The Empire Chronicles

MARK BARNETTE

1

THE CAR FLEW OUT OF THE NIGHT, taking aim at the stranger crossing the street; it didn’t brake. In one horrible, grotesque instant, they met, the body bouncing up and rolling over the car’s hood. The awful thud of impact was followed by a second, softer one, as the body landed on the roadway. The body’s soft moans were interrupted only by the decreasing sound of squealing tires.

Dallas could do nothing but watch from the curb; his body frozen in the shadows, his mind screaming. All he could see was the crumpled form lying by the curb and the red of the car’s taillights growing dim in the distance.

He roused himself to action and ran to the body, which lay on its side facing the curb.

"Listen ... to ... me ... "the body whispered up to him, between gasps of pain.

"Beware ... they ... are ... watching ... the ... Order ... must ... find....”

"Beware who? Who’s watching? What’s the Order?"

"No ... my ... brief ... case? Where ... brief ...?”

"Here, here it is," Dallas said, dragging it toward the stranger.

"Take ... take ... it. Look ... inside. They ... are ... watching. Find ... le gren ... find ... the ... fisherman. You ... must ... find... them ... the ... Order ... beware ... " Then there came the sound of rushing air, like the opening of the valve on a tire, and then silence, as the body lay still.

With the briefcase still in his left hand, Dallas knelt over the body as a police car screeched to a stop mere feet away from him. Reflexively, he shielded his eyes against the car’s bright lights with his right hand. In the newfound illumination, he glanced down at the lifeless body. Its dead eyes stared up at him, as intent in death as his last wish had been in life.

"Step back, please," one of the officers called out as he climbed out of the cruiser. "Step back, an ambulance is on the way."

Dallas responded immediately, instinctively clutching the briefcase as he retreated.

"Tell ‘em to take their time," the other one said, leaning over the corpse. "This one’s not in a rush; not anymore."

"Sir," the first officer said, matter-of-factly, as he turned to face Dallas, "is ... was this man a friend of yours?"

"No, I don’t know him. I was just walking down this way," Dallas pointed down the road, "and this gentleman here was crossing the street ... and suddenly the car just came out of nowhere. He turned, just stood there like a deer in headlights, and the car drove right through him."

"Through him?" The officer repeated.

"Yeah. It didn’t swerve or slow down. It just hit him and drove on."

"I see. Did he do anything before he died? Did he say anything ... did he give you anything?"

His shock subsiding, the scientist in Dallas began to assert itself. His mind filled with suspicion at such an odd question. His eyes darted between the two officers. One was shorter, white and with a waistline that hinted at too many donuts. The second, more senior officer was a large, wiry, black man. Dallas then shifted his gaze up and down the street and saw no one, no one at all. It was then he became aware that he was holding the briefcase as if it were his own.

"How did you get here so fast? Who called you?" Dallas asked finally.

"We got a call," the white officer said as his partner moved away. "Just let us ask the questions. Did he say anything?"

"No." Dallas paused, perhaps a moment too long. "He was dead when I got to him."

"I see." The officer's tone was full of skepticism. "May I see some ID?"

"ID? Sure," Dallas said, reaching for his wallet, "here."

"Dr. Dallas Roark?" The police officer showed the license to his partner; Dallas could have sworn the second officer cocked one eyebrow in recognition. He decided it was best to be friendly and engaging.

"Yes, that’s right. I’m an archaeology professor at—"

"Still live at this address?" The officer asked, brushing aside the small talk.

"Yes."

The officer eventually finished the interview, after having tried several times unsuccessfully to trick the witness into contradicting himself. As Dallas stepped back slightly, the second officer walked over after inspecting the body and began whispering to the interrogator.

"It’s not on him," the second one mumbled.

"What do you mean? It must be here. It must be around here somewhere."

The distracted officers began shining their flashlights around the area, as if searching for something; but what? Dallas suspected that what they were searching for must be in the briefcase.

"Am I free to go?" Dallas asked nervously. Receiving no reply, he slowly moved away with his hand tensed around the case’s smooth leather handle.

He spun around and quickened his pace, trying not to act strangely as he crept off. He had withheld evidence, taken the briefcase; and yet, something about those two didn’t feel right. There had been no one else around; who could have called? And how could they have arrived so quickly? Also, with all their questions, they never even asked if him to describe the car or if he had seen its license plate. What were they really looking for, and why?

Like any scientist, Dallas was an unusually curious and observant man, yet introspective by nature. His allies were the librarian, the bookkeeper, and the night watchman. He was typical of those in his profession, and until now, happy in the role of observer. This time, involvement had been thrust upon him.

Why had he not surrendered the case? He couldn’t say; no more than he could answer his own questions about those "policemen." One thing was certain; those men now knew where he lived. If they didn’t find what they were looking for, then they’d come for him. Sooner or later, they’d come.

All these thoughts only made Dallas quicken his pace. Arriving at his apartment building he sprinted across the lobby to the waiting elevator. Eleven floors up, he dashed out the still opening elevator door. He literally flung his six- foot-five-inch frame at the doorway, fumbling with his keys, and trying desperately to open his door. His agitated state only delayed him, and he scraped his knuckles on the latch. Once inside, he locked every bolt, tossed the keys on to a nearby table, and collapsed onto the couch, with the briefcase slapping heavily into his lap.

He stared at the case with growing curiosity. Dallas rubbed his hands briefly across the fine ostrich leather. It felt firm, yet supple, and obviously expensive. Slowly, his thumbs slid the latches. It was well-made; constructed of solid heavy brass fittings that yielded silently to his touch

At last he opened it; but simple answers were not forthcoming. Inside was an unsigned, typewritten manuscript, a supermarket tabloid, a small daily diary, and a smooth, green, crystalline object about twice the size of a man’s hand. That object caught Dallas’s eye and his immediate attention.

It seemed at once translucent and solid; like tiger’s eye, but without the bands of varying color, yet it shimmered through many levels. The object was tapered and faceted. Its triangular shape was without fault or fl aw, totally unblemished, and smooth on one side. On the wide base of its isosceles shape, only a pair of small notches interrupted the otherwise straight lines.

The reverse contained many small rows of carefully etched symbols. Grabbing a magnifying glass, he studied the markings, which bore an uncanny similarity to hieratic script. There were also alternating rows of a cuneiform-style, script so small that their very presence amply demonstrated the abilities of its engraver. Its polished surface reminded him of a river stone, as if it had been worked by water since before man’s ancestors had come down from the trees. Laying it aside, he continued to the other items.

He flipped through the diary and discovered the stranger’s name: Dr. Montgomery Todd; then he wandered through the "F" section of the addresses, hoping he might find some clue about the fisherman; no luck.

The newspaper article was on the most recent in the long series of missing Martian space probes. The string had now run to six straight lost ships, and NASA was officially at a loss to explain the problem. The article hinted at several "unofficial" reasons, none of which made any more sense of the problem.

The manuscript appeared to be a report or academic paper on some obscure aspect of Mayan civilization. Dallas glanced at it briefly and found it vaguely interesting. The plentiful handmade corrections suggested that the stranger knew the author, or might be the author; Dallas wasn’t sure which. He set it aside for later study.

The diary was, save one obscure entry, completely empty. That entry, an appointment for tomorrow, was noted in a code or shorthand that Dallas could not readily decipher. The day and time were plain enough, the diary’s calendar format had seen to that, but the meeting’s location and subject were nonsensical; a single cryptic notation, "CFatAker." What, he wondered, could it mean - "CFatAker"? All the letters ran together; was it an anagram? Did the capital letters stand for something? Or was it just sloppy writing?

His mind looked for natural combinations ... C Fat Aker; was that "see someone named Fat Aker"? ... CF at Aker; maybe someone’s initials: CF. "Okay, meet CF, whoever CF might be, at ... Aker," He muttered, "What the hell’s an Aker?" T is seemed as meaningless as Fat Aker.

Dallas went back to the initials, CF. "T e Fisherman," the dying man had said. "Find the fisherman." Was F for fisherman? Could CF mean "see fisherman"; "see fisherman at Aker?" His circular logic brought him back to Aker and his original question. Still, he could make no sense of the rest of the note; he must be on the right track, he thought to himself.

He moved to his computer and logged onto the Internet. If there was a word "Aker," he’d know in a moment. He stared at the search’s response and realized it would take more than a moment. Let’s see, he thought, there’s an observatory in Arizona named after someone named Governor Aker. That might tie in with the article on Mars; or not. The first search engine offered some thirty sites. Some, like those directing one to Pooh’s "100 Aker Wood", could be instantly eliminated.

Dallas tried to recall old man’s dying words, was it, "Beware, find the Order?" Or was it, "Beware the Order?" He typed in the Order, and the results were less than exciting. The first hundred entries had something to do with Harry Potter; then on to various religious orders, book orders; in fact, just about any web site having something to do with the word, "order."

He entered "Aker" again, this time on a second search engine, and immediately hit an even bigger road block. T is one offered over twenty-eight hundred different choices. Dallas let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair, absentmindedly, while his hand continued to work the mouse. T e first choices seemed to be duplicates of the other search engine, so he clicked quickly past the first few pages. Suddenly an entry caught his eye.

Curiosity got the better of him and he rolled the cursor over the entry, "Egyptian God." When the screen popped up the subject, he sat upright. "Aker," Dallas finally remembered, was the Egyptian lion god, guardian of sunrise and sunset. Was that a link to the manuscript? Could the dead man have been talking in code? Was a lion somehow involved in the mystery? He bookmarked the page and moved on to other possibilities.

Several hours and pots of coffee later, Dallas had viewed almost a thousand entries, mostly personal web sites or Rotary club chapters or some other damned thing. He decided to return to his two most interesting possibilities: the observatory and the Egyptian god. Dallas considered the two options.

The observatory made more sense, logically, especially given the article. He could even stretch the argument to suggest that "fisherman" was code for Pisces, a constellation, as well as an astrological sign. That would mean he was going to Arizona to see the constellation Pisces from the observatory. It didn’t seem like something worth dying for, though, and that "accident" was no accident. Besides, according to Dallas’s research, the constellation would not be visible in Arizona until nine p.m. each night during the month of November. Seeing as it was only April, with the meeting seemingly just hours away and obviously during the day, the logic of stargazing fell short. Besides, Dallas thought to himself, trying to bring conclusion to the internal debate, the notation makes no mention of flight numbers or times, and there’s no airline ticket in the briefcase.

He thought back to the other possibility; Aker the lion god. As he read the notes, he corrected himself; Aker was a double-lion god; a pair of lions sitting back-to-back ... A pair of lions! The museum had a pair of lions sitting in front of it. Could it be that simple? Was the dead man meeting the fisherman at the museum?

Well, Dallas thought to himself as he moved to look at his watch, tomorrow was Saturday and I’ll find... no, today is Saturday; where had the night gone? It was now early morning; the sun would be coming up sooner than he wanted. Still, Dallas had to admit this was the most exciting thing to happen to him in years. The last exciting thing, he reminded himself, had sent him into professional exile.

He sipped slowly on his coffee and gave an accounting of himself, to himself. It was a bad habit of his, especially late at night when he was tired and introspective. But he couldn’t help it; this was a habit years in the making. He had an almost obsessive desire to examine himself, his life, and measure it against he own expectations. Not surprisingly he always came up short; a fact of which he was always quick to remind himself.

He was now, he thought, forty-five years old, and what had he accomplished? Nothing. He sensed his life had become small, his vision now myopic. It had once been otherwise. He found himself surrounded by fossilized trophies of decades’ worth of work; careful, meticulous effort aimed at discovering some greater truth; a truth that had eluded him in his own soul. Like most people, when middle age forces them to begin facing their own mortality, Dallas darkly pondered his own accomplishments; measuring himself against the yardstick of eternity, and coming up short.

Dallas ran his left hand through his ample salt-and-pepper hair, and then slid the hand down his forehead, over his eyelids and hawkish nose. This ritualistic movement was Dallas’s way of reminding himself he was tired and needn’t have this mental conversation again. His mind was too weary to debate.

Dallas’s body chose this moment to remind him just how tired he truly was. He rested his cup on the table and, using his palms as platforms, raised himself slowly to his tingling feet. He discarded his clothing as he stumbled to the bedroom and collapsed diagonally on top of his bedspread.

His sleep was troubled and restless. He dreamt repeatedly about the moment the car hit the old man, like a slow-motion, instant replay from a football game. In his dream, he seemed to take in more and more of the details of what had happened around him during those fateful moments. Each time it played, more of the puzzle’s pieces fell into place, with some new detail remembered; or was it imagined? In his mind, it all seemed so real, so much a part of the experience.

By the time he awoke, Dallas had an even more vivid recollection of the event than when it happened, but he couldn’t be sure how much of what he now remembered was fact, and how much was merely imagination There was something about the mystery car that keep pulling at him; a recollection which seemed somehow just out of reach. It haunted him.

Sitting in his kitchen, he played the scene over and over in his mind, with all the details he now seemed to remember. He saw the old man, he heard the squealing of tires and that terrible thump, and he saw the headlights of that car as it took its deadly aim. There was something still missing; what, he couldn’t say, not yet.

At the appointed time, he set off to test his hypothesis. The walk to the museum was pleasant enough, only carrying the briefcase detracted from the stroll. It was an awkward, but necessary effort. Dallas reasoned that whoever he might be meeting just might recognize the case and want its contents. Initially, it was a desire he was anxious to satisfy, until it occurred to him that whoever killed the old man might also recognize it.

With a sudden inspiration he detoured slightly, and entering his bank, went straight for his safety deposit box. He worked quickly, removing all of the case’s contents and locking them away. Now if anyone approached, he felt he would have some measure of protection. They couldn’t get what they wanted without keeping him alive. If, he reminded himself nervously, they stopped to ask him first.

Leaving the bank with the now-empty case, he glanced up and down the tree-lined streets. The sky was a deep blue, dotted with cotton-ball clouds. It was a beautiful, spring day with only a slight breeze to remind him that winter had not completely surrendered its grip. His left arm swung habitually under the unfamiliar weight of the black case.

Reaching the museum, Dallas sat on a nearby bench, anchored in the shadow of one of the building’s pair of massive lions, opened the case, and stared at its empty insides. He slowly examined its interior – every seam, every snap, wondering if he’d missed anything. So engrossed had Dallas become that he failed to notice a young woman sit down on the bench facing opposite him.

She was properly and discreetly – even conservatively – dressed, with short, neatly cropped blonde hair. Her large, dark sunglasses covered the upper half of her face, giving her the ability to view the object of her attention with total anonymity; and at this moment, her attention was focused on Dallas.

Fifteen minutes past the appointed meeting time, he was having doubts about his library lion theory. He took note of only one man who had been waiting as long as himself: a large, wiry, black man with closely cropped silver hair loitering in line of trees just past the other side of the museum’s massive steps. Dallas judged the distance between them to be about two hundred feet or so. The man leaned idly against one of the trees, his fingers rolling a freshly lit cigarette back and forth, its blue smoke drifting upward through the trees bare branches.

While the man was at too great a distance to make out his features, Dallas read from the man’s body language only complete disinterest in his surroundings; he appeared lost in his own world. Dallas suddenly felt very foolish. Perhaps the police were really police; perhaps the old man was hallucinating; perhaps the last twelve hours had been a total waste.

Dallas was feeling very Walter Middy about the whole affair when the young woman left her bench and came over to him. He slapped the case closed as she approached. She stood before him, with her navy trench coat fluttering in the chilly spring breeze. He stared at her, absorbing the essence of what he saw; a work of art whose comprehension took less than a second. She stood straight and sure, with a posture that some might call cockiness, but that Dallas allowed to quiet confidence. She was not thin, but lean; well-muscled, yet lithe.

"Who are you?" the young woman demanded, destroying the moment. "Where is Dr. Todd?" She added, threateningly, "You have five seconds."

Dallas blinked in surprise, and then decided the personality most definitely fit. "Your Dr. Todd; was he an older gentleman, gray hair, balding, wears ... wore ... gold-colored, wire-rim glasses?"

"Yes." Her tone was simple and direct.

"Well, I’m sorry to tell you this but ... he’s, well, he’s dead. Hit-and-run last night. He gave me this briefcase before he died, and he told me to find the Fisherman."

"He told you – a stranger – to meet me here?" Her tone was incredulous.

"No, not exactly. He had coded an entry in his diary. I deciphered its meaning and came here; I was beginning to think I had imagined the whole thing." Dallas added a chuckle. She, however, was not amused.

"I’ll take that case now."

"Are you the Fisherman?"

"Let’s just say I am."

"Let’s just say you’re not. Look, lady, I spent most of the night trying to figure out where to go, I lied to the police ...”

The police!" She interrupted, with the first show of emotion he had seen. "You fool, if the police know about you, you’ll have led them right to me." She shot glances over her shoulders in both directions. "Get up; we’ve got to go NOW!"

Her body language gave her away, and at that moment, Dallas, glancing around him, saw three pairs of neatly dressed, expressionless, plainclothesman, each about eighty yards away, starting to move toward them from different directions.

"Lady, what’s going on?"

"You want to meet the Fisherman; fine. Looks like you’ll get your chance." She looked at Dallas with barely concealed rage, "Let’s go."

She quickly hustled him into a waiting SUV, parked a few feet away from the benches. One of her allies opened the door upon their approach, and the trio jumped inside. They had barely closed the doors behind them before the six men were at the car. The driver paid them no heed as he sped away, leaving the dark-suited men with clenched teeth. From the line of trees, the old black man watched all the activity with a bemused expression, his fingers rolling the cigarette back and forth absentmindedly.

Looking back from the SUV at the men in dark suits told Dallas all he wanted to know about not wanting to meet them. The question flashed through his mind: were they FBI, CIA, maybe Secret Service? If they were, then who was he with, terrorists? Reflexively, Dallas shook his head. What had he gotten himself into?