Ancient Echoes (16 page)

The three gawked at Quade, as startled as if he’d sprouted
horns.

“What do you know about my past?” Charlotte’s cheeks flushed
hot, her mouth tight.

“Or mine,” Jake roared. “What the hell is this? I don’t have
time for games. Your message said you had information about the university
group. I don’t know why the CIA is involved in something domestic, but I’ll
take help wherever I can get it. I said help. Not psychological bullshit. Where
are they?”

Michael leaned against the door, arms folded, and waited. He
not only wanted to find out how much Quade knew about the Chinese tomb, but why
the government cared.

“To understand where the professor and students have gone,
you’ve got to learn a little history,” Quade said as he poured water into a tea
kettle and set it on the stove.
“About alchemy.”

Interesting, Michael thought, even as he noticed Charlotte’s
body go rigid at the word.
Alert, but not shocked.
The
sheriff was a different story.

“Alchemy!
What the hell! Now, I’m
definitely out of here.” Jake put on his hat, ready to explode.

“Don’t be so eager to dismiss it, Sheriff,” Quade spoke
quickly, but carefully enunciated each word. “There is a rich tradition behind
alchemy. Think of it as a subset of chemistry, and in fact, much of what we
learned of chemistry came about because of the alchemists. There is something
to it.” He hesitated. “And you will need to understand as much as you are
capable of. Will you listen?”

Jake looked skeptical, but after a moment, nodded. He
dropped his hat onto a chair by the door.

Quade folded his hands. “Have a seat, please.”

Charlotte sat at the table and Michael took the couch. Jake
looked disgusted, but joined Charlotte. She bristled and scooted her chair a
couple of inches away from him.

Quade spoke slowly, carefully, as if to be sure they
understood. “The basic belief was simply that everything in the world came from
animal, vegetable or mineral matter, and since animals and vegetables grew and
changed, it only made sense that minerals did as well. Just as carbon in the
earth’s crust could transform over time into coal or a diamond, alchemists
believed other, baser materials could be made into gold if only they could find
the right formula.

“But alchemy is much more than that. Many alchemists have
attempted to transform much more important…things…than mere metals.”

 “Except that it doesn’t work,” Jake pointed out.

Quade met him with an arch look. “The acknowledged mother of
Western alchemy, Maria Prophetissa, lived in Hellenistic Egypt around 200 B.C.
She created and used laboratory equipment, including the double boiler still
used in American kitchens. Since her fame has lasted, isn’t it logical that her
experiments were successful?”

“Santa Claus’s fame has lasted, too.” Jake radiated disgust.
“That doesn’t mean he’s real.”

Undaunted, Quade continued. “The Arabs of the Caliphate
believed in alchemy, presumably because it worked, and from them, it went to
Europe. There were a number of European alchemists. When Pope John XXII decreed
against alchemy in 1317, a monk named John Dastyn wrote a famous defense of it.
It’s believed Dastyn was an alchemist and much of his gold ended up in the
Pope’s treasury. Edward Kelley created gold for the first Queen Elizabeth.
Thomas Norton produced enough gold for Bristol, England, to finance the
rebuilding of St. Mary Redcliffe Church. Thomas Charnock of Salisbury was
successful, as was William Holway, the Abbot of Bath, and—”

“In other words, a lot of people no one has ever heard of
claim to do something no one else can,” Jake announced.

Charlotte nodded. “The sheriff is right. It’s been proven to
be a hoax. To say otherwise, is wasting our time.”

“You have heard of Sir Isaac Newton, I imagine,” Quade said.
“He was one of the world’s greatest scientists, and spent over half his life
studying alchemy. He got so far into
it,
he even
predicted the end of the world. 2060. To be more precise, he actually said the
world would not end before 2060. I suppose people of his time found comfort in
that.
Now, not so much.”

“Even great scientists can go bonkers,” Michael said, unable
to help but be amused by Quade's history lesson and the growing irritation it
caused the others in the room.

“Alchemy’s problem lies in the philosopher’s stone,” Quade
explained. “What it
is,
and how you make it. All texts
agree that to perform alchemical transmutations, one needs a philosopher’s
stone, and most say it is red in color. But some say the stone is needed to
begin any experiment, while others say it comes about at the end of the
process. All difficulties with alchemy come about because of that one issue:
what is the exact nature of the philosopher’s stone?” With that he gave a small
smile.
“Tea anyone?”

They all turned him down, with Jake growing increasingly
antsy at the time being spent here. Quade poured hot water into his cup, dipped
in a bag of Earl Grey, and again began to speak. “Many ancient alchemical texts
have been translated, but they make little sense to modern men. Everything is
described in poetry and symbolism. One book, however, is different. It’s called
The Book of Abraham the Jew
. It supposedly spells out how to create the
philosopher’s stone. It is, in a sense, the Rosetta Stone of alchemy.”

“
The what
stone?” Jake asked.

“The key.
The Rosetta
Stone
was found in 1799 in Rashid Egypt, and with it,
linguists were able to understand how to read hieroglyphics. In a similar vein,
using
The Book of Abraham the Jew
, modern man will be able to perform
alchemical transmutations.”

Jake leaned back, arms folded, legs extended. “I’m supposed
to give a damn?”

“Let him speak,” Charlotte snapped.

Jake shut his mouth, stunned, then looked at her as if she’d
become possessed. A few minutes ago when Quade mentioned her past, she looked
ready to murder the guy, and now she wanted to listen to the creepy jerk.

“Many scholars believe,” Quade said eying them one by one,
“that in the late 1700’s, before the time of Lewis and Clark, someone carried
The
Book of Abraham the Jew
to what is now Idaho.”

“So, an old book about alchemy was brought to Idaho. I
repeat, what does this have to do with the missing students?” Jake demanded,
with a quick but pointed glance at Charlotte.

“What he’s saying,” Michael explained, “is that my brother
came here to find
The Book of Abraham the Jew.
” He then faced Quade. “It
must be even more important than I imagined if the CIA is looking for it. How
does this become an international incident?”

“Hold everything,” Jake said, sitting up straight again.
“You’re telling me Lionel Rempart went out to a million-plus acre wilderness,
high rugged mountains, unnavigable rivers, dangerous wildlife, to look for a
book? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“People have been killed because of that book,” Charlotte
whispered, her face ashen.

At those words, Michael saw past the stiff demeanor, the
glares, the tightly pursed lips, to eyes lined with the weariness of a woman
who faced too much suffering and sorrow. He realized that with her shaken,
heartfelt words this situation had suddenly risen to a whole new level. Jake
must have seen the same thing because his tone became gentle. “I’m sorry.”

She raised eyes that were deep, troubled pools. She said
nothing, but seemed to call upon some inner strength as she again faced Quade.
“Did you know Dennis Levine?” she asked.

“No.” His gaze remained steady. She seemed to sink into
herself a moment, then got up and went into the bedroom that had been
designated as hers.

o0o

Charlotte sat on her bed trying to organize her thoughts
when she heard a knock on her door. Her fingers wrapped around the Glock under
her pillow as, ready to bolt, she called, “Who's there?”

“It's time to talk, Ms. Reed.”

She let go of the gun and opened the door. Jake Sullivan
stood in front of her. He was no taller than her, aging and husky, hair too
gray, nose too broad, hands too large, square and hard, but he exuded a raw
masculinity that surprised her. Raising her chin, she met his gaze. “Where are
the others?”

“Outside.
Quade wanted to smoke
while they continue talking about that alchemy garbage.”

“Come in.” She found herself simultaneously intrigued and
bemused to see him suddenly uncomfortable as he entered, leaving the door open.
“What's going on?” he asked. “I'm not risking any more lives until I hear the
truth.”

She crossed to her backpack and took out a flask of brandy.
She poured a little into an empty water glass and handed it to him. “You'll
probably find this better than Quade’s tea.”

His eyebrows rose at the liquor.

“Consider it medicinal,” she said. “You’re wound tighter
than a drum.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”
He took a sip.
“Very good.”

“Even medicine should be quality.”

“Brandy’s nice, but I still want to know what’s going on.”

She sat on the bed, and he took the only chair in the room,
a stiff wooden one. “As you suspected, it’s not government business. It’s my
business, crazy though it may be.”

“I somehow doubt its crazy,” he said softly.

He had a pleasant enough face, she thought, when he wasn't
frowning or scowling. His large, green eyes seemed to vary between a blue green
and a more mossy shade, depending on their surroundings. Right now, they shined
an intense emerald.

She met his gaze,
then
folded her
hands. In a concise, factual manner she gave an abridged version of the events
that brought her here. “I want to find Lionel Rempart and ask him why”—she
hesitated as the full impact of what she needed to know filled her and she
struggled to prevent her voice from breaking—“ask him why that book has caused
so many deaths.”

“And why someone has targeted you as well.” His face was
grave with concern.

“I'm sure the answer is one and the same.” Sad, resigned
eyes met his.

“Thank you, Ms. Reed,” he added, “for
telling me all that.
I'm sorry about your losses—your husband, your
friends. It must be very hard for you.”

“Your words are much appreciated, Sheriff.” With a small
smile she added, “And please, call me Charlotte.”

How much prettier a simple smile made her, he thought. He
stood to leave. He didn't like how difficult tearing his gaze from her face had
already become. He reminded himself he’d just met her as he looked toward the
door trying to think of a graceful way to exit.

Just then, the telephone in the main room rang. Jake went
out to answer as Quade came through the front door. “It’s a Forest Service
line,” Quade explained as he reached for it. “They set up special
communications out here for me since there’s no normal cell service.”

He answered and immediately handed the receiver to Jake.
“For you, Sheriff.”

When Jake hung up, he felt shaken and forlorn. “A body’s
been found. It may be one of the students.”

THE UNIVERSITY GROUP traversed a
shale-like mountaintop with treacherous footing when Rempart fell to his knees,
sweat running down his temples. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He said nothing.

The others stopped and stared at him. He raised his arm and
pointed at the valley floor. “Look!”

Below lay a wide, scrub-covered valley that seemed to
continue on for more than two miles. In the center, the landscape rose to a
single flat-topped hill, and on it stood two dark pillars. The two appeared to
be the exact same height and width, and stood perfectly upright and parallel to
each other.

“The twin pillars,” Melisse said as she ran an arm over her
forehead, wiping off the perspiration.

Rempart brushed away his tears. His breath quickened as he
struggled back to his feet. “We've got to get down there. We've got to check
them out. It's an unbelievable find.”

“Are you kidding me?” Devlin shouted. “It’s a long way!
We've got no food, no water. Brian is lost! We need help! We need to find
people, a town, something!”

Rempart spun around to face him, his lip curled with
contempt. "Do you intend to become an anthropologist or not?"

"We've got to get back," whimpered red-faced Ted,
his reddish curls wet and matted against his head.

“He's right,” Vince said, pushing his glasses higher.

“What's wrong with you? Are you men or boys?” Rempart asked
derisively. “Those pillars are what we came for! It’ll be dark soon. We need to
make camp, scout the area for food and water and tomorrow, act like the
anthropologists we are! Only after that will we
be
on
our way.”

“Poor Brian,” Brandi whispered to Rachel, but the others
heard her.

“It’s time we admit it: Brian isn't alive,” Melisse
answered.

Brandi began to cry.

“But the rest of us are,” Vince said. “And it's Professor
Rempart’s responsibility to get us home safely.”

“Absolutely.”
Devlin's
hands clenched into fists.
“We don't give a damn about some old pillars.
We want to go home now!”

The other students loudly agreed.

Flush with his fellow student's support, Devlin raised his
chin high and squared off in front of Rempart. “Are you coming with us,
Lionel?”

Rempart's cheeks reddened at the student's use of his given
name. “No, I'm not. Go where you want,” he said bitterly. “Go straight to hell
for all I care. I'm going to investigate those pillars. I expect this will be
the last great archeological find in the continental United States, and I'll be
damned if I'm going to give it up because of a bunch of whiners.”