Kronos

12

Portsmouth Hospital

Atticus watched Andrea approach the van.

Just moments before, he’d fallen the remaining ten feet to the ground, rolled, and listened. He immediately heard her running feet and heavy breathing. He was in no mood for an argument but also saw there was nowhere to go. Then he felt a hand wrap around his mouth and an arm around his waist. They were strong, and he found himself pulled up and into a cargo van. The well-oiled door slid shut without a noise.

He heard Andrea check the back door and move around to check the others.

If it hadn’t been for Andrea’s approach, he would have quickly broken the hand of his captor, but he couldn’t afford to involve her. Whoever was in the van with him obviously had no interest in Andrea. They could have easily taken her as well. As Andrea began walking away, still searching the parking lot with her eyes, Atticus felt the hand around his mouth loosen its formidable grip.

“If you’re reporters,” Atticus said seriously, “this is going to hurt.”

Before Atticus could let loose, the interior light flicked on.

“Now, now, Dr. Young, you wouldn’t hit a priest, would you?” said a smiling man dressed as a Catholic priest. He was young, in his twenties, and appeared to be as friendly as possible under the circumstances.

The man next to him looked like a giant with bad taste-his Hawaiian shirt as ugly as his face. The man’s ears were misshapen, probably from years of brawling, as was his nose, bent slightly to one side. But the sight of the man didn’t intimidate Atticus. He’d been in many fights with men determined to kill him, and his face remained untouched. No one had ever made contact. Being in a tightly enclosed van gave the larger man the advantage, but Atticus needed only one shot to take down most men. Still, better to take no chances.

He readied himself for a fight, but it never came. The priest moved forward, still smiling, hand extended.

Atticus didn’t take it. “You’ve got thirty seconds.” He didn’t have to add a threat. His eyes did that for him.

The man in the awful shirt snickered. Atticus shot him a look that said, “You’ll get yours.”

The man’s smirk faded ever so slightly.

“Dr. Young,” the priest said, “I am Father O’Shea.” He motioned to the other man. “This is my associate, Remus. We’ve been sent to retrieve you by our employer.”

Atticus didn’t say a word. He didn’t even acknowledge that he’d heard anything.

“He’s very eager to meet you.” The priest grew nervous. “He wants to help you.”

“Help with what?” Atticus’s voice boomed like lion’s bellow. “Bury my daughter? Psychoanalyze me? Put me on The Today Show and get my teary story?”

O’Shea backed off a little, “No, nothing like that. He wants to help you kill it. He wants to find the beast…and he wants you to kill it.”

Atticus sized the men up. They were clearly not military. The Remus character might have been at one time, but it must have been a while. He couldn’t conceive of a reason they might be lying, but he wondered how anyone could possibly help him kill such a thing. “What’s his name?”

“He would prefer to remain anonymous.”

“His name or I walk.” Atticus moved toward the door.

“Trevor Manfred.”

The odd name struck Atticus as familiar. Where had he heard it before?

“He’s the fifth richest man in the world,” Remus added proudly.

Then Atticus remembered. He’d read an article in Time a few years back. The man was a recluse, living on the ocean in some kind of superyacht. While being well-known for funding scientific expeditions as well, Manfred’s track record for success was sketchy. Few artifacts were ever recovered and very few scientific discoveries had been made. Most believed that the man kept most of the finds to himself and, as a result, he was unwelcome on the shores of many nations. But, if he could help…

“You know where I live?”

The men nodded. He knew they would.

“Take me home.”