The Bone Conjurer (24 page)

Maxfield Wisdom stood outside in the sleet, back to the black limo. He stared at the estate his host had insisted they stop at. The driver stood right beside Maxfield to keep him in place.

He’d never liked Benjamin Ravenscroft. Now, he wasn’t quite sure what the man wanted from him. He didn’t have the Skull of Sidon. Did he hope to use Maxfield to get it from Annja Creed?

He felt nauseous again.

He shivered, but didn’t want to get inside the limo. The cold air cleared his senses. And if he could figure out a way to distract the driver so he could start running, he was all for that. But who was he fooling? He’d get about two houses down the sidewalk before the driver caught him, huffing and slipping about on his dress shoes.

He felt quite sure the besuited chauffeur was also packing a weapon, for his coat strained across one shoulder where Maxfield assumed a leather holster must run.

Is this the kind of adventure Annja Creed experienced? He’d initially thought following her an intriguing notion, but now…

L
INDA LAY SPRAWLED
on their king-size bed in the pink silk nightgown Ben remembered giving her for their fifth wedding anniversary. A bottle of Vicodin sat on the nightstand, half-empty. He had no way of knowing how many pills she had consumed, but when he slapped her face gently, she didn’t rouse. Her skin was clammy. He found her pulse along her neck. Slow.

“Daddy?”

“Rebecca, take Rachel to her bedroom.”

The secretary complied. She was nervous, but not frantic. He gave her points for that. A strong woman, who took orders well.

“Daddy?” Rachel cried as Rebecca tried to shoo her from the doorway.

“Rebecca’s a new babysitter,” he tried, hating the lie, but blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “I think Mommy isn’t feeling well. I’m going to take her to the doctor.”

“Like me?” Rachel’s voice cracked and tears started. She pulled at Rebecca’s gentle insistence.

“Go with Rebecca, please, Rachel. Mommy is going to be fine. Not like you.” Stupid. Why had he said that? “Just listen to what Rebecca says, and I’ll call you as soon as Mommy wakes up.

“Fuck,” he said as he touched the side of Linda’s neck. Heartbeats should be faster. “What the hell are you trying to do? Kill yourself? Leave our precious daughter alone? Stupid woman.”

He glanced to the phone. He should call for an ambulance. Could the limo get her to the emergency room faster?

Wisdom waited outside in the car. He knew Ben was not allied with Annja and had nervously tried to open the door as they’d driven from the airport. Rebecca had shown surprising sanguinity when she’d offered to hold the gun on Wisdom. It made Ben feel a little like Bonnie and Clyde.

Hell, he shouldn’t be thinking like that! Not now. Not here in his family’s home.

This night was not right. He had things to take care of. A means to save his daughter was out there. So close. All the elements to obtaining it had come together.

And now this…this distraction.

He tugged down the skirt of Linda’s nightgown and stood to pace at the end of the bed.

“Ben?” Rebecca popped her head in the doorway. “I gave her some milk and cookies. She won’t go to sleep.”

“That’s fine. Will you stay with her while I take Linda to the hospital?”

Rebecca nodded. “What about the guy out in the car? You want the gun?”

“No.” Ben exhaled. He could do letter openers, but guns?

On the other hand, he had vowed to do whatever was necessary to save his daughter. Linda was slowing him down. He didn’t need this complication.

“New plan. I’ll call an ambulance. You meet them and explain you’re the babysitter who arrived to find Linda like this, okay?”

“You’re going to leave me with the kid?”

“She’s my daughter, Rebecca.” He allowed her to embrace him from behind. It felt great. Strange, though, standing in another woman’s arms while his wife slowly died just five feet away on the bed. “You love me? You love my daughter.”

“I’ll do it, Ben. But I worry about you and Mr. Wisdom.”

“Give me the gun, then.”

She slipped the Ruger LCP from the pocket of her skirt. The small pistol was perfect for concealing. “You know how to use it?” she asked.

“Doesn’t matter.” He checked the safety. It was on. “I just need to make it look good.” He kissed Rebecca’s mouth, full and warm and always ready for him. “I’ll call as soon as I’m able.”

He slid the pistol into a front trouser pocket, and strode toward the stairs. Then, realizing he’d have to pass Rachel’s room, he detoured toward the back door, stepping softly so she wouldn’t hear.

A
NNJA ADJUSTED THE GREEN
screen hanging in a corner of her living room. Standing back, she studied the lower left corner. That was the only place torn during Serge’s rampage. She’d fixed it with duct tape to the back and a coating of clear nail polish on the front. Not a perfect fix, but she couldn’t see the tear, and it shouldn’t show on film. And until she had the extra cash to invest in a new one—or could convince Doug Morrell to foot the bill—this would serve.

Chasing History’s Monsters
may be winning some decent ratings, but it was still a strictly low-budget venture. She sometimes recorded spots for her segments in her living room or out in the field, and hoped Doug didn’t insert something like fangs on a local librarian or wings on the backs of a trio of schoolchildren walking away from the camera.

The man had no morals when it came to ratings. Wasn’t Kristie Chatham proof enough of that?

But would he go so far as to doctor a photograph of her? Annja couldn’t decide on that one. And she hadn’t heard from him after e-mailing him about it. Did that mean he was hiding in shame? Or laughing because he’d gotten away with it?

Her loft had been returned to a semblance of normality. She’d spent a few hours going over it, tossing two bags full of damaged food from the kitchen. A terrible waste. She’d even managed to dust the curtains. Hey, a few flicks of the material out the window worked better than a feather duster any day.

There were two books Serge’s rampage had damaged beyond repair. The spine had been ripped clean away from the signature pages on
The Three Musketeers,
published in 1894 with illustrations by Maurice Leloir. It was still readable, but her heart sank to her stomach at the destruction. This was one of her favorite volumes.

Now she sat on the couch and sipped a can of Diet Coke. She should hear from Maxfield Wisdom soon. His flight had landed half an hour earlier.

The skull sat on the coffee table, now bare of her collection of manuscripts. She’d tucked those in a neat pile on a bookshelf. A little cleaning never hurt anyone.

“You’ve caused a lot of trouble, you,” she said to the cranium. “I wish I could decipher the markings inside.”

Following that spark of curiosity, Annja went to her desk and spread the printouts Professor Danzinger had worked on beside the laptop. The design had a very Celtic look to it. There were interweaving ribbons and it was all very symmetrical. The Celts had invaded France a long time before this skull had been born.

“Fourth century,” she muttered. “The Templars weren’t established until the twelfth century.”

So while the design could be Celtic, she decided it probably wasn’t. It wasn’t her field of interest, though she had read a few papers about them in college. With the professor gone, she had no idea who to contact who might be able to help her.

But did it matter? Returning the skull to its owner was imminent. End of story. She’d go on to the next adventure. What would knowing what the markings were meant to say prove?

“Maybe they invoke some dark spirits?” She chuckled. “Annja, you’ve been chasing too many monsters.”

But she had found some real monsters during those chases. It meant there were many things on this earth that must be believed, if only one could open their mind wide enough.

“Maybe I should consider this as a segment for the show?” She pondered the carvings until her eyes unfocused and the dark squiggly lines blurred. “Necrophilia might be too extreme even for Doug. Ha.”

The phone rang and she nearly toppled from the chair. Dashing to the coffee table, she grabbed her phone. “Hello?”

“Miss Creed. I’ve got something you want.” The voice was familiar.

“Really?” Couldn’t be Wisdom. She had something he wanted. “Who is this?”

“Benjamin Ravenscroft.”

Right. She should have detected the sense of entitlement in his tone.

“Can we arrange to meet?” he asked.

“That depends. What is it you’ve got you believe would interest me?”

“Maxfield Wisdom.”

Annja exhaled. “You picked him up from the airport?”

“Yes, I told him you sent me. He was very agreeable until he decided I wasn’t going to take him to you. We’ve had to restrain him, poor fellow. The sooner you can get here with the Skull of Sidon the quicker the man can be undone and set to wander free. What do you say?”

“Why is the skull so important to you?”

“Does it matter when a man’s life is at stake?”

“You’d kill Maxfield?”

“I’m losing patience, Annja. I need that skull!”

“Why? Someone die?”

“You bitch!”

“Whoa.” She’d touched a nerve.

“Let’s meet in an hour. Why not somewhere in your neighborhood? Sunset Park. It’s private and out of the way, but that’s for the best, don’t you think?”

“Where’s Serge?”

“You haven’t stumbled across him? The fellow does have a manner of chasing in circles. Don’t worry, he won’t bother us.”

That meant Ravenscroft must have no idea where the necromancer was. Annja wasn’t sure she needed a bald bone conjurer thrown into the mix right now.

“An hour?” she said.

“At the Bush Terminal Piers,” he said. “Shall I send a driver to pick you up?”

“No, I’ll find you. Don’t hurt Maxfield, because if you do, I’ll hurt you.”

“You make me tremble, Annja. I must admit it is a thrill to feel threatened by a woman. I like your spark.”

“Yeah? Remember that when I’m forced to beat you bloody.” She hung up and put her head to her knees. “I can be so rash sometimes. I have no idea who this Ben guy really is or what I’m dealing with. And he’s holding an innocent man hostage.”

With Serge out searching for her, and Ravenscroft gunning for her, this night could prove interesting.

She reached to switch off the laptop but startled. The image of the interior skull map showed…

“Words? In…Latin.”

She tapped the screen and read,
“Non nobis Domine, no nobis, sed nomini to da glorium.”

“‘Not unto us, O Lord,’” she interpreted. “‘Not unto us, but unto Thee give the glory.’”

“I know that quote. It’s…Templar.”

Annja wondered what she’d be up against. She’d have her sword, but that meant she had to get close to anyone who wished to harm her. And those anyones would likely have guns that didn’t require
they
get close.

She was certain Ben would have muscle, with weapons, waiting for her arrival. She had no backup. She should have backup. But Roux was gone, and she was determined not to go running to Garin with a pitiful plea for protection.

She could do this. Exchange the skull for Maxfield, and pray Ben had no reason to kill them. But to be safe…

To his credit, Bart didn’t bemoan her call as giving him a heart attack. Instead, he listened carefully as Annja summarized her adventures and the showdown she expected to come.

“What warehouse?” he asked. Annja heard the scribble of his pencil as he took notes. “Along the pier? There’s a lot of old warehouses out in Sunset Park. Some are destined for demolition. Others they’ve recently fixed up.”

“I’m not sure. I’m guessing one of the empty ones.”

“That seems obvious. Don’t go in until I get there, Annja.”

“Are you going to be my backup?”

“Do I have a choice?”

She touched the cool skull bone nestled in her open backpack. “In the wrong hands, this skull could do some serious damage, Bart. I can go so far as to say it’s evil.”

“Then I’m in. But remember, wait for me.”

“Thanks. I owe you Cuban—”

“And another one of those hugs next time.”

Z
IPPING UP HER
down-filled jacket against the chill, Annja tugged her cap lower and walked onward. A long stretch of warehouses paralleled the Upper New York Bay.

The cranky bark of a car horn forced her onto the sidewalk. Resisting the unnatural urge to turn and give the finger to the driver, Annja checked her emotional gauge. She was angry. That would never serve when entering a dangerous situation.

“Chill,” she coached herself. “He’s on the
Forbes
list. He won’t risk damaging his reputation any more than I will risk Maxfield’s life. We’re on a level playing field. So Ravenscroft gets the skull for a bit. I’ll get it back.”

That was her focus. She’d have to hand the skull over to save Maxfield, but then she had to plot a way to get it back. It didn’t belong in the hands of anyone who intended to use it nefariously.

If he even could.

Maxfield had said the skull had done nothing for him, or any of his family members. It hadn’t shimmered with ineffable vibrations or granted any good while in her possession. Nor had it helped the professor.

Yet why had it worked for Garin?

“Something about whomever is holding it.” Garin had seen the skull once before. Touched it. He’d said it had whispered to him. “The holder must have a connection to the skull. Maybe. A Templar connection?”

Did Ben Ravenscroft have the same connection? As far as Annja could figure, he hadn’t ever had it in his hands except for the one time he’d held it at Wisdom’s home. Ravenscroft must have been the one who sent the sniper after Marcus, and was ultimately the man who hired Marcus. It made weird sense. Perhaps the sniper had been acting beyond orders. Ben would have never ordered the man killed if he knew he held the one thing he wanted.

So were he and Serge working together? She’d had the thought a necromancer could help a man rise in his career. Made sense, again. Supernatural sense.

But it didn’t seem as though Ben and Serge were on the same page now. Both wanted the skull. Yet Serge had seemed bitter about Ben. Could the skull be a means to retaliate against Ben? For what?

Turning down the street, Annja stretched her gaze across the building fronts. Half the area was active business, the other derelict industrialism. Sunset Park had done a great job of prettying up the area, but there was yet a lot of work to do.

At this pace, she’d beat Bart. And did he really think she’d wait for backup?

It bothered her that, of all the people she would expect to produce results upon holding the skull, one of those people was not her. She wielded a magical sword. Why wouldn’t a magical skull work in her hands?

Or was it she was only allowed one magical weapon to her arsenal in this crazy world of legend become reality?

Annja had no idea how the sword actually worked for her—coming to her grip when needed, and sometimes not appearing when it wasn’t needed, though she called for it. It worked, that was what mattered.

So did the skull only work in one specific set of hands? Why Garin’s? It was hard to tie Garin to a necrophilic skull that gave all good things. He wasn’t some chosen warrior set to change the world. Heck, warriors weren’t even in vogue anymore.

Or maybe he was. She had no right to judge. There were greater forces operating in her life, and in the lives of those orbiting about her. Roux and Garin were two of those orbiting planets.

Annja slowed. Her hair stood up on the back of her neck.

The warehouse was compact, yet six stories high. A bright light beamed out from the multipaned windows tracking the first floor. It was older, probably built in the industrial age, and likely marked for demolition. There were lots of buildings in the city that should have been demolitioned ages ago due to safety hazards.

Feeling as though she was the only one in the yard before the building, but sensing that couldn’t possibly be true, Annja instinctively held out her arms, putting up her hands in show of surrender. Her backpack with the skull inside hugged her shoulder.

Behind her, water slapped the decaying pier. She was in no mood for another swim in November waters.

As she approached the door she heard footsteps move up behind her, sloshing through the slush of snow. She stopped. Intuitive prickles tightened across her scalp.

A man called for her to stop. A little late, but she never did rate thugs too highly on the smarts scale.

“Hands behind your neck,” he ordered.

She complied, hating the vulnerable position. Wide male hands moved over her arms, patting her down in search of weapons. They groped down her torso and thighs.

A tug at the backpack prompted her to tug in return. “I only hand it over to Benjamin Ravenscroft,” she said. “Or the deal’s off.”

It was a lousy argument. They could shoot her, take the backpack and be done with the entire thing.

“Let her hang on to it. She’s clean,” someone said.

The door before her was shoved open by a man clad head to combat boots in jungle camouflage. He hugged an AK-47 to his ribs. The dark glasses were utterly inane this late at night.

Given a wide berth, Annja passed through the doors and into a vast empty room. She couldn’t determine what kind of factory it may have once been. There was no equipment or large industrial machines. The concrete floor was cracked and littered with building debris and bits of twig from overhead birds’ nests.

Ahead, light beamed over a man tied to a chair, his arms wrenched around behind the back of it. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth and down his chin.

Annja felt the need to hold the solid hilt of her sword. But she cautioned quick action.

Behind her, four thugs loomed. One stood close enough she could hear his labored breathing.

“Miss Creed, once again it is a pleasure.”

A man in black suit and silver tie stepped into the light beside the seated man.

“Your pleasure is my headache, Ben.”

“Yes, you can use my first name, if you desire. Most call me Mr. Ravenscroft.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,
Ben.
Is this Maxfield Wisdom?”

The man on the chair, his mouth gagged, looked to her with pleading eyes and nodded profusely. He couldn’t be much over forty. He had a narrow face and was dressed in safari khakis.

“I’m sorry, Maxfield. I hadn’t intended for things to go this way,” she said to him. Then to Ben she said, “Why don’t you extend the olive branch and let him go? I’m here. I have what you want. There’s no need to further involve Mr. Wisdom.”

“You’re an impatient woman, Annja. That surprises me, knowing you spend your days digging fruitlessly about in the dirt in hopes of now and then snagging a bit of bone or pottery.”

“When I’m not pothunting—” she used the derogatory term loosely “—I seem to be negotiating with one or another type of bad guy. I’ve become very good at it.”

“Really? I knew something remarkable had attracted me to you. For a woman, you’ve got balls.”

She shook her head. “Can we quit the dance and get to the showdown?”

“Yes. Time is, as they say, of the essence.”

With a nod of his head, Ben laid out a silent command. Annja was gripped from behind, her left arm twisted across her back. The backpack strap, hooked over her right shoulder, slipped to her elbow.

“Is it in there?” Ben approached. “Give me the bag.”

She struggled, but allowed him to take the backpack. Until Maxfield was free, she couldn’t be too quick to fight. Especially not with the thug standing in the shadows with a machine gun aimed on the bound man.

The thugs handed the backpack to Ben. He set it carefully on the ground.

“You have it, now let me take Maxfield and leave.”

Ben squatted over the backpack, making great show of slowly drawing down the zipper and reaching inside. “You don’t want to see if it works?”

“It doesn’t,” she said. “I don’t know what you think an old skull is going to do for you, but it certainly isn’t going to bring riches or raise the dead.”

Ben’s smile wavered. He stood, the box in both hands. “You know nothing about me, Annja Creed. You think I’m some evil man who wants to kill, maim or destroy to get what he wants?”

“I’m a pretty good judge of character. I call ’em as I see them.”

Ben caressed the box and lifted it to study. Now he reminded her of a wicked wizard who held Pandora’s box and intended to unleash untold evils upon the world.

Oh, Annja, you’ve been watching far too many fantasy movies lately, she thought.

“I already have the riches,” Ben said. His dark eyes searched hers.

Annja saw the glint of life in his eyes. They glittered. With madness? No, there was something so sad in the dark depths she momentarily wondered if he was truly mentally disturbed.

Hell, he’d hired a necromancer. He believed a skull could give him power. Of course he was disturbed.

“But I do need to ensure one destined for death is granted a reprieve,” he said.

“What does that mean? We’re all destined to die sooner or later.”

Ben tucked the box under an arm and tilted a quizzical look upon her.

“Annja, what if you knew you were going to die. It was fated. Let’s say, tomorrow.”

“If that’s when I’m meant to go…so be it.”

“Ah, but what if you knew something was out there to reverse that fate? Would you attempt to utilize it?”

He didn’t want to know her philosophy of life and death. He must be talking about someone close to him. Who else would a man try so desperately to save?

“You think the skull can stop death?” she asked.

“That would be a very good thing, don’t you agree?”

She could only tilt her head and offer a doubtful shrug. If Maxfield’s guess that the skull only worked in the hands of those who had not received enough good already, she figured it would produce a maelstrom for Ben.

“I would give my very heart to have it work.” Ben clenched a hand over his shirt. “I would rip it out and hand it over to you, if you could tell me this skull can stop death.”

“I…I can’t do that. Who do you need to save?”

He was starting to frighten her now. And with her arm twisted uncomfortably behind her, she was in no position to escape.

The man with the machine gun had moved closer to Maxfield. “Let him go,” she tried again.

“Ben!”

Annja recognized the voice yelling from the doorway behind her. She flinched as the sound of bullets ricocheted in the room—and struck flesh and blood.

The man guarding Maxfield dropped to the floor. The thugs behind Annja engaged and prepared.

“Hold your fire!” Ben shouted. He held the box, unflinching.

Tears ran down Maxfield’s face.

Annja was able to stretch a glance over her shoulder. Two men were down. Serge approached with a pistol in each hand.

“I thought you weren’t into taking life, necromancer?” Ben challenged.

Annja struggled against her captor, but he held her wrists behind her back firmly.

Serge didn’t answer Ben. Instead, the tall bald man aimed for Annja and pulled the trigger.