The Family Man

"I believe him," I said.

"I admit, he's never done or said anything like this before." Eric was pacing back and forth. "He usually never talks to his targets at all."

"They aren't targets, they're people." Eric stopped pacing and looked at me with guilt in his eyes.

"I didn't mean...It's just that it's become like a job," Eric stammered.

"I think you've just been fired," I said. "I hate the man, but I trust his words." Eric sat down on the edge of the bed. He reached out and pushed some of my hair tenderly off my face.

"It's a risk to believe him," Eric said softly.

"It's a risk to believe you," I countered, "though I do." Eric smiled, probably thinking the same thing that Quentin pointed out. Our experiences differ.

"I do like that you trust me."

"And now you have to trust me," I said. "A mere woman who's only been on the planet for a few decades."

"Oh, you are not a mere woman," Eric said, his smile growing. "If you tamed the beast, you're a goddess at minimum."

"This goddess is not uprooting her life. Maria and I are going to stay and trust that Quentin is truly retired."

"Then you'll need someone to hang around and make sure you stay safe," Eric said.

"Naw," I said, shaking my head, "I have a gun for that." Eric frowned and leaned back a bit. "Now a nurse that can help me recover, that's something useful."

"I believe you have my bathing resume," Eric said, leaning closer. I ignored my stitches and reached out to pull his lips to mine. The kiss was as I remembered. Soft, and filled with the same passion we had that first night.

"I won't grow old," Eric confessed in my ear, "and I can't have any more children. The curse won't let me grow my family."

"So, an ever-young lover and no more birth control. Do you think this will dissuade me?" I asked as I nibbled on his exposed neck. I felt his lips curl against my cheek. It tickled in a way.

"You may not feel that way when you're 80," Eric added.

"You'll be gone well before then," I surmised. Eric sat up with a seriousness that surprised me.

"My love has no expiration," Eric said, his eyes drilling into mine. It was a warning. I either accepted all of him or none of him. He has spent two centuries keeping a promise to his wife, his first love who died so very long ago. If I accepted him, he would be there come hell or high water. One hundred percent family man.

"How do you know we will work?" I asked. I was still gunshy after my last marriage.

"Don't you feel it?" Eric returned. I did. "You can trust a monster like Quentin but not your own mind."

"I'm really going to like that bath, aren't I?" I smiled my agreement.

"You have no idea," Eric growled. It was that sexy, I'm going to ravish you growl. I had to remember to ask the doctor what the limits of my stitches were.

***

"Why a storage facility?" Robertson asked. Eric had insisted the detective meet us at his storage unit. It was an amazing place, climate controlled, biometric security with three layers of authentication. The CIA would be jealous.

"The truth is difficult to understand," Eric said as he placed his eye near a scanner, his hand on a pad, and said something in a language I suspected was Latin. A small LED blinked acknowledgement and I heard the door lock pop. Eric opened the steel door, reached in blindly and flicked on a light switch. "We need to wait a moment. A Dr. Cruthers should be joining us in a moment."

"I don't handle drama well, Mr. Papirius," Robertson said.

"Sorry, take it or leave it," Eric said with a smile. The detective strained his head to peer into the storage unit.

I shifted my weight from one leg to the other to lessen the strain on my stiches. Eric moved quickly to place his arm around me, taking some of my weight.

"Let's move inside," Eric reconsidered, and made me use him as a crutch. We moved into the room which was half full of wooden crates, some pristine, others looked like they had been handmade and weathered to a light gray. They were all of different shapes and sizes. Eric helped me sit on one of the better looking crates, kissing my forehead for good measure. I'm not afraid to admit I was milking it a bit. After being a single mother for a few years, it was nice being someone's priority. Especially nice if that someone was Eric.

"What's all this?" Robertson asked.

"I think it would all be more understandable if we wait for Dr. Cruthers," Eric said. I knew that this one of eleven storage units that Eric had around the world. He had told me what they contained. Not the individual items, but the general nature of them. I was excited to say the least.

"If this is some kind of evidence room, I'm going to need a lot more officers," Robertson said as he looked around at dozens of crates.

"It's evidence, but not of a crime. If you're patient for a few more moments, it will become clear." Eric smiled at me as he spoke. I had told him I didn't think the detective would believe him, but it was his story to tell. I smiled back, remembering the bath the night before. There was no sex, only an intimacy I had never imagined possible. He literally bathed me, carefully washing every inch of my skin starting with my feet. Never had fingers been so seductive. Tension had evaporated and my vision of heaven was altered forever.

The detective walked to one of the crates and bent down to study it. His hands were clasped behind his back, seemingly to keep himself from touching them. Patience was not a virtue he possessed. Except for a few 'this end up' labels, none of the crates had any other markings that would define what they contained. That didn't stop detective from examining each one.

"Mr Papirius?" A small man in a brown suit said as he poked his head into the room. He was holding a small dark wooden box.

"Ah, Dr. Cruthers," Eric said happily. He moved to the door holding out his hand. Dr. Cruthers shook it with a large smile.

"I'm not sure you realize what you gave me," Dr. Cruthers said. "It's an unbelievable find. The condition is incredible." Eric ignored his statement and ushered him forward.

"This is Natalie Livingston," Eric said, introducing us. "And that inquisitive man over there is Detective Robertson." Robertson came forward anxiously.

"This is rather unorthodox," Dr. Cruthers said, looking at the detective. "Is there a problem with the providence of the brooch?"

"No, nothing like that," Eric replied waving off the thought. "The detective is here for a different reason, but your analysis will hopefully lend some credence to other information."

"What exactly are you a Doctor of?" Robertson asked.

"I'm an archeologist, detective. Currently, I'm the director of the Field Museum." Robertson's eyebrows rose.

"So, what did you find out about the brooch?" Eric asked. He was almost giddy which made me smile. Dr. Cruthers placed the wooden box on one of the crates and opened the lid. Using the white cloth inside, he extracted a golden brooch shaped like a butterfly, inlaid with many pearls and other jewels. It was attached to a tarnished gold chain.

"The brooch appears to be Egyptian," Dr. Cruthers explained. "We took samples off the reverse side and were able to date it between 2000 and 2100 years old. The gold composition is consistent with other verified Egyptian antiquities of the same period. The preservation is incredible." I could see admiration in his eyes while he explained what he knew.

"Any guesses as to it's origin?" Eric asked.

"Someone wealthy," Dr. Cruthers said. He chuckled to himself, then looked up from the brooch for the first time since he pulled it out. "Cleopatra had a special love of pearls. It would be pure fantasy, but that would be my guess."

"It is beautiful," I added.

"History always is," Dr. Cruthers said. "It's also mysterious." He looked up at Eric. "The chain is a confusing addition. First, it's a brooch used to close a tunic and wasn't designed to host a chain. Second, it's gold is of a different forge. Though just as old, a completely different chemical signature, and built with more skill than was apparent in previously known Egyptian metal work."

"Conjecture?" Eric asked.

"I need to do some more research," Dr. Cruthers replied, shaking his head.

"Possibly Roman?" Eric asked. Dr. Cruthers' eyes lit up and he held the chain up higher into the light.

"You may be right, Mr. Papirius. If you're correct, it must have quite a story behind it. Can I ask where your acquired such a piece?" Dr. Cruthers asked.

"It's been in my family for a very long time," Eric said. "Would the museum like to have the piece?"

"Of course, but we would have to prove providence before any price could be negotiated." Dr. Cruthers held it up to the light again. "That's if you will take less than its worth. In my mind, it's priceless."

"Providence would be difficult," Eric said. "It's not like receipts were popular 2000 years ago. But the price is easy. A gift, non-negotiable."

"Surely you jest," Dr. Cruthers said.

"Not in the slightest, Doctor. I think you'll agree it belongs in a museum. Would you like to know the family story that goes with it?"

"You're giving them a priceless artifact?" Robertson asked incredulously.

"Ah, yes," Eric said with a smile, "It does come with a stipulation. The detective here may want other experts examine it. You must allow him to do so."

"Trained experts," Dr. Cruthers said, pulling the brooch closer to his chest in a protective manner.

"Of course," Eric said. "I'm guessing the detective has no desire to recklessly destroy history." He was enjoying himself. I smiled at his enthusiasm.

"I'm not sure why I'd want to examine it at all," Robertson said, still pondering what was going on.

"You'll allow if he asks?" Eric asked Dr. Cruthers.

"For the piece? Of course, I'll let anyone qualified examine it." Dr. Cruthers looked back at Eric. "I'm still concerned. I don't want the museum involved in anything untoward."

"Your exposure would be limited," Eric said, flipping his hand into the air as if it were all a silly concern. "Worst case, you cut a deal with the Cairo museum and share it. No one else can claim it and it costs the museum nothing for the risk."

"A bargaining chip with Cairo would be very advantageous," Dr. Cruthers thought outloud. He smiled as the ramifications filled his mind. "We could parlay this into a large exchange. My people could have unprecedented access to their collection. Think of what we could learn."

"So you accept," Eric pressed.

"Of course," Dr. Cruthers said, shoving his free hand toward Eric. Eric shook it heartily. "What's the family story behind the piece?"

"According to the lore passed down, a senator Thracius was consoling a very drunk Julius Caesar." Eric's smile was a mile wide as he spoke. "Cleopatra had attempted to claim her son was of Caesar's seed and wanted Caesar to declare him heir to the both empires. The story goes, that in a fit of anger, Caesar pulled her gift, that brooch, from around his neck and threw it at the senator. His words were something like," Eric paused for a moment, then reeled off a sentence in a foreign language. Dr. Cruthers laughed, obviously understanding Eric's words.

"What?" I asked.

"Spreading your legs for the world does not an emperor make," Dr. Cruthers translated. "Did I get that right?'

"Close enough, Doctor," Eric said, smiling along with him. "Senator Thracius kept the brooch with Caesar's blessing. It found its way to my hands and now it's in yours."

"Senator Thracius was your relative?" Dr. Cruthers asked.

"Blood of my blood," Eric replied. "Or so I understand. Time has a way of distorting the truth."

"Still, it would be nice to record your understanding of the verbal history of the piece. Impossible to verify, but does spark interest and interest brings forth donations."

"May your coffers overflow," Eric said, bowing to Dr. Cruthers.

"I would like to get your signature on a receipt, help us begin to document the piece's providence."

"Of course," Eric agreed, "you have my address. Send me whatever you feel is necessary and I'll have my lawyer look it over and I'll get a signed copy back to you post haste."

"I must say, it is a generous gift. We would love to recognize you publicly for it."

"That I must decline," Eric said. "I'm not a big fan of the stage. Truthfully, it scares the hell out of me. I'm just happy that the brooch has a good home with people that will know how to care for it."

"It will have a good home, Mr. Papirius. Of that I promise." Dr. Cruthers carefully packed the brooch back in the wooden box. "In fact, this may be the last time it's out of a display case."

"Thank you, Dr. Cruthers," Eric said, holding out his hand for the last time. Dr. Cruthers shook it and said goodbye to me and Detective Robertson. He left quickly, probably concerned that the insane man who just donated a priceless antiquity might reconsider.

"Fascinating," Detective Robertson said. "And why was I privy to that display of generosity?" I could hear a little frustration in his voice.

"Open one of the crates," Eric said, waving his hand across the room.

"I've had about enough..."

"Humor me for a moment longer," Eric said. "I'm not going anywhere, so you'll have plenty of time to arrest me if you feel the need." Robertson closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He turned to the crate next to him and lifted the lid. He pulled out an old sheathed sword and brushed off the bits of dried straw it was packed with. It was well over a yard long.

"Ah, good choice," Eric said. "A great example of a medieval long sword." Robertson pulled it from its sheath. It looked unwieldy in one hand, obviously designed for two. "It was given to me personally by John Hawkwood for services rendered in Italy years ago. He had a relative of mine in his company, someone who took too many risks. I fought at his side to watch over him. Mercenaries really, but time and success has a way of making them heros."

"What war did you fight in?" Robertson asked, turning the sword in his hand.

"Many wars," Eric replied. The detective put the sword back in the sheath.

"Which ones? Afghanistan? Iraq?"

"The sword was given to me during the Hundred years' war, or so history renamed it," Eric said. Robertson sighed loudly again.

"I really don't have time for these games," Robertson said. "You'll have to save the con for your marks." He pointed at me which I found irritating.

"I knew where that brooch came from because Caesar threw it at me," Eric continued. "I was born a citizen of Rome around 80 BC, give or take a few years for calendar translation."

"And you believe this crap?" Robertson asked me. I nodded, remaining silent. He turned back to Eric. "Well, you've got a good show, but you need to pick a more believable hussle. I'm not sure where the profit is in all this, but you can be damn sure I'll figure it out." He closed the crate and moved to the next one.

"What the hell are these?" Robertson asked, holding up a small green wooden disk. Eric smiled.

"The original Flores yo-yo," Eric replied. "I ran across those in L.A. late in the 1920's. They were all the rage so I picked up a bunch. I got pretty good at it."

"You're telling me you purchased them yourself."

"After a dozen centuries, you figure out that history sells," Eric said, shrugging his shoulders. "As long as you have the time, patience pays off many times over."

"You are good, I'll give you that," Robertson said. He moved to another crate and opened the lid.

"Careful with that one. It's not holding up well," Eric said. Robertson looked into the crate without reaching in.

"Damn. Nice touch," Robertson said.

"Never did like my hair back then," Eric said. I stood up, ignoring my stomach and sauntered over to the crate. It held a painting of a Eric. Well, Eric from a few centuries ago. His hair was parted severely down the middle and billowed out at the shoulders, a somewhat girlish style. He was wearing a thin orangish tunic. "It was painted by Giorgio Barbarelli da Castelfranco, better known as Giorgione. The paint is beginning fail and I have no talent as a restorer. Not sure why I've hung on to it. Not something I could comfortably sell."

Eric moved to another crate and popped the lid. "I do have a few Da Vinci sketches I picked up in the early 1500's. Never met the man, but recognized the talent. Traded a horse for them. Worth a fortune now." Eric chuckled. "The horse is long since dead." I peaked into the crate and saw a yellowed sketch of the skeletal structure of a foot, sealed between two pieces of clear glass. "Some things are more difficult to sell. They attract too much attention."

"So you sell these replicas to gullible collectors?" Robertson asked.

"To collectors and museums. But the items are verified as authentic at the time of sale. The people with the sums of money necessary are no fools. Greedy maybe, gullible rarely." Eric closed the crate.

"Well, I'm certainly not gullible," Robertson said. "And nothing here convinces me of the truth of your fable."

"I killed Eric myself," I said, tucking my arm in Eric's. It was an weak apologetic motion - how do you apologize for killing someone? "The day before I met you. You're aware of what happened at my neighbors."

"The report said nothing about his death," Robertson said, gesturing toward Eric.

"Eric was struggling with the Mrs. Cummings' attacker. I picked up the gun and shot the guy three times in the back. One of the bullets went through the man and into Eric." I paused and looked at Eric. I still felt shame over the event. He just smiled his forgiveness. "Unable to stop the bleeding, I held him until he died." Robertson's face went pale. He stared at Eric for a moment and took a tentative step back.

"There's an unaccounted bullet," Robertson said.

"The one that was in me," Eric said, nodding. "I don't know where they go. Bullets, knives, spear and arrowheads. I wake and they're gone."

"That's why there was so much blood. The M.E. reported an excessive amount, but it was ignored, didn't seem to be a reason to pursue it."

"Thank god for that," Eric said. "It would have been difficult to explain why most of my blood was on the carpet."

"I'm so sorry," I said to Eric.

"I told you, it wasn't your fault," Eric said, caressing the hair on the side of my head.

"Your son, the one that's in Europe?" Robertson asked. I smiled, already knowing the truth.

"That's where things get a little dicey," Eric said. "I skirt a few laws to facilitate my ability to maintain all of this." He waved his hands toward the crates. "It's getting more difficult as technology improves."

"Your son is fictitious," Robertson stated. "That's why I couldn't find him."

"He is me and will inherit all of this in time," Eric agreed.

"So, your deceased wife?"

"Never met her. The marriage and birth certificates were faked well after her death. Wasn't too difficult in the past. Next time I've got to figure out how to insert the data into databases. Probably going to have to learn how to hack computers."

"So you are a criminal," Robertson said.

"Only when absolutely necessary."

"So, let's say I believe all of this. What's it all got to do with Mr. Higgins' death?"

What followed forced us all to sit down. Watching Eric relive the genocide of the Gaul village again was terrible. The obvious guilt made him look so weak. Robertson listened, asking no questions. Short of seeing Eric rise from the dead, it was very difficult to digest. Quentin's part and my last conversation with him brought the story to a close.

"This Quentin, you say he's suddenly done? After 2000 some years, he's done?" Robertson asked me.