Secret of the Scroll (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) (5 page)

The sun had dropped to the horizon by the time we departed Scottish airspace, and from there to
New York
it was the longest twilight I had ever witnessed. Outside the window, the sky glowed red for hours. But it was fully dark when we landed at Kennedy International and made our way down to the baggage carousel.

The moving platform twisted around from the point where the bags were funneled up from below. We spread out beside it, a curious mixture of
Middle East
and West. Sam and I staked out a spot nearby, while our wives stood back and searched for signs of their luggage.

The bags were slow in coming. As we waited and watched in vain, Sam shook his head.

“Mohammed must be down there feeding them onto the belt,” he said. “Looks like most of them belong to the Arabs. I don’t think anybody in our bunch has theirs yet.”

I looked around at the thinning ranks of Jordanians and the cluster of obviously American or European passengers still waiting. “This is ridiculous,” I said.

Nearly half an hour passed before the Nashville-bound bags began arriving. The last coughed up were the American Tourister
pullmans
with large “McKENZIE” nametags. But that wasn’t the end of it. As I lifted our bags off the belt, I saw the locks were missing. I had put small laminated padlocks on the two checked bags, connecting the zipper pulls. As I explained to Jill, it was strictly to discourage honest people. A thief would simply use a knife and help himself. Or, in this case, simply do away with the locks.

“Shit, we’ve been had,” I said.

Jill stared at me. “What do you mean?”

“Somebody pilfered our locks. And no telling what else.”

“How would they get them off?”

“Wire cutters, probably . . . or a bolt cutter. Check yours and see if you find anything obvious missing.”

We unzipped our bags and rummaged around but couldn’t tell that anything had been taken. Spotting an airport security guard, I waved him over and explained about the disappearing locks.

“That’s not the normal thing,” the officer said. “You normally find a bag slashed. What’s missing?”

“A quick check didn’t show anything,” I said. “But I thought the tampering ought to be reported.”

“Where are you headed?”

“
Nashville
.”

“I suggest you report it to the airline when you get there. They should at least reimburse you for the locks.”

I led Jill toward the customs checkpoint. “The damned locks didn’t cost enough to fool with the paperwork,” I said. “When we get to
Nashville
, though, we’d better dig a little deeper and be sure nothing’s been taken.”

“What would they take, unless they’re into dirty clothes or souvenirs?” She had a look of exasperation.

“They want money or jewelry, something that can easily be fenced.”

“Well, they sure didn’t find any in my bag.”

That was true. We use credit cards wherever possible, and our extra cash and travelers checks were stuffed in a small leather pouch I kept tucked inside my waistband. As for jewelry, Jill never carried anything expensive on a trip like this. That was asking for trouble. I decided whoever rifled our bags had come up empty handed. But just the idea of somebody tampering with our stuff was enough to raise my hackles. If I could’ve gotten my hands on him, I would have demonstrated some of the karate training I had taken in my early years with the
OSI
. That is, if the old joints still worked. This would require a serious siege of gum chewing, maybe even half a pack.

Then I looked at the two large name tags and began to wonder.

Chapter
5

Our route took us through
Atlanta
. By the time we landed in
Nashville
and trudged to the baggage claim area, it was well after eleven. I tried to figure how much time had elapsed since the phone call had awakened me in
Amman
. Somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-six hours? During my stint with the
OSI
, I had learned to exist on minimal sleep, but age was eroding my capacity to endure marathon wakefulness. I don’t sleep well on airplanes. In fact, I don’t do anything well on airplanes. Except for a couple of catnaps, I had been wide-eyed the whole trip.

The Gannons’ son, a wiry, younger version of his dad, met us beside the carousel. An architect-engineer who lived near his parents, he had picked up his father’s minivan and come to the airport to take them home. He would drop Jill and me off on the way. We lived only a few miles apart.

“Do you plan to go through your bags before we leave here?” Sam asked. I had told him about the missing padlocks during the wait in
Atlanta
.

I shook my head. “It’s too late and everybody’s too tired for that. I doubt if anything’s missing anyway. Maybe a wooden camel.”

Wilma grinned. “I’ve got plenty more.”

Sam looked at me. “Why do these women get so carried away by little figurines?”

“They have to have something to collect dust around the house,” I said.

Jill frowned. “No snack for you when you get home.”

“I didn’t think we’d left any food in the house.”

“You have a point,” she said.

Our bags rolled around quickly this time, and we were soon in the van headed out I-40 toward
Old Hickory Boulevard
. We lived in the Hermitage area, an eastern suburb named for Andrew Jackson’s historic home, which lay a couple of miles northwest of us. Our house was out
Chandler Road
near the county line.

“It’s awfully dark out this way,” Tim Gannon said. He was driving past expensive houses built well back from the road. “You’d better warn me before we get to your driveway. Dad said you’re hidden back in the woods.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Greg likes to be heard but not seen. I guess it goes back to his
OSI
days.”

I shrugged. “We weren’t as bad about keeping a low profile the last few years, following the reorganization in the early nineties.”

“Had you been working undercover?” Wilma asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Oh, he’s still good at working under cover,” Jill said.

“She didn’t say ‘under the covers,’” I corrected her.

Sam laughed. “I’m not going to touch that one.”

“Slow down, Tim,” I said. “That’s our gate coming up on the right.”

Actually, there was no gate, just wooden gateposts and short pseudo fences. The mailbox showed only the street number. It looked like the entrance to a farm or ranch. With all the trees, you could see only a gravel drive heading off into the darkness.

The only visible development lay across the road beyond the railroad tracks, where a new subdivision fronted an out-of-view street. Jill had befriended a young mother of twins who lived there. She had bought gifts in
Jerusalem
to give the kids.

Tim slowed and turned into the drive. “How’d you ever find your way out here, Mr. McKenzie?”

“Actually, Jill found it. From the air, of course. An agent had shown us a couple of places in the area, and Jill was checking them out with her Cessna. She spotted this place and loved it. We found the owner’s wife had died, and he was thinking about selling.”

“Wait till you see the house,” Wilma said.

About a hundred yards into the woods, the drive angled to the right. As the headlights hit a structure, a ring of floodlights illuminated a large, two-story log house. A porch stretched around the front and one side. Its roof formed a deck off the master bedroom on the second floor. A three-car garage opened in the rear.

As Tim slowed I found my eyes making a sweep of the area. It happened almost unconsciously, a check for anything that didn’t appear just right. A touch of caution, the old survival instinct aroused.

“Cool. What a layout,” Tim said. “I love it.”

“People like you with a bunch of boys should live here,” Jill said, “instead of a couple of crotchety old characters like us.”

“Okay, you old characters,” Sam said as Tim stopped the van in front of the house. “Grab your bags and we’ll be out of here. Maybe we’ll make it home before daybreak.”

Groping in the dark since the overhead light was out, I fished our luggage from the clutter where the third seat had been removed while Jill thanked the Gannons for the ride home, plus all they had done to make the trip a success.

“You know you’re going to have a hard time topping this,” she told Sam.

“Right now I’m too tired to care,” he said. “Talk to you tomorrow. Or today. Whatever it is.”

I toted the two big bags up onto the porch and pressed the entry code on the keypad beside the front door. An electronic beep sounded and I pushed the door open. A musty odor welcomed me as expected. The place had been closed up for over two weeks.

Although we had lights triggered by motion detectors, I didn’t feel the need for an alarm system. There was little crime in this part of the county. And hidden back in the woods, the house did not present a target of opportunity. I also had little fear of retribution from any of the bad guys I had put away during my
OSI
career. After several years of retirement and countless moves about the country, we would not be easy to track down. All government or other official correspondence was directed to a box at the Hermitage post office.

I had just shoved the last of our travel gear into the entrance foyer when Jill came from the kitchen and looked around. “Where’s my carryon?”

I looked over the assortment of bags and other gear. “Damn. I must have left it in Sam’s van. Do you need it now?”

“It’s got my cosmetics case, but I don’t guess I need to doll up for you. I have another toothbrush in the bathroom.”

“Maybe you can survive until morning.”

The country kitchen with its horseshoe-shaped array of cabinets and appliances was one of Jill’s favorite spots–she liked to cook almost as much as she liked to fly. We had just sat down to enjoy a cup of decaf when the phone rang.

“I hope you weren’t in bed yet,” Sam Gannon said.

“Hardly. Jill and I are having coffee and Scottish shortbread. I haven’t gotten organized enough to get to bed.”

“When I was unloading the van, I found Jill’s carryon bag,” Sam said. “Does she need it now?”

“No. Just stow it away. I’ll come over after daylight and pick it up.”

Sam sighed. “Not too early.”

“Don’t worry. Sleep tight.”

“Must have been Sam,” Jill said. She leaned her elbows on the table, sipping her coffee. “What a dear man. If you’d said I needed the bag, he’d have jumped in his van and driven back over here.”

“Yeah. We’ve got some great people in that class. I’m glad you talked me into going on the trip. I got to know some of them a lot better.”

Jill sat in silence, staring into her cup. Then she looked up. “Don’t you dare mention this, Greg, but Wilma told me tonight that she and Sam were worried about you.”

“Why on earth–?”

“The way you acted on the trip. Blowing up when somebody angered you, like that boy in
Jaffa
. She thought you were ready to punch somebody out a couple of times.”

I exhaled a noisy breath. It was clear she hadn’t liked my performance either. I hated that, but ever since the
Twin
Towers
attack I had felt myself slipping back into old ways. I had been in law enforcement too many years not to feel the pressure. After getting fired by the DA, however, I wasn’t just being watchful, I was looking for trouble. Combative as a youth, I’d had no problem using my fists as a police officer. The knot on one side of my nose came from a petty thief who’d thrown a lucky punch, catching me off guard. I was a bloody mess when the fight ended, but the perp had to be carted off on a stretcher. Truth be known, I loved a good fight. But for years now, for Jill’s sake, I had worked hard at curbing my violent tendencies.

“Sorry for the backsliding, babe,” I said. “I know how you dislike the hostility and the cussing. Honest, I’ll try to do better. I guess the Tremaine thing has been working on me more than I realized.”

I had resisted signing up for the
Holy Land
venture at first. It came up about the time my troubles began over the John Peterson case, and I didn’t want to go to the
Middle East
giving the appearance that I was running away from something. My problem stemmed from the way some news outlets had jumped on my Tremaine quotes to belittle the entire police department. I was never able to do anything to correct it. I also never managed to counter all the harassment I got. Things like being stopped for speeding three miles over the limit and forced to take breathalyzer tests, even though I hadn’t had so much as a glass of wine in two weeks, and getting ticketed for parking at a meter that was covered and posted
NO PARKING TODAY
(trouble was, the meter had not been covered when I parked there). Even more maddening were the phone calls warning I had better not step out of line.