Elisha's Bones Part 20

I cut the power to the edger, set it down, and walk up the front steps-immaculate white stone set in graceful curves that lead to a large open area of smaller blocks and hanging plants. It looks like the kind of setting in which a president or a captain of industry would stage a photo op with dignitaries. My work boots clump along the stones as I aim for the double oak doors, my head tilted down, hat pulled low. I'm a man asking to use the restroom.

An ornate bra.s.s knocker sticks out from each of the doors, and it strikes me as curious that the houses where one often finds a knocker are also those large enough for the sound to go unheard. I opt for the doorbell.

In less than twenty seconds one of the doors swings open and an austere gentlemen of perhaps seventy gazes at me with imperious subservience. It's a look signifying that while he may serve the people within these walls, most others who arrive on the doorstep are beneath him.

"May I help you?"

"I'd like to use your bathroom, if I may." I don't bother trying to fake an Australian accent. The country harbors its fair share of American expatriates, so it wouldn't be unusual to find one engaged in gainful employment.

The man looks at my uniform, the Green Gardens logo on the s.h.i.+rt pocket.

"As I am sure you are aware, there are facilities available in the garden house."

I can hear Esperanza coming up behind me, and I make an attempt to fill the doorway. "I know. But I imagine the ones in here are a lot nicer."

That takes the man by surprise and he arches an eyebrow. Esperanza is close enough now for me to make my move. I take a step that puts me over the threshold, forcing the man to back away. Espy follows me with a quick step, and then we're inside and she's closing the door.

My gun is out as he's opening his mouth in shock. His eyes widen at the sight of the gun and his words go unspoken. I do a quick check for interior cameras, but my gut tells me I won't find any. People like Manheim love cameras-as long as they're pointed elsewhere.

"How many people are in here?" I ask the man.

My captive studies me for a while and then crosses his arms.

"If you are intent on robbing the house, you will have to do so without my cooperation."

"Robbing?" I look at Esperanza. "Did either of us mention anything about a robbing?"

"No."

"What's your name?" When he doesn't answer, I add, "If you don't tell me, I'll have to call you Geeves, and that will be demeaning for both of us."

I can see that Espy is growing anxious. The longer we stay in one place, the greater the chances that someone will stumble on this little one-act play unwinding in a setting suitable for an Ibsen performance. I take Geeves by the arm, placing the gun just above his right kidney. Even as I do so, I find it difficult to remain in my own skin. Less than a month ago, no one could have convinced me that I would soon force my way into someone's home and threaten an innocent person with a gun. It flies in the face of everything I thought I knew about myself.

I propel Geeves through a doorway to the left, then through a small greeting room and out an exit along the right wall. Now we're in a narrow, dimly lit hallway, lined with three doors, all on the left side. If I were able to see through the wall on the right, I would be looking back into the foyer we just vacated.

I reach for the k.n.o.b of the nearest door. It's a coat closet, empty save for a pair of black shoes on the floor. Not only is it inadequately supplied, it's too shallow for what I have in mind. I close it and try the next door, which turns out to be a much better choice. It's a utility closet, and about eight feet deep. An a.s.sortment of brooms and mops, a shop vac, various cleaning solutions, and two rolled carpets fill the s.p.a.ce, and there's a large sink mounted on the back wall. Looking over the room's contents, I notice there's a thin layer of dust covering everything. It suggests that this is a secondary storage area, one not often used by the staff. It's perfect.

I guide Geeves into the room, forcing him far enough in so that both Espy and I can join. I find the light switch and then close the door. I hand my partner the gun and, though we haven't rehea.r.s.ed this part, she takes it with only a minimum of fumbling. Once she has it pointed in the right direction, I push Geeves face-first against the wall, slip my hand behind his coat, and search his back pockets. I'm rewarded with a rectangular wallet-sized bulge. Flipping through the wallet's contents, I find the man's license, pull it out and then hand the wallet back to him. I check the name.

"I really am sorry about all this, Mr. Stemple," I say. "I usually don't do this sort of thing."

He is unmoved.

I step past him and unroll one of the carpets, pleased with our good fortune. It's heavy and thick, and I'm confident the aged man will find it an unbeatable foe.

I gesture at the rug. "If you'd be so kind."

He responds with a snort and focuses his eyes on some point on the ceiling.

"We don't have time for this," Esperanza says. "If you don't move now, I'm going to put a bullet in that geriatric kneecap of yours."

There's no way of knowing if it's the tone of Espy's voice that does the trick, or the look of surprise on my face, which forces Stemple into motion. I don't blame him for the crack in his resolve. Espy even has me believing that she will indeed shoot this man.

I direct Stemple to lie down at one end of the unfurled rug. When he's in position I take the edge and fold it over him, then gently roll him along the floor, wrapping him in the thick material. There's enough length to get three complete revolutions. I take a roll of duct tape from one of the pockets of my work pants and proceed to seal him in. Stemple is now coc.o.o.ned. A last length of tape serves to mute him.

I stand back and review my handiwork. I'd bet a year's salary that he couldn't budge more than an inch. Espy hands me back the gun-perhaps a bit reluctantly-and after I lock the door from the inside, we slip out into the hallway.

Juggling competing urgencies can lead to an ulcer, if the rumbling in my midsection is any indication. Espy and I are balancing two nearly incompatible realities as we navigate our way through the mansion: the necessity of conducting a search, and a keen understanding that time is not our ally. It takes us fifteen minutes to go through the first floor and I can hear the clock ticking in my head. It's only a matter of time before someone finds the old man in the closet, or wonders why there's a landscaping van parked outside but no workers in sight. The professional part of me-the one that can spend hours studying a single room in minute detail-thinks we're moving too quickly, perhaps missing something important. I have to force myself to remember that we're not searching for the bones; rather, we're hunting a person, and so a quick check of each room is all that's needed.

And I'm beginning to suspect that, besides the unfortunate Mr. Stemple, we might be the only ones here. The mansion's atmosphere is decidedly creepy. It's as if this vast estate were really a museum, and Stemple its curator. But, according to what I've been able to find out, Victor Manheim's father, George, is the lord of the estate. His signature is on the work orders received at Green Gardens. Is it possible that the family patriarch is the sole resident of the home?

A darker floor spreads out in front of us as we reach the top of a staircase. The silence here is that of a tomb. We're at the start of a hallway carpeted in a red so deep that it borders on black. It absorbs the sound of our footfalls. The decor is in the minimalist fas.h.i.+on: three paintings and a Renaissance-style sculpture. I try to stay focused on the six doors that open off this hallway-what turn out to be guest rooms-and yet I'm drawn to the sculpture. On closer study, it appears to be a genuine Raphael. Two men embracing each other as a loving father would hold his son. The primary figure is rendered thick, strong and well-muscled, with a long beard. But it's the secondary figure that most catches the eye, perhaps because it's grotesque-with half the body malformed, the other half perfect and beautiful. He is being succored, wept over. I can feel the emotion the artist felt as he coaxed it from the stone. It amazes me an object of such priceless value occupies a precarious position in the hallway. One clumsy move and this masterwork could be severely damaged. I reach out to touch the sculpture and have to force my hand back. I release a sigh and turn away and it's at that instant when another of the statue's features comes into view. I lean in closer to examine the cloak of the primary figure. It's easy to miss-near the cloak's midsection, near the beltline: the oblong S S.

Espy doesn't see it, so I point at the discovery and find that my hand is trembling. We share a look, which is all we can do right now, and then we leave it behind. It's another piece in a puzzle that's growing more and more intricate.

We emerge from the hallway onto a balcony overlooking the foyer below. Turning and looking through the windows along the upper wall, I can make out the grounds in the back of the estate. We're in the narrow portion, where the front and back boundaries are separated by about fifty feet. The bulk of the mansion lies ahead, through a hall identical to the one we have just pa.s.sed.

We conduct cursory inspections of the guest rooms, then walk through a small antechamber that allows us a choice of continuing through three different archways. I don't give the matter much consideration before selecting the one on the left. I lose track of time as we search the mansion, and the feeling that we're alone-that only ghosts occupy the place with us- increases with each pa.s.sing minute. If Mr. Stemple is the only other living soul here, then everything we've done over the last five days has been pointless. Unless we just happen to stumble upon the bones themselves.

Esperanza, who has been walking in silence with me for what has to be forty-five minutes, touches my elbow.

"Jack, there's no one here."

I'm inclined to agree when, rounding a corner that I think will take us back to the antechamber, I see a shaft of light coming from a room halfway down the corridor. The door of the room stands partly open. Espy sees the light too and goes silent.

Up to now, I've paid little attention to the gun in my hand, mostly pointing it at the floor. Now my hand snaps up and the weapon points straight ahead. Slowly, the two of us close the distance to the light source. Reaching a point where I can risk a peek into the room, I see three upholstered chairs, a fireplace, and the end of a bookcase. Just as I decide to take a step closer to see more, I'm startled by a voice.

"Please come in, Dr. Hawthorne. And bring Ms. Habilla, won't you?"

CHAPTER 23

There's no point in keeping the man waiting," I say to Esperanza with a smile that is half genuine. The bad news is that this meeting will not occur on the terms I would have preferred, but it will happen, and that's something of a victory. With the gun ready, I walk into the room, Esperanza close behind me.

My first impression of George Manheim is that, unlike the pattern in most families, the apple that is Victor fell well away from the tree and then rolled downhill a considerable distance. He's in a chair, a book in hand. I find I have to remind myself why I'm here-what George Manheim and his agents have done to those close to me.

"How did you know I was here?" I ask him.

"Please, Dr. Hawthorne. What kind of man doesn't know what's going on in his own home?" He gestures to the chairs by the fireplace. "Would you care to sit down?"

"Not really."

I look around the room, not certain what I'm searching for. This is all too simple, too cordial. Surely he's pressed an alarm of some sort, and we'll be surrounded by police, or worse, his own private security, in a matter of seconds.

"I can a.s.sure you that we won't be interrupted," Manheim says.

"You'll have to forgive me if I'm not comforted by your a.s.surances."

Esperanza has taken a spot just inside the room, from which she can look out and see much of the hallway. She seems to have a knack for knowing the best way to handle this kind of situation, which is something I find disturbing.

"For good reason, I suppose," Manheim answers. "I heard about that nasty business in Laverton."

"Heard about it? You mean planned it." A flash of anger rushes through me, and my hand tightens on the gun. I can almost see myself pulling the trigger. The memory of what I saw in Jim's home is fresh. Manheim endures my anger without changing anything about his relaxed demeanor. I may even see some measure of sympathy in his eyes-the emotional resonance of a man for whom the bigger picture might necessitate casualties and for whom mourning those sacrificed is appropriate.

"I had nothing to do with that event, Dr. Hawthorne, other than bearing responsibility for bringing into the world the man who is to blame." He sighs. "Victor has shown extreme impulsiveness over the last few years."

"Even if that were true, in my book that's enough."

"Enough to what? Shoot me in cold blood?" Manheim sets his book on an end table and s.h.i.+fts forward in his chair. "No. I don't think so. There are two reasons you're not going to kill me, Jack. May I call you Jack? The first is that you're not that sort of man."

"Don't count on it. Some of your employees-or your son's employees-found that out." It's false bravado. I know it and Manheim knows it.

"Necessity makes animals of us all."

"What's the second reason?"

"You want answers, and you can't get them if I'm dead."

It's a baited hook. And exactly the right thing to say. I shake my head as if to chase away the siren song of information, of answers. I gesture with the gun, indicating the whole of the estate. "Where is everyone? Family, security? It can't be just you and Stemple here."

At the mention of Stemple's name, Manheim's eyes darken a shade. "I trust that Andrew is unharmed?"

I answer with silence, feeling a bit smug that I've said something to upset him. It's not a fair fight if only one of us is on the slippery slope.

But Manheim only smiles and says, "I'll have to a.s.sume that he's fine, Jack. I honestly don't believe you'd hurt someone simply for being difficult."

He starts to get up and I raise the gun back to level, just now realizing that I'd let it slip.

He waves me off. "I'm just going to pour myself a drink. Would you care for one?"

He gives Esperanza a wink, then crosses the room to the bar. He chooses a scotch and decants a generous amount into a gla.s.s. His back to me, he takes a sip, his hand on the bar.

"There's nothing here, Dr. Hawthorne." When I don't answer, he turns to face me. "You asked why there is no one here. No security. No family. The truth is that Victor is all the family I have left." He takes another drink and returns to his chair, placing his free hand on the chair's back. "There's no security because there's nothing left to protect."

I absorb the words. "The bones . . ."

"Are gone. Transitioned." He gives a short laugh. "Our time is finished, Jack. There are new caretakers now."

I work hard to process what he's said. There's a part of me-the part that has sought validation for the sacrifices I've endured-which is exuberant at having this confirmation. Regardless of whether or not the bones have any power, Manheim has corroborated their existence. Yet the skeptic in me remains. I need to see them for myself, perhaps touch them. And Manheim has robbed me of that hope.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because that's the way it's always been. I'm certain your research has established that fact. I'm only surprised you've made it this far at a time that coincides with the bones' relocation." He indulges in another drink, draining most of the contents of the gla.s.s. "You should be proud, Jack. Few have learned of their existence, much less been this successful in their inquiries."

"Proud isn't the word I'd use." isn't the word I'd use."

"And you, Ms. Habilla. Do you not feel some satisfaction for being involved in one of the greatest coups in the science of antiquities?"

"With all due respect, Mr. Manheim, coming away empty-handed is hardly a coup," Esperanza says.

"Let's call it a triumph of the human spirit, then."

"You can call it whatever you want," I interject, "but we have to face the reality that my brother and several of my friends are dead, along with two men on the Manheim payroll."

"And thousands of men before them, and who knows how many to come. Even I don't know the number of all those who have lost their lives because of the bones, which is ironic when you think about it." He shakes his head and downs the rest of the scotch. "They have the power to heal-to raise the dead- yet they have been the cause of more death than any holy relic apart from the grail."

"Do you really believe that?"

"There is no room for doubt. They are as real as this chair." He brings a wrinkled hand down on the seat.

It's a forceful statement, and my gut counsels me against challenging it, so I try another tack.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you won't find them. And because I think I owe you at least this much."

"That doesn't make any sense. If Elisha's bones exist, and if there has been some grand conspiracy to keep them hidden, why risk it? Aren't you concerned that I'll leave here and divulge your secret?"

"I'm not risking much. Whether or not you're willing to admit it to yourself, you were convinced of their existence before I said a word. As for revealing the secret to the world, well, let's just say that better men than you have tried."

"The Raphael," Espy says.

Manheim gives her an appreciative look. "Among others."

I run a hand through my hair, trying to dispel disbelief. I set the safety on the gun and slip it in my pocket. Manheim offers a knowing smile.

"The S S on the sculpture, the same symbol on the carvings in the temple . . ." on the sculpture, the same symbol on the carvings in the temple . . ."

"Identifying an organization, one as old as the bones themselves," Manheim says. "The first incarnation were Hebrew priests. Over the centuries, that dynamic has changed somewhat."

"The church in Ethiopia," I say, but Manheim ignores the conjecture.

"They're the ones who select the families, who facilitate the transitions and keep a watchful eye on those who would seize the bones for their own use."

"The brokers."

Manheim laughs. "I suppose that's as good a name as any."

"But . . ."

"Why transition the bones at all?" he finishes for me. "Why not just keep them within the organization?"

I nod.