Russell Blake: The Goddess Legacy

Drake and Spencer stared up at the neon green sign hanging crookedly over the entrance of a building that would have been at home in a war zone. They exchanged a glance and Drake shrugged.

“Backpaker’s Hostel. Refreshing how they left out the c in packers . An auspicious omen,” Drake said.

“My kind of place. Probably won’t ask a lot of questions,” Spencer observed.

“I like hotels where the fleas have fleas.”

“Then you’re in luck.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“We need someplace we can use as home base. This is as good as any.”

Drake looked down the street and considered their surroundings. “This is an armpit. Come to think of it, this gives armpits a bad name.”

“An armpit where they won’t be looking for a billionaire treasure hunter.”

“You going to tell me what’s really going on?”

“Once we’re off the street.”

Spencer led the way into the lobby of the hostel, where a middle-aged man sat watching a black-and-white portable television. Bass boomed from the wall behind him. Drake leaned over and peered through the door at the side of the counter, where a darkened bar with the world’s grimiest disco ball played gangsta rap for an audience of drunk European hikers — German or Danish, by the sound of their occasional whoops.

Spencer negotiated a room for a giveaway price and took the key from the proprietor after forking over a wad of rupees. He and Drake mounted a set of rickety wooden stairs and walked down a dank hall to their door.

Once inside, Drake wrinkled his nose in disgust. “This place smells like a urinal.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Spencer responded as he lifted one of the two mattresses and set it back with a frown. “Although if you’re into spiders, you’re going to have a field day.”

“That’s reassuring.” Drake took a tentative seat on the second bed and fixed Spencer with a stare. “All right. Time to spill the beans. What the hell is going on, Spencer?”

Spencer sat heavily in the only chair and exhaled noisily. “My friend’s dead.”

Drake’s eyes widened. “What?”

Spencer nodded. “Carson was killed the night I called you — right after we had dinner together. Murdered. And Drake… it was beyond gruesome. Whoever did it cut his frigging head off.”

“They did what?”

“You heard me.” Spencer drew a finger across his throat. “Decapitated.”

Drake’s expression darkened. “Why didn’t you call?”

“I did. Your phone was off. By the time I found out, you were already in the air.”

“I didn’t find any messages when I laid over in Singapore.”

“I didn’t leave one. Figured I’d see you in a few hours.”

“Why are the cops after you?” Drake asked.

“They like me for it.”

Drake’s mouth fell open. “They think you killed him?”

“That’s the way it’s shaping up.”

“Why, for God’s sake?”

“He forgot his phone in the restaurant — we were both kind of drunk — and I picked it up. Anyhow, I ran out of the place like my ass was on fire, with his phone, which I guess looked suspicious.”

“Were you the one who found him?”

Spencer shook his head. “No. He was gone by the time I got outside.”

“Then why do they think you killed him?”

Spencer sighed. “I have no idea, other than that I’m the easy target. They’ve got witnesses at the restaurant that put me with him. I went running out. Nobody saw me on the street, so for all they know, I could have followed him and offed him.”

“Decapitated him? Wouldn’t you have been covered in blood?”

“You’d think so. But they aren’t particularly worried about all the details. They seem like they want to close the case, and I’m the nearest warm body they can hang it on.”

Drake frowned. “How do you know all this?”

“They woke me at three in the morning and dragged me down to the station, where I got to observe their interrogation techniques up close and personal for about twelve hours. I told them I had no idea what had happened or who killed Carson, but they weren’t really listening. They’d already made up their mind. Lurid murder, and I’m Jack the Ripper. Case closed.”

“You escaped from jail?”

Spencer shook his head. “They didn’t have enough to hold me, apparently. I kept demanding a lawyer or to speak to someone at the embassy, and they finally relinquished and escorted me back to the hotel, with the warning that I was under house arrest. They kept my passport, so it’s not like I can easily go anywhere.”

“You talk to an attorney?”

“Briefly. The guy was a weasel.”

“Well, he’s a lawyer…”

“No, it wasn’t that. I didn’t trust him. The cops assigned him to me, and I think he might be bent — as in working their side, not mine. He kept asking if I did it, telling me that it was okay to confide in him, that it was all confidential. He really seemed disappointed that I didn’t admit to it.”

“Then why run? You could lawyer up big time with your money.”

“One of the girls at the hotel tipped me off that the cops were on their way up for me, and I bolted. They must have found a judge or something willing to sign off on arresting me based on the circumstantial evidence. The lawyer warned me that the justice system here is pretty draconian, and that once I’m in the system, I’m pretty much hosed no matter who I am or how much I have. I didn’t want to risk that.”

Drake closed his eyes and hung his head. When he opened them, he couldn’t look at Spencer. “You think you can just bail on murder one?”

“Interesting choice of words. I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe I can figure out who killed Carson. Assuming it wasn’t random.”

“Is there a lot of random decapitation going on?”

“See, that’s what’s so weird. Why cut off his head? That’s just… I mean, it’s extreme, you know? But that was also one of the things the lead detective alluded to — that it was unlikely it was a local due to the physical strength required and because of how tall Carson was.” Spencer paused. “He was six four. A big man.”

They sat in silence until Drake cleared his throat. “You said you have Carson’s phone?”

“Yeah, but I can’t get into it. Some kind of security clearance required.”

“Do the cops know?”

Spencer’s eyes darted to the side. “I left that out. I didn’t want it going into evidence, where it would be lost forever, judging by the way things seem to operate around here, so I stashed it under the mattress.”

“Because nobody would ever find that in a thorough search.”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

“Why hide it?”

“It has some important stuff on it. Carson showed me.”

“Like what?”

“Satellite images. Maps. Research.”

“Ah. What kind of security does it use?”

“Fingerprint scanner.”

“Crap.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“No,” Drake said, eyeing his watch. “Crap, Allie’s going to be landing soon, not crap about the fingerprint — although that too.” Drake stood. “I’ve got to go meet her so she doesn’t walk into a firestorm.”

“I forgot all about Allie.”

“You have a pretty good excuse.” Drake looked him in the eyes. “Do you think Carson’s murder has anything to do with the treasure?”

“I don’t know what to think. I mean, why kill the guy?”

“Because he was getting too close. He knew too much. There are a lot of reasons. And you have to admit, it takes you out of the game, too, if the intention was to stop any hunt dead.”