The Golden Talisman

by J. Stefan Jackson

  Book One of the Talisman Chronicles

  The Golden Talisman copyright © 2006 by J. Stefan Jackson

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Mundania Press Production

  Mundania Press LLC

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  Cover Art © 2006 by Trace Edward Zaber

  Book Design, Production, and Layout by Daniel J. Reitz, Sr.

  Marketing and Promotion by Bob Sanders

  Trade Paperback ISBN-10: 1-59426-238-1

  Trade PaperbackISBN-13: 978-1-59426-238-8

  eBook ISBN-10: 1-59426-239-X

  eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-59426-239-5

  First Edition • October 2006

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2006927887

  Dedication

  To my lovely wife, Fiona, whose steadfast support and inspiration has infused my writing with life, and whose editorial work proved to be invaluable in preparing the novel’s final version.

  To my sons, Christopher and Tyler, who inspired the birth of this story as a bedtime tale for their young ears long ago...

  PART I

  The Murder of Dr. Mensch

  “So...you’re sure that’s all, then?

  The agent poured himself another round of coffee and carefully stirred in a measure of cream as if this simple act required complete concentration. Jack Kenney studied him from where he sat, absently drumming his fingers on top of the steel table that sat in the middle of the interrogation room. Well-defined muscles were clearly revealed beneath the tight confines of his faded black T-shirt. He seemed poised and ready to launch himself out of his chair like a hungry lion. Even his strong brow and chiseled facial features made him look predatory, with hazel eyes aglow from acute agitation. Yet, the exhaustion and weariness brought on by the endless stream of questions that began last night made him yearn painfully for sweet silence and the unlikely chance he might recoup some of the sleep he had lost since being abducted from Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

  “It’s just like I’ve been telling y’all,” said Jack, tersely. “I’ve got nothing more to add to my statement.”

  The agent grimaced in irritation. Frank Reynolds never took kindly to a smart mouth, much less one belonging to a twenty-year old college kid. Agent Reynolds had been in this line of work for nearly thirty years, and could immediately tell when a suspect evaded the truth. Jack Kenney was obviously holding back. Trouble was, he had turned in an admirable performance so far. Agent Reynolds sensed the young man could go on like this indefinitely, and his patience and even-tempered nature had worn dangerously thin.

  “I guess we’re all just supposed to believe that Dr. Mensch’s beating and subsequent death in the hospital were mere coincidences which, unfortunately, you’ve been linked to,” said the agent. “Is that what you expect us to believe, Mr. Kenney?” He moved slowly toward Jack, the cup of coffee in one hand while he motioned with the other to his two companions, Agents Ben Casey and Steve Iverson. “You must think the three of us have shit for brains, son, and your fucking arrogant attitude is really starting to piss me off.”

  He stepped up to the table and leaned down into Jack’s face, who remained unfazed by the advancing giant of a man glaring at him. Instead, he seemed amused and fascinated by the elder agent’s behavior—perhaps intrigued by his thick southern accent or the way his face flushed with anger, in such contrast to his pale gray eyes and wavy white hair. Certainly, his large stature of nearly six and a half feet would’ve intimidated anyone. But Jack sat where he was, mostly unaffected by the man’s direct invasion into his personal space.

  Jack smiled, grinning wryly as if comparing the precarious moment to some other in his past. He studied the agent’s face. Once he determined the true depth of malice he let his eyes wander over to the agent’s I.D. badge dangling from the right lapel of his dark blue suit coat. The badge displayed a stoic picture of Agent Reynolds from a few years before, with the identifier ‘AS419’ etched in gold that glistened brightly in the glare from the long fluorescent light above the table.

  “What the fuck do you find so amusing, Mr. Kenney?” Agent Reynolds hissed.

  “Forgive me, sir,” Jack replied unapologetically. “I guess I’m just tired...tired enough to find everything a little amusing at this point.”

  “Well, then, perhaps I can convince you to take Frank’s words a bit more seriously.” It was Steve Iverson who spoke. Standing to the left of Jack, he grasped his shoulder and began squeezing the soft area just below the collarbone. He steadily increased the pressure until the bone itself throbbed.

  Jack’s reflexes forced him to look down onto the steel table, where the distorted reflection of his painful grimace greeted him. The tangled mess of his thick auburn hair further obscured his rugged good looks.

  Agent Iverson increased the pressure on Jack’s collarbone. He nearly doubled over and was forced to clinch his teeth to keep from screaming. The agent continued to torture Jack’s shoulder, forcing him out of his chair, which landed loudly on its side upon the cement floor. Jack landed just as hard on his left side, with Agent Iverson’s hand still attached to his shoulder’s sensitive pressure point. “Had enough, asshole?”

  The agent’s head hovered just above Jack’s left ear. He wanted to turn and face his antagonist long enough to give him a warranted knee in his groin to even things up. Of course, in light of his present circumstances, that could be suicide.

  “You know, right now may be as good a time as any to fuck this pretty boy’s face up. What do you think, Frank?” Agent Iverson suddenly jerked Jack’s head back by his hair. He peered into Jack’s face, his ever-present smile never changing, not even slightly. Only the coldness of his steel-blue eyes seemed mutable, glowing with icy malice that thoroughly permeated his being. The man could kill someone with no more remorse than he’d have for smashing a stink beetle.

  In a way, the agent’s face reminded Jack of a ‘down home’ country singer his grandfather, Marshall Edwards, liked to listen to. For a moment, he pictured the tune “I’m Just An Old Jukebox Junkie” coming out of Steve Iverson’s mouth. The image struck him as particularly funny and almost made him laugh. Unfortunately, a slight snicker escaped from his mouth anyway. It only took an instant for the agent to react.

  “You think this is funny, you sorry sack of shit??” he screamed into Jack’s ear as he pulled him onto his feet by the hair. “Suppose I show you something that’s real funny—like your dick sticking out of your ass, you stupid fuck!!”

  Jack winced from the double dose of pain administered to his eardrum and scalp. Before he could respond, Agent Iverson pushed him into the waiting arms of Ben Casey, who grabbed him and shoved his arms high behind his back. He could feel the ligaments in his joints stretch to the point of tearing. All it would take to actually separate them would be the slightest additional pressure from the meanest of the three agents.

  “I’m all for giving this punk a workout,” said Agent Casey, his husky voice reverberating behind Jack’s back. “He sure seems to be begging for it.”


  Unable to move, Jack warily watched the other two men step up to him. His nostrils filled with a nauseating blend of tobacco, sweat, and a mixture of colognes—one cheap, and the other a strong musk scent. He swallowed hard, for he knew if he vomited on any of these guys, they might not let him live long enough to apologize.

  Suddenly the door to the room swung open, the hinges whining loudly from the door’s heavy weight. The room was well insulated, and the door reminded Jack of what a bank vault might require. Another agent stepped into the room carrying a long, black attaché case in one hand, and a small blue duffel bag in the other. Immediately, Agents Reynolds and Iverson backed away from Jack, while Agent Casey released his arms.

  “Well, good afternoon, Peter,” said Agent Reynolds. “Or, should I say ‘evening’, since it is nearing the dinner hour.” He moved over to him and extended his hand in welcome. The other man sat the attaché case and duffel bag down upon the floor.

  “It’s good to see you, Frank,” he said, returning the gesture with a hearty handshake. “I’m sorry I’m late. Traffic was worse than usual tonight. Was I interrupting anything of importance?”

  “No...not really, anyway,” said Agent Reynolds, casting a cautious glance toward Jack that clearly implied ‘you’ll keep your goddamn mouth shut if you know what’s good for you’. “He’s all yours, now.”

  The newcomer turned his attention to Jack, eyeing him as if he were a rare animal on display at a zoo or circus. Jack glared back at him until he turned away and focused his attention on Agent Iverson instead. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Peter told him, and extended his hand for the other agent to shake.

  “Forgive me, Pete,” said Frank. “This is Steve Iverson, and this other fellow is Ben Casey from the New York office.”

  “Peter McNamee...I’m pleased to meet you both.” He shook hands with Agent Casey.

  “Pete’s father and I go way back,” said Agent Reynolds, glancing coolly toward Jack once more. “We used to work together for the bureau down in New Orleans. Isn’t that right, Pete?”

  “Yeah. Dad still speaks of those times quite fondly, Frank. We’ll need to catch up some when our work here is through,” he said, shifting his gaze back toward the haggard young man standing nearby. Once again, Jack met his gaze head on. After an awkward moment in silence, Peter returned his attention to Agent Reynolds again.

  “I’m sure my dad will be interested to know what you’ve been up to.”

  “Just working, son. Same as always...”

  There was a sudden thickness in the air. Peter McNamee seemed bothered by Jack’s tousled appearance. Jack sensed it, and he was certain that Agent Reynolds knew it, too. He wasn’t sure if the two Neanderthals with him cared one way or another.

  “Well, I guess I’ll get started then,” Agent McNamee advised, and picked up his attaché case and duffel bag from the floor. He moved over to the table and sat both items on it with a noticeable thud.

  The three other agents looked on warily, and for the moment seemed unsure of what to do next. It made Jack feel better about his own situation, for it appeared McNamee intimidated them, despite the fact he was at least fifteen years younger than any of the three. Jack was sure he was just slightly older than himself.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to interview Mr. Kenney in private,” Peter told them. “As you’ll be able to follow along just fine from outside the room, I hope you won’t mind my request. It will be easier for me to remain focused.” He pointed to the surveillance cameras barely visible in each corner of the room. The other agents nodded reluctantly, and moved over to the door.

  “All right, then,” said Agent Reynolds, his disappointment apparent in his voice. “Holler if you need anything, Pete. Perhaps this will give us some extra time to visit with Jeremy Kenney. Who knows, maybe he’s ready to enlighten us some.”

  Reynolds gave Jack one last menacing look before exiting the room with the other two agents. Jack said a silent prayer for his brother’s safety, although he figured Jeremy would have an easier time holding his own against this trio.

  Peter McNamee smiled and moved over to Jack’s side of the table and picked up his previously toppled chair for him. He extended his hand for Jack to shake, and was only slightly deterred by Jack’s indifference to him.

  “I guess a handshake may be a little inappropriate at this point,” he chuckled. “Have a seat, Jack. We’re probably going to be here for a good while.”

  “Actually, I need to take a piss,” said Jack. “If I don’t go soon, I’m sure to God I’m going to explode.”

  Toward the back of the room was a small closet-sized room with a toilet and sink. Jack motioned to it and the agent responded that would be fine.

  “Would you like some coffee? Or, perhaps a Coke would do you better,” offered Peter. “I’m sure there’s one in the ‘fridge over here.” He moved over to a small refrigerator that sat beneath the coffee maker next to the door.

  “A Coke would be great if there’s one,” responded Jack, quickly before closing the bathroom door.

  “Yep” confirmed Peter. “There is.”

  The agent closed the refrigerator and brought the drinks over to the table. After finishing his other business, Jack met him there. His hair was combed back and he stood behind his chair, sizing up the agent sitting on the other side of the table.

  “Please, sit down,” Peter told him as he quickly unpacked his duffel bag. He placed a pair of journals in front of himself along with a small recording device in the middle of the table. Jack studied the recorder as he slowly sat down in his chair.

  “Do you really need this?” he asked. “I thought the surveillance stuff already in this room would be sufficient enough.” He motioned to the windowless room around them. The walls were painted in mustard yellow, which seemed to enhance the bright illumination provided by three overhead fluorescent lights that bisected the room’s fifteen-foot ceiling. The middle light hung directly above the table. Along with two chairs and the refreshment cart nearby, this was the only furniture in the room.

  “To be honest, the recorder is for my own personal use,” Peter advised. “I’d like to review our session at a later time, if it’s okay with you.”

  Jack shrugged his shoulders, satisfied with that explanation.

  “Good, then. This thing can run for up to three and a half hours, which should be plenty of recording time to work with. Are you ready to get started?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Jack sighed. “But, nothing’s changed since I started talking to your buddies two days ago. My story’s the same.”

  Peter smiled and leaned forward. Blond, blue-eyed, and dressed in a black Armani suit and gold necktie; he looked far too pretty to be a policeman, FBI agent, or whatever he actually was. “Jack,” he said. “I haven’t heard what you’ve told anyone else. I do have the original police report from Tuscaloosa, which simply states you were the one who found Dr. Oscar Mensch unconscious and then called for an ambulance. That, and the fact you were the last person we can identify who saw him alive in the hospital after he regained consciousness.”

  Jack nodded his head, silently concurring the truth of this statement. “So, you’re just wanting information concerning Dr. Mensch and his death? Is that all you want?” He popped open his can of Coke and took a good-sized drink before setting the can down again on the table. “It seems like a wasted use for that recorder, being it’ll take just a few minutes to answer whatever questions you have on that subject.”

  “Perhaps...perhaps not,” said Peter. “Dr. Mensch’s death will be our starting point. But, to be honest again with you I’ve got other questions related to this whole mess in Tuscaloosa as well. Let’s take it one step at a time and see where we end up.”

  He smiled once more and reached over to turn on the recorder. After marking the session’s intro with an identifier, he picked up one of the journals sitting in front of him and leaned back in his chair. He, too, had an I.D. badge similar to the ot
her agents. His read ‘RS638’ etched in gold, along with his photo in a stoic pose similar to Agent Reynolds’ badge earlier. Jack presumed this must be part of the standard operating procedures for these guys, to look like someone’s got a secure grip on their balls while threatening to yank them off should they crack so much as a sliver of a smile.

  “Now, then. On the night of May 4th, you found Dr. Oscar Mensch, Professor of Archaeology at the University of Alabama, lying unconscious in his living room. Is that accurate?”

  Accurate yes, a good description, no, Jack thought to himself. It should be Dr. Oscar Mensch, internationally renowned scholar and expert in the study of ancient civilizations. Boy, and what a bleeder he was, Agent, sir. Yes sirree, every surface in the living room was splattered with the man’s corpuscles. “Pretty much so,” he replied.

  “What exactly did you do when you found him?” asked Peter. “Oh, and also, why were you visiting Dr. Mensch’s residence?”

  “Well, I needed to talk to him about an upcoming expedition to the Andes in South America,” Jack explained. “Jeremy, my brother, is working on his masters’ degree in ancient studies, and he wanted me to join him while he did his summer internship there. A group of graduate students had already committed themselves to go on the trip, which Dr. Mensch and Dr. Sutherland were sponsoring. But they needed a few more students to come along. Usually, this would mean other grad students. Since Dr. Mensch was like a second father to my brother, and because I’d gotten to know him pretty well myself, Jeremy suggested I approach him and see if I could go. I’ll be graduating within a week, so it wasn’t like I had anything in my immediate future to prevent me from going.”

  Peter was busy jotting down a few notes onto the back page of his journal, and Jack waited for him to finish. The agent raised his head and smiled again once he was done.

  “I just wanted to reference this, in case I have other questions about this trip you mentioned,” he said. “How did you get to know Dr. Mensch? He was your brother’s academic advisor. Did you meet him that way?”