by Shawn Oetzel
“Hello?” she said, some annoyance in her voice.
There was a pause on the other end. She was on the verge of saying “hello” again, this time a little more forcibly, when a familiar-sounding voice finally answered.
“Uh…yeah, I am looking for Special Agent Amy Sommers.”
She had a sarcastic comment on the tip of her tongue about being interrupted during her dinner when it dawned on her where she had heard the caller’s voice before. It was Professor Jack Foshay.
She cleared her throat in an attempt to cover up the attitude she had already thrown his way, and did her best to sound as professional as possible.
“This is Agent Sommers speaking.”
“Oh, hello, Agent Sommers, this is Jack Foshay from Boston University. You left a message for me to contact you.”
She could hear his uncertainty. It was not every day a college professor was contacted by the FBI, or in her case a Special Agent working for an ultra secretive Government agency posing as a FBI agent, so he was probably a little nervous.
“Yes Professor, as I mentioned earlier when I called, I was hoping you might be able to help us. My partner and I are here in Boston working an investigation with some literary connections. We were told you might be able to offer some insight.”
“Well, of course I will do whatever I can, but I’m not sure how much help I will actually be.”
“You might be surprised, Professor,” she said, trying to sound encouraging. “It might be some small piece of information you provide which will blow this case wide open. When could we meet?”
She thought she could hear pages being flipped and guessed the Professor was looking over his calendar. She hoped he did not expect them to make some kind of an appointment for next week. She and Ambrosius needed to speak with him as soon as possible if they were going to have any hope of finding the sword before the Ghost did. “I just finished with my last class for this evening. I know it is a little late, but if you and your partner are available, we could meet in roughly an hour.”
“That would be perfect,” she said trying to keep herself from sounding like an excited teen who had just been asked to the senior prom by the captain of the football team. “We are staying at the Hilton on Broad Street. Why don’t you meet us in the bar?”
“I will see you then, but again, I must reiterate, I don’t know how much help I can be.”
“Why don’t we just wait until we can speak face to face,” she said.
“Okay, Agent Sommers. I will see you in an hour,” the professor said before hanging up.
She clipped her phone back to her belt, and took a long sip from her drink. The ice had melted somewhat, but she barely noticed. The weariness of a few minutes ago was gone, replaced by a renewed energy. Maybe this impromptu meeting was a portent of things to come with this investigation. Foshay’s willingness to meet with them so soon was the first positive thing that had happened since she had first been told she had been given this assignment.
The male model/waiter returned with their side dishes. She knew Ambrosius wanted to ask about her phone conversation, but the lure of his steaming bowl of clam chowder was too much. Instead of giving her the third degree, he began spooning the soup into his mouth like it was going out of style. To her own credit, she was spearing her salad with her fork as if it might try to escape from her plate.
A short time later, the waiter returned again, this time bringing their entrees. She stared at her beautiful steak as if it was the Holy Grail and not simply a piece of meat, then smiled at the irony of the thought. Ambrosius was equally as enthralled with his own food. She watched with humor as he laid into the Atlantic salmon with as much vigor as a drowning person desperately trying to grab hold of a lifeline.
“I can see you are taking your time to savor the moment,” she said, mocking Ambrosius for his haste. “But, you might want to eat faster, if that is even possible. We have a meeting with Professor Foshay in less than an hour.”
Ambrosius paused in his chewing long enough to stare at her like he was trying to decide if she was joking or not. She watched as he swallowed the bite in his mouth, and then laughed as he tried to stifle a very ungentlemanly like burp without much success.
“Well, I guess there is no time like the present,” Ambrosius said, resuming his unfettered attack on a now mutilated salmon.
“My thought exactly,” she said, starting her own little private war on the steak.
Things were starting to pick up, and the investigative itch was tugging at her once again. She could feel it, the tides of this case were about to turn.
The same time Amy and Ambrosius were ordering their respective drinks, Reggie was at the bar of his favorite tavern enjoying his own adult beverage of choice, an ice cold bottle of Bud Lite. He had driven straight to the Pug, a little boxing themed tavern he often frequented when he needed to get away, after dropping Sommers off at the airport to catch her flight to Boston. He had been so disappointed with himself, and for how their last meeting went, he decided the only cure would be a steady stream of alcohol.
He knew he had let Sommers down by trying to get her taken off the case. He still felt like he had done the right thing, but that did little to massage away the guilt settling on his already overburdened shoulders. Sometimes he really hated this job, and especially hated the decisions it forced you to make in regards to the people you cared about.
“Screw it,” he mumbled, as he took one last long pull from his beer, finishing it off. He slammed the bottle back down on top of the well-worn and scarred bar to get the bartender’s attention. When she looked up, he motioned for her to bring him another.
The bartender, who may have been attractive in her day, but now looked beaten down by a hard life and had nothing left to show for it except accelerated ageing and feeling constantly tired, nodded in understanding.
“You don’t look like a very happy camper,” she said, placing another bottle on a fresh coaster.
“That’s a very astute observation,” he said, taking a drink. “They teach you stuff like that at bartender’s college?”
Her already wrinkled brow furrowed even more as a deep frown settled on her worn face.
“Look guy, I get paid to serve drinks, not to care about your crap, so if you want me to serve you any more beers, I suggest you lose the attitude.” She moved to the other end of the bar, where apparently the other patrons were more friendly.
“Well, I guess I’m just pissing off everyone today,” he said, more to himself.
He nursed his beer without speaking to anyone else, uncomfortable, his large frame not meant for something as scrawny and unsteady as a barstool. He had to shift his weight periodically to keep his back from cramping, which only added to his annoyance, and soured his mood even more.
He thought about giving Sommers a call, but dismissed the notion. If he knew her, she would still be angry and in no mood to speak with him anyways. At this point, he figured she would see it as meddling or that he was checking up on her, and that would only serve to anger her even further.
He tried to get the whole mess out of his head, but even after several beers, he could not stop dwelling on it. This case stunk from the ground up. He had pushed to get Sommers on it, and now she was running around Boston completely blind, with a stranger for a partner. To top it all off, she was being hunted by a killer he himself should have stopped a long time ago.
He was not a man who normally felt guilt. He usually did his job and then walked away, letting the consequences fall where they may. This time he could not simply let it go. Sommers was his friend, and he had practically thrown her to the wolves; walking away from this one was not an option he could live with.
This was now completely Sommers’s case, so, according to Agency policy, he could not interfere. But that did not stop him from trying to dig up more information which might prove beneficial.
Even with his brain somewhat muddied by the effect of the alcohol, he knew with pristine cl
arity what he had to do. The only place where he might find some answers would be to return to the proverbial scene of the crime. He would go back to Jackson’s apartment and do some snooping around.
He paid his tab and left a generous tip for the bartender for having to put up with his downward spiral into depression and poor manners. The near freezing temperature outside helped sober him up. That and his sense of duty and loyalty to his friend were leading him back to where this God awful day had begun.
He crossed the street toward his car with a single minded determination. He was going to find something to help Sommers, even if it took him all night.
—Chapter 15
From the glances thrown their way by the restaurant’s other patrons, Sommers knew she and Ambrosius must have caused quite a comical scene, tearing into their dinners like they had just been rescued from a deserted island and this was the first real food they had eaten in years. With all the chomping, slurping, and belching, they probably were closer to resembling a couple of gremlins eating than a couple of respectable government agents. She could not bring herself to care however. This meal was the first good thing she had experienced in awhile.
Their bill, in her opinion, looked more like the gross national product of a small country than the tab for a couple of dinners, but she had to admit, the food was well worth the cost. Their waiter pointed them toward the bar, through a set of double doors to the left of the restaurant’s entrance.
As they walked through the dining area, she noticed the other customers were still staring. She nodded and smiled in mock politeness at as many as she could, not really in apology for her or Ambrosius’ poor manners while eating, but more to acknowledge that she knew she had been rude, but those who were staring were being equally as rude in their own behavior.
The Caliterra’s bar resembled more of an upscale New York City gentlemen’s club than it did an actual pub. It was decent sized, about half full, and they made their way around a haphazard layout of tables to an empty booth. If there had been a faint odor of cheese on the air, she could have almost believed she was the rat caught in some alcoholic’s version of a maze.
When they finally reached their destination, she slid into the booth without waiting. Ambrosius remained standing, looking over in the direction of the bartender.
“I’m going to go to the bar and order us a couple of drinks,” he said. “Would you like the same as you had with your dinner?”
“Yeah, you know what they say, if it isn’t broke, don’t fix it,” she said.
She stole a look at her watch. It was nearing 7:30pm, which meant the professor should be here any minute.
Even though she had an unobstructed view of the bar’s entrance, she wondered if a table would have not have been a better choice for their meeting. The booth would offer a little more privacy for them to speak with Professor Foshay, but it was not overly large. Things could get cozy real quick depending on how large of a person the professor was. She was considering switching to one of the closer tables when Ambrosius returned, carrying a glass in each hand.
“Any sign of this professor?” Ambrosius asked, placing her drink on the table and sliding into the seat across from her. “I did tell the man behind the bar we were expecting someone so he could send them our way when he arrives.”
“Not yet,” she said sipping at her second rum and Coke of the evening. “It hasn’t quite been an hour yet, though.”
As if on cue, the bar’s double doors opened, and then closed. Even though she had never met the man before, she knew right away the bar’s newest patron was Professor Foshay.
She fell back on her LAPD homicide detective training as she quickly sized him up. Early thirties, short dark brown hair. Black-framed glasses caught the bright lights behind the bar, obstructing her view of his eyes. He was of medium build, perhaps 190 to 200 lbs., and stood roughly 5’10.
He was dressed in what she considered to be the standard uniform for college professors these days: blue jeans, black pullover shirt, brown loafers, tan corduroy sports jacket with the requisite patches on the elbows. Even having never seen him before, she was pretty sure she could have picked Professor Foshay out of a crowd.
She was trying to get some kind of read on his behavior so she might better know what to expect in the way of cooperation, when he turned and looked her square in the eyes. His gaze was friendly but intense. It made her uncomfortable, and also guilty, like she had been caught staring at someone with a disability. She averted her eyes quickly before realizing she had not done anything wrong. It made her wonder how the professor’s students felt, having the man direct his focused attention on them on a regular basis. She did not envy them if he carried that intensity with him into class, that was for sure.
“I think that’s our guy,” she said as the man walked over to the bartender, who motioned in her and Ambrosius’ direction.
“I believe you’re right,” Ambrosius said, having witnessed the same exchange.
Sommers and Ambrosius stood as he approached their booth.
“Professor Foshay?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s me,” the Professor said forcing a nervous smile onto his face.
“I am Special Agent Amy Sommers,” she said, flipping open her ID. “And this is my partner, Special Agent Ambrosius.”
She could not help but notice his curious glance when she introduced the British agent. “Ambrosius? That is a rather interesting name,” the professor said, after shaking hands.
“Thank you,” Ambrosius said dryly.
“May I ask, is it Welsh?”
Sommers decided to try and head things off before Ambrosius became even surlier.
“Why don’t we all have a seat,” she said, motioning for the professor to sit down.
He sat where Ambrosius had been sitting minutes before. She moved back a step so the British agent could take her spot on the opposite side of Professor Foshay, and she took a seat right next to him so that they could both look at the professor while they talked.
“Yes, it is Welsh,” Ambrosius said, surprising her by answering the question.
Foshay nodded as if confirming to himself that his guess had been correct.
“May we get you a drink?” Sommers knew from experience that people were more forthcoming with information in a friendly environment than they were in a confrontational atmosphere.
“No thank you,” he said. “Maybe I will have one in a minute, but honestly, I am curious as to why the FBI would need my help.”
“We have it on good authority that you are an expert on Arthurian legend,” she said, watching closely so she could gauge his reaction.
At first, he looked somewhat confused. Then, to her amusement, he tried to downplay his expertise.
“I don’t know if I would describe myself as an expert. I have studied the literature, and written several papers on different aspects of the tales. I also teach a literature class which focuses on Arthurian legend as you put it, but so do several other literary professors.”
“Well, that is more than I have done. So, in my book that makes you an expert,” she said.
“Speak for yourself,” Ambrosius muttered under his breath. He did not acknowledge her reprimanding look. Instead, he paid more attention to his drink.
To his credit, the professor did not take Ambrosius’ bait. “Who gave you my name?”
She decided the truth was the best approach, but she would need to put some spin on it to match their FBI cover story.
“When we realized the case we are working on was going to bring us to Boston, our research department discovered you might be someone who would have information which could prove helpful.”
“I don’t know if I should be flattered or worried that the FBI deemed me a person of interest,” he said jokingly, but she could tell by the slight waver in his voice that it was less of a joke than he wanted her to believe.
“You’re not suspected of any wrongdoing, Professor, we just need some information.
”
She wanted to instill a level of confidence so he would be more apt to open up. She did feel for the guy, however. Had she been unexpectedly asked to meet with a couple of FBI agents, real or otherwise, she would have been on the defensive as well.
Her statement seemed to have the desired effect. She could see the professor relax a little. He shifted his weight so he could get more comfortable, and leaned forward, folding his hands and sitting them atop the booth’s table.
“Okay, Agent Sommers, how can I help you?”
“For starters, what can you tell us about the sword Excalibur?’
He leveled his intense stare at her once again, his handsome face turning into a confused scowl. He looked around the bar like he was expecting some kind of hidden camera crew to pop out and yell “surprise”. She knew this whole conversation was going to seem surreal to the Professor, but her patience would only stretch so far.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “The FBI wants to know about Excalibur, King Arthur’s sword?”
“That’s correct, Professor,” she said sternly. “Now can you help us or not?”
“I guess so. What is it exactly you want to know?”
She looked over at Ambrosius to see if he had anything to add, but apparently his scotch had become the focal point of his universe.
“I’m not that familiar with the stories. Maybe you could start with a brief overview,” she said.
His intense look seemed to gain more power with every passing second. Now that he was sitting a few mere feet away from her, she got a pretty good look at the man’s eyes. They were the darkest brown she had ever seen. They were so dark in fact, they were almost black. Under different circumstances. she would have found them to be compelling and attractive. The lenses of his glasses only seemed to focus their intensity even more. She was so caught up in their stark beauty she almost missed the beginning of the professor’s explanation.
“Well, obviously Excalibur was the sword of King Arthur,” he began. “But, it was not the Sword in the Stone like most people believe.”