The Athena Factor

  Lymon turned to June. “Call Al’s. Have him make up a to-go order of burgers.” He looked at Salvatore.

  “I’m on it, boss.” The muscular man rose to his feet, nodded to Sid, and stepped out.

  June picked Lymon’s phone off the cradle and tapped numbers by memory.

  “What happened?” Sid asked as June spoke carefully into the phone.

  “Here’re the photos. Take a look for yourself.” Lymon led him to a work table in the office’s back corner.

  As Lymon narrated the events, Sid fingered the photos. Each had that slightly off color of an infrared shot. The image quality was remarkably good. The guy taking the photos had started with a party walking down the sidewalk. Sid could see a figure being carried. From the postures, Christal was completely limp. Alive, or dead? He couldn’t tell.

  The series of photos led to an open van door, then pulled back, showing a motorcycle pulling up.

  “You and Ms. Marks?” Sid asked.

  Lymon nodded. “Sheela was going to spend the weekend with Christal.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Sid read the look in Lymon’s eyes, let it go, and flipped through the rest of the photos. The most telling was of a tall man shoving Lymon and Sheela over, while in the background, a familiar face was caught full-on. Hank Abrams had been in the process of dragging Christal’s limp body into the van, but had looked up in time to see the man push Lymon’s bike over. Hank’s expression reflected worry and distress.

  “What do you think?”

  Sid thumbed through the rest as the van motored off. “Is that a license number?”

  “Yeah, a Ryder rental. The local FBI is working on it.”

  Sid tapped the stack of photos against his palm. “How’d you get all this?”

  Lymon chuckled, tension in his voice. “Sheela did it. She managed to enlist the service of the paparazzo who shot this. Look, it was just fortuitous. The guy caught on that Sheela was doing something, tailed us, and took these photos.”

  “What?”

  Lymon’s shadowed eyes held no humor. “It’s how people live out here, Sid. Sheela wanted time to relax. She talked Christal into letting her spend the weekend in her hotel room. We just happened to ride in at the right moment to see it all happening.”

  “You’re sure it’s Christal these guys were after? Maybe they got wind of it, thought they were getting Sheela?”

  Lymon bent and picked up a gaudy green flyer. Sid took it and unfolded the paper. The big letters jumped out at him. “Genesis Athena.” Looking up, he asked, “You think that’s what this is all about?”

  Lymon crossed his arms, glanced at June, and shrugged. “It’s the best we’ve got.”

  “Why?”

  “Answer that, my friend, and we’ll know what Christal was on the verge of discovering.”

  “What about Hank?” Sid asked.

  “I called his boss this morning. Verele says he knows nothing about any kidnapping. According to him, Hank is no longer in his employ. He says he took a position with a client.”

  “Sheik Amud Abdulla?” Sid said, remembering. “You believe that?”

  “Look, I know Verele. Verele Security isn’t into breaking the law. My take is that Genesis Athena offered Abrams a better deal. I think the good Sheik just lifted Christal. Did she tell you about the first time he saw her?”

  “About that night in New York? A little. I did some research for her.”

  “We know.” He tapped a file folder that lay closed on the desk. “Genesis Athena. What is it, Sid? What’s the Sheik doing? Why’d he grab Christal? What did she discover that scared them so?”

  Sid could feel June’s probing gaze as she studied him. He shrugged, glancing at the woman. Lymon had a thing about surrounding himself with attractive women. “You got me, cowboy. I just ran some stuff through the computer.” He heard the rear door open and close down the hall. Salvatore had been really fast. “She faxed me some papers, a questionnaire. I had the psych guys down at Quantico look at it. They thought it was a test of some sort. A sort of psychological evaluation.”

  “To evaluate what?” a fine contralto asked from behind him.

  Sid wheeled, and stared into the most bewitching blue eyes he’d ever seen. They pinned him like a study moth, and it took his floundering mind a moment to realize that he knew that perfect face. Had seen it staring down at him with rapt wonder from the screen.

  “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled.

  “Not even close.” The goddess was offering her hand. “I’m Sheela Marks. And you are?”

  “Sid Harness,” Lymon called from behind when Sid’s words failed him. “He’s a very dear and very old friend.”

  Sid swallowed hard, managed to shake Sheela Marks’ hand, and watched as Lymon pushed past, a frown on his face.

  “What’s happened?” Sheela asked.

  “What are you doing here?” He looked past her to the tall handsome man who waited in the hallway. “Hello, Paul.”

  “Mr. Bridges,” the man replied respectfully.

  And then Sheela Marks put her hands on Lymon’s shoulders, looking into his eyes. “Lymon, I have to know what’s happened. Have the police called? The FBI? They won’t talk to me, but I know that you have connections.”

  “Nothing, Sheela. Not a word. No one has called here or even to her mother in New Mexico, for that matter.” He seemed to harden. “She might have just dropped off the face of the earth.”

  Sid could feel the electricity flowing between them, could read the body language. For a long moment they looked into each other’s eyes, and then Sheela Marks said, “I have to find her, Lymon. No matter what it takes.”

  Gray dreams began to shred, giving way to a terrible sweetly metallic taste that clung to Christal’s dry tongue. She shifted, vaguely aware that her body had the gritty feel of numbed cotton. A faint ache lurked behind her eyes. For the moment, it was fine to lie in the safe grayness, hanging halfway between wakefulness and the fragments of fleeing dreams. Some voice deep within urged her to surrender to the dream again. Fall back into the mist of unconsciousness. It would be so much easier that way.

  Easier? Than what? A slippery premonition goaded her to blink. A white haze glared when she flicked her gritty eyelids. The fluffy muzziness in her brain refused to give way to thought.

  She pulled her hand up, hearing it rasp across linen. Rubbing her eyes, she blinked again. Shit, was she hungover? Her tongue moved dryly, and swallowing was almost impossible. The first saliva tasted foul—really foul.

  She made a face.

  Pushing with rubbery muscles, Christal sat up, aware that she wore only panties and a brassiere. Her glazed vision had trouble coming into focus, so she massaged her rheumy eyes with her palms until she could make out the small white room. Her new cosmos consisted of a solid metal door, a table with a plastic drinking glass and water pitcher, a round window, and her bunk. A smaller wooden door led where? To a closet?

  “What the … ?” She struggled with her brain. Thought seemed to be such a flexible problem. Where the hell am I?

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to pin her mind in place. Home was the Residence Inn in west LA. She had been doing what? Getting ready for Sheela to come and stay the weekend with her.

  She had been where? Headed home after doing some last-minute shopping. She could remember walking the supermarket aisles, selecting things to cook, things she thought Sheela might like to try.

  Then, a faint memory stirred. First it was the emotional recollection of fear, and then the hazy images of Hank Abrams, his hands up, a pleading expression on his face as he glanced at something behind her shoulder. A hand had clapped over her mouth, dragging her back. The sting in her neck …

  “God, where am I?” She swung her feet over the edge of the bunk and stared down. Her shoes were resting side by side on the gray-carpeted floor. Her clothes were neatly folded on a small nightstand at the head of the bed.

 
She swayed as she stood, bracing one hand against the cold wall, and felt unforgiving steel beneath. A hard rap with her knuckles confirmed the fact. Her slim brown fingers contrasted against the white paint.

  Steadying herself, she turned to the round window and stared out in disbelief. The sun was either rising or setting, capping the waves with yellow, hollow troughs dark and rippling as the muscular swells rose and fell.

  Shit! She was in the middle of the Pacific! On what? A ship? She pressed her nose to the glass, bending her face this way and that as she tried to see to either side. Endless water rolled off to the golden horizon.

  She made a face as she poked and prodded her stomach and abdomen. Why the hell were her insides so tender? Talking inventory, she could see a bruise on the back of her hand. From what? An IV? Her arms and shoulders were sore. What the hell had they done? Dragged her like a corpse?

  The effort of pulling on her pants almost tumbled her face-first onto the floor. Finding the sleeves in her blue blouse almost defeated her. Her coordination wasn’t what it should be. She took a deep breath, stretching, feeling the dull ache in her muscles. Then she grabbed the handle on the metal door and twisted. Locked.

  She glanced around, cocking her head. What the hell had Hank done to her? She tried the smaller door, opening it to find a compact toilet and sink.

  She turned back and hammered on the big steel door with the flat of her hand, yelling, “Hey! Open this up!” The heavy portal seemed to suck up the worst of her violence.

  She stopped, listening, as panic rose in her breast She could only hear a faint humming, the noise that of distant engines.

  “Hank! You asshole!” She hauled off and kicked the door, feeling a spear of pain in her foot.

  How long did she stand there? Her room had grown dark. So the sun had been setting? Then she’d lost an entire day? Or had it been more? A terrible fear, like nothing she had ever known, slipped needles along her spine.

  She had noticed the switch on the wall, pressed it, and was relieved when the recessed safety light in the ceiling came on. She tried the pitcher. It contained water. Gratefully she drank, aware of her dehydration. Then, opening the toilet door, she stepped in and relieved herself. Urinating proved uncomfortable enough that she checked for blood, and was relieved to find none. The bathroom wasn’t much bigger than a phone booth. Outside of the sink a toilet paper dispenser was the only furnishing.

  She stood, pulled up her pants, tried the sink, and was rewarded with hot and cold water.

  “So, I won’t die of thirst,” she muttered before walking back to stare out the porthole at the darkness. She turned off the light to see better. Out there, on the ocean, she could see no lights, nothing but an endless darkness.

  Swallowing hard, she whispered, “Dear God, I’m scared.”

  34

  Given his name, Sean O’Grady should have had red hair, freckles, and mischievous green eyes. Instead the Bahamian native looked anything but Irish, with his smooth black skin, angular jaw, bony face, and African features. He had agreed to meet with Lymon and Sheela through Sid’s intercession. The “tame FBI guy” was already proving his worth.

  O’Grady and Harness sat across the booth from Lymon and Sheela. O’Grady had picked a Studio City Burger King for the meeting. The wreckage of the agent’s dinner consisted of a Double Whopper wrapper, empty box of fries, and a soft drink cup, half-full, on the plastic tray.

  Sid sipped at a cup of coffee and kept a notebook in his hand. Lymon and Sheela shared an order of fries, having eaten earlier. Sheela had dressed in stealth mode, wearing a loose Lakers T-shirt, faded jeans, sunglasses, and a scarf over her head. She looked more like a housewife than an internationally known film star.

  “We got this,” O’Grady said, reaching into the pocket of his coat to pull out a little blue spiral-bound notebook. “Recognize it?”

  “Yeah … well, maybe,” Lymon granted. “Christal used one that looked something like that.”

  O’Grady passed it across. “Flip through to the last page.”

  Lymon thumbed through the pages, seeing Anaya’s neat script. He noted that true to her Bureau training, each notation recorded the place and time of her writings. The last page—dated as 22:15 hours on the date of her abduction—consisted of a series of quickly jotted notes under the heading “Genesis Athena.”

  He read:

  Genesis Athena. Athena sprang full-blown from the head of Zeus. Sheik didn’t pick that from random. DNA is the key. He’s the twenty-first-century version of the traditional Southwestern witch. But he is stealing more than just a person’s soul—he wants it all. DNA from the rich and famous? What the old-time witches would have given for this technology!

  ?: If DNA is so easy to get, why make such a production of stealing it?

  ?: How much would an obsessed fan pay for a celebrity baby?

  ?: How do I break this to Sheela?

  Lymon frowned, glanced at Sheela, and tried to decipher her pensive expression.

  “That mean anything to you?” O’Grady asked. Sid had stood, stepping around the table to peer over Lymon’s shoulder.

  Under his breath, Lymon whispered, “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?” Sid asked, bending closer to stare at the page on the notebook.

  “Where’d you find this?” Lymon tapped the notebook as he looked up.

  “The floor. When the ERT went through Anaya’s room at Residence Inn, it was under the couch along with a tube of lipstick. The only prints we’ve lifted off it are Anaya’s. We went through her place from top to bottom. In the process we got a blood sample on a paper towel, a couple of smudged prints, several hairs, and some evidence from the registration desk that we’re running down. Rubber from the scratch they laid in the parking lot matches the compound in the rental van’s tires.” He smiled. “Someone hosed the inside of that van down with bleach and a high-pressure system before they returned it The credit card it was rented under led us to a PO box in Long Beach. Somebody named Lily Ann Gish had rented it.”

  “Lillian Gish,” Sheela said softly.

  “You know her?” Sid asked, slipping back into the booth beside O’Grady.

  Sheela gave him a faint smile. “It’s an alias. They’re playing with us. Lillian Gish was one of Hollywood’s first superstar actresses back in the black-and-white silent film days.”

  “Same name Copperhead gave Manny, wasn’t it?” Lymon asked, trying to remember everything Christal had told him. He glanced at O’Grady. “You might check the police report See if that matches.”

  O’Grady nodded, writing in his notebook. “That business in the notebook press any of your buttons? About the DNA, I mean?”

  Sheela took a deep breath. “I can tell you how much an obsessed fan would pay for a celebrity baby.”

  “How much?” Sid asked.

  “As much as they could leverage,” she answered flatly. “People would mortgage their houses, sell their cars, take out all the loans they could.” She turned her sunglasses on Sid. “Some would sell their souls, not to mention their bodies, and the very blood in their veins.”

  Sid frowned. “And the business about DNA?”

  “Christal thinks the celeb hits were about stealing DNA,” Lymon supplied. “But if you’ll recall, we’ve had that conversation … and discarded it.”

  “Stealing … DNA?” Sid asked absently, his face tightening in that old expression Lymon knew so well. Damn it, he was onto something.

  “The problem is,” Lymon continued, “like Christal says in her notes, why go to the trouble and risks? You can steal someone’s DNA without sticking your neck out. You want Sheela’s DNA? Swipe the napkin off her table at Morton’s when she’s done with lunch.”

  “Do you think that’s really it?” Sheela asked softly, her head lowered.

  Lymon glanced around the table and shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “It’s wild, but possible,” Sid muttered, reading Sheela’s deflated posture. “You’d be surp
rised what people can do with DNA these days.”

  “Like what?” O’Grady asked.

  Sid made an open gesture with his hands. “I’ve been working a series of kidnappings. Geneticists. In the process I’ve had to learn something about the science. Some of the things they can do? You wouldn’t believe it. Remember Dolly, the sheep? That was just the tip of the iceberg.”

  Sid had their attention, so he leaned back, one arm on the seat back. “Look, you’ve heard the bits and pieces on the news, right? Ted Williams being frozen? Those extinct marsupial wolves in Australia? The frozen mammoth in Japan? The news is always telling us about something. Remember the calf they cloned from a piece of steak? The jellyfish genes in the monkey?”

  “Man, those are just animals!” O’Grady muttered derisively.

  Sid gave him a flat look. “You think there’s a difference between cloning a sheep and a human?”

  “Well, it ain’t the same thing! I mean, man, people are a whole lot more complicated than any sheep!”

  Sid slowly shook his head. “That’s your emotional reaction, Sean, not reality.”

  “Well, bro, you fill me in, then.” O’Grady had set his bulldog chin.

  “When you’re dealing with DNA, a sheep is every bit as complicated as a human being. Sometimes, even more so. One of the guys we’ve been looking for cloned extinct marsupials in Australia. Used DNA extracted from museum specimens. Now, that, let me tell you, was complicated shit compared to taking a sample from living tissue, isolating the DNA, and inserting it into another woman’s egg.”

  Sheela seemed to be wilting as Sid talked. Lymon placed a hand on her shoulder. “What is it?”

  In a small voice, Sheela said, “It’s all starting to make sense, Lymon. All of it. Christal just handed it to us.”

  “How’s that?” O’Grady asked. “You know why she was abducted?”

  Sheela barely nodded as she stared down at her lap, head bowed as if in prayer. “Marketing.”

  “Huh?” Sid asked. “How does stealing Christal equate with marketing? Marketing what? Felonious behavior?”