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years, has been ‘The Shambhala Key.’ By legend, it is the vital blood needed to open the gates of the secret city of Shambhala. It is the blood of the worthy, to inherit the terrible powers that lie within. And it is that power that would mark the real return of the spirit of Frederick Barbarossa.”

6
    North of Seattle, United States
    September 4, Present Day
    Y ou don’t think I’m Rominy Pickett?”
    “I’m sorry, I don’t want to shock you. But I know you’re not.”
    “Then either you’ve kidnapped the wrong woman or you’re even loonier than I thought.”
    Jake Barrow looked straight ahead, both hands on the wheel at ten and two, like a driving student, the pickup a careful six mph above the speed limit, just enough not to risk a ticket. He seemed to have a clear idea where he was going. The freeway north of Seattle was an artery, its cars corpuscles, the vessel walls dark evergreens. Broken overcast kept everything the habitual Northwest gray. “Look, I realize I should have broached this subject a little less dramatically,” he said. “Car bombings are not the way I usually meet my sources.”
    “I’m not your source, Mister Investigative Reporter, if that’s what you really are. I’m your victim, and you’ve probably committed about eighteen felonies to get me to this point. Do your editors approve your tactics?”
    His lips were tight. “My editors advised me to drop the whole thing.”
    “Touché.”
    “But they’re wrong.”
    “The lunatic creed.”
    “You’re the biggest story of my life, and I never dreamed it would play out this way. A skinhead wannabe spilled something about a car bomb. I realized I couldn’t just research any longer and had to check you out in person. Then I saw their Explorer across the parking lot near your vehicle and didn’t know what else to do. It was tackle or watch you blow up.” He sounded more embarrassed than triumphant. And less like a serial killer than she’d have expected. Was there a chance, however slight, that this guy wasn’t totally full of bullshit and homicidal intention? If he was behind the bomb, why tackle her?
    “But why would anyone—what, skinheads?—want to kill me ?”
    “Because they’re Nazi knotheads who think you know a lot more than you do.”
    “About what?”
    “A seventy-year-old secret, a fairy story, about strange powers and a lost city.”
    “Jake—if that’s really what your name is—”
    “I have a press card . . .”
    “Whoopee. I’m sorry, but you’re not proving your sanity here. I mean, you’re getting goofier by the minute, I can’t open my truck door, your own editors don’t believe you, and we’re almost to Everett.” She held up her cell phone. “Sounds like it’s time for 911.”
    “Wait.” His look was pleading. “If the cops come and my editors get wind of this fiasco, I’m probably finished, I know it. No story, I’m trying to give answers I don’t have, and you still don’t know who you really are. I will look like a criminal, or a nut job. But if you give me a day—two days, at most, on your turf—you might get something that will turn your life around, I get the big scoop, and maybe the good guys even win. Maybe. But I need you to give me a chance to explain without holding that cell phone like it’s another bomb. And I’m serious, the skinheads can track us with that thing.”
    “Why do you keep saying I don’t know who I really am?”
    “Have you ever heard of a man named Benjamin Hood?”
    “No.”
    “Well, you’re his heir.”
    “I’m what ?” Rominy glanced at her cell phone and noticed there were no bars. In fact, there was no display at all. Of all the times to have it off. She pushed the power button. She needed a backup plan instead of trusting Mr. Jake Barrow, and it involved the Washington State Patrol.
    She pushed and pushed.
    Nothing happened.
    “My cell won’t work.”
    Barrow looked relieved. “A sign from God, don’t you think?” He