Chasing Ghosts (21 page)

With little more than stubborn determination,
he continued down the stairs letting the beam of light search for
signs on the walls to lend some clue as to what danger he might
encounter. He stopped two stairs before the third landing and
listened. Silence. Complete silence. Not one hum of a motor or
patter of four-legged creatures. Not one hint of a whisper or soft
sound of fabric rustling. Just utter silence.

As he stepped onto the third landing a loud
bang echoed through the stairwell. The flashlight skipped down the
stairs as he dropped the gym bag, pulled his gun from its holster,
and flattened his back against the wall. Three flights above the
hatch door had slammed shut, breaking the wooden stake. Immediately
light sconces on the walls clicked on in succession. His heart
pounded in his chest as though trying in vain to escape. He pointed
the gun first toward the closed hatch, then down the lit stairwell.
He listened for sounds of footsteps running, doors slamming, voices
shouting. But still there was only silence, except for the endless
clicking of light sconces becoming softer, more distant, until he
couldn’t hear them anymore.

Looking up he contemplated sanity. Of all the
reckless things he had done in his life, this had to be right at
the top. He should retreat and trust that the hatch didn’t lock
when it slammed shut. He should return home and forget about this
ludicrous mission. But then the depths beckoned and his curiosity
intensified. Insanity had gotten him this far. Why back out
now?

He looked down at his feet. What had
triggered the lights? His weight on the landing? Maybe a timer
after the escape hatch was opened. He holstered the gun, retrieved
the flashlight, shoved it in the gym bag, and continued down the
stairs. The walls looked like marble or cinderblock that some giant
stone polishing machine had buffed to a smooth finish. There
weren’t any cameras he could detect but for some bizarre reason he
felt as though he were being watched.

Dizzy from the endless flights, he collapsed
on the stairs and pulled a bottle of water from the gym bag.
Climbing down was one thing. Climbing up was a task he didn’t
anticipate. Although he should have worked up a sweat, he didn’t
feel hot. The temperature in the stairwell was relatively mild, not
the cold dampness he had expected. The air didn’t smell moldy like
the inside of a tomb or earthy like a grave. It actually had the
fresh scent of the outdoors. It was as though the stairwell were
humidity and temperature-controlled, yet there wasn’t a sign of a
vent anywhere.

His eyes were drawn to a number in black
lettering on the wall. It was the second time he had seen the
identical number 402. How many flights since the first time he had
seen the number? He had tried counting the lights as he descended
but lost track at sixty, or was it seventy? The monotony of the
stairwell was getting to him. He could be trapped down here with
nothing more than a gym bag of power bars, fruit, and water. How
long could that last?

He capped the bottle and dropped it into the
gym bag. Picking up speed, he pounded down the stairs, no longer
concerned about making too much noise. He just wanted to see an end
to the metal stairs and stone walls. A third 402 in black letters
was painted on the wall at the next landing. Figures bounced in his
head — 402 times three equals 1,206. Was that feet? He had
certainly descended farther than 1,206 feet. The muscles in his
thighs burned. What could possibly be at the bottom of this shaft?
Missile silos weren’t this deep. Chicago’s Deep Tunnel Project was
only 350 feet underground. It took thirty years to build. How long
has this shaft been here and how long did it take to dig? He may
reach the bottom and find an unfinished shaft. If he had to turn
around and run back up, he’d sooner put the gun to his head.

Ignoring the pain in his thighs he increased
his speed, taking less than one second per flight. He finally
caught sight of a stone floor, an actual end to this monotony.
Several yards from the last stair was a door. Breathing came in
gasps, sweat glistened his skin. On the wall next to the door was
the number 1,608, a familiar number. The number was in meters and
equal to 5,280 feet. He was exactly one mile below the surface.

With one hand wrapped around the gun, he
grabbed the door latch and slowly pulled. Light burst through
forcing him to shield his face. Blinking the burning from his eyes,
he rammed the door open and stepped out onto a walkway. Gun at the
ready, he checked to the left and right of him but didn’t see any
movement. Stretched in front of him was a cobblestone courtyard as
wide as a four-lane highway. If there were people here, did they
run for cover when they heard him coming? Or did something chase
them away years before he arrived? Someone or something had to be
operating the lights.

One-story buildings served as sentries on
both sides of the courtyard, their marble fronts in an assortment
of colors, metal doors painted. He ignored the fatigue in his legs
while his senses picked up the chirping of birds in nearby trees,
the rustling of leaves from a breeze that barely kissed his skin.
Billowing clouds hung in a sunlit sky so blue it made his eyes
sting. Stone benches lined the courtyard every ten feet. Dazed, he
blinked quickly expecting the scene to disappear like a mirage, but
it didn’t. Slowly circling like a lost tourist, his hand lost its
grasp on the gym bag. It slipped from his hand and thudded to the
cobblestone. Three-story buildings in the distance jutted toward
the sky, chrome facades gleaming in the sunlight. As he wandered
into the center of the courtyard he scanned the surrounding
buildings, checking windows and rooftops. A variety of sweet aromas
filled the air from nearby ceramic flower urns. Yellow petals too
yellow, pink petals too pink. The entire area was an amateur
paint-by-number scene.

He holstered his gun, stumbled to the
curb and dropped onto the nearest bench. He should have been
questioning how all this could be happening. After all, he was sure
he was a mile underground. Any normal person would have been
questioning his sanity, exploring his surroundings, examining all
possible explanations. Any sane person would have been
mumbling
impossible, ridiculous,
absurd.
But only one word came to Dagger’s
mind:

Home

CHAPTER 26

The man known as Donald Thomas stared at the
strange numbers and letters on the computer screen. All he had done
was run a decryption program and now it looked as though the
characters on the screen were eating through every document.
Somehow someone had sent a virus through the computer, destroying
everything he had loaded off of the flash drive. They knew. They
were onto him. He tried to quell the panic building. If only he
could find the flash drive. It had to be somewhere. Then he
remembered the news of the man who had jumped from their hotel
suite window. Were the papers correct? Had the jumper been someone
protesting the church’s handling of the abuse charges? Or had he
been sent to retrieve the flash drive? Did the flash drive burn up
with the body? Had to. The orders would have been to destroy it at
all costs, even if it meant self-sacrifice.

There was always a problem when there were
too many chiefs, especially if they weren’t in agreement on actions
to take, programs to pursue. The organization was fractured and
people were taking up sides. Negotiation had never been part of the
corporation’s tenet. Now their small splinter group had been
compromised. Their leverage was gone, burned up in a parking lot
and eaten up by a computer virus.

Checkmate.

“
You ever see such posh digs before?”
Skizzy moved in a circle, his head levered back like a Pez
dispenser as though he were studying the artwork at the Sistine
Chapel.

“
Just don’t knock anything over.” Simon
set a silver tray on a cart and moved toward the dining room. “Stay
close to me. God forbid they notice you don’t know what the hell
you are doing.”

“
Whoa.” Skizzy’s head snapped forward
as he saw the long buffet table, the glistening wine glasses
illuminated by the chandeliers. His finger dug at the knot of his
bowtie. “Feel like a penguin in this suit.”

“
You look like a penguin.” Simon set
the tray in the center of the buffet table. “Awful lotta hoopla for
just ten guests but the Tylers don’t do nothing small.”

The floral arrangement in the center of the
buffet table was four feet long and included some of the most
exotic flowers Simon had ever seen. He watched as Skizzy started to
light the candles on the table. As Skizzy’s shirt sleeve rode up,
Simon saw something duct taped to his wrist.

“
What the hell is that?”

“
Huh?”

Simon pointed at Skizzy’s wrist. “That.”

“
That detects people who have trackers
in their bodies.” Simon rolled his eyes. “It’s a wonder you haven’t
checked me out.”

“
Already did,” Skizzy replied with a
grin. “When I was helping you on with your tuxedo jacket. You’re
clear.”

“
Who do you plan to scan here? The
cardinal?”

“
Yep, and whoever else gets near
me.”

Simon set individual crystal butter dishes at
each place setting. He shook his head at the amount of wealth in
this house, the furnishings, the grounds. “The rich and famous. All
this wasted butter. All this crystal. Must be nice.”

“
That’s who you’ll find out is behind
this BettaTec company. The richest people in the world. They pool
their resources like all those medieval organizations—the Masons,
Knights Templar, Skull and Bones, Illuminati, 33
Degree.”

“
You’re going pretty far back, aren’t
you?”

“
Probably still around today. Just
changed their names but they are behind everything that happens.
It’s like they sit at some big chess game with the world map in
front of them, moving all them chess pieces around.”

“
Don’t make no sense,” Simon said with
a huff. “If alls we had to do was make a list of the ten richest
people in the world, you’d know the players. But those ten aren’t
interested in anything but making more money. No. Power is what
drives people, power and some global plan for humanity. A man with
a vow of poverty can move mountains if he has the will to achieve
his goals and enough like-minded people supporting him.”

“
What are you two up to?” The men
turned in unison. Sheila stood in the doorway, hands on narrow
hips, jewels dangling from her wrists. She strolled on heels sharp
enough to be registered as lethal weapons. Her head shook back and
forth like a hall monitor who just caught two pupils out of the
classroom. Well- coiffed platinum hair swung in a synchronized
rhythm, each strand obediently returning to its rightful place. “I
know you two aren’t butlers.”

“
Some of us need a second job as
caterers,” Simon sniffed. “We aren’t like some rich folk who can
support a third world country with their salaries.”

“
Right.” Sheila struck a thoughtful
pose, left arm across her stomach, left hand propped under her
right elbow while a manicured nail tapped repeatly against bright
veneers. “I had expected to see Dagger.”

Simon knew when someone was fishing for
information and it was probably killing Sheila not knowing Dagger’s
whereabouts.

“
He’s outta town,” Skizzy barked as he
sidled up behind Sheila and waved his right hand across the back of
her neck.

“
What are you doing?” Sheila dodged his
waving hand.

“
Checking if you are wearing a wig.
Hair looks too perfect.” Skizzy’s toy had remained
silent.

Sheila flashed a smile, taking his remark as
a compliment. “Where did Dagger go?”

“
Didn’t tell us.” Simon placed salt and
pepper shakers on the table.

“
What about Sara?”

Simon smiled. “Not sure but I think Sara went
out of town, too.” He watched disappointment cloud her face. “Guess
your plan to get her hitched to young Nicholas didn’t work.” If
Simon had expected her to deny any involvement, he was wrong.

“
Can’t blame a girl for trying.
Nicholas is more Sara’s age. Besides, Dagger likes refined women
who know how to keep a man satisfied.”

“
Guess that’s why you ain’t with him no
more,” Skizzy mumbled in a voice too low for Sheila to
hear.

“
What do you think of Cardinal Esrey?”
Simon asked.

“
He’s nice,” Sheila replied in all
sincerity. “Pretty down to earth. Padre likes him so I guess the
Martinez seal of approval goes a long way. Have you met
him?”

“
No,” the two men replied in
unison.

Guests started to file in. Simon rubbed his
hands together. “Show time.”

“
HEY, YOU MUTT!”

The gray wolf tore off for the woods, a piece
of fried chicken in its jaws. The farmer had just set his plate on
a picnic table in the backyard when the wolf jumped onto the table,
snatched the chicken and sped through the cornfield. It had been
careful to make sure the farmer didn’t have a gun anywhere
around.

The gray wolf made a quick survey of the
wooded area. Confident there weren’t any witnesses, it shifted to
the hawk and flew to a high branch of a cottonwood tree where it
shifted to Sara. She grabbed the fried chicken with both hands as
she leaned against the trunk of the tree. She had gone too long
without food after expending a lot of energy. The foliage was dense
this high up but she still felt exposed as leaves caressed her
naked body. When she finally reached her destination, she was going
to have a problem with clothing. Houses were getting fewer and far
between. Although the farmer’s wife had laundry on the line, it
would be difficult for Sara to travel carrying the clothes. And she
would have to find shoes. At least if Dagger had taken one of his
own cars, Sara would have had no problem finding clothes. She kept
shoes and a change of clothes in the trunk of each of Dagger’s
vehicles for just such an occasion.