GOLD RIVER (Book 1)

Chapter 3

Kate Lockhart chained her bicycle to a rack outside her flat and started for the staircase leading up to the front door. Oxford, England... the city of dreaming spires stood clustered around her with old churches, university halls and dorms, modern and classic style restaurants, as well as an abundance of resident buildings and cottages spread along the outskirts of the ethnically diverse town. She blew an exhausted sigh from her lips as she climbed the steps to the main entrance. After standing all day at the museum, her feet ached, and her calves throbbed.

Before she picked out the correct key, Kate caught sight of a man approaching with a casual gait. His shoes shined a brilliant ebony, clacking across the sidewalk. The rest of his attire appeared impeccable: a tailored black suit, matching vest over a crisp white shirt, and a tie, canary yellow, held in place by a silver clip. A Rolex hung loosely on his left wrist.

Momentarily, she held his gaze and then turned away to face the main entrance. Dark mildew from a century of rain stained the stone edifice of the exterior wall, her nose crinkling from the damp smell permeating from its weathered surface.

As the man passed behind her, she inserted her key into the bronze doorknob, all the while battling an unexpected rush of jittery nerves. Something didn't seem right about the fellow, especially the manner in which he stared at her. Occasionally, robberies occurred in Oxford, but mostly at night, not so much in the late evenings, and usually muggers were not so smartly dressed.

Kate breathed in, exhaled, and occupied her mind with thoughts of work as she turned the key.

She had spent a long day overseeing a return shipment of artifact crates at the museum. The marquee exhibit featured a collection of items from King Tutankhamen's New Kingdom era. The key piece on display from the Egyptian museum in Cairo was the death mask of King Tut. The loan process took months of planning, paperwork, red tape, and groveling to secure the mask only for most of the public to disregard and fail to understand the significance of the prized discovery unearthed in 1922 by the famous archeologist Howard Carter. The exhibit ended yesterday—which meant more office work and less time out on the main floor in the weeks to come.

"Excuse me, Ms. Lockhart?" a raspy voice beckoned from behind her.

With the door ajar, she turned and said, "Yes. May I help you?"

The same man who passed by moments ago offered a crooked smile. Dark brown hair sat atop a pair of topaz blue eyes and a square jaw. "I think I'm the one that can help you."

"How so? You're an American."

That crooked smile again with a slight chuckle. "Yes. You're the curator and historian at the Ashmolean Museum of Art and Archeology."

"That's correct."

"I'm overseas for the Tut display at your museum."

"Splendid, I hope you enjoyed it. How is it you can help me?"

"You dropped something. It must've fallen out of your purse, so I followed you here."

"I don't recall—"

He removed a gold pocket watch from inside his jacket.

"How did you get that?"

"I told you. You dropped it."

"But I..."

"It's yours alright. Go on. Take it. The inscription on the back proves it."

Kate inspected the round body of the watch, opening it, closing it, and turning it over. Sure enough, the cursive engraving read, The Lockhart Family 1917.

"Thank you so much. How could I ever repay you?"

A genuine smile this time. "Your work at the museum is thanks enough. Have a good day, madam."

Kate paused, pondering the encounter. She never carried her pocket watch in her purse, always in her trousers. When it wasn't there, it was on her desk at work, or on her nightstand at home. Always. She drew her lips to one side, nodded, and turned for the door, leaving the man standing on the bottom step.

Inside, she climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered her flat with a different key. Her body flinched and her purse slipped from her grasp, a cry escaping her mouth. Her nanny lied, sprawled across the living room tiles, her throat slit, blood pooling onto the polished marble floor. Behind her, a man with raven black hair sat on the edge of her couch clutching the handle of a hunting knife... the curved edge of the blade held to her trembling four-year-old daughter's throat.

The door creaked behind Kate and closed with a clunk. The American with topaz eyes tilted his chin and said, "As you can see, Ms. Lockhart, we have a lot to talk about."