by Alex Archer
She pictured the sword in her mind. It was whole, hanging there in its otherspace and waiting for her. She’d worried that she’d broken it, as hard as she’d brought it down on that damnable green knife, purposely hitting it edge to edge. Her precious sword was all right, not a knick on its blade that she could sense.
Roux had seen Joan’s sword before it came to Annja. He’d been one of Joan’s knights, like Garin. “In case you are curious, Annja, you are in the regional medical center, a private room.”
Where Sully had been taken, fifteen miles from Lakeside. She waited; he’d tell her more if she just waited for it. The mattress crinkled as she made herself more comfortable. It had plastic on it beneath the sheet and was not soft enough to suit her. The pillow was good, though.
“I was told they brought you in after midnight, almost had you airlifted to Milwaukee. You’d lost a great deal of blood, apparently. You’ve had transfusions.”
Wow. Transfusions. She looked at her right arm. It was wrapped in so much gauze it looked twice its normal size.
He continued, “Humerus broken. Severed tendon, severed artery. You could have bled to death.”
The knife had been incredibly sharp.
“They stitched up your stomach. I got a look at your medical chart, and—”
Either because he charmed a nurse or looked like a doctor, Annja thought.
“—I could have sworn you’d been in a sword fight with a master.”
“She was a kid,” Annja stated. “A teenager and—”
“She wasn’t.”
Annja raised an eyebrow.
“According to the police report, she was twelve.”
A kid. A murderer. Mad or possessed or... “How did you see a police report?”
“I didn’t see a report, but I talked to one of the policemen at the carnival. He’s in the lounge, waiting for me to leave so he can come in. They’re allowing you only one visitor at a time. The doctors don’t know you heal so rapidly. They think you’re going to be here for several days.”
“I’ll leave tonight.” She moved again and revised that. “Or tomorrow morning.”
“A carnival, Annja, what were you doing fighting a twelve-year-old girl at a carnival? Under a truck in a small town at midnight?” He made a huffing noise and ran his fingers through his hair, messing it slightly. “Instead, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“I want to know why you’re here.” Annja took another sip of water. She wished it was colder. “What brings you to the medical center? You couldn’t possibly have known I was here. There is no way that you—”
“I flew into Madison last night. From London to New York to Chicago to Madison, rental car here—and not the kind I’d arranged for—all of it taking me sixteen hours because I had to wait for two connections.”
“You didn’t come here for me, did you?” He would have arrived before the fight at the carnival.
He pulled up a chair next to the bed and refilled her water glass. “I heard you were in Madison. Then from chatter on the internet, I heard you were in a place called Lakeside. Some girl posted your picture outside an antiques shop.”
That would be her fan Keesha Marie.
He leaned back in his chair. It was vinyl-coated wood, easy to clean and old. It creaked under his weight.
“I was looking for Garin,” he admitted finally.
She tried to sit up in bed, but a jolt of pain shot through her bandaged arm.
“Be careful,” he cautioned. “They’re going to put that in a cast this afternoon. Had to get the bleeding under control first.”
“Garin.” She’d almost forgotten he’d been at the conference. With the pyramid and the girl and the dagger and everything else, he’d been the least of her worries.
“But he was gone.”
“I see. And you wanted Garin because...” She knew their history, or rather some of it. As much as both men had been willing to confide in her on separate occasions.
“He has something that belongs to me, and I’ll leave it at that. So I take it you haven’t seen him.”
“Once. Briefly. Outside a lecture hall.” Garin obviously hadn’t been at the conference to see Annja, and yet he’d let her know he was there. It was something else for her to puzzle over...or something for her to forget about. Roux and Garin had their lives and dealings and she was better off staying out of them.
“And you haven’t read your email?”
She laughed, discovering that her ribs ached. “I don’t have a laptop anymore. Less to pack for my trip back to New York.”
Roux rested his hands on his knees and dropped his gaze to the floor. “Be well, Annja. Take good care of yourself.” He stood and gave her a small smile, the wrinkles deepening at the corners of his eyes. “Please take good care.”
Manny came in after Roux left, setting a bouquet on the stand next to her bed. It was beautiful, and she knew he’d spent a good bit on it—a dozen orange gerbera daisies, a dozen yellow poms, hot-pink carnations and bright green button poms. Certainly cheery, it brought a smile to her face.
“I arrested a woman this morning at the hotel, Stephanie Granger.”
“Stevie.”
A nod. “I figure she was the Stevie you mentioned, the woman in the van from that alley. Got her and some hulk of a guy. They’d been seen with that Aeschelman character.”
“Mr. A.”
“Him, we couldn’t find him. Not Sunday, not today. Gone before the sun came up Sunday morning, and couldn’t find an airline anywhere with an Aeschelman on the passenger list. But Stephanie and her buddy had stuck around, waiting for the bank to open this morning. It was your photographer’s description of the guy that helped us find them.” Manny took a breath and rubbed at his eyes before continuing. Annja could tell he hadn’t gotten much sleep in a while. “Played Stephanie and her buddy against each other. She was a toughie. In the end it was him who confessed everything. Admitted Aeschelman was involved in an artifact-smuggling operation and had killed the people at the hotel...or had them killed. Stevie and her buddy will be in Wisconsin for more than a few years cooling their heels. We got Stevie for killing the thug in the alley.”
“So you’ve wrapped it up.”
A shrug. “Not all the way. There’s still Aeschelman. Arnie’ll be looking for him. The Feds, too. Me? I’ll be looking out my back door at my swimming pool in Brownsville.” He got suddenly very serious. “Thought we were going to lose you. The paramedics at the carnival—”
“You were there at the carnival?”
“Yeah, just as all the screaming started. Followed the racket ’cause I guessed I’d find you at the heart of it.” He gave her the lopsided grin. “Paramedics there...they were good. Your heart stopped twice on them. Blood...lots of blood, Annja.”
“I heal quickly,” she told him.
“Good thing.” He fiddled with the vase, turning it so the front of the arrangement was facing her. Then he moved the chair farther back from the bed to accommodate his long legs and eased himself into it. “Local guys got the kid out—the one with the knife. Your friend with the camera—”
“Rembert.”
“Rembert Hayes. He went to the station this morning and identified her as the one who knifed Sully Stever. Holding her on two counts of attempted murder.”
She’d killed Joe Stever and maybe others.
“They’ll try her in juvie. She’s only a kid.” He shook his head and looked past her, out the widow. It was a sunny day. “Funny thing is, she’s acting like she doesn’t remember any of it, stabbing Sully Stever, going after you. Remembers going to the carnival, but only to buy a pink T-shirt. And if it don’t beat all, we can’t find her parents, any relatives for that matter. Seems she’s been living by herself in a trailer park on the lake. No sign of any adult there
, except for pictures of a Menominee woman, probably her mother from the resemblance. Twinkie wrappers, soda cans, things a kid would eat. Looks like she’s been on her own a while.”
From mother to daughter to daughter, Annja thought.
“So juvie’s the best thing for her. Get her in the system. The system’s not always bad, you know.”
Annja decided she wouldn’t tell the police about Joe, about the girl being the one who likely killed the potter. Being a twelve-year-old with attempted murder charges would keep her in the system long enough.
“The knife, Manny. She had a green knife.”
“Funny thing about that knife, Annja. The local officers found it. In pieces. It was under that Dragon Wagon ride that they’d pulled you and her out of. That’s what she got you with, that knife. Didn’t find anything else under there that could have cut you up like that. And Mr. Hayes identified the pieces, said it was the knife she’d stabbed Sully Stever with. Must’ve swung it at you and hit an axel under that truck bed is what we’re thinking. Shattered it.”
“Makes sense,” Annja said, glad that no one had seen her sword. Edge to edge, she could have lost Joan’s blade. “Those pieces, Manny...”
“They’ll stay in a box with the rest of the evidence. Her pink T-shirt, your shirt.”
“Locked away.”
“Yeah.” His bushy eyebrows arched. “The knife looked old, like she’d stolen it from a museum.”
“So they won’t return it to her, the pieces.”
The eyebrows arched higher. “No.”
The mattress was feeling a little more comfortable.
“I’m getting out of here tomorrow, Manny.”
He chuckled. “I’m surprised you’re planning on staying that long.”
“Have to appreciate the flowers, don’t I?” She tried to match his lopsided grin. And she had to dive the lake one more time before the week was out, get a last look at the Mayan temple that she wouldn’t tell another soul about. Leave Joe’s dive logs deep down inside where the lake water could disintegrate them. She’d call Bobby today and cancel Thursday’s dive.
“Coming back for my party?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” She’d be done with her Moroccan segment by then. They sat together for a while, looking out the window. The clatter of a nurse’s cart broke the silence. “Is Sully still in here?”
“He is. He’ll be here through the end of the week, I’m betting. He might get himself cleaned up a little in the process. The local officers this morning showed him a picture of the girl. They said he was begging them to bring him some whiskey.”
“Is Rembert out there?”
Manny’s smile disappeared. “He left the station this morning after the cops finished with his report. I was there, checking in, you know, wanting to see how it all turned out. Said goodbye to him.”
“Headed back to New York?”
“Yeah, he kept talking about a guy who gave him a bad piece of advice, that the guy was wrong. Said it wasn’t safer being around you after all.”
“I’ll see you at your party.”
Chapter 36
Three months later
Stuttgart was not Garin’s favorite German city, but the capital of Baden-Württemberg in the south suited him better than any of the American cities he’d visited in the past year. It boasted a population of a mere six hundred thousand, making it Germany’s sixth-largest city, but that was a deception. The entire metropolitan section topped five million. Stuttgart was a city surrounded by a ring of small towns, a densely populated area that was easy to lose yourself in. Garin was not easily found, nor had his quarry been.
Garin preferred the Rhine-Ruhr area or Berlin and Brandenburg. He fancied the nightclubs in those cities and preferred the museums...when he felt the need to indulge in something cultural. He’d just come from Brandenburg, where he played the part of a tourist visiting the castle, which he’d seen when the stone was not quite as worn. He’d spent a week at the Villa Contessa, eating fine food, reading and waiting.
Stuttgart was not without its charms, however. Two days ago he spent hours walking through the City Center, a collection of buildings that were architectural marvels—the baroque New Palace, the medieval Old Palace, the Bauhaus-style Weisenhof estate and the Art Nouveau market hall. He’d lingered the longest at the Old Palace because it held so many memories that he couldn’t shake...and didn’t want to.
He enjoyed his longevity, always fearful, though, that it would come to an end. In the mirror each morning, he checked to see if there were more lines on his face and wondered how tied to Annja and the sword his soul was. But his being around so long was a curse as well as a blessing, of memories anyway, and his remarkable mind held on to them with a vise grip that no amount of indulging could relax.
History recorded that Duke Luitolf of Swabia used to graze horses at the Old Palace more than a thousand years back. Stuttgart derived its name from the old German word stutengarten, which meant a stud animal, and its coat of arms bore a rearing stallion. Appropriate. It was Austria when Garin first walked these grounds, only becoming a part of Germany after 1534. It then became a seat of government for the region and a self-administered county. Stuttgart had evolved because of major European trade routes. Garin was here now because the trade route he had been following was stopping in the city tonight.
The city had spread across low hills and wrapped itself around vineyards, parks and valleys, adding to its sprawl with each century.
He was fond of the Green U park, first planted by King William I of Württemberg. Considered an English-style garden, it featured many old trees. Garin had watched them at various stages as he’d visited every handful of decades.
In a few hours, he would go to a program at the planetarium, escorting a young woman he’d met yesterday at the Wilhelma Zoo and Botanical Garden. Oddly, he’d gone to the zoo to see the penguins and had met her by accident. An attendant in the gift shop, Berdina fell for his smile and well-practiced lines, and spent the evening in his company. Not so inventive or athletic as Keiko had been, but she had the same look to her and the wide-eyed reaction to the world.
Later tonight he would take another stroll through Green U park, to an art gallery where his quarry would be receiving guests. Garin didn’t have an invitation, but he would attend anyway.
Tomorrow would be his last day in Stuttgart; he would have a long lunch with Berdina and then go to the airport...a business matter to attend to in Belgium. One of his identities owned a fine apartment in an old building in Bruges on a quaint cobblestoned street across from a renowned chocolate shop. Roux’s shield was on display there, hanging like a trophy on his study wall, a place of privilege.
It was a little after ten when Garin entered via the back of the gallery. The auction had been going for an hour, but there were still several pieces remaining. He helped himself to a glass of Riesling. It was delicately sweet and preferable to the other offerings on the table. Some of Aeschelman’s guests were clearly not connoisseurs—several of them walked around with glasses of inferior blends.
Aeschelman registered his surprise at seeing Garin, but quickly recovered. He pointed to the next object for sale, a full close helmet, French, dating back to 1530. It was elaborate, embossed and etched with three crosses on each side, with an applied border to the faceplate and decorated by heat patination, and most importantly, it matched the shield in Garin’s cozy apartment.
Aeschelman—who was known now as Dreschler—took a long swallow of wine, let the bidding commence and spoke in perfect German.
Garin won the piece, paying forty thousand Euros, much more than he’d expected it to go for, although much less than other items had cost. There were other collectors here tonight, and so he’d had to compete. Among the buyers, there was no one Garin recognized from any of the previous sessions he�
�d been to, yet clearly they all had considerable resources. Aeschelman gravitated toward him when an associate of his stepped forward to take over proceedings for the next piece, a bronze sculpture of a rabbit’s head. Garin poured himself a second glass of Riesling.
“I thought you’d never been to Germany and didn’t know the language, Mr. Dreschler.”
“I thought you did not drink, Mr. Knight.”
Garin watched as a middle-aged man in designer jeans and a thin gray turtleneck claimed the rabbit head at one million Euros.
“I drink,” Garin admitted. “Usually when I am in the mood to celebrate something.” In fact, he’d come to the auction with a slight buzz, having shared a bottle of champagne with Berdina in the park after the planetarium show.
He watched the same man buy the next two items: a bronze rat head that supposedly had been looted from China by the invading Anglo-French expedition in the nineteenth century and a bronze figure in good condition of Horus as a child, with an olive patina that was supposedly from the year 1000.
Aeschelman...or whoever he really was...took control of the auction and finished selling the remainder of the items, Garin politely waiting until the entire affair had concluded before paying for the helmet. They conveniently and carefully packed it for him in a motorcycle-helmet carry bag.
Then Garin quickly left.
But he waited.
He carefully selected a spot behind the gallery, more than a passageway and less than a street. It was clean and it smelled of old stone and rain; it had started to drizzle. Garin had never minded the rain. Aeschelman departed with two broad-shouldered men. Garin had watched the pair inside, the man’s security, glorified muscle who were packing guns.