Sanskrit Cipher: A Marina Alexander Adventure Read online

  The message was short and to the point, from Ghomie Prana: A librarian archivist here found a strange bee packed up in a box sent from Paris in 1897! Weird. Can you take a look at it, see if there’s anything special about it? Photo attached. Copying Jill Fetzer, the archivist, on this for your response.

  Eli absently clicked on the photo just as his cell phone rang. “Milea,” he said as he answered. “Thanks for calling me.”

  “You said it was urgent, so here I am.” Milea had a high-pitched, squeaky voice that made her sound as if she were a preteen, but in reality she was a forty-year-old biochemistry wiz.

  “I’ve got something I need tested,” he said, picking up the syringe, still with a tissue, just in case there were fingerprints. He hadn’t returned Detective Perle’s callback to his message yet. “As soon as you can. Do you have access to a database that would include the chemical makeup of drugs—or medications?”

  “Drugs? What’s going on, Sanchez?” Even with her squeaky voice, Milea sounded no-nonsense. “You bring something illegal back from Brazil?”

  He laughed wryly. “It’s been a couple years since I’ve been there, so no. It’d be easier for me to explain in person. Can I meet you at your lab?”

  Fortunately, her lab was only on the next block and not on the other side of Green Street—although that meant Milea worked in an older, less state-of-the-art facility. Only the “big bucks” majors—like engineering—with the fancy new buildings and state-of-the-art labs were north of Green. Every other discipline—like entomology and biochemistry—located south of the main drag was basically chopped liver. Nonetheless, Milea ran her older, draftier, less state-of-the art lab with precision and care, and Eli trusted she’d be able to help him determine what someone had tried to inject in him. He began shoving Patty’s things into his gym bag, ending with the syringe, bundled in tissues.

  “I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.” Milea still sounded suspicious, but friendship obviously won out. “I’ve got to teach a class at four.”

  Eli disconnected and was about to walk out of his office when he saw the tequila. After snatching it up—God knew he might need it later—he grabbed the box with Patty’s things and rushed out without shutting down his computer.

  Nineteen

  Libertyville, Illinois

  July 9, early evening

  Jill checked her email yet again and ground her teeth. This Dr. Eli Sanchez still hadn’t responded to Ghomie’s message on her behalf, asking about the bee. It had been over twenty-four hours, and Ghomie had said he knew the entomologist was in town for the summer because he’d just seen him the week before.

  It must not be anything special, then.

  Jill was disappointed. She had become strangely attached to the small creature that had traveled so far—both in geographic distance, and in decades. He—it—was so small, and it looked like no other insect or bee she’d ever seen. The color was uniquely beautiful: a soft pinkish metallic hue, like a rosy gold. One of the wings had been dislodged, probably during the voyage; she’d found it tangled in the cotton batting and saved it.

  Jill had propped him back up on his little display cube via the pin stuck through his abdomen, and he sat next to where she’d spread out her work. She’d brought the package sent to Alexina Donovan back to her townhouse so she could work on transcribing the letter in the evenings after the train ride home from campus.

  It was, technically, work because it was some sort of historical find—but she felt a little guilty spending time on it when she was in the middle of research for a book about how, at the turn of the century, folk medicine had competed with the practices at Catholic charity hospitals in Chicago. However, being on sabbatical this summer made it slightly easier to allot the time, and she didn’t allow herself to work on it until after eight o’clock each night.

  And this little mystery was so much more interesting. The ancient medicinal pot—which she hadn’t attempted to break the seal on and open yet. The tiny bit of research she’d allowed herself during her lunch break today had Jill fairly certain the letters etched on the jar were Sanskrit, or some similar language, so now she needed to find an expert on that.

  But first she needed to read the letter. The task was slow-going—deciphering the spiky, smudged, splattered, and slapdash penmanship of Nicolas Notovitch.

  A warm breeze dampened by an early summer rain during her train ride home filtered through the open window. Jill turned her face toward it to catch the fresh air, and frowned when she heard thunder in the distance. She might have to close the windows—something she hated doing when the weather was so mild.

  Turning back to her laptop, she clicked away from email and pulled up Google. Jill hadn’t yet done the obvious—a basic online search—because she wanted to stick with the primary source to see what she could learn from it alone. But her eyes were tired and dry, and she was mildly annoyed with this supposedly brilliant Eli Sanchez and his silence.

  She dove right in, typing in the search box: Alexina Donovan Rand McNally. And then stared at the results.

  Whoa.

  The very first thing that came up was a listing: The Secret Life of Jesus Christ by Nicolas Notovitch. Translated by Alexina Loranger Donovan. Published by Rand McNally, 1894.

  Well, that was easy, she thought. And that answered several questions: what her great-grandmother had done for Rand McNally, and how she knew Notovitch. And possibly why he would have sent her something. Though a bee? Really?

  Just as she was about to click on the link (the secret life of Jesus? Talk about provocative!), she heard something.

  A rustling, just outside the window.

  In her backyard. In the shiny, damp darkness.

  Something about the noise made Jill’s skin prickle. Her breath became a little shallow as she looked out into the damp night.

  Not one to be easily spooked, Jill was nevertheless one to pay attention to instinct—something she hadn’t done when she married Phil Traft, unfortunately—and she curled her fingers around her mobile phone, all the while still looking into the darkness.

  Still alert. Still prickling.

  Why don’t I have a dog?

  There was no good answer for that; she loved dogs—but now was not the time to bemoan the lack.

  A shadow moved somewhere where no movement should have been—just beyond the small, postage-sized patio off her sliding door.

  Which wasn’t locked.

  Or even closed.

  Jill swallowed hard and refused to panic. She insisted that her mind remain clear and focused even as a cold sweat broke out over her skin.

  Her front door was locked. At least he couldn’t get in that way. Or through the garage.

  She peered into the darkness without being obvious. The last thing she wanted to do was tip the guy off that she’d seen him.

  If anyone was even there.

  Maybe she hadn’t seen anyone after all. Who would be lurking around behind a row of townhouses, anyway? It was only nine o’clock—people were still up. The only reason it was dark was because of the rain.

  Her mouth dried.

  Maybe he’s waiting till everyone on the block goes to bed.

  She felt sick. Then an idea came to her. Looking at her phone, she pretended to answer it.

  In a clear voice that carried, she said, using the first name that popped into her head, “Nick! Where are you? Two minutes? Excellent. I’ll open the wine. Oh, Brad’s with you? Well, that should be fun. I’ve never played poker with a cop before!”

  Even as she carried on this faux conversation, Jill wandered casually toward the sliding door. She watched the darkness without seeming to. Nothing moved. Nothing lurked there at the door.

  But her hand was damp with sweat and her insides churned as she slammed the door shut. She finished the movement by snapping the lock into place immediately, still pretending she had no idea someone was out there.

  But now she knew someone was—for when she got to the door, just b
efore she shoved it closed, she’d clearly seen the silhouette standing there. Just beyond her patio table with the umbrella. Right there in her backyard.

  Her heart was in her throat, and now she dialed 911, speaking quickly and calmly while she watched the patio from safely inside her house. Nothing moved. But she knew he was out there.

  Just as Jill hung up the phone with the dispatch—who was sending someone out immediately—her email dinged from the laptop.

  Though her mind was on other things, she automatically looked at her inbox.

  Eli Sanchez.

  Well, it was about time the entomologist got back to her.

  It felt good to think about something else for a moment. Jill was shaking and clammy, and she felt like she was going to puke. But the police were on the way and her doors were locked, so she had time to read Dr. Sanchez’s email. It would calm and distract her.

  But the contents of his message left her even more shocked and startled:

  I need to see that bee in person, ASAP. Don’t tell anyone about it. Text me ASAP a place to meet. Be careful!

  Be careful? What did that mean? Why had he said that?

  Instinctively, she glanced out into the darkness. Nothing moved. Whoever had been there was gone. She swallowed, and her dry throat crackled.

  Please let him be gone.

  Be careful? What did Sanchez mean by that? Why had he said that?

  Jill’s hands were cold and damp and her stomach felt like the skin of a drum. Her attention rested on the bee.

  What the hell is so important about this little insect?

  Twenty

  Champaign, Illinois

  University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign

  July 9, late evening

  “Dude, what the hell you got going on here?” Milea’s squeaky voice had dropped several notches into tenor territory. “Why you carrying around a syringe with sufentanil in it?”

  Eli winced and, despite the fact that no one was around the building at night, closed the door to his colleague’s biochem lab as he considered how much to tell her. He’d dropped off the syringe earlier and then had to wait until now, when she finally got back to him with the results. He’d spent the day hiding out and making sure he wasn’t followed or seen by anyone, wearing dark glasses and a ball cap for the Red Sox—the perfect disguise, since everyone knew he loathed the Boston team and wouldn’t be caught dead wearing the big red B on his hat.

  He was beginning to feel like a cross between Jason Bourne and The Man Who Knew Too Much—which reminded him of Marina Alexander and all of the vintage Hitchcock posters on her walls in Ann Arbor. The last time his life had been endangered like this, it had been the two of them escaping from the Amazon jungle in a little plane after being kidnapped from a hotel in Chicago. His hair still stood up all over his body whenever he remembered that harrowing adventure…what, three years ago? Four? The last time he’d seen Marina was a little weekend sojourn a little more than six months ago, when they were both in Mallorca for different conferences during the winter. He smiled a little at the memory of their own personal, very private happy hour.

  Then his smile faded because he remembered the photograph of the “weird bee” that had been sent to him by Ghomie Prana. He hadn’t had a chance to look at his email again until about an hour ago. That was when he actually looked at the photo of the bee for the first time, and his heart had stopped and very nearly didn’t start again, because that bee had matched the description of the one Patty had emailed him about.

  Eli had immediately emailed Jill Fetzer and asked her to text him ASAP, praying he wasn’t too late. He hadn’t heard back from her yet.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on.” Understatement of the year.

  Eli glanced at his smartphone again. No texts, and it was nearly nine p.m.

  Maybe he should call Ghomie and see if he could give him the phone number for this Jill Fetzer. Chances were it had nothing to do with whatever was going on—what was going on?—but he tended to err on the side of caution. Last thing he wanted was another innocent person to get hurt because of…whatever it was that was going on.

  In the end, he decided on the truth without details, mainly so that Milea would take the situation seriously. “Someone tried to break into my hotel room, and they dropped the syringe. I figured I’d better find out whether the asshole was trying to kill me, or just put me out for a while.”

  “Well, I’ve got good news, doc—he was trying to kill you. But at least it would have been quick and fairly painless,” Milea said.

  “How’s that good news?”

  “Means he wasn’t going to work you over and then kill you; he was just going to kill you. It’s an opioid that’s about four times stronger than fentanyl. They mostly use it for large animals in veterinary practices. There’s enough in here to put down an angry bull. Permanently.” She shrugged, but her eyes were filled with worry. “What’re you mixed up in, Eli?”

  “Like I said, I have no clue. But I’d better get out of here before whoever came after me with that catches up to me here. I’m sorry to get you—” He paused when his phone dinged with a text message.

  Finally. It was Jill Fetzer, the woman who wanted to know about the bee.

  Where do you want to meet? Someone tried to break into my place two hours ago. What is going on???? This is Jill Fetzer. Ghomie’s friend.

  Crap. So much for keeping an innocent out of whatever mess this was.

  “Sorry, Milea, I’ve got to run—I don’t want you to get any more involved,” he said. “Probably best if you haven’t seen me, you know? And…just be careful, all right?” Eli gave her a quick, hard hug. Then he snatched up the syringe—which she’d put into a small box for safekeeping—and slipped from the lab, leaving her staring after him with wide, round eyes and shaking head.

  He prayed she’d be safe.

  Instead of texting Jill Fetzer, Eli called the number as soon as he’d ducked into a silent, empty lab two floors below Milea’s.

  A woman answered right away. “Dr. Sanchez?”

  “Yes—”

  “Before we go any further, tell me what color Ghomie Prana’s hair is right now.”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, Eli couldn’t hold back a smile. “He doesn’t have any hair. Bald as a baby’s bottom. But he’s got a tattoo on the back of the scalp that’s the Chinese symbol for life. So—”

  “And what’s a-a Coleopteroid?” she demanded, a little breathlessly.

  “My favorite insect—a beetle,” Eli replied.

  “Okay.” Jill let out her breath in a long whoosh. “Okay. Sorry about that, Dr. Sanchez, but I’m a little freaked out.”

  “All right. Are you somewhere safe?”

  “The police just left—left here, my house. Someone was out back, lurking around out there, and I called the police. And then I got your email, and it really freaked me out.” She whooshed out another long breath. “Sorry I keep saying that, but I’m not— This isn’t what I… I mean, I’m an archivist, not a—an entomologist. I work with old documents, not— Well, I had no idea the bug world was so cutthroat.”

  Insect world.

  “Trust me, it’s usually not,” he said dryly. “All right, look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I need to see that bee you found. From the picture you sent, it looks like… Well, it doesn’t matter. I need to see it, and I need you to be safe and careful about it. At least one person—maybe two—have already died, and I think it’s because of that bee.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Her voice was taut and high. “A bee? What the hell does it do, spin golden honey?”

  Eli bit his lip to keep from correcting her about how Apis bees made honey. “We need to meet up—or at least you need to get the bee to me.”

  It took another five minutes to make a plan because Jill was, understandably, freaked. Out. At least Eli had been in life-threatening situations before—both on entomology excursions in the Amazon jungle and elsewhere, and when he was e
ntangled in the whole cuprobeus beetle and Skaladeska mess with Marina Alexander. The woman on the other end of the phone had clearly never been in anything more dangerous than a fender bender. And he intended to keep it that way.

  Unfortunately, Fetzer was north of Chicago, and he was here in Champaign, which was almost a three-hour road trip.

  And, even more unfortunately, it seemed that whoever was after the bee had already pinpointed Jill and her location. He didn’t think for one minute that it was a coincidence that she’d had someone casing out her house half a day after she’d emailed him—but he didn’t know how whoever it was had pinpointed her and her location so quickly.

  Eli didn’t want to upset Jill any further, but he had to impress upon her the severity of the situation. Together they came up with a plan that, he hoped, would keep her safe until they could meet and he could get the specimen from her.

  “All right,” he said, once they both felt comfortable with the plan. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “I really need to get a dog,” she said, then disconnected the call.

  Eli left the biochem lab like a wraith, slipping into the corridor and listening carefully for any sign of life. If there were any custodians around, they gave no indication by making any noises. That made him a little nervous, because at least over in the entomology building, the crew was always bumping around at night, using the vacuum and other cleaning equipment.

  The short hair beneath the ponytail at the nape of the neck prickled as he bounded down the stairwell, his footsteps only faint thuds on the metal steps. His gym bag, which held Patty Denke’s tablet and papers, among other necessities, bumped gently against his hip.