Ancient Echoes

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Washington D. C.

Charlotte’s car was in the parking lot at Dulles International Airport. Only four days had passed since she’d left home, full of anxiety but also anticipation, to board a flight to Israel. As she got into the familiar old Taurus and started the engine, the mental and physical toll of the last few days hit her. She bent forward, her forehead against the steering wheel as unbidden tears fell. She felt alone, numb. Whoever was behind this had more money, pull, and knowledge than she. She should keep her head down, slink into the nearest corner, and fade into the background, just as she’d done for the last thirteen years.

She sat back, lit a cigarette and indulged in self-pity a moment longer. But as she did, thoughts of the men who had lost their lives filled her. And of Dennis. His death wasn’t an accident. She knew it in her heart. Perhaps she had always known it.

Angrily, she stubbed out the cigarette. One person, right here in Washington, might be able to help her: Professor Lionel Rempart, George Washington University. She wanted to know more, lots more, about his visits to Jerusalem and Paris.

She used her cell phone to call the Anthropology Department at George Washington and asked for the professor, only to learn he was spending the year teaching at Boise State University.

She ended the call and stared at the cell phone as the adrenaline-and-emotion fueled burst of energy drained from her. She needed to reach Rempart, but couldn’t bring herself to do it right then. She would go home first. Recharge.

Home, what a comforting word.

Home was an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Alexandria, Virginia. When she had returned to D.C. after Dennis’ death, she sold their Dupont Circle co-op and found a place in the country. She wanted quiet and couldn’t bear the idea of living where she and Dennis had been happy together.

Being honest, she wanted more than quiet. She wanted to hibernate, unbothered by anyone. Thinking about the way she'd been living her life gave her pause. Where had the young carefree, gutsy woman gone? The one who married a man she hardly knew and had followed him half-way around the globe? The one who wanted to explore the world—both modern and ancient? How had she lost herself? Had she buried herself along with her husband?

When she walked into the house, she stopped a moment in the hallway, feeling as alien and incomplete as she’d ever felt since Dennis’ death. She took a deep breath, then went straight to the closet where she had stored his papers.

The boxes were neatly stacked. She hadn’t wanted to throw them away, nor had she ever gone through them. They were his life’s work, all she had left of the fabulous mind of the man she loved.

She placed the top box on the floor and sat. Inside, she found a pile of small leather bound notebooks rubber-banded together. Dennis took notes about everything and would go through two or three such notebooks a year. With shaking fingers she pulled out the top one, the last he had used.

The dried blood on the cover and along the edges of the pages caused several to stick together. Dennis had carried it the day he’d been killed.

Black and purple spots danced before her eyes. She took several deep, ragged breaths before she opened it and looked at the familiar hard-to-read scrawl. A couple of pages had dates and times, appointments perhaps?

But a page near the end of the notebook, near the last words Dennis wrote, stopped her short.

This page was easier to read than most, set up as a checklist. It said:

Thomas Jefferson—OK

Lewis & Clark—OK

Others—OK

PLP—OK

—OK

Idaho—??

She sat leaning back against the wall, needing to catch her breath, to think what it all meant. What was PLP? And why Idaho? And the strange symbol, again …

A dark shadow passed outside the sheers that covered the living room window and then disappeared.

She put down the notebook and crawled to her purse for her Glock.

The sound of breaking glass came from the back of the house, then the side, then the living room. A device landed on the floor where she had been sitting a moment before, and burst into flame with a loud whoosh!

It caught the box filled with Dennis’ papers and quickly moved to the draperies. An accelerant caused them to burn hot and fast.

Fire leaped around her. Whoever did this must have been watching the house, saw her drive up, saw her enter. She wanted to run outside, but didn’t dare. More than one person could be out there waiting to kill her as she tried to escape. But if she stayed, she could die in the fire.

The farmhouse had a root cellar under the pantry. She threw her jacket over her head, clutched her handbag and gun, and ran to it. The smoke grew thick, and she had trouble breathing. She pulled open the cellar’s trap door, then shut it tight behind her before she fled down the stairs. So far, the air was clear.

Aiming her Glock at the trap door in case anyone came after her, she used her cell phone to call 911. The crackle of flames told her the entire house was burning. All Dennis’ papers were being destroyed. She couldn’t help but wonder if she or those papers had been the primary target. Or both. She sat on the ground, keeping her head low as the ceiling slowly filled with smoke. Two minutes. Four. Five. Then the loud wail of sirens.

She waited until she heard shouts of firemen, and then crept through the spiders and other insects to a wooden ladder that led to the cellar door that opened directly to the garden, the one farmers used when loading the cellar with produce.

She slid back the heavy bolt lock and pushed upward. The door didn’t budge. Years of non-use, plus dirt, leaves and grass covered it on the outside. Fear of being stuck here, of dying from smoke inhalation, nearly caused her to panic. She put her back to the door and used every ounce of strength to lift. It creaked, snapped, and then opened.

Still gripping the Glock, she peered out.