“Why are you so late?” Lenny bellowed as his son entered the establishment. His sudden roar made Nina jump. “I'm sorry, my dear Dr. Gould,” the rowdy fat man apologized with a gentle hand tapping Nina's on the surface of the bar. “The little bastard is over half an hour late, but I did not mean to jab at your skeleton there. Sorry, sorry.”
“No, it's alright, Lenny,” she replied with a relieved sigh, her sense of order still annoyed by the old television and its snowy delivery of the old Telefunken. Her slim fingertips played on the smooth, worn wood of the bar as she watched the owner scold his son from behind the bar, taking in the reprimand as entertainment while she sipped the neat alcohol slowly warming her innards.
“Where have you been? Christ, I’ve been struggling to keep up here by myself!” Lenny ranted at the nonchalant bugger, whose skinny frame danced around inside his over-sized clothing.
“Dad, I told you we went ghost hunting. I said I might be late,” the young man protested, but his father would not look a fool in front of the bustling crowd of people in his keep.
“You said no such thing! You get behind this bar right now, dammit. I can't keep up all alone here and you know it.” Nina tried not to laugh as Lenny's son secretly counted the patrons in the pub. As he appeased his father by taking his place behind the bar, he met eyes with the lady historian and nodded courteously.
“You should know better than to give your father such sorrows, young man,” Nina jested, feeling wonderfully relaxed as she crossed the threshold a bit tipsy.
Lenny's son leaned slightly forward to keep his father from hearing as he replied, “There are, like, seven people in here, for God's sake. What’s he on about? I should’ve taken him ghost hunting with me, it seems.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Um, well, clearly he sees a crowd of people in here, right? The man must be clairvoyant or something, seeing people who are invisible and such in here,” he ribbed playfully, evoking a hearty chuckle from the merry Dr. Nina Gould. He had served her before, but they had never engaged in a conversation as such. She made sure Lenny was not looking before she asked the question she was dying to ask.
“Where did you go hunting ghosties then?”
He smiled, delighted that someone at least was interested in his hobby. “Duart Castle. You know it?”
“Aye,” she grinned, lighting up a Marlboro and closing her eyes for that first ecstatic rush. “The Dark Headland. Did you see anything…headless?”
“No, but I aim to. I will,” he said with such zest that he arrested his father's attention for a moment. Quickly he quieted down and resumed his duties, still beaming at the historian's interest. Nina's ears blotted out the incomprehensible comment of the television as the whiskey quite literally drowned her sorrows, however few she harbored. Her body felt relaxed.
Through the past few years she had triumphed over injury and illness, both of which had spelled certain death at first. For the first time in a long time, Nina was healthy. Back in shape and medically spicy, the feisty academic felt strong and able, even for the vexing remnants of her past tribulation. Even her mind was a bit calmer than usual. There was, God forbid, no ructions in her personal life — for now.
A word from the blurry noise of the ancient telly on the makeshift shelf punched her to pay attention.
“Purdue.” Nina perked up. Her eyes searched the TV screen for anything that would justify the surname she had just heard. A female reporter stood in front of a very familiar estate, but the few men at the pool table were making so much noise that she could not make out a single word from the television journalist. Normally Nina was an assertive person, although she was not inclined to be bossy or mean unless pushed. In fact, she’d carefully worked at her tolerance for the painfully intolerable since she’d been given a second chance at life a few months before.
However, with her gullet thoroughly imbued with liquor and her general aversion for patience just about peaking in favor of the television news broadcast, the wee Nina rose to her feet and flicked her cigarette at the sweaty ogre with the limp who found it impossible to formulate words under the 20 kHz sound barrier. The cherry exploded in minute fireworks against the skin of his neck where it made contact, quickly shutting him up. He swung around, holding the back of his neck.
“Can you keep your voice down long enough for other people to hear themselves think, mate?” she shouted, her dark eyes ablaze with annoyance. The manner in which the small historian leered at the pool-playing oaf conveyed an oddly threatening quality and instead of taking her on, the local simply rubbed his neck. He picked up her fag and smoked it, turning his back on Nina and making his shot in astonished, but indifferent, silence.
Lenny's son, in awe of her gutsy move, smiled and turned up the television. Nina was completely focused on the bulletin as the scratchy sound delivered the journalist's report.
“…here behind me. But authorities have joined forces with international rescue agencies to facilitate a joint effort on searching for Mr. Purdue in the location where he went missing. Although presumed dead, several organizations agreed that a search party for the explorer would be worth a try…”
“Of course they do,” she murmured by herself. “The pricks want to find him so they can arrest him, you idiot.” Her lips quivered slightly before she finished the last of her whiskey. Nina took note of what the TV anchor reported, especially to keep careful track of what the authorities, such as the Archaeological Crimes Unit and MI6, planned for Purdue once they discovered him alive and well. Until they devised a plan to liberate him from these charges, Nina had to keep her friend's secret and harbor him as far as she could, along with their mutual friend, Sam Cleave.
“…until Mr. Purdue's status is ascertained, the British Secret Service will take custody of the Wrichtishousis mansion and estate to make sure that the property does not play host to any undesirable guests. This is Natalie Graham, Channel…”
Oh my God, that’s all we need now — Paddy's consorts and colleagues writhing like earthworms all over Wrichtishousis while he is absent. Jesus, what if they find things they don't understand in that maze of his? She gestured for Lenny to supply more fire water. Nina had reason to be concerned. Although she and David Purdue had had their differences over the years, the man was ultimately one of her only friends left in this world, as was Sam Cleave.
After shielding him against MI6 during the last excursion she really had no other course to follow but to keep hiding him from those who were looking for him. Sam Cleave had helped Purdue stage his own death on camera during their last run-in with shady forces, just barely escaping capture by government authorities — and barely escaping death by affiliates of the Order of the Black Sun. Between the two of them, Purdue had gone undetected thus far.
The fact that Sam was a world-renowned investigative journalist with contacts in the media was, of course, highly beneficial as well. It also helped that he was childhood friends with Patrick Smith, an agent at MI6, a friendship recently rekindled thanks to Sam's success in rescuing Patrick's daughter from a most sinister abductor.
With these valuable assets in place the media was being kept surprisingly ignorant of Purdue's warrants where it mattered, such as keeping MI6 in the dark about the fact that he was still alive. However, Nina was still not sure if special agent Patrick Smith even knew that Purdue was, in fact, still drawing breath, even after the operative's careful edits of Sam's video footage where Purdue's so-called demise had been recorded.