The Testament of James (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens)

by Vin Suprynowicz

  “So we’ll get you back there as soon as we can, so Pinky doesn’t spend all that money till you get a look. And don’t think I missed ‘Heather.’ Heather?”

  “I’m not against parenthood, Chantal, although by the time Junior is ready to play catch I may have to shuffle out to the yard with my walker.”

  “You’re young enough to see your children through school, providing you start now, and you know it. But you’ve made it clear you don’t want that and that’s why I’m staying at Mary’s. I did not come here to twist your arm. I came here to see if you need my help because of what happened to Bob. I will gladly help you in the short term, if you need it, for a week. I will do what you tell me needs done but I’m asking you as a favor and as a friend don’t take me to your bed and then break my heart again with this ‘I’ll call you’ bullshit. We’re good friends, at least as far as I’m concerned, who tried the other thing and it didn’t work out and that part is over.”

  “That feels bitter.”

  “Freedom means different things to different people, dear. Love can make you feel free, or it can make you feel trapped. People are wired different, I get that. If you decide different you’ll tell me. Till then, what’s really going on?” She took a step back. “What really happened to Bob, did somebody actually come here that night to deliver a copy of this Testament of James, is there any chance it’s real, and if so where is it? On a scale of one to ten how likely are people to start shooting at us? I need to know because I’ve got this little borrowed pink revolver in my purse but if you expect any real trouble I can make a phone call and get us some bottle-necked backup, I still know people at the War College.”

  “You’ll call in the dolphins?”

  “Not bottle-nosed, bottle-necked. The brass of a high-powered round has a shoulder. Never mind. A few people owe me favors who would seriously outclass some Italian with a pocket pistol.

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Pink?”

  “What?”

  “You have a pink pistol? Like, you’re actually carrying it around?”

  “I told you, dear, it’s borrowed. Wouldn’t do much good in my suitcase. Pink is a marketing gimmick. It has zero effect on wound ballistics.”

  A black blur came shooting up the stairs, made one skidding footfall on the bedroom floor, and vanished under the bed, leaving the bedspread swaying slightly. Only seconds behind came all 20 gray-striped pounds of Tabbyhunter, though he leaped directly onto the bed, turned, and prepared for combat, crouching down, fur fully blown out, keening his battle song.

  “Was that Serafina?” Chantal asked.

  “Something’s up.”

  “Someone downstairs?”

  “Trying to get into the shop, probably.” Matthew grabbed one of his black aluminum baseball bats from behind the door, positioned his right hand about a third of the way up.

  “But the lights are on.”

  “We always leave a few lights on. Probably someone who doesn’t know we live upstairs. Or someone desperate.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “OK.”

  “In fact, I’m going first,” said Chantal, producing her Lady Smith revolver from her purse.

  “I know the layout better.”

  “They won’t be hiding in the furnace room. Plus I’ve got the gun.”

  “You’re actually going to use that?”

  “I hope not. But I still go first. That way I don’t have to shoot through you, which could seriously mess up my point of aim. It’s called ‘deflection.’”

  “I knew that.”

  It was indeed never completely dark in the store, barring a power outage. It was traditional to leave one green-shaded desk lamp burning near the front counter, as well as a single 40-watt light back in the kitchen, so if anything did require late-night attention Matthew wouldn’t be stumbling around in complete darkness, tripping over the odd box of new acquisitions or one of the waist-high rolling racks. It also kept the building from looking abandoned, and might in theory allow a passing patrol car to spot a burglar throwing a shadow. There was no alarm system installed, since the valuable volumes were locked in the safes, and since bookstores are not generally high-priority targets for junkies and other thieves in the first place, being famously short on guns, drugs, and jewelry.

  Now they were sure they heard the sounds of someone moving around in the store, interrupted by the dull thumps and pattering paws of additional cats sensing an unfamiliar presence and deciding a quick exit to some other part of the building or out the cat-door to the side yard constituted the better part of valor.

  The cat door was cut into the bottom of the regular door that led out to a stoop and thus to the side yard from the kitchen. Always kept locked, that side door was still the most likely entry point; anyone with some duct tape could have taped one of the small glass panes, broken the glass without much noise, and reached through to unbolt the door from the inside.

  Chantal and Matthew skirted the kitchen to avoid exposing themselves in the light. By hand sign they agreed to work their way around till they could position themselves behind the substantial shelter of the twin desks and front counter. If someone had broken in through the kitchen door they’d most likely try to escape by the same route, and the goal at present was to run them off, not to block their exit and consequently re-enact the shootout at the O.K. Corral.

  Seated in Marian’s chair, Chantal rested the butt of her revolver on the counter and leaned forward to acquire a good sight picture, pressing her chest down and making herself a relatively small target. She then gestured to Matthew, who threw on all the lights controlled by the front door switches.

  “Identify yourselves, you motherfuckers!” Matthew shouted. “We’re armed!”

  He winced as he heard books dropped on the floor, followed by running feet — moccasins or crepe-soled shoes, though, not heavy boots. It sounded like there were two of them, though all they caught was a glimpse of a black-clad figure sprinting for the kitchen door.

  And that would have been the end of it, except that this was the moment two more uninvited guests chose to come barreling in the now-unlocked kitchen door.

  There was much shouting from the kitchen. The two newest arrivals, who were not speaking English, appeared to be armed and were ordering the first set of burglars to get their hands up, or whatever.

  “Rashid, is that you?” Matthew shouted.

  “Mattieu, are you alright?” Came a voice from the kitchen. “We spotted these bastards breaking in here. Is my brother with you?”

  “Hakim?”

  “Yes, it is Hakim.”

  Matthew and Chantal moved tentatively away from the shelter of the front counter, advancing slowly toward the kitchen. Matthew gestured for Chantal to lower her revolver. She firmly shook her head no and kept it directly in front of her in a two-hand grip, though she did lower her point of aim, so if the weapon went off unexpectedly it would just harmlessly blow off someone’s kneecap.

  “I haven’t seen Rashid,” Matthew shouted as they approached, in part so the Egyptian would know they were coming. “He’s not here, Hakim.”

  They entered the kitchen. The original set of black-clad burglars were indeed being held by the two late-arriving Arabs in billowy white or beige shirts — hard to tell in the dim light — both of whom had produced knives which they held low, indicating they knew how to use them. The broad, curved, bright steel Bowie-looking thing in the hand of the larger Arab had a blade that must have been a foot long all by itself, almost a cross between a knife and a Gurkha Kukri. The black-clad burglars were white guys who looked pale and not particularly tough, one tall and thin, one short and tubby. The taller one carried a good-sized black leather purse over his shoulder, the accessory no modern second-story man should be caught without.

  “What have you done with my brother, you assholes?” asked the bigger Arab, whose beak of a nose reminded Chantal of Omar Sharif. He motioned with a flick of his blade. “Dov’e’ mio fratello?”<
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  The smaller of the two burglars, the fatter one with the lighter hair, started to answer, but stopped and looked at the floor when the taller one snarled “Zitto, stronzo.”

  Mr. Cuddles the cat was rubbing up against the legs of the older Arab who’d been doing all the talking. He looked down at the oversized creature on the floor and his expression was not one of warmth or affection. He snarled something in Arabic to his sidekick, presumably instructing the younger man to pick up the cat and throw him outside.

  Shifting his own, smaller but still deadly looking blade to his left hand, the second Arab stepped across, bent down, and picked up the 20-pound orange tiger as ordered, one-handed under the ribcage.

  There was a brief pause, as though Mr. Cuddles couldn’t believe this was happening.

  Finding himself suspended in mid-air by this complete stranger, who apparently intended to slice him down the middle with a particularly nasty looking kitchen implement, Mr. Cuddles made a high nasal noise, very piercing. Then it was as though the bundle of fur simply exploded, with a racket like someone starting a chainsaw. Hakim’s smaller buddy started to shriek. Mr. Cuddles caromed off the refrigerator and the stove, actually running horizontally, before he hit the floor and headed for the back stairs in an orange blur. The smaller Arab’s fighting knife slid across the floor and stopped at Matthew’s feet.

  The original set of black-clad burglars decided to make use of the moment of confusion to bolt through the outside door to the side yard. They made it out, though Hakim seemed to be considering launching his own knife at them, backhanded, carnival-style, when Matthew intervened.

  “Let them go,” he said. “Getting the police involved isn’t likely to help Rashid.”

  “Yes, run! Run, you Christian dogs!” Hakim responded, though he did lower his blade to his side. “You never did have stomach for a fight!”

  Once his weapon was down Chantal moved warily past beak-nose, remaining half turned so Rashid’s newly arrived brother was never completely out of her sight. She checked the side yard, sweeping her extended revolver side-to-side till she was convinced the immediate threat had moved on.

  Soon the four were seated at the kitchen table. Matthew had turned on the overhead light and come up with some hydrogen peroxide to pour on the bleeding cat tracks that Mr. Cuddles had left along the younger Egyptian’s arm. They frothed and bubbled nicely, at which point Chantal came up with a clean white towel he could hold against them. Even with his lost knife restored, the younger Egyptian looked suitably chastened.

  “Hakim. Haven’t seen you in years. This is another brother?”

  “Yes, my brother Patrick.”

  “Um . . . Patrick?”

  “Named for the priest who saved our mother,” Hakim explained. “A story for another time.” Patrick smiled but remained silent, possibly spoke no English. “Rashid never made it to you with the book? He came here because he said Mattieu was the one dealer we could trust, Mattieu always gives a fair price. A tough bargain sometimes, but he never lies to us. So where is he? He never arrived here? Have you seen the thousand-year-old book?”

  Matthew brought the al-Adar brothers up-to-date on what little he knew. Hakim, the oldest brother, responded by providing some history of the book which the second brother, Rashid, had brought with him from Egypt, a leather-bound book, twice the size of a modern book. It started out a charming enough tale of the reclusive great-uncle who had sold lesser treasures over the years to support himself and a succession of wives in modest comfort, always keeping the most valuable family heirlooms squirreled away against some future time of need. A wise man avoided ostentation in such things, as Mattieu of course understood. Any object displayed in the dwelling place to tempt a thief to reveal himself would be a mere copy. No list of such valuable possessions was ever written down, or anything as foolish as that.

  “Of course.”

  The trustworthiness of the younger generation also had to be measured, which took time, always time. Certain family members showed a greed for quick profits, for the fancy city life, a scorning of the old traditions, as Mattieu would of course understand. Such disappointing offspring were bypassed. But Hakim and Rashid and their brothers, as Mattieu would remember, were found to show the proper patience and respect. They kept the old ways. Over time the family business, the contacts along the courier routes, where confidentiality and a man’s word could mean life or death, had been passed down to them.

  Till finally, as his time neared an end, and again according to tradition, the old man had revealed the secret location of the most valuable family trove, including this leather-bound book, “the book which is a thousand years old.”

  Hakim waited to see if anyone would scoff. No one did.

  Naturally, he explained after a moment, certain of the objects carried curses of which the brothers had to be apprised. The brothers were used to that, and took certain measures to assure those curses were held in abeyance, did not come to rest on them, so that the shouf of the deceased owner, the shadow, would understand they were mere custodians. Hakim gave Matthew an appraising glance. Matthew nodded soberly. He knew a little of these rituals. More importantly, he knew such things were not to be taken lightly.

  But the old man’s warning about the book was different, Hakim revealed.

  “Not a curse?” Matthew asked.

  “Different.”

  “Because of who wants the book.”

  “Yes.”

  They had been speaking quietly long enough that the cats decided the visitors must be OK. Serafina had crept down the stairs and — just as silently — up into Chantal’s lap. Chantal stroked her reassuringly. Only the black cat’s green eyes showed occasionally above the rim of the table, glowing emeralds. Now Tyrone, an orange giant to match Mr. Cuddles, also leapt up, landing light as a feather on four feet, then flopping on the table in front of her, though whether to protect her, or trusting in her ability to protect him, was not immediately clear.

  The younger Arab shifted his chair back and eyed the big orange cat cautiously. Few outsiders could tell Tyrone and Mr. Cuddles apart. Chantal did not fuss over the cats. She kept her eyes on their visitors. The cats were just there.

  Hakim looked at Chantal appraisingly. Up till now he’d barely seemed to acknowledge her presence. Having a woman at the table was evidently not part of the traditional way, though he understood things could be different here in the West. After all, Mattieu obviously trusted this woman as his bodyguard. And she did wear around her neck not the Christian cross, but rather the ankh.

  “You know the tale of the princess Khawlah bint al-Azwar?” asked Matthew, who could take on the appearance of a mind-reader on such occasions.

  “The woman warrior of the Bani Assad,” Hakim nodded. “It is said she killed five men with a tent pole.”

  Matthew smiled.

  Hakim had seen the authority with which Chantal handled a revolver. So now, for the first time, he spoke to her. “There are two types of buyers, as our friend Mattieu well knows. The buyer who wishes to re-sell is the easiest to find and the quickest to offer, but his price is always low, since he keeps in mind his own profit. The buyer who buys for himself will take longer to decide, but will pay the most. Unless, of course, he can steal what he wants.”

  “Yes,” said Chantal. This was obvious.

  “But this book is different. You must be careful even in naming this book, because those who most want this book want not to possess it, but to destroy it. This makes those who seek the book more dangerous, more unpredictable. You know the book of which I speak?”

  “We do,” said Chantal.

  Hakim nodded. She had not named the book. Good. “My brother Rashid is no fool. He merely asked in a few places what such a book might be worth. He was advised not even to mention the name of this book. But by then it was too late. Strange things began to happen. We were not contacted directly. Rather it was like a whisper carried on the wind, warning us that powerful forces wanted this book
. The first to arrive was not a buyer, but an assassin.”

  “He failed,” Matthew noted.

  “Of course,” said Hakim, his hand dropping briefly to the comforting firmness of the scabbard hidden beneath his loosely billowing shirt. “But such things can draw attention. We decided to get the book out of the country.”

  “You called me.”

  “If we’ve brought trouble on your house, my friend, you will let us know how to make amends. We are at your service. But your associate was interested. He spoke of a buyer, he even offered to pay Rashid’s airfare. We would have preferred to speak with you, directly, of course, but . . .” The man with the hawk beak and the large mustache spread his hands, palms up.

  “What’s done is done” Matthew said. “I’m glad you came to me. Sooner might have been better, since now other forces are in play. But I understand Rashid’s thinking. I do not have this book, but the black priests are still looking for it, as well, so all is not lost. The most important thing is to find Rashid. Your brother is more important than any book, even this book. If you will look for your brother, we will look for the book. Somewhere, our trails will cross.”

  When the al-Adar brothers took their leave they’d agreed to spend the next day trying to track down Rashid’s cell phone and his missing rental car.

  “Matthew?” Matthew was just finishing nailing a piece of scrap wood across the broken pane of glass where the burglars had made their entry.

  “Yes, babe?”

  “A little while ago, did you say, ‘Identify yourselves, you motherfuckers’?”

  “Did I?”

  “You did.”

  “Was that wrong?”

  “It was excellent. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “I’ve been watching too much TV, probably.”