The Immortals Trilogy Books 1-3: Tales of Immortality, Resurrection and the Rapture (BOX SET)

by C. F. Waller

  “I fear the books and movies have given him an unrealistic view of immortality,” our captive lectures, before turning in my direction. “In his case however, I fear comic books may be the culprit.”

  “Be quiet,” Rahnee sighs before turning to me. “So far, it’s been the silent treatment, but now he’s chatty. He must like you.”

  I am shocked Rahnee’s man has the slightest inkling of what we are doing here. I’m actually surprised Rahnee was read in on this information. To my knowledge, Hector wasn’t aware of the particulars surrounding this operation. This crew seems to know far too much for my liking.

  Rahnee rolls her eyes in my direction, putting the gun behind her and under her coat. I wander away from the captive and she follows.

  “Why does he know?” I whisper nodding my head at the ladder. “For that matter, who told you?”

  “It’s not important,” she shrugs, looking past me at our captive.

  “You’re kidding me right?”

  “My guy isn’t going to tell anyone,” she remarks, tilting her head and widening her eyes.

  Pausing at this odd gesture, it suddenly dawns on me what she is trying to say. Turning my back to our prisoner I drag my finger over my neck.

  “Obviously,” she grunts.

  “I’m starting to miss Hector,” I utter under my breath, turning away from her.

  “He isn’t telling anyone either,” he voice rolls over my shoulder as a whisper.

  I last saw Hector three weeks ago in London. He was breathing fine then. As a matter of fact, he owes me four hundred bucks.

  “When did he stop talking?” I demand, turning my head back to check her reaction.

  “Recently,” she sighs, adjusting her jacket to accommodate the gun.

  “Your handiwork?”

  “You looking for Hector or this librarian guy?” she bristles, hands out to her sides in annoyance.

  “Cartographer if you don’t mind,” the man interrupts. “I have never cared for the term librarian.”

  My attention is drawn back to the business at hand. I pull up an ornate wooden chair and sit facing our new friend. It creaks as I put my full weight on the upholstered seat. Curved lines and scalloped shell legs favor the Queen Anne period. While preferring the later Chippendale style myself, this item is clearly very old, say late seventeen hundreds. Rahnee taps my shoulder and points to the ceiling. I nod as she disappears up the ladder.

  “There is wine,” he suggests, bobbing his head toward a sidebar featuring many bottles.

  “After we talk.”

  “You should never pass up a good glass of wine,” he says. “You can never be sure if there will be time later.”

  “From what I hear, you have all the time in the world.”

  “Opinions vary,” he remarks, tilting his head from side to side. “Are you sure about the wine? I have some very good years.”

  “No doubt you do, maybe later,” I nod. “Let’s focus on you.”

  “As you wish.”

  “You’re a difficult man to track down.”

  “I have been hiding for a long time,” he states. “I’ve developed a certain affinity for privacy.”

  “An understatement,” I smirk. “Why not a librarian?”

  “While it’s an honest profession. A librarian merely puts things in order,” he explains, shifting in his chair. “Anyone can do that.”

  “But you’re okay with Cartographer?” I inquire. “A cartographer is what, a map maker?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “This looks more like a library to me,” I insist, waving a hand around the room.

  “It is” he agrees, watching my expression carefully and pausing. “Oh dear, why didn’t I see this before. You don’t know what you’re looking for?”

  “I’m looking for you.”

  “Yes, but that’s all you know,” he remarks, tilting his head to the right and watching me. “You’re not even middle management. Now I am disappointed.”

  His dismissive attitude grates on my nerves. I push my chair back, sliding a foot or so farther away. Pulling out my phone, I dial the recovery team. He watches me intently, as if I were mere entertainment for him. The phone rings and then a woman picks up.

  “We have him,” I inform her and pause to listen. “Yes, the Gothenburg address. Bring a moving truck and some boxes,” I instruct, looking around the room. “Lots and lots of boxes.”

  “You won’t be needing a truck,” my captive whispers as if trying to not interrupt my call. “Or boxes.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Rahnee coming down the ladder.

  “I am taking him to the plane now. I’ll call when I am in the air.”

  Placing the phone back in my pocket I return my attention to my new friend. His gaze is intense, but at the same time blank. A poker face of epic proportions.

  “They said your name is Anthony?”

  “They?”

  I frown.

  “Names are an outmoded form of identification these days,” he shrugs. “For the sake of this discussion, Anthony is acceptable.”

  “Last name?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want that glass of wine?”

  I shake my head at him in annoyance and stand. Backing away slowly, I bump into Rahnee by the ladder.

  “Excuse you,” she gripes.

  “We good up top?”

  “My cars on the backside. We can walk him out that way,” she explains quietly, sniffing at the air.

  “I’m curious. How did you find this guy?” I inquire, pointing back over my shoulder with a thumb.

  “No utilities,” she sighs, still sniffing. “No cable, no internet, no electric bill.”

  “Come again?”

  “Everyone has these things. Once we tracked down the tip to this general area, I checked the utilities.”

  Glancing around I see what she is referring to. There are no electric lights or television sets. I don’t see a computer anywhere. If there is an electrical outlet in the room, I don’t see it.

  “How’d you know he wouldn’t have power?”

  “I didn’t, but he’s supposed to be very old, right?” she states as fact, looking past me down the right wall, seemingly distracted.

  “If he’s been alive as long as they think, why not assume he’s adapted to modern conveniences?” I argue, suspicious of why this was so easy.

  “You have a grandmother?”

  “No, a grandfather.”

  “How old?” she demands, peeking around me in disinterest.

  “Eighty?” I mutter. “Maybe less, why?”

  “Is he on Facebook?”

  “Probably not,” I say wearily. “But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t use it.”

  “I agree. It just means he doesn’t need it.”

  “Not much of a lead to go on,” I shrug. “Pretty thin.”

  “How about you let the dog catcher do the finding and you stick to collections,” she suggests, pushing past me.

  “Persian women,” our captive announces as he watches her pass by. “So head strong and confident. I have always had a weakness for them.”

  “Give it a rest Romeo,” I order, but find my thoughts drifting as I enjoy the view when she passes.

  “You smell that?” she barks, drawing me out of a moderately hedonistic daydream.

  Returning to reality, I notice a flickering light on the wall at the far end of the room. It’s more intense than the rest of the candles. Rahnee starts down the long table, but actual flames appear on the bookcase on the far end. There are sparks, as if a firework was lit. Looking over her shoulder, she shakes her head.

  “You really should have had the wine” he lectures, holding up his zip tied hands and pointing at the sidebar. “A person needs to stop and enjoy the moments life offers and not always have his eyes on what’s next.”

  “Get something to put it out,” I trumpet, but quickly see Rahnee throwing up her hands.

  “We aren’t putting tha
t out,” she groans as the fire crawls up the wall and spreads across the ceiling.

  “You are in a room full of books and antique wooden furniture,” our captive advises us calmly, “with only one exit. Were the Fire Marshall in attendance he would almost certainly write several strongly worded citations.”

  “Booby-trap,” she declares as she storms back to our end of the room. “Some sort of accelerant down there. We couldn’t put it out even if we had an extinguisher.”

  “Doubtful you could extinguish it with anything less than the biblical flood, but that’s what I intended.”

  “You did this,” I snarl.

  “Obviously,” he replies, standing up and holding out his hands. “So, shall we go or is it a barbeque?”

  “Who says I am taking you with me,” I threaten, kicking my chair away as I stand. “Maybe my errand was the books, in which case, I’ll leave you to burn.”

  “You don’t know why you’re here. Trust me when I say your boss wants me,” he argues. “Did we decide to take this off or leave it on?” he asks holding out his wrists bound with the wire tie.

  “Leave him,” Rahnee coughs from the smoke. “If he can’t die we can get him after they put the building out.”

  “You really don’t know what you’re looking for do you?” he complains, eyeing her quizzically. “Color me very surprised.”

  “Leave the cuffs on,” I yell over the now growling flames devouring the books at the far end of the room.

  “Got it,” Rahnee snorts, taking him by the upper arm and shoving him to the ladder.

  The walls glow and I pause to watch the bookcases on the end tip over into the center of the room. On the right is the sidebar, many old bottles sit atop it. Sticking my finger in the top of three long stemmed wine glasses sitting side by side, I pluck them up. I choose an odd bottle that looks very old, but then glance on the wall above the bar. There is a mural there. I’m unsure if it’s hand drawn or painted. The wall is an off white and the lines are in black and red. Stepping back, I see it’s some version of a family tree. The branches are black with red writing at the end of each branch and are in several languages, none of them English.

  “Cartographer,” I croak, smoke in my lungs. “Maps.”

  Setting down the glasses and bottle, I remove my cell phone and start taking pictures. I am astonished to find that all of the walls without bookshelves contain similar murals. How did I miss this? Putting a hand behind the nearest book shelf I pull hard, tipping it over. Behind it is more of the mural.

  “Son of a gun,” I groan, worried that I figured this out too late.

  Moving as far down as possible in the direction of the flames, I try and capture as many images as possible, flipping over bookcases as I go. As my eyes lead my gaze up the wall I discover that the ceiling is also a huge mural. The tree above is done in yellows and browns, thus making it harder to see in the candle light. I photograph the ones I can reach without burning alive, but begin coughing.

  “Are you coming?” Rahnee shouts from the hole in the ceiling.

  “Yeah,” I gasp,” trying to fend off the flames and catalog as much as possible.

  When the temperature becomes too much, I abandon my task. If I burn to death no one will see these anyway. Replacing my phone in my pocket, I grab the bottle, abandoning the glasses, and scurry up the ladder. By the time I get out into the hallway on the third floor, smoke is pouring out of the apartment. Goosebumps pop up on my arms as a result of the temperature difference. Our new friend smiles at me when he sees the bottle.

  “Well done, a fine choice. Very American of you.”

  “Put him in the car,” I cough my throat scratchy.

  “We need to be gone when the first responders get here,” Rahnee warns, grabbing him by the upper arm.

  The three of us travel to the lifts and wait for the doors to open. I stare down at the frayed green carpet lost in thought until our captive speaks.

  “Waiting for an elevator in a burning building,” he points out. “Ironic wouldn’t you say?”

  I reach for the top of the bottle in hopes a drink will soothe my scratchy throat. The unopened bottle lacks a foil wrapper, but is stoppered up tight.

  “Corkscrew,” I grumble when I can’t get it open.

  “It’s probably for the best,” he warns me, shaking his head. “You don’t just drink a Château Laffite Bordeaux like a bottle of water. Not to mention its centuries past its peak. At this point its only value is sentimental. A shame though. There were so many bottles to choose from that we could have enjoyed.”

  The brown bottle lacks a label, but has white writing etched in it. I can see the 1787 on the top. Under that, the word Laffite is very large. Bellow that T. H. J. is the only other writing on the bottle.

  “T, H, J,” I mutter holding the bottle up to catch the light.

  “Not a wine historian then,” he raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Valuable?”

  “If you auctioned it to the right people,” he nods.

  “And they would be?”

  “Not Errand boys or Dog catchers,” he states, tilting his head from side to side. “No offense, of course.”

  “You do get that ending a statement with the words no offence makes it automatically offensive to the listener,” I point out.

  To this he simply stares with a look that indicates he does.

  “So, you’re wealthy?” I go on. “You could afford this valuable keepsake.”

  “You already know the answer to that, but I did not purchase it,” he deflects, adjusting his vest. “It was a gift from a dear friend.”

  “I didn’t think you had any friends,” I cough; smoke now beginning to fill the hallway. “You’re a recluse.”

  “Recently no,” he chats as if nothing is happening. “But over time one meets people. Thomas was a dear man and his wine cellar was to die for. You would not believe the variety of---.”

  “Yeah, yeah, save it,” I interrupt as the bell bongs announcing the arrival of the lift.

  Once the gate is pulled closed he shuts up, apparently offended by my cutting him off. We ride along in silence. The slight crackle of fire is audible. The combination of this old building and whatever accelerant he used is chewing up the walls quickly. Soon only a scorched stone entrance will remain.

  The backside of the complex has double doors that lead to a small parking lot. Moving quickly through the misting rain, Rahnee puts our friend in the back seat before turning around, water droplets falling down her cheeks.

  “Get in,” she orders. “My guy will take you to the airport.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll wait until they put it out. See if anything is left.”

  “Not very likely,” I frown as flames appear in a first-floor window.

  The power window thrums and the Cartographer stares out from the car at us. His eyes are somewhat reddened by the smoke, but seems otherwise unaffected.

  “Go already,” she repeats.

  “She’s right,” he agrees loudly as sirens sound in the distance. “I don’t care to watch her execute her minions.”

  “How about I start with you,” she barks, pulling a gun and sticking it in his face.

  “Please don’t,” he sighs, putting up his bound wrists to shield his face from the gun.

  “Oh, now you’re afraid?” she taunts.

  “Not so much afraid, as curious.”

  “About what?” I inquire.

  “I have always wanted to know if they will actually come,” he divulges, and then pauses. “I assume they will come even if you shoot me, but I would prefer to see them with my own eyes. Call it religious curiosity.”

  “You expecting a cavalry of angels to ride in and save you,” Rahnee smirks, putting her gun back into her waistband.

  “Angels,” he grins and pauses, “Interesting thought, but probably not.”

  “Who pray tell, is doing the saving then?” I demand.

  “No one here is being sa
ved,” he replies amused and then looks from me to Rahnee. “Right, forgot, I’m talking to delivery men.”

  Rahnee rolls her eyes and points at the door of the car. I nod and open it, but then hesitate. I start to say something, but it gets lost on the way to my lips. She sees the hesitation and it appears she understands my desire to say something witty. No doubt, I am not the first business associate to find her alluring. She shakes her head and starts back toward the doors. As she goes her hand slips behind her back and grips the handle of the gun. Sliding in, I realize our friend was right. She has to go tie up loose ends. They know way too much. A few charred bodies in the rubble won’t throw up any red flags.

  The car pulls around and onto the main road. We fly along, passing a fire engine and support truck moving the other way. A half mile later, several police cars pass us. Just after this, we slip onto a highway and merge into traffic. I roll the bottle of wine back and forth looking for any other markings.

  “So, this Thomas was a wine collector, huh?”

  “Among other things,” he replies seeming disinterested in chatting now.

  “Such as?”

  “Well, he did quite a bit of writing.”

  “Swedish writer?” I press, somewhat curious and with time to kill.

  “American,” he mutters, sounding bored.

  “You’ve been to the States?”

  “I have been to a lot of places. From time to time Europe gets a bit dicey.”

  “Dicey?” I pause, but he doesn’t add anything on this subject.

  “I spent a few decades in the New World.”

  “How was it?”

  “Rural,” he chuckles. “But fertile ground for a new ideology to bloom.”

  “This Thomas write anything I might have read?”

  “Hard to say,” he replies. “I don’t know you.”

  “Try me?” I ask turning around in my seat.

  “Well, he did author one fairly interesting piece.”

  I wait as he stares out the window. Seconds turn into minutes and just as I begin to turn back around, he speaks.

  “You’re American, so you must have read the Declaration of Independence,” he tosses out. “I think it’s a bit wordy, but it seems it had the desired effect on King George.”

  “Thomas?” I mumble, rolling the bottle over to read the etched initials. “Jefferson, Thomas Jefferson?”