David Sakmyster - The Pharos Objective

“And that’s why Mom and ‘Dad’ want my help.”

Phoebe nodded.

“I suppose you’ve tried more trances, remote viewing?” He took a sip of water.

“No luck,” she said. “Couldn’t see anything else about that door, besides another glimpse of Caesar, as you had seen him. We’re stumped. We tried focusing on that scroll again, over and over. And, once we got a hit on something strange; I saw a castle atop a sheer cliff, and a man in a red cloak being led up to it in shackles. But we couldn’t make sense of that.”

Caleb frowned. “You never saw Naples or the Herculaneum library again?”

Phoebe shook her head. “I told you, we’re stuck. But you know Mom, she’ll never let this rest. And now, with Waxman around full time, it’s like there are two of her.”

“Sorry to hear that. Hopefully they aren’t always asking you for help. Do they still have the Morpheus Initiative?”

“No. Disbanded earlier in the year. Although, that Victor guy still hangs around.” Phoebe tried to smile. “It’s hard to attract new volunteers once they’ve learned what happened in Alexandria. The prospect of violent death kind of dampens the volunteer spirit.”

“Yeah. So, what about you?”

Phoebe nodded. “Keeping busy. Still translating a steady supply of museum pieces-tablets and medieval parchments, that sort of thing.” She gave Caleb a weary look. “Most of the time I go to bed with a raging headache.”

“And how’s the…”

“Disability? I get by. I’m used to it.” She raised her arms and pretended to flex. “Getting huge biceps. Handicapped bathrooms have always been a real treat, and it’s just a blast taking an hour to get my pants on in the morning.” She shrugged. “Same ol’ same ol’.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop it,” she scolded. “Listen, if you’re not going to come back with me and help us out, can you at least sign my book?”

Caleb reached for it, opened the inside cover, thought for a second, then wrote something he imagined he might regret. In the end, he felt he had to reward her effort, at least in some little way. He wrote: To my little sister. To my Sun and my Moon. The other elements-the other planets-are mere shadows, diminishing before your light.” It was just a guess on his part, but if the seal was a combination lock, the order should have some relationship to the orientation of the planets, maybe their distance from the Sun.

After a kiss on the cheek, Caleb walked Phoebe to the door, opened her umbrella, and hailed a cab. He helped get her inside and then packed her chair into the trunk. He leaned in before he closed the door. “My email address is on the back cover,” he said. “Write me more often, and we’ll talk. I promise. And I do miss you.”

She blinked and chewed her lower lip. “Miss you too, big brother.”

Caleb walked back into the cafe, smiled at a few lingering patrons, and made a beeline to the counter where the woman was still sitting, smiling. As he came closer she set down her cup and extended her hand.

“Great job,” she said. Her eyes glittered like jade stones. Sharp bangs fell over her face and tickled her lips, which were a shade of crimson that seemed too striking for her smooth face.

“Thanks.” Caleb took her hand, and she gently moved her fingers against his, surprising-and intriguing-him by this sudden seductiveness. She wouldn’t let go.

“Sorry I was late,” she said. “Doubleday has a habit of telling its publicists last minute where they’re supposed to be. But now that we’ve met, you and I can work out the schedule, and I won’t leave you hanging again.”

“Excuse me. You’re…”

“Oh, I thought you knew. I’m Lydia Jones.” She squeezed his hand a little tighter. Caleb felt his eyes drawn to the flash of skin just above the open buttons on her blouse. Instead of looking lower into the tempting shadows, he focused on the glittering charm-an Egyptian ankh, a cross with a loop over its arms.

“Again,” she said, pulling her hand away at last, “sorry I was late, but I’m glad to see you handled yourself brilliantly. Great reading style, although we may want to shorten your intro in the future. Some people walked out early.”

“Understood,” he said, still staring at her charm.

“Ahem.” She touched his chin and lifted his eyes to hers. “See something you like?”

“Sorry,” Caleb stammered, blushing fiercely. “Your charm, the ankh. It’s just, you know, Egyptian mythology…”

“Oh.” She touched it. “Yeah, I’m kind of the specialist on ancient history authors. I get stuck with all of you dusty guys. This thing was a present from an old client, a one-book-wonder on Egyptian culture and symbolism. Anyway, let’s grab something to eat and map out your next readings. Hope you’re hungry.”

“Famished,” he said, following her to a table.

From somewhere in the cramped storerooms of his memory, Phoebe’s warning came whispering back. A blond with green eyes. But Caleb felt drawn into destiny, and as he sat beside Lydia and breathed in her jasmine essence, exotic like a drifting evening breeze over the Nile, he couldn’t explain his reaction, feelings of desire, unlike anything he’d experienced since Nina.

They ate and talked, and Caleb stole glances at her whenever he could, thrilled at this new partnership.

Across the street from the Soho bookstore, the rain slammed against a three-story brownstone and fell in torrents around a green awning that covered the man in the long raincoat from all but the wind-driven sleet.

George Waxman tried again to light his cigarette and finally succeeded. He took a deep breath of the menthol-flavored smoke and waited for his associate to cross the street. Yellow cabs raced by, pounding into rainwater-filled potholes, and Waxman winced with each splash, imagining an old woman hurling insults at him and screaming: Your fault! Yours…

Waxman clenched his teeth, nearly biting through the cigarette, and his tongue. “Go away, Mother.”

Listen to me, boy!

Across the street, the man with a folded newspaper over his head waited for another series of cars and buses to drive past.

“Shut up.”

Sorry, boy. I’m waiting for you.

“Leave me alone.”

Like you left me? In pieces? After you caused the accident? You, crying, always wailing in the back seat. Your no-good father took one look at you and ran off with some whore, left me with your shrieking and whining, every waking moment.

“Mother, not now-”

Yes, now. The intersection, the bus… I know you remember it, I know you do.

“Please. I have work to do.”

Oh yes, your precious work. You think it will ease your conscience?

“No, mother. It’s too late for that. I was only four years old the day you died The day you murdered me.

“But I can still save others.”

The rain hissed off the sidewalk and guzzled into the drains.

He put his hands to his temples, then covered his ears and pressed as hard as he could. The image burned into the back of his eyelids: his mother’s head, severed as a jagged piece of that bus tore through the driver’s-side window, her eyes locked on his, lips still moving,

Victor Kowalski ran across the street, dodging a silver Honda. His pants were soaked and his shirt sleeves drenched. He had a leather case strapped over his shoulder.

The rain continued to pound out words on the canvass awning: You won’t be rid of me, Georgie. Even if you get past your precious lighthouse door. Even if you get the treasure.

Waxman froze. His mother had never talked about that before. For years her voice had haunted him, but she had never taken her comments beyond direct, guilt-provoking insults.