The Resurrector (The Dominic Grey Series)

by Layton Green

  As they walked to the front door, the raucous nighttime chorus of insects and animals on the prowl startled Viktor.

  “Three percent of the world’s plant species are found in the Western Cape fynbos,” Naomi said. “With the added advantage that it’s impossible to drive through.”

  “A beautiful and secure backyard.”

  She led him down a short hallway and into a cozy if cramped kitchen with canary yellow walls. A few stunning photos of the cosmos, streaking stars and glowing clouds of nebula riven by psychedelic swirls of color, hung in glass frames about the room.

  “Wine?” she asked, reaching for a bottle of Shiraz as she undid a barrette. Her tawny hair fell past her shoulders, softening the angles of her face.

  What Viktor really, desperately wanted was to sink into a glass of absinthe and ponder everything he had seen and heard that evening, the mysteries hovering around van Draker and the disappearance of Akhona’s body. The professor even had an emergency flask hidden in the breast pocket of his suit. For some reason, however—Viktor told himself it was not to please Naomi—he accepted his host’s offer of wine and then obliged her as she beckoned for him to follow.

  The kitchen opened onto a covered outdoor terrace. When she led him up a short flight of steps to the flat-topped roof, he was surprised to find an enormous telescope enclosed in a thick waterproof tarp.

  “My hobby,” she said shyly. “Astrophotography.”

  “I admit I’ve never encountered an astrophotographer.”

  “Look up.”

  He did, and was so awed by the glittering awning of stars that for a moment he stood with his mouth hanging open, transfixed by the beauty. All night long he had been vaguely aware of the brilliant night sky, but with the chaos he had not taken the time to stop and absorb it. Not only that, but Naomi had switched off the lights behind them, and not a speck of artificial light disturbed the celestial expanse.

  This, Viktor thought, is why we search. To wade deeper into the mystery of that miracle, cradle the starlight in our hands and never let it go.

  He noticed that Naomi, too, was staring rapturously above, as if she were a child gazing at the night sky in the country for the first time.

  “You took the photos in the kitchen?”

  She nodded.

  “Stunning.”

  The hint of a smile lifted her lips. Viktor had the sudden urge to walk up and take her in his arms, which he attributed to the wine and lingering adrenaline from the night’s adventure. Earlier that day he was convinced that she thought him her enemy. Maybe she still did.

  She broke off her gaze and took a swallow of wine. “The other mutations . . . has a connection been found? Among the victims?”

  “The only thing we can determine so far,” Viktor rubbed his chin and gave a helpless shrug, “is that they’re all people of color.”

  Naomi’s eyes flashed. “Van Draker’s a racist. Of the very worst kind.”

  Viktor told her about Grey’s discoveries and the suspected link between the victim in Atlanta and the white supremacist organization. She remained silent when he finished, peering into her glass with a disgusted expression.

  “Come,” she said finally, taking him by the arm. When they reached the kitchen, she peered up at him. “Who do you really work for?”

  He sensed his answer to her question would determine what happened next. “Myself.”

  “As an officer of the law, I don’t appreciate someone who plays outside the rules.”

  He didn’t respond, thinking he had misjudged her intent.

  “Except when it comes to Jans van Draker,” she said coldly.

  “Why?”

  She held a finger up. “I want to show you something. It’s something that, if it came to light, would reflect very poorly on my decisions as a police officer.”

  “Whatever it is,” he said, “you want it to stay between us.”

  She closed her eyes, holding them shut as she took a long breath that seemed to stretch back a decade. “I don’t know you very well,” she said, when she opened them, “and I think you’re a man, at the very least, who has complicated motives for what he does. I’m not even sure yet if you’re a good man. But I do sense that you’re a man who keeps his word.”

  Viktor held her gaze. She took his arm again and led him down another hallway, through a closed door, and into a paneled study furnished with an old wooden desk, a pair of rifles hanging on the wall, and the sort of drab cloth sofa common in the Seventies.

  It was not the furnishings that commanded the professor’s attention, but the contents of the photos, handwritten notes, and newspaper articles littering the walls and blanketing the desk.

  The story they told about Jans van Draker.

  As he walked around the room, eyeing the photos taken over the years from surreptitious angles, Naomi pulled up a photo on her smartphone. “Is this who you saw tonight?”

  He stepped closer and saw a lean white man wearing a South African policeman’s uniform. He had the bearing and sinewy musculature of a soldier. Viktor scrolled down to read the caption. Local policeman killed in gang shootout. The first few lines told him that the policeman’s name was Robey Joubert, and that he had been killed in the line of duty three years ago in the Cape Flats.

  Viktor felt his skin prickle as he stared at the familiar face. There was no sign of a scar or the plasticized skin, but it was the same face he had seen earlier that night. The first guard who disappeared. He was sure of it.

  “That’s him,” Viktor said grimly. “Unless he has a twin brother.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  The professor paced back and forth, disturbed. He swept a hand around the room. “Explain.”

  Naomi clasped her hands on the desk and spoke in a quiet, resigned voice. “Unlike most Afrikaners, especially outside the cities, my family were never farmers. They were scholars. Activists. This homestead—it was my parents’—is extremely modest by white standards. Uncleared, unworked land. My parents refused to employ domestic servants who they could not afford without exploiting them. Our political views,” she said wryly, “were not very popular.

  “I studied art history in college, and taught high school in the Bo-Kaap for a decade. I was sickened by the inequalities, but it felt good to help someone, kids, on a daily basis. Anyway, as you know, van Draker moved to our town after the scandal in Johannesburg. He moved here because it was his family’s homestead, but also for privacy. Most people in town welcomed him. From the start, he used his family’s money to give liberally to the local community—the white community—doling out loans to those in need and providing jobs for his family’s businesses. They were bankers, you know. Farmers in the beginning, but Jans owns the banks and half the prime real estate in town. My point is that, because he helped them financially, no one blinked an eye when this depraved relic of Apartheid, this torturer, moved into town. No one except my father.”

  Viktor could only imagine how her family’s activism must have gone over in small town South Africa.

  “He demonstrated against Jans from the start. Organized protests, wrote op-eds in the local paper, hosted liberal journalists from Cape Town. He and van Draker hated each other, and they made it public. Of course, the rest of the town sided with their patron saint,” she said bitterly. “I told my father it would get him killed, and one day—” her top lip pressed down hard over her bottom—“it did.”

  Viktor’s eyebrows lifted.

  “My father had gone on one of his bird watching trips to the Langebergs. He was an avid birder and knew the roads as well as the park rangers. It was a clear day, bright and sunny, and somehow he drove his car off a thousand-foot cliff.”

  “Dear God,” Viktor said. And you think—”

  “I don’t think. I know. Except there’s no proof of the accident, and I doubt there ever will be.”

  “That’s why you became a policewoman?”

  “I made my decision to move back home the day after it happened
. All these years, I’ve been nothing but cordial to Jans. I want him off his guard. Which is not hard, since the whole town thinks he walks on water.” She shrugged. “And I can see why. To those he cares about, his people, he’s a model citizen. A benefactor.”

  “They often are,” Viktor murmured.

  “There have been plenty of suspicious deaths since his arrival. Deformed children and animals in the township, rumors of even worse. Yet he’s extremely careful, and as I’ve said, the town is in his thrall.” She swept a hand across the room. “Even with all of this, I’ve got nothing to show for it.” Her eyes glittered with excitement and barely controlled rage as she opened a desk drawer and withdrew a small silver item that resembled a triangular dog tag. “Nothing except this.”

  Viktor moved to study the item. Engraved into the back of the tag was the familiar unalome and double helix piercing a circle. His eyes flew up. “Where did you get this?”

  “A woman in the township found it attached to a two-headed cane rat her son found floating in the canal.”

  “When?”

  “A year ago.”

  Viktor put his palms on the desk. “You should have told us. I asked you about evidence of a lab.”

  She glanced away. “I’m telling you now.”

  He set the silver tag on the desk, clasped his hands behind his back, and paced the room. “You didn’t want anyone to ask uncomfortable questions. Even though it might have affected the investigation.”

  “It’s a case to you. It’s my life.”

  After a moment, Viktor said, “What’s done is done. Let’s move forward.”

  “Thank you,” Naomi said quietly, her voice saturated with relief.

  Viktor continued to pace, thinking through what they knew. “I’m going to consult a few people in Cape Town tomorrow, one of whom is van Draker’s old colleague. A former neurosurgeon. I also want to speak to someone who knew Robey.”

  “Should I go with you?”

  “I’d prefer if you stayed here. We know there’s a lab on that property, but we have no reason to conduct another search. Find a way to get us inside.”

  “I noticed the monitors only displayed the grounds. Nothing inside the house or the wine cellar.”

  “There might be multiple entrances. People coming and going who require anonymity. He doesn’t want evidence on video.”

  “But it gives us an advantage,” she said, “if we can get inside.”

  He gave a slow nod of agreement, and she gave him a rundown of van Draker’s suspicious activities over the years, including a list of people she had photographed visiting the manor. After brainstorming for another hour, Viktor yawned.

  “Call it a night?” she asked.

  “I believe so. Naomi, after what we saw, would you prefer if I . . . stayed here?” He blushed. “In the guest room, of course.”

  As soon as he said it, he saw the look of annoyance on her face and regretted his words. She was not annoyed, he knew, at his bumbling apology or any perceived advance, but because his offer to stay was a chauvinistic comment from another era. Naomi was a seasoned policewoman who lived by herself, owned at least two firearms, and kept an enormous dog on the property. If anyone needed protection, it was Viktor.

  Or both of them.

  Before he could apologize, the annoyance in her eyes softened, and she laid a hand on his arm. “I’m fine, but thank you for the offer. You’re welcome to stay.”

  Her fingertips lingered on his arm, and Viktor felt a prickle of heat flowing from her touch. He caught a mischievous glint in the corner of her eye as she said, “In the guest room, of course.”

  Viktor straightened his tie; his neck had suddenly grown hot. He checked his watch. It was too late to call his driver, and it would be supremely rude to ask Naomi to take him home. Still, ever the gentlemen, he couldn’t quite bring himself to accept her offer, so she took him by the arm and made the decision for him, showing him to the guest room and asking what else he might need.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

  She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered close to his ear, before backing away. It caused another hot flush to spread across his skin.

  “For what?” he said, his voice huskier than he intended.

  “For not being a man like Jans van Draker. For understanding why I didn’t come forward with that evidence.”

  Viktor wasn’t quite sure what to say, and his brain seemed muddled by the closeness of her scent and the warmth of her lips on his cheek. She was still standing there, and just as he began to realize that the attraction might be mutual, his cell rang in his pocket, breaking the spell.

  The sudden noise startled him, and he reached for his phone. The caller was Jacques, and after Viktor listened to what he had to say, he slowly closed the phone and looked at Naomi.

  “Nine more victims have been reported. All with similar mutations, in the same two communities as before. Atlanta and Paris.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Whatever this is,” he said, “it’s spreading.”

  -24-

  A cold night wind whisked across the top of Stone Mountain, darkness pressing all around. Grey barely noticed the elements. He stopped advancing ten feet from Dag, far enough away to preserve his options, and focused all of his attention on the W.A.R. leader. “Where is she?”

  Dag folded his massive arms and returned Grey’s probing stare. “Close.”

  “She’s alive?”

  “More than most,” Dag said wryly.

  Another man had stepped out of the crowd of men behind the W.A.R. leader: a handsome blond man in a vintage Nazi uniform who was almost as tall as Dag, though not as thick. The blond man looked a few years younger than Grey, and his short, precise haircut, the cowlick trimmed back in a tight wave, was reminiscent of a look from the 1940s. Grey noticed a Swastika emblem pinned to the right breast.

  As far as Grey could tell, neither Dag nor the blond man were armed. The rest of the crowd had black assault rifles trained on Grey. He held his palms up. “Like you said. No weapons, no cops.”

  Dag gave an eerily prescient smile. “I know.”

  “What do you want?”

  Dag chuckled. “Not one for formalities?”

  Grey wanted to say he reserved his formalities for people who deserved respect, not for kidnappers of children. But he had to keep his cool. “Where are you from? I don’t recognize your accent.”

  Dag’s smile widened. “I’m a citizen of the world, shall we say. The New World.”

  It was a fifty-fifty chance that Grey could reach Dag without getting shot, and he debated taking him hostage. Though both men looked formidable, Grey thought he could incapacitate the blond man quickly, and then subdue Dag.

  The problem was, Grey didn’t have anywhere to go, or a viable threat to use. He couldn’t kill Dag. Not before Charlie was safe. And these men knew it.

  He didn’t see an option other than to play their game. He wasn’t even sure what the game was, because Dag was studying him in a bizarre manner, as if evaluating him for some unknown purpose. The blond Nazi had a stare both vacant and intense, a cunning predator trained to await orders.

  Dag sniffed the cold air and swiped a knuckle across his nose. “I hear you know how to handle yourself.”

  “I didn’t come here to fight,” Grey said quietly. “I came for Charlie.”

  “It’s a commendable trait, loyalty to a cause.”

  “Is it?”

  “Loyalty is honor. The heritage, the hallmark, of our people. Your people.”

  “Charlie is my people.”

  Dag lowered his head and shook it. “She’s quite spirited, your young charge. Black as, how do they say here, a cast-iron skillet?”

  Darkness seeped into the corners of Grey’s vision.

  “She speaks of you often, you know. I believe she looks up to you.” Dag cracked his knuckles and started to pace. “Let me pose a quest
ion. Do you believe in family? In protecting your own?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  Dag wagged a finger. “Yes, yes. We all do. It’s the highest calling. So why,” he asked, with a genuinely puzzled expression, “risk your life for someone not of your own blood? Someone not even of the same species?”

  The darkness, the rage, threatened to cloud not just Grey’s vision but his judgment, and he bit down on his lip until he gained control.

  “Leave the girl and come with us. Join the cause. A soldier like you would be invaluable. In return, I’ll teach you how to restore your honor and value your heritage.” Dag stopped pacing. “I’m quite serious. Past sins will be forgiven. You’ll be one of us, a brother in arms, fighting the disease the modern world has become. Poverty, class inequalities, the lie of globalism, the rampant injustice inherent to the system: we want to put a stop to it all.”

  “For those who look like you.”

  “Tribal boundaries have always been formed, from the beginning of mankind. It’s a necessary state of existence. Americans take great pride in their nationalism, Western Europeans in their starry-eyed humanism, Muslims in their religious identity. Who is right? Where is the line drawn? We don’t hate anyone, we just believe that we must protect our own kind.”

  “World War II is over,” Grey said. “Or didn’t you hear?”

  With an amused expression, Dag turned to his blond companion. “What do you think, Klaus? Is he right?”

  “Quite,” Klaus said, in a thick German accent.

  Dag turned back to Grey. “Yes, that battle was lost. But it was one skirmish, a stone in the river of history. The greater conflict is far from over.” He cocked his head in self-reflection. “And we have learned much from our mistakes.”

  “That wouldn’t be hard.”

  Dag gave him a sharp look, and Grey regretted the snipe. The big man clasped his hands behind his back and continued to pace. “An example, then. Of what a focused family can accomplish, the superiority and ingenuity of the Aryan mind. I have a proposition for you. Best Klaus in single unarmed combat, force him to submit, and I will release the girl into your custody. No questions asked. You both walk away. Tonight.”