Pockets of Darkness (6 page)

Nine

Locking herself in her study, Bridget sat cross-legged on a large golden-beige rug—an over-dyed Turkish oushak woven in 1910. She valued it at only $6,990 because one end of it was faded and frayed. Sometimes she meditated on it, palms against the nap and using her psychometry to draw out images of the long-fingered women who had deftly fashioned the flower and vine patterns and who she imagined to be her friends. Watching them weave soothed her, and the climate during the time the rug was woven was lovely and so far removed from New York City’s winter. This morning, however, she kept the weavers away and fixed her gaze on the smelly briefcase.

She concentrated.

Oddly, she could not date the satchel; conflicting pictures danced behind her eyes. Likely a patchwork of hides—parts of previous garments and purses recycled and dyed to the same dull-brown shade, a myriad of faces from previous owners. Running her fingers over the leather, she felt it rough in some places, smooth in others, thicker along one side. Why a moneyed man like Elijah Stone in the Eighty-Fifth apartment would own it was a puzzle. Perhaps a hand-me-down from a relative kept only for sentiment’s sake. Or maybe it was a convenient pick-up from a resale shop in which to hide something of great value. She saw flashes of Elijah, the man’s manicured hands holding the case, but she was not interested in him at this moment, just in the treasure inside.

Who would think to look for a relic inside this piece of junk? A common thief would not have looked, and Bridget had only been drawn to it because her senses honed in on something
very
old. She would throw the briefcase away in tomorrow’s trash. But at the moment, the briefcase was a box of Cracker Jacks, and she was going to find the prize inside.

The clasp was curious, tarnished silver with bronze inlay. Looking from one angle like a twisted face, from another like a gang symbol. She dismissed it; the clasp and the briefcase were not important—only the contents mattered. She unhooked it, opening the case and not yet letting herself look inside.

Savor this. Go slow.

She closed her eyes, fingers hovering above the opening, trying to block out the smell of dead fish which she attributed to the leather rotting and which had somehow gotten stronger. Her mind bore in.

Just a taste at first. Tease me.

Again she felt the heat of the desert. Bridget welcomed it; the imagined warmth helped to shake off the cold that had seeped into her bones from the climb up the apartment building wall. She had never physically been to Egypt, but her mental forays there because of her psychometry felt as real as if she’d stood on the sand long centuries ago. She owned several objects that had been culled from the Valley of the Kings, each precious because of the images stored, none obtained through legal channels. Each had given her many hours of pleasure as she absorbed the rare histories. It was like experiencing multiple and significant lives, a child’s game of “let’s pretend” become reality.

What are you, very old treasure? What? What?

Stone. She could tell that much, that the object inside was carved stone. The briefcase had certainly felt heavy strapped to her back, hinting at something substantial.

From which dynasty?

She couldn’t tell that, despite her initial probing, and so she finally reached in, hands grasping and pulling out a limestone statue about thirteen inches tall. It was thick and had filled the entire briefcase. She automatically registered a value: one-point-two million, though to her such a treasure was without price.

How had Elijah Stone come to own such an interesting, valuable thing? And why hide it in a hideous briefcase rather than set it out to be admired? To own a thing and not be able to look upon it was foolish. In the same instant she asked the question, she answered it. The statue, like the shabti, had been stolen from the Egyptian Museum; her quick reading of it revealed that. Of course its new owner would hide it, at least until it could be displayed somewhere without fear of being recognized as an important antiquity. Or perhaps Elijah Stone was a smuggler or trafficker in goods like Bridget and had intended to resell it. One-point-two million would be a key haul for just one piece.

“It doesn’t matter how you came to be in that apartment,” Bridget said aloud. At least it did not matter at this moment. The important thing was that she held this wonderful, ancient relic. This piece of the past belonged to her now. Later, much later, she might check into this Elijah Stone. The man’s source for very old things might need to become Bridget’s source.

So beautiful in its simplicity, this statue.

She placed it reverently between herself and the briefcase. It was a rendering of a man in a wrap-around skirt in marvelous museum-quality condition. The man was seated in a high-backed chair that could have represented a throne. His garment was short. In the Middle and New Kingdoms men wore longer skirts or pleated ones, so this piece dated to the Old Kingdom, she was certain. About twenty-four hundred BC, Bridget placed it, probably the beginning of the Fifth Dynasty. She would narrow it down to the precise year it was carved much later. The statue was made to show elaborate jewelry and a headpiece, marking the figure as wealthy.

Who posed for this treasure?
She pressed.

She drew out an image of a stately man, sun-bronzed and reasonably handsome and sitting regally still for the carver. Bridget felt the carver’s hands run over the stone before making the first chisel cuts. It felt like a lover’s caress.

“Kanefer,” Bridget pronounced as she looked outward from the chunk of limestone. She nearly succumbed as a weakness washed through her; psychometry magic often exacted a physical price. She trembled like she was about to suffer a seizure, her teeth grinding together as she fought for breath. The sensation of the intimate contact with something centuries upon centuries old was amazing, and Bridget drank it all in, steadying herself and taking in more and more until she nearly lost consciousness.

The subject—Kanefer—had eyes as black as pitch, unblinking and looking like marbles set on a face that seemed too small for the tall, broad-shouldered body. Yet it was a striking face. The forehead was high and sloped, the head shaven, the chin and cheekbones sharp. His jewelry was considerable—a mix of gold and lapis lazuli that further indicated his wealth. Bridget let her senses spiral ever outward from the limestone, taking in the room in which the carver and Kanefer sat, seeing beyond it and espying impressive stone buildings—an intact Egypt before Roman armies, passing centuries, and vandals had broken down the structures.

Who?
Bridget repeated.
Who were you, Kanefer?
Bridget previously owned nothing that had belonged to a man named Kanefer, and she would not lower herself to search a history book for information. She considered such books and Internet sites only scattered speculations; as far as she was concerned her psychometry gift was the only reliable way to learn about the past.

Who? Talk to me. Give up your secrets.

Days passed in the blink of Bridget’s eyes. She gathered more memories from the stone, not wanting everything right away, and yet not wanting to shut out any details. She would return to this piece again and again, finding something new with each exploration. Now she would glean just enough to satisfy her addiction and yet leave her hungry for more.

She touched her forehead to the stone and pictured her mind flowing wholly into it to intensify the connection. Then Bridget felt herself rising as if someone had lifted her. She looked out through the statue’s chiseled eyes and saw Kanefer holding up the finished art to admire. Stretching behind the man in the distance Bridget glimpsed the Nile Delta. Farmers carried wheat and flax that she knew would be woven into linen fabrics, perhaps into clothes that Kanefer would wear.

This indeed was the dynastic period of the great pharaohs, and by the structures around Kanefer and the dress of the men and women who worked nearby, Bridget placed it after the unification of Upper and Lower Egypt. She watched two men nod to Kanefer and speak in low tones. Historians had deciphered hieroglyphs, but they’d had no clue to the spoken language of the ancient Egyptians. Bridget heard the language clearly while connected so closely to the statue, and through her mental magic and nearness to the long-dead Egyptian, she understood everything as if she was a native speaker.

The men in attendance called Kanefer high priest and spoke to him in measured, respectful words, referring to him as “vizier” and “beautiful soul.”

“He who called the world into being blesses us this morning, Kanefer,” one said.

“The dreamer of creation brings the promise of rain for my field,” said the other.

Bridget gripped the statue painfully tight. Of course! Kanefer was a high priest of Ptah, who the ancient Egyptians called the creator god. She opened her mind wider still and the lineage came at her in a rush. Kanefer was more than a priest, he was also a prince of Egypt, son of Sneferu, brother of Nefermaat I, married to a Hathor priestess and through that union was the father of Prince Kanefer II, Prince Kawab, and Princess Meresankh.

“Eldest son of the king,” she heard someone in the background whisper of Kanefer as if it was a title. If this man was the firstborn, Bridget would not determine that now. Perhaps that would be revealed in a future visit. But she suspected Kanefer was merely the oldest living son at the time the statue was carved; she heard Kanefer mention to the carver about his brothers Nefermaat and Rahotep being buried recently at the royal necropolis of Meidum. So not an only son.

Greatest of Seers and Overseer of the Troops, Kanefer had been called.

Despite her intention to only give herself a taste of this time period, Bridget continued to direct all of her being in an effort to delve deeper and deeper.

Talk to me, high priest,
she practically begged. “Talk to me like I am standing next to you.”

Dear God, this Kanefer had been important
. Images tumbled at Bridget far too quickly to be properly absorbed. She saw pieces, like highlights in an old newsreel fast-forwarding, this man leading a force and gaining control over the lands of the Sinai.

Bridget’s chest grew tight and a part of her demanded she break the connection before she loose herself. But the greater part demanded that she continue the discovery. Sweat drenched her, both from the sensation of the desert heat and from the effort she expelled. She gasped for air and grasped the statue to her chest like a child would hug a beloved doll.

The images continued until the sand and the dark-colored men, all of the sounds and the desert breeze overwhelmed her and she collapsed from exhaustion.

She awoke sometime later, soaked, the statue next to her, the briefcase just beyond it. The air smelled putrid, of things washed up and rotting in the summer sun on the bank of the East River. The stench was so strong, and Bridget so spent after her delving, that she retched on the over-dyed Turkish oushak until her stomach was empty and she was weaker still. After several moments she pushed herself to her knees and froze.

Sitting next to the briefcase was a repulsive-looking creature that fixed its misshapen eyes on her.

The thing was size of a pit bull, but looked vaguely reptilian, squatty like a bullfrog with its long hind legs tucked to its side. Its hide was a mottled green-brown that bubbled and oozed, but was smooth and mustard yellow across its protruding stomach. Goo ran in thin rivulets down its skin and disappeared before hitting the rug.

The creature was clearly the source of the horrific odor.

Bridget was afraid to move. She was a dozen feet away from the intercom on the wall and the telephone on the desk. She didn’t have a cell phone on her, nothing at hand she could use to call for one of her attendants or Dustin—not that they could do anything about this beast. For once in her life she wished she carried a gun. She could spring for the door, but she was woozy and ruled out that option. And so she didn’t budge, waiting to see what the monster was going to do.

She knew that’s what it was: a monster, not some figment of her imagination brought on by fatigue. There were such things in this world as true beasts, though she had never actually seen one, had only half-glimpsed their malformed shadowy images when she’d been mentally connected to ancient things of dubious origin or had ventured too deep beneath New York City. Where had this monster come from? And why? What did it want? Her life?

It had four eyes—one set perched directly atop the other. As Bridget stared, she saw a fifth eye open above them in the center of its forehead. The eyes shifted color and size, making her dizzy, and she dropped her gaze to the thing’s mouth. The lips were bulbous, again conjuring up the image of a bullfrog, and when it yawned, Bridget saw a double row of fine, pointed teeth set against a black cave-like interior. It belched, the noxious cloud adding to the already overpowering stench, and then a long, thick tongue lolled out and swiped at a rivulet of goo running down its face.

The creature had no discernible nose or ears. It had a prehensile tail with a ridge of spiky hair on it. The tail flicked back and forth, and its front legs—Bridget noted they ended in twisted claws—bunched as if it was going to pounce.

No, not a monster, Bridget corrected herself. Calling that thing a monster would be too kind and understated.

***

Ten

“You can’t see it?” Bridget pointed at the beast sitting next to the open briefcase.

“That little statue? Of course I see it, sweet Brie. Egyptian? It looks old. And valuable. It should be in one of your display cases, the large one with the beveled glass, not on the floor.” Dustin paused. “Is that what you slipped out to get last night? Is that what was so very important?”

“The statue? Yes.” Bridget ran her fingers through her hair, curls still damp from sweating. She was shaking. “But do you see the … thing? Next to the statue. Do you see
it
?”
How could the man not see it?

Dustin thrust his hands into the pockets of his bathrobe and yawned. “I see the statue and an ugly old satchel. And I see that you puked on the rug and have made no attempt to clean it up. Is there something else?” He wriggled his nose. “And I smell something a little stinky. You maybe, or—”

“A little? A
little stinky
?” Bridget would have retched again over the foul stench of the creature, but her stomach had nothing left to give up. She stared at the monster, not meeting its disconcerting, fluctuating eyes. The rivulets of goo that trickled down its mottled hide pulsed like veins and looked purple-black in the morning light that spilled in through the half-shuttered blinds. It belched and babbled a string of sounds she suspected was language, nothing she could understand. “Seriously, you can’t see it, the … monster?”

“Monster? No. There is no monster. Are you ill?”

She pointed vehemently at it. All the while the creature continued to babble. Dustin stepped closer and set the back of his hand to her forehead. The worry was evident in his eyes.

“You are clammy. Sick. So pale! I told you to call the doctor. You should not have gone out so late. Bridget, you … oh, what is the damn word I need … imagine. No, hallucinate. You hallucinate. Monsters! So sick.”

“I’m not sick. And it’s not ‘monsters,’ there’s just one of the feckers. I just—”

“Drugs then. Did you—”

“I don’t take drugs. I … never … take … drugs.” Bridget had experimented in her young years, pot a handful of times, cocaine only once, poppers at a dance club—twice with poppers, but she didn’t like the effects. She rarely drank, as she didn’t want anything to dull her special senses. Wine at dinner with Dustin, she did that sometimes, but not often. “And I’m not hallucinating,” she said so softly she doubted Dustin could hear. Louder: “Call Michael, will you?”

He stuck out his lower lip and reached for the intercom. “I cook for you, Bridget O’Shea, and I share your bed a few nights a week. But I am not your servant.” Nevertheless, he called for Michael. “I should, instead, call for the doctor. You have some nasty flu, or maybe something worse.” He shuddered. “God, I hope I do not catch it. I have a sous-vide study session this afternoon—low temperature cooking.”

Moments later, a stiff-backed man in a vest appeared.

“Michael, do you see it?” Bridget asked.

“The briefcase?” Michael glanced at it, and then gave Bridget an up and down before he noticed the vomit on the Turkish rug. “Yes, I see the briefcase,” he said. “Would you like me to throw it out ma’am? Clean that up?”

“Yes.” Bridget slapped her hand against her leg. “Of course, that’s it!” If she’d been more alert, she would have realized it. The monster was attached to the briefcase, released when she opened it and took out the statue of Kanefer. It was like popping open a bottle and finding a genie inside. Elijah Stone must have had some sort of summoning ward on the briefcase to protect the million-dollar relic. Opening the case summoned the monster. Bridget had not looked for such a ward, thinking that Stone was just a normal man; only a small percentage of the populace was gifted with any sort of magic, or had any access to buying wards and the like. If she had opened the case in that apartment, the beast would have come out right there and then and woken Stone, and Bridget would have been caught and staring at serious prison time.

It was fortunate she had simply stolen the entire case and opened it here, Stone none the wiser. The monster was a temporary inconvenience.

“Yes, of course,” Bridget said, relaxing. “Throw it out.” Getting rid of the briefcase would get rid of the monster that had been warded to it. The creature was not connected to the statue; she would have learned that with her psychometry, and so it was linked only to the damn ugly briefcase. It did not appear to be vicious. It had not attacked her when she removed the statue—an alarm, nothing more, and a hideous and smelly one to say the least. A creature meant only to frighten and hold the thief in place until Stone could summon the police. “Yes, definitely. Throw the damn old briefcase out. Throw it out right away.” Odd that Michael and Dustin couldn’t see the monster, she thought. But perhaps only the ones designated by the ward were so unlucky—the thief and Stone; magic could be that quirky and specific.

“And that little statue, ma’am? What shall I do with it?”

“Leave that, Michael. I’ll take care of it. Just—” The monster belched again, a visible gray-green cloud of noxiousness wafting from its maw. Bridget did not hold her breath in time and inhaled the biting, sulfurous reek. She felt the room spin and her knees gave out.

O O O

She was in bed, bathed, covered with a wool blanket, and had an IV needle sticking in her arm. Dustin and Michael stood behind Bridget’s doctor, a fiftyish man who had retired from his practice a handful of years ago and made more money with his “house calls” to a group of select patients, Bridget on rare occasions among them.

“Fluids,” the doctor told her, seeing Bridget staring at the drip. “And potassium before that. You were seriously dehydrated.” He drew his thin lips into a line and shook his head in obvious disapproval. “And suffering from exhaustion. Bruised ribs.” He paused and added a finger wag for emphasis. “I don’t want to know how you came to be in such shape, Miss O’Shea, that’s none of my business. But I’d advise you against future similar behavior. You’re not a teenager.”

Bridget caught Dustin hiding a smile at that comment. Dustin was dressed smartly in a sweater vest over a maroon shirt and dark gray slacks. She remembered him saying he had a cooking class to attend.

“Though you are—overall—usually in remarkable physical shape, you need to know your limits.” The doctor’s expression softened. “Seriously, Bridget, you had us worried for awhile. I wanted to put you in the hospital.”

Bridget opened her mouth to offer a retort—several churned through her head, but changed her mind. “Thank you for coming over.”

“Coming twice. The first to set you up this morning and make sure we didn’t need an ambulance. This just to give you one more bag of fluids. You were in far worse shape then, I could’ve sworn you had a few broken ribs. Now, it looks only bruised. You’re healing remarkably well. Still, take it easy.”

“Thank you for checking on me,” Bridget said.

“Twice.” The doctor shrugged. “I was on my way to a late dinner anyway, Bati. Craving something Moroccan, you know. So not out of the way, actually.” He patted his stomach and watched the last of the fluid clear the line, and then disconnected it. “But I’ll dine easier knowing you’re on the mend. I’ll leave my bill with Michael.”

Dinner? Bridget looked to the window. It was dark outside, motes of light from windows in the adjacent building glimmering. She’d been out for hours. Dustin wasn’t going to attend his cooking course today, he’d already been there.

“Twice,” Bridget said. “So you really have been here twice?”

“You’ll see it in my bill. Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t want my companion to think I’ve abandoned her.”

Bridget waited until Michael walked the doctor out, then pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat straight. She wondered who’d undressed her. Michael? Dustin, probably. She gripped the edge of the mattress, fighting off the dizziness that came from moving too quickly. Her stomach twisted and grumbled in hunger, obviously loud enough for Dustin to hear.

“Soup, I think,” he said. “Nothing too heavy.” He turned to leave.

“Thank you,” Bridget said. She looked to her closet. She had a pair of sweatpants that would suffice and slippers; her toes were cold.

The briefcase she’d told Michael to throw out was sitting just inside her closet, the creature next to it, oozing rivulets of puss into a new pair of Jimmy Choo’s.

“Dammit!”

Dustin stopped in his tracks and spun, giving her a puzzled, angry look. “What? You don’t need more than soup and—”

“The old briefcase. I told Michael to throw it out.”

“He did. This morning in the Dumpster. If you’ve changed your mind, it’s far too late. The trucks came, and it’s in some landfill now. That little stone statue is in the main display case. Quite nice, that statue. I believe it is very valuable.” He dismissively waved his fingers. “About twenty minutes to heat it up, my soup. I’ll leave it on the dining table. I’m going back to my apartment.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

Dustin did that, retreat to his efficiency at least Monday through Wednesday, sometimes Thursday, and Bridget knew to give him space. She wondered if he saw other women then. She’d never asked.

“When you come down to get your soup, I suggest wearing a little something.” Then he was gone and Bridget stared out the window, the lights of the building across the street looking like Chinese lanterns painted against black velvet.

The creature belched another noxious cloud, but Bridget held her breath this time.

“Pissmires and spiders.” She stepped around the monster and avoided looking into its multiple eyes. Bridget grabbed the handle of the case, picked it up, and padded toward the window. With her free hand she opened the pane. The wintry air hit her, raising goosebumps. Then she leaned out and sucked in a deep breath of the frigid night. One more lungful and she held it, set the briefcase on the ledge and gave it a push. It thunked against the sidewalk five floors below.

“That ought to take care of you,” she said to the monster. “Somebody’ll grab it.”

The creature had vanished, and Bridget smugly dressed in her comfortable sweatpants, Nicks T-shirt, and slippers, belted a robe loosely around her, and headed to the dining room.

The briefcase was next to the dining table, the monster a few feet away, bubbling and drooling, babbling, and fixing the thief with its disconcerting and very disturbing gaze.

***