The Loch Ness Legacy (26 page)

Zim strolled into the Great Hall’s antechamber, then into a long room with a vaulted hammerbeam ceiling high above. Chandeliers hanging from the timber crossbeams lit up the dazzling array of weaponry and armor lining the walls. Swords, knives, pikes, axes, and flintlock pistols hung from the ornate carved paneling that ended at a huge stone fireplace illuminated with the fiery red glow of an electric simulation.

Two employees, a man and a woman, stood behind a velvet rope, chatting and observing the visitors to make sure they didn’t touch the displays.

The stag head was to their left. It was among a dozen items supported by pedestals and identified by placards stamped with the National Museum of Scotland logo. The deer peered forward with a glassy stare, as if it were still on the lookout for the hunter who had felled it, the rack of antlers at the ready to defend itself.

Zim dawdled at the midpoint of the hall and saw Smith and Creel enter wearing their uniforms. They headed straight for the two employees, and Zim could overhear their conversation.

“Douglas,” Smith said, using the man’s name, “Mr. Cobham wants to see you at the information desk.” He used the name of a manager that the Spaniard had told them. The “Canada” label under Smith’s tag meant his American accent wouldn’t seem strange.

“Me?” Douglas said, nonplussed. “What for?”

“Not just you. He wants both you and Mary down there now. He said he may be a few minutes, so you should wait for him if he’s not there when you arrive.”

“That’s odd,” Mary said. “Did he say why?”

“No,” Smith said. “But he asked us to cover for you while you’re gone.”

“This can’t be good,” Douglas said. “All right.” He and Mary hurried away, never questioning the fact that they hadn’t seen Smith and Creel before. Zim had counted on the castle being big enough that the employees wouldn’t all know each other.

Smith and Creel stepped behind the rope. They needed to give Douglas and Mary a little time to clear the square. Then they could start herding the tourists out, claiming the hall was being closed for maintenance. A “Closed” sign that they’d purchased would keep the curious at bay long enough for Zim to tear open their prize.

And if Douglas and Mary did return early, they wouldn’t get a second chance. Given how easily Smith and Creel had dealt with the Spaniard, Zim had no doubt that the two of them could kill a couple of lowly security guards with their bare hands.

Grant was glad Brielle had finally talked him into taking a taxi. He leaned his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes for the short ride to Holyrood Palace.

Although Dr. MacNeil was making inquiries about getting access to the stag heads after hours that evening, Tyler thought they should split up to see if they could spot anything unusual about the trophies with a visual inspection. Tyler didn’t want to separate from Alexa, so he took her to Edinburgh Castle while Grant and Brielle paired up to explore Holyrood.

Even though MacNeil told them that no one else had inquired about the stag heads, they were worried that Zim and Dunham had some inside knowledge that they weren’t aware of. It would be bold of them to try anything in such well-trod and protected places, but boldness hadn’t been a problem for those two so far. All Grant and his group could hope to do was scare them off until they could see if there was anything to the taxidermy book’s tale.

The cab came to a stop and Grant opened his eyes.

“We’re here,” Brielle said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather check into a hotel and get some rest?”

Grant straightened up and forced himself to keep from yawning. “Why? I’m fine.”

“Bollocks. You don’t have to pretend with me. I know what’s going on. I’ve noticed you creaking around like an old man when you think no one’s looking.”

“I’ve felt worse.” Which was true to a point. During his wrestling days, he once wrenched his back so hard that he couldn’t move for three days. This pain was a slightly lower grade, but it was attacking every joint in his body, as if he’d been stretched out on a rack. He knew it was the advanced symptoms of arthritis, another indication that the Altwaffe was doing its work, aging his body beyond his years and making every movement a chore. No one had mentioned the gray hairs he was shaving from his chin and scalp every day. Combined with the constant fatigue, muscle weakness, blurring of vision, loss of hearing, and inability to focus on a task for longer than a few minutes, he could tell that he didn’t have much time before he wouldn’t be able to power through it any longer.

When he saw Brielle staring at him, he said, “Really. It’s not as bad as you think.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re certainly not a
kvetch
, as my mother would say. All right. Let’s see if we can find this thing.”

They made their way inside the palace, and every step Grant took required concentration so that he could keep up with Brielle’s pace. The rooms were numbered, leading them in a counterclockwise path to the gallery where MacNeil had told them they would find the trophy.

They passed through ornately decorated dining rooms, drawing rooms, and bedchambers, not even pausing to give the appearance that they were interested in the splendor of royal accoutrements. They exited the King’s Closet and entered the Great Gallery.

A few tourists wandered along the red carpet splayed across the length of the gallery, which featured over a hundred portraits of what Grant thought of as “men in tights.” Light filtered in from windows along the inner courtyard, but each of them was obscured by a display set up to show off a distinct part of Scottish history. A TV at the other end was playing a video where several people watched.

The stag head was at the far end of the hall, its antlers reaching toward the ceiling.

“There it is,” Brielle said and walked toward it. Grant followed for a moment, then stopped.

A solo man turned away as Grant had passed, his long hair obscuring his face. Something about him seemed familiar, and suddenly Grant recognized him as the man driving the Range Rover in Cambridge. He turned and saw the man crouch on the ground as if tying a shoe.

Liquid flowed from his hand onto the carpet. The man had a lighter in his hand.

He was going to set the room ablaze. With the amount of wood in the room, half the palace could go up in no time.

“Fire!” Grant shouted. His reaction time felt like it had slowed to a glacial rate, he ran at the man and tackled him just as the lighter flicked on. He caught the guy in the back, sending the lighter flying before it touched the liquid.

As Grant rolled on the carpet, his face pressed against his adversary’s jacket, the smell of alcohol stung his nose. The arsonist hadn’t finished pouring the solution from his flask, and Grant’s tackle had caused the remainder to soak the man’s clothes.

An elbow caught Grant in the solar plexus, causing him to double over in pain. Grant lashed out with a fist but hit only air as the man dodged the weak thrust. The guy twisted away and sprang to his feet.

Grant wasn’t as quick to get up, but he managed to block a kick before it smacked his head. A roundhouse punch did get him in the temple, and Grant realized that he was about to endure something that had never happened before.

For the first time ever, he was going to lose a fight against a single opponent.

* * *

Brielle was already halfway down the gallery when she realized that one of the women watching the video was Marlo Dunham, dressed in trousers instead of a skirt, but otherwise looking exactly the same as when they’d last seen each other in Laroche’s mansion.

Then Brielle heard Grant shout “Fire!” She whipped around and saw him launch himself at another man. In a split second, they were on the floor throwing fists at each other.

She’d seen Grant wade into a fight with three other men and come out without a scratch, but it was obvious he wasn’t himself, taking hits left and right. She was about to go help him when he struggled to his feet and seized his foe in a headlock.

“Get…her!” Grant yelled.

Brielle turned back around to see Dunham fumbling with the bottom of the stag head where it was mounted to the pedestal, searching for the secret latch.

Brielle sprinted toward her. Dunham threw open the latch, and the stag head swung to the side on hidden hinges. Before she could extract anything from the interior, she saw Brielle approaching and took a bottle from her purse, upending the contents onto the floor in an arc between them. She flicked open a lighter and threw it onto the rug.

Flames leapt into the air in a wall that spanned two-thirds of the gallery, and Brielle had to jump back to keep from getting burned. The two other visitors who’d been staring dumbfounded at the events in the room ran screaming. It gave Dunham enough time to stick her hand into the trophy and withdraw a small notebook from its cavity. Her eyes went from Brielle to the notebook and back as if she were deciding what to do next.

Brielle wasn’t going to wait to find out. She went around the inferno intending to give chase, but Dunham hurled the journal past Brielle into the fire.

Brielle wanted Dunham badly, but the journal was more important. If it were destroyed, then Zim would win. She couldn’t let that happen.

Brielle turned and raced toward the fire.

* * *

Grant was just about spent. He’d managed to stop the long-haired man from going to Dunham’s aid, but the effort was sapping his strength rapidly.

His opponent finally slipped from his grasp and ran toward the flames that were now spreading across the carpet. A fire klaxon shrieked overhead, but it would take a minute for the emergency crews to get there.

Grant mustered every reserve he had and gave chase. He saw something sail out of the fire and then Brielle followed in a tuck, rolling to put out the flames that licked at her coat. She popped to her feet and stamped on the burning object, smothering the flames.

She was oblivious to the man headed right for her.

Grant forced himself into another gear he didn’t know he had and barreled toward the fire. Just as the man reached Brielle and was about to launch a vicious kick to her head, Grant caught up to him and shoved him from behind.

The momentum carried Dunham’s accomplice stumbling past Brielle and into the fire. His clothes, soaked with the flammable liquid, erupted in flames, and the man lurched around shrieking in agony as he sought to put out the blaze that enveloped him.

Brielle snatched up the charred notebook with her sleeve and put her other shoulder under Grant, who was now almost too weak to carry on.

“Come on, Sergeant,” she said, calling him by the rank he’d had in the Army. “We need to get out of here before they start asking questions.”

As they tottered away, employees with fire extinguishers charging into the room, Grant said, “The journal—”

“We won’t know until we look at it, but I think the outside got the worst of it.”

Grant didn’t say more, trying to stay upright and maintain the impression of a panicky tourist until he could get outside the palace and curl up in the fetal position.

Alexa was subdued as she and Tyler reached the top of the Edinburgh Castle grounds, as if her enthusiasm for the quest they were on had been dunked in an ice bucket. During the walk from the museum, she had tweaked Tyler about his relationship with Brielle.

“We’re not serious,” he’d said.

“I know,” Alexa replied. “Ever think about converting to Judaism?”

“Come on, Alexa. I’ve known her for a total of two weeks.”

“How long did you know Karen before you were exclusive?” Alexa knew the answer. Tyler and the woman who would become his wife had three dates over the course of a single weekend while he was at MIT. Neither of them dated anyone else after a night watching the Red Sox beat the Yankees at Fenway Park.

“That was different,” Tyler said.

“Why?”

“For one, Brielle’s British and I’m American. I’m not up for a long distance thing. I tried it with Dilara, and that didn’t work out so well.”

“Maybe she would move to the US.”

“And she’s made it very clear that her parents wouldn’t approve of their little girl marrying a gentile.”

“Tyler, you’re a genius in many ways, but you are really thick-headed sometimes. Don’t you think it’s possible that she’s using that as an excuse? I mean, you haven’t actually met her parents have you?”

“No. So you’re saying she doesn’t actually like me?”

Alexa shook her head. “Boy, you need me around more than I thought. I’m saying she might like you too much. I don’t know her history, but I know yours. You don’t want to get hurt again, and it’s quite possible she doesn’t want to either. I can tell she’s got some stuff going on underneath just like you do.”

Tyler smiled. “Since when did my little sister become my shrink?”

“Since you became a confirmed bachelor.”

“You sound like Grant. He’s always trying to play matchmaker, which is rich coming from the original confirmed bachelor.”

“You don’t think he’ll ever settle down.”

Tyler laughed loudly, drawing the attention of some tourists as they walked toward the castle entrance. “Grant? Do you know how many women he’s dated in the last five years?”

Alexa shrugged. “Maybe he’s still looking for the right person.”

Tyler stopped smiling and his eyes took on a tinge of sadness. “He did find one woman he cared for.”

“Who?”

“Someone who was a great fit for him.”

“What happened to her?”

He sighed. “She was killed. Grant saw it happen.”

“That’s terrible.”

“He took it pretty hard. I think he’s been a little gun shy about relationships ever since.”

“He seems like a great guy,” Alexa said. “He’ll find someone.” She didn’t mention that the someone might be her.

The sadness on Tyler’s face deepened. “I hope he has the chance.”

“What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer as they waited in line for tickets. Once they were through, Alexa asked again. “What’s wrong with Grant? He won’t tell me anything.”