by Alex Archer
Since most museums existed more or less by the sufferance of their patrons—especially so in the case of a small museum like this one—she knew they would have rather continued the man’s yearly donations than accept his collection after his death. After all, the collection acquisition only came in once.
The pieces were good, but by no means spectacular. They were worth putting on display. Most visitors to the museum wouldn’t recognize their significance, though.
“Oh, he’s not your father.”
“No.”
Evan Peably, the assistant curator, frowned in confusion. He was in his early twenties and looked as though he’d just graduated university. His appearance was deceiving, though. Black hair hung long and lank, as if he’d only just returned from an excursion in the Gobi Desert or someplace, and he maintained a five-o’clock shadow through the use of a beard trimmer set to leave only stubble behind. His khakis held straight lines, and his shirtsleeve cuffs, rolled to midforearm, looked crisp and carefully measured.
Peably tapped his upper lip with a forefinger and gazed at the man. “I was just wondering—”
“Because he’s been there for the last hour and a half.”
“I didn’t know he’d been there that long.”
“He has.”
Peably sighed. “Well, do you think he means the museum any harm?”
Not me, Annja thought. He’s worried about the museum. She straightened, put both hands on her hips and stretched. Vertebrae in her spine popped and she felt better almost immediately. She looked at the assistant curator.
“I think if he’d meant any harm,” Annja said, “it would have happened by now.”
Peably folded his arms over his chest. “Perhaps I should alert the security guard.”
Annja smiled at that. The security guard was Oswald Carson, a retired seventy-year-old NYPD policeman who had never drawn his weapon while on the job. The guard looked like a rake dressed in a security uniform.
“He knows,” Annja said. “He’s watching.”
Carson stood near the bronze exhibit beside a Spartan warrior holding a spear and shield.
“Maybe he could do something more than watch,” Peably suggested.
“Like what?” Annja took pictures of vases.
“He could chase that man off.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s creepy-looking, that’s why.”
“Being creepy-looking isn’t against the law,” Annja said.
Peably tapped his foot in agitation. “It’s obvious that he’s stalking you.”
“Is it?” Annja glanced over her shoulder at the old man. He stood beside a model of Athens that had taken someone months to construct.
“Was he here when you got here?”
“No.” Annja was pretty sure she would have remembered that.
“Then I submit to you that he followed you here.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why?” Peably seemed irritated that Annja refused to take his advice.
“Because I came straight here from my loft. If he followed me here, he would have had to know where I live.” That particularly unsettling thought had popped into Annja’s mind the moment she’d seen the old man. Wally had mentioned that he’d seen an old man around. But that didn’t mean anything.
Maybe more than one of them was following her. In an instant she imagined an army of old men handing off surveillance on her.
Now that’s definitely a paranoid thought, Annja chided herself. Still, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure that the old man was the same one from Tito’s last night.
The truth was that she didn’t know. Old men tended to look the same. And this one wore nondescript clothing. Furthermore, the wild look in his eyes could be seen in a lot of people these days.
She supposed, given the right circumstances, that she might even see it in hers.
“I think you should take his presence here a little more seriously,” Peably admonished her.
“I am. I took his picture and sent it in to a detective friend of mine. He’s trying to find out who he is and where he belongs.”
When she’d turned around with the camera she was using to capture images of the artifacts, Annja had fully expected the old man to cut and run. Instead he’d stood his ground as if he was posing for a photo op.
“Maybe he’ll do something,” Peably said.
Annja hoped Bart could at least identify who he was and where he belonged.
Then, as she knew it would, Peably’s mind got around to recognizing the fact that if Annja was in danger, so was he because he was standing so close.
“It looks like you’re doing well here,” he said nervously.
“Don’t you want to go over everything?” Annja barely kept from grinning.
“Not today.” Usually Peably was only too happy to question her every spare moment she had regarding whatever she was working on.
Annja was pretty certain that he resented the notoriety she had. It didn’t help when some of the museum’s guests recognized her and asked for autographs while they were trying to work through an authentication.
“Just finish up quickly,” Peably said. “We’re going to lock up the museum promptly at seven. What you don’t finish tonight, you’ll have to come back tomorrow and do.”
Annja didn’t intend to let that happen. The authentication job didn’t pay well enough to spend two days on it. Besides that, she still had the King Wenceslas piece she wanted to put together for Chasing History’s Monsters.
She glanced back toward the old man. He was still there. And he was still watching her.
* * * *
“Can I help you?”
Annja knew at once that the old man had shuffled over to her. She looked over her shoulder at him. Up close, she realized that he was taller than she’d believed.
For a fleeting moment she wondered if she should run. Then she decided that if she thought she had to run from a skinny old man, she was really losing it and needed to just stay home.
“I don’t mean to impose,” the old man said. He smiled and revealed crooked teeth. “It’s just that I thought you might use a hand. I heard that young fellow say you had to be out of here by closing time, and it’s a quarter to now.”
Annja glanced at the time on her phone lying nearby and was surprised to find that it was six forty-five. There was no question that she needed help. She’d counted on Peably’s presence to help get everything finished on time.
“I’ve got steady hands, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not an alcoholic. I just get a little mixed up from time to time.” The man held out his hands. They were steady as rocks. They were also scarred. His fingers were twisted and his knuckles were misshapen. They looked arthritic at first glance, but he still possessed supple movement. “I won’t drop anything.”
“Okay.” Annja handed an urn to the man. “Just hold that there so I can take pictures of it.”
“Of course.” He smiled as if pleased to be of use.
Annja settled behind her camera lens and took pictures. She took several of the old man, as well. But she didn’t think she succeeded in taking them without his knowledge.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
The man smiled as he turned the urn under her direction. “I’ve had several names. Do you have a favorite?”
“For me?” Annja asked, confused.
“For me,” the old man said. “Your name is Annja.”
Even though he’d called her by name the night before, it was still weird to hear him do it again and she wondered how he knew her.
“I don’t have a favorite name,” Annja said.
“Of course you do,” the old man said. “You love stories of the past. You’ve heard many names. Surely you have a favorite among them.”
“Not really,” Annja replied. But she found herself thinking of Charlemagne instead of Wenceslas. The king of the Franks had been a true warrior and recognized as one of the Nine Worthie
s, one of the nine historical figures that were thought most chivalrous.
“You can just call me Charlie.” The old man turned the urn. “I haven’t been called Charlie in a long time.”
It was just luck, Annja told herself. She didn’t give in to the temptation to believe that the man had read her mind. That was impossible.
So is the sword you carry, a voice whispered in the back of her mind.
* * * *
Bart called at five minutes to seven.
Annja transferred the call to the clip-on earpiece she wore so she could keep her hands free. Together, she and Charlie had almost completed the pictures she needed to take. With them in hand, she’d be able to finish the authentication at home and send the museum a bill.
“Hello,” Annja answered.
“Hello,” Charlie said.
Annja pointed to her ear, hoping the old man would realize she was talking to someone over the phone.
Charlie smiled and nodded agreeably. He leaned to that ear, then he spoke more loudly. “Hello!”
“Hello,” Bart said. “Who’s the guy you’re with?”
Annja handed Charlie the last piece. “I’m talking on the phone,” she told him, and pointed to the earpiece.
“Oh. Sorry. All this new technology is hard to comprehend.” The old man grinned as he held on to the urn.
“Is that him?” Bart asked. “Is that the old man?”
“I’m here with Charlie,” Annja said.
Charlie nodded. “Hi.”
“Charlie says hi,” Annja said.
“Great.”
“He’s friendly.” During the past few minutes Annja had been surprised to find herself warming up to him.
“He says Charlie is his name?” Bart asked.
“Yes. Unless you have something different.” Annja felt hopeful.
Bart heaved a sigh. “No. I ran him through the photo database of missing people and came up with nothing.”
“Maybe it hasn’t been reported yet.”
“I thought of that all by myself. I went through missing-persons’ reports. It’s scary thinking about how many of them disappear every year,” Bart said.
“Did you find anything?” Annja asked.
“No. So how are things going there?”
“Fine. I’ve got help working through the authentication.”
“He’s working with you?” Bart sounded incredulous.
“Yes.”
“No end-of-the-world speeches?”
“Not yet.”
“Need me to come by?”
Annja thought about that and was grateful for the offer. “No. Not if you’re busy. I think I can handle this.”
“Okay.” Bart sounded tired.
Even though he claimed to have rested well in the sleeping bag at her loft, Annja knew he hadn’t.
She heard someone call Bart’s name.
“Look,” he said. “I’ve got to go. A triple homicide just got called in. But I’ve got my phone. If you need anything, call.”
“I will,” she said.
“And don’t trust this guy.”
“I won’t.” Annja broke the connection and pocketed the earpiece in her jeans.
Charlie stood nearby and smiled pleasantly to himself. “It seems the curator is in a hurry to go.” He nodded toward the front of the museum.
Peably stood by the main doors. The PA system had already blared out the news of the museum’s closing. Within minutes the museum patrons had filed through the door. It hadn’t taken long because there weren’t many of them.
Determined to beat the clock, Annja grabbed the files and papers she’d been working with and shoved them into her backpack. She was ready in seconds.
Without a word, Charlie fell in step behind her.
“What are you going to do?” Annja asked the old man.
Charlie shrugged. “I thought maybe I could take you to dinner.”
Annja pulled at her backpack straps. There was no reason to go with him. In fact, there was every reason not to go with him.
Thunder rumbled outside. The concussions shook the museum’s plate-glass windows. For the first time Annja realized the darkness outside wasn’t just from the lateness of the hour. The smell of rain blew in through the door Peably was pointedly holding open.
“Ms. Creed,” the curator invited in a strained voice. “If you please.”
“Dinner?” Annja repeated.
Charlie nodded. “There’s a nice soup kitchen not far from here. They might still be serving.”
Annja felt terrible. If Charlie had stayed at the museum past serving time, he might be going to bed hungry.
Bart’s advice not to trust him echoed in her head. Thoughts of serial killers bounced around in there, too. But there was something about the old man—except for the fact that he seemed a little spotty when it came to reality—that drew her in.
While she’d worked with him, she’d seen his gentleness and innocence, as well as his quiet strength.
Peably cleared his throat in a rude fashion.
You’re going to be in a public place, Annja told herself. You’ll be able to protect yourself even if something happens. He doesn’t exactly look like a kung-fu master.
“All right,” Annja said. She headed out into the rain, which by that time had increased to almost a deluge. Peably didn’t even offer to let them stay within the doorway until the rain slackened.
Annja stood at the curbside and searched for a taxi. There was never one around when it was raining.
Without warning a voluminous pop sounded behind her. Annja took one step to the side and bladed automatically, turning so that her body was presented in profile to the old man. Her left hand came up to defend and her right reached behind her and felt for her sword in the otherwhere.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” Charlie stood unconcernedly and worked with a battered umbrella he had pulled from under the ratty trench coat he wore. Annja didn’t know how she’d missed it before. “I thought maybe you would like to be out of the rain.”
He shook the umbrella and it made creaking noises that didn’t sound encouraging. Incredibly, the umbrella opened to gigantic proportions. The black fabric had turned gray from age and hard use. Small slits allowed the rain to drip through in places, but it blunted the downpour.
“There,” he said. “That’s better.” He grinned, and for a moment Annja could see the young man he had once been.
Annja gazed down the darkened street. She was grateful for the shelter of the umbrella, but the possibility of being picked up by a taxi didn’t look good.
“I think we’re going to have to walk,” she said.
“Nonsense,” Charlie said. “We’re on a quest to save the world. Just as the forces of darkness align themselves against us, those of light will favor us.”
“Maybe we’d better get started,” Annja said.
Charlie smiled at her benignly. “Maybe you should have a little faith, Annja Creed. You’ve been given a great responsibility in this world. You’ve also been given a bit of luck.” He nodded down the street.
Annja looked. Incredibly, the headlights of a taxi bored through the darkness. Even more incredibly, despite the number of pedestrians trying frantically to wave the taxi down, it pulled to the curb in front of Annja.
“See?” Charlie took a step forward and opened the door. “Just have a little faith.”
Annja slid inside and made room for Charlie. She stared at the old man as he closed the umbrella, raked his hair from his face and slid inside.
“But you still have to make your own luck,” Charlie said. “Without that, the world will end for certain.”
21
Seated in the darkened cargo area of the panel van he’d rented for the night’s excursion, Garin studied Roux. He and Jennifer sat on the other side of the van. Both of them wore black clothing.
Members of the security team Garin had hired bookended them. That hadn’t happened by chance. Garin didn’t trust
Roux ever.
Roux had remained strangely quiet through the meal, and on the ride back to the hotel where he’d rented rooms for all three of them. There were only two rooms. As it turned out, Jennifer was rooming with Roux.
Why are you so quiet, old man? The question kept banging through Garin’s head.
The only time Roux got so quiet was when he was fretful. Of course, there was plenty to fret about. Both Saladin and Salome were after the painting. Saladin was a dangerous man. And Salome was definitely deadly. Garin still wore the scars she’d given him.
“Sir.”
Garin turned his attention to the earpiece he wore. “Yes.”
“We’re coming up on the estate now.”
“Good.” Garin reached up and flipped down a video monitor from the vehicle’s roof. The cargo area only had windows in the back door. Both of those had been blacked out.
Instantly, an image filled the screen. The monitor showed the road leading up to the estate. A soft glow of light from a guardhouse could be seen.
Roux snorted.
Jennifer looked at him.
“The old man doesn’t much care for technology,” Garin said. He touched the screen and shifted through the different perspectives available to him.
The security team had outfitted the van with a satellite relay that allowed Garin to stream video coming in from the camera mounted on the front of the van. Select members of the group also wore more cameras.
“A child and his toys,” Roux muttered.
“Don’t knock it,” Garin said. “I’ve found it most helpful.” He turned to Roux. “Plus, the last time I was at your estate, you seemed to have the latest security measures.”
“It only serves to keep the idiots out.”
Jennifer frowned as she stared at Roux. “You have an estate?”
Roux took a moment to answer. “A small one.”
“Since when?”
Roux shrugged.
Exasperated, Jennifer glanced at Garin.
“I love technology,” Garin said. “He likes secrets. You’ll never get anything more out of him than he’s willing to give.”
“It seems like he could have mentioned he had an estate,” Jennifer said.