by A D Davies
“Noted.” Jules had returned to his disinterested tone, but his eyes were glued to the screen.
Toby showed another. “Here, we have a warrior dressed much like a Roman gladiator, deflecting a rock flung from a catapult, defending this small village.”
Jules glanced at Harpal, then rested on Toby. “I know there’s a point to this. Are you gettin’ to it? You’ve rewound from your slave trade clues, made me listen to observations I could have worked out for myself, and now you’re gonna deliver the main event. Or I walk.”
Toby believed he was getting better at this, since he was about to arrive at the finale. “I won’t bore you with the rest of my research, suffice it to say there is a lot of it. But this shield is known in many formats. Sometimes a single giant warrior or guardian lording over a people in need, or—like the painting hanging in the Alabama Freedom Museum—as four people and four shields.”
“So, it could be a collection of shields, or one remaining relic, used as a symbol of… What? Freedom? You mentioned that museum.”
“Exactly. Alfonse has funded our trip, under strict budgetary guidelines, but—as much as I hate to make this about money—he will reward us if we bring back the shield shown by the codex. Which, by the way, he arranged to be loaned to us by the Vatican.”
Toby returned to the original document scan of the codex that led them to Saint Bernard’s.
“Scholars are of the belief that such a shield, or series of shields, was a cover for a mercenary army. A fighting force without a homeland, dedicated to the betterment of humanity. One of greater stature than the average person, but far from a single giant. Known invariably as ‘The Giant Ones’ and ‘The Mighty’, but most commonly, it seems, as ‘The Guardians,’ they offered their services to those with the ability and resources to feed and shelter them and who made the best case for needing them. Not money or wealth, but the worthiest who lived up to the army’s ideals.”
Harpal gave a single barked laugh. “Yeah, you know, like the A-Team.”
“Who’s the A-Team?” Jules asked.
“Everyone knows the A-Team. You don’t have to remember the series from the first time round.”
Toby had lost his flow of thoughts and couldn’t help an annoyed grunt. “Don’t worry, Jules. I was aware of the term but had never watched the show. It’s from the eighties.”
“Right. A TV show.” Jules returned to the tablet screen and swiped the screen himself, stopping on the train of black men in rags, sheltering beneath the large shield as they trekked a dirt road. “Back to this. I’m guessin’ it’s why you need Bridget.”
“Ah, that’s where it gets tricky. Her family dates back to the bad old days.” Toby swallowed, regretting the levity in his tone. “That is to say, they have ancestry that profited from slave owners. The museum receives generous grants from the Carson Corporation, and we would appreciate access to the land on which it is built.”
Jules considered what Toby was asking. “This ain’t about my friendship with Bridget. Hell, you and Dan are probably closer. You need an African-American person to make the request, not some pasty white Brit academic. You’re hopin’ it adds some sorta weight to poking around on their land.”
Toby nodded. “That, and your affinity with the bangles, which seems to tie in somewhat. At least tangentially. Many of these references pre-date Sumerian culture, like the continental drift of the map. We might need your more… esoteric gifts too, but initially… yes, your race may help sway things.”
Harpal pulled up a seat and sat on it backwards, leaning against the chair’s back, presumably to sit at the same eye level as Jules. “We use what we’ve got. My parents are Indian, but I can pass for any number of ethnicities in that region, and frequently do. At a push, I fit in around the Middle East, too.”
Jules faced him. “I don’t got a problem with that. My problem is why you want access. Why here?”
“It’s the final reference,” Toby said. “Chronologically, it seems to me this was the last time the shield, or collection of shields, was identified. After Bridget’s ancestor, Jacob Carr, freed his slaves—years ahead of emancipation—the shield trail goes cold.”
Jules again fell silent, considering what Toby had said. He lay the case with the Aradia and Ruby Rock bangles on the bed and paced to the window where he looked out onto the street three stories below.
“You guys, you think I’m gonna swallow any of this?”
Toby stood, opened his hands, and approached. He halted halfway as Jules turned to him.
He said, “I would have thought that after all we’d seen, the notion of an army of extremely strong mercenaries protecting the innocent wouldn’t be such a tremendous leap.”
Jules shook his head. “Ancient machines hidden beneath the earth, quantum physics tapped into by people who didn’t really understand it, crazy billionaires who think they’re entitled to take what they want. Now giants. Shields that can deflect meteors and sea monsters. We are gettin’ into children’s stories. Where’s the actual evidence?”
Like the other two, Harpal stood. “That’s where the fun begins. Have you ever heard of a You Tube kook called Sally Garcia?”
Jules threw up his arms and blew out his cheeks. “Yeah, I’ve heard of her. And if you think I’m doing anything based on her ridiculous notions, you’ve just wasted a bunch more of Alfonse’s money.”
Jules had had enough. He marched to the door, snatching the case containing the bangles.
“Professor Garcia has a plethora of documentaries out on the web,” Toby said. “Including the theory floated in her previous book. About two civilizations that thrived before modern humans evolved? Ancient technology, and the like?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jules reached the door but made his point more sternly. “She’s got mad stuff on there, too. Hollow Earth theory? You go with that too?”
“To be fair,” Harpal said, “she doesn’t promote hollow Earth crap. She investigates it, finds nothing conclusive, and leaves it open.”
Toby kept up the last-minute pressure, his speech pattern speeding up, his hands open. “Phil and Charlie performed a scrub-search of her cloud accounts and laptop. They found a lot of references to giants and shields, but only a couple featuring both, starting with a video saying she has found the resting place of the Giant’s Shield. Giant singular or giants’ plural, we can’t tell from the dialogue. But we see the video in which Sally cannot enter the land on which she believes the site to be based, because of it being private property.”
“Phil geo-pinged the video,” Harpal added. “It’s in Alabama.”
“The museum’s land.” Jules now understood the need to involve Bridget. “A bit coincidental, ain’t it?”
Toby licked his top lip. “Not entirely. I was… I stumbled across references to the Carson family history and back traced a couple of interesting leads. That sent us to the codex at the Vatican and whetting Alfonse’s interest—”
Jules cut him off. “So, you went searching for something to make Bridget’s folks see the value of the work you do? Hopin’ they’d release her out of her contract?”
“Indeed. And it sent us on a wider than expected arc. But here we are. With both evidence of an almighty archaeological discovery and a chance to reunite our team.”
“Still,” Jules replied, “it’s not grounds for—”
“We believe modern humans slaughtered the guardians,” Toby said.
Jules squeezed the door handle, but left it closed. “Modern humans?”
“If this Guardian army were descended from the Witnesses, or a group protecting that knowledge, it’s possible they came across a force that could subdue them.”
“In pre-Civil War era United States.”
“Seems that way,” Harpal said. “If the kook is right about even a couple of things.”
Jules turned fully to view the two men. “And that’s where the big issue is. You’re askin’ me to hang out with Bridget, tell her there’s a big deal ancient artefac
t that needs unearthing, and it might all be for nothing. It’s even less clear than those orbs, or the tomb in India.”
Toby strained as if lifting a heavy object, his fingers curled as if massaging that item. Jules read it as frustration, but it might have been anger. “Don’t you want to get back to it? Deep down? A regular job, an apartment, frozen yogurt, and bagels? Is this really for you?”
It wasn’t lost on Jules that Demetrio had posed a similar question.
He said, “This ain’t anything to do with Valerio, is it?”
“We’ve heard nothing from him,” Toby replied. “Remember Prihya Sibal?”
“Sure. Clever girl. No formal qualifications. Hoodwinked into thinking we were the bad guys.”
“Correct. She went dark a few months ago.” Toby again seemed cautious to talk about this. “She’d sent some updates my way, mainly that they were struggling to get into the scrolls, just like we were. And those they accessed were not readable. Some had run due to the age and whatever they used for ink. Others simply impenetrable. There were no references for the language. No Rosetta Stone. I doubt even Bridget would have been able to decipher them.”
“You didn’t slip her a few texts on the down low?” Jules asked.
“A couple of times,” Harpal said. “But she asked us to stop.”
“Why?”
Harpal turned away, hands in his pockets, head down.
Toby just looked sad. “I think… Perhaps she didn’t want reminding of our work. She could only dip in and out, while she concentrated on fulfilling the promise to her parents. If they caught her, what little crumbs they threw our way would be rescinded.”
“And Prihya?” Jules said.
“The final coded message she sent said she was through with Valerio’s craziness. Sounded like he was getting more manic. She had fled the town in India that he had made his base and assured us she was safe.”
Jules aimed his next question at Harpal. “You sure it was her? Did you verify it?”
Harpal raised his hands. “I’m not officially with the Institute anymore. This is the first I’m hearing of it.”
Jules frowned, hoping his confusion came through without words.
Toby said, “We have had a few funding issues. Not all of our missions following Kenya paid off. We have the Château, courtesy of Bridget’s parents, but we travel coach at the moment. Can’t afford fuel for the Learjet. And we all have living expenses.”
He cast a brief glance toward Harpal.
“I’ve had to find other work,” Harpal said with the sort of finality Jules understood meant not to probe deeper. “But on this job, we have put out feelers. No chatter about Valerio Conchin.”
If this were simply an exploration, following a historical trail to either a wild goose chase or physical objects used by benevolent fighting force, Jules might’ve been tempted.
Last year.
Not now.
“Two teams,” Toby said. “You and Dan work on accessing that site. Harpal, Charlie and I will head out to California and see what research Sally Garcia has kept hidden. I’m 99% positive she hasn’t made everything public. Perhaps if we can penetrate her fantastical conspiracy theories and oddball notions, we can confirm the truth. Access the full depth of her research.”
Although Jules had no intention of taking up the offer, the involvement of a kook like Garcia compelled him to ask, “If she’s so crazy, how come you’re certain she’s right about Alabama?”
Toby seemed hesitant to answer. “Her notion of giants—literal giants—is only one conclusion. It seems to be her favorite, and the hypothesis she is most eager to prove. Her public comments on the matter are restricted to the idea that nobody knows for sure. And she wants to investigate the possibilities. But, as far as we can see, she has made up her mind.”
“Why’s she holding back?”
“Tenure,” Toby replied. “She’s up for tenure at the University of SoCal. If she embarrasses the institution before then, they can withdraw it. After, she can publish pretty much what she likes. As long as it isn’t immoral or dangerous, she keeps her status.”
Jules saw where this was going. “And as a tenured professor, she gets better funding, and more leeway for her own fields of study.”
“Exactly.”
“And you’re goin’ along with this?”
“We are interested in all the legwork she has done. She has facts, locations. More than we have. Just because she has jumped to a literal conclusion instead of an allegorical one—which is what our research indicates—doesn’t change the fact she has made more progress on the ground.”
Jules thought about it.
“I don’t expect you to decide on the spot this minute.” Toby approached Jules, who had remained in place next to the exit. The smaller man put both hands on Jules’s right forearm and stared up at him. “Imagine what this could mean. Either an artefact so old and grand that we can fund the Lost Origins Recovery Institute for the next five years, or we uncover more of the Witnesses’ technology, something that has the potential to protect mankind from the scale of meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs.”
“Because we’re overdue a strike,” Harpal said. “You know that, right?”
“What a find it will be to prove an epic like the Iliad has more truth to it than the milieu.” There was a wet fire in Toby’s eyes. “It would be incredible.”
Jules turned the handle and stepped out, his head hanging low, as something tugged at him, urging him to stick around. But he couldn’t. “You don’t need me to get Bridget to help, or her parents. I got a life here. I gotta concentrate on not screwing that up.”
Jules left them to it, unsure exactly why his stomach felt tight or the pressure behind his eyes had grown. He figured he should give alcohol one more try.
Chapter Five
Jules wasn’t necessarily hoping to bump into his T.O. but was oddly glad that Massey was sitting at the bar, nursing a Guinness, when he walked through the door. The dimly lit Irish pub was filling without being overwhelmingly busy, and Massey was alone. Jules realized this was because the pair had finished their shift early. The regular rotation would not pile out of the precinct for another half an hour.
He sidled up next to Massey and waited for the older man to spot him.
“Sibeko,” Massey said with an air of surprise. “Didn’t think you enjoyed hanging with us ordinary cops.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know, people who don’t see things with their psychic powers. Can’t fling a truncheon like a spear at the Olympic Games. We just use our guns and our common sense.”
“You don’t need your gun that often.”
Massey shrugged and returned to his drink. “You should have used it today.”
Jules leaned both elbows on the bar and signaled the bartender as he’d seen people do on the rare occasion he’d attended this place. The man in the apron lifted his chin and held up a finger to say he’d be just a minute.
Jules said, “I’ll work on that. You’re right. It was a dumb thing to do.”
Massey twisted on his stool again, his mouth pulled into a big grin. “You really mean that?”
Jules had made a concession, bringing the man onside. It worked better than his previous attempts to explain or excuse his actions.
The bartender came over.
“I’ll take a whiskey,” Jules said.
“Anything in that?” the bartender asked.
“Ice.”
“One for me too,” Massey said. “Make ‘em doubles. And they’re on me.”
As the bartender poured the drinks, Jules took his seat, laying the bangles case on the top of the bar. He met Massey’s eyes in a mirror laden with drinks and the name of the establishment—Riley’s Retreat.
“You don’t come here much,” Massey said.
“No,” Jules replied. “I’m not a big drinker. And I find the type of conversations here are… I dunno. I’m never sure how to join in.”
&nb
sp; Massey waved an open hand, a friendly dismissal. “The boys and gals here are good people. I know they go a bit hard on the protesters and whining types—the civil rights lot, the gay marches, whatever. But it’s a tough job. Difficult to know what’s right sometimes. All we can do is our best. And that’s all you can do, too.”
Jules had understood that, had made a point of being friendly to even those who dismissed the racial equality movement out of hand based on a handful of bad actors who hijacked such occasions to destroy property and loot shops. He was no expert in how to handle such conflict, but after much reflection alone in his apartment and walking in the park, he figured it was better to engage, to help his fellow cops understand no one was saying blue lives, or any other life, held less value than black lives. Of course, it didn’t help when many of the most vocal allies lumped all cops into the same deplorable hand basket, or that the minority of violent protesters received the lion’s share of the publicity across the mainstream media, and blanket coverage from the far-right outlets.
He didn’t want to get into it here.
“It’s not politics,” Jules said. “It’s…”
What was it, exactly? He couldn’t label his reasoning, his hesitancy to indulge with his colleagues.
The whiskeys arrived and Massey plucked his off the bar right away. Jules mirrored him and Massey clinked his glass into Jules’s. The ice tinkled and the amber liquid swirled, pretty in the dim lighting, an inviting tendril of melting ice tracing the movement.
Unfortunately, as Jules brought it to his lips, it didn’t smell tempting. The odor traveled up his nostrils and burned the back of his eyes. He gave nothing away but set it down in front of him.
“We’re on desk duty tomorrow,” Jules said, rotating the glass on its wet spot.
“Standard procedure.” Massey sipped his and made a deep aah sound. “I fired my weapon twice in five years. They cleared me both times within forty-eight hours. Don’t sweat it. We’ll be out there again soon enough.”
The ice was melting, which diluted the foul liquor somewhat.