Passage Graves (15 page)

Chapter 37

WEDNESDAY 2:57 p.m.

St. John’s Cathedral

Bathwick, England

Ian sat upright.

The
woman behind the veil had stopped talking.

He’d been in the confessional box for two hours, half-heartedly listening
to parishioners. She must have finished. It was his turn to speak. “For your penance say three Our Fathers, and go and sin no more.”

Hopef
ully, his timing wasn’t off. Who knows how long she’d been sitting in silence.

“Give thanks to the Lord for He is good,” he finished
, solemnly.

The woman blew her nose. “For His mercy endures forever. Thank you, Father.” She stood
, adjusted her skirt, and then exited the stall. Her high heels clapped down the aisle and out the parish door.

Ian checked his watch. In a few min
utes, he could close the chapel and visit the Rabbi. He had returned the fragment after mass that morning. It took some coercion, but the Rabbi agreed to translate the Hebrew.

Fingering his rosary beads, Ian
couldn’t think of anything but the translation. What would it say? Did it have to do with his father’s death? What ancient secret could be so devastating it was worth killing for?

A man cleared his throat,
catching Ian’s attention. The dark figure loomed behind the confessional screen.

Ian let go of the rosary and intertwined his fingers. “Yes, my son?”

“You’re wasting his time.” It was a coarse Irish accent, a wire brush dragging across glass.

“I’m sorry?”
Ian strained to see through the screen.

“Leave it
alone or the Rabbi is dead.”

How could anyone know about the Rabbi?

Ian sprang from the confessional box and tore back the curt
ain. The compartment was empty. He spun around just as the chapel door closed. Panic consumed him. How did they know? It had to be Javan. But if he knew about the Rabbi, did he know about the
Beb’ne Hoshekh
?

Ian
hurried down the aisle to the outside. The sidewalk was bustling with activity, people walked along the street, traffic clogged the roadway. He scanned the crowd from one end of the block to the other. It could be any of these men.

He limped
across the steps to the alleyway leading to the gardens.

“Oi,” a vagrant
called for him, squatting on the cathedral steps.

“Did you see a man run out this door?” I
an asked, out of breath.

The vagrant held out his hand for money.
The smell of alcohol was heavy on his breath. He was missing a leg, and stringy gray hair hung over his face. It was obvious he was an addict.

“
Help me, Father,” the man insisted, reaching up.

“Did you see someone leave?” Ian asked again.

“Please, Father.”

Exasperated, Ian searched his pockets and placed
whatever he had into the man’s hands. He leaned closer. “Did you see who just left through these doors?”

The beggar sorted through the cash and lift
ed his hand for more. “You holdin’ out on me?”

“
Someone just left the church.”

The man began to laugh. H
is teeth were yellow with cigarette stains.

“Go on, get out of here!
” Ian waved him away.

The beggar staggered
down the sidewalk laughing to himself.

The wound on Ian’s palm
was stinging again. Blood appeared along the creases of the gauze. He shook out his hand and looked up and down the street once more.

Whoever it was, they were long gone.

Chapter 38

WEDNESDAY 4:28 p.m.

Cambridgeshire Constabulary Headquarters

Huntingdon, England

“This is it?” Thatcher asked, quickly reachin
g the end of Brenton’s case file. Minimal effort had been expended on the investigation. The paperwork looked haphazardly thrown together. “Why was no autopsy done?”

Lang sat across the table. He had led them straight into t
he station’s interrogation room upon arrival. “Brenton’s wounds were thoroughly examined and documented. It was unnecessary to further deface his body.”

“It’s protocol to autopsy all m
urder victims,” Thatcher said.

Lang looked over at David and then back at her. “It was do
ne out of respect for his religious beliefs. You know that, David.”

David’s five o’clock shadow looked darker than
normal under the room’s florescent lights. The pale glow flickered intermittently overhead. “You never reported his case.”

Lang’s eyebrows turned upward. “I’m sorry?” he asked, confused.

“Dr. Thatcher has a source at the Embassy. There’s no record of an investigation in London. You never reported his case.”

Lang
returned David’s firm stare. “I don’t know who gave you that information, but it’s incorrect.”

Thatcher shook her he
ad, uncertain what to believe.

“Look, I’m as frustrated as you are about the lack of leads,” Lang said, “but we’ve got to stay positive. I will find Brenton’s killer. You have my word.”

David flipped through the few pages of the file. “Lack of leads? There’s nothing here!”

“We have
suspects,” Lang insisted. “Nothing I can discuss at the present.”

David scoffed. “Surprise, surprise.”

“The men your father dealt with are ruthless. You know that firsthand.”

“Are you suggesting the men Brenton worked with killed him?” Thatcher asked.

“I’m suggesting you piss off and let me do my job.”

David pulled the Polaroid from his pocket and flipped it onto the table. “What about these men? Are any of them suspects?”

Lang picked up the picture and examined it. “Where’d you get this?”

“Answ
er my question first,” David demanded.

“Do you think these men are involved?” Lang asked.

“We think they might know something about the murder,” Thatcher said.

Lang stroked his mustache for a minute, taking in the image with no sign of recognition. He lowered the pict
ure to the tabletop and stood, scratching his chin as if piecing together a puzzle. “Let me handle this.”

Snatching the Polaroid off the table, David pocketed it in open r
ebellion.

“I’m warning you, impeding the progress of this case will be seen as a prosecutable crime.”

David smiled. He knew how to push all of Lang’s buttons.

“Damn it, David!” Lang slammed his chair against the table. “You’re the key suspect in this investigation, and I’ve been working my bloody ass off to keep you out of it. I’ve stuck my neck out for you.”

David crossed his arms. “No one asked you to do that.”

“I made things disappear!” Lang said. “I can sure as hell bring them back.”

“Are you threatening me, Bill?”

Lang paused to control his temper. He took in a deep breath, swinging open the interrogation room door. “Get out of my station—both of you. I don’t want to see you under the same circumstances again.”

“Do you believe him?” Thatcher asked, as she and David walked to the police impound lot. She gave her ticket to the attending officer, and he left to fetch her rental car.

“He’s
never lied to me before,” David said, staring at the cement. “Do you trust your source at the embassy?”

“
Brimley has never lied to me before.”

“Well, someone’s wrong.”

“Lang is bluffing,” she said, determined. “Why in the world would they consider you the key suspect?”

David kept silent.

“David?” she asked. His lack of response was unnerving. There was something important he wasn’t telling her.

“I work regularly at the crime scene…” He shrugged her off. “I have no alibi…”

“That hardly means you’d kill your own father.”

“I had motive.”

Thatcher waited for the grin, but he didn’t smile.

“Brenton’s obsession destroyed my family,” David said, kicking the rubber soles of his boots against the curb. “We were oil and water, and our quarrels were
very vocal. Every scholarly step he took forward, I was there to knock him back. For each thesis, I was the antithesis. I’m the reason he lost his tenure at Cambridge.”

She
didn’t believe him. “You would kill your own father?”

Their conversation paused as the impound officer drove up beside them and stepped out of the car. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he looked at Thatcher expectantly, as if waiting for a tip. She ignored him and slid into the driver’s seat. David sat shotgun and stared out the wind
ow at the city streets.

They were quiet
as she drove out of the impound lot and joined traffic.

David cleared his throat. “In my family… We’re angry. We’re ruthless. Hell, we hate each other.
But none of us is violent. Hyden men exact revenge through much more constructive means. Why end the man’s life, when you can destroy his self-respect?”

“That’s comforting...”

They drove in silence for a few more blocks. Her mind was racing, contemplating the possibility of David as the killer. He had identified the body. He knew Stonehenge. But the red particles of sand in Brenton’s lungs, and the lethal subsonic noise that ravaged Brenton’s organs, how could David possibly be responsible for that?

She g
lanced at him, noting his face. Gray and black hairs peppered his jawline. His cynical mask was beginning to fray at the edges, no longer bereft of emotion. His smoky eyes spoke about sadness, not murder.

“For what it’s worth…” S
he cleared her throat. “I’m sorry Lang thinks you could be capable of something like that. I am sure anyone who really knows you, would know that’s impossible.”

“Lang believes it,” David
said, his voice low and quiet.

Thatcher shook her head. “Who is Lang to you anyway?”

“Bill took us in after my mother died.”

“Us?”

“Ian—my older brother—and me,” David answered. “Bill and his wife took care of us during my father’s many ‘excavations.’ All Brenton cared about was proving the existence of God. Family was an afterthought.”

They stopped at another traffic light
.

S
he chewed anxiously on her lip. “But you didn’t kill your father?”

She needed to hear him say it.

“Of course not.”

Thatch
er forced a reassuring smile and pulled the Polaroid from his shirt pocket. “Let’s find Ehrman.”

Chapter 39

WEDNESDAY 5:10 p.m.

Isbister, Scotland

Fifty miles southeast of Maeshowe,
Isbister faced the seaside cliff on the isle of South Ronaldsay. The invisible sun lowered behind clouds, giving way to dusk. In the darkness, sediment on the floor of the tomb’s main chamber lifted off the ground, stirring and swirling in a plume of dust.

The Tomb of the Eagles groaned to life. Its ghostly whispers were low and inarticulate, a noise that echoed throughout the small
passage grave chamber. The noise quickly escalated into a piercing cry. Sound billowed down the length of the narrow channel. The explosion blew apart the thin plastic skylight crowning the chamber mound. The subsonic din bent around the grave, the greater part of the acoustic wave rippling over the seascape in a tsunami of thunderous noise. Its merciless fingers also poured over the grassland, spreading around the sides of the ruin like a volcano of resonance traveling west over the farmhouses of Cleat and Liddel.

Chapter 40

WEDNESDAY 6:22 p.m.

Oxfordshire, London

By the time David and Thatcher reached the western hills of Oxfordshire, London, the sun had set over the suburban
neighborhood. Street lamps flickered overhead. They parked along the sidewalk and made their way up a brick path to the front porch, passing between two columns of overgrown hedges that crowded the path.

That
cher knocked on the front door.

They stood for a minute, waiting, listening.

“Try again,” David suggested.

She knocked harder, pausing a moment t
o place her ear against the door. The faint cry of a baby sounded deep within the narrow two-story townhouse.

The door swung open
.

Thatcher
jumped back as a woman in her early-thirties squinted at them like the evening light was severe. Her hair was a tangled mess and her eyes swollen red.

“Mrs. Ehrman?” Thatcher asked.

“Are you from the University?” She sounded like she had laryngitis.

“I’m Brynne Thatcher, a NATO officer working with British Intelligence.”

The woman was slow to react. “I didn’t know you people were getting involved.” Her words tripped over her tongue.

“We’re looking for Michael Ehrman,” David asked. “Is he home?”

The woman stepped back, bewildered. “Michael is dead.”

Th
atcher looked at David. What the hell was going on?

“
I think your husband worked with my father, Brenton Hyden,” David said. “We’re investigating Brenton’s murder.”

“Dr. Hyden’s dead, too?” She blinked
as if awakening from a stupor.

“About a week ago…” he replied.

Mrs. Ehrman studied his face. “They said Michael offed himself.” Her lower lip began to quiver. “They said he was mad. That he covered himself in petrol and lit himself on fire. We buried him in King’s Cross Cemetery two weeks ago Wednesday.”

“Do you have any idea what
he was researching at work?” Thatcher asked.

Mrs. Ehrman shook her head. “Michael rarely spoke
about work.”

Thatcher nodded
.

“He act
ed so oddly the night before he…” Mrs. Ehrman paused, unable to say the words. “I spoke to the police, but they wouldn’t listen. They just kept saying it was normal behavior for a suicide. They said it was Michael’s way of saying goodbye.”

“What happened?” David
asked.

“Michael woke me in the middle of the night, a few hours before he
, um—he told me everything has an end, even death, and not to believe when the world said otherwise. He made me promise not to lose faith, no matter what happens.” She pulled a crumpled handkerchief from her robe and wiped her eyes. “I don’t know what that means…” She waited for them to give her an answer, but they had none. “God, you’d think after two weeks I’d run out of tears.”

“Take your time.” Thatcher tenderly brushed
the woman’s arm.

Mrs. Ehrman nodded in appreciation
. She looked at David. “You understand how I feel, don’t you? You just lost your father. Dr. Hyden was a good man.”

David remained stoic. He pulled the Polaroid from his pocket. “I found this picture in Brenton’s office. It’s
of your husband, my father, and two men. Do you recognize either of these other men?”

The woman wiped her eyes, straining to see through her tears. She pointed at the bearded man beside
Brenton. “That’s James Vanderkam. He is a Professor of Judeo-Christian theology at Oxford. He was Michael’s mentor. He sponsored all of Michael’s post-doc studies and was helping him get a position at the university.” She searched the face of the oldest man, his crooked body and hollow, sunken eyes, and then shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Do you know how to contact Dr. Vanderkam?” Thatcher asked.

“I think he’s in Athens,” she said. “I was surprised that he didn’t come home for Michael’s funeral. I’m sure he couldn’t leave his studies.”

“What’s he doing in Greece?” David
put the photograph back in his pocket.

“They’d meet there for a week every two months—M
ichael, James, and your father, but I have no idea what they were doing.” She brushed hair away from her face, and suddenly looked up at them in alarm. “Do you think someone killed Michael because of his research?”

Thatcher shook her head. The woman had enough to deal with. “No, but thank you for talking with us.”

Mrs. Ehrman nodded sadly. Her eyes widened as she registered the baby crying in the house behind her. “Good Lord, I told the nanny she could leave early.”

“Go ahead.” Thatcher smiled, permitting Ms. Ehrman
to leave without feeling rude.

She shut the door, and
Thatcher and David headed back down the path, ducking beneath the overgrown bushes. Once they were out of range, Thatcher grabbed David’s arm. “Do you think Vanderkam is dead?”

“She said her husband and Vanderkam were close, yet he didn’t bother to come to
the funeral.”

It was
very coincidental. They were on to something.

David
pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “I need two tickets to Athens departing from Heathrow. The soonest flight available.”

“I almost forgot!” Mrs. Ehrman came running down the path after them, meeting Thatcher at the end of the driveway. She dropped a small hotel matchbox into Thatcher’s hand.

Thatcher twisted the box sideways to read the address printed on the cover.

ATTALOS HOTEL

29 Athinas Street

Athens – Greece

Tel: +30-210-555-2804

“I hated whenever Michael left because ther
e was no way to contact him,” Mrs. Ehrman explained. “It was a point of stress within our marriage, especially during the pregnancy. But I found this matchbox in his trouser pockets while doing laundry a few months ago. There is writing on the inside—not his handwriting. Just some numbers. I don’t know what they mean.”

She began to cry, this time without her handkerchief. “You have to understand. Michael wasn’t suicidal. We
had just celebrated the birth of our son three weeks before he died.”

Thatcher gave the woman a hug and watched as she went back into the house.

David lowered his cell phone from his ear. “I’ve got us plane tickets to—”

Thatcher’s cell phone rang. She put up one finger to quiet him. “This is Tha—” she began.

“Another passage grave has emitted lethal sound.” It was Hummer. “The Tomb of the Eagles. This one hit two separate towns.”

Thatcher felt her heart stop. S
he squatted to the ground to catch her breath. “How many are dead?”