Nickerson grumbled under his breath.
“What’s that?” Hall asked.
“Oh, sorry. I was just thinking out loud,” Nickerson said.
“About what?” Jennifer asked.
Waving his arm in a circle around the room, Nickerson said, “I don’t know. The whole crime scene in here bugs me. Everything looks and sounds staged. Keys lined up on the desk. Papers scattered, pictures slashed. Open trunks in the attic. Fingerprints everywhere. I think most, if not all, of it is intended to throw us off, confuse us. Same with the body in the garden and the missing car.”
While Jennifer listened to Nickerson, she fidgeted with the locket in her pocket. There certainly was a slew of conflicting evidence, but in her mind the Lifintyls were at the root of the crimes in one way or another. In fact, she could imagine three viable scenarios centered around the Tyls that might explain the confusing array of evidence.
Option one: Anabel had been Muran. Feeling pressure that her true identity was about to be discovered, she switched into a new body and discarded Anabel’s. She took her Tyls with her and arranged the scene to make it look like a burglary and murder.
Option two: Anabel had been Muran, and she fell for the trap Foucault supposedly set, the one he mentioned at Indio Maiz. Under this scenario, Foucault killed Muran and took her Tyls, or he searched the house looking for them, or for evidence of where they were kept. The brutality of the murder had been driven by Foucault’s sense of revenge and justice. The ceremonial display of the body in the garden was his way of laying her curse to rest. The evidence of a burglary in this scenario was legit.
Option three: Anabel was not Muran and was killed by someone who knew she had Tyls or someone who thought she had a copy of the Waterland Map. Someone familiar with the Munuorian Stones, or Anabel’s connection with Devlin. Margaret Corchran? Klaus Navarro? Thatcher Reynolds? The murder in this scenario was to silence Anabel. The brutality a sign of torture? The burglary the true motive of the crime.
Jennifer would have loved to share all three scenarios with Nickerson and Hall, but she knew the first two would not go over well. Plus, she wanted some time to ponder the locket, for it didn’t fit with any of the scenarios.
She tuned back into Nickerson and Hall’s conversation as Nickerson said, “I don’t envy you, Tim. This is a hard one.”
“Tell me about it,” Hall said, sliding his notebook and pen inside his coat pocket. “Unless there’s something else you’d like to see, I’d like to wrap up and get back to Burlington. The team will be anxious to hear the new angles you’ve given me.”
With that, the Vermont detective led Jennifer and Nickerson back outside. While Hall locked and sealed the house, Jennifer and Nickerson stood by his unmarked police car. A gust of wind whipped through the trees, causing a flurry of leaves to drift to the ground. Jennifer blew on her hands and whispered to Nickerson, “Sure would like to talk with the M.E., hear what he’s found so far.”
“Today?” Nickerson asked, while looking at his cell phone.
“Yeah. Can you swing that?” she asked.
“No can do, Jen. The captain will bust a vein if I’m not back at HQ by four.”
“Do you think Hall will let me meet with the examiner without you there?”
“No harm asking,” Nickerson said. “By the way, what’s with your pocket?”
Jennifer froze as Nickerson pointed at her jacket. He said, “Looks like you left a flashlight on.”
Chapter 2 – Vengeance Is Mine
Fort Ticonderoga, New York
September 25
When Aja arrived at the battlement’s edge, a cavalcade of icy gusts swirled up from the lake. Tightening the collar of the worn barn coat around her neck, she turned her back to the wind and maneuvered between a cannon and a band of tourists admiring the view of Lake Champlain. Shivering, she headed for the comparative calm of the fort’s Place D’Armes.
She passed through the courtyard’s stone-arched entrance and spied a solitary stone stela directly ahead. Guarded on each side by a black cannon, the small, rectangular monument bore a black-faced memorial plate. When she reached the stela, she read the plate inscription.
From this fortress went Gen. Henry Knox in the winter of 1775–1776 to deliver to Gen. George Washington at Cambridge the train of artillery from Fort Ticonderoga used to force the British army to evacuate Boston.
Above the inscription was a scene depicting an oxen-drawn sledge laden with a cannon. The oxen were shown trudging through a snowy forest under the watchful eye of a proud colonial general. Running down the left side of the memorial plate was a relief map tracing the path of the Knox Trail from Fort Ticonderoga to Cambridge.
Aja frowned and softly said, “Poor honor for a great deed.”
Earlier, inside the fort’s museum, she’d listened to a docent recount the tale. The docent declared it as a story of courage, perseverance and sheer will. A deed that tilted the Revolutionary War’s early balance of power toward the upstart colonials. A bold and daring military triumph that stunned the British army encamped outside Boston so badly, they quit the city without a fight.
According to the docent’s recital, twenty-five-year-old Henry Knox, then a lowly Massachusetts militiaman, was commissioned by General Washington to do the impossible. In the depth of winter, Knox was tasked with transporting fifty-nine artillery pieces from the conquered Fort Ticonderoga on the banks of Lake Champlain all the way to the outskirts of Boston. It was a journey of nearly three hundred miles through snow-covered forests and mountains and punctuated by detours across frozen lakes and rivers. The ten-week trek included several near catastrophes and ended with a volley of surprise cannon fire on the British encampment in Cambridge.
Looking down on the diminutive monument, Aja frowned again. It was a disgrace to memorialize such an amazing feat with so flat a tribute. But it came as no surprise to her. These days, monuments served only to mark territory and deliver facts. They no longer displayed the grandeur of the deeds they were erected to commemorate. Gone were the ages when great achievements were honored with monuments of profound artistry — artistry that inspired whole populations to build, fight and worship.
Her nostalgic thoughts were interrupted by a voice from behind. “I am so sorry I’m late. The ferry was running behind schedule.”
She turned to face the voice and inspected the speaker with the intensity of an unhappy drill sergeant. Unable to escape her withering gaze, the man lowered his head. She stepped forward and lifted his chin with the fingers of her glove-covered hand. When their eyes met, she softly smiled and kissed him. “It’s okay, my pet.”
Her lips parted and they kissed again. Pressing her body against his, she slipped her tongue from inside his mouth and whispered in his ear, “I’ve missed you.”
He squeezed her tightly and whispered back, “Me, too. More than you could possibly know.”
“Patience, my love,” she said, touching her forehead to his. “As soon as we have them, it will be like Guatemala all over again.”
He kissed her forehead and they separated. With a sly smile, he said, “That may be sooner than we thought.”
Aja gripped his wrist. “You found them?”
“I think so,” he said. “But it won’t—”
His words were drowned out by the booming voice of a docent entering the courtyard with a large tour group in tow. Pointing to where Aja and the man stood, the docent proclaimed, “And right here we have the famous starting point of Henry Knox’s noble train of artillery.”
Hearing the commotion approaching them from behind, Aja sighed and took her companion by the arm. “Ugh. It’s always something. Let’s get out of the way before we get trampled.”
They serpentined through the throng of tourists and retreated to the museum café. Given the early hour, the restaurant was empty save for a party of four sitting by the windows looking out at Mount Defiance and chatting over coffee. Aja chose the farthest table from the small party and ordere
d tea for the two of them. Once the waitress was out of range, Aja said in a low voice, “You were saying?”
The man leaned over the table. “I rented a safe-deposit box, as you instructed. I saw the boxes. Side by side. Bottom row. They’re big, the biggest boxes you can rent in the vault.”
“I knew it! I knew the sneaky bitch was lying,” Aja said with a snarl.
“It seems so,” he said. “It won’t be easy to get into them. You won’t have much time to go through them once you’re in.”
“I will manage,” she said, crossing her arms.
“There are cameras everywhere. Inside the vault, above every teller, the lobby, outside the building,” he said.
“Yes, I know. You Americans. So fascinated with surveillance. Security guards?”
“None that I saw, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have one. I’d count on at least one.”
“Show me the layout.”
He retrieved a pen from his blazer pocket. After pulling a napkin from the table dispenser, he started to draw the outline of the bank. As he finished the rough layout, the waitress arrived with their hot tea. He discreetly covered the napkin while she poured their cups. When she had finished, she placed the pot on the table and walked back to the kitchen. While Aja stirred in a half packet of sugar, her companion described the layout.
The bank was on Main Street in the heart of Middlebury, he told her. The building itself was old — stone with pillars adorning the entrance. Inside, directly opposite the entrance was a bank of teller stations, three in total. A long, narrow counter stood in front of the teller stations, presumably for customers to use when filling out checks and deposit slips. To the left of the teller stations were windows overlooking a small alley between the bank and the adjacent bookshop. To the right were three glassed-in cubicles for account representatives and loan officers. Down a narrow hallway beyond the cubicles was the bank manager’s office and two other unmarked doors. At the end of the hall was a heavy-duty door with security keypad entry. Beyond the door was a small vestibule area with the gated vault dead ahead and two small “privacy” cubicles where customers could view, add to or remove items in their safe-deposit boxes.
“I was at the branch shortly after it opened for the day. There were two tellers and two reps working. The bank manager hadn’t arrived yet. Two customers were in there as well. By the time I left, the bank manager still hadn’t showed, and the bank lobby was empty. Who knows how many will be there when you go, but you’ll have at least four people to deal with,” he said.
“So long as they don’t activate the alarm before I get into the boxes, it should be fine,” she said.
“God, I wish I could be there to see you in action. It makes me hot just thinking about it,” he said with a lecherous look.
Aja reached across the table and stroked his index finger with two fingers of her own. “You do your part and I’ll tell you every little detail.”
He lowered his head and pulled his hand away. He whispered, “You shouldn’t tease me like that.”
“I’ll do more than tease you, but first…you know what you must do. Round up Kora and go get me the girl.”
“Yes, my Queen.”
After he departed, Aja returned to the battlements. There, she hoped the breeze would cleanse her mind of his fawning gaze and insipid voice. He was an unworthy consort, and she rued the prospect of allowing him into her bed again. But it was a necessary sacrifice, for there was a chance now to set things right, to restore majesty to her name. An opportunity to once again rise above the designs of weaker men…and women.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The dusty, earthy smell of the stone fort and the feel of the wind ruffling through her hair brought to mind images of standing atop her Naranjo temple on the eve of her first battle with the mighty city of Tikal. Though the memory was more than twelve hundred years old, she could still recall looking down on thousands of faithful warriors at the base of the fortress-like temple. They had reverently bowed for her blessing before marching off to conquer Tikal, chanting her name as they disappeared into the jungle.
It was a memory she revisited often. For she had been at the peak of her power in those days, unmatched by any living thing on Terra. If she had desired it, she could have swept her hand over any land and taken it for her own. But she hadn’t. There had been no need. Once her adversaries witnessed her wielding the Lifintyls, they shrank from the battlefield and pledged any tribute she demanded. The men she had summoned to her bedchamber in that age were captains and warriors, men who earned the honor of pleasing her through their victorious deeds.
As Aja savored the memory, another group of tourists flowed out from the museum and spread along the battlement. One of them bumped into her while he backed up to snap a selfie against the backdrop of the lake. He mumbled a brief, hollow apology as he stepped to the side and fiddled with his smartphone camera. As she glared at the man, bitterness filled her heart. Such a misstep in older days would have cost the clumsy man his head, but now it was a daily occurrence.
No matter, she thought as she turned to leave. One day soon, her powers would be restored and she would inflict unrelenting vengeance for the centuries of her suffering — suffering that had commenced with the incompetence of Evelyn Warwick and had descended to its nadir through her treachery.
Amsterdam, The Netherlands
On good days, Julian Van der Berg always took the long way home. He would begin his victory lap by strolling past Christie’s and the other premier auction houses. As he sauntered by, Van der Berg would bow and tip an imaginary cap to each of his competitors. After paying his respects, he would continue to the Stedelijk and Van Gogh museums and eventually curl in front of the Rijksmuseum on his way to the twists and turns of the Vondelpark. As he moved through the throng of tourists and bicycling commuters, he would smile at any eyes that met his as if he was one of the Dutch Masters accepting praise from admirers.
Tonight, he walked through the Vondelpark at a more leisurely pace than usual, his face aglow. Instead of dodging the thick two-way stream of cyclists on the trails, Van der Berg opted to cut his own path across the grassy parklands. Using his umbrella as a walking stick, he whistled a tune and strolled along with nary a care.
And he had good reason to feel upbeat. The day’s auction had been a record-breaking event for his boutique firm. His client, an aging German industrialist with a mountain of debt and unpaid taxes, had been quite pleased with the outcome despite bemoaning the surrender of his precious Egyptian collection. There had been frothy bidding and a buzz of excitement as each lot was presented. Before the auction ended, reporters in attendance were tweeting and posting the eye-popping prices for the world — and Van der Berg’s competitors — to see. Yes, it had been a very good day, he thought. A day worthy of a long walk, a hearty meal, an extra tot of cognac and maybe a late-night visit to the red-light district.
With these pleasant thoughts in mind, he approached the park exit and watched the last of the sun dip below the horizon. Van der Berg was so immersed in reliving his triumph, he paid no attention to the two shadows scampering toward him from behind. Nor did he notice the van idling at the curb by the park exit, a blazing cigarette dangling from the driver’s lips. No, when the blow struck against the back of his head, Van der Berg was instead fantasizing about the headlines he would read in the morning newspapers…
Nationaal Park Zuid-Kennemerland, The Netherlands
The van followed the looping N200 exit ramp until the driver eased to a full stop at the intersection with Zeeweg. Turning right, the van continued north along Zeeweg until the driver spotted the park access road, Parnassiaweg, to his left. Extinguishing the vehicle’s headlights, he cautiously turned down the dark lane. Bordered on both sides by sand dunes, scrub bushes and marsh grass, Parnassiaweg led into the heart of Nationaal Park Zuid-Kennemerland, passing various campgrounds along its way. The driver struggled to adjust to the pitch-black terrain ahead, a condition made worse by
the bright city lights of Zandvoort attacking his eyes through the rearview mirror. On a couple of occasions, the van scraped against the dunes and kicked up a thick plume of sandy debris in its wake.
In the backseat of the van, Julian Van der Berg belted out a fresh round of muffled protests through the gag wedged in his mouth. On his left and right sat two men. Though Van der Berg could not see them through the thick bag covering his head, he could feel their hulking figures pressed against his body. Each time he squirmed against the zip ties binding his hands and feet, one or the other captor would silence his movement with a stiff elbow to the ribs.
At first, Van der Berg had thought the men who snatched him were robbers who mistook him for an American tourist. As the van sped away from the Vondelpark exit, he had tried to tell them as much and pleaded for his release in Dutch, German and English. The men had ignored his entreaties as they roughly applied the zip ties. Van der Berg had screamed for help, hoping pedestrians on the narrow streets would take notice. The men hadn’t said a word. Instead, they beat him until he stopped screaming. Dazed, Van der Berg had been unable to resist when the gag was shoved in his mouth and bag tugged over his head. Later, when his head began to clear, he had screamed again for help. This had caused the men to laugh and mock his muffled, high-pitched bleats.
For over an hour, the van had bumped along the roads leading from Amsterdam to the Atlantic coast. Once the initial shock of the abduction had begun to fade, Van der Berg had abandoned his smothered pleading. For the longer they traveled, the more he realized simple robbery was not the likely motive for the abduction. After all, if they had meant to rob him, they could have easily taken his wallet, watch and briefcase and kicked him out on the side of the road ten minutes outside Amsterdam. But they hadn’t. In fact, they’d made no effort to search him and, as best as he could tell, they hadn’t rummaged through his briefcase either.
Curse of the Painted Lady (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 3) Page 3