Solomon's Seal

by Skyla Dawn Cameron

  So I pressed. “If I do my job and hand this over to Ashford immediately? What then?”

  West still didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. “Then I’ll be very disappointed, Olivia. But it’s your choice.”

  27

  Customs

  The clothes weren’t my size. There was a sports bra in the bag of stuff from West that was serviceable, a T-shirt that was a bit too big and jeans that were too snug. For the evening, I opted for stretchy black yoga pants. The labels were all in Amharic—probably from a tourist shop around the airport grabbed in a rush. No complaints from me, as the promised package of clean cotton underwear was welcome.

  I padded for Dawson’s room down the hall, unsteady on my feet given my date with the bottle of gin, and the Seal still heavy on my finger as I was afraid to set it down. He called me in after I knocked on his door. Laurel sat in there as well, both of them at his laptop set up on a table against the wall.

  “West was there?” Dawson asked.

  “Yes, patched me up proper.” I perched on the chair he vacated for me while he sat on the edge of the bed. During the time after West left and while I changed, I’d been debating what to tell the others. Both worked for Ashford, Laurel regularly. There seemed too good a chance they’d warn him, so I kept my mouth shut. “How’s the connection here?”

  “Bit better than camp,” Dawson said. He glanced at the ring but didn’t comment. “Do you need us to go or—”

  “I’ll just be a few minutes. It’s late my time.”

  “West gave me the tickets, so we’re good to go in the morning.” Laurel rose and yawned, rubbing at her eyes.

  “Bright and early,” I replied as I clicked on Skype.

  The door had just closed behind me when Pru answered the call. My dimly lit office space flared into view and I unclenched my hands, relaxation rolling down my shoulders at the sight of her and home.

  “I was getting worried,” she said.

  “Safe and sound, no troubles.” I’d fill her in later. “I should be home...I don’t know. Math hurts my brain. Flight departs our time tomorrow at midnight...”

  “We’ll land Sunday morning in North America,” Dawson spoke up softly.

  Either he looked it up earlier or ran the numbers in his head. If it was the latter, I got a headache just contemplating it. “There you have it.”

  “Will you need a ride from the airport?”

  I was, in theory, supposed to head straight from there to Ashford, but West wanted me home instead. So I had no fucking clue. “Probably not.”

  “Em’s already in bed—”

  I rather desperately wanted to see her, especially after not being certain I would. My gunshot wound seemed to heat at the thought, reminding me how close I’d come to not ever getting home. But it would be more pressure on Pru to get her back to sleep again, possibly risking a cranky six-year-old come morning. “Don’t wake her. Tell her I’ll be home probably after breakfast tomorrow.” If I did what West asked, that is. If I didn’t and went straight to Ashford, it would be later still. Goddamn, I hated this internal debate.

  Perhaps that would be a believable reason for stalling, though. Long flight, head home first. Nothing in my contract spelled out a need to meet Ashford with the Seal immediately.

  And why in the hell am I actually considering listening to West? I had no answer for that one so I stopped dwelling on it.

  “See you soonish,” I said.

  Pru nodded. “Take care.”

  I disconnected the call and leaned my elbows on the tabletop, massaging my temples.

  “So...your girlfriend’s hot.”

  I grinned and glanced at Dawson. “She is. Also not my girlfriend. Single, though.”

  He blushed. “Alas, I have to go back to Texas.”

  “You must keep in touch.”

  “Of course.”

  I reached into the pocket of my track pants and pulled out the tiny camera I’d retrieved from my backpack. Backtracking through the cave, I’d turned it off and mostly forgotten about it. But Ashford being Ashford likely wanted it, so I handed it to Dawson. “Will Ashford be able to tell if you edit the video?”

  He turned the camera over in his large hand, then set it on the nightstand. “Not if I do it.”

  It was risky even asking him but I hadn’t remembered to give West a heads-up about it. “Mr. Rolph’s last words are on there—he mentioned West. And apparently he isn’t supposed to be here.”

  Dawson nodded. “Got it. Won’t be a problem.”

  At least one thing wouldn’t be; I still had a bunch of my own to deal with.

  I had to rise, had to go back to my room and crash for fewer hours than I’d like before getting up and attempting to smuggle a religious artifact past country borders with a forged passport, but my body protested the movement and I remained for a few minutes more. “Dawson, do you trust West?”

  “More than Tucker.”

  “Touché.” At last I rose, my limbs heavy and muscles sore. “How about Mr. Rolph? Did you trust him?”

  “For a guy I knew absolutely nothing about, could find no record of—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it, never mind—”

  “Yeah. I mean, he wasn’t that bad. I liked him. Mr. Rolph...it’s just too bad he’s dead. Yeah, I’d trust him.”

  If Rolph could be trusted, all that really meant was that he believed in West, not that West was worth trust by default. But it added more weight to the scale in his favor and I’d begun to regret even considering it.

  ❇

  I had never traveled with a forged passport before but figured the best course of action would be to act as though it was a real one. While the bag of clothes and suture kit might’ve been a rush job, my documentation didn’t seem to be as, despite the scrutinizing, I was cleared through Bole International Airport customs with no trouble, though received a few confused looks over my beat-up exterior. My explanation that I’d been mugged apparently was believable.

  The Seal, too, didn’t pick up any extra attention, and the glue held despite my worry when it was inspected. Still, I slept fitfully during the fourteen hour flight, my hands folded in my lap, clutching my small backpack and protecting the ring just in case. West hadn’t sprung for first class so we were stuck in coach, but my body was too exhausted to care about the accommodations. I dozed next to Dawson and Laurel sat ahead of us. None of us spoke, not about what we saw in the caves, what the mercs had done, nor anything else. Dawson had all the recorded evidence still for our employer and part of me wanted to request a copy, if only for my records, yet part of me wanted to shove it all to the back of my mind.

  Occasionally I glimpsed Thomas and Pulaski; I gave them each a nod when I did, but they acted like they didn’t know who I was. Perhaps under orders to merely watch me but not engage, or perhaps the fact that I looked like someone tossed me in a wood chipper meant they didn’t want to be seen with me. Regardless, Thomas was quite alive and well, which was nice to see, and if it meant no one else would come close to messing with me until I was home, I accepted their presence.

  After we landed in New Bristol, I exited the plane with trepidation. I had no luggage beyond my small pack and prepared to deal with any questions. A history of diva behavior had its uses in that it was an easy role to slip in and out of now, and I had prepared to rant and rave about missing luggage and poor service on my way through customs if questioned.

  The woman barely glanced up at me as I walked up to the counter. “Passport.”

  I handed it to her and set down my bag to be searched.

  “Anything to declare?”

  I plastered on my best smile. “Just that it’s great to be back in Canada.” It worked every time.

  “What a lovely ring you have.”

  I iced over at the sound of a familiar voice behind me. No. Please no. Noooooo...

  I glanced back to see Martin standing between a customs agent and a security guard. His grin was wide and easy, despite th
e dark circles under his eyes. He stayed where he was as the two agents walked toward me. In the middle of the airport there was nowhere to run, no real way to object. Dawson and Laurel were already through customs and though I looked around, I saw no sign of Thomas or Pulaski coming to my rescue.

  I plucked the ring from my finger and handed it to the customs agent while the guard cuffed me. Someone in the lineup behind me stuck their camera phone out and snapped a pic.

  “Vive la révolution!” I called, because I generally embraced making a spectacle of myself when possible. Martin shook his head, took my bag, and led me and the agents past the other passengers and toward the security offices.

  ❇

  My brother stood in front of me, his hands knotted behind his back, brows pulled into a tight frown that was nearly comical. “Where’s the ring, Liv?”

  I leaned back in my chair, drumming my fingers on the chrome tabletop. My wrists were bound still but in front of me this time and I smiled as sweetly as I could. I had already spent four hours being held without interrogation and I wasn’t about to rush to answer him. “The ring? You took it. I think there’s another in my bag that I got for Em if you—”

  He tossed the cheap, gift shop mood ring on the table. It bounced twice, spun, then came to a halt in front of me. “Not that. The Seal of Solomon, which you lifted from Kadhim Cave and crossed country borders with, in violation of several international laws and treaties. I know you have it.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  His palms thumped down, jarring the table, and he leaned downward until he was eye level with me. “You wouldn’t have left without the Seal.”

  “That’s assuming there was one and the cave wasn’t cleared out by looters years ago.”

  “I know you and you would still be in the damn place looking. Where the hell is it?”

  This was beyond professional curiosity now, clearly; Martin never played Bad Cop like this and his expression left me wary, more jokes dying on my lips. Instead I said nothing and simply waited.

  “This is off the record. Help me find it and I’ll see that you get let out of here. Just tell me what you did with the ring.”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

  Martin cursed under his breath, stood straight, and passed the length of the interview room. He paused by the mirror, staring at his own reflection or whoever watched from the other side of the glass. “They know your passport was a forgery.”

  I blinked innocently back at him. “It is?”

  He met my gaze in the mirror. “Fourteen years under the Criminal Code, Liv.”

  Even as my heartrate sped, I kept up my act. “I had no idea. How do you think that happened? Could someone have replaced my real one? I’ll of course cooperate with the authorities to find whoever—”

  I didn’t get to finish as he exited the room and slammed the door behind him.

  Pru would be wondering where the hell I was. Em, too. The clock on the wall said it was afternoon and no one had offered me a phone call.

  “Can I get a cup of coffee?” I called to the empty room but received no response.

  ❇

  The door opened again at two hours later, when Martin decided to play Good Cop and let me use the facilities, then gave me some coffee and a box of donuts from Tim Hortons. That didn’t get him anywhere with me, though, so he took the leftovers and exited again.

  Once more someone returned, this time after I’d napped and then bitched for over an hour to an empty room—it was three in the morning, and a female security guard took me to the ladies room again. She uncuffed me but waited in the washroom outside my stall and really, nothing irritates me more than someone listening to me pee. I got used to it when I had a toddler running around but this was something else altogether. She allowed me to wash my hands and barely dry them before the cuffs were on again and I was being escorted back to the Room of Blank Walls and Doom. Six more hours followed in which I alternated between singing show tunes and napping with my head on the table, cradled by my arms, before the door opened again.

  This time Martin stood there, holding the door open, face expressionless as a guard entered the room.

  “Are you escorting me personally to prison now, Martin?” I made a move to rise but the guard stopped next to me and released the cuffs. Which was...interesting. I looked at Martin in question but he didn’t meet my eyes.

  My wrists were ringed in red and the odd indent where I’d leaned on the metal, and I rubbed them to regain feeling. My bandaged forearm ached—I needed to change the dressing soon and pop more painkillers, as no help had been offered me during my confinement. I rose, stepping past the guard—who made no move to follow—and toward my brother.

  I strongly suspected they might actually be letting me go.

  I half-expected to see West outside the hall, ready to reprimand me for having to bail me out again. Instead I stepped into the corridor and found Laurel waiting to my right.

  She’d cleaned up, put on a fresh suit, and wore thin, wire-framed glasses and a pair of crocodile-print, sling-back pumps. A briefcase hung at her side by a shoulder strap, a folder was clutched in one hand, and the look of a businesswoman on a mission was somehow more terrifying than the dragons had been.

  “You’re free to go,” Martin said behind me. “For now.”

  I batted my eyelashes innocently over my shoulder at him. “Thanks so much for the hospitality.” My steps sped until I was next to Laurel, and we continued down the hall without speaking until we reached the door at the far end. “Are you pretending to be my lawyer?” I whispered.

  “That was my intention but it didn’t work,” she replied in an equally low voice. “Whoever got you out wasn’t me.”

  Interesting. “West?” Perhaps he’d helped manufacture a delay as he didn’t trust me to stall. I looked around but didn’t see Thomas or Pulaski either.

  She shook her head. “I have no idea where he is.”

  I was able to pick up my bag and personal effects on our way out. I had no doubt it had been thoroughly inspected and I hoped they enjoyed their look at my new yoga pants and excess caving goodies. I got several looks as I exited the security area but no one tried to stop me; Laurel and I left the airport without incident. She had a car waiting on the third level of the parking structure. Despite the fact that it was sheltered, a chill fall wind worked its way through the space; I had on a T-shirt, jeans, and my hiking boots, but no jacket and shivered until we were both settled in the car.

  “They’re probably expecting me to lead them to wherever I stashed the ring,” I said.

  Laurel slid her key into the ignition. “Where did you put it?”

  I rifled through my pack and pulled out the plastic gift shop bag from the front pocket. Wedged into one of the ring holders like it had always been there was a brass ring with a fake setting. I pinched the receipt between my forefinger and thumb, and angled it in her direction. “Receipt lists two rings purchased. After seeing the fake one on my finger, this one was overlooked.”

  “You are scary smart, you know.” She shook her head as she pulled out of the lot.

  I stuffed the real Seal back in my bag. “A compliment. Really, did we bring back Pod-Laurel?”

  She cast me a wry smile. “And a smart ass. Mr. Ashford is expecting you—heading there first?”

  Yes. No. I don’t know. “Are you going there now?”

  “Oh no, after all that, I put in my two weeks and then took my last fourteen vacation days.”

  “Can’t say I blame you in the least.”

  “So? Can I drop you somewhere?”

  I wavered, then nodded. “Yeah, but home. I’m a day late—I’ll get cleaned up first, let my kid know I’m not dead, then I’ll drop the Seal off at his office.”

  Unless West gets there first. He might already be waiting—he might take the ring and my paycheck from me. But I’d hold it over him and demand some answers before I decided either way.

&nb
sp; 28

  Home, Sweet...?

  Laurel pulled up in front of my house and I had my door open before she’d even hit the brakes. I didn’t invite her in and I didn’t think she’d accept either, just called my thanks for the ride and hightailed it out of there. We’d already spent far too long in one another’s company to last a very long time, I figured, even if I suspected she’d make an excellent getaway driver given her performance escaping camp the other night.

  My pack swung in my hand, ponytail swished against my back, and my bare arms prickled with gooseflesh as I padded up the driveway and past my car parked to the side. A flat cardboard package waited on the porch to the side with a UPS note on the top; I lifted it, didn’t see a return address, so tucked it under my arm and continued on. Though I hadn’t had nearly enough rest yet, I forgot my aching muscles and jogged up to the front, fumbled with my keys, and burst in the door.

  “I’m back!” I pressed the door shut behind me, dropped my pack and the box with it, and didn’t bother to take off my boots. The warmth of home enveloped me, place smelling vaguely of cinnamon from a scented candle. The hall and house within were both dark, and the floor creaked under my heavy boots as I walked forward. “Pru?”

  No one had indicated whether they’d called her or not. I hoped Martin would have the sense to do so—he did the last time he had me arrested. Maybe she went to wait for me at the airport, taking a cab since my car was still here? As I made my rounds through the house, I pulled out my cell phone. No reply from the text I’d sent her on the way home, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time—it was just a heads-up. No message, either, so I dialed her number.

  It went to voicemail.

  The house was quiet and tidy, beds made and dishes done. Em would be in school—

  Or would she? She was suspended.

  Three days, Pru had said. Jetlag and the overnight visit in customs jail hell had me confused. I thumped for the kitchen again and glanced over the calendar on the fridge—it was the dry-erase kind, and Em and I put it together at the start of every month. A blue arrow dragged from Saturday through the week to indicate my absence, red dots seemed to denote the three days Em was suspended, and black Xs crossed off the days of the month that had passed—every night we checked off that day and had for years. It was why she understood the concept of days and months well before her peers in nursery school.