Sink In Your Claws

  Donnie’s eyes widened.

  Rows of metal shelves held bronzes, marbles, stone figures, Assyrian reliefs, and Egyptian funerary jars. Kait led them to the farthest bay and started in the Ancient Near East section. None of the objects connected to alchemy, but Thompson lingered at one bay after another.

  “Wonderful,” Donnie said. “They speak of ancient worlds.”

  “Exactly.” Thompson fingered a cufflink.

  “Kait, tell me about your job,” Donnie said. “You must appreciate the mysteries of time. Look at these things!”

  She didn’t respond.

  He persisted, stepping in front of her, reaching for her hand.

  She ducked around an Assyrian winged bull relief and over to another bay.

  “Kaitlyn, you’re preoccupied,” Donnie said. “How are you? Are you okay? I’ve missed you. I’d love to talk about my work. I want to hear about yours.” He sidled closer. She stepped away.

  “I’m fine, Donnie. I’m busy. It’s the end of the day.”

  He’s not leaving me alone.

  He moved near regardless where she stepped.

  Back up. I’m not interested.

  “Donnie,” Thompson said. “Concentrate on the collection. Consider what we’ll need.”

  That refocused him. He scanned shelves. “Kaitlyn, do you have something that contains natron? We need natron.” He moved with a bounce to his step.

  “What does natron have to do with alchemy? You’re referencing mummification. We don’t have mummies.” She shook her head. Ancient Egyptians used natron, a salt mixture similar to hydrated soda ash, in the mummification process. It promoted desiccation and preservation by removing liquids from the body.

  Why does he want it for the exhibit?

  “We have canopic jars.” Thompson's bloodshot eyes gleamed. He stepped to a high shelf.

  She watched. He knew where the jars were stored.

  Did Bryan blow you off? Is that why you want me to lead the team?

  “Kait,” Donnie said. “Can we see them?”

  She hesitated. “We have canopic jars. But they probably just contain residue.”

  Donnie touched her arm. “That’s all we need. Think of it. Eternal life! The Egyptians believed in immortality. Ancient Persian, Chinese and Arabian cultures had similar beliefs.”

  “We’ll need early gold objects,” Thompson said. “They represent perfection of matter, another goal of alchemy. ” He reached to an Assyrian sculpture on a low shelf.

  She intercepted him. “Dr. Thompson, put on cotton gloves.” Resigned to him touching the objects, she pulled white gloves from a box on the shelf and handed them to him.

  Thompson smiled. His hand brushed hers. “Yes, professional practices are important. Grime of ages past. Don’t want to leave fingerprints.”

  She cringed.

  Get me out of here.

  She hurried them through ancient Greek sculpture and into the next aisle.

  They wove through Renaissance art, Northern European paintings, and South American objects before passing through more locked doors and into the space with medieval art and architecture fragments.

  Her head pounded. She was tired of strange questions.

  Donnie ranted about chemicals and alchemy. He spewed information about all sorts of things, many unfamiliar to her. Thompson would nod and pat him on the back to encourage him.

  Shit. Crazy Eyes is sparking mad Donnie to yammer.

  “We need . . . corrosive sublimate, red oxide of mercury, nitrate of silver . . .” Donnie gained momentum as they walked through medieval art. “Magnesium for eternity, the infinite flame!” He turned to her. “Don’t you understand? They wanted to understand the mysteries of life and death.”

  Thompson clapped at Donnie’s rabid enthusiasm. “Exactly. We’ll need a copy of an ancient text about the Philosopher’s Stone, elixir of life, used to achieve immortality.”

  Donnie grabbed her arm. “Do you have early photographic plates?”

  She pulled away.

  “You know, the kind used in wet plate processes. They’d have residue of silver salts. We need those, too.”

  She stepped ahead.

  I’m in the inner basement, no windows, and no cell service. I want out. I need a drink.

  She rushed through the last space and looked at her watch. 7:15 PM. Crap, they’d been there for over two hours. She herded them back to her office, breathing a sigh of relief.

  We’re done. Go away.

  She leaned over to turn off her computer, assuming they’d head upstairs. Time to go home, have a glass of wine, collapse on the sofa with Michael and Loki and forget this weirdness.

  They didn’t leave. “I’d like to borrow materials now.” Donnie pounded a fist in his hand, an odd emphatic gesture for the squirrely chemist. “A gold object or two, the canopic jars, a glass plate negative.”

  Thompson stood silent.

  “Have to go through proper channels,” she said. “I can’t hand things over. I’ll give you paperwork. Read it, sign it and I’ll present it to the Collections Committee for approval. We don’t lend to individuals.”

  “Nonsense. I approve it. Pull the materials. We’ll wait.” Thompson crossed his arms and smiled at Donnie.

  “Not a good idea, Dr. Thompson. Sets bad precedent.”

  “Miss Jenret, do as I say.” He leered with strange intensity. Spread his legs and planted himself in her doorway.

  “Yes, sir.” She shook her head. “I’ll get them.”

  I surrender. I’ll document everything in writing, submit a report to the committee and request they discuss your behavior with the board. This is bullshit.

  “Meet me upstairs,” she said. “It’ll take fifteen minutes to prepare objects for transit. I’ll need signatures before they leave the building.”

  Thompson relaxed. “Thank you, my dear. We appreciate it.” He motioned to Donnie, who remained in place, eyes glued to Kait. Thompson yanked his arm. He turned, startled.

  “Time to go, Donnie.”

  “Now?”

  Thompson gave an impatient stare.

  Donnie looked at her. “See you soon.”

  They headed down the hall, conversing about eternity, and climbed the stairs to the lobby.

  She sank into her chair, grabbed a bottle of Advil and popped two pills without washing them down. Took off her shoes and rubbed her feet. Stared, picked up The Alchemist’s Handbook and threw it across the room.

  “Get me out of here.” She leaned her head back as far as it would go, hair dangling behind the seat—the whole incident was disconcerting. Finally she sighed and stood, went back into collections storage and gathered the objects, trying not to fling anything in anger. She returned to her office and filled out the forms.

  Her cell rang. Michael.

  “Hey K. Sanity check. Tour from hell over?”

  “Almost.” She hesitated. “It was strange. Felt unsafe in collections for the first time. They rambled about immortality and reanimation. Unnerving, doing time with pasty-faced mad scientists. I want to conjure you into my office right now.”

  “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll meet you at the museum.”

  “Are you driving? You’re not supposed to—”

  “Einar got called to a scene. I’m free of my minder . . .” His laugh was unconvincing.

  “What’d Martha say?”

  “Umm, the dog . . . has issues from fighting . . . the creature.”

  “Michael, what do you mean?”

  “It’s . . . nothing . . . to discuss over the phone.”

  “Michael—”

  I’m not far. I’ll pick you up, K.”

  “I appreciate it more than you know. I’ll watch for you . . .hurry, okay?” She hung up and packed the objects, grabbed paperwork and pen. Pulled on her coat, wrapped a light green scarf around her neck—a present from Michael in honor of Greenie—and headed upstairs, dreading every step.

  Thompson
stood at the admissions desk in an outrageous fur-rimmed coat and leather gloves. Who gave him fashion advice? Where was the crazy chemist?

  “Thank you for being accommodating, Kaitlyn. Donnie’s pulling his vehicle around. We won’t have to carry the artifacts far. We’ll meet him outside.”

  She handed him the box. “I have to set the alarm. Step outside so I can arm it without problem.”

  Thompson stood motionless.

  Christ. Whatever.

  She stepped behind the desk, opened the control panel and entered the code, hitting the number sequence with two fingers. The alarm beeped, signaling it was initializing. She walked out the door, Thompson behind her. They stood on the curb. Where was Michael?

  Hope you’re speeding. Get me out of here.

  Donnie pulled up in the Bronco.

  Thompson opened the door and set the box on the passenger seat, patting it like a child. He reached in the glove compartment, turned and smiled. “Kaitlyn, come with us. We’ll have a drink, share wine, and discuss ideas. You’ll be enlightened. Join us.”

  I’m not going anywhere with you. Please Michael, pull into the lot right now.

  “No thanks. I’ve got plans.”

  “Ah, with your police boyfriend.”

  “Yes, with Michael.”

  He shook his head. “Your adequate, mundane cop boyfriend.”

  “My fiancé.” Pompous ass. Thompson knew nothing about him.

  “You could do better.” He reached out a gloved hand. “Much better.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “My dear . . .”

  “Michael’s not mundane—Christ, you’re a snob.” She pivoted.

  Donnie was behind her. “Yeah,” he said. “Much better. Someone brilliant, like me.”

  Fuck.

  She bolted, elbowing Donnie and shoving Thompson. He stumbled backward. Donnie grabbed her. Adrenaline kicked in. She kneed him, but he pulled her arms behind her back and yanked her hands together. He slapped on a pair of plastic zip cuffs. Donnie kissed her on the mouth, wet and sloppy—she spit on him and he hit her, then grabbed her and hugged her around the waist. She screamed and lowered her head to use as a battering ram. Thompson approached again and she lunged, dragging Donnie as he held the cuffs. She tried to bite Thompson, but couldn’t get close enough. “Let me go!”

  “Don’t fight us, my dear.”

  Sudden pain, stinging.

  Damn.

  One of them plunged a needle into her neck.

  What the . . . I’m . . . screwed.

  She went hazy, unable to focus. The parking lot undulated, her arms and legs rubbery, sinking. Donnie hauled open the back of the Bronco. He grabbed her and hiked her forward while Thompson pulled on her legs. They threw her in. She landed on her side, hard, and rolled into the corner.

  She crawled to the back hatch, face mashed into the door as they slammed it shut. Stopped moving, body leaden. What was that? Something was in the rusting bed. She was lying next to a cage covered with fabric and secured with chains. Heard heavy breathing.

  What the hell?

  Donnie and Thompson jumped into the vehicle. Before she lost consciousness, she let part of her scarf drag down the back of the hatch.

  Michael sped around the corner, careening up the hill. A million thoughts raced—was he crazy or prudent to be concerned about Thompson? The building was dark. He pulled into the lot. A vehicle in the opposite direction tore down the hill at high speed, its make reflected in the streetlights.

  A Bronco. It’s a damn Bronco. Shit.

  Her scarf. Heart racing, he spun around, gunned the engine and followed.

  *

  Einar returned from what turned out to be an accidental death—a relief, since he doubted he could’ve focused on another unnatural murder. He sat hunched over files.

  Couldn't concentrate.

  Marta had given them more bad news. Experts had been unable to identify the footprint or the blood. FBI lab had received the same results with the DNA.

  And the dog.

  The dog had started to go crazy. Its claws were growing at an alarming rate—a sudden onset mutation. It was quarantined and sedated. While Marta reviewed the findings, Michael's eyes widened. “Oh shit, holy shit, I’m toast,” he repeated. “It fucking bit me, too.”

  Einar tried to calm him.

  “We'll monitor you.” Marta put a hand on his arm. “Don't panic.”

  What the hell is happening?

  He tallied the strikes against them. Case was stalled. A monster was loose, but not everyone admitted it. Four unsolved vicious murders and one thwarted attempt. Fucked up lab results. No coherent evidence. His partner, injured and confined to a desk, was recovering from an unidentified attack, obsessing about things that bite and freaking out over shit he’d scoffed at a month earlier.

  He jabbed the troll with a pencil. It swung from his lamp, red symbols screaming. It worried him.

  I shouldn’t have pushed him.

  He swore, wishing he could do more, hating paper-pushing bullshit. Restless, he checked his email. Found a note from Laina:

  Einar, Your rational partner might be brilliant. I remember Thompson, odd man, like a phantom in the Nordic realm. Researched his name. Unnerving. Worked at Nationalmuseum Sweden during Stockholm murders and National Gallery in Oslo during Norway murders. Disappeared from both positions soon after last child was killed. Buy Mr. Rational shots of Brennevin for me. Be careful. Laina

  His phone rang. He picked it up.

  It was Michael, yelling about Kait, the museum, and kidnapping. The phone vibrated with anger.

  Einar tried to understand him.

  “Mikey, breathe. What’s going on? Calm down. Where are you? Keep your phone on. We’ll track your coordinates. You were right. Heard from Laina. Be careful—Thompson might be connected. Let us handle it. You shouldn’t be driving. Don’t do anything until we get there. Wait for backup. Do not move without me. You damn well better listen. Do not go alone!”

  Of course Michael wouldn’t listen.

  Einar bolted from his desk to find his partner.

  CHAPTER 18

  2011 Early December

  Cold. Light.

  From where?

  What—

  She woke in slow motion. Head sagging, body aching.

  I was at work. No. But . . .

  Groggy. Shit. Drugged. Her brain pounded, mouth dry. She blinked, couldn’t see. Blindfolded. Coarse fabric scraped her eyelids.

  Think.

  Something covered her mouth. Hands tied behind her, restraints cutting her wrists. They’d taped her ankles together—tight. She couldn’t feel her feet.

  Cold metal wall, hard metal floor.

  Assholes.

  She regained consciousness and remembered the tour, Donnie and her boss. That stupid exhibit was a sham.

  Why didn’t I realize?

  She moved her hands and wiggled fingers to loosen restraints but only tightened the rope.

  Stop. Don’t panic.

  Footsteps. She froze. Were they heading in her direction? Animal noises followed—growls, scuffling, and clanging metal. They came closer.

  “Can I wake her? Want to make her understand,” Donnie said. “Kaitlyn will be happy to see me. She could help, make things easier.”

  She wanted to scream.

  You’re deluded. You drugged and restrained me.

  Strange noises. Donnie was dragging something heavy and uncooperative. He grunted. Clearly he wasn’t athletic. It hissed and snarled—an animal?

  “No,” Thompson said. “Kaitlyn will distract you. It’s not time for romance. She can’t comprehend our goal.”

  They were both there. What the fuck, she might end up dead anyway. “Try me,” she said, words garbled through the gag.

  “Ah, Kaitlyn.” Thompson bent and removed the blindfold, ran his hand along her chin. His fingers lingered at her jaw. She pulled away and
glared.

  He undid the gag.

  “Don’t touch me.” She spat the words.

  “I wish you’d accepted our offer of a drink. It would have been civilized. Sorry to deceive you, my dear.” He brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “In all honesty, I do believe an exhibit about alchemy would be fascinating.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Perhaps. But I suspect you now understand it was a ruse. A serendipitous event occurred. It necessitated accelerating our project timeline. An opportunity presented itself that we can’t ignore. I need your assistance.”

  Donnie leaned over. “Kait. Work with us! We have the key to immortality.”

  She stared, eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Eternal life!” Donnie had that demented gleam in his eyes again.

  “What are you doing?”

  Thompson stood, patted Donnie on the shoulder and walked away.

  Donnie stared.

  She grimaced. “Christ. Your strange questions. You don’t think it’s possible, do you? It’s superstition. Myth.” She looked around. Where was she?

  Smelled an ominous chemical tang.

  Damn.

  She craned her neck. She was sitting along plastic carpet covering, chemical bottles visible out of the corner of her eye. Donnie’s mad scientist compound. Unstable chemicals and unstable minds holding her hostage.

  Not good.

  Donnie crouched. “Kaitlyn, it’s not a myth!” He pressed pudgy hands into her temples. Fingertips brushed her eyelashes. “Dr. Thompson has researched the subject for years, harvested rare substances that make immortality possible. You and I can live forever.”

  “You’re mad.” She shook her head and arched her back from the wall. Bent her wrists, trying to undo the ties.

  They’d kidnapped her. Her boss? God, a career low point.

  Donnie grabbed her. “Kaitlyn, don’t struggle. You’ll injure yourself. Join us. Don’t you want the chance of a lifetime? We could begin a new race. Superior intelligence. Never dying.”

  “Sounds horrible.” She shrank back.

  Donnie bent forward, sweating. He undid the top of her blouse and angled next to her, ran his nose along her cheek. “You smell wonderful.” His greasy hair brushed her face.

  “You don’t. Get away.”

  “Why settle for a cop? Take me. Bear my brilliant children.”

  “I'd rather die.”

  He cupped the back of her neck. “Would you really?” With his other hand, he reached under her bra, fumbling, squeezing. It hurt.

  “Stop.”

  He groped her breast, hand sweaty and clumsy.