by Alex Archer
“I completely understand,” Garin said. So Aeschelman’s confession was actually a warning to him: play by the rules or don’t play at all. Keep the artifact smuggling ring a secret or die. But Aeschelman didn’t know Garin had his own set of rules, and poison or guns or any other sort of lethal weapon would not truly hurt him. “I understand completely, Willamar.”
“Good, Mr. Knight. You were recommended to me, but I do not know you.”
“Some of your associates do.”
“Yes, they say you favor medieval relics. I just want to make it clear that we are a clandestine group.”
“Crystal.” The dying woman was of no concern to Garin, but he suspected Annja would meddle. Three deaths at the conference would be too much of a mystery for her to ignore, and she would wrongly think that they were connected. “I want a good look at it. Beforehand. I want to make certain it’s real before I spend my money.”
“Everything within our little circle is real, Mr. Knight. You should know that by now.” Aeschelman reached under his collar and tugged out a leather cord. A gold disk hung from it, twice the size of a silver dollar and thick, gleaming despite the gloomy day. Similar in appearance to an Olympic medal, but clearly made of real gold, Garin imagined it must feel heavy hanging from the man’s neck. It was shiny and smooth, and the image of a beautiful bird had been pressed into the center of it. “This is real. I acquired it Thursday night from an archaeologist Mrs. Hapgood told me about. He was not able to come to the conference this weekend, but a few of his acquisitions will be available. Not this one, though. This one I am keeping for myself.”
“The medallion is striking.”
“And genuine. Everything within our circle is all real, I assure you.”
“Your medallion, is that—”
“Mayan, Mr. Knight.” Aeschelman tucked it back under his shirt and extended his hand. Garin shook it. “I will let you know when the items arrive tomorrow. You will get a close look at what you’re interested in. A private viewing, as you—and your money—have requested.” He turned away and walked toward the Madison Arms, pausing only to wait for a break in the traffic.
Garin waited several minutes, listening to the thunder, watching the people gather up the remainder of their lunches and scurry into the capitol as the first big drops of rain fell.
Garin didn’t mind the rain.
He crossed the street at a leisurely pace, his palms still itching in anticipation.
Chapter 10
The soda went down fast, the caffeine lessening her headache, but not chasing it away entirely. Food—that would do the trick. Annja was famished, having eaten little at breakfast and not yet found time for lunch. She was so hungry her fingers faintly trembled. Hopefully, she and the detective would stop for a bite in Lakeside. “Linner,” Rembert called it, a late lunch/early dinner. It would give her an opportunity to better look at the material in the folder. She’d call Rembert then, let him know where she was.
It was onerous to read in the unmarked Impala. The rain had started just as they left the station, intermittent big fat drops plopping heavily against the windows. They hadn’t traveled more than a handful of blocks before the sky opened up. The hammering rain and slapping, dragging wipers—which were in need of replacing—made it difficult to concentrate.
Some pages were printouts with food smudges in the margins; some newspaper clippings with tiny type—about two unsolved murders, judging from the headlines; an assortment of note paper of various sizes—all with Edgar’s handwriting on them and more smudges. There was a photocopy of an old fishing map, with words scrawled on it that were so small they were impossible to read with the car moving and the rain coming sideways now. Difficult to read practically anything at all except the large print, the way Detective Rizzo kept changing lanes and speeding and slowing, tires sluicing with the deluge.
But what she could make out intrigued her— sketches of Mayan symbols—birds, creatures that were half man, half jaguar, feathers, suns—and Edgar’s annotations all around them. Lakeside was circled at the bottom of one page, along with names and phone numbers that at the moment were undecipherable.
“Why are you letting me see this?”
Detective Rizzo didn’t answer immediately, changing lanes instead and adjusting his rearview mirror. They were a few miles beyond the edge of the city now, headed east. “I figured you’d want to...being a close friend of Professor Schwartz’s and all. I remembered you telling me that, more than once, about the ‘close friend’ part.”
“What about your regulations and Lieutenant Greene?”
He shrugged, his shoulders seeming too broad for the car.
“Are you going to get in trouble for taking me with you?” She liked the detective and it concerned her that her presence might cause problems for him.
“’Cause I didn’t bother having you sign any papers for a ride-along?” He snorted. “I’ve filled out more than my share of paperwork.”
“I’d just hate—”
“For me to get my wrinkled ass handed to me? Lady, I’m sixty-six, the oldest officer on the whole damn force, and the higher-ups have finally coaxed me into retiring. Suggested I be reassigned to nothing but desk duty if I don’t hang it up. So I put in my request. I’ve got exactly two weeks until my retirement party, where I’ll—”
“—turn in your badge and gun.”
He grinned. “Nah, the badge is a keepsake. Once you get a badge with a number on it, well, it stays with you through your whole life. It gets retired along with you. And as for the gun.” He patted the one in his shoulder holster. “The Glock is my personal sidearm.”
“I bet it will be a good party.” She returned to examining the contents of the folder.
“Same day as my birthday—sixty-seventh. Saves them the expense of two cakes. No, I’m not too worried about regulations at this point.” He paused and changed lanes again. “I do, however, give a very big whoop about solving the murders of two archaeologists...maybe three depending on what happens with that Mrs. Hapgood. Nice note to go out on, don’t you think? Solving a double? Or a triple? Might get me a commendation or some such, picture in the paper and all of that. Might show Lieutenant Greene that age and smarts can win out over youth and pigheadedness.” His expression paled slightly. “No offense to you, Miss Creed, about the youth part. But this’d be a fine note for my swan song.”
“Call me Annja, Detective Rizzo.”
“Only if you call me Manny.”
“All right, Manny.” She pawed through more of the documents, finding a yellowed dot-matrix printout that seemed to have some age to it. A sentence was highlighted, and when she gripped the paper hard and brought it up to her face, she managed to read: “Three Mayan pyramids at the bottom of Rock Lake.” Then she and the words were bouncing again, as Detective Rizzo swerved the unmarked Impala around a semi and stomped on the accelerator.
“Where is Rock Lake?”
He smiled. “It sits right next to Lakeside, which is the town. Rock Lake is the...well, Rock Lake is the lake. And from all this rain, I’d say it’s turning into a huge lake.”
She tried to read more of the printout, but it was a lost cause. She would insist they stop for “linner” so she could get a better look at the material.
He leaned down to reach a small computer that rested low on the dash between the front seats. He typed in some numbers, all the while dividing his attention between the screen and the highway ahead.
“Damn computers.” He looked ready to punch it, but he shut it off, grabbed the radio and brought the mic up, calling the central dispatch. “Run a check for me, will you? It’s an Iowa plate.” He dictated the SUV’s plate number.
Annja noticed that Detective Rizzo’s gaze shot back and forth between the rearview mirror and the road ahead. “We’re being followed?” She’d been so abs
orbed, trying to read Edgar’s folder.
“Have been since we left the station a block or so behind. Wasn’t sure about it, though, until we were out of the city. Car stays with us with all the weaving, matches my speed.”
The radio crackled a couple of seconds later with an answer, the woman’s voice taut. “Queried the plate and got a hit on NCIC. I’m showing that as an active stolen out of Cedar Rapids, date of entry on the twelfth. Vehicle should be a white Chrysler Sebring convertible.”
“Interesting,” Detective Rizzo returned. “Louise, those plates are on a gray Ford Explorer that’s dogging my wrinkled ass. Request backup ten-eighteen from either the county or state patrol, whoever has the nearest marked units.”
Chapter 11
Detective Rizzo spoke louder into the mic again as thunder boomed. “I’m on I-94. We’re...oh, hell, I can’t read the mile marker for all this rain.... I’m approaching the Marshall exit. Copy?” He thumbed the mic again. “Copy? I’m in a blue Impala.” He put the mic back, placed both hands on the wheel and changed lanes again. “Don’t know if she heard me. Nearly out of radio range here.”
Annja tried to decipher the chatter on the radio, but it sounded like static. She shut the folder, slid it under her seat and craned her neck to see out the back window.
The Ford Explorer was the shade of gunmetal. There were two men inside, the driver tall, his head brushing the roof of the SUV, the passenger shorter, his face fully visible but the features barely discernable because of the rain and the wipers. He had on sunglasses—despite the gloom—and a Milwaukee Brewers baseball cap; she could see the logo because the Explorer was so close it rode the Impala’s bumper. The men had to be connected to all of this, right? The image of her sword appeared in her mind and again she almost had the sensation of the pommel in her hand. A warning? Intuition? She thought of Edgar, Gregor, Mrs. Hapgood, and her throat tightened. And the presence of Garin...that was disturbing, too.
“I don’t have enough of the pieces yet.” Annja hadn’t meant to say that aloud, thinking of a giant jigsaw puzzle. She needed more information to get a better idea of what the puzzle should look like when completed.
“Well, either they—or we—are going to be in pieces,” Detective Rizzo spat. “Unless the sheriff or state police get some units here fast.” He flipped on the Impala’s sirens, the light on the dashboard pulsing with an eerie bounce against the torrent of water. “If nothing else, this should get traffic out of our way. Don’t need anyone getting hurt.”
The Explorer’s front bumper slid up over the top of the Impala’s rear one and gave it a violent shove.
“Damn it,” Detective Rizzo cursed. He reached for the mic again. “Dispatch, I need those units ten-thirty-three. Copy?”
There was a squelching sound.
“Copy?”
“Oh, for...” He put the mic back.
Annja saw the Explorer driver smiling, big white teeth under a dark mustache; a shiver danced down her spine. She was about to offer the detective a driving suggestion, but then realized she didn’t need to.
The detective veered to the right, breaking free of the Explorer, and floored it. There was a stretch of highway ahead with no cars on it. There were, however, cars pulled over on the shoulder, the drivers waiting out the worst of the storm and observing the siren and lights.
Annja knew that driving in weather like this was treacherous, magnified tenfold by the Explorer’s maniac driver.
“They’re faster. Those SUVs,” he said. “Higher center of gravity. I should’ve taken one of the Crown Vics. I like a heavier car.” He jogged to his right, then left, the car spinning sideways, doing a one-eighty before he turned it around and headed straight east again. The Explorer slowed to keep the Impala in front of it. “Not enough fast, these sedans.” He slapped his hand on the steering wheel, cranking it right when there was a long gap between cars. “Not letting me get behind her, either. If I could get behind her...”
The Impala slid, water spraying up on the passenger’s side as if they were taking it through a car wash. Annja couldn’t see out the back anymore, just a glow from the Explorer’s headlights, and she barely made anything out through the front. She wasn’t immortal. She could bleed and die...and could very well do that here on a highway in Wisconsin. Again she saw the sword hanging suspended in her mind. But Joan of Arc’s blade couldn’t save her from this hellish car chase. What would happen to the sword if she perished here?
The Explorer rammed the Impala again. Annja’s head whipped forward, her chin hitting her breastbone and the seat belt digging into her chest.
“Good thing the air bags haven’t popped yet. We’d be toast.” The Impala roared forward, sending water flying in all directions, the tires barely holding to the pavement. Manny was as far forward as the seat belt and steering wheel allowed. The fingers of Annja’s hands gripped the dashboard, knuckles bone-white. She’d been frightened before so very many times, but this time she wasn’t in control of the situation. She could do nothing but sit back and worry. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and it felt as if her stomach had jumped up into her throat. Annja realized what an expert driver the detective was. She would be doing no better under these horrid conditions.
Actually, she was quite certain she would be doing worse and that she and the Impala would be scattered bits being washed away by the pounding rain on I-94.
He let up on the gas as they approached a low spot on the highway that looked as if it had a river running across it. Once through the deep puddle of water, he accelerated again.
“Where’s the damn sheriff’s department?” The detective reached a hand toward the mic and then stopped. The Explorer bumped the Impala again. He grabbed the wheel with both hands, but the Impala skidded at an angle, slipping off the highway and hitting the shoulder, gravel spitting against the undercarriage. He fought with the car and got it straightened out again and brought it back up onto the road. “Do you hear sirens?” he asked Annja. He flipped off the Impala’s siren. “Other than ours?”
“No.” She ground her teeth together. This time when the Explorer struck them, the Impala veered toward the left.
He turned his siren back on. “You got a gun, Annja?”
Why would the detective think that? “No!” Annja shouted to be certain he could hear her.
“Can you shoot?”
“Yes!”
“Well?”
“What?”
“Can you shoot well?”
“Yes!”
“Behind the seat. There’s a rifle. Can you shoot a rifle?”
He banked the Impala right and drew the Explorer into the left lane and away from the cars parked on the right shoulder. Annja undid her seat belt, twisted and reached behind the seat, fingers searching and finding a case. She twisted farther; her knees on the cushion, she reached over the back and unzipped the case, tugging out the rifle carefully.
She rolled down the window, the rain angrily hitting her face like hundreds of pinpricks, and leaned out, leading with the rifle and trying to get a bead on the Explorer.
“No cars here! Go for it!” the detective shouted, still pressed as far forward as he could manage. He took the Impala into the left lane now, drawing the Explorer to Annja’s side. “Shoot out a tire! Try not to shoot them. Too damn much paperwork if you shoot them! A tire!”
Annja took aim, holding the gun tightly, and fired. She held steady as the rifle bucked. Missed, but close. A spark of light showed she’d hit the bumper.
“Damn it all to St. Louis!” the detective spat as he struggled to keep the car on the road. At the same time he tapped the brakes, and the Explorer shot past them. “Finally,” he said. “Finally we’re behind her. Don’t drop that gun!”
Annja heard a siren. “There’s a—”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear it. Old,
not deaf,” he quipped. “Oh, will you look at that—”
The Explorer had cut across the median and was swinging around to come up behind the Impala once more. So fast and reckless a U-turn the detective elected not to try to stay on its tail.
Annja regained her purchase out the window as the detective steered the protesting Impala far into the left lane. If the Explorer wanted to run them off the road, it would have to come up on Annja’s side again.
She was soaked, and her eyes were mere slits against the rain and wind. Still, she managed to focus just enough. One shot, the recoil and the wind nearly making her lose her perch. The second shot hit a front tire, but again she saw the wide white smile.
And the Explorer kept coming. Annja was ready for it, and despite wet fingers, kept a firm grip on the gun. She fired at the same tire. The Explorer came up farther on the Impala’s right. The detective turned the wheel hard into the SUV, and Annja fired one more time—on the mark. Its tire finally blew, pieces of rubber stripping away from the rim like snakes flailing madly.
The Explorer rocketed out of control across the lanes and vaulted over the shoulder toward the guardrail. The Impala slowed and slid to the side of the road, the detective pumping the brakes.
Annja heard the metal guardrail scream before it snapped and gave way to the crashing SUV. She leaned farther out the window to watch the vehicle carom down the small, steep embankment, the front end striking the bottom and causing it to flip at an odd angle, like a child’s toy tipped onto its side. The detective drove onto the shoulder and put on his flashers, the police lights continuing to pulse.
“Sheriff or troopers should find us now,” he said.
The sirens were louder and she caught a glimpse of flashing lights coming up behind them through the sheet of rain. Annja pulled herself back into the car just long enough so she could reach down and open her door. The detective grabbed the rifle from her and tossed it into the back.