by Brett King
Climbing inside, she said, “Hiya, kid. You’ve had a rough Christmas.”
Cori nodded, turning her gaze toward the windshield. “What are they talking about?”
“No idea. John looked a little intense. I could tell he didn’t want me hanging around.”
“You know the truth about my dad,” Brynstone said in a determined voice. “Tell me everything.”
“Your father was a great man.” Wurm’s gaze softened. “Jayson supported me when others refused to understand my passion for the Radix. I would not be here without your father. Or without you, for that matter.”
“Then why did you let James Delgado manipulate me?”
“He manipulated me too, you know,” Wurm muttered. “I tolerated it because I was looking at the bigger picture. Delgado and I both thought you were the best candidate to find the Radix. For Delgado, it was a sin of commission. For me, it was a sin of omission. I couldn’t risk sharing the truth. You busted your ass to find that precious root because you wanted to fulfill your father’s mission.”
Brynstone’s eyes blazed. “It wasn’t Dad’s mission.”
“You would have stopped had you known that. But we can’t stop. We have to find the Scintilla.”
“That’s another thing. Why didn’t you tell me about the Scintilla?”
“I just learned about it. Ariel Cassidy’s scholarship enlightened me. You and I communicated over the past eighteen months through encrypted paint cans. It’s not easy to convey Professor Cassidy’s ideas under a paint-can label.”
“Now you’ve drawn Cori into this mess,” Brynstone said. “And so have I.”
“She wants to be drawn in. She may not know it, but that desire burns deep within her.”
Brynstone ran fingers through black hair. “Not sure I agree with you.”
“Don’t you see the irony, John? You searched for the Radix because it satisfied Jayson Brynstone’s dream. Now that you know the truth, you feel betrayed and empty inside. On the other hand, Cori abandoned her mother’s quest to find it. She felt betrayed that Ariel Cassidy studied the Radix at the expense of her daughter. Now that she knows the legend is authentic, she’ll help find the Scintilla.”
Brynstone looked down.
“I understand your sense of betrayal, John, but we need you. We have the Radix. Now we need the Scintilla. We need to maximize the root’s power.” He placed his big hand on Brynstone’s shoulder. “This is bigger than us. Or even Delgado. Can I count on you, John?”
Brynstone looked at Cori inside the vehicle. “We’ve come too far to give up now.”
Cori watched as the two men returned to the vehicle. Seeing Wurm for the first time since the hospital, Cori jumped out and hugged him.
“Good to see you again, Edgar.” She pulled back, looking at his blood-streaked shirt. “What happened?”
“Borgias.” Wurm made a face. Narrowed his eyes. “Who brought the cat?”
Cori chirped, “That’s Banshee Brynstone.”
“Terrific,” Wurm said. “I’m allergic to cats.”
“Since when?” Brynstone asked.
“Since about four seconds ago.” He frowned. “You know black cats bring bad luck.”
“Isn’t it great news about the Radix?” Cori said, changing the conversation. “Can you believe it?”
“I wondered if I would live to see the day. Show it to me.”
“Later. Let’s go before we have to deal with the Borgias again. I’ll drive to Jordan’s vehicle.” Brynstone looked at Jordan. “You mind taking a look at his fingers? Adriana did a number on them.”
“I’m on it,” she answered, grabbing the medic kit.
Cori rode shotgun with Brynstone as the Escalade blazed down the mud-streaked road. In back, Jordan taped gauze around Wurm’s bloodied fingers. He winced as she applied pressure. “Not a good day for fingernails,” she sighed.
As Jordan treated his hand, they briefed him on finding the cista mystica in the Zanchetti mummy. Wurm seemed thrilled that Ariel Cassidy’s notes had not been destroyed in the Princeton fire. Cori explained Delgado’s involvement in the arson and told about removing the archives from the general’s house.
“You broke into DIRNSA’s home? That takes cojones, doesn’t it?” Wurm chortled. “So, Ms. Cassidy, have you gleaned anything helpful from your mother’s journals?”
She nodded, holding up the last entry. “Mom thought Jung might have found the Scintilla. She hinted it might be hidden at some place called the Shrine of Philemon. Only problem? Her notes don’t mention where to find that shrine.”
“I know where to find it,” Wurm answered. “You all up for a trip overseas?”
Cori spun around. “Where?”
“Switzerland. Carl Jung built a castle there. He nicknamed it his Shrine of Philemon.”
Jordan stabbed her finger at the windshield. “Pull over,” she insisted. “Right there.”
Brynstone hit the brakes. She opened the door and jumped out. She turned with a wave of long crimson hair, looking around.
“What’s wrong?” he called, climbing out.
“What’s wrong is I parked behind those trees. My vehicle is gone.”
She headed for a grove of evergreens, taking out her gun. He brought out his Glock, covering her. Wurm joined them outside the Escalade.
Jordan followed tire tracks to a ravine. She peeked over. “That bitch. She rammed my SUV and sent it rolling down there.”
“Adriana did that?” Wurm asked.
She glared, as if it were a stupid question. She kicked a stone over the hill. “I need to get my stuff.” She sidestepped down the hillside.
Wurm whispered to Brynstone. “She’s gorgeous, but edgy.”
“You have no idea.”
After watching her, Wurm faced him. “In the interest of dragging skeletons from closets, I need to come clean with you about the night your father died.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“Twenty years ago, Jayson invited me to your summer home. Rumor had it he planned to restrict my Voynich studies.”
“Delgado said my father encouraged your work.”
“True, but I strained his patience.” Wurm cradled his bandaged fingers. “I still remember driving down that unmarked dirt road leading to your home.”
Brynstone flashed to that childhood summer in Nantucket. He could see the gray shingled cottage decked with window boxes. A cutting garden bordered it with tall grass waving in the wind.
Wurm tugged on his beard. “Your father had left the door unlocked for me. I heard a creaking sound and moved toward the stairs. I saw a boy in a wheelchair near the top landing.”
“You saw me?”
He nodded. “I saw the silhouette of a man behind you, raising a dagger. I shouted and started racing up the stairs.”
“All I remember is being pushed from behind.”
“The intruder shoved you off the landing. Your wheelchair flipped over and dumped you onto the stairs. Metal clattered against the wooden steps. The chair smashed hard against me and sliced my leg. I scooped you up in my arms and rushed you down to the living room. It looked like you had a concussion. At least you were breathing.”
“Did you look for the assailant?”
“I searched your bedroom. The window was open. In the distance, I heard a car’s engine. I couldn’t see headlights.”
Brynstone shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. This version was different from the one Delgado had told decades ago.
“I checked room to room,” Wurm said. “At the hallway opposite your bedroom, I heard a gurgling sound. I peeked inside the study and found your father on the desk with a dagger in his chest. His best friend, Jim Delgado, was slumped on the floor in a pool of blood. He had multiple lacerations, including that slash down his face. But no sign of the assailant.”
“I can’t remember you at the house that night.”
“Delgado didn’t want you to know. I went to call an ambulance, but he stopped me. He told
me to leave the house, get on the ferry, and ride back to Hyannis. It would look bad if police found me at your house. Jim convinced me that dark things from my past could return to haunt me. He was protecting me, but that meant he had to lie to you and take credit for saving your life. Never mind that he couldn’t have saved you without my help.”
“Authorities never found the man who murdered my father.”
“Afraid not. I didn’t exactly lie to you before, John, but I lied to myself. It was one reason I took refuge in the Amherst hospital. To his credit, Jim funded my hospitalization as long as I researched the Radix. I kept the truth from you until this morning, when I thought the Borgias might kill me. That’s why I wrote the book-key code on the back of your business card. If anything happened to me, I wanted you to know the truth.”
“Guess I should thank you for saving my life.”
“I know a good way to do that. Come to Zurich and help us find the Scintilla.”
“Promised Kaylyn I’d fly home today to see her and Shay for Christmas.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Yeah, it is,” Brynstone glared. “But as soon I can, I’ll catch a flight to Europe.”
“You have to, John. It will prove worthy of your time.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Los Angeles
4:55 A.M.
As Shay slumbered on the bed, Kaylyn stepped from the bathroom and found Daniel Lowe digging in a briefcase. For their safety, the FBI agent had brought them to the Ramada Plaza Hotel in West Hollywood, about fifteen minutes from her mid-Wilshire home. The room was bright and had an art deco theme.
“Kid’s out cold,” Lowe grinned. “She sure loves that stuffed rabbit.”
“Who was that man in my home?” Kaylyn asked, twisting her blonde hair into a ponytail.
“The dead guy? An assassin. He would’ve killed you and your baby.”
She stared in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“His name’s Metzger. It’s German for ‘butcher.’ Name fits.”
“He wanted to kill us?”
“He wanted to kill your husband.” Lowe’s phone interrupted. “Excuse me, ma’am. It’s the special agent in charge. My boss.” He stepped into the bathroom, then closed the door.
That’s when tears came. She wanted to talk to her husband. Jabbing her hand in her purse, she fished around for her phone. She couldn’t find it. She looked at the bathroom door. Did Agent Lowe take it? She wiped a tear. That’s ridiculous. Why would he take my phone?
She kissed her sleeping child, then walked to the bathroom. She cupped her hand around her ear, pressing it against the door. Despite the muffled voice, she made out words. The man inside the bathroom didn’t sound like Agent Lowe. A growling German accent had replaced his southern drawl. She closed her eyes, concentrating. The FBI agent spoke again. His words came through the bathroom door in one burning moment.
“Rest assured, I will kill Dr. Brynstone,” the man said, “but first I may need to kill his wife and child.”
“I operate by my own methods,” Erich Metzger said into the phone as he paced around the cramped bathroom. “If you want the Radix, it will take time.”
“I don’t have time,” the Knight said. “Kill him and seize the Radix.”
“I have researched John Brynstone. He is a man of intelligence and dedication. I must toy with him. I must frustrate him. Brynstone will not hand over the Radix unless desperation forces him. I will make him desperate.”
“As an assassin, you are without rival. But others want the Radix. I must have it.”
“Then you must wait. Remain patient and don’t interrupt me again.” As Metzger ended their phone conversation, he spat, “You don’t want me as your enemy.”
He rubbed his stiff neck, returning his thoughts to Kaylyn Brynstone. He’d brought her here under the guise of an FBI agent. He’d conjured a Southern accent, the better to temper the menace in his own voice. Returning to Agent Lowe’s mind-set, he opened the bathroom door.
“Sorry ’bout that, ma’am. My SAC is an old-school G-man, and he’s a pain—” Metzger looked around, unbelieving, at the hotel room.
Kaylyn Brynstone was gone. And she’d taken her baby.
Kaylyn punched the button for the hotel elevator, but didn’t waste time waiting. She took the stairs instead. Shay awakened and began crying.
“It’s okay, honey,” she pleaded, hurrying down each step.
Shay plugged her thumb into her mouth. Kaylyn eased open the door. Two women emerged from an elevator along with a man in a suit. He was the same height as her kidnapper. She couldn’t see his face. Was it the German man?
Metzger had underestimated Brynstone’s wife. And this made him smile. Bless her little soul, she’d turned it into a game. The unexpected pleasure of hunting her would heighten the joy of killing her.
Abandoning his FBI disguise, he pulled the brown wig from his close-cropped hair. He peeled prosthetic appliances from his nose and around his eyes. After removing false teeth, he wiped makeup from his face. No time for another disguise. He’d risk appearing in public as himself. He hadn’t been in this country in years and the Americans weren’t expecting him. He wouldn’t be recognized.
He kicked off his shoes and removed his suit. He pulled on Mickey Mouse cargo shorts he’d purchased at LAX along with a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words California Cool in garish orange letters. Lifts in his running shoes made him taller. He completed his new look with a Dodgers cap.
He studied his reflection. Was there anything less threatening than a tourist?
Kaylyn hurried down a long hallway. Turning the corner, she collided with a stocky man. Holding her child, she couldn’t brace for the fall. Wrapping her arms around Shay, she protected her daughter as they hit the floor.
The man turned, poised for a fight. “All right, I’ve had enough.” He took a step toward her, crunching the glasses that had fallen from his face.
She reached for the sculptor’s knife in her coat, ready for anything. When the man saw Shay, the angry look in his eyes melted into concern. He grabbed his twisted glasses, then offered his dark hand to Kaylyn.
“Sorry, thought you were someone else. Couple punks in the parking garage tried to mug me. They broke the clay sculpture my son made for me last night. Some people can’t help but ruin the holiday spirit.” He studied her. “You okay, lady?”
“Could you take me to the police? Fast. A guy—a stranger—is chasing me.”
“Sure, I’ll drive you,” he said, bending his glasses back into shape. “Name’s Frank Muller.” He grabbed the bunny, then offered it to her daughter. “Let’s go.”
She forced a smile. “Thanks, Mr. Muller.”
Clinging to her daughter, she followed the man to the Ramada’s parking structure. She glanced around. The German was nowhere in sight. She heaved a sigh of relief.
“My ex invited me over for Christmas Eve. I’m heading back to Fresno to open gifts with my stepkids,” Muller said as he unlocked his Saturn. “Sorry, I don’t have a baby seat.”
“I’ll just hold her.” She crawled inside the backseat with Shay.
Muller ran his hand across the passenger headrest as he backed out. A crashing sound came from behind the car. Muller slammed the brakes. Kaylyn turned. A crumpled body rolled off the trunk, then disappeared behind the car.
“Guy came out of nowhere,” Muller spat as he jumped out.
Shay seemed okay, just startled. Kaylyn climbed out, embracing her daughter. The man lay facedown on the cement.
“Hey, buddy,” Muller said, rolling him over. “You okay? I didn’t see you.” He kneeled and pressed his ear against the man’s chest. She reached down for the guy’s baseball cap. He looked like a tourist, with Mickey Mouse shorts and a sweatshirt that read “California Cool.”
His eyes shot open.
“Frank, he’s awake.”
“Thank God.” Muller jumped to his feet. “Mister, I’m sorry.”
The tou
rist reached in his coat, bringing out a gun with a silencer. Kaylyn heard a muffled sound like a burst of air. Eyes wide with surprise, Frank Muller staggered against the car. Blood seeped across his shirt as he slumped to the concrete floor. Turning Shay away, Kaylyn screamed in disbelief. The tourist vaulted up, pointing his gun. He looked different from the FBI agent, but she recognized the eyes. Dead and black.
“Your friend’s wound isn’t fatal,” he teased. “But I can make it that way.”
The man holstered his gun, then grabbed her left arm. As she held Shay, Kaylyn reached in her coat pocket with her right hand. She brought out the sculptor’s knife, ready to stab him. As she swung it, the man seized her wrist, then squeezed. Pain spiraled inside her hand. He stepped in closer, his breath hot and acrid on her cheek. With one sweeping motion, he directed her hand, moving the knife beneath Shay’s chin. The child squirmed. Kaylyn tried to pull away her daughter, but he pressed the blade to Shay’s soft neck.
“Resist me again,” he hissed, “and the baby suffers for your stupidity.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Outside Lambertville
8:06 A.M.
Cori scratched Banshee’s ear and darted a glance at Jordan. The woman was smoldering in the front seat next to Brynstone. It wasn’t that her SUV had been trashed, Cori decided, but more that the Borgias had made Jordan look vulnerable.
Edgar Wurm, in contrast, seemed overjoyed, a real change from the man Cori had encountered at the hospital.
“Show Edgar the fingernail,” Brynstone said, driving on Old York Road.
Jordan slid on gloves, then handed a pair to Wurm. Twisting around in the passenger seat, she held out her hand. “This belonged to Zanchetti. We found it inside the cista mystica.”
Cori leaned in, her chin brushing Wurm’s shoulder as he picked the human fingernail from Jordan’s palm. Brynstone had told her about the priest on the drive to New Jersey. Studying the nail, Wurm turned it. Symbols were scratched on the inside surface.