“We’re to meet at a physics lab in the basement.”
“Why down there?”
That was a good question. It was an unusual place to meet a historian, but Professor Kanosh had mentioned something about some tests being run for him. No matter, it was still a remote and quiet place for them to meet. Painter checked a directory, then crossed to a stairway leading down. The Underground Physics Research Laboratory truly lived up to its name. The lab wasn’t just in the building’s basement; it was buried under the lawn on the north side of the building.
As they crossed into the complex, it wasn’t difficult to find the specific lab, deserted as the facility was now. Raised voices echoed down the hall from an open doorway.
Painter hurried forward, fearing someone had already found Kai and Professor Kanosh. As he entered the room, he reached for the shoulder-holstered pistol under his suit jacket. He was on alert as he took in another man, who seemed to be threatening Professor Kanosh with a dagger — but Painter let his arm drop away from his holster as he fully absorbed the situation. The man with the knife was wearing a white lab coat, and the dagger looked old, possibly an archaeological artifact. Furthermore, Professor Kanosh was showing no fear, only irritation. Clearly the other man was a colleague, one who seemed determined to make a point.
“This may be the very proof we’ve been looking for!” he said, slapping the dagger on the tabletop. “Why are you so obstinate?”
Before Professor Kanosh could answer, the two men noted Painter’s sudden arrival as he swept inside. Their eyes widened and grew even rounder as the hulking form of Kowalski followed him into the room.
The two colleagues were seated at a long table in the center of an expansive lab. A few lights glowed deeper in the facility, revealing an array of equipment. Some Painter recognized from his own background in electrical engineering and design: mass spectrometers, various solenoids and rheostats, resistance and capacitance boxes. One piece of equipment drew his eyes. In a neighboring alcove, the tall column of an electron microscope hummed alongside a series of glowing monitors.
“Uncle Crowe?”
The question came from the shadows alongside the microscope array. A young woman stepped tentatively into the light, her arms wrapped around her chest, her shoulders slumped. She stared up at him through a fall of long black hair.
It was his niece Kai.
“Are you all right?” Painter asked. It was a stupid question considering the circumstances.
She shrugged, mumbled something under her breath, and joined Professor Kanosh at the table. Painter tracked her. So much for the warm family reunion. Then again, it had been over three years since he’d last seen Kai. It had been at her father’s funeral. In that short span of time, she had grown from a gangly girl to a young woman, but in her face, he could see that she had also grown harder, far more than she should have grown in only three years.
He could guess why. He recognized that guarded stare all too well, half challenging, half wary. Orphaned himself, he knew what it was like to be raised alone, taken in by an extended family that still held you at arm’s length and shuttled you from one home to another.
It was that knowledge that tightened Painter’s chest. He should have done more for her when he had the chance. If he had, maybe they wouldn’t be standing here now.
“Thank you for coming,” Professor Kanosh said, cutting through the tension. He waved Painter to the table. “Maybe with your help we can clear up this mess.”
“I hope so.” Painter eyed the professor’s colleague, not sure how freely he could speak in front of him.
Recognizing his rudeness, the man held out his hand. Still, it was less a welcome than a challenge. While the man looked to be as old as Professor Kanosh, his gray hair had thinned to wisps atop his head, and where the sun had baked Kanosh’s skin to hard leather, his colleague’s face sagged and hung loose, bagging heavily under his eyes. Painter wondered if the man might have had a stroke in the past year or so. Or maybe it was simply a matter of being holed up in this basement lab for most of his working career, far from sunlight and fresh air.
Painter could relate to the wear and tear that put upon a body.
“Dr. Matt Denton,” the man said. “Chair of the physics department.”
They all shook hands. Painter introduced Kowalski as his “personal aide,” which caused the big man to roll his eyes.
Professor Kanosh was polite enough not to question it. “Please call me Hank,” he said, perhaps sensing Painter’s guardedness. “I’ve explained our situation to Matt. I trust him fully. We’ve been friends since high school, going back to when we first served together on a church mission.”
Painter nodded. “Then why don’t you explain the situation again to me.”
“First, let me assure you. I don’t think Kai had anything to do with the blast. The explosive charges she dropped were not the source of that tragedy.”
Painter heard the catch in his voice at the end. He knew the professor had been close to the anthropologist who had died. Kai placed a hand on the older man’s arm, seeming both to thank him and to console him at the same time.
Kowalski rumbled under his breath, “Told you it wasn’t C4…”
Painter ignored him and faced the professor. “Then what do you think caused the explosion?”
The professor stared at him full in the face as he answered. “Simple.” His next words were firm with conviction. “It was an Indian curse.”
Rafael Saint Germaine allowed himself to be assisted from the helicopter. Rotor wash flattened the spread of manicured lawn surrounding the landing site. While other men might blush at needing such help, he was well accustomed to it. Even the short hop from the height of the cabin to the helipad risked breaking a bone.
Since birth, Rafe — as he preferred to be addressed — had suffered from osteogenesis imperfecta, also known as brittle bone disease, an autosomal defect in collagen production, leaving him thin-boned and short in stature. Due to a slight hunch from mild scoliosis and a clouding of his dark eyes, most took him to be decades older than his thirty-four years.
Yet he was no invalid. He kept himself fit enough with calcium and bisphosphonate supplements, along with a series of experimental growth hormones. He also exercised to the point of obsession, making up in muscle for what he lacked in bones.
Still, he knew his greatest asset lay not in bone or muscle.
As he was lowered from the helicopter’s cabin, he raised his eyes to the night sky. He could name every constellation and each star that composed them. His memory was eidetic, photographic, retaining all the knowledge that crossed his path. He often considered his fragile skull as nothing more than a thin shell enclosing a vast black hole, one capable of sucking in all light and wisdom.
So despite his disability, his family had had high hopes for him. He’d had to live up to those expectations, to make up for his shortcomings. Because of his defect, he had been mostly pushed aside, kept hidden away, but now he was needed at this most auspicious moment, offered a chance to bring great honor to his family.
It was said the Saint Germaine lineage traced back to before the French Revolution, and that much of the family fortune came from war profiteering. And while this continued through to modern times, the family company now extended into a multitude of businesses and enterprises.
Rafe, with his exceptional mind, oversaw the Saint Germaines’ research-and-development projects, sequestered and isolated in the Rhône-Alpes region near the city of Grenoble. The area was a hotbed for all manner of scientific pursuits, a melting pot of industry and academic research. The Saint Germaine family had its fingers in hundreds of projects across various labs and companies, mostly specializing in microelectronics and nanotechnology. Rafe alone held thirty-three patents.