The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (41 page)

Heads nodded around the table.
Marcus held his tongue. Influence? Power—that’s what this was all about. They’d
lost their power because they were obsolete. Power and influence were now the purview
of the up-and-comers of his own generation.

“Goodness and evil are not
ancient concepts,” Elias said, as if he’d read Marcus’s mind just now. “But we
need to bring the ancient powers together in order to focus the energy toward
our goals.”

He let another few beats go by.

“We all know that the powers of
heaven can be assisted by a certain earthly source of supernatural energy. Call
it magic, or call it mysticism as our founders did. Whatever the original
source, we now know that a great deal of it comes forth through a trio of
artifacts. Through the centuries our members have witnessed enough events and
have followed the stories of many who have come in contact with these three
carved wooden boxes.

“We know that one box performs
acts of goodness; the woodcarver named this one Virtu. Its powers for good are
well documented. One box, interestingly, has powers from the dark side; the
carver called it Facinor. This one we have secured in a vault within the
Vatican catacombs, in a place where it cannot reach the hands of those who
would use it for harm.”

To keep Facinor
out
of the hands of others … or to keep
it
within
the hands of themselves?
Marcus stared at the old man.

“Manichee, the third box appears
to represent a middle path—it takes on the character of its holder,
intensifying that person’s own tendencies. In the hands of a good person it
performs miracles in the same manner as the one called Virtu; in the hands of a
man of evil intent, this powerful artifact gives that person the power to carry
through with the devil’s ways.”

One of the other members, a
leader in international business, spoke up. “Yes, yes. We know this. Our
question now is what do we
do
about
them?”

“For centuries we have tried to
bring all three boxes to one place. To secure them, as we have secured hundreds
of artifacts, including the box Facinor, in a location where they will not fall
into the wrong hands, for to experience
the
power of all three boxes at once would be
akin
to a meeting with God
.” His voice grew quietly intense at that last
statement.

Several stunned faces stared back
at Elias; others studied their hands in their laps. The room went quiet until
one man found his voice. “I was under the impression that OSM had secured all
three boxes long ago. Now we learn two of them are not under our control? And
where are the two missing boxes now?”

Elias glanced toward Marcus. “I
believe we have a report on one of them?”

Marcus straightened in his seat
and began speaking, taking care to show no weakness in front of the more experienced
men. He told of the trip west and the close encounter.

 
“I came back with this,” he said, pushing the
folder of papers forward. “From the records of The Vongraf Foundation.”

Several of the men showed their
scorn for the rival organization. Almost from the founding of America the two
factions had vied for control of the same targets. These wooden boxes were only
part of the long line of items with purported mystical qualities. OSM wished to
get these artifacts out of the hands of ordinary people. As for Vongraf—their
goals were not clear to the men here. It seemed each time a potentially
heretical item could be taken out, these scientists would study it briefly and
then give it back to its owner. Back to wreak its havoc in the world.

“In short, we know one of the
boxes to be here in the United States, most likely with this woman named
Samantha Sweet in New Mexico.”

“And we already ascertained a
couple of years ago that the other, shall we say, loose cannon is somewhere in
Ireland,” said the Congressman from the Midwest. “We tracked the movements of a
man named Terrance O’Shaughnessy who purchased it from an estate sale and then
kept it in his possession. But then two years ago it vanished, just as we were
close to finding and taking it from the Irishman.”

“We recently learned that
O’Shaughnessy was the uncle of this Samantha Sweet,” Elias Swift said, dropping
the new information like a kiloton bomb on the unsuspecting Marcus Fitch.

Marcus seethed, sucking air
through his clenched teeth. A glance around the table told him that none of the
others were particularly shocked by this news. No one had thought to tell him
this before he went to New Mexico?

“Our problem,” said another of
the members, “is that none of the boxes has ever gone on public display. Those
who hold them in ownership do not flaunt the fact. They keep very quiet about
it.”

Faces were solemn around the
table. What could they report to Rome to help solve the problem?

Marcus glanced at the men who
appeared to be deep in thought, his mind racing. Screw the rest of them. If
bringing all three boxes together increased their power exponentially—oh, what
he could do with that, on his own! He excused himself from the meeting and fled
to the nearest Metro station.

*
* *

Isobel tamped a stack of papers
into a folder and hurriedly stuck them into her bottom desk drawer, reaching
into the antique safe for her purse. She’d spent so much time talking with her
boss this morning that she’d nearly spaced out her dental appointment. Two
Metro stops away and only thirty minutes to get there. She rushed to the
station, ignoring the first fat raindrops to hit her on the head.
Forgot my umbrella
, she berated herself.
Oh, well, the dentist doesn’t care how my
hair looks
.

The lighted board overhead showed
her train arriving in one minute. She huddled near the covered bank of benches
and watched it roar to a stop with a whoosh of air. Doors slid open, people
pushed out, Isobel edged her way inside the crowded late-day car. A man who’d
seemed intent on getting off the train backed inside again, letting Isobel pass
him. It was only after the doors closed behind her that she realized he was
staring intently at her. Marcus Fitch.

Her pulse thrummed, pounding in
her ears. What was he doing here in Alexandria?

“Ms. St. Clair,” he said, his
voice low, almost seductive. Those pale blue eyes never wavered.

She inhaled. “Mr. Fitch.”

“I was on my way to your office.
I’m glad I caught you,” he said.

Like a rabbit in a trap?

“I wanted to apologize for that silly
accident a few weeks ago.”

Silly? Accident?
The man had deliberately rammed her rental car,
searched her possessions while she was trapped, and eluded the police. She
tried to move away from him but the car was packed with people and there was
simply no place to go.

“I have a peace offering,” he
said.

“I’m not—”

“The whereabouts of the other
wooden box. I know exactly where you can find it.”

She stopped edging away.

His gaze took in the nearby
passengers. “We need to talk privately.”

The train was slowing. People
began pushing toward the doors, easing Isobel along into their tide. She needed
to move aside, to stay aboard until the next stop. Fitch pressed against her,
touching her elbow. When the door slid open his grip tightened and he steered
her onto the platform.

“This way,” he said, “there’s a
coffee house that will be quiet right now.”

“What about this other box? Where
is it?” Her appointment would have to be rescheduled.

“You know enough of my
organization to be aware that we are associated with the Vatican.”

He said it as though he were the
head of the entire OSM, and she strongly doubted this was the case. Even more
doubtful was that this man had access to the Vatican. Still, she might learn
something valuable.

The rain had not materialized
this far north yet although the air smelled of ozone and the clouds were darker
than ever, giving a twilight feel to the late-afternoon summer sky. His hand
touched her elbow once again and she found herself walking beside him down a
set of stairs to street level. He tilted his head to the left and she followed.

“That woman in New Mexico,” he
said. “She owns one of the boxes, doesn’t she?”

Isobel hoped her stare did not
convey what she was thinking.
You know
she does
.

“We at OSM would like to examine
that box, just as your staff at Vongraf was able to do.” But his expression
showed nothing but raw greed. This man wanted the power of the boxes, not their
potential for advancing science.

“The Vongraf Foundation has only
examined one box of this sort in our entire history, and that was in 1910.”

“Don’t play games with me, Ms.
St. Clair. I’m not the type.” The soft tone he had used on the train was gone.
A steely glint shone in his stare. His jaw clenched.

She had a brief, sickening
thought that she might have just revealed new information to him. Then decided
she hadn’t. Somehow, he’d known of their earlier work.

“How did you know I would be
going to New Mexico?” she asked.

His expression turned colder yet.
In a split second he gripped her arm and shoved her into the recess of a
doorway. A shop, she saw, that had been boarded up for a long time. Suddenly
she realized they had walked into a derelict neighborhood with few people
around.

“I’m not here to answer your
questions,” he hissed. “You will answer mine. Did you bring that box back from
New Mexico to study? You have it in your lab, don’t you?”

“No! I left—”

“I want that box.” His voice went
quiet, deadly. “I will have it. Together with the other, their power will be
incredible.”

The blue eyes were glacial ice
now. Isobel felt her first real shot of fear.

“Move aside,” she demanded. “I
have an appointment.”

“Your only appointment is with
me. We’ll go to your office, you will escort me inside, and you will give up the
box and any notes you have about the locations of others.”

She thought of The Vongraf’s
security measures—the scanners, the military-trained guards, the impenetrable
vault where her research notes were kept—and she nearly laughed in Fitch’s
face. The icy eyes stopped her. They bored into her with a no-nonsense
intensity.

He gripped her arm again and this
time she flinched as his fingers dug into a muscle that still ached from the
car crash.

“That’s better,” he said, his
tone almost crooning now. “Let’s find a car. Much less crowded than the Metro.”

He yanked her from the doorway
where any observer might have thought them lovers who were pressed against each
other. She felt her resolve harden. There was no way she would get into a car
with him. The man was mentally on the very edge. He
said
he wanted to get into the Foundation’s vault, but he would not
hesitate to kill her. She knew this, right to her core.

“The train is fine,” she said,
matching his pace and working to keep her tone cooperative. “I won’t try to get
away. After all, you’ve offered to share information on the other box with us,
right?”

“Facinor,” he said. “It’s the
name of the box in Rome.” He slowed his pace slightly but the grip on her arm
was still quite firm.

Up the stairs at the Metro station
once more. Onto the train returning to King Street. Pressed into the rush-hour
crowd. Isobel looked at the bored faces for one that might help her escape
Fitch, but people on their way home from work tend to operate in their own
little worlds. At the station she might have the chance to run from him. She
knew the area and had friends among nearby shop owners and restaurateurs.
Mentally planning the steps (swing purse at his head, dump the high heels, run
to the sports bar at the corner—it will be crowded this time of day) got her
through the short ride. But when the doors opened, Fitch took her hand and
entwined his fingers so that he could easily break hers if she made any sudden
move away from him.

All right, she thought. Plan B.
It was the better one anyway.

Rain fell steadily, soaking her
thin blouse, drenching her hair. Somewhere near the river, lightning cracked,
shuddering the leaves on the trees. Her nerves felt raw, her skin prickling as
if all the tiny hairs on her arms were standing on end.

Fitch seemed unaffected by the
storm and he was familiar with the route, which didn’t calm Isobel’s anxiety at
all. Obviously, he had been watching her much longer than she’d ever suspected.
He dropped her hand only after she inserted her key card at the outer door. At
the fingerprint scanner in the vestibule, she felt Fitch tensing up.

“This is as far as you’d ever get
on your own, you know,” she told him, “even if you managed to steal or
duplicate my key.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” he said
under his breath. “A thumb is pretty easy to remove.”

A shiver coursed down her spine.
The man truly was ruthless.

Beyond the second door, when the
two armed guards came into sight, Isobel sneaked another glance at Fitch’s
face. This time the security measures surprised him. However, if he ever
decided to break in here on his own, he would come prepared. Anyone willing to
chop off a woman’s finger probably wouldn’t hesitate to arrive armed and ready
to take out two guards. Today’s visit was a test—surely he knew that she did
not actually have the carved box on the premises.

“Afternoon, Ms. St. Clair.” Tom,
the larger of the two guards, raised one eyebrow. “Your dental appointment went
quickly.”

This was her moment. “It was
devil-dog
excruciating.”

An AK-47 appeared from behind the
long desk, barrel pointed directly at Fitch’s chest. Mack shouted an order for
the stranger to put his hands on his head. Tom’s Glock was out of its holster,
the guard circling the desk, telling Isobel to step out of his line of fire.
Fitch sent her a glare of pure malice but slowly raised his hands.