Devil's Eye (27 page)

Christopher Caine drove quickly to his townhouse, taking several customary detours along the way. Arriving there he carefully hung up his uniform and took a long, hot shower to ease his battle ready muscles. He put on a favored old, green bathrobe, poured himself a generous measure of fine bourbon and stretched leisurely in his leather lounger for a meditative rest.

After some minutes he turned on the television and found a British made travelogue about Niagara Falls. The interviewer was questioning an old man by an inlet in the Niagara Gorge where the water formed a quiet pool in contrast to the foaming rapids beyond.

“
And how many bodies is it that you find here?” asked the interviewer off
‐
camera.

“
About fifty
‐
eight a year,” the man replied. “The river always brings ‘em in to the inlet. So we get a pole and drag ‘em in. If they’re too far out to hook, we get a boat.”

“
Most of the bodies float into here then, do they?”

“
Yeah,” the old man replied. “The bodies do. Other junk, if it’s heavier, floats right by.”

“
Other junk?” thought Caine. The fellow must have forgotten the nature of his undertaking—grown callous, indifferent. He wondered about his own targets. Many of them were quite formidable, not like these poor wretches who—for whatever reason—ended up in the river. His targets would just as soon have killed him if they had the chance. No, there was no room for complacency.

He took a sip of his bourbon and idly changed channels.

His telephone rang.

“
Chris?” asked a soft woman’s voice.

“
Yes.” He knew instantly who it was.

“
It’s Laura. Al Carruthers gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”

“
I’m glad he did,” he said readily and rose from his lounger. “In fact, I was getting ready to find you myself.”

“
Can you come over? It’s about the museum.”

“
I hope that’s not all,” Caine said spontaneously.

“
Well…” she started.

“
I’m on my way.”

She recited her address. “I’ll be waiting.”

He finished his bourbon and hastily dressed in casual slacks, a blue sport shirt and a gray sports jacket. At the small of his back in a belt holster he clipped his Sig Sauer .38 pistol.

Now he felt fully dressed and left for Georgetown.

Chapter 26

Upon arrival at her townhouse he stepped briskly from his Viper and hurried up a terraced walkway to the brick colonial with a light blue door. The mellow light of the evening sun bathed the entrance in a tranquil glow.

He rang the bell and took a step backward.

She opened the door cautiously and sighed in relief.

“
Chris! I’m glad you’re here!” she blurted impulsively.

“
Are you all right?”

“
I am now. Thanks.”

Laura beckoned him inside. She was dressed in designer jeans and wore a low cut pastel blouse that accentuated her generous curves. She was barefoot. A hint of perfume reminded him of their meeting at the Smithsonian reception.

“
Please, make yourself comfortable.” She motioned him to a couch in the living room. “You want to take off your jacket? You’re making me feel underdressed.”

“
Sure.” He removed his jacket and gave it to her. “Just be careful,” he added as he deftly unclipped his holster and stuck it into a pocket.

“
I guess you want it close by,” she said without flinching. “I’ll just drape it over this chair.”

“
I want to thank you, again, for saving me from those men,” she said earnestly and returned to the sofa.

“
I’m happy to do it, and thank you too. If it wasn’t for you I might have missed the gun on one of them.”

She sat down beside him, curling one leg under the other so she could face him. Her look was serious.

“
I went to the Smithsonian the day after. Al didn’t know anything about that attack on us.”

“
It was erased real quick, that’s for sure. It might take Al or anyone else some time to know what the circumstances are.”

“
He did say he would try to find out. He showed me around. Especially the second floor in the gem area—where the scream came from.”

Colonel Caine listened dutifully.

“
You told me you would check into it.”

“
I am, Laura. The only thing is that this is a police matter. We have to go through the local authorities. I’m an army officer. I can’t involve myself directly. It’s theoretically against the Constitution.”

“
Theoretically,” she emphasized.

“
My work is outside the borders of the United States.”

“
Theoretically,” she said again and shifted her body slightly forward.

“
Theoretically,” he said looking her in the eyes, hoping she would understand his drift and not ask him something that would force him to lie. “I’ll see what more I can find out—unofficially, of course.”

“
The point is,” she continued. “There’s something going on over there. You know, the Hope Diamond has a gallery all to itself.”

“
It’s immensely popular,” Caine replied leaning slightly towards her. He could sense her anxiety.

“
It’s cursed, you know,” she said warily.

“
Everyone knows that. That’s why it’s so popular.”

“
Exactly! There’s so much popular myth about it, that people end up discounting it, dismissing it with a smile.”

Caine leaned back into the sofa.

“
Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?” she offered, trying to figure how best not to sound like a crackpot.

“
What’s the something?” he replied lightly.

“
Well, I have some of my uncle’s brew here,” she said easing herself out of the sofa. She leaned her torso towards Caine so she could free her curled leg. Her ample breasts burgeoned against her blouse and sent a sudden rush through Caine. He watched her walk with an unconsciously provocative gait across the room to a small bar near the kitchen.

She stretched downward in profile and pulled a dark amber crystal decanter from a shelf. She noticed Caine observing her. A tingling shudder went through her body. She lifted the decanter up to the light. Her nipples hardened and she felt self conscious that they might be outlined through her blouse.

She glanced at the Colonel and felt an uncontrollable attraction to him. He seemed agile and aware, like a leopard that had just made a kill, serene and at rest in a pose that belied the deadly capability she had seen so brutally used just nights before. What could trigger him now? What were the limits of his civility and charm? Laura felt uneasy, because she was not in total control of her own senses and that in itself made her body tingle with nervous delight.

In spite of her self
‐
consciousness, Laura artfully returned to the couch with the decanter in one hand and two cordial glasses held casually by their stems in the other.

His eyes remained fixed on her as she eased herself back onto the sofa, extending to Caine her hand with the glasses. He took one and held it upright.

“
This comes from an old medieval recipe.” She poured some of the rich looking liquid into his glass, then poured a measure for herself. “Here’s to you and everything you did. I’m deeply grateful.”

“
And I’m grateful we met.” He clinked glasses with her and took a slow, exploratory sip.

The flavor of honey and various spices awakened his taste buds, then the strength of the brew announced itself through a simmering sensation deep in his mouth that grew to a pleasant burn that followed a path down his throat. “Whew!” he said with an involuntary

shudder. “This stuff is strong!”

She smiled a knowing smile as she carefully sipped her own.

“
But, it is good, I must say,” he continued.

He finished the glass with his next, more liberal swallow and she poured him another measure.

“
What is it?”

“
It’s from an ancient recipe handed down through generations,” she explained, finishing her own drink and pouring one more. “A honey
‐
based liqueur that’s very popular in parts of Eastern Europe. It’s said to be a wizard’s elixir, a powerful potion to lure your enemies and overpower them.”

“
And today?”

“
Today, it’s just a special, homemade liqueur.”

“
All the flavor and none of the venom.” Caine noted.

“
Well, yes and no,” Laura replied. “There are stories that circulate in some of the countries, especially those in the former soviet empire. Strange stories of sorcery and politics. Especially now, with all the changes going on over there. The confusion. How we’re ripe for some kind of influence from there.”

She caught herself and looked for his reaction.

He took a slow sip of his drink.

“
What if?” she leaned towards him again. “What if someone was actually working the curse of the diamond? You know what I mean? Like those voodoo rituals. A sorceress or wizard does incantations, sticks pins in dolls and the person who the doll represents goes into convulsions or dies or something.”

Caine took another sip of his liqueur.

“
You think I’m a little too bizarre, don’t you?” she declared.

“
Not at all.” He took another sip of his glass.

“
Some of my students reminded me of parallels when I was lecturing on Marie Antoinette. The Hope Diamond was part of her royal collection. An obscure country cleric—one Pierre Dumas—was written to have extraordinary power over her—and helped pave the way for the French Revolution. Rumor was that he was some kind of wizard. Nobody knows where he came from. One of the students compared him to Grigori Rasputin—the influential ‘mad monk’ of the Czarist court before the Russian Revolution. Nobody really knows where he came from either. I hadn’t thought of that kind of connection before.”

Colonel Caine was gazing at her, saying nothing.

“
What do you think?” she probed.

“
I’m listening.”

“
So there’s two separate periods of western history— revolutionary periods changing all of society—with mysterious, self
‐
appointed persons manipulating events.” She spoke fluidly, as if lecturing. “At the center of one of them is the blue stone that later is known as the Hope Diamond. That same diamond is displayed as a unique attraction— like on an altar—at the Smithsonian’s Museum of Natural History. It’s lowered into an isolated chamber every night.”

“
That’s only if sensors detect a disturbance. For security,” Caine interjected.

“
You know this?”

“
Al told me.”

“
I asked if he could show me the exhibit after hours and he said it was lowered out of sight every night.”

“
Maybe after hours was just inconvenient for him. All the security issues.”

“
Or something’s going on after hours,” she declared. “When I was leaving after Al’s tour, two men in the elevator—workers, a guard and a painter or something—gave me the creepiest feeling.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
I thought I was being polite and told one of them he had a paint smear, a blue dab, on the side of his neck. I didn’t want him to soil his shirt. The two looked at me like they could kill.”

He tilted his head in curious interest.

“
Luckily, the door opened. I mingled with people and hurried off to class.”

“
I’ll have to talk with Alvin about that.”

Laura poured two more measures of the honey liqueur.

“
You have to meet my uncle. He’s been doing this research on old folk tales and grand conspiracies—witchcraft and demonology. He has a lot of historical information and is looking for some missing link to tie everything together.”