Gregg Loomis - The Pegasus Secret

"Franklin Morse, Atlanta police. You Langford Reilly?"

Lang opened the door wide. "Yep. Come in."

Morse took in the disheveled room at a glance. "Wanna tell what happened?"

Lang noticed the two uniforms had spaced themselves so that, should he try, he could not attack both at the same time. Standard procedure when you don't know if the person being interviewed is the perp or not.

Lang shut the door. "Sure. Have a seat?"

Morse shook his head. "No thanks. Crime scene crew'll be here any minute. So, Mr. Reilly, let's hear it."

Lang related what had happened, omitting any reference to the pendant he had found. He didn't want to have to surrender the only clue to what he suspected was an organization far beyond the understanding or reach of the local cops. He saw no reason to mention the early warning of the invasion; either. The last thing he wanted was to provoke further interrogation based on what would be perceived as some nut's conspiracy fantasy.

As he finished, there was a knock at the door. Morse opened it, admitting a balding white man with futuristic looking photographic equipment and a young black woman with a suitcase. Lang felt marveled at how quickly they made themselves at home.

As though agreeing with someone Lang hadn't heard, Morse nodded to him. "Broke in here with two knives and winds up taking the quick way down rather'n stay in the same room with you, Mr. Reilly? That your story?"

"And I'm sticking to it."

"Hard to believe perp'd kill hiss'sef like that rather'n take th' collar. Way the courts work, wasn't even facing major time. Sure you didn't use some kinda persuasion to throw him out, jujitsu him through the glass there? You sure as hell be justified, him breakin' in here like he did."

Lang shook his head. "Nope, like I said, I knocked the knife outta his hand, hit him a lick on the back of the head and he dropped the other one. He jumped through the glass door."

Morse ran a hand across the bottom half of his face. "You about the baddest ass I've seen. Where you do your workouts, Parris Island? Where you learn to handle a man with a knife?"

"Navy SEAL," Lang said. The story was as verifiable as it was false.

Morse eyed him with renewed interest. "SEAL, huh? Thought them guys were career. You don' look old enough to take retirement."

"Was in Desert Storm in '90, took a raghead bullet clearing Kuwait City harbor."

Morse's crime scene crew was poking around the room, moving objects on the secretary with pencils, inspecting the bottoms of furniture. Lang couldn't even guess what they hoped to find. Grumps watched with declining interest.

"Lemme get this straight." Morse was consulting his note pad. "That dog growls, you hear somebody foolin' with th' lock. 'Stead 0' callin' 911 then, you jus' wait for him to come in. Like, meybbe you want to bust him yo'seff?"

Lang straightened the rug with his foot. "I told you: there wasn't time. If I'd been on the phone instead of ready for him, there's a good chance the homicide would be here instead of down there."

Morse's eyes were searching the room again. "You got a phone in the bedroom. All you had t' do was lock yo'seff in an' call the police."

Lang chuckled, although he couldn't put much humor in it. "That's what you'd do, put your life in the hands of the local 911 operators, same ones let a man croak of a heart attack last month while they argued about whose jurisdiction he was dying in? I'd be better off calling the San Francisco police."

"Okay," Morse admitted with a raised hand. "Meybbe all the bugs ain't worked out yet."

"Yet?" Lang asked, incredulous. "System was installed in '96. The 'bugs' are the mayor's friends, sold it to the city."

"You own a firearm the detective wanted to know.

The change of subject almost caught Lang off balance just as he surmised it was supposed to. It was standard practice for the Atlanta cops to confiscate, or at least hold as long as possible, every handgun they could find on whatever excuse they could manufacture. This wasn't a time to be unarmed.

"You got a warrant?" Lang parried.

Morse sighed. "Not only you dangerous to be around, you a smartass, too. You want a warrant, I can get one."

He apparently intended to bluff it out.

"From whom, the Wizard of Oz? You got zip for probable cause."

Morse gave Lang a glare. "Okay, keep your artillery. We ain't gettin' ennywhere this way. You ever see this dude before?"

Lang set the overturned chair upright and sat in it, motioning Morse to the other. "Never."

The policeman sat as he shook his head. "You sure? Ain't easy believein' perp goes to all the trouble to sneak into the buildin', come up here jus' to kill a stranger. You tellin' me ever'thin'?"

"Sure," Lang said. "Least I can do to assist our law enforcement personnel."

Morse grunted. "'Nough wise-assin'." He grew serious. "you mus' think I'm some kinda stupid, I'd believe a guy come up here t'kill a perfect stranger an' wind up taking a long walk off a short balcony. You know somethin' you not tellin'. You know it's a crime, lie to the police?"

Lang's hand touched the pocket with the pendant in it.

"You think I'm being less than candid?"

Morse leaned forward. "You know somethin' you not tellin'."

The bald photographer and the woman with the suitcase were standing by the door, their investigation complete.

Lang went to the door and opened it. "Detective, I give the police every bit of credit they're due." He extended a hand. "Nice to have met you, although I can't say much for the circumstances."

Morse's grip was strong, consistent with what Lang would have expected of the lean body, like a runner's. It was easy to imagine the detective winning a foot race with a fugitive.

"We may well be back."

"Anytime."

Atlanta

Later that night

Lang was too tense to sleep. Instead his mind spun in what seemed like endless circles.

Was the pendant a clue or simply a bit of personal jewelry? Lang was unaware he was shaking his head no. A man who didn't even carry a wallet would hardly wear an individualized item.

Unlikely Lang was dealing with a sole person. A lone individual would have a hard time conducting twenty-four-hour surveillance, a harder time planning the theft of military thermite.

And why would a reproduction of a painting by a minor artist be worth the lives of whoever possessed it? Whoever they were, they had the fanaticism of zealots, a willingness to die for something Lang did not understand.

Yet.

It was all too bizarre. Perhaps it involved wackos, nutballs who had a serious if irrational grudge against that picture and anyone who had anything to do with it.

Lang had already made up his mind to find out.

If there was an organization, people other than the body on the pavement below his condominium, responsible for Janet and Jeff, he had to know or be looking over his shoulder the rest of his life. And given the murderous nature of these people, that might not be very long. Besides, if others were involved, Janet and Jeff demanded he get even.

Lang knew precious little to begin with, but he was fairly certain the answers were not in Atlanta. He was due a little vacation anyway.

Once at the office, he had Sara begin preparing requests for a leave of absence in each of his cases. He had to specify the time, so he gave himself a month. He didn't have to state where he was going, though. Just as well. He wasn't certain.

He wasn't certain what he would be searching for, nor for whom. What did the painting have to do with it? Was the pendant significant?

He was certain of only one thing: The vendetta had begun.

THE TEMPLARS:

THE END OF AN ORDER

An Account by Pietro of Sicily

Translation from the medieval Latin by Nigel Wolffe, Ph.D.