Twist of Time, page 6
“Well, son-of-a-bitch,” Kate said, and smiled. This routine homicide was becoming more interesting.
Fallon, wearing a white lab coat, moved quickly through his office suite and into his private elevator. He keyed a code and descended to the maximum-secure bottom level. The elevator opened into a glaring white corridor. There was a double door marked LAB 5 in raised letters; beside it was a state-of-the-art security terminal of his own design with interlocking ID systems. Fallon inserted an ID chip and placed his hand on a plate that read his palm and digital prints. This activated a retinal scan; he then said his name for a voiceprint. There was a soft bell as the computer confirmed his DNA chip.
The double doors automatically opened to an explosion of sound: a raucous celebration. A dozen or so men and women in white lab coats were drinking champagne. No one noticed Fallon.
His eyes searched a wall covered in large video screens rippling with everchanging data. Numbers and graphs danced an analysis of physiological readings. In the center of the room a massive mainframe computer was feeding the monitors. On it, foot-high letters spelled out the name GOLEM.
Facing GOLEM in an elevated medical examination chair, a pale man dressed in hospital blues sat with legs stretched out. His name was Herbert Longrieve. Late fifties and painfully gaunt, the bright blue of his luminous eyes contrasted with putty-toned skin. On his shaved head was a lacework of surgical stitching. The surrounding monitors were readings of his vital signs; an entire wall was laden with large video screens analyzing his real-time brain scans. No wiring connected him to the computer.
Nearby, two men were discussing sheets of printouts against the din of party noise. Both noticed Fallon at the same moment.
“Dr. Fallon, we tried to call you!” Dr. Meyer said. “At zero-nine twenty-three.”
“Interface?”
“Total interface!” Dr. Lizerand beamed. He handed Fallon two printouts.
Fallon compared them. “Yes, by God!”
Lizerand pointed at the monitors. “Two-way communication! Impossible to tell the readouts apart. GOLEM can even make Herb piss on cue!”
Fallon added, “And Herb can give GOLEM his neurosis.”
Both men laughed dutifully.
Fallon turned away and moved through the celebrants who parted like sea foam.
Longrieve saw him and brightened. Fallon took his hand, squeezing it. “Magnificent, Herb. No one else could have done it.”
“Thank you, Dr. Fallon.” His voice seemed weaker than Fallon remembered a few days ago. He looked up to see Dr. Meyer signaling. Fallon excused himself and followed the two doctors into an observation booth and closed the door. From here they had full view of the laboratory without the noise.
“Dr. Fallon,” Meyer said, beaming, “when will you inform the government about our success on Project JANUS?”
“I’m not ready yet.”
“But if it leaks to the media before we tell the government—my God!”
“Listen to me carefully.” Fallon’s tone dropped for emphasis. “Now the real work begins.”
Meyer blinked, confused. “Interfacing a human brain with a computer is our real work. GOLEM and the human brain are now fused into one entity, JANUS. We are sitting on a major breakthrough! Why aren’t you informing the DOI?”
“Because I expect JANUS to do more.”
“More?” said Meyer. “The JANUS program can control human behavior. Alter personality. Manipulate sexual conduct. Create a military that will attack any target without question—an enemy army, a political rally, even an elementary school. What more do you want?”
“I want no further argument.” There was a threatening pause. “Understood?”
Meyer blanched, Lizerand flushed, both nodded.
“There is something else,” Lizerand cautiously added. “Longrieve’s physical condition is deteriorating. Extreme fatigue. He is being literally drained by GOLEM.”
“That was to be expected. Herb knew this from the beginning.”
“But it’s worse than we thought,” Lizerand added.
Dr. Meyer nodded, agreeing. “As his physician I must warn you that if he does not get immediate rest, he could become comatose. ”
“No. Interface, twenty-four-seven. We can’t risk breaking continuity.”
“He is no good to you dead. Longrieve is unique.”
“That is why you will keep him alive, Doctor. If he becomes comatose or dies, you will keep his brain alive. I suggest you start working on that.”
Fallon turned and walked away.
Thomas, still blindfolded, was awakened by the sound of a car outside. He heard the room door open and the familiar footsteps of his jailers. Lighter, brisk steps followed: a woman.
He was uncuffed so that he could sit on the side of the cot. The blindfold was removed.
Thomas blinked at the brightness. It was his first look at his captors: two hard-eyed Latino men. There was a third man that he heard giving orders who always stayed in the other room. He looked down to see that they had dressed him in old work pants and a filthy denim shirt.
The woman was holding a black briefcase. She nodded for the two men to leave; they closed the door. She lit a brown cigarette, which had a distinctively sharp aroma. “I’m Nora.”
When he did not respond, she set the briefcase on the table and opened it. She put on latex gloves and took out a package double sealed in clear plastic. She carefully removed an ancient book bound in scarred leather and studded with bronze brads worn smooth. She held it out to him. “The Templar diary,” she said.
He looked at her for a moment, then took it. He was surprised at its weight; the leather cover was overlaying wood, probably cypress. With extreme care he opened it so as to prevent the full heaviness of the pages from resting on the spine, which could damage very old volumes. Unconsciously, he held his breath. He was holding seven centuries of history and legend—if it was authentic.
When he looked up at her, she smiled. “Translate the diary or they will kill you.”
“You’ll kill me anyway after I finish. Like you killed the courier Hollander.”
“When that happened, I was a continent away and can prove it.”
“Lady, has it occurred to you simply to hire a translator instead of kidnapping one? Scotland and Ireland are ass-deep in Celtic scholars.”
“But none with your credentials: Celtic studies and the Templars.” From her briefcase she held up his Merlin book. “You think I got your name out of the yellow pages?”
He didn’t answer, just stared.
“Thomas, do you expect me to believe that you would let someone else do the translating? That diary is the last link to the Templars. You’d kill me to translate it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
As Nora continued talking, Thomas sensed that her gift for annoyance bordered on genius.
Half-listening to her, he focused on the diary. Though he would have preferred to wear gloves to protect the page, to get the proper feel he needed to use bare fingers for this particular examination. Wiping fingers on his shirt, he lightly touched the page, following the sentences from right to left, opposite from the way they were written. Controlling his breathing to concentrate, he closed his eyes, trying to sense the vibrations of previous owners. There was an ancient Arab belief that this was possible with some documents; he personally had experienced it only once years ago. Now he felt his pulse rise, but that might have been from excitement.
“You need only translate the Gaelic,” Nora explained. “I’ve read some of the French for an overview.”
“Are you a linguist?”
“No. My French is fluent and I was able to muddle through some of the Latin.”
“The Gaelic might be in an obscure Celt verse form. That redefines the word difficult.”
“And an excuse to buy time. Thomas, let’s understand each other. You will try to delay, hoping for a rescue that is not coming. If you are tortured, you may resist for a while. I can promise that it will be agonizing; they start with your testicles. And if you are accidently killed by some blundering thug with a blow torch, I won’t get my translation. Accurate?”
“Extremely.”
“Therefore, I’ll make you a deal.”
“Why would you offer me a deal?”
“Because I need the translation. Fast. The French language segment tells of thieves stealing an iron chest from the Templars. Afterward, whatever happened to the chest is written in what I assume is medieval Gaelic. Concentrate on that.”
“A chest?” It was the first he heard of it. “Is this about the Templar treasure?”
She lit another cigarette. “I have no interest in a treasure.”
“What’s in the chest?”
“Whatever it is, I will destroy.”
Her eyes had that strange look again; he wanted to keep her talking. “Why would you do that?”
“To stop Fallon.” There was another enigmatic look. “Beyond that, the diary’s monetary value doesn’t concern me. After you give me the translation, the diary is yours.”
“Oh, really?” He did not believe a word.
“You will own the Templar diary. You could write another book and this time, your source will be authentic. That might restore your ruined reputation. Then you needn’t hide in a monastery.”
“I wasn’t hiding.”
“However, once you own the diary you will face a new problem. You believe that because I have the diary, I killed the courier. So, when you have it, you become the prime suspect.”
“Impossible. When the courier was killed, I was at the monastery with a dozen monks.”
“Which puts you in the crime’s arena. The final Mass is at midnight. Afterward, the monks retire to their cells. You could slip out, kill Hollander, steal the diary, and return before everyone is awakened at four.”
“I don’t have a car.”
Nora took a breath then fired a quick barrage. “Hollander had a car. She picks you up. You butcher and dump her body. You have the diary. You hide her car. The distance where Hollander’s body was found and the monastery is three-point-two miles. You walk back to the monastery before dawn Mass. Mission accomplished.”
He was stunned. He had a motive and no alibi and had never once thought about it.
“Thomas, your choice is simple. Translate the diary and keep it, or spend eternity as fertilizer for some chicano’s bean crop.”
Captain Wade Starger was the living platitude of a cop’s cop. Kate had known of his reputation even before her job interview two years ago. She learned to appreciate his quick intelligence and acid tongue. Though stuck behind a desk, he had a ruddy glow from living on his boat. His passion was the sea, with which no woman could compete. Starger would have made rank in any PD in the country. He settled in Santa Barbara because of the perfect climate, the magnificent bay, and his one true love, May Belle, his yacht. It drew young women like old money.
Starger held up her report. “What’s going on, Kate?”
“What do you mean?”
“There is nothing here.”
“That’s all I have.”
“A nude woman, headless, with no hands and feet was found in the boondocks and you’re checking traffic reports? Did you think she was hit by a car in the middle of a forest?”
“Who said I was checking traffic reports?”
“Officer Lester Hicks. He has been reassigned to Traffic where he can do less harm. He saw you going through traffic files and reported it.”
“Oh, that dumbass.” She recalled his stupid comments at the crime scene.
“Be nice. It’s the first idea he’s ever had. He may have to take leave for burnout.”
“I was looking for traffic incidents near the monastery in case anyone saw anything.”
“What about the priest who reported the missing person?”
“Monk, not priest. He couldn’t identify the body because he’d never seen her. We got positive ID from her company’s DNA profile.”
“They keep a DNA profile on their employees?”
“They’re in medical technology. It’s standard with them.”
“Didn’t you interview the monk? Where’s that report?”
“He wasn’t any help, so I haven’t written it yet. Hollander was delivering a rare book to get the monk’s translation. She never made it. I believe she was followed here, killed for the diary, and the perp and book are long gone.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s all we’ve got. No witnesses, no physical evidence, no prints, no DNA. Rain washed any tire tracks on the dirt road. So yes, that’s it.”
“This case is high profile, Kate. I am under tremendous pressure from the Police Commissioner. Keep at it.” He waved dismissal.
She stopped at the coffee machine feeling like shit. Starger was the main reason she had been hired; withholding critical information from him was blatantly disloyal. If her decision was wrong, it would be a career killer. No decent homicide department would touch her. It was a system where loyalty was valued above competence.
Kate moved through the room of droning detectives working their computers and phones. Vicky was waiting at her desk.
“Bad news, Vicky. Starger is bird-dogging us. You better bail while you can.”
“Kate, Sgt. Hernandez found something.” She held up a traffic report. “The night of the abduction there was an accident around 1:30 am. on Monastery Road.”
“You’re kidding!”
“A speeding car was coming down the hill from the direction of the monastery. It forced another car to run into a tree. Speeder kept going. The driver of the wrecked car didn’t get a license number, but he is sure the other car was damaged.”
“Paint and body shops?”
“I made a list while you were being grilled by Captain Salty.”
Kate looked beyond Vicky to see Starger standing in his office doorway watching them. He closed the door.
Carver’s team was once again crowded in the same shabby motel room, now cluttered with pizza cartons and empty beer cans. Cigarette smoke hung like a sour mood. They were waiting for Leo’s phone call.
Carver was growing edgy. That made him stutter, which then triggered anger. Once when a woman laughed at his stammer, he pistol-whipped her. She was hospitalized for a month; he only served twenty days; she spent more time in the hospital than he spent in jail.
“Everybody, listen up,” he ordered. “The monk was kidnapped while we watched. We better have some f-f-f- some answers.” It slowed his stuttering when he forced himself not to swear. “Any ideas?”
Steiner was sitting on the bed cleaning his fingernails with the point of a sharpened ice pick. “Dis is not a normal operation.” His thick German accent sounded like a bad B-movie. “A target you kidnap, you torture, vatever. But dis monk, vee watch but don’t snatch. Then he disappears, dat’s our fault?”
“What the f-f-f . . . do we tell Leo?”
Grigsby answered. “Don’t admit nothing. Just tell Leo we are on top of it.”
“D-d-damn Grigsby! Do you have any idea what will happen if we’re caught l-l-lying to him?”
“N-n-no.” Grigsby mocked.
The laughter stopped when the phone rang.
“Carver,” he answered.
“Put me on speaker,” Leo ordered.
Carver switched to speakerphone.
“What do you have for us?” Leo asked.
“Nothing new, sir. We’re still w-w-watching the monk.”
“How? Our sources report that he was abducted.”
Carver blanched.
“If any one of you lies to me again, imagine the absolute worst in your life and it will happen. Find . . . that . . . monk!” said Leo. The line went dead.
Carver looked at them. There was not doubt on a single face.
Kate returned that afternoon from checking paint and body shops. She struck out. If Vicky didn’t have better luck, they’d be in trouble. There were too many places to cover, and all they had was the color of the wrecked owner’s car: Malibu Blue. There was a dark green paint graze left by the other car. But what if the owner took his time getting it repaired?
Waiting for Kate on her desk was a Fed Ex package from the Baltimore PD. Dr. Gladys Pullman’s homicide file was twenty pages of reports and photos, plus forensic and CS data.
She read it, taking precise notes. (Her father had drilled in her that case notes must be kept current should another detective have to take over.) The attack had occurred late at night when Pullman was leaving the lab at Med-Tek. An attendant saw her being forced into a car by three men. The car drove away and she was never seen again. They had gained admission to the parking lot with fake credentials; the “extraction” was swift and clean. Pros, she wrote in the margin.
The package also contained first-rate crime scene photos. Six days after her kidnapping, pieces of a woman’s torn and bloody clothing were found on a wooded path outside Baltimore by trail bikers. Forensics reported that the sheer volume of blood made fatality certain. The blood type, O positive, and the DNA on the clothes, definitely identified Pullman, Fallon’s close associate.
Kate noted the similarities with Hollander’s homicide. Her body was also mutilated and hidden in the woods. It was only found by accident because it had been dumped in the wrong place; otherwise, the MO was nearly identical with Pullman’s, though a continent apart.
Kate drew a graph linking similar elements connected by threes. All three crimes showed the same planning. Pullman’s abduction in Baltimore was the same MO as the street attempt on Thomas in Santa Barbara: three men and one car. At the monastery, Brother Barnabas reported that three men attacked him when he was drugged. Three men and a car in all three instances. Kate wrote: Three homicides appear connected. How?
•••
After Nora left, Thomas slipped on the latex gloves and carefully opened the diary. Nora was right about one thing—nothing short of being abducted by aliens would prevent his translating it.
