Passage Graves (9 page)

Chapter 23

MONDAY 4:59 p.m.

Cambridge University, England

“The Grampian Police said I might find you
here,” Thatcher stopped in the doorway of Brenton’s office.

David’s head crested
over a pile of black garbage bags. He stopped sifting through piles of charred debris to frown at her. Unimpressed, he went back to work, forcing open one of the drawers in the file cabinets and coughing as a cloud of soot filled the air. “So, Dr. Thatcher, am I spreading some radical new disease?”

She stepped into
the room and took in the full devastation. The room was brimming with garbage bags and torched cabinets. The cabinets overflowed with file folders and thousands of papers. “What a disaster,” she said

David raised an eyebrow. “
It always looked like this—well, minus the water stains and charcoal. Welcome to the mind of my father.”

She notic
ed a stack of clean papers on the scorched desk. “Is this pile for keeps?”

“
Hell no,” he said, adding to the stack. “Recycle.” The papers began leaning precariously to one side.

He couldn’t possibly be throwing everything away. “W
hat is it that you are looking for?”

David stuffe
d partially burned files into the trash bag. “Anything worth salvaging.” He rummaged through his pockets and came up with a silver coin.

Thatcher
nodded. A collage of Dead Sea Scroll paraphernalia caught her attention. Hanging on a burned bulletin board behind the desk, a large map of the mountains surrounding the Dead Sea was drawn on with bright red marker. There were scribbles and arrows, a spiral near Jordan. Pinned below the map was a Polaroid, its corners singed from the fire. Four people stood in front of the hull of a large white boat. Brenton, sixty-something and slightly rotund, stood front and center, dressed in khaki cargo pants and a sun washed, canvas button-up shirt rolled up at the sleeves. A dirty bandana was tied around his neck and a black Stetson was pulled low over his eyes.

“Is that your father?”
Thatcher asked.

He gave her a disinterested nod.

The youngest man in the photo was blonde and in his early-thirties. He wore dusty jeans and a Hard Rock Café Jerusalem t-shirt. To his left was an older gentleman, unmistakably Jewish with a prominent nose, wavy black hair that fell beyond his shoulders, and an unkempt beard. A frail elderly man stood on Brenton’s right. The man hunched sideways, his spine obviously deformed. A few straggling wisps of white hair blew across his sunken cheeks. His eyes were unusual. The black pupils were overly large, leaving very little iris, and the whites of his eyes were a sickly yellow.

The men stood in front of
the hull of a ship. The name of the vessel was painted in tall black capital letters so large that the word extended beyond the edges of the Polaroid’s frame.

“ADDOI?” she read the
lettering.

David
lifted the garbage bag to shake down its contents.

A sc
ripture had been scribbled beneath the Polaroid.

I watched as the Lamb opened the first of the seven seals, then I heard in a voice like thunder,
“Come!”

“
Quite impassioned, wasn’t he?” she said.

“The man was a lunatic.” David
disposed of another pile. The trash bag was bulging. “He lost his tenure before he lost his life. Either way, his career was over.”

“He lost his tenure?”

“Two years ago.” He shuffled through the bottom of the cabinet. “Cambridge demoted him to this hole-in-the-wall place and forgot him. They wouldn’t have known this junk was down here if it hadn’t been for the fire. All this crap would’ve stayed buried here forever.” He held up a handful of papers. “Check this out.” Flipping through the folder, he read each of the titles. “
The Excavation of Noah’s Ark
,
Touching the Shroud of God
—or how about this?
Passage Graves: The Transportation of Faith
.” He tossed her the last manuscript. “You’ll enjoy that one.”

Thatcher
browsed through the pages. She stopped at a diagram of Maeshowe.

David
watched her amusedly. “Brenton had this crackpot theory that ‘believers’ could pass through these megalithic portal tombs to another place or time.”

“Belie
vers?” she asked.

“
Christians.” David put the word in finger quotes. “I couldn’t bring myself to read the paper in its entirety.”

She
stepped out of the way as he fought to open the cabinet. He didn’t look much better than the last time she saw him. The 5 o’clock shadow creeping across his square jaw had grown into a full beard. His hair was an unruly mess that fell over eyes. She leaned against one of the cabinets and struggled to find the right words. There had to be some way to say this without looking completely ridiculous. “I need to ask you about Maeshowe.”

The d
rawer burst open and crashed to the floor. David dumped all of its contents into a trash. “What about Maeshowe?”

“Are you familiar with acoustic weaponry?”

“In theory.”

“
Well, it’s no longer theory.”

He
stooped over the drawer.

“We were testing new technology near Stenness—” she began.

“Who is ‘we’?”

“I work for a branch of
NATO. We develop non-lethal weapons.”

David’s face darkened.
“You killed them.”

“
I said
non-lethal
weapons.”

“Y
our people regularly murder civilians?”

Thatcher straightened.
“That’s the problem, Dr. Hyden. The people at Stenness died from acoustic trauma, but the blast did not come from us. It originated inside Maeshowe.”

David scoffed. “Maeshowe killed Stenness?”

“Something in the ruins detonated with enough acoustic force to kill 47 civilians.”

He tur
ned back to the cabinet. “I hate to disappoint, but Maeshowe is a dead monument. It’s just an old burial site.”

“I need you to come back with
me.”

“I
can’t help you.”

“But if Maeshowe—”

“Dirt and stone killed the people of Stenness?” He erupted, clenching his jaw. When she didn’t respond, he reached for the bottom drawer. “I can’t help you.”

Thatcher
folded her arms.

“You’ve been inside
the ruin?” he asked.

“There’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

“My father wasted his career trying to prove the impossible. Look what it got him.” He glanced around at the incinerated room.

She knew how ridiculous
this sounded. Even if deadly noise had emanated from inside Maeshowe, what could he do about it? She was grasping at straws.

“I’m not the person you’re looking for,”
David said. “The man you want died along with his work.”

“I see.”
Thatcher moved to the door, clutching Brenton’s paper. She wasn’t making any headway. Trying to talk with him was going to be a waste of time. She held up the paper. “Do you mind if I keep this?”

David waved her off
. He moved to the bulletin board, pulled the Polaroid off the wall, and looked at his father for a moment. “Lunatic.”

He tossed the picture
to the trash.

Chapter 24

TUESDAY 1:05 a.m.

Northhampton, England

Ian looked
at his watch to avoid eye contact with anyone on the street.

1:05 a.m.

Where the hell was Javan?

Neon signs
flashed from parakeet yellow to flamingo pink. The pulsating glow was meant to attract the residue of the earth.
Dancing ladies! Fully nude!
He shook his head. London was a melting pot of perversion. Stooping drunkards numbed with alcohol staggered along the street amidst the burning colors and cigarette smoke. The city was alive with hard music, honking drivers, loud parties. Chaos clawed at his temples. He rubbed the back of his neck to ease the pressure. This was not the time, nor the place to get a migraine.

He
eyed the front door of the pub across the street and leaned into his cane. That was their meeting place. Javan insisted Ian taxi all the way into town. Tired of waiting outside, Ian stepped off the curb with an impatient huff and headed across the road. He stopped short in the center of the lane, suddenly recognizing the area. He’d never been there before, but he had seen it—recently. Somehow he knew this pub.

Digging through his pockets, he found the picture
from his father that had been slipped under his door. He held it up to the pub. How could he have missed it?

T
he sign over the neighboring storefront, in bright white and blue was the face of Al Fairoz. The same Al Fairoz Kebabish from the photograph. He squinted at the building barely making out the address in small blocky letters over the shop entrance.

#9 Sheep Street

Not only was this the same building in his father’s picture, it was the address written on the Chinese fortune. This couldn’t be a coincidence.

He stepped back
to the curb, realizing how close he was to the location where his father must have taken the picture. He stared unblinking at the kebabish. The restaurant had been repainted. Decals of chicken and skewered lamb dressed with ginger and tomatoes covered most of the storefront window. Takeaway Peri Peri Burger and Fries - Only £3.99!

Ian half-hoped
to see Brenton’s reflection still in the window. He stepped off the curb.

A blaring horn returned him to
the street corner.

He waved at the driver
. His heart sunk low into his chest as he hobbled over to the storefront. The restaurant was empty, but the sign said it was open for business. The corners of his eyes began to sting. He reached for the door handle. Brenton had been here. Ian opened the door. The ring of a small metal bell hanging from the handle was drowned out by the thumping bass of Indian music. The noise came from the back of the establishment. The front was abandoned. Chairs were stacked upside-down on tables and the counters had streak marks that smelled like lemon cleanser.

He
noticed the hours of operation posted on the door. They were supposed to close at midnight, but all the lights were on and the door unlocked. The neon sign in the window blinked “OPEN”.

“Hello?” he
yelled over the music.

He tried again, louder. “Hello?
”

Ian
noticed muddy footprints of gray sludge ran from the front door to a door behind the counter. The shop was so clean, but that single trail very dirty. He stood in the thick of it. The sticky clay was clinging to the rubber soles of his shoes.

A
middle-aged Indian man came through the doorway with a mop. He looked at Ian, surprised. Behind him, in the room, yellow construction lamps perched on metal poles surrounded a pit. Broken blocks of concrete were piled all around the room. They were digging for something.

T
he man shut the door. “Sorry, we are closed.”

Ian swallowed
. Was Brenton trying to tell him something?

Did Javan know
? Of all the pubs in Northhampton, he chose the one next to the kebabish.

“Can I help you?”

“Sorry.” Ian turned out the door. He held Brenton’s picture in his hand. There had to be a reason he was here. His father intended for him to find this place. The injury on his palm began to burn. The wound was bleeding again. His bandage was soaked through. He shook out his hand, feeling a cold tingle in his fingertips. He looked back at the restaurant. After meeting with Javan, he would come back. There was something there for him. He could feel it in his bones.

****

“Come to get mashed, Father?” the woman at the door asked.

Ian
spotted a booth near the back. He ignored the jeers and took a seat near the back of the pub.

“What’ll it be, then?” the barkeep yelled from across the room.

Ian kept his hands clenched in his pockets. The walls, the floor, the people—everything reeked of indiscretion—communicable sin.

“Drink or leave
, mate.” The barkeep thumbed at a NO LOITERING sign over the bar.

Ian’s face began to flush
. It was embarrassing enough just to be there. Everyone was staring at him. “Water.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll have water.”

“Brilliant,” said a man at the bar. “
Are we going to have a baptism?”

T
he crowd laughed. Some held up their drinks.

Ian twisted
rosary beads through the fingers of his uninjured hand.

The barkeep slammed a glass
of water down on Ian’s table. “Finish and leave.” He crossed his arms and watched Ian sip at the fowl water. It was the color of rust and slightly opaque.

“Is there a problem?”

The barkeep whitened as Javan took a seat across the table. He headed back to his post.

Javan
cringed as he lowered to the bench. The scar on his neck was bandaged. Portions of the sore peeked out here and there between the layers of gauze. The wound was raw, with jagged, swelling capillaries that branched off the reopened scar. The infected tissue split flesh like parched mud in a desert riverbed.

Javan brushed debris from the tabletop
and then set his arms carefully upon it. He pulled out a bottle of pills and tipped them into his mouth. His pupils were already dilated. He noticed Ian’s rosary beads.

“If you’re wasting my time—”
His annoyance was palpable.

Ian flexed his jaw.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Javan
seemed satisfied. After a moment, he pulled a photograph from his suit pocket and tossed it across the table.

Ian t
urned the photo right-side-up. It was a partial picture of his parents’ wedding. Katherine was in her early twenties. She was beautiful, dressed in a simple lace gown, standing in front of Tikal’s towering rock ruins. Brenton had been cut out of the shot. They had eloped and been married in Guatemala. It was a short, unimpressive ceremony, with no one but themselves and a local priest in attendance. Despite the grainy image, his mother still looked beautiful, radiant and hopeful. Her smile had not been broken by disappointment and loneliness, though that was only months away. Her hair was pinned with a crown of orchids, flowers with heart-shaped satin petals, pink and white. There had been good times. At the very beginning. Ian remembered that. This snapshot proved Katherine had once been happy. He looked over at Javan. “I don’t understand.”

“
I want her ring,” he answered simply.

A heavy stone ring hung on a thin silver chain around her neck. The hand-carved jade was an unconventional wedding band
, so grossly oversized she couldn’t wear it on her hand. Inscribed within its crown of green quartz was the intricate figure of the Maya’s Sacred Tree of Life. Branches stretched high into the heavens near the top of the stone. Roots delved into the underworld near the bottom. At the edges, four silver claws held the quartz in place. Upon each claw was the carving of a shell, a web, a bee, and a turtle. Each symbol represented one of the four Skybearers, the Mayan gods who governed the four corners of the earth. At the center of each symbol was a tiny hole, a slender channel closed by a jewel. The first was a diamond, meant to signify the north. A cradled ruby represented the east. Black magnetite was the west, and pale yellow citrine symbolized the south.

Ian hadn’t thought about his mother’s ring in decades, nor could he imagine why Javan would ever
want it.

Javan seemed to read his thoughts.
“It was taken from me thirty years ago. I want it back.”

“I don’t have it.”

“You know where it is.”

Ian tapped the table
anxiously with his fingertips. He picked up the picture.

“You’re bleeding.
” Javan noticed Ian’s injured hand.

The bandage was soaked
with blood.

Javan’s mouth tightened. H
is lips were almost undetectable. His eyes narrowed. “What did you expect, Ian, to walk away from this unscathed?” His mouth twisted into a snarl. “You’re more damned than the rest of us.” He nodded at the photograph. “You get it to me in one week.”

“I don’t have it—”

Javan slammed his fist on the table. The blow caused him great pain. He tried to conceal it.

“
My father deserves justice,” Ian insisted.

Javan’s lips reappeared in a grin. “Get me that
ring, and I will give you justice.”