The Collector 3: Cauldron

  THE COLLECTOR 3:

  CAULDRON

  A. J. Matthews

  ®

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * * *

  This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable (ménage and violence).

  The Collector 3: Cauldron

  A. J. Matthews

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924

  Carson City NV 89701-1215

  www.loose-id.com

  Copyright © December 2006 by A. J. Matthews

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

  ISBN 978-1-59632-375-9

  Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

  Printed in the United States of America

  Editor: C. B. Calsing

  Cover Artist: Christine M. Griffin

  www.loose-id.com

  Chapter One

  As Kate emerged from the arrivals gate at Newark airport, she scanned the waiting crowds. Dozens of people looked eagerly at her face, only for their gaze to slide away to the person following behind her. More than a few men gave her a lingering look, but she ignored them. She squared her shoulders and looked for the person who would be waiting for her ‑‑ if the strange invitation could be believed.

  Several amongst the crowd held signs with names written on them. There were pieces of paper, off-cuts of cardboard, even a whiteboard pad to lure the eyes of the expected travelers. A middle-aged woman quite close by held up a laminated sheet of paper printed with Kate’s name in large letters. The woman’s eyes were already upon her and held a hint of recognition. Kate towed her travel case over and gave her a smile that mixed caution with relief. “Hi, I’m Kate Susadi.”

  The woman swiftly tucked the sign under her left arm and extended her hand. “I’m Audra Phelan. Good to see you, Miss Susadi.” Her handshake was brisk and businesslike.

  “Likewise.”

  A faint smile creased Audra’s face as she released her clasp, and she cocked her head. “I think you had some doubts about coming here?” Her educated accent held an inflexion that spoke to Kate of Latin America.

  Kate laughed nervously. “Yeah ‑‑ and then some!” Audra gestured toward the exit and Kate fell into step alongside her as she strode off. “I admit this whole set-up seems fantastic. I mean, my being asked to fly all this way because of my granddad ...”

  Audra held up her hand and cut her off in mid flow. “Miss Susadi, I must ask you to be patient,” she said. “This is really not the time or place for questions. Rest assured, the Collector will explain all to you when we get there.”

  “Where’re we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  * * * * *

  The drive from the airport wasn’t long, nor was it enlightening for Kate. Audra had been pleasant company, chatting about this and that, but she’d adroitly avoided any attempts on Kate’s part to discover more about the mysterious Collector or their destination.

  That had proved to be a secluded mansion on a hillside, tucked away in a quiet suburb well off the highway. Tall electronic gates barred the entrance; a long driveway curved up and around to the portico of the mansion. Audra hadn’t given her time to gaze at the house or take in the pleasant view of the grounds whisking her into the huge entrance hall and then into an antechamber.

  And here she’d been alone for thirty minutes by the ornate gilded clock on the carved marble mantelpiece.

  At least the room was an interesting one. Her keen eye picked out several genuine artifacts kept under glass or mounted on the walls. As her nerves settled after hours of continuous movement, she walked slowly about the room, perusing antique vases, fragments of ancient clay tablet, and what appeared to be a South American tribal fetish. Even as she examined them, her attention kept wavering towards the door at the other end of the room. The temptation to open it and explore was growing by the minute.

  Almost without conscious volition, she wandered closer and closer to the door as she looked at the artifacts, until she stood in front of it. She was reaching out to grasp the knob when she heard the door behind her open.

  Spinning round, she felt her face grow warm and explanations hurried to her lips, to die unspoken as she saw the Greek god standing there gazing at her.

  Matt O’Brien was unaware of his elevation to godhood, his attention being focused instead on the attractive, young, dark-skinned woman hovering by the other door. Her whole demeanor was one of guilt, and he had little doubt about the cause.

  “That’s the Collector’s study,” he said, walking into the room. “He’s not to be disturbed.”

  Her fine dark face flushed darker at his rebuke, but her chin came up, and she gave him a cool look. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware, Mr ...?”

  “O’Brien, Matt O’Brien.”

  “Do you work for him?”

  “No,” he said and felt sheepish at his instinctive assumption of a doorkeeper’s role. “I’m not that lucky.”

  “So who’re you to tell me what I can or can’t do?” she asked, and her eyes flashed.

  “I’ve been made aware of the house rules is all.” He cocked his head. “Who’re you, anyway?”

  “I’m Kate.” She made no attempt to shake hands as he drew near. “I’ve been asked to come here by the Collector.”

  “Really?” Anyone summoned by the Collector had to be quality, but beyond her looks, he couldn’t figure what it could be.

  “Yes, really.” She looked him over in turn. “Any idea what he wants?”

  Matt sighed and made no attempt to conceal his impatience. “No, I haven’t.” He waved at the artifacts around the room. “At a guess I’d say it’s something to do with history or archaeology.” He looked her up and down. She had a nice figure, slender and probably small-breasted beneath her loose jacket, but his mind was on other matters, and her presence was irritating. “What’s your discipline?”

  “I’m an actress.”

  He blinked. “Pardon?”

  Her sharp intake of breath could have been heard on the other side of the room. “I’m a jobbing actress.”

  She could’ve calmly announced she’d just flown in from the Moon as far as he was concerned. “What?”

  “How many more times do I have to tell you? Got a problem with that, mister?” Her fists clenched at her side

  He held up his hands and backed off, grinning. “No! No problem at all.”

  “Good!”

  “Have I seen you in anything?” Even as he asked the question, he had a feeling there was something familiar about her.

  “September Grove. I played Bernice Owen.”

  Her chin came up, and her voice held a note of defiant pride. September Grove; the name was familiar. Ah, yeah! One of Mom’s favorites. He shook his head. “You’re an actress? Well, wel
l!” He rocked on his feet, then turned away and examined a portrait of a Regency lady that hung between the two windows. He smiled as he hummed to himself. “I can’t say I’ve had much time for TV of any kind, so I wouldn’t have known. It’s not for me to question the Collector as to who he asks here. He must have his reasons.”

  “You know this guy, then?” she asked. He would swear her teeth were clenched.

  “I know him only by reputation. When it comes to archaeology, he’s quite a legend as far as Harvard is concerned.” He gave her a casual sideways glance. “Of course, I’m not surprised you don’t know him.” Even as he shot the barb, he felt it was a mean act, beneath his dignity as an Ivy League graduate.

  “Of course not,” she said coldly, and glanced at a cabinet, “but from what I see here he’s worked on Mycenaean digs on Crete, Ptolemaic-era Egypt, Romano-Judean Israel, Jordan, Persian era Iran and Iraq, and at some point South America.” She pointed at the fetish. “That’s Yanomami, isn’t it?”

  He stared at her and found his jaw had dropped. He closed it with a clack.

  “You’re quite right, Miss,” Audra said, giving Matt another shock. He’d not noticed her enter the room through the study door. The look she gave him was bone-dry and all-knowing. “The Collector will see you now. Won’t you both come this way?”

  Andrew Bryden Martin chuckled to himself at the look of surprise on the young graduate’s face. He closed the CCTV link on the desk computer and leaned back in his upholstered leather chair, rubbing his chest. God knew it was always good to laugh, but it brought a share of pain for him these days. His old leg wound gave a sharp twinge, and he sighed and rubbed it too. “Damn, but I’m falling apart!” he said to himself.

  He waited for Audra to lead his two young guests into the study, and reflected on his choice. Matt O’Brien ... The kid was a rising star in his field, but he showed matching signs of arrogance. It was not unknown for someone from the wrong side of the tracks to try to out-snob the most patrician Boston Brahmin. But the handsome young fellow’s pomposity had taken a sharp knock at the hands of Kate Susadi, and he could see even through the medium of the computer how much she resembled her grandfather in looks and spirit. His gaze flickered to the desk photograph. The images of two young men gazed back with the broad smiles and easy camaraderie of students everywhere. He remembered that day. An hour after that picture had been taken he’d received the call to Harvard, and Tom hadn’t. Reaching out, he made a small, precise adjustment to the frame. The glass ceiling still existed for people of color back then, however intelligent they were. Tom hadn’t taken it well.

  And now his granddaughter was here. From all the signs, she had Tom’s spirit, his fire. Yes, it promised to be an interesting interview.

  Kate wasn’t sure what to expect when she was ushered into the study. Her experience of being in the homes of reclusive multi-millionaires was nil. Books would feature, she guessed; possibly heavy brown furniture; maybe an antique globe of the world. What she didn’t quite expect was a bright and cheerful room with a stunning view over the well-tended grounds and the hills beyond.

  An elderly man sat in an upholstered, black leather chair behind a modern desk. His frame was slight, seeming to inhabit rather than wear his expensive suit, and his cheekbones showed prominently on his pale features. She sensed his health was far from good. There was a faint medical smell in the air of a kind she’d noticed in the retirement home where her mom’s mother lived. She guessed his age to be around mid-seventies, but he had a head of thick gray hair.

  As they entered, he tapped his fingers on the surface of the desk, and she realized he was working on a recessed computer. The reflected glow of a monitor screen faded from his face, and he turned to them. Bright eyes of an indefinable shade of gray or blue regarded them with an air of expectancy.

  “Do come in.” He gestured to the two guest chairs set in front of the desk. “I’m so glad you accepted my invitation.”

  Kate sat down, her actress’ professional ear working instinctively to analyze the Collector’s accent. It was essentially New England, perhaps derived from an Ivy League college. She glanced at Matt O’Brien. His face wore the expression of someone granted an audience with the Pope, and she felt her lip curl in derision.

  Matt’s attention was fixed on the man behind the desk. He barely noticed Audra’s quiet departure from the room as he stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir!” he said.

  The Collector shook hands, his clasp dry and moderately strong. Matt noticed the presence of liver spots on the pale skin and felt a momentary stab of pity for the man.

  “Do sit down, young man,” the Collector said, gesturing again to the chair. “I’ve heard a lot about you from some of my old friends at Harvard.”

  “All good I hope, sir?” Matt said, and all but kicked himself at the trite response. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kate turn her head away but caught the smirk on her lips. He fought the temptation to shoot her an angry glance as he felt his face grow hot with embarrassment.

  “Yes,” the Collector said quietly. “You can relax, Mr. O’Brien. There’s no need to try to impress me. Your track record in research is quite remarkable and speaks for itself.”

  Matt felt his face burn hotter and chided himself for acting like an over-keen, sixth-grade kid. “Thank you.”

  “I was particularly impressed by your work on the Celtic legends of Ireland.” The Collector raised a finger. “It’s pertinent to the reason why I asked you here, and I’ll touch on that in a moment. Now, Kate,” he said, turning to her. “I’m reasonably sure you’re wondering why you were invited here.”

  “Guess I am, at that,” she said with a wry smile. “I don’t get many offers like this.”

  “You’re young.” He tilted his head and regarded her. “I’d say your age is around twenty-five?”

  “Close; I’m twenty-four.”

  “Indeed.” He nodded, and gave her a keen look. “You won’t have known your grandfather, Thomas.”

  The sudden mention of the name hit her like a physical blow to the chest. Kate found her jaw had dropped and she closed it quickly. “Granddad Tom? No, he died long before I was born.” She looked at him curiously. “You spoke of him in your letter. Did you really know him, sir?”

  He smiled; it was a smile that held a touch of pain, whether real or remembered, she couldn’t tell. “Oh yes; I knew Tom Susadi. We were graduates together, way back when. I went up to Harvard, and our ways parted, but we stayed in touch.” His gaze flickered to the desk photo and back to her. “As for his dying ... it may be more accurate to say he disappeared.”

  “I was told he was dead,” she said in a near whisper. “Are you telling me he isn’t? Have you found him?”

  “No.” The Collector held up one hand as he retrieved a book from a drawer in the desk. He laid it on the polished surface and slid it across to her with both hands, aligning it precisely at a right-angle to her line of sight. “But young Matt here found his journal.”

  Kate leaned forward and examined the book. It was a perfectly-bound journal of a kind which she’d only seen in the more expensive stationary stores, with worn blue marbled boards, stained with indefinable substances. The rectangular white panel near the top bore the name Thomas Susadi in firm, precise letters.

  She looked along her shoulder at Matt, who sat watching her with raised eyebrows. “I didn’t know Thomas Susadi was your grandfather!” he exclaimed before she could speak.

  “Would it have made a difference to the way you treated me back there?” she said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the anteroom. His blush spoke volumes, and for a moment, she felt sorry for making him uncomfortable, but she reined the feeling back and tapped the journal. “Where did you find this?”

  “It was in a second-hand bookstore in Galway, Ireland. I was over there on a field trip last year when I came across it on a day off.” He shot a glance at the Collector, who was watching them with his hand
s clasped on the desk before him. “I recognized the name immediately so I bought it.” He gave her a half-smile, showing a flash of even, white teeth. “The guy running the store thought it was somebody’s puzzle book.”

  “That was an easy mistake to make,” the Collector said, and waved a hand at the journal. “Please, open the book and examine it.”

  Kate did so, read the first few lines and was struck by the sheer nonsense of the writing. “It’s in code!” she said.

  “Yes. Tom was a fiercely ambitious man in many ways,” the Collector said sadly. “He was jealous of those more successful than himself; it drove him to greater and greater extremes to achieve what he thought were his just rewards.” He gestured at the book. “That encryption of his work was a symptom of that passion. From his earliest student days, he saw to it that no one else would crib his work and steal his glory.”

  “I heard something about him from my dad. Granddad Tom’s a family legend.” She stroked the worn cover, feeling the smooth texture. “How did this come to turn up in Ireland?”

  “He went there thirty years ago to conduct a search for Celtic artifacts. It was an obsession of his to find a legendary cauldron said to have belonged to Queen Maeve.” The Collector spread his hands. “He did write to me about it, but I confess I was otherwise occupied and couldn’t pay my old friend’s musings the attention he no doubt felt they deserved.”

  He waved a hand at Matt. “Matt’s professor is an old colleague of mine, and he notified me when Matt turned up back home the proud possessor of Tom’s journal. When I got in touch with him, Matt kindly agreed to send it on to me.”

  “So what happened to him?” she asked bluntly. “You said he disappeared? Are you implying he’s still out there somewhere?”

  “Truthfully, I don’t know.” His faded blue-gray eyes regarded her somberly. “I would like to know myself, for my old friend’s sake. But I do have some clues about where he may’ve gone in Ireland and the places he visited there.”