by Andrew Linke
Oliver turned his head and glowered. “You just saw it Amber. How can you call what I’m looking for ‘crazy philosophies’ when you’ve seen part of it with your own eyes.”
“You’re being over sensitive, darling. I only said that because it’s how everyone outside your small, and ever diminishing, club of supporters saw you.”
He sighed and nodded, but stayed slumped in the seat. “I know you’re right, Amber. Hell, I wondered if I was crazy for a while when all the kooky Internet people started glomming on to my work as evidence of their theories. But I’ve see it! I know the mechanism is real and there must be some way of proving it to the world. And then...”
He trailed off. Partly because he had already said all of this to Amber before, and partly because he didn’t know what would come of his research. If Oliver was right about the relics he had been tracking down and assembling over the last decade, then he was also probably right about the global conspiracy that had disassembled the device and scattered it across the globe over three thousand years before. He hadn’t found any evidence that the Creed, as he called the cult that had scattered the device, still existed, but that didn’t mean he was safe. They might just be leaving him alone until it was more clear that he was a threat, and then... but he didn’t like to think of that. Down that path lay true paranoia.
“This might help.” Amber interrupted his thoughts.
“What?”
“When your dad called last week, he said that he had been contacted by someone who needed help finding something special. Someone powerful enough that they might be able to help you find what you’re looking for.”
Oliver sneered. “Really? After all he’s said, he is willing to help me now?”
“He never said he wouldn’t. Just that you should back off making any public comments and refocus your research.”
“‘Refocus.’ Great word for throwing away the truth and caving to political pressure.”
Amber shook her head and didn’t reply.
Oliver returned to musing over the mechanism and his failed career as an academic. If only he had never found his uncle Norman’s private research notes, or simply chosen to not believe them. He lapsed into contemplation of the events that had destroyed his career.
A few minutes of silence passed between them until Oliver shook his head, sat upright in his seat, and sighed. “Alright. I’ll give him a chance.”
“That’s a good boy. Now stop pouting and tell me how you got that chunk of metal.”
Chapter Three
Amber drove west from Fairfax, pushing the car through thick summer afternoon traffic for nearly an hour. As they drove, Oliver filled her in on his adventure in Iceland. Everything had gone well, he explained, until he had reached the cave where the object of his hunt had lain hidden for so many years. There, he had nearly been killed by a concealed deadfall and the animated corpses of three Viking warriors. Despite being low on ammunition, and here Oliver treated Amber to a lengthy rant on the difficulty of purchasing ammunition in Iceland, he had dispatched the ghouls and successfully captured his prize.
It was a token of their long friendship and shared experiences in the South American jungle that Amber saved her mockery for Oliver’s inability to secure sufficient firepower, rather than his claims of fending off undead foes. Normally, when relating the tale to an editor or acquaintance at a party, Oliver would have excised the supernatural aspects of his adventure from the story, but he knew that Amber would believe him. After all, as she had reminded him in the camera shop, it was she who had cleaned his wounds after an encounter with a particularly pissed off snake god in the jungles of Brazil.
Amber eventually navigated the car off the main highway and began steering it along winding roads that wound through rolling hills and deep valleys. Oliver was familiar with this area, if not this particular road, from having grown up on the family estate in Loudoun County, west of Washington D.C. The valleys between the hills were crisscrossed with streams and narrow roads that connected the patchwork of small towns. The hillsides were covered in vast tracts of pastureland for beef cattle and racing horses, as well as the large and widely spaced homes of the wealthy landowners whose political machinations were perhaps even more famous than the products of their pastures.
Oliver had grown up on one of those farms. His parents had made a comfortable fortune breeding some of the best race horses on the East Coast and had started to carve out a name for the Lucas clan amongst the Washington area elite long before he had come along. As a child, he had spent many an evening helping the horse wranglers in the stables and most weekends exploring the limits of the family estate. When Amber joined the family, she became his companion in many of those rambles, injecting their escapades with a shot of exoticism from her intimate knowledge of Mayan mythology. It had been a good childhood and in many ways Oliver regretted not visiting his family more often. The chasm between him and his parents wasn’t very wide, but it was deep and bridges had grown few and rickety over the last decade.
It had all started when Oliver had chosen to follow in the footsteps of his dead uncle and study history and archaeology at the college of William and Mary in Williamsburg, rather than launch a career in politics or finance through studies at Georgetown. His father had taken the news in stride, encouraging Oliver to “dig deep” and learn all he could about the past. His mother, on the other hand, had long hoped that her son would carry the family name to greater heights of fortune and influence, so she took the news rather poorly. He had been a diligent student, however, and had nearly managed to win back her approval when he had fallen from grace with such publicity and force that even his father had refused to speak with him for six months.
“We’re here!” Amber exclaimed, breaking Oliver out of his reverie.
She braked sharply and turned the car into the gravel drive of a large house that stood at the head of a cluster of buildings near the top of a hill. The house was painted a faded goldenrod yellow with pale blue shutters over the windows. The wide front porch was screened in and adorned with simple white support columns and a double screen door. Wide granite steps led down to a series of stepping stones leading from the steps to the gravel driveway. A dozen or more cats were lounging about the place, sitting on the stone retaining wall, curled up in the grass, or batting at stalks of catnip growing in clumps throughout a flower garden that stretched along the front of the porch and around the corner of the house.
“What is this place?” Oliver asked. “Did my parents move while I was away at camp in Iceland?”
Amber giggled at that, then replied, “Of course not. This is the Rabbit Warren, a cozy little bed and breakfast nestled in the hills of Virginia wine country, only minutes from the highway and just outside a lovely little community of stuffy antique dealers.”
Amber pulled the car around the back of the house and parked it between two large black SUVs. “The perfect place for a romantic getaway with your spouse, or a private tryst with the intern of the month.”
“Something tells me not all of that is in the advertising materiel.”
Amber shrugged and flashed Oliver a wicked grin. “I just call it how I see it.”
Oliver grinned back at her, then his face grew more somber as he inquired, “Why are we here? My parents’ place is just as close to D.C.”
“My best guess would be that this is neutral ground.”
“For what?”
“Your father wasn’t specific, but I got the impression that he won’t be the only person at this little heart to heart. Honestly, I’m not sure if he’s offering you a patron as a conciliatory gift, or using your unique skill set to gain leverage with someone in power.”
Oliver nodded, chewing silently on the inside of his lip.
“Ready?”
In answer, Oliver pushed the car door open and climbed out into the sticky heat of the afternoon air. Amber followed and the two of them walked together back along the path to the front steps of the house.
/> Passing through the screened porch they entered a large sitting room decorated in shades of yellow and blue, with dozens of small framed sketches of rabbits hung all over the walls. The room smelled heavily of cedar from a set of lightly smoking incense sticks arranged artfully on the coffee table in the center, between the overstuffed yellow paisley love seats.
“Nice place,” Amber commented.
Oliver shrugged.
A short and plump woman with gray hair and a broad smile came bustling into the room and welcomed them with enthusiastic handshakes.
“Welcome to the Rabbit Warren. I’m Gwen, the owner of this fine little inn. How may I help you on this lovely day?”
Oliver shook her hand and smiled. “Hi, Gwen. My cousin and I are here to meet someone. Elderly man, dark hair, thin as a stick and about twice your height.”
“Oh! You must be Oliver. Can’t believe I didn’t recognize you from the photo. Mr. Lucas told me to expect you.” She turned to Amber and pulled her into a hug. “And you must be Amber. I’ve heard so much about you both.”
Amber appeared startled by the sudden familiarity, but managed to return Gwen’s hug with what passed for enthusiasm.
“You know my father?” Oliver asked.
“Know him? We’re old business associates!” Gwen enthused, gesturing for the two of them to follow her through a doorway and down a hall. “We met at some fund raiser in town and it turned out that we both had something the other needed. He had connections and I had a quiet place where people could arrange to meet in private.”
She led them through a gleaming steal and granite kitchen to what appeared to be a large broom closet. She opened a circuit breaker panel set into the wall and flipped several switches. There was a soft hum and the rear wall of the closet slid back and up, revealing a set of brightly lit steps leading down to a heavy steel door.
Gwen stepped aside and gestured for Oliver to go down the steps. He thanked her and did, descending the steps without hesitation. Amber made to follow him, but Gwen held up a hand. “I’m sorry dear, but Mr. Lucas said that only Oliver could come to this meeting.”
Oliver paused his descent and turned around. “Then why did you even let her see the steps?”
Gwen smiled. “Oh, she’ll be allowed down soon enough, I wouldn’t deny her a peek at the room, but my clients pay for discretion and this particular gentleman needs to leave before Amber is allowed down there.”
Amber grimaced and waved Oliver on. “Don’t worry Ollie, I’ll just have a cup of coffee and wait. Make sure you let him know I’m annoyed though. I don’t like playing messenger without knowing whose messages I’m carrying.”
She turned away and disappeared from the closet door. Gwen flipped a switch and the false wall lowered back into place at the top of the steps.
Oliver sighed and continued down the steps. It wasn’t like this was out of character for his father. Michael Lucas was a good man, despite their differences Oliver would be the first to admit that, but his concepts of honor were perhaps a little more flexible than average. He had convinced Amber to lure Oliver to this meeting, and offered Oliver’s services to someone without consulting him, so it wasn’t inconceivable that he would bar her from the meeting if it suited his plans. The man would never harm Oliver or Amber, but he wasn’t above using them as tools.
Oliver reached the bottom of the steps and tried the knob on the door. Locked. A glance told Oliver that the door was set in an equally heavy frame, which was probably anchored deep into the concrete surrounding the door. He knocked, knuckles sounding loud on the heavy steel of the door, then looked directly into the domed glass eye of the peephole.
The door swung silently open and Oliver found himself face to neck with a muscular man in a dark suit. A wire coiled from his left ear into the collar of his jacket and Oliver immediately noted the gentle bulge of an under arm holster. He looked up into the man’s square face, noting the cold intelligence of his eyes. The man’s expression remained blank as he looked Oliver up and down.
“Are you armed?” His voice was much softer than Oliver had expected.
“I just got off an international flight and was shanghaied into this meeting by my darling little cousin. So, yeh, I’ve got an arsenal in my back pocket.”
“Don’t fool yourself Oliver. That little girl probably has more firepower in her car than our Secret Service gentleman here.” Oliver’s father appeared behind the guard, a drink in one hand. “It’s him, Ted. Frisk him if you must, but let’s get this meeting started.”
The guard nodded slightly and stepped aside, gesturing for Oliver to enter the room.
It was surprisingly bright and pleasant for an underground room, especially after the caves Oliver had been crawling through just a few days before. Comfortable white light filtered through panels set in the ceiling to illuminate a sitting area with four high backed leather chairs arranged around a polished wood table. The walls were painted a soft eggshell white, which extended into the thick carpet on the floor. One of the chairs was occupied, judging from the dark gray pinstriped pent legs that Oliver could see past the body of the guard.
The legs uncrossed and a man leaned forward to set a thick glass of dark liquor on the table. Oliver’s eyes widened and one eyebrow moved up in surprise, but he stepped casually around the guard and extended a hand to the gray haired man.
“Senator Wheeler, now this is a surprise.”
The Senator rose to his feet, flashed a charismatic smile, and shook Oliver’s hand enthusiastically.
“It’s good to meet you boy. Your father has just been filling me in on some of your little adventures.”
Oliver glanced at his father, who winked at him over the rim of his glass.
“Seems to me you’ve been having quite the adventure of your own. I’ve been out of the news loop for a couple weeks, but the last I heard, you were your party’s last remaining hope for a respectable nominee.”
The Senator laughed and settled back into his seat, snaking his glass off the table and bringing it to his lips in a single smooth action. He sipped at it, licked his lips, and said, “Things certainly have advanced since then. In fact, I am the nominee now, hence Ted over there.” He stabbed a finger of his drinking hand in the general direction of the large Secret Service guard standing in front of the door and continued. “However, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I have some concerns about the general election. It’s never easy going up against an incumbent, no matter her popularity.”
Oliver felt something brush his elbow and turned to see his father holding out a glass of the same dark liquor the older men were enjoying. He took the glass and sniffed at it suspiciously.
“Jack. Good solid bourbon.” Senator Wheeler said.
Oliver sipped at dark liquid. It burned this lips and tongue before slipping down his throat and spreading a fire through his chest. He made a face and set the glass on the table before dropping heavily into the armchair across from the Senator. His father walked around and settled quietly into the chair directly facing the door. Oliver slid the glass towards his father and looked inquiringly at the Senator.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.
The Senator rested his glass on the arm of his chair and gazed steadily at Oliver. “Not a bourbon man, eh?”
“No. I try it every now and again to be polite, but I prefer craft beer myself.”
The Senator cleared his throat. “I suppose I can respect that. Small brewers and their customers are a growing constituency in my home state. Tell me Oliver, are you a praying man?”
Oliver was taken aback by the non sequitur. “Excuse me?”
The Senator glanced from Oliver to his father, who shrugged. “Give him a break Wheeler. He didn’t know you would be here. Boy’s still surprised.”
“That right, Oliver?”
Oliver nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything. He was still trying to figure out what was going on here. Obviously his father had arranged for him to meet with
Senator Wheeler, and it was equally clear that the Senator was trying to get some sort of measure of him, but he couldn’t fathom where this might be going.
The Senator grinned again, a politician smile that reached every bit of his face and eyes, yet still struck Oliver as superficial. Perhaps because it was just a little too enthusiastic.
“I’m just wondering if you’re a man of faith, Oliver. I like to know who I’m dealing with, and the question is absolutely relevant to our topic this afternoon.”
Oliver stood and looked from the Senator to his father and back again. “Why don’t we start from the top. Hi, I’m Oliver Lucas. I’m a travel photographer just returned from a trip to Iceland and I’m exhausted. Depending on what my father has told you, I’m also either a dithering crackpot conspiracy theorist, or a dedicated historian who believes that most of our myths and urban legends have roots in historical events.” Oliver paused and glanced at Ted, who was standing impassively by the door, eyes fixed on him but not giving any sign that he considered Oliver a threat. He continued, “You’re Senator Gary Wheeler, a career politician with a decent shot at the White House, sitting here in a secret bunker with my father, a self-made businessman who likes to play political power games in his spare time. Obviously I’ve been brought here for a reason, so why don’t you stop dithering about whiskey and religion and just tell me what the hell you want.”
Senator Wheeler leaned back in his chair, apparently surprised at Oliver’s outburst. Oliver’s father chuckled and took a sip of his drink.
“Alright.” The Senator said, after studying Oliver’s face for a moment. “Sit back down and I’ll tell you why you’re here.”
Oliver returned to his seat and leaned back, crossing one leg across his knee and resting his hands on his lap. He looked at the Senator expectantly.
“Tim. If you could step outside.”
The Secret Service guard nodded, pulled the heavy door open, and stepped into the landing at the base of the staircase, pulling the door shut behind him.