Cradle of Solitude (16 page)

The plan, when it came to her, sounded reasonable, but she was going to need some help getting the equipment necessary to pull it off. That meant she needed to get in touch with Doug.

She put a call in to his office and, much to her surprise, got him on the first ring. “Hi, Doug.”

“Don't ‘Hi, Doug' me. Why is some police inspector named Laroche calling me at all hours of the day and night looking for you, Annja?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I said I didn't have any idea, would you?”

“Not particularly,” he replied.

“Well, then, he's probably a little ticked off that I left the country, given that I'm a witness in a murder investigation.”

“Murder investigation? I thought the guy you found in the catacombs had been dead for decades?”

“He has. It wasn't Captain Parker that I—”

Doug cut in. “Good. We can't do a show about re
animated skeletons in the Paris catacombs if the guy's only been dead a few years. Who would believe that?”

Annja sighed.

“The show isn't about reanimated skeletons, Doug,” she answered patiently.

“It will be when I'm done with it,” he muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing. So why is this guy chasing after you?”

Annja explained as quickly as she could about her trip to the monastery, the riddle inside the puzzle box and the savage attack on the monastery's occupants that followed. She also told him about Professor Reinhardt's kidnapping.

As annoying as he might sometimes be, Doug was reasonably quick on the uptake in a crisis. “So you're trying to beat these guys to the missing treasure, in hope of bargaining with it for Reinhardt?”

“Got it in one, Doug.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Where are you now?”

“A little town called Washington, Georgia. We deciphered the first clue, which led us here. But in order to get any further, I need some equipment that I can't get on my own.”

“So you want me to use the show's cache, if you will, to get it for you?”

“Did you wake up on the smart side of the bed this morning, Doug?”

“That depends on who you think is going to pay for whatever it is you need.”

Annja glanced across the table at Garin. “Oh, don't worry about that. I've got the payment issue handled. You just get me the gear.”

She could hear him moving something around on his
desk, which she hoped meant he was going to write it down. It was going to be a long list.

“All right,” he said, “I'm ready.”

 

O
N THE OTHER SIDE
of town, Blaine Michaels climbed out of the back of the van in which he's been
discussing
the current status of their search for the missing treasure with Professor Reinhardt. He used his handkerchief to absently wipe the blood off the knuckles of his right hand as he considered what to do next.

He had not been pleased to arrive at the plantation last night only to discover that Annja Creed and a companion had arrived before him. The prattling idiot of a Realtor hadn't known much, but Blaine knew she was on to something, anyway. No one else would have had reason to ask about the phrase “where two mouths meet.”

Clearly, the Creed woman had made a copy of the missive containing the clues to the treasure before his men had obtained it from her vehicle. Now she was using that information to try and find the treasure for herself.

The woman doesn't know when to quit, he thought.

Creed and Reinhardt had the same information available to them and, so far, Creed had been faster off the mark. As an American, her knowledge superseded Reinhardt's when it came to cultural and local references. If things continued in that fashion, he'd be runner-up for the treasure and that was something that was simply unacceptable. It could not,
would not,
happen.

It was time he was a bit more direct in his response to her interference.

He took his phone out of his pocket and made a
call. When it was answered, he asked, “Where are they now?”

The man sitting five tables away from Annja and Garin never looked in their direction as he replied, “The Good Day Diner on Main, between West and Stevens.”

Michaels nodded to himself. That should work quite nicely.

“All right, here's what I want you to do.”

 

T
HEY WERE GOING TO NEED
a boat if Doug managed to secure the equipment they'd requested, so Annja flagged down their waitress and asked her if she knew where they might rent one. The waitress, Sue, wasn't certain, but she was willing to help, and inside of ten minutes she'd queried the regulars and come up with a name.

“Jimmy Mitchell,” she said, handing Annja a napkin with an address and phone number written on it. “Hank says that he rents out his fishing trawler from time to time when money's getting low. Which, for Jimmy, is just about all the time.”

Annja didn't know who Hank was, but she was happy enough to have a lead to work with and thanked the woman for her assistance.

“Anything for my favorite TV host!” Sue replied, winking at her. “I'm a big fan of the show.”

In all the hubbub, neither Annja nor Garin saw the man a few tables away get up and slip out the back door.

As Garin watched with a bemused expression on his face, Annja signed one of the diner's T-shirts at Sue's insistence, then paid the bill, leaving a generous tip in the process.

“Not a word!” she said to Garin, once they were back outside on the street. The last thing she needed was to be ribbed by him all day for the notoriety the show gave
her; she was having a hard enough time dealing with it already.

Jimmy Mitchell lived in the next town over, so they decided to drive there and see if they could speak to him in person. While Mitchell might be willing to rent out his boat, Annja had a feeling that he'd be less inclined to do so to strangers and she wanted to increase their chance of success as much as possible. It was easy to say no to someone over the phone; it was harder in person.

They'd parked at a meter several yards away from the diner and headed in that direction.

Behind them, a motorcycle turned onto the end of the street and headed toward them.

Annja saw the bike make the turn out of the corner of her eye and she registered its presence in the back of her mind, but she didn't pay any real attention to it at first. They were on a public street, after all, and vehicular traffic was to be expected, even in a quaint little town like this.

But when the driver kicked the bike into high gear, the roar of the engine cut through the mental fog like a siren, sending adrenaline pumping through her system. Time seemed to slow as she turned to her left, looking back up the street toward the oncoming traffic.

She caught sight of the biker right away, as he was now less than twenty feet away and coming on like the four horsemen of the apocalypse, the war cry of his steed a steady growl as the engine spurred the bike onward.

The biker's hand was coming up, something long and dark held securely in his grip.

Shotgun, Annja thought in the slow-motion refer
ence of her hyperaware state, and knew instinctively that she and Garin were the target.

She had only seconds to act.

As the bike roared inexorably closer, Annja shoved backward with her left hand against Garin's chest, sending him off balance and stumbling out of the line of fire. At the same time she spun to her right, coming around in a semicircle that would put her a foot or two to the right of where she'd been standing the moment before.

She called her sword to hand.

The weapon responded as it always did, flashing into existence in a heartbeat, the hilt suddenly there in the palm of her hand, the blade quivering like a falcon eager to strike.

Annja didn't disappoint it.

The would-be killer had made an amateur mistake, closing the distance between himself and his targets in the hope of getting a tighter shot pattern rather than taking them out from farther away and then using a second shot to finish them off when they were no longer a threat. Annja made good use of his blunder.

As she completed her spin, she lashed up and out with the sword, the razor-sharp edge striking the barrel of the shotgun a split second before the killer pulled the weapon's trigger.

The sound of metal rang as her sword connected with the barrel of the shotgun. Half a second later the gun went off with a thunderous boom, but by then the killer's aim was off and the blast blew out the windshield of a nearby car rather than injuring either of its intended targets.

Annja found herself standing on the edge of the street, sword in hand, staring at the biker's back as he accelerated away from them at high speed. Garin
stepped up beside her, a look of fury on his face as he reached inside his coat as if to draw a weapon, but he must have thought better of it at the last moment for his hand came out, empty.

“Are you all right?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Peachy,” was her reply as she watched the biker make the turn at the end of the road and disappear from sight.

With the threat now removed, Annja released her sword back into the otherwhere.

She was just in time, too, for a second later the doors to the diner burst open and Sue and several of the regulars charged out onto the street.

“Are you okay?” Sue asked, spying Annja and Garin standing near the edge of the sidewalk, next to the damaged car.

“We're fine,” Annja said quickly. “A motorcycle just kicked up a rock unexpectedly and it shattered that windshield.” She pointed at the vehicle ahead of them, as if that were explanation enough.

“But it sounded like a gunshot,” Sue protested, glancing around as if she expected to see armed gunmen come running from around the corner of the building.

At this point Annja wouldn't have been surprised if they did.

Thankfully, Garin was thinking more quickly than she was. “It was just a truck backfiring. Coincidence, that's all.” He flashed a smile, which helped ease Sue's anxiety and took her attention off the issue long enough for Annja to recover.

“Thanks again for your help,” Annja told her, and then headed off toward their car as if nothing had happened.

Inside, however, she was seething. That was the
second time someone had tried to kill her since she'd agreed to help with the case. Three, if you counted the incident in the catacombs, which only an idiot would ignore at this point.

It only made her more determined than ever to be certain that whoever was after her never got their hands on the treasure.

The adrenaline dump had left her feeling worn out and tired, so Garin slid behind the wheel and let her take the passenger seat.

He started the car, paused and then said, “Thank you,” in a tone far more reserved than usual.

Annja knew what the admission had cost him—he hated to be dependent on anyone for anything—so she simply nodded and let it go. She knew he'd have done the same if their positions had been reversed, so she didn't see what she'd done as extraordinary in any way, just necessary.

One thing was certain, that buckshot would have ripped him to shreds.

They decided it was prudent to get out of town as quickly as possible. If someone stumbled on the shell casing from the shotgun or noticed the pattern of holes in the hood of that car, they'd have a lot of explaining to do. As always, Annja didn't want to waste time answering questions at the police station.

They hadn't been on the road for more than ten minutes before Annja's cell phone rang. A glance at the caller ID showed an unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Miss Creed?”

“Yes,” she answered. She didn't recognize the voice.

“You're intruding in something that's not your business, Miss Creed. I suggest you take recent events as a warning and stop while you're ahead.”

“Who is this?”

Garin was looking at her curiously, so she mouthed “the Order” at him and put the phone on speaker.

“What you are searching for belongs to me. If you
continue to interfere, I'll be forced to take more radical measures.”

Like trying to kill us isn't radical enough? she thought.

Annja decided she didn't have anything to gain by playing dumb so she went on the offensive instead.

“Yeah? Perhaps next time the Order will send a killer who can actually shoot straight. Tell you what, you give it your best shot. I'll be here waiting.”

The caller, whoever he was, actually chuckled. “They said you were smart, Miss Creed, but I'm having a hard time seeing that. Perhaps this will raise your IQ a few points.”

There was a pause and then another voice came on the line.

“Annja?”

It was Bernard. Or at least she thought it was. It sounded like he was speaking through swollen lips and possibly a broken nose.

“Do what they say, Annja. It isn't worth—”

The sound of something heavy hitting flesh interrupted whatever it was Bernard was trying to say. It came again, and again, and then there was silence. “Bernard? Bernard!”

The other voice came back on the line. “I'm sorry, Miss Creed, but Professor Reinhardt isn't able to come to the phone at the moment.”

Clenching her free hand into a fist, Annja fought to keep from screaming into the phone. “If you've hurt him, so help me I'm going to—”

“I don't think so, Miss Creed. You're not the one calling the shots here, I am. I'll say it one more time. Stay out of my business or both you and Professor Reinhardt are going to regret it.”

The line went dead.

Into the silence, Annja said, “That is a dead man.”

Garin, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke up. “I take it that means you have no intention of turning back now?”

“Hell, no!” she exclaimed. “It's more important than ever that we get possession of the treasure, and quickly, or we'll be too late to help Bernard.”

“Just checking.”

Annja opened her mouth to answer him when the phone in her hand rang again. Without thinking she stabbed the connect button and said, “You listen to me, you son of a—”

“Annja?”

It was Doug Morrell.

She blew the air out of her lungs in one hard push, trying to get her temper under control, and then said into the phone, “Sorry, Doug. I thought you were someone else.”

“Glad I'm not him, that's all I can say. I've got what you need.”

“Already?”

She was surprised; it hadn't taken him long at all.

“Turns out the archaeology department at the University of Atlanta was all too happy to help out the infamous Annja Creed. Especially when I told them you'd be happy to show up for the
Chasing History's Monsters
marathon weekend they're planning next month.”

“You did what? No, never mind. Whatever they want, I'll do it. Tell me about the equipment.”

Doug walked her through the entire list, confirming that he'd gotten it all, from the towed magnetometer to the scuba gear. “All I need to know is where to deliver it,” he said.

Annja told him she'd call him back with that information once they'd had a chance to talk with their riverboat captain and then hung up.

They drove in silence for a while, until Garin said, “You're not really intending to give him the treasure, are you?”

“Not if I can help it,” she replied.

And she'd do everything in her power to keep from having to. Provided she could keep Bernard safe in the process.

The trouble was, she was starting to doubt that she could.

Garin, however, seemed satisfied with her answer and let the matter drop.

Twenty-five minutes later they found themselves pulling into the driveway of a beat-up-looking house on the far side of a small town. A tall chain-link fence enclosed the entire property and the front yard was filled with various bits of equipment that partially obscured the single-level ranch behind it all.

A large dog, a rottweiler by the looks of it, barked at them from behind the fence.

As they got out of the car, Garin said, “It will be a miracle if the guy's boat actually floats.”

“Quiet,” Annja told him as the front door opened and a man dressed in grease-stained coveralls stepped out onto the porch. He was an inch or two shorter than Annja, but what he missed in height he made up for in the width of his brawny shoulders.

He seemed friendly enough.

“You folks lost?” he asked.

Annja smiled. “Depends. Are you Jimmy Mitchell?”

“Depends,” came the quick reply, gently mocking
her at the same time. “You with the IRS or the Salvation Army?”

The Salvation Army? She wondered why he would say that.

“Nope. Neither. We're looking to hire us a riverboat captain.”

“Preferably one with an actual boat,” Garin added.

Mitchell squinted at him, then turned to look at Annja. “Does he think he's funny?” he asked, indicating Garin with a wave of his thumb.

“He does. We all have our crosses to bear.”

Mitchell laughed. “Ain't that the truth, missy, ain't that the truth.”

He came down off the porch and approached the fence, shooing the dog as he did. He unlatched the gate and invited them in.

“Jimmy Mitchell,” he said, extending his hand to Annja.

“Annja Creed,” she replied. “And the funny guy behind me is Garin Braden.”

“What do you need the boat for?” he asked as he led them across the yard and up to the porch, where he indicated with a wave of his hand that they should grab one of several folding chairs stacked there and have a seat.

“We're trying to locate the wreck of a ship.”

Mitchell squinted at them and Annja had the sense that he was trying to figure out if the city folk were pulling his leg.

“A shipwreck, huh?”

Annja explained about how the hurricane had pulled the CSS
Marietta
off the riverbank and sent it several miles downstream. She told him they had a general sense of where it might have ended up and that they
needed him to run several passes up and down the river towing a magnetometer to help them pinpoint the actual location. At that point Annja and Garin would dive to the wreck and do what they could to confirm its identity.

“Sounds easy enough,” Mitchell said. “Rentals in twenty-four-hour increments, but you'll have to pay the fuel charge, as well.”

They dickered for a bit on price, but finally came to an agreement both parties could live with. Jimmy gave them the address of the wharf where his boat was docked and Annja relayed that to Doug, who informed them that the equipment could be delivered later that afternoon.

“About that price,” Garin said to Annja as they made their way back to the car. “Just so you know, it's all coming off the top when we recover the treasure, anyway.”

If
we recover the treasure, Annja thought. She bit her tongue to keep from saying it aloud even as she reminded herself to have some confidence.

It's out there; you just have to get to it first, she told herself.

She had every intention of doing just that.

Unable to do anything more until the equipment arrived, the two of them decided to stay out of sight for the rest of the afternoon. The fact that the Order had not only tracked them to Washington but had also managed to get hold of Annja's cell phone number showed they had plenty of resources at their disposal, so Annja didn't want to take a chance of being exposed any more than necessary. They found a new hotel near the wharf where they would be meeting Mitchell in the morning and settled in, having both lunch and dinner delivered to them so they wouldn't have to go out.

Annja used the time to learn everything she could about the CSS
Marietta,
researching it on the internet and even speaking to one of the curators at the Museum of the Confederacy in Richmond, Virginia. By the time she finished several hours later, she thought she was reasonably well prepared for the difficult task ahead of them.

If they could find the boat, and if it was still intact, Annja was confident that she could locate what she was looking for.

That's a lot of
ifs
…

Early that evening she took another call from Doug.

“I received word that the equipment has been delivered as promised,” he told her. “I'm going to be sending Richie down to meet you in the morning, to get all this on film for the episode.”

“No!” Annja said sharply. There was no way she was going to put someone else in danger. “There's limited room on the boat, so I'll just use my handheld and capture the footage myself. We'll have enough to use. I promise.”

Doug was a bit hesitant, but she finally convinced him that it was a bad idea and he reluctantly let it go.

“Just be sure that you get some decent footage. I don't know how we're going to use it in a show about reanimated Civil War soldiers in the Paris catacombs, but better safe than sorry.”

“For the last time, Doug, it is not a show about reanimated—”

“Gotta go, Annja. Talk to you tomorrow.”

And, with that, the son of a gun hung up.