“Well, I do,” she said, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. “If you try anything…” She let the threat hang. Kenner merely smiled.
As she circled around to the passenger side, Fiona stuffed her hands in her pockets, trying to make the gesture seem as casual as possible. The fingers of her right hand closed around the wallet containing the lock picks. They would be very effective stabbing weapons, if the need arose. She noted a rental sticker in the corner of the windshield. That was a good sign. It meant Kenner probably wouldn’t have been able to rig the electronic locks to hold her prisoner. At the first hint of trouble, she could stab him with a pick and then jump out.
She slid into the passenger seat but didn’t buckle the seat belt. “Okay. Talk.”
Kenner smiled again, then turned his eyes forward. He started to pull away from the curb, but at that moment, a pair of police cars screamed past, going the wrong way on the one-way street, heading for the museum. Fiona tried to hide her concern for Pierce behind a mask of indifference, but Kenner was not going to let her off that easy.
As he started forward again, he glanced in the rearview mirror at the receding lights. “You and Dr. Pierce separated. Why?”
“Long story.” She stared straight ahead. “What do you want?”
“Actually, I want the same thing George does. The truth.” He paused, perhaps hoping that she would voluntarily fill the silence. When she did not, he went on. “Has he told you the story? Seven years ago, he discovered proof that Hercules was a real, historic person, named on the manifest of a ship from the fifth century BC. The ship was the Argo.” When she did not respond to this, he glanced at her. “Does your American education include the classics? Argo? Jason and the quest for the Golden Fleece?”
Without meeting his gaze, Fiona replied, “Although the most complete account of Jason’s voyage, the Argonautica, was written by Apollonius of Rhodes in the third century BC, the works of Homer make reference to both the Argo and Jason, not to mention Herakles—” She broke from an otherwise flat monotone to emphasize the correct Greek pronunciation—“which date to at least the year 850 BC and may be as much as two centuries older than that. So, while my uncle might have discovered a ship named Argo, with a crew member named for the mythological hero, I doubt very much he would have made the mistake of believing that it was the inspiration for a legend that was at least five hundred years old when that ship was built. That’s what I learned in my American education.”
Kenner burst out laughing. “Touché, my dear. As a matter of fact, I think I made a similar observation at the time. I don’t recall what George’s reaction was. Regardless, shortly thereafter, the document was stolen. George believed the theft was the work of a secret society dedicated to preserving the legacy of Hercules.”
Fiona felt a chill of apprehension and dug her hand deeper into her pocket. Had Kenner spotted the tattoo on the back of her right hand?
The symbol, a circle crossed by two parallel lines, was the mark of the Herculean Society, a souvenir of her first encounter with Alexander Diotrephes. It had always reminded her of a livestock brand, not so much a declaration of ownership as a sign of protection. Despite all the grief accompanying his interference in her life, Fiona had for a time secretly liked the idea of having the legendary Hercules as her guardian. Throughout her high school years, she had done her best to keep the tattoo hidden from her classmates at Brewster Academy. With her olive-complexion, raven-black hair and distinctly Native-American features, not to mention the fact that she was a Type 1 insulin-dependent diabetic, she was already different enough.
The symbol of Hercules was not widely known outside the Society, though it had been adopted as a Druid sigil in the 1960s. But if Kenner had done his homework, he would probably have come across it.
“Secret society?” Fiona rolled her eyes and tried for her best dismissive teenager voice. “Cool story. Is that why you were following Uncle George and me? Are you in this Hercules Club?”
“I’ll tell you, if you tell me why you and Dr. Pierce broke into the museum tonight.”
Fiona weighed her options. She was not about to share the truth about the Society with this man, no matter who he claimed to be or how much he claimed to know. But what tack should she take? What lie should she tell?
Before she could make up her mind, Kenner chortled again and clapped her shoulder. Fiona jerked away as if his touch had been red hot, but he continued laughing, oblivious to her reaction. “Just having a spot of fun with you,” he said, though his humor sounded forced. “Of course I’m not part of that group, if it even exists at all. And your business at the museum is none of mine. Where can I drop you?”