A man stood on the front stoop. He wore a thick scarf wrapped around his face; only his eyes were visible. “Telegram for you, sir,” he said, holding out a slip of paper with an attached envelope.
“Thanks.” Amhurst managed to make his voice sound benign and innocent, in contradiction to his basement project. He glanced over his shoulder to the stairway at his back to see if Gernot or one of the others was close behind, but he was alone.
Amhurst let out an imperceptible sigh of relief. The first two months of working with Gernot had carried a sense of normalcy in the daily routine. But in the last few weeks the man had become insistent that Amhurst deliver acceptable results without further delay, as if there was an invisible looming deadline.
Assured that he was alone, only then did Amhurst look down at the telegram. He read it once, twice, then a third time, his brow creasing more with each read.
Impossible! Yet Amhurst knew better than most that he couldn’t denounce anything after what he now knew was possible. As the courier waited, Amhurst opened the envelope and scanned the page. It had to be true — it just had to be! His heart fluttered and an involuntary voice in his head told him that he should run for his life — now.
But what would that solve? Gernot would still have his encoded notebook and his machine. Whoever had sent him this telegram knew more than what Amhurst himself had been told by the strange man downstairs in the lab who had stood on his porch months earlier.
Amhurst folded the two pieces of paper, put them inside his front pocket, and thanked the courier as he closed the door.
He stood in the front hallway, trying to sort out his options, but he couldn’t escape the dread that crept up his spine. There was no backing out now. He had already given away too much information to the men in the lab. He had to find a way to get it back, even if it meant dying in the process.
So he came to a drastic conclusion: The lab must be destroyed, tonight!
Blake stared at the newcomer to the equation who stood at Amhurst’s door with a scarf wrapped around his face — which made no sense because it was late spring in Australia and the temps were mild. A light inside the house flicked on and seconds later the door opened. Amhurst and the man engaged in a brief exchange and then the man handed something over.
Amhurst appeared shaken by what he’d just been given. So it wasn’t a fourth party — just a courier. Thank God. Blake didn’t relish the thought that he had an extra target to go after.
He glanced at his watch. A little late to be delivering messages though, isn’t it? His unease grew.
The messenger descended the steps. Blake tracked the man as he walked away before swiveling the binocs back to the door. Amhurst had already retreated inside and switched off the front stoop light.
Blake trained his eyepiece back on the courier, but he was already gone. He hated that he now had a loose end to the puzzle he may never get to deal with.
Screw it. Whatever just took place might have been a key factor as to why Amhurst is murdered tonight.
He put the binoculars away and zipped open the overalls he’d worn on the trip over here to cover his mission clothing. He unfastened his gun, pulling the slide back and then letting go. He heard the gratifying sound of a bullet engaging in the chamber and flicked off the safety. Then he stepped out of the overalls and left them in a heap by his feet.
Time to roll.
Lies. All of it. Who to trust?
Amhurst had never walked down the two flights of basement stairs so slowly in his life. Mentally processing his strategy added to the lethargy of his steps. Part of him knew that his body language was giving him away, but he seemed incapable of forcing himself to act any different.
He entered the lab, peering at his now unwelcome guests with new eyes. The Japanese man, Satoshi, was helping Mikhail install gaskets on the new apparatus Amhurst had designed. Gernot stood with his back to the staircase, busying himself with another task Amhurst had designated earlier.
They were all so preoccupied that it should be simple enough to grab his notebook and scurry back up the stairs. His legs were wobbly in his old age, but surely he could pull it off. He would then lock the door and run for help.
But could he really trust the sender of the telegram with his notes? Amhurst didn’t think that would be too smart at this point. In the wrong hands, who knew what the future would hold. His present was technically his future, but what lay beyond could be the Holocaust all over again — or worse. His personal log needed to be destroyed; even with the code he’d developed, he just couldn’t chance it.
He was attempting to deftly walk in and grab his book, when the cracking in his bones betrayed his position. It was useless. He couldn’t sneak up on a corpse. And now that he had been noticed, he couldn’t request to leave again without raising too much suspicion.
“Who was it?” Gernot spoke with his back still facing the stairs.
“It was … just a man looking for a local.” Amhurst began fiddling with liquids that were boiling in their beakers, using their proximity to his notebook to edge closer.
“Who was it?” Gernot asked again, and turned to face Amhurst. The man’s burn scar seemed to look even more gruesome than before, the taut skin shiny, almost pulsing in the glow of the bubbling liquids around him.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen the man before.”
Gernot shook his head. “No, who was this man looking for?”
“Can’t remember, never heard of him either.” Amhurst waved a hand, attempting nonchalance, but he saw Gernot give the slightest nod to Satoshi and knew his lie was unconvincing. Truth be told, he’d never been a good liar.
His stomach twisted with anxiety, but Gernot went back to working on his task at hand. Amhurst had to take advantage of the man’s distraction, his mind frantic as he worked to come up with a plan. And then Gernot’s scar seemed to light up for Amhurst’s eyes like a target, and he knew this would be his only chance. A boiling pot of mixture that had been extracted from the meteorite was close by. He grabbed it and hefted it at the man’s face.
The Russian moved so much faster than he had anticipated, and Amhurst’s heart felt like it stalled from the surprise of Gernot’s sudden movement. The meteorite concoction sailed in a harmless arc over the table and splattered impotently to the ground with a wet, splashing sound. The hot, thick liquid sizzled like bacon in a cast iron skillet as it landed on the cold floor.
Amhurst froze, blood pulsing in his ears, adrenaline pumping ineffectually through his limbs. Except for when Celice had passed away, he’d never felt more helpless, and he gave an inward curse to his old age.
Gernot grinned at him, his expression sinister. “My dear Amhurst, I’m afraid I saw that coming. You see, I wasn’t lying when I said I took this book from your remains.” He picked up Amhurst’s coded diary and waved it casually in the air. “But you were hardly in a grave. In reality, you were lying just where you are standing now.”
The pot almost fell from Amhurst’s grip, but he kept his grip on the handle through the strength of sheer terror. It was now his only weapon, the last line of defense. He forced himself to stand straighter, but the other man’s words had rattled him and the now empty pot began to shake.
“You see, we have had this dance, you and I, several times,” Gernot said in a condescending tone as he took a step closer to the old man. “You gave me this.” He pointed to his facial scar. “I fear someday you may actually succeed in killing me, but I won’t be dead forever. You’ve caused only a tiny setback for me; minor details that I must adjust next time.”