The Megiddo Mark, Part 1 (4 page)

Moments later, a firm tread stopped in the hallway beyond the bedroom door. “Ma’am, this is Special Constable Thompson. It’s safe to come out now.”

“Can you slip your badge under the door?”

“Sure. Here you go.”

Malena scrutinized the official badge and ID he’d shoved under the door.

“What? What’s going on?” Elizabeth mumbled from under the covers.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep. I’ll take care of it.”

“Surr
. . .” Elizabeth snored.

“Okay, I’m coming out.” She eased open the door and let out a relieved sigh as she saw the constable. An exhausting day had just morphed into a hell of a night. She felt soul weary and about ready to snap.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, just scared.” She sagged against the hallway wall.

“Are you alone?”

“No, my friend is asleep.” Malena nodded to the door she’d closed behind her.

“Looks like a burglary. Can you come take a look to see if anything is missing? Then we’ll need to wake your friend to question her.”

She pushed away from the wall to walk downstairs to survey the open kitchen-living room layout of the ground floor. Her purse and briefcase lay overturned on the floor. She strode over to see if anything had been taken. Rifling through her wallet, and the contents of her briefcase, she looked up at the officer standing over her. “They didn’t take anything. Not my money. Not my passport. Not even my plane ticket back to America.”

She took another survey of the room. The desk had been wrecked, all the papers tossed on the floor. Books had been fanned and then thrown aside. Someone had been looking for something.

The officers questioned her, filed their reports, and finally, after what seemed like hours, left her alone to clean up. She shooed Elizabeth back upstairs to bed. The grandfather clock chimed three o’clock in the morning.

Malena glanced around the kitchen. Nothing else had been touched in here. Turning around, she came face to face with the empty bulletin board.

The poem was gone.

The handwritten copy she’d made before bed had vanished.

Malena shivered.

They’d been after the poem?

Someone had been looking for the poem hidden in the book. At least she still had the original in the nightstand beside her bed. But now someone else had a copy. Should she inform the police? Was it even important? Who would want a copy of a poem?

She couldn’t believe the precise timing of the break-in. She’d purchased the book at auction this morning in Oxford. No one else knew the poem even existed. Yet in that short time someone had broken into her house to steal it. A house she’d just moved into today.

Why would anyone else be interested in
Flights of Fancy
or the hidden poem? The day had gone from bizarre to surreal. She didn’t even want to think about what would have happened tonight if she hadn’t been awake when the break-in occurred.

Someone else wanted this book and its secrets.

Now, more than ever, Malena needed to figure out the poem. And according to her conversation with her dreamscape aunt, Malena needed to start at the bookshop. In normal circumstances, she wouldn’t give credence to her dreams, but what did she have to lose? Someone wanted the poem badly enough to ransack her house. Those clues meant something very real to someone. The poem spoke of a murderer. The stakes were bigger than she’d ever imagined. Malena hoped she was wrong. She couldn’t shake the niggling feeling of uneasiness that settled in the pit of her stomach. She had to find answers, quickly. She only hoped she could do it before something terrible happened.

As she grabbed her overturned purse, Malena saw the card the man in Oxford tucked into her pocket that afternoon. She’d told herself she’d throw it in the trash when she arrived in London, but instead she’d dropped it in her purse without even glancing at it. Now she stared at the white rectangle, flipped upside down on the floor. He wanted the book and he knew she had it. She picked up the card. His precise, slanted writing identified a restaurant for their meeting later that evening. She turned over the business card. Glossy letters listed Wade Acquisitions as the company owned and operated by Cullen Wade.

Wade. She’d gotten it all wrong. She thought he’d introduced himself as Wade Cullen. An honest mistake. Or had the misconception been intentional?

A relation of Juliana Wade. The fact didn’t change her mind about selling him the book. However, it might explain why he’d wanted that copy of
Flights of Fancy
. She looked again at the card. Had her mother ever mentioned whether Juliana had any children? She didn’t know. But she knew one way to find out.

She’d have dinner with Mr. Cullen Wade to find out if he’d been her midnight burglar tonight and why he’d steal a copy of an ambiguous poem of unknown origins. At least then she’d know with whom and what she dealt. Maybe then she’d understand better the scope of her problem.

Better the devil she’d met. She’d taken his measure earlier this morning. Cullen Wade she could handle. She only had to dine with him once to prove it to him. And herself. He’d be sorry he ever bothered.

Chapter Four

Sirens blared and strobes cut into the night, jabbing at the swirling fog to illuminate the dense shadows. Cullen slipped into the crowd gathered across the street from Eleven Cavendish Square. A woman stood in her robe and slippers, curlers in her hair. Another by-stander wore rumpled clothes that smelled of whiskey. Two police cruisers blocked the street entrance to the townhouse where Malena Alexander lived.

“What’s going on here?” Cullen said.

“Looks like a grab and dash,” the woman in bedroom slippers said.

“Robbery, plain and simple. Watched a bloke dressed in a hoodie and long black coat come running out of the house just before the police pulled up.” The man in the rumpled clothes rubbed his face. “About knocked me flat on my arse, he did.”

“What happened to you? There’s blood on your mouth,” a pregnant woman said to Cullen. She eyed him while she clutched her belly.

“Bar fight at McConaughey’s,” Cullen said. “Should’ve seen the other guy.” He pressed his knuckle to the corner of his mouth and came away with a smear of blood. His mouth had fared a hell of a lot better than his ribs. He’d be lucky if he didn’t have more than one fracture. He’d be taping them tonight. Not like he’d never been in a fight before. And for some reason he could never explain, he healed much quicker than the average man. By tomorrow the cut on his lip would be gone and his ribs would be mended. “Can you describe him to the police?” Cullen said.

“Not sure.”

“Tell the police anything you’ve seen of interest. They’ll want to hear it all.” He turned to walk away.

“Hey, shouldn’t you stick around and talk to the police?”

“Nah, I didn’t see anything. I just wondered at all the commotion. Wanted to know what happened. My girl and I had a blazing row. Need to apologize.” Cullen kept walking, his long strides eating up the distance between him and escape. His leather pants, ripped Carlsberg t-shirt, earring, and chip-on-the-shoulder attitude would keep anyone from associating him with the stoic, upright businessman Cullen Wade.

The foggy night closed in around him.

He knew only too well what the intruder had worn, he’d come face to face with the bastard inside. Their evenly matched scuffle had cleared the desk and then wrecked the foyer, knocking a vase to the floor. The man had slammed him against the wall, his forearm jammed against his throat in a choke hold. Cullen had freed himself then attacked, sending the man crashing into the table.

When the vase crashed to the floor, the intruder ran and Cullen had heard Malena moving around upstairs. Scotland Yard detectives wouldn’t understand how he’d come to be inside a house that wasn’t his–no matter if he had scared off the intruder and kept Malena Alexander safe tonight.

Witnesses at the auction in Oxford would attest to his motivation. If she pointed a finger in his direction, he’d be suspect number one.

Rounding the street corner where he’d parked his motorcycle, he grabbed his helmet and gingerly straddled his bike under the street lamp, then pulled from his pocket the crumpled piece of paper that the intruder had dropped.

Cullen smoothed out the notebook paper and read the words.

To the Guardian of the
Vitae Lux and her consort . . . a test, a quest.

A pencil rubbing of an image that looked like a lacey flower sat at the bottom of the twenty-five-line poem. Cullen squinted at the paper in the dim street light. He’d seen the image once before–three years ago at Megiddo, an excavation site where the Israeli Antiquities Authority had called him in to verify Roman influence on an early Christian Prayer Hall they’d uncovered.

With Cullen’s help, the Megiddo excavation proved that Roman support of Christianity predated the Council of Nicaea in
325 A.D. by at least a century. Roman tolerance of Christianity had begun well before the date historians believed.

He’d first seen the image he now held in his hand on the mosaic floor of that Christian Prayer Hall along with similar geometric patterns, a medallion with two fish, and inscriptions in Greek honoring Gaianos, a Roman centurion who’d paid for the mosaics. Of course the Megiddo image had been six feet by six feet, not two inches square.

“I’ll be damned.” Malena Alexander had a lot of explaining to do when she met him for dinner. Whether she knew it or not, on a single handwritten piece of paper she had cited the
Vitae Lux
and implied a link between both the book and Megiddo. What if they were all linked?

Not only had she bought the
first-edition copy of Ava Alexander’s poetry out from under him, but now she also seemed to be tracking the mystery text that had disappeared from his mother’s possessions all those years ago.

It might benefit him to keep closer tabs on the woman. She could be more useful than he’d first imagined.

The link between the Megiddo mark and the
Vitae Lux
might date back farther than anyone thought. But how did his mother play into the scenario? Surely she would have mentioned something about the Megiddo mark or the
Vitae Lux
in her journals. She wrote about everything else.

Cullen twisted on his seat, winced, then jammed the black sweatshirt and lightweight duster wadded up in his helmet into the satchel strapped to the side of the bike. He eased the helmet onto his head and kicked the bike into motion.

Malena Alexander had been a painful thorn in his side–thanks to her knitting accomplice–since the moment he’d met her. He’d be crazy to entertain the idea of a romantic dinner with the irksome woman let alone consider entangling his life with hers any more than necessary. Who knew what stunt she had up her sleeve next? A tiny thrill of excitement flickered. He’d go prepared for anything and hope for the best.

Chapter Five

The bell above the door jangled when Malena walked into The Curiosity Shop. She stopped inside the front entryway. Memories washed over her at the sight of the shop she’d been so familiar with in her youth. She breathed the recognizable scents of her Aunt Blanche’s bookstore. Books, beeswax floor polish, orange and dried lavender, fresh coffee, and baked goods. The shop smelled the same, looked the same. She could imagine her aunt walking out of the back room at any moment to see if she needed assistance.

Malena ran her fingers along the dark circa 1898 mahogany counters. A glass casement displayed an old leather-bound book open with a jeweled velvet ribbon bookmark and antique reading glasses. It was as if some timeless reader had walked away, leaving behind a treasure for the modern booklover. The beautiful display captured the eye and the imagination
–all polished silver, burnished amber, deep emerald, and crushed red velvet.

The dark oak floors were polished to a high sheen. A big bay window at the front opened into a large room with a counter that ran the length of the opposite wall with two registers, one at either end. The walls were a cool gray-green trimmed with ornate white molding. Library tables of sturdy oak dotted the area. Louis Comfort Tiffany reproduction reading lamps of emerald and peach-colored stained glass sat on each table.

A few changes stood out. Small bistro tables were positioned in the shadows to her left in what looked like a new café or coffee shop area. A glass-fronted bakery case sat empty in the corner. Large over-stuffed brown armchairs, the texture of a well-worn saddle, created a cozy gathering area on the edge of the café, welcoming patrons to explore the rest of the bookstore at their leisure, one book at a time.

The shop was even lovelier than Malena remembered. She’d not visited in years. Nostalgia warred within her, then won. She recalled with fond memories the days and weeks spent here during her summers when she’d been newly orphaned.

She’d come to live with Blanche. Here, as a dislocated fifteen-year-old, she’d found some of her first friends among the stories of Lucy Maud Montgomery, Mark Twain, and E.B. White while nestled in a sunny window seat. Hours and days poured into living with those friends helped her deal with the pain of losing her mother that first summer and fostered a love of literature deep in her wounded, teenaged heart. Those halcyon days made her the woman she’d become today. So how could she let the shop slip from her fingers into the hands of a stranger who might very well tear it down?

“Hello? Anyone here?” Why had no one come to greet her? The bell rang loud enough to be heard throughout the shop. While the sign announced the bookshop was closed for business, the door had been unlocked. Someone had opened the shop this morning. The main overhead lights were dark yet the track lighting that rimmed the outer edge of the room cast a gentle glow throughout. The Curiosity Shop had shut down for a month out of respect for Blanche’s sudden death.

Which didn’t explain the unlocked front door.

She pulled a small pad from her purse to jot down a note before she shoved it back into her shoulder bag. She would talk to the manager.

Malena walked farther into the store. Classical music played in the background. She passed through the sitting area then paused. Tall floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stood sentinel, row upon row. Shadows hung over huge sections of the store. But soft golden pools of light shone onto the books on the shelves. She knew she couldn’t conduct a thorough inspection in the soft lighting, but she wanted to reorient herself to the layout.

In the dream last night, Blanche had advised her to begin her journey here at The Curiosity Shop, whatever that meant. She had no idea. Malena wasn’t even convinced she should put any stock in her late-night imaginings. Yet here she stood today.

She’d arrived in London a few days ago, visited Oxford for the book auction yesterday, cleaned up after the break-in last night, and packed Elizabeth off to visit friends today. Then she’d conducted a quick search to inventory her new London lodgings. She’d found nothing out of the ordinary, no magical key to the poem in
Flights of Fancy
and no reference to the slip of paper with
Vitae Lux
scrawled upon it.

Malena walked down another aisle of books, running her fingers along the spines. Shakespeare.
Hamlet
,
Merchant of Venice
,
Much Ado About Nothing
. She’d always loved that the bookshop housed an odd mixture of new and old books. She continued to browse.

The sections were organized by category.
Divider cards separated new titles from the older, used books on the same topic. Black blade signs hung suspended from the ceiling labeling each section. She walked through Psychology. Shelf labels marked Self-help, Relationships, Marriage, Divorce.

A blur of color flashed at the periphery of her vision and she snapped around. No one there. She listened. Silence, except for the overhead music. Uneasiness crept over her. Her own ghosts must have her spooked. It’s nothing. She brushed off the feeling of apprehension that
burrowed under her skin, then walked on.

Something thumped behind her.

She jumped. Whirled around.

A book had fallen off the shelf.
Relief rushed over her.

She bent to look closer. The worn butterscotch leather felt soft and warm. Her hand tingled
; perhaps the beginning stages of carpal tunnel syndrome. She shook off the sensation and lifted the heavy tome. That’s odd. At eye level, a gaping hole yawned where the book must have been shelved. Turning the spine out, she noticed the title of the book
Secrets of Finding Your Life Mate
.

“I won’t need that anytime soon.
” She replaced the book. “There. Good as new.” Her fingers brushed the spine, a gentle caress. It might be an antique worth a good deal of money. She glanced at it one last time before she walked on.

She’d only taken one step when she heard the same thwamp behind her. The book
had dropped on the floor again. This time, she lifted both hands to the shelf, wiggling the oak board to see if it had a wobble that caused the book to topple off the shelf. No. The shelf didn’t budge, it stood solid.

“Weird,” she said.

She stared at the book, puzzled. Again she picked it up, placed it on the shelf and walked into the next aisle. To her relief, the book stayed on the shelf this time. There must have been a loose floorboard that caused the bookcase to shift, sending the book to the floor when someone walked past.

Chopin played overhead, rushing piano notes swelled and swayed. She turned the corner, walking into the Parenting section.

There, on the floor, lay what looked like the same worn leather-bound book she’d reshelved in Psychology. She crouched down to examine it. The soft leather looked identical, but the title printed in gold embossed letters across the cover read
Lost Daughters, Lost Fathers
, not a book on dating at all.

Malena traced her fingers along the gold letters. Again, her fingers prickled with sensation. An empty spot stood on the second shelf from the bottom. She shelved the book and moved on, eager to get out of this section. She took three steps before she heard the book hit the floor again.

“That cannot be good for that old book,” she said.

This time she didn’t try to reshelve it. She picked up the heavy volume. Her palm grew warm where it came into contact with the spine. She looked at her hand. The center felt warm as if she’d touched a red-hot poker.

She carried the book to the front of the store, slamming it a little harder than she’d intended onto the countertop near the register. Whoever switched on the lights and music could reshelve the troublesome text if and when she tracked them down.

Had to be a
n unstable shelf. She returned to Psychology. The books were jammed tight for three shelves above and below where she could have sworn she’d placed the book. No leather-bound butterscotch volume. She stepped to the case to the right. Nope. Then the one to the left. No, not there either.

She wasn’t losing her mind. She walked back to the counter at the registers to make sure. The book still sat on the polished mahogany counter. She breathed a sigh of relief. At least she hadn’t imagined the book entirely.

Maybe she’d check the second spot.

Ouch!

Again, she looked at the palm of her left hand where it had come into contact with the book. An angry red spot the size of a silver dollar throbbed at the center of her palm. She touched it tenderly. The book could not have burned her. It just wasn’t possible. But that’s exactly what it felt like. She pivoted to go back to Parenting.

Malena yelped. An old man stood mere inches from her. He thrust his face close to her own.
She jerked back. His shock of white hair stood on end. Creases in his face gave the stern visage a worn, weathered look. His eyes, though, were dark blue, bright and clear. A pair of reading glasses perched low on his nose.

“You scared me,” she said.

“Then don’t be sneaking around somebody’s closed shop,” he snapped. “Can’t you read the sign? We’re closed. Now get out.”

“I don’t think so. I’m the new owner.”

“Are you now? We’ll see about that.”

She wiggled her fingers. They felt like they’d fallen asleep, tiny needles penetrating her skin from the palm outward. She massaged her left hand while she talked. She
couldn’t explain to a complete stranger that she believed the book she’d just touch had burned her in some way.

He’d think her crazy.

She thought she was crazy.

The man had to be at least seventy years old, maybe older. Lean and tall, he towered over her. His eyebrows, tufts of white hair, were drawn down in a permanent scowl. His mouth remained set in a firm, straight line. The frown he wore tapped into a network of crags and crevices, silent evidence this man scowled a lot.

“Who’d you say you were?” he said.

A grumpy old man working in her shop. Great. No wonder three booksellers had quit. That’s all she needed at the moment. Management issues. She couldn’t even seem to manage her own life right now let alone someone else’s.

She was supposed to be looking for clues and here she’d found a cranky septuagenarian. She hoped against hope he was the cleaning guy who she wouldn’t have to see very often.

“Malena Alexander.” She offered her hand. He looked through her then turned to walk away. His slow gait and stooped shoulders should have made her feel sorry for the old man, but she didn’t.

“Who are you?” she said rushing to follow him back through the store.

“Who wants to know?” he said, turning to look her up and down, one eye squinted almost closed as if he couldn’t see clear with both eyes open. He maintained a grim expression.

She looked at him, surprised by his rudeness. His question had taken her aback, his suspicion even more disconcerting.

“I do. Who else is here?” she said.

“Who, indeed?” He looked around the darkened interior, peering into the shadowy corners as he scanned the shop.

His paranoia whispered along her neck. She shivered and stepped back.

Menace overwhelmed her. But it didn’t come from the man in front of her. She looked around for the source of her discomfort. The hairs on her neck stood on end, as if someone was watching her. A dark shape darted across the front window, and then disappeared. She shook off the feeling of uneasiness. Her tension abated in an instant.

“Who’s that?” Malena said. “Someone was standing at the window. A customer?”

“No customer,” he growled, walking to the window. He gripped the white window sill and peered down the street. “Not any customer we’d want.”

He turned, looking at her again. “Joshua,” he said.

“Who is Joshua?”

“Me.”

“Oh.”

“Joshua Dellacourt, Ms. Alexander.” The words came out a gravel
ly rumble, more a challenge than a statement. Malena could not like this crotchety old man. How had he lasted this long? The book business depended on good customer service.

“And Joshua Dellacourt, what do you do here?”

“I’m the keeper of The Curiosity Shop. I live upstairs.” He pointed to the ceiling.

“Keeper?”

“Yes. I’m the keeper.”

“Okay. Well, Joshua, keeper of The Curiosity Shop, I’m here today to get a quick overview of the business.”

“Don’t have time for social calls or tours,” he said.

“I insist.” She stared him down, her gaze holding his until he shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. She’d already begun to plan his replacement. “But first, you need to reshelve this book. You might want to get your toolbox. You must have a faulty bookcase or something; that book wouldn’t stay on the shelf. It fell off several times as I walked past.”

Malena returned to the counter to grab the book. She shoved it at him then winced.

Joshua stared. He took the book from her, gaping like a catfish out of water. “You?” he said in wonder. “B-but
–”

“Me, what?” She tried to read his impenetrable craggy face.