Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [110]
“Did you order it?”
Manheim shakes his head. “Actually, Victor was tasked with handling the matter. I would have been more subtle.”
I feel the anger returning now.
“Why a conspiracy at all? If the bones can do what you say they can, why not use them?”
“Gordon Reese,” is Manheim’s grim response. “And men like him. Reese has been after the bones for a very long time. He has finally succeeded in tracking them to me, which is why they’ve been moved. Should he ever succeed in acquiring them, we both know what would happen. What if they had wound up in the hands of someone like Caligula, or Genghis Khan, or any one of a thousand other powerful despots? The reason that no individual tyrant can take the world to a place from which it could never recover is because people die. It’s something of a safety mechanism, I suppose.”
“So why keep them around at all? If they’re that dangerous, why weren’t they destroyed centuries ago?”
Manheim releases a heavy sigh and it makes him look even older. He steps around the chair, his hand trailing along the back, the arm, and he sinks into it.
“One should tread carefully when considering what to do with something God has vested with great power. It’s been the dilemma of every incarnation of your brokers, ever since the original Hebrew priests took them from the men who removed them from the burial site. Do you know, Jack, that the priests killed those men? Not only that, they killed the man who had been raised from the dead. They were so fearful of what these bones meant that they murdered a person who was touched by the hand of God.”
“And they still kill for them.” It is not a question.
“When necessary.” Manheim pauses, then gives me a wink. “I trust that Gregory Hardy is no longer a problem?”
“That one was handled by them, and I suspect Reese will be next.”
I’m enthralled, like a schoolboy who has been shown something fantastic in a science lab. Every word of it might be a lie, but there’s something eminently believable about the tale. I find myself drawn to this man, to the knowledge he possesses. I want to know what he knows. It’s a need that has defined my life.
Esperanza has taken a seat in one of the chairs by the fireplace. Before joining her, I pour myself a drink from the bar. In the space of a few minutes, the confrontational nature of this audience has been replaced by a meeting of kindred minds.
“And what about Victor?” I ask.
“Victor will not see the bones pass into his possession.”
“Why?” Espy asks.
“For the same reason that Mr. Reese cannot have them. Neither of them would be suited to the task.”
I’m about to press the matter when a concussive sound all but deafens me. It seems to happen in slow motion, the red stain that appears on Manheim’s white shirt. It spreads in a flower pattern, a deadly orchid. Both Esperanza and I are out of our seats before the ringing stops.
And there, standing in the doorway, is Victor, his gun now aiming at me. “Please sit down, Dr. Hawthorne.” His voice is almost pleasant, as if shooting one’s father is something of no great consequence.
There’s a pain in my skull that I can only associate with hatred, and with having something hard-won snatched away. I watch the life bleed away from my link to the ancient secrets.
“Why?” I practically spit.
“Because he would give them away rather than entrust them to me. Now take a seat.”
It’s a good suggestion because my legs feel weak. Esperanza has already complied and sat down. I reach a hand back for the chair while slipping my other hand into my coat pocket, where I feel cold metal. Victor is less than five feet away, so when I fire the gun through the coat fabric, the bullet strikes true. He’s propelled backward, his free hand clutching his shoulder. But when he lands, he’s still holding the gun.
I’m across the room in a second, jumping on top of him, pressing my own piece behind his ear. It’s all I can do to keep from blowing his head off. This is the culmination of everything I’ve experienced since leaving Evanston; this man is