Ascendant

by Sean Ellis

  Using a pair of Jumar ascenders, she ratcheted her way up until she was level with the top of the window. Anyone inside would easily distinguish her silhouette, but the interior of the apartment was dark. It was her understanding that Aimes had lived alone, so there was no reason for anyone to be at his residence.

  The bolt securing the upper left corner was more stubborn than the first but nevertheless yielded to her straining exertions. She slipped the pry bar back into her belt and pulled on the left side of the frame. The metal eyeholes where the right side of the frame was joined to the building bent like hinges, permitting easy access to the glass.

  She dropped down a couple feet and slipped into the gap. Compared to the bars, getting through the window would be a challenge. The wooden frame held panes of glass as old as the building itself. Rippling distortions, where the glass, molecule by molecule, had succumbed to the pull of gravity, showed the pane’s age and frailty. Doubtless, only a simple swivel latch kept the vertically sliding lower panel secure, though she had heard of city dwellers at lower elevations nailing their windows shut due to high crime rates. Either way, there seemed to be no means of getting through without shattering the glass and taking the chance that the noise might raise an alarm.

  Taking the pry bar in one hand, she drew back, preparing to smash through the window.

  Suddenly, the curtain behind the glass was thrown back, revealing an indistinct figure. Mira gasped in surprise and her veins filled with ice water. The pry bar slipped from her fingers as her feet lost their purchase. Though the nylon mesh harness around her hips kept her from falling, it did not prevent her from turning uncontrollable circles in the air. The lost pry bar clanged noisily on the pavement below, even as she fumbled with both hands for the taut rope in a frantic effort to right herself.

  The window was thrown open with a piercing shriek—the sound of old warped wood being manhandled—even as she continued spinning at the end of her rope. A firm grip caught her shoulder and held her motionless before she commenced another pummeling somersault. Grateful for the assistance, she caught hold of the line, and pulled herself upright.

  Before her eyes could register completely on the face that now smirked from inside the apartment, a familiar voice drove a nail of dread into her heart.

  “Need a hand, Miss Raiden?”

  With both feet firmly on the carpeted floor of Aimes’ living room, Mira unclipped from the nylon rope. She turned to face her unexpected savior.

  “Great minds think alike, eh, Mira?”

  “One of us ought to feel flattered, detective.” Her voice kept an ironic edge that neatly masked the adrenaline still pumping through her veins. The biggest surprise to her was that she had felt no precognitive warning concerning the lurking visitor. Perhaps the simple fact that he was “safe” had shielded his presence from her. “Here to arrest me again?”

  DiLorenzo only smiled. “What’s the use? Your fan club would probably try to give you an award for your ingenuity and bust me down to walking a beat.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Ah, ah. You first.”

  She studied the detective’s countenance in the glow of the single overhead light, switched on now that the subterfuge of her covert entry was irrelevant. DiLorenzo seemed to have become immune to her jibes, gazing back with dark eyes and an inscrutable smile. Which only added to his mystique.

  She brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Somebody wanted Walter dead. I was hoping that something here might reveal why.”

  He nodded, as if she had confirmed his original statement. “But you also think this has something to do with that thing at the museum?”

  “The Trinity. Yes, I’m sure of it. I went to the museum earlier. . . .”

  DiLorenzo waved dismissively. “Oh, yes. You claimed it’s a forgery. The curator called in a panic the moment you left. Of course, he doesn’t have a clue as to how you made that determination. Or any way to authenticate the claim. It seems there aren’t very many experts on the antiquities of Atlantis.”

  “That Trinity is a forgery,” she reasserted.

  “How can you tell?”

  Mira’s tongue unconsciously darted across her lips, moistening them to a ruby sheen, as she studied his face carefully. She wasn’t ready to trust the detective with the knowledge of her unusual abilities. “I know more about that thing than anyone living, detective. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  DiLorenzo laughed without condescension. “Well, if you’re right, it would mean that the forger had access to the exhibit in order to switch them.”

  “Exactly. But who had that kind of access?”

  DiLorenzo’s smile fell as he weighed the implication of her words. “An inside job. Do you think Aimes was involved? That might give us a motive for his murder.”

  She pondered this. A deep-seated loyalty to the old man warred against an instinctive belief that there was a deeper mystery surrounding his life. The discovery that he was a family man had shaken her view of him and colored all her memories of their time together. “Walter and I argued endlessly about the danger of its being stolen. If he took my advice, he may have commissioned a replica without telling anyone and put that in the exhibit, while keeping the real one in a safe place.”

  “Then it might be here somewhere.”

  “I doubt he would have kept it in a cookie tin on the mantle. However, there may be some clue here that will point us in the right direction.” She shrugged. “The alternative is that it really has been stolen.”

  The detective kept at the thread of supposition. “If somebody found out about the switch, it might explain why Aimes became a target. Maybe they wanted him to tell them where it was and he wouldn’t play ball.”

  “A plausible scenario.” She stopped looking at the detective, instead allowing her eyes to sweep the room. It seemed very much like the residence of a bachelor or lonely widower. Generic watercolor paintings hung in cheap frames from the walls, with no correlation of styles, colors or themes, or any connection to the tasteful but mismatched furnishings. A bookshelf stood guard near the front door, packed with dusty leather-bound tomes. Mira peered at the gilt letters of the titles and saw that the books were part of a collection of classic works spanning everything from Plato to Melville. They appeared to be decorative, though it wasn’t too hard to imagine the elderly researcher reclining in the overstuffed chair with a snifter of cognac and a well-read copy of Great Expectations. But that was an image fabricated from suspect memories; she really didn’t know Walter Aimes at all.

  A musty atmosphere hung about the room, and it took her a second to recognize the odor of cigarette smoke. She had not known that he was a smoker, but the telltale yellowing of the walls told of many years devoted to the habit.

  DiLorenzo seemed to understand the focus of her search and wandered into the dining room. “Guess he ate out a lot,” he remarked. She looked around the corner for clarification.

  The dining table was stacked with books and loose papers. There wasn’t a patch of bare surface big enough to set down a saucer or mug, let alone a dinner plate. She picked up one of the books and examined its cover.

  Unlike the collection at the door, this book had been used extensively for its intended purpose. The paperback binding was creased along the spine, almost to the point where the title print was illegible. The printed cover was ratty and separating, and the style of artwork and lettering was at least three decades old. She read aloud the title. “Atlantis, Lemuria, Mu: The Prehistory of the World.”

  “Atlantis I know, but I’ve never heard of those last two,” remarked DiLorenzo, glancing down at the other titles. “There seems to be a theme developing here. What the hell is Lemuria? Sounds like some kind of rodent.”

  “Lemuria was a legendary lost kingdom, named for the lemur, a kind of monkey, said to inhabit the ruin. Spiritualists in the early 20th century believed they could channel the spirits of ancient Lemurian kings.”

  “Lost
kingdom. You mean like Atlantis?”

  She nodded. “Something like that. Mu is one of several Pacific versions of Atlantis. Apparently Walter had an interest in legendary lost civilizations.”

  “An interest? I’d say he was obsessed.”

  The dining room had become a de facto study, but nowhere on the table could Mira find any notes written by Aimes himself. The books themselves ranged from the popular works of Charles Berlitz and Graham Hancock to photocopied newsletters from contemporary New Age movements dedicated to unlocking the mysteries of Mu, Shambala, Argatha, and at least a dozen other lost civilizations of which Mira had never heard. The sum total of the information on the table seemed to indicate that the entire planet had at one time supported a culture advanced beyond the wildest dreams of modern man, existing now only as a psychic echo. But for her own experiences in the ruins of the Atlantean temple, Mira would have dismissed it all as a load of rubbish. Now, she could not help but wonder which myths held a nugget of truth. As if to underscore the idea, Aimes had tacked a map of the earth to the wall opposite the chair where he had apparently sat while conducting his investigations.

  DiLorenzo clapped a book shut and cast it back into the pile. “These people have way too much free time.”

  Mira nodded absently. “If he left a clue, it’s not here.”

  “Maybe we should check the bedroom?”

  “You’d love that.”

  He grinned, but conspicuously did not defend his suggestion. “I’ll just go have a look.”

  He walked away, leaving her alone with the impromptu research library. Mira watched his departing back and found herself wondering what the tall detective was really thinking. She shook her head to focus her meandering thoughts and looked back at the stacks of books.

  Aimes had apparently collected any printed material that had anything at all to do with Atlantis and other legendary lost civilizations. The problem with academic research in that particular field was that there was nothing authoritative to be found. Until the discovery in Panama, a bare half year ago, Atlantis, and to a lesser degree the other cities and civilizations mentioned, had always been referenced in myths rather than historical documents.

  The earliest account of Atlantis, if apocryphal references were discounted, was in the dialogues of Plato. In that context, it seemed to be more of a political parable, not unlike More’s Utopia, rather than an attempt at chronicling the fall of a true ancient superpower. The Atlantis myth was often considered an alternate telling of the Great Flood story, which could be found not only in the Biblical account of Noah’s Ark, but in almost every culture on the planet in some form or another. It was an explanation Mira herself could easily have accepted had she not actually stood in the tomb of an Atlantean king and seen a contemporary painting of the disaster that had ravaged the antediluvian world and hidden Atlantis itself for millennia.

  What plagued the authors who hoped to offer some new theory on a legend so deeply ingrained in the human consciousness was the lack of scientific methodology; how could their theories possibly be tested? Without fear of being proved wrong, the pseudo-scientists and scholars could write whatever they pleased. Aimes’ exhaustive study would never have brought him nearer to the truth about Atlantis, only closer to an understanding of the human need for mystery.

  She turned her back to the table, moving through the apartment to see if DiLorenzo had uncovered anything significant. She found him kneeling in front of Aimes’ bureau. His efficient search technique allowed him to thoroughly examine the contents of each drawer then return it to almost exactly the same state he had found it.

  “You look like you’ve had some practice with that.”

  “It’s the job,” he chuckled, sliding shut the last drawer. “Nothing.”

  She nodded absently. “So, I told you why I’m here. What are you doing here?”

  “I knew you’d end up here eventually.”

  “Don’t you have other leads to chase? Or am I still a suspect?”

  “Oh, I suspect you of a lot, Miss Raiden.” He smiled again, as if to assure her that he meant it only as playful innuendo. “But I’m afraid all the leads have been chased, and they’ve led nowhere.

  “The three dead guards were identified. One of spent a few years in the Army, and his brother and the third guy did time together. Apparently they and some other buddies formed a little mercenary venture—I guess the correct term for them these days is ‘private security contractors’—and put a classified ad in a popular military magazine. As you can imagine, a business like that doesn’t keep much in the way of records.”

  “The guns? And the helicopter?”

  “Stolen. The helicopter is probably the same one that was reported stolen from a helipad in Wall Street earlier this week. Homeland Security is working that, but no leads yet. Now obviously, whoever took it has to have access to fuel and a place to land, not to mention a pilot, all of which suggests that they didn’t need to steal it; they just didn’t want to use their own. The guns were all part of a private collection stolen from a gun shop owner several weeks ago. Just between you and me, we suspect the owner of having brokered a deal for the weapons and then turned them in as stolen for the insurance money. He’s being investigated, but I doubt that will yield anything soon.”

  “How did these mercenaries pass themselves off as museum guards?”

  “They were guards. Somehow they all got hired on with the temp security agency that landed the contract to guard the exhibit at the museum.”

  “Now that’s interesting. Who was in charge of that decision?”

  “Several people, but all of them are above suspicion. Aimes was one.” He straightened from his kneeling position and turned to face her. His expression seemed genuine. “The guy that you brained, the one in the tuxedo, we haven’t identified yet. He’s at the hospital with a concussion. Conscious, but not saying a word. He doesn’t appear to have any direct connection to the mercenary brothers though.”

  “Then he must have been their employer. And they must have slipped him through security.”

  “Maybe not. The guy had an authentic invitation, though the name on it turned out to be an alias.”

  “Those invitations are almost impossible to duplicate.”

  “This one was probably forged from a stolen blank.”

  Mira’s eyes narrowed in thought. “That adds credence to the idea that this was an inside job.”

  DiLorenzo inclined his head. “And our friend Aimes seems always at the heart of the conspiracy except for one tiny detail—”

  “Namely his being dead.”

  “Yup. Now, the suspicious sort of guy I am, I wonder: could he have faked his own death? Maybe it was all a trick with fake bullets and stage blood. Maybe he paid off a doctor to sign the death certificate—”

  Mira whirled to face him, as if the idea was suddenly very plausible. “Where’s the body?”

  “I’m getting to that. I had to know for sure, so I went down to the morgue to have a look for myself. Got to watch a few minutes of the autopsy.”

  Mira’s expression sank. If Aimes had faked his death, a lot of loose threads would have come very neatly together. “I suppose that sort of thing only happens in the movies.”

  DiLorenzo shrugged and picked up a small picture frame off the top surface of the dresser. He flashed it toward Mira. “And then his daughter had the remains sent to a funeral home to be cremated.”

  Mira was about to respond when her gaze fell upon the blonde-haired woman in the picture DiLorenzo was holding: Aimes’ daughter Rachel. After a moment, her deep brown eyes flashed up to lock with the detective’s. “That’s the woman who was flying the helicopter last night.”

  DiLorenzo’s eyes also grew wide, but before he could say a word, a shuffling noise behind Mira distracted them both. The detective’s sidearm was out in a heartbeat, and he raised his finger to his lips, beckoning Mira to silently wait while he checked out the source of the disturbance.

  Mi
ra, responding to her own internal warning system, was already moving.

  The intruder had his back to them when she got her first look, but her approach was not sufficiently stealthy. He whirled around, dropping into a defensive stance before she had crossed half the distance to the dining room.

  She recognized him instantly even though a jet-black balaclava in the same hue as the military style fatigues and boots he wore covered his face. The clothing could not conceal his bulky frame, nor could the mask hide his lethal eyes. He was the shooter from the helicopter who had so savagely murdered his own comrade to prevent him from revealing any information to the police.

  He had left behind his assault rifle, but he was not unarmed. In addition to his overpowering physical strength, he held a short object in his right fist; a device that telescoped to four times its original length when he pressed a button.

  “Damn it, Mira!” DiLorenzo was shouting. “Get down.”

  The big mercenary laughed through the fabric of his mask, swiping the air with the cudgel. The tactical baton was a flashy choice of weapons, but realistically no more intimidating than anything else he might have brought to bear. Its chief advantage was that it was easy to conceal, and that had ceased to be a factor. Nevertheless, Mira eyed the baton warily, knowing that the brute who held it was certainly capable of breaking her bones with it.

  DiLorenzo was still shouting for her to get out of the way, but Mira did not hear him. The rush of adrenaline in her bloodstream roared through her head like a waterfall.

  The mercenary lunged at her, sweeping toward her head with the baton. At half his mass, Mira ducked under the assault and lashed out with a kick to the giant’s midsection. Her booted foot struck what felt like a bag of cement, and she rebounded away to land on her rear.