Ancient Echoes

CHAPTER 7



A SWARM OF REPORTERS and photographers stampeded Michael and Charlotte as they left the temporary sheriff's station. Several called out, “Doctor Rempart! What can you tell us about your missing brother?” “Doctor Rempart, where did you go on your latest expedition? Did you have to abandon it to come here?” “Doctor Rempart, any chance that you'll get back together with Sonia Chavez now that she's won an Oscar for her role in Fire Fight?”

Charlotte froze as a flashback of the last time she was in a crowd overwhelmed her. Her breath came in short, thin pants. She searched the crowd for the assailant from the Cluny and feared the sound of gunfire.

Michael saw the stricken look on her face. She appeared close to passing out. “They’re obnoxious, but they won’t hurt you.” He took her arm and pulled her away from the media toward the edge of the parking lot to their cars. The reporters swarmed, demanding to know who she was and why she was with Michael Rempart.

A black Chevy Trailblazer circled the throng and stopped behind Michael and Charlotte. The passenger door swung open. “Get in!” the driver ordered.

Michael hesitated. The stranger's appearance was eerie. He had a youthful yet deathly pale face, with whitish blond hair slicked straight back, barely visible brows and lashes, and black dots for eyes. Odd, cupid-shaped lips presented a slash of liver-red when he spoke. “What are you waiting for?” His voice sounded flat, nasal, yet commanding.

Good question, Michael thought. With his rental car hard to reach, and the woman beside him nearly hyperventilating, he decided quickly. “Let’s go.” He pushed Charlotte toward the SUV.

“No!” She pulled back.

“You rather face them?” Michael jerked his head back toward the reporters.

Her gaze held his a moment, then she got into the vehicle.

The Trailblazer careened out of the parking lot and sped along the Salmon River Road. The reporters tried to follow, but the driver extended the distance from the others by paying no attention to ruts in the dirt road or how badly his passengers were tossed about.

“Who are you?” Michael asked.

“Simon Quade. Consultant with the CIA. We’ll talk later.” His oddly hushed tone increased the tension in the SUV. Everything about him was out of place in this wilderness, from long, soft-looking hands, to an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, white shirt, black tie, and black dress shoes.

“You’re right we’ll talk, Mister CIA consultant,” Charlotte said, breathing hard as if her earlier fear pushed her to a reckless defiance. “I’ve got questions—”

“I said later.” The order was firm but not threatening.

Michael watched the struggle going on within her, and in that moment he knew whatever story she’d given the sheriff about U.S. Customs, and any paranoia he had about the government’s involvement, had nothing to do with her being here. This was personal for her.

Quade glanced in the rearview mirror and drove even faster. Before long, he swerved off the main road and onto one that consisted of no more than two ruts for car or truck tires. Michael studied him. He was trim, his skin wrinkle-free, yet papery and nearly translucent, much like the skin of the elderly—perhaps because it was so excessively pale.

A couple of miles into the forest, Quade turned onto a gravel-covered driveway with a sign that read “U.S. Forest Service.” The road ended in front of a small log cabin. Quade stopped the SUV beside a gray Ford F-250 parked to one side. A seething Sheriff Jake Sullivan filled the cabin's doorway as he stood feet apart, hands on hips. Michael’s gaze met Charlotte's. Neither relished another confrontation with him.

Quade got out of the SUV and politely introduced himself.

“I was told the CIA wanted me out here immediately, and when I arrived the place was empty!” Jake’s gaze narrowed with suspicion as he watched Quade, Michael and Charlotte walk past him into the cabin. He followed. “First Customs, now the CIA? What’s next? A Marine Corps Marching Band?” He took in Quade’s thin build, his overtly expensive style of dress. “What the hell is this about?”

“Let’s just say I’m the person they call upon when they require specialized knowledge,” Quade replied. “There are none who can match me. That’s not boasting. It’s fact.”

The cabin had a central room with a cheap brown vinyl couch, a square wooden dining table with four chairs, a kitchen area against one wall, and a wood-burning stove on the wall opposite. Two tiny bedrooms and a bathroom completed it.

Simon Quade stood apart from the others, his slender hands clasped together as he faced them. “I’ve brought you together so I only need to say this once. We want the same thing, but for different reasons.” His sharp midnight gaze fixed on each person in turn. “You, Doctor Rempart, want to learn the story behind the Chinese tomb and the special being found there. You, Ms. Reed, must discover the truth about the past so that you will have a future. And you, Sheriff Sullivan, have a job to do, one you must succeed in for very personal reasons.”

The three gawked at Quade, as startled as if he’d sprouted horns.

“What do you know about my past?” Charlotte’s cheeks flushed hot, her mouth tight.

“Or mine,” Jake roared. “What the hell is this? I don’t have time for games. Your message said you had information about the university group. I don’t know why the CIA is involved in something domestic, but I’ll take help wherever I can get it. I said help. Not psychological bullshit. Where are they?”

Michael leaned against the door, arms folded, and waited. He not only wanted to find out how much Quade knew about the Chinese tomb, but why the government cared.

“To understand where the professor and students have gone, you’ve got to learn a little history,” Quade said as he poured water into a tea kettle and set it on the stove. “About alchemy.”

Interesting, Michael thought, even as he noticed Charlotte’s body go rigid at the word. Alert, but not shocked. The sheriff was a different story.

“Alchemy! What the hell! Now, I’m definitely out of here.” Jake put on his hat, ready to explode.

“Don’t be so eager to dismiss it, Sheriff,” Quade spoke quickly, but carefully enunciated each word. “There is a rich tradition behind alchemy. Think of it as a subset of chemistry, and in fact, much of what we learned of chemistry came about because of the alchemists. There is something to it.” He hesitated. “And you will need to understand as much as you are capable of. Will you listen?”

Jake looked skeptical, but after a moment, nodded. He dropped his hat onto a chair by the door.

Quade folded his hands. “Have a seat, please.”

Charlotte sat at the table and Michael took the couch. Jake looked disgusted, but joined Charlotte. She bristled and scooted her chair a couple of inches away from him.

Quade spoke slowly, carefully, as if to be sure they understood. “The basic belief was simply that everything in the world came from animal, vegetable or mineral matter, and since animals and vegetables grew and changed, it only made sense that minerals did as well. Just as carbon in the earth’s crust could transform over time into coal or a diamond, alchemists believed other, baser materials could be made into gold if only they could find the right formula.

“But alchemy is much more than that. Many alchemists have attempted to transform much more important…things…than mere metals.”

“Except that it doesn’t work,” Jake pointed out.

Quade met him with an arch look. “The acknowledged mother of Western alchemy, Maria Prophetissa, lived in Hellenistic Egypt around 200 B.C. She created and used laboratory equipment, including the double boiler still used in American kitchens. Since her fame has lasted, isn’t it logical that her experiments were successful?”

“Santa Claus’s fame has lasted, too.” Jake radiated disgust. “That doesn’t mean he’s real.”

Undaunted, Quade continued. “The Arabs of the Caliphate believed in alchemy, presumably because it worked, and from them, it went to Europe. There were a number of European alchemists. When Pope John XXII decreed against alchemy in 1317, a monk named John Dastyn wrote a famous defense of it. It’s believed Dastyn was an alchemist and much of his gold ended up in the Pope’s treasury. Edward Kelley created gold for the first Queen Elizabeth. Thomas Norton produced enough gold for Bristol, England, to finance the rebuilding of St. Mary Redcliffe Church. Thomas Charnock of Salisbury was successful, as was William Holway, the Abbot of Bath, and—”

“In other words, a lot of people no one has ever heard of claim to do something no one else can,” Jake announced.

Charlotte nodded. “The sheriff is right. It’s been proven to be a hoax. To say otherwise, is wasting our time.”

“You have heard of Sir Isaac Newton, I imagine,” Quade said. “He was one of the world’s greatest scientists, and spent over half his life studying alchemy. He got so far into it, he even predicted the end of the world. 2060. To be more precise, he actually said the world would not end before 2060. I suppose people of his time found comfort in that. Now, not so much.”

“Even great scientists can go bonkers,” Michael said, unable to help but be amused by Quade's history lesson and the growing irritation it caused the others in the room.

“Alchemy’s problem lies in the philosopher’s stone,” Quade explained. “What it is, and how you make it. All texts agree that to perform alchemical transmutations, one needs a philosopher’s stone, and most say it is red in color. But some say the stone is needed to begin any experiment, while others say it comes about at the end of the process. All difficulties with alchemy come about because of that one issue: what is the exact nature of the philosopher’s stone?” With that he gave a small smile. “Tea anyone?”

They all turned him down, with Jake growing increasingly antsy at the time being spent here. Quade poured hot water into his cup, dipped in a bag of Earl Grey, and again began to speak. “Many ancient alchemical texts have been translated, but they make little sense to modern men. Everything is described in poetry and symbolism. One book, however, is different. It’s called The Book of Abraham the Jew. It supposedly spells out how to create the philosopher’s stone. It is, in a sense, the Rosetta Stone of alchemy.”

“The what stone?” Jake asked.

“The key. The Rosetta Stone was found in 1799 in Rashid Egypt, and with it, linguists were able to understand how to read hieroglyphics. In a similar vein, using The Book of Abraham the Jew, modern man will be able to perform alchemical transmutations.”

Jake leaned back, arms folded, legs extended. “I’m supposed to give a damn?”

“Let him speak,” Charlotte snapped.

Jake shut his mouth, stunned, then looked at her as if she’d become possessed. A few minutes ago when Quade mentioned her past, she looked ready to murder the guy, and now she wanted to listen to the creepy jerk.

“Many scholars believe,” Quade said eying them one by one, “that in the late 1700’s, before the time of Lewis and Clark, someone carried The Book of Abraham the Jew to what is now Idaho.”

“So, an old book about alchemy was brought to Idaho. I repeat, what does this have to do with the missing students?” Jake demanded, with a quick but pointed glance at Charlotte.

“What he’s saying,” Michael explained, “is that my brother came here to find The Book of Abraham the Jew.” He then faced Quade. “It must be even more important than I imagined if the CIA is looking for it. How does this become an international incident?”

“Hold everything,” Jake said, sitting up straight again. “You’re telling me Lionel Rempart went out to a million-plus acre wilderness, high rugged mountains, unnavigable rivers, dangerous wildlife, to look for a book? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“People have been killed because of that book,” Charlotte whispered, her face ashen.

At those words, Michael saw past the stiff demeanor, the glares, the tightly pursed lips, to eyes lined with the weariness of a woman who faced too much suffering and sorrow. He realized that with her shaken, heartfelt words this situation had suddenly risen to a whole new level. Jake must have seen the same thing because his tone became gentle. “I’m sorry.”

She raised eyes that were deep, troubled pools. She said nothing, but seemed to call upon some inner strength as she again faced Quade. “Did you know Dennis Levine?” she asked.

“No.” His gaze remained steady. She seemed to sink into herself a moment, then got up and went into the bedroom that had been designated as hers.

o0o

Charlotte sat on her bed trying to organize her thoughts when she heard a knock on her door. Her fingers wrapped around the Glock under her pillow as, ready to bolt, she called, “Who's there?”

“It's time to talk, Ms. Reed.”

She let go of the gun and opened the door. Jake Sullivan stood in front of her. He was no taller than her, aging and husky, hair too gray, nose too broad, hands too large, square and hard, but he exuded a raw masculinity that surprised her. Raising her chin, she met his gaze. “Where are the others?”

“Outside. Quade wanted to smoke while they continue talking about that alchemy garbage.”

“Come in.” She found herself simultaneously intrigued and bemused to see him suddenly uncomfortable as he entered, leaving the door open. “What's going on?” he asked. “I'm not risking any more lives until I hear the truth.”

She crossed to her backpack and took out a flask of brandy. She poured a little into an empty water glass and handed it to him. “You'll probably find this better than Quade’s tea.”

His eyebrows rose at the liquor.

“Consider it medicinal,” she said. “You’re wound tighter than a drum.”

“Pot, meet kettle.” He took a sip. “Very good.”

“Even medicine should be quality.”

“Brandy’s nice, but I still want to know what’s going on.”

She sat on the bed, and he took the only chair in the room, a stiff wooden one. “As you suspected, it’s not government business. It’s my business, crazy though it may be.”

“I somehow doubt its crazy,” he said softly.

He had a pleasant enough face, she thought, when he wasn't frowning or scowling. His large, green eyes seemed to vary between a blue green and a more mossy shade, depending on their surroundings. Right now, they shined an intense emerald.

She met his gaze, then folded her hands. In a concise, factual manner she gave an abridged version of the events that brought her here. “I want to find Lionel Rempart and ask him why”—she hesitated as the full impact of what she needed to know filled her and she struggled to prevent her voice from breaking—“ask him why that book has caused so many deaths.”

“And why someone has targeted you as well.” His face was grave with concern.

“I'm sure the answer is one and the same.” Sad, resigned eyes met his.

“Thank you, Ms. Reed,” he added, “for telling me all that. I'm sorry about your losses—your husband, your friends. It must be very hard for you.”

“Your words are much appreciated, Sheriff.” With a small smile she added, “And please, call me Charlotte.”

How much prettier a simple smile made her, he thought. He stood to leave. He didn't like how difficult tearing his gaze from her face had already become. He reminded himself he’d just met her as he looked toward the door trying to think of a graceful way to exit.

Just then, the telephone in the main room rang. Jake went out to answer as Quade came through the front door. “It’s a Forest Service line,” Quade explained as he reached for it. “They set up special communications out here for me since there’s no normal cell service.”

He answered and immediately handed the receiver to Jake. “For you, Sheriff.”

When Jake hung up, he felt shaken and forlorn. “A body’s been found. It may be one of the students.”