Aphrodite

34

There was no point in being subtle now.
They had analyzed every possible way of getting into Kransten’s English home. It was impossible to anticipate what would be waiting for them inside, but Justin didn’t expect overwhelming resistance. Somebody like Kransten would have a bodyguard, maybe two. There’d be no need for more than that here. Exterior security was reasonably lax. Understandably so. The castle’s isolation was security in and of itself. It had been built in an era when there were two classes of people—landowners and serfs—and its geographical location was for one reason only: protection. From its position atop the highest point in the area, it was possible to see anyone and anything that was coming within several miles. No surprises were possible. Not from warring armies or lower-class uprisings.
Certainly not from a midsize rental car with two desperate people inside it.
So Justin went the no-surprise route.
They drove up to the top of the hill. Justin didn’t know how close he could get; it turned out to be not too close. A high stone wall surrounded the grounds and the only break in that wall was a spiked metal gate that opened into the driveway leading to the house. Climbing over the wall did not seem practical or effective. So Justin pulled up in front of the gate, went to the intercom that was attached to the stone post, and pressed the buzzer. He rang twice and there was no answer, so he just kept his finger on it, pressing down. After thirty seconds or so, a man’s voice, with a brittle English accent, spoke through the intercom.
“Who is this and what do you want?”
“My wife and I thought this was a museum or something,” Justin said in the most crackerlike voice he could assume, “but we can’t get in.”
“It’s not a museum, it’s a private home. Now please stop ringing.”
The man clicked off. Justin immediately put his hand on the button again and kept it there.
“I told you to stop ringing. Go away,” the voice said after several seconds.
“I’d like to,” Justin said, “but now I got a problem. My car’s over-heated. Looks like it’s ready to blow up. Can we come in to use the phone and call some kind of garage?”
“No, you cannot.”
“That’s not very friendly of you. We’re stuck and this place is in the middle of goddamn nowhere.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“Well, if we can’t come in, could someone bring out a cell phone or something? All I want to do is get someone to fix my car.”
“No. Now, stop bothering us.”
He clicked off again and Justin immediately put his finger on the buzzer. He left it there for several minutes. Then he got the result he wanted. The front door of Kransten’s retreat opened and a man stepped out carrying a rifle. As he approached the gate, Justin could see that it was a shotgun.
“There’s no need for guns,” Justin said as the man approached. “I’m just trying to get some help, for God’s sake.”
The man walked up, stopped maybe two feet from the gate, lifted the shotgun, and pointed it straight at Justin’s chest.
“Get the f*ck out of here,” he said.
Justin did his best to look terrified, which was not, in fact, all that difficult. “I’m s-sorry,” he stammered. “My car’s overheated.”
“Then push the f*cking thing,” the man said.
Justin nodded nervously, scurried to the rental car, opened the door, and got behind the wheel. The man stood directly on the other side of the gate, the rifle now pointed at the front of the car. Justin shifted the gear into place, turned to look over his shoulder to check that nothing was behind him as he backed up.
“You’re not in reverse,” Deena said. “You’re in first.”
“Put your seat belt on,” he said as he turned the key in the ignition.
“This guy’s got a rifle pointed at my head and you’re worried about an accident?”
“Put it on,” he told her, never turning to face front, “and duck.”
Her eyes widened but she managed to click her seat belt on just as he jammed his foot down on the accelerator and the car sped forward. The bodyguard didn’t even get a shot off as Justin slammed the car through the gate. The bodyguard ricocheted off the right fender and he screamed in pain.
Justin screeched the car to a halt, leaped out, saw the bodyguard on the ground, the man’s face contorted in pain, on his hands and knees trying to drag himself over to the shotgun several feet away. Justin beat him to the rifle, picked it up. As the man looked up pleadingly, Justin jabbed the butt down hard into the side of his head and he lay still and silent.
Justin dragged the man’s body into the bushes, shoved him in so he wouldn’t be easily visible. He went back to the car, told Deena that she should get behind the wheel and drive out of the grounds. She started to argue but he said, “It’s dangerous now. Too dangerous. I want you to take the car, drive about half a mile away, and wait for me. If I don’t show up in two hours, go back to Luton. Go to Jordy’s plane, tell them to take you home.”
“I’m not going to leave without you, Jay.”
“If I don’t meet you in an hour you’re not going to have much of a choice ’cause I won’t be leaving.” She started to shake her head; he could see the stubborn resistance in her eyes and the set frown on her face, so he said, “You can’t help me now. You can only hold me back from doing what has to be done. You know that’s true. Please. It’s almost over, Deena. Let me end it. I brought you with me so I could keep you safe. Let me keep you safe.”
He watched the tip of her tongue snake out to lick her lips. Justin could see that she was torn. Part of her wanted to stay with him, felt she should stay. But she couldn’t hide the fear, the desire to escape. Or the fact that she didn’t want to see and have to take responsibility for what was about to happen. Her eyes met his and she nodded once, curtly. She lowered her gaze, got behind the wheel, and backed the car into the road. Justin waited until he couldn’t hear the car’s engine.
Then he reached into the front of his pants, pulled out his gun, and started toward the house.
It was eerily still.
He reached the thick and ancient front door, pressed down on the cast-iron latch, and the door swung open. Justin wiped the sweat off his right hand onto his jeans, made sure he had a tight grip on the pistol, and stepped into Douglas Kransten’s house.
The foyer had stone floors and exquisitely carved wood paneling. The detailing along the floor and ceiling was elaborate and formal. An enormous grandfather clock stood in the corner to the left. The ticking echoed throughout the room. A circular stairway, also stone and probably ten or twelve feet wide, dominated the space, leading upstairs. Against the curl of the stairway was a massive carved wooden couch. A huge, round candle chandelier hung down from the ceiling, which was a good thirty feet high. There were doors to the right and left leading to other rooms. The door to the left was shut. The door to the right was ajar. Justin took a cautious step inside. Then another. When he was in the middle of the room he stopped, hesitated, then took one more step in the direction of the closed door.
He heard the click—a double click really, but he was moving after the first one—and without thinking, without turning, without hesitating, he dove headlong behind the couch. His arms were scraped raw as he slid along the stone floor and his shoulder slammed into the base of the stairway. He heard the roar of the shotgun blast and above him saw the stairway railings explode and splinter. Justin heard the double pump again, rolled away from the couch onto his side, his gun ready to fire. Another blast from the shotgun and this time the wooden couch was blown apart. Justin fired twice at the figure in the open doorway, saw blood spurt from the man’s shoulder, and then watched as the man’s chest turned red and he dropped the shotgun and fell forward onto the foyer’s cold stone floor.
Slowly, Justin stood into a partial crouch, his gun raised and aimed.
Nothing.
There didn’t seem to be any movement at all from anywhere within the centuries-old house. He forced his breathing to slow down, waited until he was certain his legs would support his movement, and walked over to the man he’d just killed and picked up the shotgun. The open door led into a plain, nondescript office. Several desks were set up with computers, phones, and faxes. It seemed deserted, not just shut for the day. Justin had the strong sense that no one had worked here for some time. It was too neat. There were no papers on the desktops, and nothing was out of place, not even a pen or pencil. He walked to the door at the far end of the office, leading farther into this wing of the house. The door was also open and it led to a mammoth laboratory. The room was sterile; the desks and tables were steel and aluminum, the chairs were wood or plastic. There were more computers set up and one wall of bookshelves filled with medical and scientific reference books. One wall was nothing but vials and bottles and canisters. Built into a third wall was a deep restaurant-style refrigerator/freezer the size of a walk-in closet. He turned, went back to the foyer, and stepped to the closed door across the room that led to the opposite wing.
Justin turned the knob and, as expected, found it locked. He held the shotgun up to the lock, turned his head, and pulled the trigger. The force of the explosion blew the door wide open and, dropping the empty shotgun on the floor, Justin stepped through.
This was a formal dining room. One wall was dominated by a large fireplace and a carved dark wood mantel. No fire was burning, and its absence made the room feel cold and harsh. There was a heavy oak dining table with fourteen oak chairs around it. There were three place settings arranged at one end of the table. He checked the door he’d shot open, saw that there was no lock from this side of the room. It could only be locked from the outside.
At the end of the room was another door. Closed. He crossed to it, moving quickly now. He turned the knob and pulled, but the door was locked.
There was a rustling noise. He spun, handgun up, extended and ready.
He was pointing his gun at a middle-aged woman wearing an indistinct white uniform. She could have been a nanny or a nurse or a housekeeper or a waitress in a diner. Her skin was very pale with a touch of red in her cheeks, and her hair was white. She was trembling as she stared into the barrel of the gun.
“Where’s Kransten?” he said.
“Not here,” she managed to get out. She sounded vaguely Irish.
“Where is he?”
She shook her head tightly, as if too much movement would be dangerous.
“Who else is here?”
“No one.”
“Nobody else in this whole place?”
She shook her head again. The same tight movement.
“What were they guarding, those two guys, if there’s no one here?”
“Nothing. They weren’t doing nothing.”
“What’s behind here?”
Justin said, indicating the locked door.
“Just another room,” the woman said. “Open it.”
“I don’t have a key.”
Justin moved the gun several inches closer to her head. “Get the goddamn key,” he told her.
The woman, her expression revealing nothing, reached into the front pocket of her uniform shift, pulled out a key.
“Open it,” Justin said.
She stepped around him, put the key in the lock, and opened the door. He waved her forward and he followed her inside.
The room made his jaw drop open.
It was like stepping from the Middle Ages into the twenty-third century. The room was two or three times larger than the foyer and the ceiling was at least as high. It was all decorated in sleek chrome, thick glass, and light, modern wood. There was a balcony that ran around the entire room, extending out uniformly about ten or twelve feet, beginning perhaps twelve feet below the ceiling. All the furniture was angular and minimalist. The lighting was modern and bright white. A giant flat-screen television hung on one wall. Stereo speakers were mounted in each corner of the room. Built-in shelves were filled with thousands of CDs, videotapes, and DVDs. On a chrome-and-glass desk sat a computer with an LDC flat screen. As he surveyed the space, Justin realized that the walls of the balcony above him were lined with books, from its floor up to the ceiling.
He motioned the woman to open the door that led to the next room. She went to a key ring that hung on the wall by the television, selected a key, went to the door, and opened it. Again, Justin waved her through and then followed.
They were standing in the first room of an enormous bedroom suite, the decor decidedly feminine. The sweeping quilted curtains were woven in lush flower patterns that matched the quilt, bolsters, and pillows on the king-size four-poster bed. The carved wooden headboard was also quilted with the same fabric. This floor was carpeted, a thick, deep burgundy weave. Fresh flowers filled brightly colored vases scattered throughout. Books were stacked high on both end tables by the bed and on the desk positioned in the middle of the room. Another large-screen television was mounted on a wall. At first glance, it looked like a room for a queen. But the more Justin stood there, he began to think there was something prisonlike about it. Despite the flowers and the bright colors, the room felt lifeless and stifling.
“Whose room is this?” he asked. “Who lives here?”
The frightened woman didn’t answer.
“Who lives here?” he asked again, waving the gun in her direction.
This time there was an answer. But it came from the doorway that led to a bathroom off the second room of the suite.
“It’s my room,” the voice said. “I live here.”
The speaker stepped out into view. Justin realized she had been hiding in the bathroom.
He also realized that she was a little girl, perhaps eight years old.
“Who are you?” the girl asked.
“My name’s Jay,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” She was staring at him with a sense of wonder. He couldn’t help but feel as if he were an alien whose spaceship had just crashed on a strange planet.
“It’s okay,” the girl said now to someone Justin couldn’t see, and her voice was soothing and strangely adult, as if she was used to explaining things to people. “I think it’s safe to come out now.”
He heard another movement and then, from the bathroom, another woman timidly stepped out. She was also in a white uniform, also middle-aged with graying hair.
“Are you a new doctor?” the little girl asked Justin.
“No,” he said. “I’m not a doctor. Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?”
“Don’t talk to him,” the first woman in white snapped at the girl. “Don’t say nothing.”
Justin waved the gun in her direction. He didn’t have to explain to her what he meant. The woman stopped talking immediately.
“That’s a gun,” the little girl said and there was the sound of genuine astonishment in her voice. There was no fear. Just the opposite. Almost a feeling of joy at seeing something new and amazing. “Why do you have a gun?”
“Because people are trying to hurt me.” Slowly, he stuck the gun back into his belt. “I’ve put it away now. I’m not going to use it anymore, okay?” To the women in the uniforms he added, “Unless I have to.”
“Why are you here?” the girl asked. “To find someone.”
“Me?”
“No,” Justin said. He did his best to smile. “Not you.”
“I thought everyone was looking for me,” she said.
He started to say, No, don’t worry, no one’s looking for an eight-year-old girl, but before any words came out, his eyes narrowed and they gazed around the bedroom. The little girl’s room. He saw the books on the table nearest to him. Manifesto of Surrealism by André Breton. Proust— Swann’s Way. Next to her bed were copies of Madame Bovary and To the Lighthouse. And A History of Mathematics in America. The Structure of Evolutionary Theory and the Power of Myth. He turned back to the little girl, who now took her first step out of the doorway. She moved closer to him. Her movements were wary and tentative, as if directed toward an uncaged lion in the center of a circus ring. She was thin, he saw, with no hint of baby fat. Strongly muscled for someone so young. Her hair was dark and perfectly straight and hung down to her shoulders. Her skin was perfectly white and smooth, her eyes were strikingly blue and clear. She was wearing a light blue dress, a shift with thin straps over bare shoulders. The dress ended several inches above her knees. She wore no shoes or socks. It was all perfectly appropriate for her age, but Justin suddenly shivered. He stared into her eyes now, and in addition to her extraordinary beauty he saw something disquieting and disturbing. He saw a sadness there that belied her youth and a hunger that was frightening.
“You’re looking at me funny,” the girl said.
“I’m sorry,” Justin mumbled, but he didn’t stop staring.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind. You’re the handsomest man I’ve ever seen in person,” the girl said, and the hunger spread from her eyes all across her face.
“I’m not so handsome,” he said.
“Yes,” the girl whispered. “You’re very beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone like you.”
“Hush!” one of the uniformed women said.
“Oh my God,” Justin said quietly. Then he said it again and the words rang with a strong sense of wonder and horror and shock. And of pity and fear. Facing the small girl, looking at this exquisite little creature, the perfect eight-year-old girl, he suddenly understood. Maybe it was in the girl’s eyes. Or maybe he was looking into her sad soul.
Justin remembered the word that Helen Roag’s doctor friend had used: “ungodly.” And now he understood who he was looking at. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he was absolutely certain that it was.
“You’re here to find my father, aren’t you?” the girl asked him.
“Yes,” Justin said, his voice barely audible in the room. “And my mother?”
“Yes.”
“They’ll be here soon. They’re coming today.”
“You be quiet!” the first woman in white hissed at the girl.
“No,” the girl said. “I won’t be quiet.” She turned to Justin. “I’ve never spoken to anybody before, not real people, not strangers, and I’d like to talk to you.”
“I’d like to talk to you, too,” Justin breathed. And then he knew he had to say her name. Just to be sure. Just to know that he hadn’t gone mad. “I very much want to talk to you …Aphrodite.”
She smiled. “Everybody wants to talk to me. I know a lot of things.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Would you like me to tell you everything I know?”
“Yes. I would like that very much.” He knew he was speaking very quietly. He was almost afraid to look away or even breathe too loud, as if the slightest disturbance would cause this fragile thing to shatter as if she were made of glass.
“Will you do something for me?” she asked now. “If I ask you nicely and then I tell you everything I know?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Anything?”
“If I can,” he told her. “I’ll try to do whatever you want me to do.”
“Then I want you to find my mother and father,” she said. “I want you to wait here until they come back.”
“I will,” he said.
“And then,” Aphrodite said, “I want you to kill them.”