Chapter 2 #2
Grant forced himself to sit still, to give away no emotion.
He had always been so careful when working on a case.
He remembered the first time he’d discovered his strange ability.
His beloved grandfather had died, the man who had told him stories all his life, taught him about his home, St. Augustine, and so much more.
He’d been just about to turn thirteen when the man had died, when he’d been holding his hand when the doctor had informed the family that he wasn’t sleeping, he had gone, but that it had been a beautiful death because he had just gone to sleep.
At first, Grant had thought that the doctor was crazy.
He could hear his grandfather telling him where certain papers were that would be extremely important to his father.
Then, of course, as his mom cried and his father tried to be stoic, he’d realized that the doctor wasn’t crazy; he was the crazy one, hearing a dead man speak.
He didn’t want to be crazy. He was in middle school, going through all the torture kids do at that age to begin with.
But he’d been broken up one night by many things that were going on, and his dad had sat down with him to talk.
He’d known that, when Grant knew about things his granddad had said, his son had inherited a strange ability that had been possessed by a few of his ancestors.
His father understood; his mother believed in him, too.
But as he’d known already, his gift would only bring ridicule from others.
He’d always wanted to be in law enforcement. His father and his beloved grandfather had been cops.
But a friend in the military had been heading to the FBI, and the more he learned, the more he leaned in that direction.
It had been great, too, when he’d completed the academy, carried out his first assignment in the Northeast, and then discovered he could be assigned to a north Florida office and live just miles from the hometown he loved.
He’d managed his career carefully and well. He’d known about Jackson Crow, and when a case had involved Florida, they had met. Of course, he knew now that Jackson had been watching him carefully. He’d managed to work with the Bureau for over six years without giving himself away, but …
Here he was. With a man who talked to the spirits who remained to roam the earth whenever they chose to speak and a woman who …
Did just what? His talent was a bit twisted from the unit Jackson had apparently gathered around him, so what was with Shelly Mahoney?
Had she spent her years referring to facts, forensics, logic, and hard work—just like other agents?
What was it about her? This had to be when he found out!
He looked at her and then at Jackson, waiting to learn.
“Shelly?” Jackson said.
She looked down for a moment and then up at Grant.
“I can summon the dead,” she said, grimacing.
“Summon is a strange word. I can mentally call out to them. If their spirits remain on earth, and if they choose to come, they will. Obviously, I’m worthless if they move on, as most do, as you know.
But sometimes someone helpful isn’t just wandering around in the right area, where you need them, so …
if they’re out there and willing to help—”
“You’re like a smartphone for spirits?” he asked. “A medium above all others?”
She winced at that.
“Something along those lines,” she said.
Grant looked over at Jackson. “So, basically, we’ve both been worthless right now.”
Jackson shook his head. “First, we know that something is really going on, far more complicated than what we’d thought, because you’d memorized the words on that tablet discovered by the victim in Rome.
You are the one who found the tablet, researched curse tablets, and let us know, and now it appears that we might well be looking at a strange situation of murder for hire, I believe.
Because it doesn’t sound as if your average Joe knew how to get into George Maynard’s house, make sure there were no clues left behind, no fingerprints, no epithelial cells …
and whoever killed Maynard was most probably disguised. ”
“We don’t know that he—or she—was disguised.” Grant reminded him. He winced. “If there had been any flesh left on the hands, we’d have had a chance of knowing.”
“No, we don’t know,” Jackson agreed. “But there’s something we all have at times, gut feelings. And logic. Clues, ideas, thoughts that might lead us in one direction or another. Did someone come costumed? And if so, how and why? George’s house is close to a well-traveled, touristy area of town.”
“You, um, haven’t seen George, have you?” Shelly asked him specifically.
Jackson gave them a grim look and shook his head.
“No, I haven’t seen George walking around.
In fact, we don’t even know yet that it is George who is dead.
Though I’m assuming we’re supposed to believe that it is him.
The attempt to burn the body was thorough—but I have a lot of faith in our medical examiner.
We will, at the very least, know for a fact soon enough if the body is or isn’t George. ”
“The medical examiner working this, Dr. McGrath, is excellent; he’s with us. No one wanted to seize jurisdiction on this case,” Grant said, looking at Shelly. “If anyone can determine an identity from chips of bone and piles of ash, it’s Amos.”
Shelly nodded. “That’s good.” She hesitated. “I hate to admit my ignorance on this, but from what I have heard about ‘curse tablets,’ weren’t they usually written on lead?”
“They were,” Grant told her. “But now we know how dangerous chipping away at lead can be. You can cut yourself, inhale particles … lead can be dangerous to your health. I’m thinking it might be why a modern-day ‘curser’ might want to start working with stone instead of lead.
And they were Greco-Roman in origination, but I believe that often enough, through the early centuries, stone might have been used at times, too. ”
“Time goes on,” Shelly said dryly. “Who knows? People may start using actual computer ‘tablets’ as we move along.”
“Ah, getting too modern might ruin the whole thing about calling on ancients,” Jackson mused.
“People called on the ancient gods, right?” she asked.
Grant nodded. “And then, usually, the tablets were created on lead and often rolled with a nail struck through them. They were buried in a sacred place, at a grave, or in a place sacred to a particular god or goddess, asking for help. In 2019, they discovered one in Israel that dates back thirty-four hundred years—and there is a reference to ‘Yahweh,’ to the one God, in contrast to beliefs in many gods and goddesses. Tons of tablets were found in Britain, at the hot springs in Bath. They were common in the ancient world in the Mediterranean. And just as the tablet written to or for George Maynard—or at least we believe it was written to him—the quest was to see that something in the words matched what was wanted. The curse against George Maynard spoke of fire—and the remains we discovered were burned beyond recognition. But the curse also referred to his words—words that could inflame the human soul.” He frowned, leaning forward, looking at Shelly.
“I understand that your talent is quite different. Have you tried to reach the man. Is there anything that helps, that you might need? Do you need a crystal ball, or—”
He broke off, ruing his words.
She thought that he was mocking her, he realized, as she quickly locked her jaw and stared at him, snapping out a, “No!”
She glanced at Jackson and then at Grant, shaking her head.
“I don’t need any symbolic paraphernalia,” she told him. “I don’t know how to explain it. I just concentrate and reach out mentally. And I have tried. Either his soul went on or he isn’t the one whose ashes we discovered.”
Grant looked at Jackson.
Jackson shook his head. “No, as I said before … I haven’t seen George Maynard’s soul walking around.
” He leaned forward, looking at Grant. “And quit with the concept of your talents being worthless; you’re both trained agents.
Any minute now, we’ll be getting lists from the tech departments, and when we do, you need to get out there.
” He glanced at his watch. “And if I’m not mistaken … lunch. And help.”
Jackson had suggested they needed a meal. Of course, Grant had worked in different areas where they’d stayed at such law enforcement houses or apartments before, and he knew the kitchen would be well stocked.
But he didn’t see a suggestion that any food had been prepared.
Grant felt his phone vibrating.
He glanced at it, realizing Jackson and Shelly were looking at their phones as well.
“We have lists of people, corporations, and whatever kind of entities George exposed or brought to light as creating corrupt businesses or … well, there are a couple of lying politicians in there, but that’s no surprise,” Jackson said, rising.
“But we’re about to attend a difficult luncheon. So, time to move.”
“Difficult?” Grant asked.
Jackson didn’t need to answer. Shelly apparently knew just what he meant.
“Ainsley,” she said quietly, looking at Jackson for affirmation. “George Maynard’s fiancée?”
Jackson nodded.
“She alerted us to a problem. Perry Banyan let her know there’s a serious problem and that”—he hesitated, shaking his head—“that we believe George was killed. They were planning on running off to Vegas for a fun wedding and time off for both of them—she teaches special-needs children—and they were excited about taking a break when he finished with the last of his news conferences on the Gen-Zec situation.”
“Pardon me, everything needs to be under investigation, but shouldn’t we be concentrating on Gen-Zec right now? The upper crust in that company are the ones who probably wanted him dead,” Grant said.
“But Ainsley might have information on just who in the company might have gone this far,” Shelly said, looking at Jackson.
Jackson nodded.