Ibenus (Valducan series) (3 page)

Her mind again focused on the two men and whoever had been driving that van. Who were they? How did that one move the way he did, seeming to teleport? The strange sword was a bronze khopesh, an Egyptian weapon. She'd been able to figure out that much. Victoria had assumed the primitive weapons were for silence, but why those particular ones?

But that was only the very tip of the iceberg. What were those monsters? Oh she'd told her therapist she believed it was a terror-induced fantasy, but she knew better. Why did they change after death? What was with that eerie fire that didn't burn?

Suspension, then unemployment, had provided ample time to search for the answers and, like most things these days, the internet knew all.

There were websites and uploaded videos. Some called them monsters, others said aliens, or the living power of Satan. Conspiracies upon conspiracies. Victoria would have written them off as nutters once, and some undoubtedly were. But now, finding herself lumped in with them, she could see sages among the madmen. All she had to do was sort the wheat from the chaff, as they used to say in CID. She read and watched every single one she could find. The comments below the videos insulted their creators, laughing about tin foil hats. But one in fifty was a kindred soul, someone who sheepishly confessed, 'I, too, have seen something.'

And while she did share this with her newfound contemporaries, Victoria possessed something they didn't: Cop Instinct.

She was a detective. Searching chaos for patterns was what she did, and she was bloody damned good at it. Those men were out there. The facts were out there. She only had to gather and sort them.

Victoria had files upon files, a bulletin board shingled in scrawled notes and printed photographs. She had grid-work of information laid out before her couch like tarot cards. She would find the truth.

The stories were always different. The weapons, the monsters, nothing was the same but yet it was.

One mobile-phone video showed a madman with a machete chasing a man through a New Orleans street. Then the would-be victim hurdled a three meter fence and ran off with unbelievable speed. Another, a shaky video from Rio, captured a woman in nothing more than a thong, battling a huge flaming man on a hotel balcony. She cut his head off with a sword to a burst of pyrotechnic fire. Further research on this revealed that while considered a Carnival stunt at the time, police found a real body. It wasn't burned, but there were other burn marks at the scene. The suspect had used a fake ID and was presumably still at large. This led her to researching stories that involved archaic weapons.

Victoria found a security feed from the mid-90s that showed a woman holding a spear step directly through a brick wall as if it wasn't there. A body was later found inside the building she had entered. Stabbed to death. From Japan, there came a video of a man with a bladed staff outrunning a car. A long-range video from Australia showed a person launch a bolt of lightning out of what appeared to be an axe, and killing a man in fire. Like with Rio, and with her own personal experience, the recovered body was nude and wasn't burned.

One
insane
theorist brought up how many of the murder sites had lurid pasts. Not discounting anything any more, Victoria researched this and found it also true. There were patterns. So many patterns that it couldn't possibly be coincidence. Could it?

She researched each site before the videos and pictures had been made, also finding a distinct fingerprint. Old deaths, recent deaths, unexplained sightings and phenomenon, and then nothing. Sometimes a body, usually naked. Sometimes an arson with a burned body inside. Then the killings stopped.

This only reminded her of her own debut in this secret play. The videos of giant ants, then the men appearing in their clandestine black van, a nude corpse, and then the ants were forever gone.

Yes, this was all related.

She could find these men. It didn't matter if they were Illuminati, agents of the Catholic Church, aliens, or the bloody Knights Templar, she would find them.

Victoria re-read a recent forum post. Someone had seen a monster. No one believed them. No one but Victoria and a few of her kindred new family.

She would go there. She would watch. James had taught her well. Victoria would have her answers, prove she wasn't mad. She'd do it the Manchester Way.

Chapter Three

Present day:

Gerhard sat on a hard bench, peering at his tablet and trying not to watch the uniformed school children. At least, he hoped to appear as if he weren't watching them. They talked and giggled, their bored eyes passing over the relics safely encased behind glass and lit with clean white lights. His fingers tightened as the children reached the half-circle weapon display, its blades thrusting outward like a steel-spoked star.

Did they notice it? Could they see its beauty?

They shuffled past, none seeming to fathom the flawless magnificence before them.

Their teacher herded them onward, deeper into the museum, toward the Aboriginal Collection. Their footsteps and chatter faded off down passage, leaving him alone once more.

Gerhard released a shallow breath. No one had seen it. While he wanted to shout, "Look! How can you be blind to such perfection?" he enjoyed the knowledge that no one but him knew the secret.

Licking his lips, he rose and slowly approached the high window separating him from that perfection. There, second from the top, a polished keris, the graceful curve of its wooden grip beckoning to be held. Gold erupted at the wide base of its blade, trailing down along it like dragon scales, following its waving curves. Thirteen there were, undulating back and forth, back and forth, hypnotically. Gerhard's palms began to sweat as he studied the dark steel of the blade, the folds of different metals like wood grain.

Oh, there were more elaborate ones than this, true. Its neighbor with its ivory and jeweled handle and decadent blade. It only had nine waves, not the masterwork thirteen of his.
His
, as he now thought of it, was elegant in its function and simplicity. Sheathed it would be restrained, not gaudy, holding its gold and art within the plain scabbard like a beautiful secret only known when drawn.

Gerhard looked around, verifying that he was alone. He was positioned so the black domes of the security cameras could not observe as he lifted the tablet to his chest and snapped a picture of
his
keris. He had done this act many times in the three weeks since he first saw it. Nearly two hundred photos he had now, each one capturing a new facet, a new hidden beauty that it had revealed to him.

In those three weeks, Gerhard had devoured more knowledge of the Indonesian blades than he would have thought possible. He'd found many for sale online, hoping one might satisfy his need to hold it. Some were garbage. Many were works of art themselves, fetching thousands of euros. But none could match his. None could fill the void.

He so wanted to touch it, hold it in his hands, feel the weight of it. He wanted to press it against his cheek, feel the cool, smooth metal against his skin. He wanted to taste it, wanted to absorb it into his own body and become one with it.

Was he going insane?

Movement at the corner of his eye, a reflection. Gerhard had become skilled at noticing these things, fear of someone walking in on these private moments.

He sidestepped along the display and scanned the other relics, feigning admiration.

Two men entered the room. Gerhard glanced back, smiling. One of them was old with white hair and sunken cheeks. He walked with a cane but stood straight. He smiled back. The man beside him was tall with broad shoulders, high, sharp cheekbones, and close-cropped blond hair. He looked more like a bodyguard than any son or grandson of the old man.

"Indonesian keris blades," the old man said as he stepped up to the glass. The accent to his raspy voice sounded British. He turned to Gerhard, his sharp eyes friendly. "Beautiful, yes?"

"Yes," Gerhard answered.

"You must forgive me. My German is not so good. Do you speak French, English, Italian?"

Gerhard pursed his lips. He'd taken a course in English but wasn't very skilled. "French."

"Ah, good," the old man replied in smooth French. The British flavor was gone. He returned his gaze to the displayed weapons. "Which one is your favorite?"

"Excuse me?"

"The keris. I noticed you looking at them. Which is your favorite?"

Paranoia tingled along the back of Gerhard's neck. He gave an embarrassed smile, hoping the hairs weren't standing on end. "There are…many beautiful ones."

"There are," he agreed. "Do you know which one is my favorite?"

Gerhard shook his head. How did he have a favorite? He just arrived. There hadn't been time to study them, see which one outshone the—

"That one. Second to the left." He gestured with his cane. "Wooden handle. Gilded blade."

"Mine as well," Gerhard gushed, a little too enthusiastically. "It's magnificent." He suddenly felt embarrassed by such excitement, but it felt so good to know someone else saw it.

"It is," the old man said, seeming unfazed by the sudden outburst. "Sixteenth Century from Java."

Gerhard blinked. "How do you know that? There's no card saying its age."

The old man smiled. "I own this display."

"Oh, I…I see," Gerhard stammered, fighting to hide the complete shock. This, this was the man who owned such a beautiful thing. What would that be like? And here he was blubbering like a destitute child introduced to a rich boy's toys. This man was laughing at him.

The old man offered his hand. "Alexander Turgen."

Gerhard looked at it a moment before accepting it. "Gerhard Entz."

Alexander motioned to the blond man, warily watching from behind sawed-off glasses. "This is my associate Taras Orlovski."

Taras nodded and Gerhard realized it wasn't wariness like a bodyguard, but more like a brother meeting his beloved sister's fiancé for the first time. "Good to meet you." His accent was Russian.

Alexander motioned to keris. "Would you like to see it up close, Mister Entz?"

Gerhard blinked.

"I can arrange a private viewing." The old man winked. "I know people."

"Yes. Yes, I would love to." Excitement fluttered through his stomach. He felt dizzy with it. A private viewing! Would they let him touch it? Surely not. He shouldn't get his hopes that high, but a
private viewing
! "When, when could we do that?"

"You're here now."

A knot clenched in Gerhard's chest. "I…my lunch is nearly over. I need to leave, but I can come back later today." His supervisor had already reprimanded him for tardiness from lunch this week. Further infractions would result in disciplinary measures.

Alexander nodded understandingly. "But you'd much rather now." It wasn't a question. Simple truth.

Gerhard slowly nodded. "I'll need to call my office. Let them know."

"Of course." The old man smiled. "Take your time. Taras and I shall arrange the viewing while you do."

#

Cabinets lined one wall of the windowless viewing room. The pristine coldness of the white and ash gray aroused memories of a hospital, the so many visits while his mother wasted away, becoming frailer and frailer each time. Gerhard ran his fingers along the rubbery edge of the laminate table, trying not to shift in his chair. The urge to stand, to pace, to burn off the anxious energy was overwhelming.
Soon
, he assured himself.
Soon we will be together
.

Taras leaned against a side counter, his gaze following the lines where the ceiling joined the wall. He met Gerhard's eyes and smiled. "Are you originally from Stuttgart?"

"Yes."

"What do you do?"

"Accounting. My office is about a kilometer from the museum."

Taras nodded.

"And yourself?" Gerhard asked. He didn't really care for small talk at the moment but conversation might help pass the time.

The Russian seemed to think about this. "Crisis Management."

Gerhard nodded, but had no idea what that could mean. Aid relief after a natural disaster, he guessed. Maybe something military. He carried himself like a soldier. What would a rich collector like Alexander be doing with a soldier?

He drew a breath to ask, but then the door opened.

"Here we are," Alexander said, stepping inside. A suited man in white gloves followed, carrying the sheathed keris is upturned palms, like a nurse with an infant.

Gerhard straightened in his seat, eyes fixed on the carved and polished scabbard, seeing them joined for the first time. His heart thumped so fiercely he was sure the beats were visible beneath his shirt.

The museum man removed several white cotton gloves from one of the cabinets and set them on the table. Still holding the keris he nodded toward them, his demeanor telling that he had no intention of releasing the artifact until precautions had been taken.

A pang of disappointment prodded Gerhard's stomach that he wouldn't be allowed to actually touch the keris, but if the oils or salt of his skin were to damage it, he'd never forgive himself. Swallowing, he picked the gloves up and pulled them on, the sweat of his palms making it difficult.

The museum man's lips tightened into a satisfied smile. He offered the weapon across the table like some holy vestment presented before the Pope.

Hands trembling, Gerhard reached out and accepted it. A faint shudder trembled through him as he wrapped his fingers around the scabbard.

"Thank you," Alexander said to the museum man. His voice seemed a thousand kilometers away. "I'll call once we are done."

Gerhard caressed one hand toward the handle, slow, savoring the way the light reflected off the polished wood. In the distance, he heard the door close as the suited man left. His fingers found the rounded grip. They tightened around it, fitting perfectly as if centuries ago some prophetic craftsman had fashioned it specifically for his hand. Gerhard closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the feel of it. Then carefully drew the blade, seeing the gold, that hidden secret emerge, one wave at a time, thirteen there were. Thirteen waves.