The cab slowed as it turned onto a side street. Reid and Kilgore looked out at a rather disreputable-looking Cambridge neighborhood. Streetlamps cast cones of light on battered-looking older cars that were parked nose to rear along the curb. Just beyond the narrow sidewalk, steps led up to raised doorways fronting the tightly packed three-story buildings. They’d all been constructed of a dark-red brick, most of the doorways and windows painted white in uniform accent. An occasional bay window protruded from a second or third floor, as if to make a grandiose statement in the midst of mediocrity. Windowsills sported plants backlit by yellow light filtering through lace curtains.
“Twenty-five forty-seven. It’s the one with the two porch lights on your right,” the cab driver told them, slowing down. Though apparently of Indian or Pakistani ancestry, his accent was pure Bostonian.
Reid inserted his credit card, surprised once again to see the machine take it. The notion that he could just walk into a Colorado Springs office, show his ID to a credit card company, and have them issue a card still amazed him. He’d expected to be arrested at any moment.
The little machine spat out a receipt, and Reid stepped out into the muggy Cambridge night. He glanced at Kilgore as the cab motored off down the street.
Reid led the way through a narrow gap between bumpers. They stepped onto the night-grayed sidewalk. Pedestrians in ones and twos were hurrying along from one pool of streetlight to another. Most seemed young, this being a college neighborhood.
Kilgore said, “Let’s hope Dan Murphy isn’t another Skylar.”
“Amen,” Reid muttered, and climbed the three steep steps. Double-checking the number, he rang the bell for 2A.
Reid could hear feet hammering down the stairs, and moments later, a tall, blond young man opened the door. He looked to be in his early twenties and wore a light-blue T-shirt that proclaimed SAVE OUR GARBAGE! EAT A SEAGULL! Faded blue jeans, the knees out, covered his long legs. His feet were clad in Keen sandals.
“Dr. Farmer? Dr. France? Hi! I’m Dan Murphy. Glad to meet you both. Honored, actually. Can’t believe you’re here. Come on up.” He motioned them into the small foyer, excitement in his blue eyes.
At the top of the stairs, Reid made a right where the door to 2A was open. Kilgore followed him inside to find a typical student apartment; the prerequisite laptop lay open on a battered wooden table. A utility kitchen, ell-shaped, was to the left of a hallway that went back to the bedroom and bath.
Scarred wooden floors were covered with brightly colored Mexican rugs. A really sad-looking couch sagged against one wall; a cinderblock-and-plank bookcase pressed against the other. Reid stepped over to the couch, staring at the wall behind. The dull-yellow plaster had been painted over in a series of Mayan epigraphy. Below it was a collection of Mayan mathematics.
“Like it?” Murphy asked as he closed the door.
“Beats posters of rock stars or football players. What does it translate as?”
“It says, ‘Four score and seven years ago our forefathers brought forth a new nation.’ I found a certain irony in the translation to Mayan.” He pointed at the math. “That’s E=MC2 with mass based on Emilia Clarke’s weight.”
“How could I have missed that?”
Murphy arched a knowing eyebrow, “Mayans thought each number had special qualities, magic if you will. But so far Emilia Clarke hasn’t appeared in my bedroom.”
Kilgore was inspecting photographs of Dan Murphy and other scruffy-looking young people—obviously archaeologists.
A Mayan war club hung from the wall beside the door. The piece was masterfully crafted from a dark hardwood, the grain in the handle sweat-darkened. Resembling an oar, the lower length of the club was paddle shaped. What would have been the edges, however, sported lengths of glistening black obsidian blades inset into the wood. Obsidian—volcanic glass—was the sharpest edge known to man.
“It’s called a maccuahuitl. I got it in Tegucigalpa,” Dan Murphy told him. “I mean, how could you turn it down?”
“And TSA let you bring it back?” Reid wondered.
“Naw. Shipped it FedEx. Listed it as a cricket bat on the customs form. Figured even if they x-rayed the thing, they’d figure it was legit.” He spread his arms. “Can I get you something? Got beer, wine, some mescal and tequila.”
“Beer’s fine,” Reid said walking over to the kitchen table.
As Murphy produced bottles of Dos Equis, Kilgore opened the folder she’d brought and laid out the pages on his table.
“These are what we’re interested in,” Reid said as he pulled out a mismatched white chair. “Skylar Haines said you were the best when it came to Mayan mathematics.”
“Skylar, huh?” Murphy popped the cap on his beer and swung his chair around backward so he could perch on it and rest his forearms on the chair back. He squinted down at the mathematics. “Skylar’s brilliant when it comes to reading what the lords wrote, but try and share a tent with the guy in the Belize jungle.” He made a face. “Wish I’d had that war club.”
Kilgore said, “We were rather surprised when Dr. Haines suggested you instead of Sid White. Sid has pretty much written the book on Mayan mathematics.”
Murphy avoided her gaze as he took a swallow of beer, a flush reddening his neck. “We’ve, um, had some disagreements. I don’t think Sid’s going to be happy when my dissertation is published next spring. My take is that the Mayans were using their mathematics in a more abstract . . .” His eyebrows knotted as he realized what he was seeing on the page before him.
“Where did you get this?” Murphy asked, picking up the paper and staring intently at it.
“A mental patient at a military psychiatric hospital outside Colorado Springs drew it on her room wall, much as you have drawn on yours,” Kilgore told him.
“What’s her name?” He glanced up. “I mean I know everyone in the discipline. There’s only a handful of . . . A military psychiatric hospital?”
“She’s been called Domina, but that’s Latin for ‘lady.’” Kilgore told him.
“But this is real,” he insisted. “And sophisticated stuff. I mean, you don’t just Google ‘Mayan mathematics’ and start writing equations like this. Damn it! I’m the best there is, and this stuff’s leaving me in the dust!”
Dan Murphy retrieved a Texas Instruments calculator from its resting place in the napkins and began tapping at the keys.
“Holy crap,” he whispered. He tapped some more, stopped cold, and glanced up. “No one I know, not Vasily, not Roberto, not Charlene, not even Dr. White could have put this together. Seriously, jokes, aside, where did you find this?”
“Forget who, what, and where,” Reid told him. “Can you work out the mathematics? Maybe translate them enough that we can get a handle on the equations?”
“Equations to what?” Murphy demanded, eyes bright.
“That’s what we’d like to know,” Kilgore told him.
A knock came at the door.
Murphy made a face as he tore himself from the papers and rose. He opened the door to a stocky man, mid-thirties, with buzz-cut red hair and a weathered face. The fellow fixed Murphy with close-set green eyes and smiled. Then as his gaze fixed on Reid and Kilgore, the smile curled into a cat-and-canary grin.
“Well, well, Dr. France? Dr. Farmer? Seems I’ve just hit the jackpot.”
Murphy protested, “Hey! Who are you?” as the red-headed intruder shoved his way into the room.
“Call me Mr. Simms, kid.” But his hard-green eyes remained on Reid as he asked, “Where’s the stuff, Doc?”
“Stuff?” Reid rose from the table, his throat tightening, heart beginning to race. He felt Kilgore closing behind him, as if to shield herself from that predatory emerald gaze.
“The stuff you took from the sarcophagus. The people I work for really want it back. Especially that book. Oh, and the jar, too.”
“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kilgore tried bravely.
“Sure, Dr. France.” Simms lifted his left hand, obviously talking into a microphone in his sleeve. “Mark? Surprise. I’ve got France and Farmer up here. There’s some papers on the table. Probably the missing book. How long until you can bring the car around?” A pause, and he nodded as he listened to an earbud. “Me and three passengers.”
“We’re not going anywhere with you,” Reid declared.
“Oh, sure you are.” Simms was still grinning as he slipped his hand under his coat and produced a black Sig Sauer pistol. “Dr. France, if you’d pick up those papers.”
“Who are you?” Murphy choked out.
“Just an errand boy, Dr. Murphy. I’m here to offer you a job. My employer needs someone who can figure out Mayan math.”
“We thought you had the Domina for that,” Kilgore said.
Simms shrugged. “Above my pay grade, Doc. I was just told to come get Murphy. But I’m betting I get a bonus for bringing in the rest of you.” His attention returned to Murphy. “You need any books, your computer? Special notes?”
“Whoa!” Murphy’s hands had risen. “You can’t just burst in here! I mean, like, I don’t know anything!”
“Kid, I was just supposed to offer you a job. The two Doctors F here, they kind of screwed up the deal. Bringing them in makes it worth my while to complicate matters. Sorry, but you’re being recruited by force.” His eyes went cold. “Now, get your shit together.”
“I’m not going!”
“Kid, if I put a bullet through your ankle, you won’t need it to figure out them symbols, will you?” He extended the pistol toward Murphy’s foot.
“Let him be,” Reid said, “It’s us you want. He’s just a graduate student.”
“Got my orders. Murphy comes along, willing or not.”
“A lot of powerful people have become aware of Skientia’s activities,” Kilgore told him. “The cat’s out of the bag.”
Simms nodded warily as Murphy stepped to his bookcase and started taking down volumes. “Way ahead of you, Doc. General Grazier’s just had his wings clipped. And don’t expect Grazier’s little commando force to come to your rescue again, either. We’ve got someone fine-combing JSOC to figure out who took down Aspen.”
“What’s a jay-sock?” Reid asked.
“Very funny.”
“No, I don’t know what that is.”
“Joint Special Operations Command.” Simms kept one eye on Murphy as he was tossing notebooks into a travel bag. “The team that extracted you from Aspen? You don’t just hire talent like that off the street.”
“Got that right,” Reid muttered to himself.
“Now,” Simms said easily, “why don’t the two of you collect those papers off the table and put them back in Dr. France’s bag. Murphy, you got your stuff? Good.”
Simms opened the door, the pistol still gripped in his right hand. “Here’s how it’s going to work: I’m going to step outside, and Dr. Murphy, you go first with your heavy bags. Then Dr. France. You, Dr. Farmer, will be last. Just in case you get any heroic ideas, I can put a bullet in your guts.”
“I’m not heroic,” Reid said woodenly.
“Good,” Simms replied as he backed out the door, “because the client says you’re the most expendable person on my list. Now, let’s move, folks.”
A sheen of perspiration on his thin face, Dan Murphy stepped out; his shoulders sagged under the load of books, notes, and computer.
Kilgore shot Reid a worried glance and followed.
Reid reached to the side as if to flip off the light switch. His fingers grasped the polished wood.
As Simms shifted his gaze to Kilgore where she started down the stairs, Reid stepped into the hallway. He pivoted and swung the Mayan war club with its obsidian-blade edge. The upper cut sliced diagonally up Simms’ thigh, laying the man’s leg open like a slit fish. Instinctively, Simms extended his left arm; the volcanic glass sliced it to the bone.
Staggered by the blow, Simms fought for balance. As he raised his pistol, a look of disbelief crossed the man’s face.
Reid let the club’s momentum carry it up, then he reversed the swing, instinctively chopping downward. The obsidian edge caught Simms in the muscular curve where the neck rose from the shoulder. Through the war club’s handle, Reid felt the obsidian edge resist as it was driven through the cervical vertebra.
Simms collapsed like a broken doll, the pistol thumping on the carpeted floor.
“Holy mother of God.” The words whistled through Reid’s tight throat. He blinked in disbelief at the broken corpse. Then, reaching down for the pistol, he saw Kilgore and Dan’s shocked faces.
“Go!” he insisted. “There’s at least one other guy in a car waiting for us down there. Dan? Does this place have a back door?”
“What about him?” Murphy asked, horrified gaze on the blood rushing from Simms’ mutilated corpse.
“I don’t know,” Reid choked out. “I really don’t know.”