The second site he clicked on didn’t even appear to be about shapeshifters at first. The site graphics—interlacing lines and knot work from traditional Celtic art—framed the topics. The banner at the top proclaimed, “Home of Seamus the Bard.” Below it was a subheading that read, “Before the Celtic people had a written language they had a rich oral tradition. In the employ of kings and nobles, druidic bards recited generations of family histories and sang of long ago heroic deeds.” A column to the right had a blog with titles such as, “Bards—the First Rappers?” and “Neo-druidism: These Blokes are Just Making this Dreck Up.”
On the left was the site map. Zach clicked on “About Me.” Under a photograph of a blue-eyed man with his hair pulled back, he read the first paragraph.
“In the first century AD, Agricola, the governor of Roman-occupied Britain, was instructed by the emperor to find a way to conquer the intractable peoples of Ireland. To that end, he gave asylum to Eithne, the exiled queen of a deposed Irish High King, and her son Túathal. Agricola offered the loan of a legion of Roman soldiers for an invasion on Túathal’s behalf, but Eithne discovered his true plan was to arrest Túathal after the victory. In secrecy, she summoned her loyal bard, the Druid Seamus, whose name means “one who supplants.” On her orders, Seamus killed Agricola, disposed of the body, and took his shape. From that day forward, Governor Agricola became a respected administrator and commander. Ireland was safe from Roman rule.”
Zach thought this Seamus guy, at least, had an imagination. He closed the link and went back to the research he’d been working on before his battery conked out. He’d forgotten all about Kevin until his voice startled him.
“So what are you doing?”
“Research.”
“On what?”
Zach pulled up one of the web pages he’d been reading on the plane. “Caitlin said the gossamer crown was stolen along with the Irish Crown Jewels, but there’s no mention of it in any of the articles on the theft. She also said that just about everyone who touched the crown would get sick and die, so I traced each person reported or suspected to have come in contact with the jewels.”
He heard the bedsprings squeak again as Kevin came up behind him. “Find anything?”
“Actually, yeah. The guy everyone figured stole the jewels was named Shackleton. He was the brother of the famous explorer. One of his acquaintances, who was considered a possible accomplice, was a passenger on the Titanic in 1912. He went down with the ship.”
“I don’t see the connection,” Kevin said.
“That’s because I haven’t gotten to it.” Zach tried not to sound as irritated as he felt. “So, there were a lot of court cases in the eighties and nineties about who has salvage rights to Titanic, right? I guess under international maritime law, you have to recover something from a wreck in order to have a claim to it. One of the salvage companies that originally filed a claim had to drop out because everyone involved died. The owner, his wife, the captain of the ship and about half the crew. All died of some mystery illness.”
“What artifacts did they recover from the Titanic?”
“I don’t know, but the name of the salvage ship was The Gossamer.”
Chapter Thirteen
East of England
Caitlin gathered them all together with no apologies about skipping breakfast and herded them into the barn. Two Clydesdales watched placidly from their stalls as she headed for a late model SUV parked next to a stack of moldy-smelling hay bales.
“I call shotgun!” Lizbeth leaped over a pile of muck for the passenger door.
Kevin got into the back seat next to Zach, who filled Caitlin and Lizbeth in on what he’d discovered about Titanic and The Gossamer as they drove.
When he finished, Caitlin said, “Griffey.”
“Yeah, that was his name. Brian Griffey. The guy who died on the Titanic,” Zach said.
Caitlin’s head dipped in acknowledgement. “He was a friend.”
Kevin searched her profile for any hint of emotion, but it seemed carved out of ice. Whoever Griffey was, he’d been dead for nearly a century. If Caitlin had cared for him, time would have blunted the pain even if she were inclined to share it.
The quaint English countryside flew by as they headed for the coast. After about twenty minutes, Kevin saw the steel blue water of the North Sea slicing across the horizon. His stomach gave a little gurgle and he wasn’t sure if it was from hunger or from the memory of his queasy summer at sea. As they got closer, buildings cropped up and got thicker, as did traffic. Caitlin seemed familiar with the route. She turned down one street after another until they reached a dockyard.
All around was evidence of the tsunami. Kevin didn’t know what business-as-usual looked like in this district, but he doubted it involved so many boats dry-docked for repair or salvage.
Caitlin pulled up alongside a brick warehouse and shut off the engine. It didn’t look to Kevin like an official parking place, but he doubted something like illegal parking would deter her. He and the others got out and followed as Caitlin wove her way through workers pushing loaded dollies, past helmeted welders, and around slowly moving forklifts. The air smelled of the sea and diesel exhaust with an undertone of fish.
Kevin spotted the drill vessel anchored out on the bay and wondered how they were going to get to it. Then he saw an ambulance halfway down the dock, pulled up next to a boat he recognized.
He pointed. “That’s the outboard from the drill ship.”
Two paramedics and another man, all with surgical masks over the lower half of their faces, carefully traversed a gangplank with someone strapped to a stretcher. As they got closer, he saw the mussed blonde hair of the Swedish researcher, Astrid. Her head tossed back and forth, and her cheeks were puffy and bright pink.
Caitlin stopped, her delicate features frozen – all but her eyes – which darted from the drill ship to the ambulance to Astrid. Her head turned and he followed her gaze, where just beyond the ambulance, a tall, dark-haired man in work pants and a plaid shirt stood on the dock talking with two men in business suits.
“That’s Bill Masters,” Kevin said. From Bill’s angry face and quick gestures, the discussion with the official-looking men wasn’t pleasant. Kevin started forward, but Caitlin stopped him.
He expected her to make him wait there as she barged over to introduce herself, but she said, “Find out how many are sick. Tell him to isolate the iridium.”
Kevin didn’t think Masters would listen to a student intern, but he nodded and started over. The nearest paramedic bent to lift the stretcher into the ambulance, and Kevin got a good look at Astrid. The whites of her eyes were blood-red. She suddenly surged up against her restraints. Her body twisted frantically and she ignored the paramedic’s entreaties to lie still, until she’d worked one arm free. Eyes wide, face cast in a terrible grimace, she pointed and made desperate, garbled sounds in her throat. Kevin thought for a moment that she was pointing at him, but he stepped aside to see that Caitlin was the target. Caitlin’s chin lifted and she shook her head slowly. Astrid sank back onto the stretcher as if exhausted. Just before she was loaded into the ambulance, Kevin caught sight of the glisten of tears on her flushed cheeks.
Disturbed, he walked on, but when he approached the three men, they ignored him.
“It’s not a bloody epidemic,” Masters was saying. “It’s just a flu bug.”
“If it’s flu, it’s clearly virulent,” said one of the other men. “She’s the fourth one this week, and the first is on life support. Until we determine what this ‘flu bug’ is exactly, consider the ship quarantined.”
The man slapped a handful of papers against Masters’ chest. Kevin stood his ground as the men brushed past him. Masters glanced at the sheaf of papers in his hand and looked disgusted. The ambulance driver began backing up, and probably to encourage people to get out of the way, he turned on the siren. The sound was different, more plaintive than a siren in the states.
“What are you d
oing here, Guzman?” Masters asked. “Are you sick, too?”
“No,” Kevin said. “How many are sick?”
“Is Weinstein with you?”
“No. You need to isolate the last core sample. Make sure no one touches it with their bare hands.”
“You were there,” Bill said, looking at Kevin strangely. “You know it was strict protocol to glove up around the core samples.”
“How many are sick?” Kevin asked again.
“What do you care? And what are you doing here, kid? You flew back to Texas with Weinstein, didn’t you?”
Masters just wasn’t listening. He seemed to be almost deliberately avoiding Kevin’s questions. Kevin turned to shrug in Caitlin’s direction and found that she’d walked over.
She stopped a few feet from Masters and said, “William.”
He looked mildly surprised, but only said, “Caitlin.”
Chapter Fourteen
East of England, Suffolk County Coast
Lizbeth thought Bill Masters was the best-looking man she’d ever seen. His nose was a little too large and would have been patrician if not for a bump that sent it ever-so-slightly to the left. His lips were thin with a deep Cupid’s bow and his eyes were plain brown under a wide forehead. Separately imperfect, his features came together in a fascinating whole.
It wasn’t the way Caitlin and Bill looked at each other that hinted at more than a casual acquaintance. Caitlin had no discernable expression on her face, and Bill only had a faint wrinkle of consternation between his brows. It was the length of the stare, as if they’d each forgotten what the other looked like and got caught up in refamiliarizing themselves.
“They’re a little young, aren’t they?” he asked.
“Youth has advantages.”
He glanced at Kevin and shook his head. “He was there the whole time.”
“I warned you, and now look what you’ve set in motion.”
“We got a sample, though. A little deeper and we could have gotten enough to make you a new crown.”
“You must not aggravate the sphere any further.”
Bill’s eyebrows went up and he waved a handful of papers in Caitlin’s face. “Don’t have much choice. Idiotic authorities have quarantined the ship.”
“Brilliant.” Caitlin spun on her heel and walked away. Zach and Kevin moved to flank her and Lizbeth scrambled to catch up. She took one last look over her shoulder at Bill Masters and caught his eye. He wasn’t nearly as handsome with that calculating look on his face.
Caitlin might be small, but she walked fast. Zach, with his long legs, had no trouble keeping up, but Lizbeth and Kevin were almost forced to break into a trot.
They reached the SUV and Caitlin beeped the locks. After they got in, Kevin cleared his throat. “Is Bill…like us?”
Caitlin started the engine and shifted into reverse. “He’d like to be,” she muttered.
“How do you know him?” Kevin asked.
She didn’t respond right away, ostensibly in order to navigate a narrow section of road, but Lizbeth suspected she needed a moment to think.
“The information Zach found out about Titanic was correct,” she finally said. “Brian Griffey recovered the crown from Shackleton. In fact, he was on his way to return it to me in America when Titanic sank. Unfortunately, many decades passed before technology advanced enough to plumb the depths to reach Titanic. When I first approached William, he was in charge of a deep-sea salvage vessel. I convinced him to take on the project.”
Nothing in Caitlin’s voice indicated the manner in which she’d convinced him, but given the way they’d looked at each other on the dock, Lizbeth suspected she’d used the age-old enticement of feminine wiles.
“But you didn’t find the crown,” Lizbeth said.
“No. The litigation began and we received an order from the courts to desist. Even that wouldn’t have stopped me, but I learned about The Gossamer when the news reported the deaths of the crew. It was obvious what killed those people, obvious the crown had been found. I investigated, but the trail was cold. By then Bill had knowledge of the crown’s existence and became very – interested – in the properties of the biometal.”
“He’s acting like those scientists on his ship have the flu, but he knows they’re going to die, doesn’t he?” Lizbeth heard contempt in Kevin’s voice. “That’s what he meant when he said I was there the whole time. If he knew I was descended from a shapeshifter, he could have had me handle the iridium the drill ship recovered without anyone getting sick.”
“There is no guarantee you would survive,” Caitlin responded severely. “And do not judge him too harshly. If I thought his method would have succeeded, I, too, would have risked my life and that of those scientists to stop the sphere. Many more will die before this is done.”
Lizbeth looked askance at Caitlin’s profile, thinking about Bill Masters’ motivation. Caitlin was beautiful and intelligent, powerful, and virtually immortal. Lizbeth doubted there were many men who wouldn’t want a woman like that, or many who wouldn’t want to have that power and immortality for themselves.
“Why didn’t you just change into a dolphin, swim down to Titanic and get the crown yourself?” Zach asked.
“Dolphins can only dive to 300 meters. Titanic is much deeper.”
“So, change into a deep-water fish or something,” Zach said.
“We are oxygen breathers and are thus limited to the forms we can take. We may not change size, and we cannot become inanimate objects.”
Lizbeth looked out the window where the sun had broken through the clouds. Three perfect rays beamed down on the rocky coastline. She thought about what Caitlin had said to Bill Masters, “Look what you’ve set in motion.” The tsunami was the first disaster to have occurred, and it hit right after they drilled.
“Is everything that’s happened because of Bill?” she asked.
“Drilling into the crater was certainly the catalyst, but the sphere has been struggling to receive messages for some time now. Climate changes caused by greenhouse gasses, space cluttered with orbiting satellites and junk, all have interfered.” Caitlin paused. “It was inevitable.”
Chapter Fifteen
East of England
When they arrived back at the farm, Caitlin pulled up in front of the house and dropped Zach and the others off, saying, “I’ll be back later.”
Simon appeared in the doorway. “Breakfast is almost ready.”
“Thank you,” Caitlin said, looking up at him.
“Where are you going?” Lizbeth asked.
“To dig deeper into the origins of the salvage ship that found the crown, The Gossamer. There must be something I missed. Maybe the crew members who survived can help, if I can locate any of them. Stay here, and keep an eye out for each other.”
As she walked back to the SUV, Zach looked around at the isolated plot of land and wondered where they would go, but then he got a whiff of bacon on the air and his mind shifted to the growling of his stomach.
He followed Lizbeth and Kevin inside. Simon went through a door off the murky living room, and Zach saw him pick up the receiver of an old-fashioned telephone before shutting the door.
The kitchen consisted of a long, narrow room with a windowed alcove that had a built-in bench and table. A dark-haired woman tended to the sizzling pans on the stove. She was short and very heavy, wearing a floral-print cotton dress, with furry mukluks on her feet that came up almost to her knees. She gave them a gap-toothed smile over her shoulder and bobbed her head up and down.
Kevin said something in another language and the woman’s smile increased. She responded back, in what sounded to Zach like Russian or Polish, and gestured for them to sit at the table. Kevin took a stack of plates and a handful of silverware from her and set the table.
Everyone turned at the burst of music coming from Zach’s pants pocket. He fished his cell phone out and saw the number – home. He went back into the living area and answered.
“Zach Wong! Where are you?”
“I’m fine, Mom. How is everyone?”
“Where? Where are you? We’ve been so worried.”
Zach struggled briefly with the idea of lying. He didn’t relish the thought of trying to explain why he’d abandoned his life to go on this crazy quest. He decided to go with a strictly limited version of the truth.
“I’m staying at a house in the country.”
“Which country?” his mother asked. Zach had forgotten her uncanny ability to zero in on the facts.
“England,” he said reluctantly.
After a silence in which he imagined his volatile mother’s face going red with anger, she astonished him by saying, “I consulted the I Ching.”
His mother was a woman of culture who avoided any discussion of her humble beginnings in a rural Chinese village. Confessing that she’d resorted to divination – frowned upon in educated circles as a practice of the peasantry – told him more than words how worried she’d been.
“Mom-”
“There is danger in whatever you are doing, my son. Do not trust anyone.”
He thought again about Simon telling him that not everyone wanted the crown to be found.
“I’ll be careful,” he said.
The Gossamer Crown: Book One of The Gossamer Sphere Page 6