The Daredevils' Club ARTIFACT

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Where did you get that?”

  Keene couldn’t figure out his partner’s reaction. “I picked it up from the pool of Selene’s blood that she dropped it in. Terris, what is your problem?”

  The big man’s pallor had improved. He shook his head and stood up straight, as if a large weight had been removed from his shoulders.

  Keene knew better than to push the subject. He sheathed the knife and said, “Did you ever stop to wonder about the real reason Frik wanted this artifact?” He grabbed Selene’s fragment out of his pocket and held it up. At times, he had wanted to wipe the surfaces clean, to remove the discolorations, but instead he had let the bloodstains dry on it. Selene’s blood.

  McKendry stared at the object. Keene dangled it like a carrot in front of his friend’s eyes. “Yes, I got it, Terris. I also found out why Frik really wants it.”

  He rapidly summarized what he had learned: Paul Trujold’s discovery of the artifact’s true power, and the real purpose behind Frikkie’s Daredevil scheme—knowledge that had cost Selene’s father his life.

  Keene watched McKendry absorb the information, run it through his logic filters. He knew McKendry’s process, knew his partner would come to the same conclusions he himself had reached.

  Finally, in a lowered voice, McKendry said, “If it were anybody else telling me this, I wouldn’t even listen.”

  “But it is me, Terris. Dammit, it’s the truth.”

  McKendry gestured with the pistol, not in a threatening manner, just as the most obvious means to point. “I think you’d better disassemble those explosives. You won’t be needing them now.”

  Keene hesitated, feeling his heart turn to lead in his chest. “I promised Selene,” he said. “With her dying breath she asked me to shut down Oilstar, to get even with them. I can’t ignore that.”

  “And I gave my word to protect this platform. It may not be worth what I thought it was, but I won’t let you destroy Valhalla.” He paused. “There’s got to be some other way.”

  The two men held their ground, each waiting for the other to speak or offer a suggestion. After a minute, Keene said, “Crap. Maybe I don’t have to blow up Valhalla to be true to my promise.”

  O O O

  A short time later, the two men stood side-by-side at the edge of the heliport deck, high above the water. McKendry’s on-duty security men had encountered them and waved at their chief. They had not bothered to question the identity of the man wearing Virata’s work overalls. McKendry growled under his breath; Keene snickered at their incompetence.

  The smaller man held the odd artifact that had been excavated from deep beneath the sea. He stared at it for the last time.

  “I sure wish I understood what this is,” he said. “But I know it’s not worth all the grief it’s caused.” He held it high, dangling it more than a hundred feet over the waters of the Gulf of Paria, and thought of his promise to Selene. Frik Van Alman would be more upset about not regaining the artifact than he would ever have been about losing the oil rig.

  He smiled at the thought of his revenge, muttered something under his breath, and let go.

  As the artifact dropped from his fingers, it reflected the lights of the rig oddly, as if the perspective were wrong. The optical illusion made it appear to hang in the air.

  McKendry’s big hand reached out in a flash and grabbed the object before it could fall to the water.

  “No. That wouldn’t finish it, Joshua.” Keene glared at his friend, feeling betrayed, but McKendry continued. “Frik would find it. Somehow.”

  “That’s ridiculous. He couldn’t know—”

  “Anything is possible. He could have a camera on us right at this moment.”

  Keene didn’t answer. McKendry grinned. “I’ve reduced you to silence. That’s a change. Listen to me, would you? Getting rid of this would not make Frik stop what he’s doing. You said yourself this thing could make internal combustion engines a distant memory. That would destroy Oilstar, destroy Frikkie.”

  “What if he comes after it before then?”

  “He won’t,” McKendry said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he trusts us to be good soldiers and do as we were told. On New Year’s Eve, you and I will go to Las Vegas and make Frik answer for himself. We’ll see to it that this discovery gets put to good use for the whole world, not just for one greedy son of a bitch.”

  Keene sighed and stared out at the water and the nearby coast of Trinidad. The sky was lightening, shifting from indigo to blues and grays and pinks as the first rays of the sun refracted through the gathering clouds. Red sky at morning, he thought. A storm was on the way.

  “You always did hate loose ends,” he said, turning to face his friend.

  McKendry didn’t so much as crack a smile. “And you always did talk too much.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  No matter how hard she tried, Peta was unable to find closure on Arthur’s death. Time, purportedly the ultimate healer, passed, but the void he had left in her life kept growing.

  After Carnival and the arrival of a new round of students at the medical school, the only distraction she allowed herself was watching news reports of the American elections on television. She found the debates entertaining. The rumpus in Florida kept her laughing, as had the Monica debacle. While morality on the island was purported to be of great significance to its populace, and in particular to those in government, the truth was that Granadian politicians made Clinton’s high jinx look like a good day at Sunday School.

  The difference was that here the personal lives of government officials were conducted behind closed doors. Talk at the Watering Hole never lacked its dose of rumors, whispers, and gossip, but it was laced with rum, not with legal action.

  With New Year’s Eve only ten days away, Peta went to see her travel agent whose offices on the Carenage always seemed to be run with less efficiency than its well-decorated interior might have indicated.

  Her travel plan was simple—provided she could get the airline schedule to cooperate: fly to San Juan and connect to New York, if need be via Miami. She had no wish to stay over in New York. All she wanted was time to go to the precinct, collect Arthur’s fragment, and be at Danny’s on 46th Street at five o’clock on New Year’s Eve. Sentiment drove her to be there on her birthday—their birthday—even though she would be there alone. That and the distant hope that by being there, by keeping their date, she could finally find some degree of closure.

  The way she figured it, she could have a car pick her up at Danny’s at seven—in time to get her to the airport for a nine o’clock flight to Vegas. Traffic to the airport would be light on New Year’s Eve. The flight would get her to her destination by eleven, Vegas time.

  Having taken care of her business at the travel agency, she went next door and upstairs to the Nutmeg for a peanut punch and a roti. Sitting at a table next to the open area overlooking the fishing boats and ferries, she made a few notes, reminders of the things she had to do before leaving: go to the bank for money; collect the real artifact from Ralphie; call Ray to let him know that she was coming to the meeting via New York and give him her arrival time in Vegas; and call the maître d’ at Danny’s to tell him to reserve a quiet, corner table for her for five o’clock. The restaurant wouldn’t be crowded yet at that hour, and even if it was, George would find a way to get her a table.

  She thought about what to take along and decided that one small roll-on suitcase, her medical bag, and a handbag would be more than enough to hold the necessities. It wasn’t as if she was planning to do the town—New York or Las Vegas. Besides, as Arthur had so often told her, she could always buy what she needed at the other end.

  She wondered irreverently, without the usual accompanying stab of pain, if the same principle held true for the journeys to heaven and hell. Maybe, she thought, she was beginning to heal after all.

  That evening, Peta made the necessary arrangements with her associate and put in a call to Danny’
s. George was delighted to hear from her.

  “Let me look at the reservation book,” he said. “Yes. Here it is. I thought I hadn’t erased it. Five o’clock. Dinner. Dr. Whyte and—”

  He stopped abruptly. She thanked him and quickly hung up. Next, she called Ray in Las Vegas.

  “I have a dinner reservation at Danny’s at five o’clock. I called George. He said they hadn’t erased the booking Arthur made before …”

  “I was there when he made that reservation,” Ray reminded her, as if she could have forgotten. “You’re not even staying over for one night?” He sounded almost irritated with her.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I suppose not,” Ray said. “You’re cutting it awfully close. I just hope there are no flight delays.”

  “If there are, you can wait to start the meeting.”

  “New Year’s Eve waits for no man.”

  “Fine. I’m not a man anyway, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Ray chuckled. “One more thing. The Strip is closed on New Year’s Eve. It’ll be shut down by the time you get here. I’ll have one of my limos picks you up. The driver will know how to circumvent the barriers. Better yet, I’ll arrange for a helicopter out of McCarran and a pilot. Easy enough to land on my helipad and that’ll take care of any time crunch.”

  “Great idea,” Peta said, “But you should recall that I won’t need a pilot. Just have your driver there to get me to the chopper and make sure all of the authorizations have been cleared.”

  O O O

  For the sake of comfort rather than status, Peta had made reservations in first class; for the sake of a show of authority once she got to the police station, she wore a suit—or more accurately, Liz Claiborne wool crepe separates she’d picked up at Saks during her last visit to Manhattan. The black, calf-length wrap skirt and fitted, fingertip-length black jacket were very New York. A white, crew neck cashmere sweater, opaque black tights, and a pair of black leather knee-high boots completed the look. Hair up in a bun, the real fragment, back in its bezel and hidden beneath her sweater in case some turn of fate brought Frik to the airport; this year’s white gold button earrings, and she was good to go. Normally, she would have carried a coat, but since she was only going to be there for a matter of hours, and her jacket would do fine for Vegas, she simply threw a shawl and a pair of warm gloves into her suitcase.

  She felt hot and overdressed until she boarded the plane, but she was quickly grateful for having worn a jacket. As usual, Grenada’s airport air conditioning was on slowdown, but the plane was freezing. She hated using the blanket and pillow the airline provided, so she rolled up her jacket as a pillow, snuggled under her shawl which she pulled out of her bag before throwing it into the overhead compartment, and dozed off.

  San Juan’s airport was hotter than Grenada’s and more crowded. With a lot of hours to kill between flights, she hailed a cab and went to the closest beach hotel. Once there, she changed into the swimsuit she’d shoved into her handbag and grabbed a chaise under an umbrella. Even in the middle of winter, it was hot and humid. They were so damn lucky in Grenada, she thought. Eighty-four degrees, day in, day out, and always an ocean breeze coming off the Atlantic side of the island.

  Later, she walked along the beach and watched the sunset. She stayed out there for a while in semi-darkness, then walked back and ordered herself a drink. Her flight was due to leave at two in the morning. She glanced at her watch. It was one minute past midnight.

  “Happy birthday, Peta,” she said. She looked up at the stars. “Happy birthday, my love.”

  After switching planes in Miami and catching a restless nap during the last leg of the flight to New York, she swore off red-eyes forever. Thanks to delays in the air over JFK, the plane circled for what seemed to be forever before it landed. She occupied herself by applying some makeup, putting her jacket back on, and wrapping the shawl around her shoulders in preparation for a New York December day.

  By the time the aircraft taxied up to the arrival gate, Peta was ready to scream. There were a dozen people ahead of her in the cordoned-off taxi line. She waited impatiently for the pompous uniformed airport official to whistle her up a cab. When he did, she waved away the suggestion that she share it with someone else in line.

  The traffic into Manhattan seemed endless. The cabbie’s chattiness, in the past a source of amusement, got on her nerves. By the time he pulled up in front of the Midtown North police station, she felt so guilty about her attitude, she over-tipped.

  Inside the precinct house, she took out her wallet and retrieved the receipt they’d given her. It was dated December 31, 1999, and signed by Sergeant John Lewis.

  Trailing her suitcase behind her, she moved up to the counter. “I’d like to see Sergeant Lewis.”

  “So would I, lady. We could use him around here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Retired.” The policeman sighed heavily and turned away, but not before Peta got a look at the name on his badge. Patrick O’Shaunessy.

  “Detective O’Shaunessy.”

  He turned back to her. “I’m flattered, ma’am, but it’s sergeant. Sergeant O’Shaunessy.”

  As best she could, Peta stemmed her rising panic. “Well, Sergeant,” she said, “I’ve come to collect, um, my friend’s personal effects which were impounded as evidence almost a year ago. I hope you can help me.”

  He took the receipt from her and examined it closely. “Excuse me a moment, please. I’ll be right back. Why don’t you take a seat over there.” He indicated a slatted bench against the wall.

  Peta watched the hands on the large clock over the desk. When he had been gone for twenty minutes, she began to panic. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  “Miss? Dr. Whyte. I’m Captain Richards. Could I see you in here, please.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Peta stood up and followed the plain-clothed officer into a small office. The captain, a man not much beyond middle age, pointed at a chair and she sat down.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Whyte. I’m afraid there’s been some kind of clerical error.” He waved the receipt. “There is absolutely no record of this case.”

  Chapter Forty

  “What are you saying?” Peta stared at the police detective in disbelief.

  “I have no other way of saying it. There is absolutely no record of this case.”

  “That’s crazy!” She realized that she was shouting, but made no effort to lower her voice. “I know the case was closed, but you’d think somebody around here would remember a bombing and death on New Year’s Eve. Dammit, it was only a year ago—”

  “Look, lady, calm down.” He walked to the door, which she had left slightly ajar, and closed it. Returning to his desk, he sat on the edge facing her. “I’m sorry about this. Really I am. But there’s nothing I can do.”

  Peta sat back and stared at him. Feeling utterly defeated, she took out the pack of cigarettes she’d bought in Miami, peeled off the cellophane wrapping, and took one out. A thousand disconnected thoughts seemed to be chasing each other around her head.

  “You can’t—ah, the hell with it.”

  He took a lighter out of his pocket and lit her cigarette. Still leaning forward, he whispered, “I’m going to tell you something, but if you repeat it, I’ll deny I said a word.” She started to interrupt him, but he held up his hand. “Listen carefully, ’cause I’m only going to say this once. Early last August, some NSA suits came in here and took away bunch of records. They erased everything about them in our computers and told me that as far as I was concerned, that explosion that killed the doc … it never happened.”

  “Why—?”

  “Hey, the Feds come in here waving writs around, you don’t ask questions.”

  She nodded, though her mind was more confused than before. “So why are you telling me?

  The captain leaned back onto the desk and said, “Doc Marryshow, he saved my life way back when I was a rookie. I was burned real bad, y’know. He lived
a couple of blocks from here. Used to pop in to see how I was. He was real interested in police work, too. Always asking me questions …”

  A few minutes later, Peta stood outside the precinct house. She had never felt more confused and angry. Sheltering herself against the old brick wall of the building, she pulled out her cell phone. Grateful that it was a multi-system unit and that she didn’t have to search for a public phone, she dialed Ray’s private number.

  As she listened to it ring, she wondered what exactly it was that she was going to tell him—and why. There wasn’t anything either of them could do at this stage.

  She disconnected the phone.

  Screw Frik. Screw the Daredevils, all of them. She really didn’t give a damn about any of them.

  All she cared about was going to Danny’s to keep her promise to Arthur, and to herself. She pulled her gloves out of her handbag and put them on, wrapped her shawl around her neck and over her head and like a hood, and dragged her case the eight city blocks from the Midtown North precinct station to Danny’s.

  George spotted her as she entered the small foyer. He ran toward her, put his arms around her, and held her, gently, as if she were fragile and might break.

  He took the suitcase from her and led her inside. At the far end of the bar, the piano player recognized Peta. Smiling broadly, he switched gears into “Happy Birthday to You,” played a few bars of “Hot, Hot, Hot,” then segued, as he had done so many times before, into a lively rendition of “Dollar Wine.”

  I should have told George to tell him to cut that out, she thought, forcing herself to look across at the piano. Sitting there, his back to her, was a café au lait man about the same size and build as Arthur.

  Where are you when I need you David Copperfield. There is no magic and this was a terrible idea, she thought.

  The man turned around to face her.

  “You son of a bitch! How could you!” she yelled as adrenaline powered by a mix of untrammeled fury and profound joy propelled her across the room. She rushed at him, punched him full out, and knocked him backward onto the piano. “One whole year, you let me believe you were dead.”