Ancient Echoes (9 page)

Charlotte stared at Bonnetieu. “The old bastard claims he
actually created gold!”

“Yes,” Bonnetieu said quietly. “People have debated whether
or not to believe him for more than six hundred years. Yet he built shrines and
even a children's hospital, all costing a great deal of money.”

“He probably stole some gold and then made up this story to
hide his crime.” Dismay fueled Charlotte's rebuttal. Dennis hadn’t died because
of this folly. “He was a scribe and a bookseller! How could he have managed to
do what no one else could? Flamel’s tale is no more real than Harry Potter.”

“Perhaps,” Bonnetieu said.

His condescending tone exasperated her. “After Flamel's
death, what happened to
The Book of Abraham the Jew?”

“That's the question.” Bonnetieu gave a small shrug. “His
wife died before him, and when Flamel died, his house and grave were ransacked.
Whether the robbers were looking for the book or the gold, we don’t know. No
one found the book. Throughout history, we hear of it turning up various
places. One of those was the American West. The story goes that a French monk
brought it there after the French Revolution. But most people believe it never
really existed.”

Charlotte shook her head at the imaginative tale.

Bonnetieu squeezed her hand. “It's all nonsense, I'm sure. I
believed in it once, I'll admit. The idea of a medieval sorcerer and his wife
brewing gold held great appeal to an old historian like me.”

She pulled her hand free. Somehow, his agreeing with her
argument didn’t make her feel better. She caught his gaze in her large, blue
eyes and wouldn't let go. “Still, I can't help but believe this book is the
connection between Dennis' investigation fifteen years ago and Mustafa's murder
yesterday.”

She removed the papers she'd picked up on Al-Dajani's desk
from her shoulder bag. “I suspect Mustafa wanted to talk to me about these. I
haven't had time to translate them yet, but maybe—”

He flipped through the pages and pulled out one, staring at
it.

“Ah! This symbol is found in Flamel's manuscript,” he said
as he unlocked the display case and put on the white gloves he carried in his
pocket. With utmost care he turned the ancient pages to the one with the same
symbol. “There it is!”

Charlotte stared at it a moment. “What does it mean?”

“I have no idea. But Mustafa and I talked about it on the
phone. Many years ago, a Danish scientist came here to view the symbol. Once he
saw it, he became quite excited. He said it was also found in China and
elsewhere. Then, he wanted to learn how to read old alchemical texts, so I
referred him to Mustafa. A few days later, an American who claimed to be a
friend of the Dane also arrived here with many of the same questions. I gave
him Mustafa’s name and address.”

“A Dane and then an American, both interested in this
symbol?” Charlotte was incredulous.

Bonnetieu simply nodded.

“Wait…
are
you talking about the
professor, Lionel Rempart?” Charlotte asked.

“No, no, no. This happened
quite
a few years ago,
twelve?
Fifteen?
I’m not sure. I don’t remember the
names, I’m afraid, but the American was obviously rich. That I do remember.”

“It happened before Dennis came to see you?”

He thought a moment. “I must confess it’s all rather fuzzy.
My memory isn’t so good anymore.” His expression tightened. “As I recall, both
the Dane and the American, their visits and their questions, interested
Dennis.”

“Did he say why?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Your husband was, I would say,
close-mouthed. He explained nothing to me.”

That described Dennis all right, she thought, especially as
she realized he had kept all this from her. Those other men intrigued her. “Is
it possible you’ve kept some records with their names—
”

“Is that the Flamel exhibit?” a voice boomed. The words were
in English, the accent American.

Bonnetieu thrust out his arm as if to protect the unlocked
display. “No one should be out there!”

Charlotte shoved Mustafa's papers back into her bag.

“I told you already,
monsieur
, this area is closed to
the public! You must leave, now.”

“Tourists!”
Bonnetieu said. “Excuse
me, Charlotte, while I assist the guard.”

She stepped out of the room and watched Bonnetieu as he went
down the hall to speak to the brusque-sounding American.

The American was a big man, broad shouldered with a hard,
chiseled face, short blond hair, and blue eyes.

With a start, she recognized him—he had tried to kill her in
Jerusalem!

He noticed her. Several shots rang out in rapid succession.
Bonnetieu fell.

Charlotte spun around a corner as a bullet slammed into the
wall where she stood moments before. She pulled the Glock from her handbag and
blindly fired back. Ahead of her narrow steps led to the ground floor. She ran
down.

Guards shouted about the gunfire and the need to secure the
building. Immediately, a terrified tour group tried to push through an
emergency side exit, but a guard beat them to it and locked the door to prevent
the shooters from escaping. The public panicked.

The museum rang with alarms, cries and shouts. People pushed
and shoved against the emergency exit. A man lifted a young girl into his arms
to prevent her from being smothered. A woman screamed when the crowd ripped her
son’s hand from hers. Several fainted from being pressed against the door
unable to breathe.

When the guards re-opened the front entrance, the group
turned and ran toward it. One woman fell and was nearly trampled. Charlotte
watched, the gun hidden under her jacket. She didn’t see the shooter. She
suspected he had gone toward the main doorway and waited for her there.

She broke away from the crowd and started down a different
corridor. Her mind replayed all that had passed.
Al-Dajani.
Bonnetieu.
Her.
Why?

At the end of the hall, a man stood looking off to one side.
She noticed a wire from his ear to his jacket.

She quietly backed up.

Another alarm shrieked in the distance. The man turned and
saw her. His hand whipped under his jacket and came out holding a 9 mm
automatic. She whirled back to the crowd, pushing her way deep into it, bending
low,
trying
to hide. The human wave carried her
through the front gardens and out onto the street.

The chisel-faced blond man, taller than most, remained in
the garden. Their eyes met and he knocked aside others as he strode toward her.
Part of her, cold and deadly, wanted to stay and fight.
To
kill this killer.
But too many innocent people stood between them.

He didn’t care. To her horror, he raised his gun. She tried
to duck, to hide, as he fired. Beside her, a young man fell. Only then did she
feel a painful, burning sensation on her arm.

Idaho

“WE CAN MOVE anytime,” Big Kyle
Barnes announced. The guides pulled the orange rafts away from bushes of
red-tinged sumac and bulrushes, and shoved them into the water. “Three students
and one teacher in each raft should work.”

Rempart scowled at the ignorant guide's mistaken impression
of Melisse's position,
then
turned to his assistant
with a smile. “I can scarcely believe our good fortune at finding these rafts.
I can taste success already. If this works out, Melisse, it'll make big news
when we publish the find. You may be able to publish it with me. We'll see how
things go,” he announced with all the arrogance of a full professor holding a
graduate student’s future in the palm of his hand.

“I appreciate that, Professor.” As she spoke, Melisse didn’t
look at Rempart, but watched Big Kyle and Skinny Buck check over the rafts.

“You look nervous,” Rempart said. “Didn’t you grow up in
Montana? You should know about rafting. Besides, the guides said this is a creek.
It’s nothing to worry about.”

She eyed the clear waters. “This so-called creek is already
wide and we don’t know how much wider it’ll become downstream. We’re close to
the Salmon River. The trip could turn treacherous very quickly.”

“You must learn to be adventurous, Melisse!” Rempart said
with a laugh. “Let’s get going.”

Melisse knew much more about the Salmon River than Rempart
ever imagined. It was known as “the river of no return” for a reason. It
meandered from its source near Sun Valley, northeast toward Montana and the
Bitterroot Mountains. There, it angled sharply westward and began a wild,
tumultuous 420 mile journey that slashed directly across the entire width and
heart of Idaho until it reached the confluence with the Snake River near the Oregon
border. In the course of its fierce journey, the Salmon River forged a canyon
deeper than Arizona's Grand Canyon with looming unscalable walls surrounded by
dark, impenetrable forests.

The first white men known to attempt to navigate it were
mountain men, four trappers for the Hudson’s Bay Company in 1832. Two drowned
and the other two lost their canoe and traveled overland, arriving three months
later, naked, at Fort Nez Perce.

Forty years later, the Northern Pacific Railroad Company
wanted a route from Montana across Idaho to Washington State and sent a party
of twenty-five men and four boats under the direction of the railroad's chief
engineer to survey the river. The group set out from Salmon City in July, 1872,
and didn't reach the Snake River until November. The engineer’s summary of the
trip concluded, “This survey down the Salmon River may, I think, be regarded as
the most difficult instrumental survey ever made in the United States.”

The railroad selected a different route, bypassing Central
Idaho altogether.

The area remained, to this day, a roadless,
fiercely
impassable no man’s land in the heart of Idaho.

They gathered the students, who complained they had no cell
service and couldn’t text their friends about this latest adventure. Rempart
climbed into a raft with Brandi, Ted, and Vince. Rachel, Devlin and Brian got
into the second one. Melisse had no choice but to join them, her nerves tense.
The Salmon River swallowed up proficient rafters and kayakers, even guides,
with frightening regularity. Some said the Indians had named it the river of no
return because so many men who set off down it were never seen again.

The day grew chilly, so everyone put on their jackets then
donned life preservers. They strapped their backpacks onto the raft to keep
from losing them if the vessel overturned. Big Kyle took charge of Melisse’s
raft. She felt him ogling her as she settled into place and glared at him. He
grinned, and then openly leered at Brandi as she struggled to draw the sides of
her life jacket together over her generous breasts.

Big Kyle then gave a quick lesson on rafting. “Listen up! If
you get dumped into the water, lay on your back, feet downstream. Push off any
rocks that come close, use your arms to paddle, and don’t stand up until you
can sit on the bottom of the creek and still keep your head out of the water.
The worst thing you can do is try to stand where the water’s deep and get your
foot stuck in the rocks. It’s a death sentence. And hang onto your paddle—it’ll
help others pull you to safety.”

“That’s right,” Skinny Buck contributed.

“We’re the captains,” Big Kyle said. “When we say ‘all
forward,’ you paddle. At ‘all rest,’ you stop.
And at ‘all
back,’ you back-paddle.
Can your brains keep that straight?”

The students nodded.

Big Kyle set out first, pushing the raft toward the center
of the creek. The swift current took hold and pulled with a sense of
unstoppable momentum. Soon, the small beach disappeared. Creek banks, covered
with vines and rock, dropped steeply to the water.

A red-tailed hawk lifted from a nearby tree with one slow
powerful flap of the wings, then circled over the water before disappearing
from view. Dark green foliage grew thick along the banks but beyond it, lay
arid grassland punctuated by pines.
The view, barren and
harsh but beautiful in its desolation, stretched for miles.

They floated peacefully for a few minutes,
then
heard a churning sound up ahead. Big Kyle assured them
they approached rapids so weak and mild they scarcely deserved the name.
Nonetheless, they were strong enough that Devlin and Brian whooped with
excitement as the raft plunged headlong through the turbulence.

The raft coasted out the other side and the creek grew tame
again. A doe raised her head, still chewing, then loped away, her white tipped
tail held high. Ahead, dead trees that had swept downstream were wedged between
boulders, their roots and branches reaching out over the water. The debris
split the creek in two.