Pulse

by Jeremy Robinson

  They checked into their hotel posing as a vacationing couple, which drew looks of pity for Queen as she was dressed in a form-fitting navy blue top that accentuated her eyes and a flowing black skirt that matched her stylish sandals and highlighted her taut tan legs. She spoke the language fluently and short of her blond hair, fit in with the locals. Rook on the other hand, dressed in high-top sneakers, tight blue jeans, and a sports jacket, was easily spotted as a stereotypical American tourist. The looks they received from everyone, including the cabbie, the hotel doorman, and the checkout clerk all asked the same question of Queen: Why are you slumming with this clown?

  After checking in at the Electra Palace Hotel and, like a perfect gentleman, carrying Queen’s bags to their room on the tenth floor, Rook dropped the bags on the room’s king-sized bed and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “I swear if I hear any Beauty and the Beast jokes in English or Greek I’m going to snap.”

  Queen opened the shades looking out over the Plaka, the oldest and most prized neighborhood in Athens, the white buildings glowing orange in the light of the setting sun. The streets had long ago been blocked off to cars, though delivery men on speeding mopeds weren’t uncommon. Locals and tourists mixed and mingled on the ancient streets lined with cafes, shops, and restaurants. Scents of coffee, ouzo, and flaming sausage wafted up from below. But most impressive was that the small neighborhood’s prime real estate was located at the base of Athens’s most famous landmark, the Acropolis, upon which stood a symbol of the ancient world’s glory, the Parthenon. The site was breathtaking. Another time. Another life. Queen would have enjoyed this little trip...but there was work to do.

  She turned to Rook, tried not to laugh at his outfit, and asked, “Care for a gelato?”

  “That’s like ice cream, right?”

  “Better.”

  “I’ll believe that when Ben and Jerry start selling gelato at four bucks a pop.” Rook opened the door, leaving behind their bags, which held clothing they never intended on wearing but helped to complete their cover story. Getting stopped at customs with an empty bag on vacation could have drawn attention. And Rook would be more than happy to leave the awful clothes behind. He’d questioned the need for such an elaborate cover, but it wasn’t known whether or not Pierce had given Manifold the same information. Until they knew otherwise, they had to watch their backs—unarmed—and play the part of an American odd couple.

  “So when are you and Bishop going to patch things up?”

  “When he stops acting like a prick we’ll be golden.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  Rook stopped and looked at Queen. “The guy won’t talk to me or anyone else. He looks on the verge of snapping someone’s head off. I’m just going to give him space and hope he comes around. We all should. He’ll work it out on his own. Always does. Let’s talk about something else. This subject is too distracting.”

  Rook continued walking.

  Queen decided to drop the subject. Rook was right. Preoccupation with personal issues compromised the mission.

  On the streets of the Plaka, Rook found it easier to forget the trouble with Bishop...and his awful outfit. There were enough loudly dressed tourists talking it up with crisply dressed locals that he and Queen fit in. The hum of vehicles faded as conversations in a variety of languages filtered out of the street-side cafes. As they walked by a restaurant with tables spilling out onto the street, a maître d’ took Rook’s arm and spoke perfect English, “Sir, you absolutely must try our giant shrimp!”

  Rook pulled his arm away. “Maybe later, chief.”

  “Our dishes are the best in the Plaka. Moussaka. Pastitsio. Souvlaki. You can’t go wrong.”

  Rook’s impatience neared its end. The short maître d’ was about to get an earful when Queen ribbed Rook with her elbow and said, “Parakalo agnoiste to filo moy. Einai toso trahys oso einai omorfos. Tha epistrepsoymegia na epileksoyme ta piata sas argotera apopse.”

  The maître d’ chuckled. “Oraios?”

  Queen gave the man a look that could kill. “Nai.”

  The man bowed with a smile and let them continue on their way.

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “That we would be back later. For supper.”

  “What’s ‘oraios’ mean?”

  Queen took a side street. “This way. We’re almost there.”

  The street led uphill and ended at the tall wall of the Acropolis. The back street narrowed as they climbed the hill, becoming little more than a three-foot-wide path between gleaming white homes staggering up the hill. The old stone homes were decorated with pots of flowers that filled the air with a sweet fragrance that fought for olfactory dominance with Athens’s summertime smog.

  They entered the Anafiotika, a group of small homes that spent a large portion of every day in the shadow of the Acropolis. With the sun now setting, this portion of the city was already cast in darkness. It was here that the search for Agustina Gallo truly began. The archaeologist had made her home in the world’s most celebrated archaeological site, in the oldest part of the city—three thousand years old—surrounded by archaeological sites like the Tower of the Winds, the Mosque of Mehmet, not to mention the Parthenon itself. The city was the birthplace of Plato’s Academy and Aristotle’s Lyceum and had done more to advance democracy in the ancient world than any nation, including America, could claim to have achieved in the modern. But what brought archaeologists to Athens, even more than the ancient sites, were the modern institutions. Athens University and Archaeological Society along with several prestigious museums—the National Archaeological Museum, the Epigraphic Museum, the Byzantine Museum—and more could be found here. Two archaeology laboratories, seventeen archaeological institutes, and fourteen archaeological libraries completed what Rook called an archaeologist’s wet dream. And at its core was the home of a woman who may or may not have something to say about the symbol George Pierce had drawn in blood before falling into a coma.

  After walking up a series of steps leading between two homes, Queen found the number she was looking for. She approached the small white home’s maroon door and knocked.

  Rook stood behind her, trying not to look too foolish while he scoured the path up toward the Necropolis and back toward the Plaka for signs of trouble. Finding none, he turned back toward the door as it opened and nearly fell back as one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on in person smiled at them. From her straight black hair and deep brown eyes, he took her as a local, but when she spoke English with a sweet southern drawl as out of place in this ancient city as Rook’s clothing, he had to work hard to keep himself from dropping to one knee and proposing.

  “Ya’ll lost?” she said.

  Agustina Gallo?” Queen asked.

  “The one and only.”

  Queen squinted at her. “How did you know we spoke English?”

  Gallo nodded at Rook. “Captain America here was a dead giveaway. Hey, you’re not friends of Chris Biggs, now are you? He’s always sending folks my way. Like I have time to give personal tours of the Plaka.”

  Actually,” Queen said. “We’re friends of George Pierce.”

  The woman seemed taken aback, then fearful. “George? Is he okay?”

  “I’m afraid not. Can we come in?”

  She looked unsure. “You have something to do with all the answering machine hang-ups from an unlisted U.S. number?”

  Rook nodded. “Haven’t checked your e-mail yet, have you?”

  “I just got back from a weeklong stint at an excavation I’m covering for George while he’s gone. I’ve only just arrived home.”

  “Agustina, we’re with the U.N.,” Queen said. She felt bad lying to the woman, but just because Pierce seemed to trust her didn’t mean she was truly trustworthy. “George has gone missing. We really need to speak to you.”

  Gallo stepped back inside the house. “C’mon in.”

  As they stepped inside the house, following Gallo into a quaint sitti
ng room, Queen gave Rook a taste of the old evil eye. “Close your mouth. You’re drooling.”

  They sat in comfortable chairs around a coffee table. The room, built like a roofed atrium, was decorated with a mixture of small Greek statue reproductions and oil paintings of flowers. Queen noticed the paintings were signed in red, by Gallo. Apparently she was a painter as well.

  Gallo sat across from them, lines of concern still etched into her forehead. She flattened her skirt over her legs several times, chasing wrinkles that didn’t exist. Pierce apparently meant something to this woman. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands wringing together. “What’s happened to George. He wasn’t attacked again, was he?”

  Despite Gallo’s beauty distracting Rook from the impending interview, a single word caught his attention.

  Again.

  40

  New Hampshire

  With a population of 1,532 people, downtown Pinckney, New Hampshire, consisted of a post office/general store, a church, and not much else. Its main tourist attraction were the Ice Age Caverns, a series of cliffside caves that formed as the last of the ice-age glaciers retreated. But the single most populated area in town was the Pinckney Bible Conference Grounds. During the winter months the population on the conference grounds swelled to 160 on weekends when schools, youth groups, and winter sports teams rented the center’s Prescott Lodge for snowy getaways. But during the summer months, the number of visitors blossomed to over a thousand people, increasing the town’s summertime population to just over 2,500. Not only did the lodge fill up, but also the campground’s six cabins, forty-nine privately owned cabins, and more than three dozen RVs.

  As King, Knight, and Bishop rounded the final turn on route 27 passing a small pond on the left, then Prescott Lodge, they got their first views of the campground where they’d rented a cabin. With the campground representing the most densely populated area in town, they wanted to be there to protect the people in case things went sour and an army of regens was released. But as they passed the swing set, volleyball court, and swimming pool, it became apparent they would have a hard time fitting in.

  Not only were they three single men staying in the same cabin, but they were also large, weathered, and lacked kids. Their clothing also stood out. King in blue jeans and a Doors T-shirt; Knight wearing black designer pants and a loose, white button-down shirt; and Bishop, muscles bulging beneath a tight long-sleeved navy blue shirt and cargo pants. To fit in with the summertime revelers, they would have to change into shorts and T-shirts. King made a mental note to go out to the department store they’d passed and get new clothes before mixing it up with the locals. The only one among them that might help with meeting and discreetly interviewing people for leads was Thor, a one-hundred-pound, thick-headed golden retriever. He was picked for his friendly disposition and love of children, but he was also one of the best tracking dogs in the military.

  King steered the massive, cherry red Chevy Tahoe into the main entrance where two kids sat at a makeshift lemonade stand. He gave them a wave and a grin. They waved back, eager to make a sale, but he drove right past. A quick glance in the rearview made him laugh. One of the kids flipped him off. Good Christian kids. Still human.

  “It’s your third left,” Knight said, looking at the directions sent to them by the family that owned the cottage.

  They entered the campground proper. To the right was a baseball field, a soccer field, and a green and white building sporting a sign that read “Snack Shack.” Some kids sat on a picnic table drinking sodas while others played shuffleboard. A pair of old men wearing pastel-colored slacks and white polo shirts sat in the shade sipping iced tea and watching the kids. Grandparents, King realized. This place had history.

  On their left was a small, brown registration building and a churchlike bookstore painted white and green to match the Snack Shack. They turned after the bookstore, onto a dirt road cutting through the forest—Praise Street—and pulled up to a small white cabin that bore a name that insinuated enough to stand out in stark contrast to the ultra-conservative campground: Honeymoon Nook. Reading between the lines, the cabin could have just as easily been named Love Den.

  Knight slid down from the passenger seat, landing on a bed of brown pine needles that covered the wooded campground’s forest floor. One-hundred-foot-tall pine trees swayed and creaked high overhead, buffering the wind and blocking out the sun and its heat. He looked at the cabin’s nameplate. “Rook has got to see this place.”

  They entered the cabin using a key hidden in the cabin’s utility shed. Inside they found a large living/dining room furnished with a collection of old rocking chairs, a dining room table, and a mishmash of dining room chairs. A pellet stove sat to the right, not yet installed, and four doors exited the room. The first to a master bedroom taken up, for the most part, by a king-sized bed. There was a second bedroom with two twin beds, a bathroom, and a small kitchen. The air, though a little musty, was cool and easy to breathe.

  Bishop sat in one of the chairs and picked up a 2000 issue of Time magazine featuring Bill Clinton on the cover. The chair groaned under Bishop’s bulk, but held him. He grunted in approval, the first positive communication he’d had with any of them recently. While he normally didn’t talk a lot, something about him had been different since Tristan da Cunha. He’d been more on edge. He did what was asked of him and made curt reports, but stayed distant from his teammates.

  King entered with Thor on a leash and cut him loose. The dog ran through the cabin, smelling everything. He returned from the master bedroom with a chew toy, compliments of whatever dog stayed here previously.

  As King and Knight did a security check on the cabin, looking for exit routes and scanning for bugs, a knock cut through the silence. Bishop stood and answered the door. Two boys, no older than ten, stood at the door. When they saw Bishop their eyes went wide. “Whoa...” the first said.

  The other, after swallowing, asked, “Is...is Josh or Matt here? We saw the car... You’re not related to them, are you?” Bishop shook his head, no.

  “You’ve got huge muscles!” the first said with a grin.

  Bishop’s patience grew thin. He didn’t have time or desire to chat it up with the local kids. He fought a growing urge to slam the door in their faces. Realizing his emotions were suddenly, without reason, spiraling into chaos, he looked away from the kids and took a deep breath. He listened to the wind whispering through the tall evergreens. He breathed deep a second time, filling his barrel chest with pine-scented air. When he looked back down, calm returning, the boys were still staring at his large right arm, which bulged as he gripped the door.

  He let go of the door. “What are your names?”

  “Mike and Nate.”

  He dug into his pocket and gave both boys each a dollar. “Mike and Nate, go get a soda.”

  The kids ran off, talking loudly about the giant they’d seen. When their voices had faded into the distance, Bishop turned around and found Knight and King staring at him like he’d grown horns. He grinned. Something about this place, not necessarily the people or environment, but something, relaxed him. Put his mind at ease. And for that, he was thankful. His old feelings of rage had been more powerful over the past few days. So much so that he thought he would eventually lose the fight. Here, he felt something else.

  Hope.

  41

  Greece

  “What do you mean, again?” Rook asked.

  Gallo sat back, her mouth closed tight. She wasn’t entirely sure who her two visitors were or what they wanted. Perhaps they were the source of George’s trouble? He had left quickly, and mysteriously.

  “Look, Ms. Gallo,” he continued, “Pierce is in a good amount of trouble. Life-threatening. If you know something, spill the beans.”

  Queen cleared her throat. “Please.”

  “Who are you, really? The U.N. would have left a message. You all hung up nearly fifteen times in a row.”

  Queen considered the request. The woman w
asn’t stupid. “We’re friends. That’s all we can say.”

  “Friends,” Gallo said with a scowl. “No offense, but if George had been friends with you, I’d know about it.”

  “First,” Rook said, his patience waning, “I don’t normally dress like this. Second, seeing as how Pierce’s life is dependent on you helping us, I’d recommend you throw caution to the wind and—”

  “Jack Sigler,” Queen said. “Do you know him?”

  Gallo squinted are her. “I’ve never met him. But George has talked about him. Keeps a photo of he and his...”

  “Sister,” Queen filled in. “Julie. He was going to marry her.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you know how much Jack means to him.” She nodded.

  “We work with Jack. He’s like family to us and Pierce is like family to him. You see where I’m going with this?” Queen’s voice grew louder. “You ready to help us?”

  Gallo paused, looking at both of them.

  Queen pulled out a piece of paper and slapped it down on the coffee table.

  Gallo looked down at the single image on the page, the symbol Pierce had drawn. She gasped and clutched her blouse, just above her heart. “Where did you see this?”

  “Pierce drew it in his own blood,” Rook said. “Just before saying your name and slipping into a coma.”

  Tears filled Gallo’s eyes.

  “You know what this is?”

  “The pillars of Hercules. It represents the Strait of Gibraltar. During Hercules’s tenth trial he—”

  Queen held up her hand. “We know all this. We were hoping you might be able to tell us something more. Something not as well known.”