“What? Tell me what you are trying to do!” she grunted nervously, at the end of her tether with Sam’s evasive manner.
Deiter and one of his brothers appeared on the stairs, horrifying Nina with their familiar rage. She clawed at Sam, but he did not flinch. Just before they reached the top the corroded steps gave way under their weight with a crack. Screaming, the two giants plummeted all the way down and met the concrete floor with a deadly crash, meeting the falling steel fragments in a messy heap of muscle and blood.
Purdue winced as he turned his head. The impact had torn both men open and the smell of hot meat filled Purdue’s nostrils. He could not stop the convulsion as his body repelled its stomach contents at the sensation of splatter against his face and arms. Thomas dove to the side with his other brother to get out of the way, fearing they would be crushed, but they could not avert harm. While they cowered, Purdue, still hunched over in nausea, made for the door and escaped. Thomas was knocked cold and his brother impaled by a piece of railing that came down on him like a spear.
Nina looked at Sam. Slowly she started smiling. Her lips fell softly on his, reminding him of a familiar heaven he had almost forgotten. Nina cradled Sam’s jaw with her slender hands, pulling his face closer, his lips deeper into hers. Below them the cacophony died down into complete silence and all Sam could hear was Nina’s almost inaudible groan as she kissed him.
“You are a daft, reckless, son of a bitch, you know?” she smiled, placing her forehead against his.
“Aye. It has been said,” he agreed.
“I hope Purdue is all right,” Nina gasped.
“Let’s go see,” Sam agreed and pulled her up.
“How are we going to get down again?” she asked.
Sam looked a bit flustered, “Um, I haven’t thought of that yet.”
They leaned carefully over what was left of the rail.
“Ooh,” she cringed, “God, that’s gross. I don’t see Purdue. Shit, I hope they didn’t fall on him, Sam!”
Sam grimaced, “Let’s hope he knew what I was playing at. The door is ajar. Maybe he got out. Now we have to find a way to get down without ending up like them.”
Nina surveyed the broken frame. “I think we’d be able to climb down on the side. Look, it is still affixed to the wall.”
“Shite,” Sam sighed. “I’m not keen on heights. And I’m no even-footed cat person like you. I’ll break my fucking neck going down there!”
“You won’t,” Purdue said from the bottom, holding a rope. “I’ll toss this up to you and you can climb down before the authorities realize we have practically destroyed their landmark.
“Not to mention accounting for this mess,” Nina added, pointing to the enormous corpses. “I bet you there will be some daft speculation surrounding this lot. If they don’t cover it up, they will be crying ‘Nephilim.’”
“That’s true,” Purdue scowled, fighting the urge to regurgitate again at the sight of them. “And I don’t mean to rush the two of you, but one of these brutes is still alive. I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t want to be here when he comes to.”
When they exited the lighthouse, they carefully checked for the presence of tourists or authorities, but there was no discernible movement in the immediate vicinity. Without a word they traversed the limestone formations and rocky edges against the tide line to get to their boat.
“Stop,” Purdue said. “Stop. We can’t go back.”
He reached out his arm to barricade them. Ahead of them the vessel they had hired was teeming with Estonian police officers and coast guard. Three or four fishing trawlers hovered nearby with their crew staring from the decks.
Nina, Sam, and Purdue were stranded on Osmussaar.
There was no way they would return to the vessel to explain to the police that the skipper was torn apart by a hybrid breed of super men engineered by Nazi scientists, because they were chasing three intruders who left a trail of blood and destruction wherever they went.
“Hope you hired that bloke off the record,” Sam said evenly.
“Cash only, Sam. As always, cash only.”
23
“When are you going to release her, doctor?” Paddy asked Dr. Burns.
“I was hoping to clear her by today, Mr. Smith, but unfortunately I have to keep her a little longer, you know, just to make sure she is at her best when she is discharged,” the doctor explained.
“May I ask why?” Paddy asked as the doctor closed the door of his office behind them.
“I’m not sure if you are aware of your wife’s somewhat timid disposition, but it is far more than just being squeamish. She exhibits a high emotional sensitivity that makes it difficult for her not to be scared all the time. In fact, it sometimes borders on paranoia. Has she always been this way? Or is it only since the attack?” Dr. Burns asked.
“No, she has always been a wary kind of character. Let’s just say she always considers the worst-case scenario, but I wouldn’t say she always acts on it,” Paddy told the doctor. He found it a bit absurd to have such a conversation after all this time being married to Cassie.
“What concerns me is the underlying malady that exacerbates her inability to process traumatic or threatening incidents, whether she is a witness or a participant. Cassandra comes across fine when we speak to her, but certain traits betray her condition,” Dr. Burns described seriously. He folded his hands on his desk and pinned Paddy with a hard look. “Your line of work is not conducive to her coping abilities, Mr. Smith.”
“I am aware of that. But she knew what I did for a living and still chose to deal with the risks. What am I supposed to do? I have gone out of my way to keep her safe and maintain contact every day while out on assignment to put her mind at ease, doctor,” he explained.
“I can appreciate that. All I am saying is that she should stay just two more days, so that we can completely isolate the physiological from the emotional and medicate her accordingly after she has been discharged,” the medical professional in Dr. Burns came out a bit too strongly.
“Sounds like you want to experiment on my wife,” Paddy shook his head.
“Nonsense. It appears that your line of work is influencing your thinking patterns too,” the doctor smiled. “You have nothing to be worried about. Cassandra is almost completely healed as far as the dangers of her physical injuries are concerned. We expect her to be right as rain by Thursday.”
“All right then,” Paddy yielded. “I will get the house ready for her.”
“Don’t worry so much, Mr. Smith. The wounds, both physical and mental, are still fresh. It will take her a bit of time to get used to the house, especially the room where she was assaulted. You might want to change that around or close it up altogether until she is better, eh?” Dr. Burns suggested. “Before you know it Cassandra will be back to her old self.”
“I suppose so. But for now, I’m going to go and say hello before visiting hours are over,” Paddy sighed.
“Good,” the doctor replied with some cheer, “she will be happy to see you.”
Paddy’s mind was racing as he walked to Cassandra’s room. Guilt and worry flooded his thoughts and he weighed everything against everything else to ascertain if a change would have to be made in his career. He loved what he did, but he loved his wife too. The silvery item in his freezer called to him, forcing him to examine his loyalty to his friends, to his country. Constant migraines had begun to plague him again and he wondered if any of his work was really worth it anymore. But then, there was nothing else he was truly good at apart from being a brilliant detective, and it was all he ever wanted to do with his life.
Cassandra was ecstatic to see her husband. Through her split lips she gave him an askew smile. The eye that had been swollen shut was now slightly open for her to see through and her hands looked almost clear of lacerations.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” he smiled, desperately fighting the urge to scream and cry. He reached out to embrace her, but she
flinched.
“That is going to hurt very much,” he agreed.
“No, no,” she kindly dismissed his notion, “come and hug me. I can take it.”
Paddy had to chuckle with her. It was like heaven to hold her, feeling her against him, even if he had to be extremely gentle with any touch.
“Have you been staying alone at the house?” she asked out of the blue, completely disarming Special Agent Smith. He had no idea what to tell her, or how to comfort her. This was how she started conversations that normally turned into panic attacks. Projecting her fear of being alone and vulnerable, she always inundated him with security questions. Paddy sat down next to Cassandra’s bed.
“Aye, got here two days ago,” he started awkwardly. “How is the hospital food? They say the menu here is better than—”
“Don’t change the subject, Patrick,” she said, suddenly cold and indifferent. “I see through you.” Paddy sat dumbstruck. It was unlike Cassandra to ever address him in such a way. Even when they had a tiff or two, she never took such a firm tone with him.
“What is it that you have that they want?” she asked. “Because,” she explained with fluttering eyes and a clearly annoyed disposition, “whatever it is that you saw as too important to disclose and deliver to your precious government is the reason this happened to me, Patrick.”
He felt his heart jolt inside him. This was not his wife, but a vindictive and confident creature that had it in for him. And much as he knew he deserved the blame, her personality shift greatly alarmed him.
“I know, sweetheart. And I am so sorry! I promise you there is going to be hell to pay,” he attempted, but she leered at him like a snake about to strike.
“Are you sorry? Really? How many years have I had to endure your exploits and sit at home, waiting for someone to call and tell me that you had been killed somewhere in some shithole in Timbuktu, Patrick?” she seethed so loudly that it drew the attention of other visitors.
“Please, love, a little less boisterous,” he implored, but Cassandra was letting loose on her husband. Her uncharacteristic behavior unsettled him, but no sooner did he look to a nurse for help when Dr. Burns entered from the nurse’s station where he had been listening to the rant.
“Hello, Cassandra!” he smiled, pretending to be oblivious to what was busy fermenting between the Smiths. “I’m sorry to interrupt visiting hours, but . . .” he bent over her and whispered, “I forgot to administer your dosage for tonight, and if I wait any longer you’ll not be able to fall asleep until early morning.” He stood upright and remarked, “I was held up in the maternity ward, Mr. Smith. Terribly sorry to butt in here during your visit.”
“Oh, it’s quite all right,” Paddy replied.
“What is this for?” Cassandra asked in a gentle tone, as if she had exchanged demeanors for the sake of the doctor. Paddy did not like this one bit. Clearly, as Dr. Burns had warned, the traumatic experience of the intrusion had shaken the already crumbling foundations of Cassie’s fragile sensibilities. Perhaps it was a good thing that she remained confined for another few days. Not only could he do with the rest to try to recover what was left of his own sanity, but it would give him more time to find Nina and give her back the damned object that started all the death and misery surrounding him now.
After he had left the hospital, a bit shaken, he picked up some bourbon and chips from the local supermarket complex. If he was running out of peaceful nights, Paddy figured he might as well spend them tanked and gluttonous. Cassie always prohibited junk food during the week, keeping her and her hubby in good health and great shape. Maybe he felt a bit rebellious, but he intended to break that rule utterly tonight!
He went into the living room with a big bag that contained chips, a slab of Cadbury’s Rum & Raisin chocolate bar, and a tub of ice cream. Finally, there was a bottle of Southern Comfort to ease the pain of his rapidly collapsing marriage and sanity, a beautiful amber liquid that he intended to assimilate into his biology with a bad thriller on the widescreen.
As the night wore on, Paddy’s capacity to try to keep things together diminished with the level in the bottle. He had stuffed himself with chips and chocolate, but by midnight Paddy got the munchies, courtesy of his reckless alcohol consumption.
“What a dreadful fucking mausoleum!” he shouted through the empty house as he staggered to the kitchen for more ice cream. “It’s no bloody wonder she has gone insane in this environment. You are empty . . . and boring . . . and useless as a protector!” Paddy shouted at his house, dragging his socked feet across the kitchen floor. “You don’t deserve light! People get hurt under your roof.” His voice cracked under the emotion he thought he had effectively drowned in the bourbon. There was darkness, except for the bathroom light and the light from the open fridge he aimed to raid.
In hindsight, he might well have addressed himself in his drunken insults to the house. Paddy contemplated leaving Edinburgh, the house, his wife—only until Cassie was discharged. A great yolk of guilt and doom bore down on Paddy every time he was in his house now. It was as if the building itself had it in for the Smiths since the break-in. When he opened the freezer to claim the tub of ice cream, he remembered the well-hidden object in the box of fish fingers on the second shelf, cradled in over frozen containers of leftovers.
For a long moment he stared at the innocent-looking box, feeling a childish hate for the thing inside. In his inebriation he considered all the times he could have walked away from being involved. Like cotton wool in his skull, his weightless mind floated aimlessly, finding no solace and even less of a solution. For the first time in recollection, Paddy had no answers. Being the inexhaustible source of advice and clarity for Sam Cleave all these years now profited him nothing. For himself there was no answer to the hellish doldrums he was in and he could not find his way to even the slightest resolution for his problems.
With sweaty fingers Paddy pulled out the box to see the item of his emotional privation once again and perhaps to force his brain into an epiphany. The silver flask exhibited signs of corrosion at the edge of the cap, something that was cause for alarm even to people who knew nothing about chemistry. Whatever was inside could not be contained for much longer, he knew, and he urgently had to decide what to do with it.
Immediately Paddy realized that the container was gradually inflating, expanding sideways by almost twice its size. A bolt of panic coursed through his body at the latest condition of the dangerous artifact, and Paddy almost sobered up from the prospect of a cryogenic explosion he conjured up in his imagination like something from a science fiction movie. Who could he trust with the gadget? Sam was not home and the babysitter he got for his cat had no idea where he was, except that he would be back in the next week.
The bottom line, Paddy reckoned, was that he had to rid himself of it once and for all.
24
As Paddy held the device in the protective nest of two crumpled dishcloths over his palms, his thoughts sank deeper into contemplation of the state his marriage was in, what the outcome would be. It terrified him and he had no bourbon left to be his safety net, but he had to deal with the situation. He wondered where Sam and Nina were, if Purdue had the means to destroy whatever was in the flask, or if he would rather use it for his own gain. Paddy did not know Purdue well, in fact. They were mere acquaintances, but Paddy knew Purdue primarily from the billionaire’s celebrity status, the newscasts when he discovered something or invented something, or the coverage he received as benefactor of university grants or from sponsoring scientific endeavors in Scotland’s academic community.
If anyone had the means to rid Paddy of the wretched flask and its contents, it was Purdue. It had been almost a week since Special Agent Patrick Smith was embroiled in the life-and-death confrontation with an unknown assassin on the private jet Purdue had chartered for them, but declined the opportunity to use it to return to Edinburgh with Smith. That in itself would be cause for suspicion, had Purdue acted defensively when Paddy sugg
ested taking the object Nina had retrieved from the dig site. But the man had absolutely no interest in the discovery Dr. Gould had made, which assured Paddy that Purdue had nothing to do with the psychotic bitch on the plane.
Somewhere in the house a door creaked. Paddy perked up to listen, his sobriety returning for the vigilance he needed to employ. The doors in his house were heavy, held at the bottom by the thick carpets of the rooms. There was no way a door could move without being pushed with a considerable measure of force. Even on stormy days the gusts that imposed through the open windows could not manage to impel the doors to movement.
Paddy put the flask back in the box and replaced it in the freezer. Swiftly he stole along the corridor toward his office and from the hidden compartment in his wall he obtained his personal firearm.
Why is it that the night is calm and quiet when one needs to do noisy things? he pondered as his hand tightened around the upper part of the barrel of his Makarov. It was virtually impossible to pull it back and cock it without being heard. For once he would have appreciated the thunder and rainstorms usually ravaging Edinburgh. Again something stirred in the hallway, reminiscent of a scuffling behind a curtain or perhaps the rustle of a jacket. Paddy loaded his gun, quietly navigating the dark to where he heard the strange sound.
Whoever was in his house stalked to where the movie Paddy had been watching was still looping on the screen. As he peeked around the doorway, hands grasping the butt of his Makarov so tightly that his arms quivered, Paddy could see a black shadow figure slip from the kitchen to the couch where Paddy had been lying before. As soon as he could see the silhouette enter the TV room, Paddy briskly snuck down to the sunken lounge and circled the partitions of the arches that separated the lounge from the TV room.
The intruder was clumsy, he noticed, not watching before he turned, neglecting to check behind doors and so on. Paddy was relieved that the shadow figure would be easy to throw off, considering his clumsiness and Paddy’s knowledge of the dark house. Reaching the small nook between the lounge and the kitchen, Paddy tripped the electricity off to avoid the burglar from flipping a switch and detecting his distance.
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