hunched over the bar in the Peninsula Hotel trying to keep one ear turned in the direction of the conversation occurring by the fireplace. He was too far away to hear any of the details but judging by the clinking glasses he guessed that the two fellers had just struck some kind of deal.

  His eyes slid around the room. He didn’t like this place. It was too high brow for his taste. He favored drinking establishments that spread sawdust on the floor. He also objected to being pulled away from tracking down little Miss Hannah to go traipsing after somebody else old Abe wanted to keep tabs on. Leroy thought peevishly back to the chain of events that had brought him to this bar stool.

  Oddly enough, it had all started on another bar stool, right after he and the preacher’s boy Daniel had gotten back from their trip to Africa. They’d just retrieved another one of Abe’s doodads, and Leroy had felt like blowing off a little steam at his neighborhood tavern. Considering the drubbing he’d taken at the tiny hands of Miss Cassie and the way the antique lady had given him the slip, he was looking for a little payback from somebody. It turned out Leroy ran into several other somebodies who were spoiling for a tussle even worse than he was. The result was a sprained wrist, a dislocated shoulder, and two cracked ribs. Once he was released from the Emergency Room, Leroy thought it wise to hole up in his apartment to nurse his injuries as well as his grievances against the world in general.

  His recuperation was plagued by daily phone calls from Metcalf demanding to know how soon he’d be back on his feet. That initial question was usually followed by a lengthy sermon about the evils of drink. The old man was steamed mainly because Leroy’s injuries delayed the search for his little runaway bride Hannah. Abe could fume all he wanted, but Leroy knew he had job security so long as Abe needed somebody outside the Nephilim to do his dirty work. Whenever the old man called, Hunt just turned up the volume on his TV to drown out the fussing on the other end of the line.

  About two months down the road, Leroy felt healed up enough to be ready for action. When he reported to the preacher, his marching orders weren’t at all what he expected. Instead of getting back on the trail of little Miss Hannah, Abe told him to tail a feller who lived in a hole in the ground some twenty miles away from the compound. His boss was pretty tight-lipped about what was going on in that place. Wouldn’t give Leroy the lowdown on why it was there, who built it and for what purpose.

  “How come you can’t get my buddy Chopper to handle this?” Leroy had asked irritably. “I thought he was doin’ all kinds of surveillance work for y’all.”

  “Mr. Bowdeen is out of the country at the moment,” Metcalf informed him frostily. “He will return soon, and then I’ll have him take charge of the matter. However, I need help immediately. I’ve received intelligence that the doctor has arranged a meeting in the city sometime tomorrow. You are to follow him there and report back to me.”

  The feller Leroy was supposed to follow was named Doctor Aboud. The name sounded Ayyy-rab which automatically made Hunt think the doc was up to no good. Bright and early the next morning, Leroy staked out the hole in the ground waiting for a whistlepig to poke its head out. This particular whistlepig was sporting a three-thousand-dollar suit. He climbed into a BMW and headed for the fancy side of town.

  Leroy snapped to attention when the bartender at the Peninsula cut into his musings and asked him if he wanted a refill. He ordered another whiskey neat and darted a stealthy look at the two men by the fire. Every now and then a word of their conversation drifted in his direction. Leroy could tell that the big feller had a Russian accent. What business did an Ayyy-rab doctor who lived in a hole in the ground have with a shady Russian?

  Leroy bent sideways on the pretext of straightening his pants leg. He made sure he took a good long look at the Russian, so he could describe him to Abe. He leaned over further but couldn’t catch any of the rest of what they were saying. It didn’t matter much. Abe had told him to keep his distance. Leroy had a sneaking suspicion that while Abe wanted him to figure out who the little doc was meeting, the preacher wasn’t too keen on having Leroy know exactly what the little doc was doing.

  That was fine by him. He didn’t want any part of this detour anyway. As far as Leroy was concerned, only two things mattered. The first was making sure Daniel snagged the rest of those pricey doodads so Hunt could nab them for himself later on. And the other important thing was finding Miss Hannah. She knew a few secrets that Leroy didn’t want getting back to Abe. The only way to make sure she wouldn’t spill the beans was to get to her before any of the preacher’s flunkies did.

  Leroy noticed that the confab by the fireplace was winding down. The Russian and the Ayy-rab stood up and shook hands all friendly like. Leroy figured his report would satisfy old Abe until Chopper got back stateside. Leroy had no personal stake in what the little doc was up to. The mercenary had his own To Do list to complete. Step One: Find little Miss Hannah. Step Two: Kill her.

  Chapter 4—Rare Collectibles

  Joshua Metcalf turned his vehicle onto a blacktop county road. He was unfamiliar with the area and consulted the directions his father had given him. Ears of corn and stalks of wheat ripened in the late summer sun. Here and there a white farmhouse or red barn rose from the sea of yellow grain.

  Joshua was in a self-congratulatory mood. The past several months had elevated him in the hierarchy of the Blessed Nephilim as well as in his father’s estimation. As head of the Order of Argus, he was his father’s eyes and ears among the faithful. He commanded an invisible army of agents deployed at all the North American compounds whose task it was to identify rebellious behavior and report these infractions to him. More recently, his influence had expanded to Europe where the Fallen mercenary, Mr. Bowdeen, was training hand-picked squads of marksmen to act as the Nephilim’s first line of defense against the incursions of the outside world. Several of these warriors had also been chosen to swell the ranks of the Order of Argus.

  Although Joshua’s respo
nsibilities were meant to be kept secret, gossip had a way of disseminating important news among the community. He fancied that people treated him with a newfound respect, if not outright fear. Their reactions pleased him—especially the fear.

  He glanced down at the written instructions which were to guide him to his destination and turned at the next intersection. As the vehicle accelerated smoothly, Joshua reveled in the fact that he now possessed a car of his own. His role in the Nephilim required him to travel a great deal, both on land and by air. This car gave him the freedom to come and go—a privilege which few in the sacred brotherhood possessed.

  Of course, taking commercial flights was tiresome. He had no great love for rubbing elbows with the Fallen. Their unseemly comportment and vain attire were a constant source of irritation, but contact with them served to remind him of his own superiority. He belonged to God’s elect—a secret brotherhood descended from a race of angels, set apart from the common throng of sinful men. On Judgment Day, the Blessed Nephilim would ascend to heaven and take their rightful place among the hierarchy of angels. Joshua felt the glory of his destiny most fully when contrasted with the eternal debasement awaiting the Fallen. He was of purer eyes than to behold their iniquity.

  Another intersection loomed just ahead. Joshua consulted his directions once more. Today’s rendezvous was a puzzle. The spymaster didn’t like puzzles. He liked knowing the answers. He especially liked being the only one knowing the answers, but that was unlikely to happen until the day his father ascended into the celestial kingdoms. If all went as he planned, Joshua would supplant Daniel as scion and succeed to the title of diviner of the Nephilim. He prayed that the happy event might occur soon.

  He braked at a four-way stop sign. There was no traffic from any direction. In fact, there was nothing here at all but grain fields protected by barbed wire fencing. Across the intersection, he saw a dusty patch of earth which must have been used as a turnabout for farm equipment. His father’s limousine was parked there, its engine idling. He drove across the intersection and pulled his car up next to the parked limo.