The Bone Conjurer (14 page)

“Wait!”

Annja rushed ahead of Garin’s long strides down the hallway of the Schermerhorn building. She pressed a hand to his shoulder, feeling resistance in his straining muscles. He was in too big a hurry for this to feel right.

“Right here,” she said, pointing to her eyes. “Look at me.”

He tilted his head and met her gaze. Dark, emotionless eyes. Not at all kind as he’d displayed earlier at his penthouse. That’s what Annja was afraid of. The man tended to alter his alliances faster than she could blink.

“Tell me this isn’t a trick. That as soon as you see the skull, you’re not going to push me out a window and take off with the thing.”

“I would never push you out a window, Annja.”

“Yeah? Not unless it served your purposes. Just tell me the truth. Right now. I already know what the answer is, but I want to hear it from you.”

The imposing man pressed his knuckles to his hips, widening his stance. And his gaze didn’t get any less fierce.

“You think you know me? You think I’ll harm anyone,
kill,
to get what I desire?”

“I do,” she offered, sure of it, though it pained her to believe such truths.

Garin tilted his head. Then, swiping a palm over his mouth, he shook his head. “Isn’t everyone out to protect number one? Since you’ve come into my world, Annja, the game has changed. I have…uncertainties. I want to make them certain once again.”

“Then why not go after the sword?”

“Because I like you, Annja. Believe it or not. And, as you are aware, the sword is not an attainable goal. So until you hand it to me, with blessings and tied with a bow, then I’ve got to resort to other means.”

Aha. He’d just, in a roundabout way, confirmed her suspicions. He was after the skull. Though what it could do for him was beyond her imagining.
If
it possessed power.

His story about he and Roux holding it in fifteenth-century Spain was believable enough, but really, he had no proof. It had killed. Didn’t sound like a giver of all good things to her. And if it did grant some magical wishes, didn’t Garin already have it all? And what he didn’t have, he could buy.

Unless
good things
somehow meant giving him access to her sword. In which case, she should, and would, fight to the finish for this skull.

Swinging about, she took the lead down the hallway. With Garin hot on her heels, she couldn’t reach the anthropology lab fast enough. She was going to lead him directly to the skull. Was there any other choice? She’d known from the moment he’d pulled her from the grave he possessed ulterior motives.

The lab door was open. Annja’s heart dropped to her gut. Rushing inside, the room was empty, but the light was on over the professor’s worktable.

“Professor?” Annja didn’t track the room for the skull.

Garin prowled in behind her. He would do that search.

“Oh, hell.”

An arm stretched across the floor behind the freestanding counter. Blood spattered the professor’s face and the front of his leopard-print shirt. It had begun to pool beside his cheek and shoulder.

“He’s dead,” she said.

“Ya think?”

She cast Garin a sneer.

He put up his palms. “Sorry. Is he still warm?”

As Garin shuffled glass jars and books about, Annja bowed her head and pressed her open palm to the professor’s cheek. “Yes.”

She hadn’t known him that well, but had considered him a friend. A tear trickled down the side of her nose. At once it felt right, a small gesture for the man’s lost life, yet it felt stupid to show emotion in front of Garin.

Using that complex twist of battling emotions, Annja was able to look over the professor’s body for clues, but cautioned herself not to touch him or any of his clothes. Didn’t want to leave fingerprints.

A bloody guitar string, and the dark maroon line around his neck, answered the method-of-death question. Poor guy. He’d loved that guitar.

“Wonder how long he’s been like this?” she muttered.

There had been no other lights on in the surrounding classrooms. This wing of the hall was empty.

She had to report this. She’d call Bart. Much wiser than alerting campus security, who wouldn’t know her history of always showing up at crime scenes at the wrong time.

“It’s not in here. Was it in a case of some kind?” Garin’s insistence cut at the back of her neck. He acted oblivious to the fact a dead man lay on the floor.

Annja pounded the counter with a fist. “Back off, will you?”

Garin put up his palms to placate her. “You knew him well?”

“He was a friend. Not close, but he deserves respect.”

“You can go to his funeral. Right now, we are in a race to find that thing before the bone conjurer starts to use it. You can be sure that’s who took the thing.”

Right. The professor wasn’t dead for no reason. The skull had been the motivation. Serge had some kind of power both Garin and Roux were in awe of.

Annja twisted to study the path from the professor to the door. There were no bloody shoe tracks. And as for picking up a shoe print, she had probably walked over the murderer’s tracks.

“He’s still warm, so Serge couldn’t be too far ahead of us. Wait.” She noticed the computer screen, and stood, being careful not to step in blood or on the professor’s leg. “What’s this?”

A completion bar superimposed over a screenwide picture showed one hundred percent. Annja slid the mouse and the bar disappeared. “It’s the inside. A map of the interior.”

“Annja.”

“What?” Without pulling her attention from the screen, she tapped the mouse to copy the file to the USB flash drive plugged in the side of the computer.

Garin leaned in close so she had to meet his eyes. “Dead body? Scene of the crime. We need to get out of here now.”

“Let me copy this first.”

“We don’t have time.”

“Garin, chill. It’s not as if there are a lot of people here so late at night.”

“What about the janitor?”

“From my experience with labs and classrooms, it can be days before a janitor shows to clean. Professor Danzinger might be on the floor for days— Oh, that’s so wrong. I have to call Bart right away, or the professor could seriously be here for days before he’s found.”

“Bart?”

“NYPD detective. A friend of mine.”

“Great. Give us five minutes to clear the scene, will you?” Garin, with one last sweep of the room, strode out.

Annja grabbed the flash drive, tucked it in the front pocket of her pants and followed.

This was personal now. She didn’t know what Serge could do with a skull like that, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to get away with Professor Danzinger’s murder.

She flipped open her cell phone and dialed Bart as Garin stalked outside into the dark night. Bart didn’t answer, so she left another “guess what, I found another dead body” message for him.

“Y
OU KNOW WHAT
I don’t buy about this whole Knights Templar legend of the skull?”

Annja sat on the passenger side of Garin’s black Escalade. They’d driven it to the college and now cruised around the building, scouting the periphery. She suspected Serge had killed the professor and stolen the skull, so she was on the lookout for a behemoth bald guy.

“What’s that?” Garin asked.

“Well, there’s the cross pattée on the gold sutures. A symbol we know the Templars used, so obviously that makes the skull the actual skull, yes?”

“Yes and no. The gold could have been put on later.”

“Exactly. And this could be any old skull. Because I don’t buy that the skull and crossbones symbol began with the Templars.”

“Why not?”

“When I researched the Skull of Sidon it stated the child’s skull was found atop the Maraclean woman’s crossed thigh bones, which instigated the skull and crossbones imagery. It just spread from there.”

“That’s what I told you, as well.”

“But why, if the knights took vows of chastity and were all about doing good, would they then adopt a symbol that celebrates necrophilia? It makes little sense. Hey, guys, one of our own did something nasty with a dead chick. Let’s take that imagery and use it on our flags and tabards and let the whole world know we approve.”

“They weren’t as wholesome as history tells, Annja.”

“I know that. I’ve read about freemasonry. The devil worshipping.”

“Head worshipping, actually.”

“What’s that about?”

“It was said the Knights Templar worshipped a severed head. Theories place it as the severed head of John the Baptist, which leads to theories on the Holy Grail actually being the tray upon which his head was carried to Salome.”

“Interesting. And yet another grail legend attached to the Templars. There can be only one. And I don’t think any of them are correct. But for argument’s sake, and if we go with the head worshipping, it could have been our skull? That’s a head. Partially.”

“Who knows? Though some theories do place the Maraclean woman as a symbol of a virgin birth, while the lord of Sidon was a pirate, which ties the grail and the skull and crossbones together nicely.”

“Nicely? I don’t know about that. Eerily, more like.” Annja tapped the window glass with a knuckle as she tracked the passing sidewalks for signs of Serge. “You ever have any dealings with the Templars?”

“Before my time.”

“But there’ve been many recreations of the organization.”

“Organization?” He smirked. “You have an interesting way of putting things, Creed. Do you see anything that side of the building?”

She shook her head. “He’s not on the property anymore. Let’s take the streets and see if we can spot him. I’m sure he’s long gone by now. If the guy is smart, he’s halfway to Jersey. So you never joined the freemasons or the Shriners?”

“Shriners? Please.”

“I understand they do good work for children.”

“I’ve never been a follower, Annja.”

“What about Roux? You followed him.”

“He was my master. The kindest thing he ever called me was apprentice. I did what I was told, and wisely kept my distance from his backhand.”

“But he taught you things. You owe him a debt.”

He stepped on the brake. “What dream are you living in, woman? I owe nothing to that man. We are bound together through a bizarre destiny, but that doesn’t mean we are brothers or family.”

“Sorry.” She looked out the window. “’Spose I won’t get a Christmas card from you and Roux, then? No family picture?”

She sensed Garin’s smile but he looked out the driver’s side window.

“Speaking of pictures,” he muttered. “You look great nude.”

Annja gaped. He’d seen the online pics? Had the whole world?

Garin chuckled. “Don’t worry, Annja. I know it’s not you.”

Affronted, she lifted her shoulders. “How?”

“You forget I know your bra size. And the assets in that picture were a few cup sizes larger. Silicone, I’m sure. You, I can only imagine, are all natural.”

About to agree, but feeling too unnerved, Annja left that one to hang. Something must be done about removing that picture. But how?

Silver flashed in her peripheral view. Squinting, Annja made out a very familiar box tucked under the arm of a tall, thin man walking swiftly down the sidewalk. It wasn’t Serge. But that was the original box she’d found the skull in. “That’s him!”

“You’re sure?”

“Nope. It’s not the bone conjurer, but that is the skull, I’m sure of it. You drive, I’m going on foot.” Annja opened the door. “Can you keep close?”

“No problem. Go get him, sword-wielding warrior woman.”

She sprinted down the sidewalk. A good two hundred feet ahead of her, the man turned. The small case the skull had been enclosed in swung out in his grip. He saw her and took off in a run. He dodged right, disappearing from view.

Pumping her arms, Annja forced her pace to long strides. She considered calling the sword to hand, but dismissed that idea. She didn’t need it right now, and it would only slow her down.

Taking the turn led into a long narrow alley, which opened on to some kind of building yard enclosed by chain-link fencing. That didn’t stop the man. He expertly mounted the fence, and swung himself over.

“Thugs,” Annja muttered. “They never cease to surprise me.”

Annja hit the fence at a run and landed high, her fingers piercing the chain links. The curved metal was cold and her toe slipped its hold, dropping her body to hang by her fingers. Working the tips of her boots into the convoluted links, she levered herself up to latch a forearm over the top of the fence. Lifting her upper body, she pushed, and when her chest had risen above the chain link, she dipped forward, releasing the fence and arching her back.

She landed in a crouch. The man ran toward a warehouse.

Garin’s Escalade pulled up with a squeal behind the fence as Annja entered the warehouse. It was late. Moonlight cast across the floor at the far wall, but where Annja stood, the atmosphere was hazy at best.

Scattered lumber and plastic-covered pallets stood everywhere. The dusty smell of Sheetrock clued her to a stack of whiteboard to her right.

Before her on the hardwood floor, smeared shoe tracks advertised the murderer’s intentions. He’d gone right.

Garin entered with pistol held before him and a keen eye to the surroundings. Annja nodded, acknowledging the trail by pointing it out. He nodded left and gestured she go right.

She dashed between two stacks of lumber piled three feet higher than her head. The building must be a lumber warehouse. Racing to the end, she slapped a palm on a stack of wood. An electric air nailer wobbled.

“Oh, yeah?” Annja grabbed the yellow nailer and gave the trigger a squeeze. No nails were expelled because the safety was on. But it was charged, and ready to use. “Nice.”

The clatter of boards alerted her that the man was close. Nailer wielded like a gun, she slunk along a wall of lumber, her shoulders tracing the clean edges, and crept to the end of the stack.

Raising the nailer before her, she decided it would prove a fitting weapon. With a sword she’d have to put herself close to the danger. With the nailer she could buy herself some room.