Cam studied her. It wasn’t so much that her face was pretty, which it surely was; it was that her face was so alive that had first captivated Cam. Her eyes danced, her cheeks glowed, her lips glistened. And when she set her mind to something, as now, her front teeth bit down on her lower lip and her jaw muscles clenched. Amanda’s face radiated the energy and intelligence and passion of the person within.
“Okay,” he said, “I agree, this is what we do. But before we go racing up the beanstalk, what exactly do you mean by giants? There are tribes in Africa where most of the men are almost seven feet tall.”
Amanda glanced up at a lakeside white birch, a few strands of her strawberry blond hair escaping from her wool cap. “I’m talking taller than that. There’s a museum in Nevada that has a skeleton ten feet tall. Even the bloody Smithsonian dug up a bunch of giant bones.” She turned. “Is it really so impossible to believe that a race of giants once walked the earth?”
Cam shook his head. In fact, it was entirely possible. But that didn’t make it so. The fact that the textbooks were wrong about Columbus did not mean they were wrong about giants—it just meant they might be. It was a possibility. Which, of course, was where all their research began. “Okay, giants it is.” He smiled. “But can we eat first? I’m starving.” Cam had been a diabetic since he was twelve; he led a perfectly normal life, so long as he monitored his blood sugar levels.
“What do you fancy, young Jack? We have string beans, lima beans, baked beans and wax beans. The choice is yours.”
“Very funny. How about we just order Chinese?”
While Cam smothered the bonfire, Amanda walked down the lake to retrieve Astarte. During Amanda’s first couple of years in the States she had dreaded winter until Cam taught her to appreciate skiing and sledding and ice skating. “If you let the New England winters keep you in the house you’ll go batty,” he had said. Useful advice, but not very practical—until she discovered hand and foot warmers. Someone deserved a Nobel Prize.
Ten minutes later they all met in the house. “Did you order the food?” Amanda asked.
“Yes. I got the Pu Pu Platter—we burned a ton of calories today so I thought we deserved a treat.”
Astarte moaned. “Poop platter, blech!”
Cam smiled. “Sorry, no beef with broccoli tonight.” It was Astarte’s favorite.
“Why not?”
“Because Mum traded the cow for magic beans. So there’s no beef.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “Very funny. Don’t listen to him, darling.”
Cam turned to Amanda and spoke as if Astarte wasn’t in the kitchen with them. “I think we need to make a doctor appointment for Astarte. What kind of nine-year-old loves broccoli?”
“It’s better than eating poop platter.” The girl grinned. “And it’s not as disgusting as Mum liking you.” She stuck her finger down her throat. “Gross!”
Cam hoisted her over his shoulder and dumped her onto the couch. “What’s gross is when you giggle so hard the snot comes out your nose,” he said. He tickled her side until tears of laughter flowed from her cobalt-blue eyes and ran down her almond skin. But no snot, thankfully.
“Stop!” she giggled.
“Not until you agree that I am humble and loveable, just like Underdog.”
“Okay, okay, you are,” she shrieked, rolling away. And then grinning, “My fingers were crossed!”
Amanda watched as they sank to the floor, panting. In some ways Cam was as much of a child as Astarte. He loved to tease her, to race her, to see the world through her innocent eyes. And, of course, watch cartoons with her. She freed him up to be a kid again, to stop being the boring adult he was so afraid of becoming.
Not that Cam couldn’t be a doting parent. When Astarte had come down with the flu a couple months ago, just before Christmas, Cam had spent the entire night sitting by her bed, alternately applying cold compresses and piling on blankets. And when she couldn’t sleep Cam had read to her and told stories and simply held her. In the middle of the night Amanda had come in to relieve him. “I’ll stay,” he had said, looking away. “You go back to sleep.”
She had taken his chin gently in her hand and turned his face, tears pooling in his eyes.
He had smiled sadly. “She’s so … helpless. I guess I wasn’t totally ready for this parenting thing. I knew I’d grow to love her. But it’s so much more intense than I thought.”
“Yes,” she had smiled. “Loving a child is the most unselfish kind of love. Parents expect nothing in return.”
“Makes me want to call my mother, just to say thanks. I had no idea it was this hard.”
As they had whispered in the dark, Astarte rolled over and vomited onto her sheets. “I’ll take care of it,” Cam had said. “At least I’ll feel like I’m doing something.” He had kissed Amanda’s cheek. “Go back to bed.”
“I’m not going to just let you do everything yourself.”
“Fine,” he had smiled. “Then please get some ginger ale. It’ll help settle her stomach.”
Upon returning Amanda had lingered by the doorway, watching as Cam, humming softly, cleaned Astarte’s face and made a nest on the floor for her out of blankets while he changed her sheets. It was a side of him she had never seen before, and somehow she had fallen in love with him all over again.
That had been a tough week. And this had been another. The whole brainwashing thing was clearly worrying Cam. So it was good to have him back in a playful mood, even if it did mean Astarte laughing snot out of her nose.
Yet the brainwashing issue had not been resolved. The idea of someone—especially the CIA—trying to brainwash Cam seemed alternately ludicrous and terrifying. What did the CIA care about centuries-old history? But if they did care—and in the past powerful forces had tried to block their research—how would someone take steps to prevent being brainwashed? It was the type of thing that could paralyze you, always wondering if the decisions you made and feelings you had were your own or instead imposed upon you.
Not to mention how the potential instability might affect Astarte. They had taken her in as a foster child just over a year ago; she had been living with her recently-deceased uncle prior to that. Her uncle had been a researcher in pre-Columbian American history, which was how Amanda and Cam first met him. He doted on the girl and had shared much of his research with her.
Astarte dried her eyes with her sleeve, then surprised Amanda by saying, “I saw on your computer you were reading about giants.”
Amanda nodded and plopped onto the couch next to her. “In fact, yes. And Cameron and I were just discussing them earlier.”
“Uncle Jefferson said giant skeletons were found near Hill Cumorah, and that when the Nephites first came to America there were a lot of giants here.” Her uncle had raised Astarte as a Mormon; Amanda knew that the Book of Mormon, which recounted the history of the ancient Nephites, was based on writings carved onto metal plates found buried in Hill Cumorah, in upstate New York.
Amanda shifted forward. “Did your uncle ever show you any bones?”
Astarte nodded. “They were part of his collection. One time on Halloween he took out a giant skull and put it over his head, like a helmet. And all the skulls had two rows of teeth.”
Cam leaned against the coffee table. “Did he ever talk about artifacts found with the giants? Things like tools or jewelry or weapons or dental floss?”
Amanda cuffed him on the shoulder as Astarte responded. “He had a giant axe he said was too big for a human farmer. It was taller than him. He thought it belonged to the giants. And he showed me a broom that he said the giants used as a toothbrush,” she deadpanned. “But no floss.”
Amanda rolled her eyes as Cam laughed. “God help me,” Amanda said, “she’s picking up your sense of humor.”
Amanda continued, musing, “Too bad we don’t have access to your uncle’s collection.” The collection, like so many artifacts which seemed to contradict mainstream American history, had disappeared after his
death.
The doorbell rang and Cam jumped up to pay for the Chinese food. Astarte poured drinks while Amanda grabbed silverware.
“Funny,” Cam said. “The guy wouldn’t take a tip. It’s getting nasty out there so I gave him an extra ten.”
“Odd. Same bloke as usual?”
“No. This was an old guy. Never seen him before.”
“The place may have sold recently. When I was in last week there was a new staff.”
They sat as Cam pulled the food from a brown paper bag. “What’s this?” he asked, removing a brown C-shaped metal object from inside an otherwise-empty white cardboard carton.
“Looks like a bracelet,” Amanda said.
Cam shrugged. “Maybe the new owners are giving out prizes instead of fortune cookies, like those old Cracker Jack boxes.”
She smiled, leaned closer and whispered, “Or maybe the CIA is messing with your mind.”
He removed a couple other food containers before peering back into the empty carton and pulling out a piece of copy paper folded in half.
Amanda leaned in. “It’s a newspaper article.”
Cam scanned the words, his eyes growing wider. “It’s an old article about the Bat Creek Stone.” The carved stone had been found in a Cherokee burial mound in Tennessee after the Civil War. Cam and Amanda had traveled to Tennessee to study it this past summer; the stone was engraved in an ancient form of Hebrew that dated back to the second century AD. A number of funereal objects found with it, including a metal bracelet, had been given to the Smithsonian but then lost before scholars could perform tests to date them. Cam turned the article so Amanda could see it.
Amanda took the bronze-colored bracelet from Cam and held it up to the light, her hand shaking slightly. It couldn’t be. “It looks pretty old,” she conceded. “Copper, maybe.”
Cam shook his head. “Old, maybe. But ancient?” He turned to Astarte. “Can you get the magnifying glass for me? I think it’s in the basement on the ping pong table.”
He waited until she was out of earshot. “If the CIA is messing with us, it’s a pretty strange ruse,” he said.
Amanda bit down on her lip. “Why would they use a bracelet to brainwash you? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe we’re thinking too literally about the word brainwash. Maybe they’re just trying to influence our behavior in some way.”
“By giving us an ancient artifact?”
Cam held the bracelet to the light, exhaled and pushed his chair back. “We’re just guessing. If we want answers, there’s only one place to start.”
Cam jumped into his SUV. The bracelet and the newspaper article rested in their original brown paper bag on the seat beside him.
He drove for two miles until the China Garden neon sign loomed ahead in the strip mall on Route 40; he turned into the lot and parked, surprised to see the parking spaces near the restaurant empty on a Saturday night. He was even more surprised to find the front door locked, with a handwritten sign taped to the glass. “Closed For Night.”
A quick check of his watch—just past seven o’clock. Odd. Paper bag in hand, he began to walk around to the back of the building. The strip mall was abandoned, the bank, dry cleaner and beauty salon all closed for the night. A single streetlight illuminated the front lot. A cold wind blew some trash past Cam and a cloud drifted across the moon. His fingers tingled, a result of frostbite he suffered as a kid while skiing; the tingling now served as a warning sign, like hairs standing on the back of one’s neck, a sign that his body was pumping extra blood—and presumably adrenaline—in the face of looming danger. He liked to think of the tingling as his Spidey Sense.
He took a deep breath. “This doesn’t feel right,” he whispered. He tucked the paper bag into a garbage can in front of the bank, figuring nobody would be emptying the trash over the weekend.
Jogging now, he circled the strip mall. A dark-colored minivan sat parked behind the Chinese restaurant. It looked empty. Cam slowed to a walk as the moon reappeared, rubbing his hands together as his fingers tingled. He leapt back as a rat scurried by. “Relax, fella, I’m not here to take your food.” The rat turned to glance back at Cam with a single red eye. Cam thought about taking it as a sign that he should stop and return home, but instead took a deep breath and approached the back door.
He banged on it with a closed fist. “Hello? Anyone there?” Hearing no response, he crouched to see if he could see any light coming from under the door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. A man’s boot. Adrenaline surging, he tried to stand. “Stay right there,” a voice hissed. He heard a pop just as a small disk jolted into his back. Hot, searing pain pulsated through his torso, blackening his senses. His back arched and his jaw clenched as his whole body violently cramped. Paralyzed, he crumbled to the pavement as the smell of his own urine assaulted his nostrils.
Ten excruciating seconds passed as Cam fought for oxygen, his body writhing in agony. Finally the effects of the Taser gun began to fade and Cam gulped air. But by then Cam had been hoisted into the back of the minivan with his hands cuffed behind him. Using all his strength, he pushed himself to an upright position and turned to see a young Asian man with a raised machete in the backseat next to him. Sweat glistened on the man’s upper lip and his hand shook. Obviously not a pro, Cam thought. But he moved the machete closer to Cam’s ear, and Cam got the message.
An older man in the front passenger seat turned as the driver pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the highway a half mile away. “My name is Chung. Please, where is the bracelet?”
Cam blinked away the sweat from his eyes, took a deep breath and studied his captor. Fortyish, clean cut, button-down shirt, not much of an accent. Looked more like an engineer than a hoodlum. But unlike the guy holding the machete, Chung seemed calm. “I don’t have it,” Cam grunted.
“We know that. We searched your pockets.” He wrinkled his nose. “Our hands smell like your piss. Tell us where it is. We will drive there now and get it. Then you can go.”
Cam shrugged. “Sorry, can’t help you.” Not that he was some macho guy, trained to withstand torture, but he wasn’t ready to give up the bracelet just yet. Somebody had wanted him to have it for a reason.
Chung forced a smile. “Maybe we should go back to your house? Perhaps the little girl will tell us?” He held up the stun gun, leering.
Cam glared at his adversary, thankful that Amanda had taken Astarte to see a movie. At least they were safe. For now. “It’s not at the house.”
“Where is it?”
Cam shrugged again. “Someplace safe.”
Chung licked his lips. “Good. In that case we are in no hurry.” The van left Westford, turned onto Route 3 and headed south. From what Cam could see the driver was about the same age as the machete-holder; he guessed both were Chung’s sons. As they drove Cam tried to reach for his cell phone, but it was in his front pocket and there was no way to get his cuffed hands around his body. Sweat ran down his armpits and his heart pounded in his ears. The further they drove, the less likely it was that help could find him. Not that anyone even knew to look for him. Maybe he should give up the bracelet….
“This bracelet,” Cam said, “why is it so important?”
Chung barely turned. “The time for talking is over.”
The vehicle exited the highway, cut through some back streets of Chelmsford and wound its way to a residential neighborhood comprised of medium-sized homes on half-acre lots. The minivan pulled into a garage of a split-level smack dab in the heart of middle class America. Cam half-expected 2.2 children to come out and greet them.
The three men escorted Cam through the garage and into a semi-finished room on the ground floor. A furnace hummed nearby. They sat Cam in a metal folding chair in the middle of the room and bound his hands and feet to it, the rope also securing the chair to a steel support post. Cam tried to keep things light. “Really, guys? You’re going to tie me up?” He also concentrated on expanding his chest and a
rm muscles as the two sons tightened the rope, hoping that when he relaxed his muscles the rope would loosen and he might wriggle free. But this was getting serious. “If you tell me why you want the bracelet, I’ll tell you where it is.” The two younger men looked to their father for a response, but Chung continued to ignore Cam.
A single light bulb hung over Cam’s head like in some 1950s Cold War movie. A door opened and an elderly woman shuffled in. Almost toothless, she leaned forward to study Cam, the smell of garlic strong on her breath. She muttered something in Chinese to Chung, who Cam assumed was her son. Chung shook his head.
The woman glared at Cam and pulled out a pair of red-handled plumbing pliers from her housecoat. She handed them to her son and barked a short command. The van driver started to say something, but Chung silenced him with a single word.
Before Cam had time to process what was happening, Chung had clasped the pliers onto Cam’s left pinky finger and twisted violently. Cam heard the bone snap a split-second before he felt a searing inferno of pain that shot up his arm and released itself in a primordial scream. Panting, Cam thrashed in his chair, afraid to look down at his throbbing, mangled finger.
Chung held up the pliers to Cam’s face. “We have all night. Where is bracelet?”
Cam wanted nothing more than to wrestle the pliers away from Chung and stuff them down his scrawny throat. He had gained some wiggle room under the ropes, and these guys were clearly not pros—if he could surprise his captors and make a run for it…. If not, he’d have no choice but to turn over the bracelet-
“Yi!”
Cam spun to see an elderly Chinese man burst into the room. Shouting in Chinese, the man waved a shotgun over his head and motioned angrily toward Cam. Chung yelled back at him, as did the woman, arguing, while the two younger men edged away. If Cam hadn’t already been Tasered, abducted and tortured, he might have found the old man’s appearance amusing—he wore a blue silk bathrobe and slippers, and his wispy gray hair stood at odd angles from his head.
The Oath of Nimrod: Giants, MK-Ultra and the Smithsonian Coverup (Book #4 in Templars in America Series) Page 3