Karen Rose
Die for Me
Daniel Vartanian 1, 2007
Dedicated to the memory of Dr. Zoltan J. Kosztolnyik, Professor Emeritus of Medieval History, Texas A &M University.
Although I never had the privilege of knowing him personally, I have had the honor, privilege, and pleasure of knowing the daughter he raised.
And as always, to my precious husband Martin.You touch the lives of your students every day, bringing history to life with the same unique combination of passion, intelligence, and acerbic wit that made me fall in love with you twenty-five years ago.
Whether you’re dressing up like Cleopatra, illustrating the Declaration of Independence using the rock music videos of ’80s hair bands, or explaining the Monroe Doctrine through the “Badger-Badger-Mushroom” Dance, you have assured that no student that passes through your class will ever forget you.
You inspire me. I love you.
Acknowledgments
So many people contributed to my knowledge base as I wrote this book. To all of you-my sincerest thanks!
Danny Agan for answering all my detective questions and especially for helping my hero locate things underground.
Tim Bechtel of Environscan, Inc. for background and technical details on ground penetrating radar.
Niki Ciccotelli for her description of growing up in Philadelphia that was so real that I felt as if I were physically there myself.
Monty Clark of the Art Institute of Florida in Ft. Lauderdale, for the invaluable and very cool information on video game design and designers.
Marc Conterato for all things medical and Kay Conterato for clipping all those extremely useful newspaper articles on insurance and hackers.
Diana Fox for a great title.
Carleton Hafer for answering all my computer questions in a way I could clearly understand.
Linda Hafer for the wonderful introduction to opera and for opening a world of music I never thought I would like but that I do!
Elaine Kriegh for her vivid descriptions of medieval tomb monuments.
Sonie Lasker, my sempai, for demonstrating weapon technique and teaching me how personally rewarding martial arts can be. Domo arigato.
Deana Seydel Rivera for showing me Philadephia-and three days before her wedding, no less.
Loretta Rogers for her motorcycle expertise. How I wish I had the courage to fly on two wheels!
Sally Schoeneweiss and Mary Pitkin for keeping my Web site organized, functional and beautiful.
My language advisors: Mary C Turner and Anne Crowder-Merci beaucoup, Bob Busch and Barbara Mulrine-Spasiba, Kris Alice Hohls-Danke, Sarah Hafer-Domo arigato.
Friends who answered my catch-all questions here and there-Shari Anton, Terri Bolyard, Kathy Caskie, Sherrilyn Kenyon, and Kelley St. John.
My editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, and my agent, Robin Rue, who make this so much fun.
As always, all mistakes are my own.
Prologue
Philadelphia, Saturday, January 6
The first thing that hit Warren Keyes was the smell. Ammonia, disinfectant… and something else. What else? Open your eyes, Keyes. He could hear his own voice echo inside his head and he struggled to lift his eyelids. Heavy. They were so heavy, but he fought until they stayed open. It was dark. No. There was a little light. Warren blinked once, then again with more force until a flickering light came into focus.
It was a torch, mounted on the wall. His heart started thudding hard in his chest. The wall was rock. I’m in a cave. His heart began to race. What the hell is this? He lunged forward and white-hot pain speared down his arms to his back. Gasping, he fell back against something flat and hard.
He was tied. Oh God. His hands and feet were tied. And he was naked. Trapped. Fear rose from his belly, clawing his insides. He twisted like a wild animal, then fell back again, panting, tasting the disinfectant as he sucked in air. Disinfectant and…
His breath hitched as he recognized the odor under the disinfectant. Something dead. Rotting. Something died here. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to panic. This isn’t happening. This is just a dream, a nightmare. In a minute I’ll wake up.
But he wasn’t dreaming. This, whatever it was, was real. He was stretched out on a board on a slight incline, his wrists tied together and his arms pulled up and behind his head. Why? He tried to think, to remember. There was something… a picture in his mind, just beyond his reach. He strained for the memory and realized his head ached-he winced as the pain sent little black spots dancing across his eyes. God, it was like a really bad hangover. But he hadn’t been drinking. Had he?
Coffee. He remembered drinking coffee, his hands closing around the cup to get warm. He’d been cold. He’d been outside. Running. Why was he running? He rotated his wrists, feeling his raw skin burn, reaching until the tips of his fingers touched rope.
“So you’re finally awake.”
The voice came from behind him and he craned his neck, trying to see. Then he remembered and the pressure on his chest lessened a fraction. It was a movie. I’m an actor and we were making a movie. A history documentary. He’d been running with… with what? He grimaced, focusing. A sword, that’s it. He’d been in medieval costume, a knight with a helmet and shield… even chain mail, for God’s sake. The entire scene came back now. He’d changed his clothes, even his underwear, for some scratchy, shapeless burlap that irritated his crotch. He’d had a sword, and he’d carried it as he ran through the woods outside Munch’s studio, yelling at the top of his lungs. He’d felt like a damn idiot, but he’d done it all because it was in the damn script.
But this-he jerked at the ropes again with no success-this was not in the script.
“Munch.” Warren’s voice was thick, grating on his dry throat. “What the hell is this?”
Ed Munch appeared to his left. “I didn’t think you’d ever wake up.”
Warren blinked as the dim light from the torch flickered across the man’s face. His heart skipped a beat. Munch had changed. Before he’d been old, shoulders stooped. White hair and a trim mustache. Warren swallowed, his breath shallow. Now Munch stood straight. His mustache was gone. So was his hair, his head shaved shiny bald.
Munch wasn’t old. Dread coiled in his gut, seething and roiling. The deal was five hundred for the documentary. Cash if he came that day. Warren had been suspicious-it was a lot of money for a history documentary they’d show on PBS if he was lucky. But he’d agreed. One odd old man was no threat.
But Munch wasn’t old. Bile rose, choking him. What have I done? Close on the heels of that question came the next, more terrifying. What will he do to me?
“Who are you?” Warren croaked out and Munch held a bottle of water to his lips. Warren pulled away, but Munch grabbed his chin with surprising strength. His dark eyes narrowed and fear made Warren freeze.
“It’s just water this time,” Munch ground out. “Drink it.”
Warren spat the mouthful of water back in the man’s face and held himself rigid when Munch raised his fist. But the fist lowered and Munch shrugged.