Chapter 8: Coupling

Wednesday 1 June 1955, Indianapolis, Indiana

“Professor Allen! Professor Allen! What happened here?”

He had never heard Miss Miller’s voice so loud. They were in the library, after all. Didn’t she know? But the hands that touched him were larger than frail Miss Miller’s. And the voice that spoke next had the deep resonance of a campus security guard.

“Professor. Wake up. Take it easy. Stay still. Where are you hurt?”

Wesley groaned. Hurt? Suddenly, everything hurt. Head, arm, face, back. He wagged his head left and right and regretted the movement.

“Attacked.”

“By whom? No one came down the stairs,” Miss Miller declared.

Then Wesley remembered the open roof door.

“Out to the roof,” he rasped.

“You just stay calm and don’t move,” the guard said. “I called for an ambulance.” He left Wesley where he lay with the surprisingly tender hand of Miss Miller on his.

“There, there. Just rest, dear.”

The security guard went to the roof door and fumbled for the right key before he finally got it open.

“Nothing on the roof but this box of bedding. What’s been going on up here? Something obviously happened to you. Did the attacker have keys? Can you identify him?”

“Yes. No. I had the roof door propped open for a little fresh air up here,” Wesley said. “I don’t know about the box. I know who it was, though. He had a knife. Stuck in the table.” The guard went to investigate.

“No knife here, but there is a big gouge in the wood. Could have been a knife. I’d better call the sheriff.” The security guard went to use the phone and footsteps on the stairs outside announced the arrival of EMTs. They had Wesley loaded on a stretcher long before the sheriff arrived, and bundled Wesley out the door.

“Who is going to clean up this mess?” demanded Miss Miller. “This is not a way to treat a library.”

“I’m sure I’m okay, Miss Miller. As soon as they finish checking me out, I’ll come back and straighten the room,” Wesley said. “Or in the morning first thing. Please don’t let anyone up here until I get back. I’ll put it back in perfect order. I promise.”

Wesley was treated and released from the hospital. His face was nastily bruised and he had a bruised rib. Most serious was his twisted shoulder joint that would require rest for several days. Rebecca was frightened and tearful when she arrived at the hospital to take him home.

Once there, a sheriff’s deputy came by the house to question him, but the investigation was perfunctory and slightly insulting.

“Next time you don’t want him to do you on the roof, Miss Hart, don’t go to the stacks with him. If it wasn’t you, don’t marry him.” The deputy left and Wesley sat stunned looking at Rebecca. She smiled at him.

“I wouldn’t have fought you off,” she said.

“Rebecca, I didn’t...”

“Hush, my darling. I know. I have more faith in you than in all the rest of the world. We need to call Doc Heinrich, though.”

“They are an hour ahead of us. It’s probably too late to call them tonight,” Wesley said. The painkillers had made his head muzzy.

“Darling, it isn’t even dinnertime here yet. They are probably having cocktails or something.”

“I hate to say it, but that sounds like a great idea,” Wesley tried to laugh.

“Not with painkillers,” Rebecca admonished. “Doctor’s orders. Where is the number?” Wesley winced as he twisted to pull his wallet from his pocket. He handed the card to Rebecca and she dialed.

Doc listened silently as Wesley recapped the events of the day and the previous day’s break-in and assault of Rebecca. Finally, when the story had ended and Wesley had spent most of his anger, Doc responded.

“Wesley, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t expect him to be so near already. I was sure we had covered our tracks in visiting you. His sources of information always baffle me. I ... We would never have endangered you and Rebecca intentionally.”

“I’m so relieved that you were not more seriously hurt,” Margaret said. Rebecca, with her head next to Wesley’s listening in, quickly turned to Wesley.

“Dr. Jacobson?” Wesley said.

“I’m sorry. I’m on the extension phone. Isn’t Rebecca on with you?”

“We don’t have an extension, but we are sharing the phone,” Wesley said.

“Hello, Margaret, Doc,” Rebecca said.

“Are you all right, dear?” Margaret asked. “That must have been horribly frightening to you.”

“Yes. Who is he?” Rebecca asked. “He said he was a friend of the family.”

“He is a former student of mine,” Doc answered. “A man who scavenges ancient art treasures and sells them to wealthy clients on the black market. Most countries, as you know, have nationalized all ancient art treasures and have made it illegal to transport valuable artifacts beyond their frontiers. With the pillaging of most of Central Europe during and after the war, countries have scrambled to tighten controls, but there are many holes that a skillful smuggler can use and the communists are unwilling to help. They are as suspect as anyone else. It is rumored that one of the rare copies of the Gutenberg Bible was stolen from Germany and is now in Moscow.”

“Doc, is there a treasure that we’re after?” Wesley finally asked bluntly. “McGuire was convinced that it was a rare idol that he wanted for himself.”

“Not that I know of, Wesley,” Doc said. “I believe that the value is the city itself and the story that goes with it. We will be taking cameras to photograph the evidence, but there is no certainty that any of us could find the location without the guide. If Ryan has a spy-code of some sort, perhaps Wilton was recording something more than the musical language in his notes.”

“He mentioned a contact named Prometheus. Isn’t he the god chained to a mountain that the crows peck at?” Wesley asked.

“Yes, but I can confirm that Wilton’s contact went by the code-name Prometheus. There was a great deal of cross-over between, shall we say, occult circles and war spies. It’s said that Hitler attempted bizarre satanic rituals to assure his victory in the war.”

“Wilton was a Satanist?”

“No, no! Wesley, you must get past the point of considering everything that is not of your one true god to be of Satan. No goddess worshipper would ever bend his or her knee to the Christian god of evil. Ask Rebecca.” Wesley looked at his fiancée and she nodded. He sighed.

“What should we do?”

“How soon can you be ready to leave?” Doc asked.

“Classes are out on Friday. Rebecca leaves for the port in New York on Saturday morning,” Wesley said. “I’m clear as of my last class on Thursday—day after tomorrow.”

“Go with her,” Margaret said. “Make the voyage to England your honeymoon and then catch a ferry to France and the train to Athens. We’ll meet you there.”

“Honeymoon?” Rebecca gasped.

“We, uh ... aren’t married yet,” Wesley said.

“Well you can remedy that, can’t you?” Doc said.

“Wes, I’m frightened,” Rebecca said as she hugged him. He groaned aloud from the pain. “Sorry,” she said, easing her grip.

“I would endure any pain to hold you.” He shifted so he could wrap his left arm around her without stressing the injured right.

“People just don’t go around killing people over mythical treasures!” Rebecca shouted. “They don’t.” Her outburst turned to tears as she gently buried her head against Wesley’s good shoulder.

“I’ve never been in a fight before. I’m still shaking,” Wesley said. “I didn’t come out of this one in too good a shape.” Wesley lifted his right hand enough to stroke Rebecca’s hair. He was a musician, not an adventurer. What was he thinking? “Becc, honey, I’m frightened, too,” he whispered.

Rebecca squeezed him more tightly and he caught his breath, but didn’t move or object. Where hadn’t he been hit? Her lips brushed the bruises on his face lightly as she whispered to him.

“What are we going to do?”

Wesley discovered his lips were not bruised as badly as he thought when he pressed them against Rebecca’s. She was so beautiful to him. She tasted wonderful as her lips opened to his questing tongue. His good arm pulled her closer as they lost themselves in unaccustomed passion. Wesley’s hand slipped from her hair and gently caressed her breast. Both were shaking when they looked into each other’s eyes with undisguised desire. At last, Wesley found his voice, though it was no more than a whisper.

“My love, we are going to get married and make love and go on a long honeymoon voyage.”

“Do we have to do it in that order?” she asked.

It was good. Nice.

Neither had experience, so they had nothing to compare it with. Once they agreed to sleep together this very night, things got awkward. Rebecca did not have sleepwear at Wesley’s house. She knew if she went home to prepare, she wouldn’t come back. Wesley gave her a pair of his pajamas.