Running Scared (17 page)

“You read the article,” Shane said, lifting the magazine.

“I read its source material in Latin when I was on my way to a Ph.D. I read pretty much the same thing in a translation from a seventh-century Welsh poem. I read it in a precursor to English so old it couldn’t be told from ancient French or ancient German. I read it in a scholarly text from Chaucer’s time. Ditto for the Shakespearean era. And I read reams of codswallop from the end of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Something about ending a hundred-year cycle brings out every nut in the fruitcake.”

“I’m impressed. I didn’t find the reference from Chaucer’s time.”

She blinked, absorbing the fact that for all his careless manner, he had researched the subject thoroughly. “It’s in a locked collection at UCLA.”

“I’ll get a copy.”

She didn’t doubt it. “No need. I kept copies of all the information I ever came across about Merlin’s gold or the Druid hoard.”

Even as his instincts shivered up and down his spine, Shane became unnaturally still. “Why?”

“I wanted to find it,” she said simply. “I went to Wales and the south of England and northwest Scotland and spent months . . .”

Her voice died. She wondered how she could describe it to him, the time-deep silence of standing stones, the elusive whisper of hidden springs, the unbearable beauty of a crescent moon balanced in the arms of an ancient oak.

“I chased legends,” she said. “It was great for my dissertation, but all I found were some places that made the hair on my arms stand up.”

“Stonehenge?”

“No. Oh, it was impressive and all, yet . . .” She shrugged. “It excited me intellectually but not here.” She held her fist against her belly. “Other things I found went straight to my gut. They were more real than my own memories.” Her hand opened as though to hold or to share something that no words could describe. “There were hill forts in Wales, standing stones, burial platforms, grave markers. All of them were too old to have been built by the people whose artistic style we call Celtic, but these places had been
used
by Celts. By Druids. These places were . . . different.”

Shane waited, wondering what she saw with unfocused eyes that were as clear and deeply blue as a Welsh lake. When she didn’t speak, he asked softly, “What are you seeing?”

“Midnight harvests in modern oak groves where the harvester wore white and cut sacred mistletoe with a silver knife. A black spring surrounded by an ancient stone ring, and the bush shading that spring decorated with ribbons, coins, fresh flowers, and carvings of hands or feet or genitals—whatever the modern supplicants wanted cured. But most of all I remember falling asleep in the center of an oak grove and standing stones that leaned like old men supporting too many memories.”

“You dreamed.”

It was said so softly that she answered before she knew what she revealed. “Yes. I dreamed.”

Then she heard her own words. She rubbed her own arms briskly, driving away the gooseflesh that rippled over her like a pool disturbed by the wind.

“Big deal,” she said crisply. “People dream all the time.”

Shane didn’t bother to argue. He was too busy understanding why Risa interested him as no other woman had.

She dreamed.

And, sometimes, so did he.

“What did you dream?” he asked.

At first Risa thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she decided it didn’t matter. She was going to be looking for a job anyway.

“The Druid hoard,” she said, “the treasure I had been looking for, was gone.”

His eyes narrowed. “Lost forever?”

“No. Just gone. Like so many Celts. Gone to another place. That’s what the Celts were best at. Moving on. One extended family at a time. Occasionally a whole clan. Settlers, not soldiers. Celts neither had nor wanted nations and states and standing armies. They were far-seeing, civilized, bullheaded, courageous individuals who loved art and wine and wild places.”

She gave him a sidelong glance that was both wary and wry. “Rather like someone I know.”

“Yourself,” Shane said.

She looked startled. “I was thinking of you.”

The smile he gave her was unlike anything she’d ever seen from him before, like moonrise in a sacred grove. She didn’t know whether to bask in the unearthly brilliance . . . or run.

Before she could decide, the phone rang. She grabbed it like a lifeline.

“Curator’s office,” she said.

“This is Milly at the front desk. Is Mr. Tannahill with you?”

Risa handed the phone to Shane. “Milly at the front desk.”

“Tannahill,” he said briefly. “What is it, Milly?”

“Mr. Smith-White is here with a box he refuses to allow security to open.”

“Send him up.”

“Your office or Ms. Sheridan’s?”

“Risa’s.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Milly?”

“Yes?”

“Send security with him. Armed.”

Las Vegas

November 3

Late morning

U
neasily Tim glanced
around the public part of Joey Cline’s pawnshop. It was only two blocks down and one over from his mother’s place. Jesus, she lived in a dump. No wonder she drank so much. Or maybe she lived there because she drank. Whatever. The place sucked.

He shifted his shoulders, missing the weight of his backpack. Socks had made him lock it in the trunk, saying that Joey would freak if someone he didn’t know walked into his private space with a backpack.

“Man, from the look of this shit,” Tim said, “your fence is lucky to have two dollar bills side by side. Where’d he get the cash to buy the gold?”

“Follow me,” Socks muttered. “And don’t say nothing. I’ll handle Joey.”

With a shrug, Tim followed his buddy through the opening in the counter. He laughed out loud when he saw the door hidden in the cabinet full of busted, rusted guns, and then he whistled when he walked into the real workplace.

“Nice,” Tim said, looking at the rainbow of gems and gold in the locked jewelry display.

“Yeah. He does okay. Hey, Joey! Where the hell are you?”

“On the can. Be out in a minute.”

Socks started pacing along the display cases, looking for gold. He found a lot of it, but not the stuff he wanted.

“You see it?” Tim asked.

A grunt was Socks’s only answer.

Tim started searching cases, too. “How long was the ticket good for?”

“What ticket?”

“The pawn ticket you got when you hocked the gold.”

“Never got one.”

“What? How the hell do you expect to get it back when—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Socks cut in, his voice a low snarl. With the speed of a seasoned nurse or a burglar, he snapped on nearly transparent surgical gloves. “I said I’d take care of it, didn’t I?”

Joey walked in from the bathroom, zipping up his fly. “Hey, Cesar, my old buddy. You got more gold for me?”

“Cesar?” Tim said under his breath, looking at Socks.

“Maybe,” Socks said, ignoring Tim. “It depends.”

Joey thought of the fast fifty thousand he had made on the four gold items and smiled. You never knew when you were going to hit the jackpot twice in a day. “Depends? On what?”

“My buddy’s old lady cut him off unless we get back that bracelet or armband or whatever the fuck it was. Five hundred was the price, right?”

Joey laughed, saw that Socks wasn’t laughing, and cleared his throat. “Cesar, hey, my boy, you didn’t tell me you were going to want anything back. I turned it around already.”

Tim started to say something but ended up making a strangled noise when Socks reached under his shirt, jerked out the silenced gun, and pointed it at Joey.

“Hey, Cesar, whoa, buddy,” Joey said, backing up with his hands held out to show they were empty. The gun was bad enough. The thin shine of the gloves he had just noticed on Socks made Joey sweat. When a man wore that kind of protection, he meant business. “We’re nearly family. Family don’t pull guns on family.”

“Who’d you sell my gold to?” Socks asked.

Tim started to say it was his gold, too. A glance at his friend’s flat, dark eyes changed his mind. The last time Socks had looked like that was in prison, when he shanked an old man because he didn’t get out of the way quick enough. Socks might not be real bright when it came to school things, but he knew how the gutter worked. The boy was cold and fast as a snake.

“That’s private business,” Joey said. “You understand that, right?”

“How much?”

“Hey, you know I can’t tell—”

Socks shot him in the right knee. The bullet made less sound than a dropped glass. He watched while Joey flopped around on the cement floor, screaming and bleeding.

“Who’d you turn them to?” Socks said. “Tell me or I’ll blow off your other kneecap.”

Joey managed to say, “Shapiro.”

“He still have ’em?”

“Don’t—know,” Joey gasped.

“How much you sell them for?”

“Fifty—five.”

“Thousand?” Socks asked. “Fifty-five yards? You’re telling me you got—”

“Yes!” Joey cut in desperately. “Jesus, Cesar. Call an ambulance! It hurts!”

Socks kicked the pawnbroker in the throat, which stopped the conversation.

Tim grimaced as his stomach flipped. He really didn’t like this part of being Socks’s buddy. Tim was a born con artist, a smiler and a soother, not a leg-breaker or hit man. Socks was a born enforcer. He didn’t mind hurting people.

“Fifty-five thousand!” He kicked Joey in the balls. “That’s for hosing me, asshole.” He kicked him again. “Still think you’re smarter than me?”

Joey didn’t answer. He couldn’t. There was too much vomit, too much pain, darkness like a mountain falling down on him.

Socks turned his back on the moaning, retching pawnbroker and began ripping through desk drawers and filing cabinets.

“Uh, Socks, maybe we should—” Tim began.

“Shut up and smash open that jewelry case.”

“What about an alarm?”

“Not back here. The last thing Joey wants is nosy cops hard-assing him over the merchandise.”

Tim selected a cleaning rod from the gun-repair bench and started whacking at the thick glass of the case. Cracks shot like lightning through the panes, but the special high-impact material hung together no matter how much he beat on it.

Socks slammed shut the last of the desk drawers. “Fuck! Where’d he keep it?”

“What?”

“Cash, asshole, what do you think I’m looking for?”

Tim slammed the rod down end first. The shattered glass bent but didn’t break. “He have a safe?”

“Yeah. I can’t open it. Already tried once a year ago.”

Socks returned to Joey and went through his pants pockets, then his underwear. Sure enough, there was a wad of cash in a security pouch that hung down over his pitiful dick.

Impatiently Socks yanked at the knot that fastened the pouch’s ties around Joey’s waist. The knot tightened. A quick swipe with a pocketknife took care of the problem. It also cut a thin line of red across Joey’s groin, but he didn’t complain. He was too busy trying to suck in air past the pain and vomit to notice a little scratch.

Cursing in a monotone, Socks counted the money. A few thousand. An hour ago he would have danced in place with glee over that amount. Now all he could think of was Cherelle’s scream bouncing around in his mind.

Those four chunks of gold you sold for eight hundred bucks are worth at least a million.

Angry at the whole world for screwing him yet again, Socks kicked Joey as hard as he could.

The pawnbroker barely groaned.

Tim slammed away at the high-tech glass and tried to look anywhere but at the floor where Joey was curled up like a boiled shrimp.

Still cursing, Socks went to the workbench where Joey spent most of his waking hours. He yanked out the first in the row of belly drawers that lined the long, scarred table. With a flip of his thick wrist, Socks slammed the drawer into a bench leg. Small tools scattered every which way.

No money.

The second drawer held a bunch of rags and lubricants. The oilcans made a nice clanging sound when they hit the wall.

Still no money.

The third drawer had a cell phone, some cash, and a gun with silencer attached.

For a moment Socks forgot about the missing gold. He shoved the cash in his pocket and checked out the gun. Clean, loaded, ready to go, and either cold or registered to Joey. Whichever, it was a really sweet piece.

Whistling soundlessly through his teeth, Socks unloaded all but one bullet from his own gun. Feeling much better about the world, he went to Tim and handed him the nearly unloaded gun.

“Forget the glass,” Socks said. “We got what we need. Here, whack the jerk and let’s go.”

Tim looked unhappily at the gun and at Socks’s nicely sheathed hands. “You didn’t tell me I’d need gloves. Let’s just go and—”

“Uh-uh, buddy,” Socks cut in. “Stick it in his mouth and blow his fucking head off.”

Tim started to argue, saw the flat look around his jailhouse pal’s eyes, and knew he wasn’t going to get out of it. It had been the same way the first time he went along while Socks got a case of tequila for them at the end of a gun; whatever Socks did, Tim had to do. It was a good way to make sure your buddy didn’t snitch you off to the cops.

Tim sighed. “If I blow his brains out from this close up, we’re going to have shit all over our new shirts.”

“Jesus. Who could tell?”

Tim looked stubborn.

“Just whack him, okay?” Socks said. “Just do it.”

Tim sighted over the barrel. A heart shot, not one in the head. Much neater. He squeezed the trigger.

Joey jerked once, gave an odd, bubbling sigh, and went still.

Socks checked him with a good kick. No reaction.
Bye-bye buddy, and here’s for hosing me all those years.

Still smiling, Socks turned to Tim and shot him with Joey’s gun. Even with the silencer on, there was still enough impact to send Tim spinning and crashing face first into a tall metal filing cabinet. He started sliding down it, grabbed the top to hold himself upright, and ended up pulling the cabinet over on himself instead. Man and metal landed on the cement floor with a racket that drowned out everything else.

In the sudden silence following the fall, the wailing of a siren was too loud, too clear. And it was coming this way.

Socks jumped and swore. Some nosy bastard must have called the cops. Or else Joey had an alarm he hadn’t talked about.

He bent over the pawnbroker, grabbed lax fingers, and forced them around the butt of the gun he had used on Tim. When Socks let go, the gun just fell out of Joey’s hand. He tried again. Same thing the second time.

The siren screamed around a corner so close that he could hear the tires cry.

Sweating, Socks made one last try at stage setting. This time the gun stayed put. He let out an explosive breath and looked over where Tim was. Nothing moved under the cabinet except a trail of blood snaking across the floor.

And the siren was making Socks want to scream.

Not even noticing the blood on his shoes, he turned and sprinted out the back door.