by Phil Swann
Ben closed his eyes. “It sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Ben, because you’re right, it is ridiculous.” Grey began pacing as he talked. “Folks, I’ve been an FBI agent for a lot of years. I’ve worked scores of murder cases. You know what they all have in common?”
“What?” Ellie responded.
“Motive. Murder is committed for one of three reasons: money, power, or revenge. Despite what movies lead you to believe, the truth of the matter is it’s almost never the ‘voices in my head made me do it.’ No, it’s a guy walks into his house, finds his wife in bed with another man, and shoots him. Or a fellow is up for a promotion and decides to eliminate the competition in the cubicle next to him. Or a man in a convenience store blows away the clerk because there’s not enough cash in the register. Money, power, revenge, these are why people kill other people. Purification rites? Ancient cults? Songs? Not so much.”
Ben looked at Ellie. “I told you he wasn’t going to believe—”
“No,” Grey quickly cut in. “I believe you, Ben. I believe every word both of you said. Buchanan is a psychopath, no doubt about it. And, I believe he’s following chapter and verse every weird ritual of this whole Eleusinian Mysteries stuff. And that scares the holy hell out of me because I suspect that means this maniac has something planned in this city tonight we had better stop before it ever gets started.”
“So what are you saying, Agent Pryce?” Ellie asked.
“What I’m saying is I believe Earl Buchanan is evil, brazen, and completely out of his mind. I’m just not convinced he’s the mastermind behind any of this. I think he’s a pawn, not the chess player. And I think the Eleusinian Mysteries are—”
“A misdirection,” Ellie cut in.
Grey nodded. “A misdirection I have no intention of getting bamboozled by. And, Dr. Scotes, I think your grandfather knew…sorry, knows exactly what that something else is.”
Ben spoke up, “But her grandfather told Buchanan I had the ‘Song of Eleusis’…like that was the most important thing of all.”
“Yes, to keep you and Mrs. Lambros alive. No, I tend to believe the story Timon Baros first told you, the one about how he and your father started an organization years ago to root out corruption in their homeland.”
“Really?” Ben replied, looking at Ellie and making no attempt to conceal his doubt.
Grey went on, “It’s not so far-fetched, Ben. It’s well known militias like he described popped up all around the Mediterranean right after the junta came to power. It wouldn’t surprise me if he and your dad started one too.” Grey paused for a moment as if to consider his next words. “You know, my ex-wife used to say I lacked imagination. She was probably right. But that’s okay, because in my line of work, imagination can get you into a heap of trouble—you start over-thinking things. Ben, Dr. Scotes, listen to me. Oswald killed Kennedy, there are no alien space crafts at Area 51, and as sure as I’m standing here, the president of the United States was killed for a very un-mystical, exceedingly practical, and utterly human reason. I just don’t know what it is…yet. But in the meantime, let’s focus on where Buchanan is holding your grandfather, your sister-in-law, Ms. Whitt, and Mr. MacDougall. We’ll sort out all the ancient hocus-pocus stuff later.”
Ellie looked at Ben and then back to Grey. “How?”
Grey took out his cell phone. “With some good ol’ fashion police work.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“This tie looks weird,” Tom said, gazing into the mirror.
“Relax, no one will be paying attention to you anyway,” Steve Donnellson said, fussing with Tom’s collar. “Hey, Benny-boy. Tell your brother he looks like a prince.”
Ben was sprawled out on the sofa holding a can of beer and looking comically uncomfortable in a tuxedo. “You look like a prince, Tom.”
“I guess this is all she gets.”
Steve laughed. “Stop worrying, pal. If she was going to be disappointed in what you looked like, that would have happened long before today.”
Tom turned around. “I am what I am.”
“You look great, pal. You and Sarah are made for each other. Aren’t they, Benny-boy?”
“Two peas in a pod,” Ben slurred.
Steve slapped his hands together. “Let’s do this.”
“Hey, Stevie, give me and Ben a minute alone, would you?”
“A minute’s about all you have, buddy. It’s go time.”
Tom gave Steve a look.
Steve nodded. “I’ll go make sure your mom and dad got seated okay.”
“Thanks. We’ll be down in a minute.”
Tom waited until Steve was out the door. He took a cigarette from his inside jacket pocket and fell into a chair next to the sofa. “You know, there’s still time to change your mind,” he said, putting the cigarette to his lips and lighting it.
“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be saying to you?” Ben replied.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Tom said, blowing smoke out his nose.
“I do?” Ben mumbled back, draining the last of the beer from the can.
“It’s the Foreign Service, Ben. It’s an amazing opportunity. You travel the world, kiss some ass, and in five years or less you’ll be able to write your own ticket.”
“You can have my ticket, I’m not interested in the show.”
“Jesus, Ben, do you have any idea the strings Dad and I had to pull?”
“I never asked you and Dad to pull any goddamned strings for—”
“This is your destiny, Ben. This is what you were born to do.”
“Bullshit! Christ, you’re sounding more like Dad every day.”
“There’s nothing wrong with serving your country, Ben.”
“Never said there was.”
“There’s also nothing wrong with making your family name proud.”
Ben set the empty beer can on the floor and sat up. “Son of a bitch, so it’s true.”
“What’s true?”
“You’re running for congress. That’s what all this is about.”
“Who told you that?”
“Mom.”
Tom paused. “I’m just considering it.”
“You sound like a politician already,” Ben said, taking a can of beer from his pocket.
“So what do you think?”
“I think you’re crazy…but, hey, it’s your life, do what you want.”
“Thanks for the support, but you know what I’m talking about,” Tom said, dropping his cigarette in Ben’s empty beer can.
“I do indeed,” Ben replied, popping the tab on the new one.
“Look, all I’m saying is—”
“Tom, I’m not interested.”
“Because Dad and I want you to do it, right? I mean, that’s the real reason why you won’t even consider this, isn’t it?”
“Man, you two sure think pretty highly of yourselves.”
“Then what’s the reason?”
“Why do I need a reason?”
Tom just stared at him.
“Okay, I’ve been thinking about pursuing the songwriting thing, all right? Paul thinks I’m pretty good at it, and if we gave it some attention, who knows, maybe we could do something.”
Tom shot up. “You can’t be serious! You’re a freakin’ Rhodes scholar. You really want to waste your time down on Sixteenth Avenue making up ditties with a bunch of hillbillies?”
“They’re not all hillbillies, and so what if I do? It’s my life.”
Tom ran his hand over his face.
Ben continued, “Tom, not everyone’s meant to be Captain America.”
“Have you told Dad about this plan of yours?”
“Haven’t gotten around to it yet. But Mom seems okay with it.”
“Well, of course she is.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
There was a tap on the door. Steve stuck his head in. “It’s time, pal.”
Tom let out a long breath. “Do me a favor, wait until I get back from the honeymoon before you talk to Dad. There are other things to consider, Ben. Trust me, there really are.”
Ben set down his beer and got up from the couch. He went to Tom and patted him on the shoulder. “No, there’s not. Come on, you’re keeping the missus waiting.”
»»•««
By mid-afternoon, Grey had transformed Sarah Lambros’ home into command central. Handpicked agents from the Bureau’s regional office as well as select detectives from Nashville PD now overran the house. Ellie was seated in the corner of the study beside a man working on a laptop. Grey was hunched over the desk on the phone, and Ben stood at the bookcase holding a photograph taken on Tom and Sarah’s wedding day; he was in the picture.
“Are you sure?” Grey said into his cell. “Okay, got it.” Grey laid the phone on the desk and stared blankly into space. He glanced at the open laptop in front of him and typed something in before picking up his phone again. “Hi, it’s me. I need a favor.” He listened and smiled. “I just sent you some names to run through whatever it is you guys run names through. I want to know if any of them flag.” He listened. “Don’t know, just have a hunch.” He nodded. “Thanks, I owe you one.” Grey suddenly laughed aloud and said, “Well, that’s true, isn’t it? Goodbye…and thank you, Jen.”
“Who was that?” Ben asked.
“DC. How are you two coming with the sketches?”
“We finished the one of the movie director. It’s him, he was the bartender at the party. Ellie’s working with your guy on the girl named Sheila. I didn’t see her.”
“We’ll get both sketches out once she’s finished. By the way, the cop’s name was Steve Ramsey. Ten years on the force, unremarkable record.”
“There was another one. He drove the police van that took us to the prison.”
“Officer Jessie Leggett, Ramsey’s partner. He’s in the wind, but we’ll find him.”
“And the crew working on Buchanan’s fake movie?”
“Mostly college kids. We’ve picked up some of them. They’re being questioned downtown, but thus far, as I expected, they all thought they’d landed their big break into the film industry. We also found Joe, the security guard.”
“And?”
“He’s just Joe, a security guard. Buchanan compartmentalized everything. They all thought they were hired to work on a movie. Nothing more.”
Ben nodded. “So what was that about on the phone just now?”
Grey rubbed his eyes and looked over to Ellie. “Dr. Scotes, can you come over here?”
Ellie got up and came over. “We almost have her, but it was dark, she was wearing a hat, and I wasn’t paying much attention to what she looked like; young, pretty—”
“I’m sure you’re doing your best,” Grey interrupted. “I just got some info on Buchanan. We’ve searched his apartment as well as his offices on Music Row.”
“And?” Ben asked.
“They’re both just rooms with furniture that’s never been used. In fact, no one’s ever seen him enter or leave either place.”
“Even his office?” Ellie asked.
“There’s something else. Up until two years ago, Earl Buchanan didn’t exist. No driver’s license, credit history, bank accounts, nothing. Then two years ago, a man calling himself Earl Buchanan shows up here in Nashville, rents an apartment, an office, and starts throwing money all around town.”
Ben and Ellie looked at each other.
Grey continued, “We’re still trying to get fingerprints and DNA from the prison, but so far have come up with zilch. We’re also trying to find a picture of Buchanan. He’s been very camera shy. So we’re checking security cameras any place he might have frequented; grocery stores, restaurants, banks, even that truck stop out by the prison. It’ll take some time, but we’ll find one. Nobody can stay invisible these days.”
“How about his truck?” Ben asked.
“We found it at his office, completely wiped down, not even a hair follicle.”
The door opened, and a man in a dark suit walked in.
“Welcome to Nashville, Bob,” Grey said, standing up from the desk. “Ben, Dr. Scotes, this is my boss, Bob Greenfield.”
Greenfield nodded. “Mr. Lambros, Dr. Scotes, pleasure to meet you both.”
Ben said, “Why do I get the feeling you already know me?”
Greenfield let the comment pass.
Grey said, “Mr. Greenfield’s aware of the situation with Buchanan. I’ve also filled him in on the other thing. You have any questions, Bob?”
“Regarding this other thing—the Eleusinian Mysteries stuff,” Greenfield said. “As I understand it, Buchanan, or whatever his name is, is adhering to some ancient calendar. And because of that, you believe a bizarre ritual will take place in this city tonight. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Ben answered.
“And this thing happens in a temple of some kind?”
“It’s called a telesterion,” Ellie said. “That’s what the prison was being used for, but obviously it can’t be now.”
Ben broke in. “No, Ellie, that’s not right.”
“What’s not right?” Grey asked.
“Buchanan called the prison something else. He called it a…what was the word he used…it started with a T also…a tartarus, I believe?”
Ellie shook her head. “Unbelievable.”
“Why?” Grey asked.
Ellie said, “A tartarus goes back to Greek mythology also. It’s a dungeon. It’s where souls were judged and the wicked received their punishment. It’s—”
“Hell,” Ben said.
Grey walked around the desk and leaned up against its edge. “So, Buchanan’s little shindig was never going to take place at the prison. Interesting.”
Ellie dropped into the chair. “Which means he could be anywhere.”
Everybody was silent for a moment.
Greenfield said, “I don’t mean to be crass, but I have to ask. Why are they still alive? A person takes hostages for a reason. Ransom?”
“No,” Grey answered. “He’s not interested in money.”
“For his getaway then.”
“Buchanan would have had an exit strategy long before he took hostages.”
“Sarah’s a doctor,” Ben said. “He needs her.”
“Yes,” Grey said, snapping his fingers.
Ben continued, “And he thinks Timon Baros is a…dado…dadoch…”
“Dadouchos,” Ellie said.
“Right, a dadouchos. He also believes that Baros, as a dadouchos, is following orders from a…shit, Ellie, what was the word I told you your grandfather and Buchanan kept using? It was a name for a priest or something?”
“A hierophant?”
“Yes. A hierophant. Agent Pryce, I’ve been thinking about what you said about Buchanan just being the pawn and not the chess player.”
“Okay,” Grey replied.
“When Buchanan abducted us, Baros kept telling him the hierophant wants this, and the hierophant will like that. I thought Baros was just saying stuff to keep Buchanan from killing us, but what if there really is a hierophant? What if the hierophant is the chess player, and Sarah and the others are being kept alive because the hierophant has ordered Buchanan to do so?”
“Why would he do that?” Greenfield asked.
“To get to me,” Ben answered. “Look, I know there was nothing in the safe, and I know those numbers Tom said to me are looking more and more like nothing. But the fact is, Baros told Buchanan I had something called the ‘Song of Eleusis,’ and it kept him from killing me and Sarah. It meant something to him. So if he does think I have it, then maybe he still wants it—maybe the hierophant still wants it. What if Sarah and the others are being kept alive as bait?”
Grey said nothing, but Ben thought he saw him nod his head slightly.
Ellie said, “So who’s the hierophant?”
“I don’t know,” Ben answered. “But whoever
he is, he’ll be at that ceremony tonight. And I bet they’re counting on me being there too.”
Ellie stood. “How? We don’t know where it is.”
“But he doesn’t know that. Remember, your grandfather convinced Buchanan I knew more than I really do. I’m telling you, Ellie, he’s expecting me to come after Sarah, with the song, the song he and whoever this hierophant is wants very badly.”
Grey said, “If that’s true, then we had better figure out fast where Buchanan would hold a reenactment of a three-thousand-year-old religious ceremony. Otherwise…”
“Yeah,” Ben interrupted, intentionally not letting Grey finish his sentence.
There was several seconds of silence.
Ellie said, “Well, he’s already shown us he’s literal.”
“What do you mean, Dr. Scotes?” Greenfield asked.
“A tartarus is a prison. Buchanan held us in an actual prison.”
“And a telesterion is a temple,” Grey added.
“Right,” Ellie sighed. “Anybody have an idea where we might find an ancient Greek temple in Nashville, Tennessee, tonight?”
“Yes,” Ben replied. “Actually, I do.” He looked at Ellie, then Grey, and finally, Greenfield. “That’s right, none of you are from Nashville.”
“So?” Grey responded.
“So, you don’t know what all Nashvillians do.”
“And what would that be?” Greenfield asked.
“That Nashville’s moniker is Athens of the South. And that we have a big-ass ancient Greek temple practically in the middle of town.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Jennifer Pryce, ex-wife of FBI Special Agent Grey Pryce, sat behind her desk at the Securities and Exchange Commission and watched the pinwheel on her computer screen spin. This was a red-letter day; her ex had actually asked for her help. In all the years she’d known Grey, nearly fifteen now, she couldn’t remember him ever asking her for assistance on anything—be it a case or changing a light bulb. What had gotten into him? She wondered if he realized had he done more of this when they were married, then perhaps she wouldn’t be the ex-Mrs. Grey Pryce. Probably not. Grey had a lot of wonderful qualities, but he did tend to be a bit myopic at times, especially when it came to his work. No, if he needed this favor from her, it was because the case demanded it, nothing more. He was, after all, Special Agent Grey Pryce, dedicated lawman and pragmatist extraordinaire.