Behind him, Eric overheard a couple sharing the news of their new love with one of the inmates, who were not exactly too happy with the news. Turned out his best friend had been shagging his fiancée while he was in prison, and now they had come to tell him about their wedding plans.
Then the door opened; Eric looked up expectantly. A man in his mid-thirties shambled in with his face strewn with tears.
“Please, get me out of this hellhole, Bernard. I promise this time I’ll stay away for good,” he cried. He made it to a table where a middle-aged lawyer watched him in derision. The lawyer looked like he was fed up with his client, but it was easy to tell he put up with the troubles because of a big fat check.
There were a few chuckles. The man was a repeat offender and would probably mess things up again and find himself behind bars again.
Eric busied himself with the magazine, wondering why it took so long for his brother to show up. He got engrossed in an article and did not notice when Miles quietly took a seat before him. It wasn’t until Miles cleared his voice that Eric realized he was there.
A sad smile spread slowly across Eric’s face. There before him was his brother dressed in orange overalls with his hands cuffed. And Eric blamed himself again.
“Hey, bro. Come to see me?” Miles asked cheerily. “Sorry to keep you waiting. We were having a cell meeting. Schedules, cleaning, and stuff like that.”
“And I bet you are the team leader, huh?”
Miles smiled and waved at someone who was sitting not too far away from them.
Eric dropped a paper bag on the table and pushed it toward Miles, who picked it eagerly. He peeked into the paper bag to see what was inside. His eyes widened at the surprise.
“Wow, thanks! Hmmm, my favorite,” he said as he took out the hamburger and bit into it without asking questions.
Eric watched Miles lick the cream off his finger and his lips. His brother must have been missing this, he thought. A few months ago, Miles could have easily hopped down the road to grab a bite himself.
“What?” Miles asked with his mouth full. “You think I’ve lost my table manners or, oh, is there some finger in the burger?”
“What finger?” Eric frowned.
“The only finger that could open the prison gates with its prints,” Miles laughed.
“Come off it. I don’t understand how you could even talk about something so gross while eating.”
If anyone had told Eric that Miles would be sitting across from him in a prison on visiting day, he would have laughed them off. He had spent years visiting inmates and ministering to them as they prepared for the electric chair or spend their life behind bars. Eric never thought that he would do the same for his brother in such a place.
Eric felt he did not try hard enough to help his brother become a better person. Perhaps he should have preached more to him or prayed for him more frequently than he did.
“How’s it out there?”
“The trip to Rome was invigorating…”
“Spiritually or physically?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Hey, Miles,” a warden walked up to him, and they shook hands in gangsta fashion.
“Hey, Pete. I didn’t know you were on duty today.”
“Yeah, I’m standing in for Mark. He called in sick this morning.”
“I got an extra burger if you don’t mind,” Miles offered.
“No thanks, pal. I’m good.”
The guard patted Miles on the back before walking away.
A shocked Eric looked from his brother to the warden. He had never seen such familiarity in all his visits to the prison.
“Do you mind closing your mouth, Brother? Your soul could escape through it,” Miles chuckled.
“Miles?”
“Hmmm?”
“He just called you Miles. Is that some alias or something?”
“No.”
“No, what? You scam a high-tech company and land yourself in prison. Ten years, Pierce. Ten long years.”
“You got laicized,” Miles said with a smirk.
Eric looked down at his hands; he felt cornered.
“Yes. But it’s nothing.”
“That was your dream, so it meant a lot to you to have it cut off,” Miles pushed. “It was in your eyes when I walked in. I saw the way you looked at that man weeping over there. You yearn to talk to them and give them some hope.”
“Do you get parole? How often do you want me to visit?” Eric tried to divert the topic.
“When you get your Roman collar back, you can visit me round the clock if time permits.”
Eric’s face flushed.
“You have the liberty to glare at me, flare up, or whatever. You don’t have to fight to keep your anger in check now that you are defrocked.”
Eric frowned.
“Is there something you want me to take care of out there? Business, property, personal stuff?”
“Nothing at all. All I got to my name at the moment are these overalls and leftover burgers. I think you should look out for yourself.”
Eric nodded in agreement.
“What do you plan to do from now on?”
“I don’t know. It’s you I’m worried about. I don’t know how to handle it if you are going to be there for a decade. I’m so sorry, Pierce. I don’t know how this happened, but I feel like I failed you.”
“It’s not your fault, Brother. Now tell me about the news out there.”
Eric told Miles as much as he knew about current affairs. They dissected some international issues and laughed as Eric brought him up to date with some hilarious news.
The buzzer rang, and the inmates prepared to return to their cells. It was the goodbyes Eric always hated whenever he visited prison. It almost made him feel slightly guilty about going back to his normal life. He had always thought it might be a good idea to live behind those bars with them sometime.
Now he felt worse because he had to say goodbye to his brother. The visiting time was too short to spend quality time. Eric bit his lip as Miles stood up. He could tell Miles was not ready to leave yet.
“Take care, Brother,” Miles said as he patted Eric’s back.
A guard led him away, but before he walked through the door, Miles turned around to look at his brother.
Eric raised his hand and waved slowly. He swallowed a lump in his throat as he watched Miles disappear through the door.
Chapter Six
Boston, MA
May 2014
Flashes of the brief time Howard had with Miles had since turned into a bug embedded in Howard's head. No one in the history of his career as a software developer, even up until he ventured into security software and AI, had ever had access to his secret archive. Howard was one of the brains behind the Iron Mountain. That feat had endeared him to the hearts of the big players in the industry, including the military. Now, whenever anyone mentioned his name, it wouldn’t be the same.
“How?” Howard said out loud from the backseat of his car. His chauffeur peeked through the rear mirror for a second and changed his focus on the driveway.
Howard shook his head. What did he mean by, “Originality is what you say it is”? Howard sighed deeply. He adjusted his tie and tried to look sane. The activities of the con men might have put a dent in his image, but he wasn’t going to let them have his head too.
At the entrance to his private estate, he looked through his window and found what seemed like a body on the floor, just close to the electronic gate that required a card reader. His driver had noticed it too. While his driver attempted to wind down the window, Howard stopped him. He looked around to ensure they weren’t followed. Since the court proceedings, he had tried to stay away from the media. But there were few occasions where some desperate folks pulled annoying stunts in the name of fishing out information from him.
“If that guy is one of them, I swear to God… Get out and find out what he’s up to,” Howard instructed the driver after a few honks coul
dn’t get the man out of the way.
The driver got out. It was about 5 p.m. and a little early to assume that it could be a drunk or homeless individual.
“He’s bleeding!” the driver said after taking a close look.
Howard became too inquisitive to stay in the car. When he approached the man, he noticed that he was taking a lot of effort to speak.
"Hedeon?"
The words came out after some struggle, but Howard couldn't pretend like he wasn't familiar with the name. No one had called him that in forty years.
Howard turned him onto his side and found his passport with a Polish name.
"Put him in the car," Howard instructed his driver.
Once he was in, they also got in, reversed the car, and headed for the nearest hospital. Jakub was carried on a stretcher into the ICU.
Fifteen minutes after the medical staff had stitched him up and placed him on oxygen and blood transfusion, Howard was given a detailed explanation of Jakub’s status at the waiting lobby. The doctor assumed that Jakub must have removed some bullets from his injuries before sealing them up. The doctor was surprised he even made it this far.
“He should be able to speak in another forty minutes if you can wait, Mr. Grant.”
“Sure. Thanks, Doc.”
Howard had his eyes on Jakub through the screen that separated the waiting lobby from the room where Jakub had been placed. Immediately he saw the Polish man blink his eyes, and he walked into the room. Jakub was still under the effects of the sedatives, and he knew he wasn’t alone in the hospital room.
Jakub moved his lips. Howard drew closer to his face. Jakub was making efforts to pronounce words coherently, but when Howard heard “jacket,” he called the attention of a nurse. The jacket and other personal effects that were found on Jakub were brought to the room.
Howard understood that Jakub wanted something from his jacket. He found a plastic bag folded into the inner pocket of the jacket. He unfolded it and impatiently took out the contents. Nothing made sense of the parchments and rusting metals in the plastic bag. He had loads of questions, but Jakub was too weak to communicate. It wasn’t the type of paper quality he was used to. Most pages were blank, and there were some writings on portions of the paper, but it still wasn’t legible enough to decode.
“Get some rest, Mr. Stilinski.” Howard left the room. He glanced at his wristwatch and saw that it was 6:15 p.m. He hopped into the backseat and instructed his driver to head south, near the seaport.
_____
They stopped in front of a simple log home. Howard rushed without noticing the sign that was placed at the side of the porch. The door gave way for him on a gentle push, but when he entered, he noticed that the room was half empty. The last time he visited was five years ago. The fearful nightmares about Ivan the Terrible had stopped since then. But even as he stared at the half-empty room, he could still remember the psychic, evoking the visions in his head. He shook his head to snap out of it. When he walked out of the house, he turned around and noticed the sign. The house had been placed on sale.
A lot had happened in five years. If Natalie Ulic was dead, he would have heard of it. He turned around and noticed the trailer house that was a few blocks away. Great! Now, someone might have an explanation for Natalie’s whereabouts.
They drove and stopped in front of the trailer house. Howard got out of the car and walked across the lonely road toward the house. Aside from the noisy wind that shook the evergreen bushes and trees, the place was eerily quiet.
Howard knocked on the door a few times but was greeted by more silence. He tried to walk around the house but stopped when he heard footsteps approaching from a few yards. A man in his late seventies chuckled softly as he saw Howard. He dropped the fishing tackles and a basket he carried.
“When I heard the BMW S65 pull up, I knew it had to be one of ‘em top shots.”
“If you could tell the sound of my engine from that far, that means the toy is due for a change.”
“Nothing wrong with your engine, son. My ears are just that good,” the old man boasted. He smiled and shook hands with Howard.
“I just happened to drive by and noticed that our mutual friend there has moved.” Howard went straight to the subject that brought him. “Any chance you’d know where she moved to?”
“Not a clue. The house had been on sale for over two years. No one had asked or checked on the former occupant since she left. You’re the first one with such an inquiry. But hey, you can talk to me if it’s something that I could do.”
“Well, as I said, we were just passing by,” Howard said, turning to leave. And then, he turned around. “You know what? Since you asked, maybe I could pick your brain on a tiny matter.”
“Shoot away.”
“You used to work as a lithographer, yeah?”
The old man smiled. “Yes. Great memory you—”
“I received this from an old friend,” Howard quickly interjected, handing him the plastic bag that had folded into his inner suit pocket. “Can you tell what it says?”
The old man removed the parchment and squinted closely at the first sheet. He opened his door and went in while Howard followed him. The trailer house looked bigger from the inside. The part of the house that was the sitting room depicted the allure of a farmhouse with the stone, leather, and raw wood finishes.
“Just a second.” The old man went into another section of the house, probably the bedroom, and reappeared with a hand lens. Howard watched him anxiously as he peeked into his lens.
“This is pretty old…very old. Probably dates back to the Wilson-Hoover era.” The old man brought the paper close to his nose and sniffed it. “You received this from an old friend, you say?”
“Yeah.”
“An ex-military?”
“No. Why?” Howard asked.
“It seems like a code of a sort. The last time I saw one of these was in Vietnam. But this is not an American. I can bet anything on it. It’s not even close.”
The old man went back inside for the second time and brought a bulb with him.
“Em,” the old man said as he faced Howard, “I don’t want it to seem like I’m charging you, but this experiment cost a dime or two.”
Howard nodded and removed a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet. As the old man reached out his hand to grab it, Howard held on to the tip.
“A hundred for your services and more information about Natalie Ulic.”
The old man chuckled. He collected the money and picked up a pen and a small notepad on the table. He wrote an address on a sheet and handed it to Howard before returning to the second service he had just been paid for.
The old man removed the cover of a solar-powered lantern. He unscrewed the colored bulb that was there and screwed the 100-watt bulb he took from the other section of the house. Howard, now on his feet, watched closely as he switched on the lantern and brought the paper close to the bulb. The trick still didn’t yield any result.
“Vinegar,” the old man echoed to himself and pulled out a box from under his chair. He took out a container.
“Anthocyanin. That should do it,” he said as he poured some of the contents onto the paper. Slowly, writings in red ink began to form on the paper.
“Voila! I told you it’s not American.” He pointed at the bottom page. “From the Soviet capital, old mother Russia, right there. Haha!”
Howard’s facial expression didn’t look too shocked, or if he was, he hid it so well. The old man was a little too talkative to keep up with, and instead of expressing his reaction, he typed into his phone like the information uncovered wasn’t a big deal to him.
“My Russian is rusty, but I’ll try. Shit, this is in Slavic language. Some portion of the letter is gone, but you should note some words here...Stribog, Mokosh.” The old man paused. He turned toward Howard with his mouth opened and eyes almost popping out of their sockets.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ve heard of the disintegration s
tory, but up until now, I never really believed in it. I thought it was a myth! What? I’ve got some friends who also thought it was a mythical fantasy that veterans told their kids as bedtime stories.”
The very spirited old man looked at the parchments once more. He pointed his finger to the last paragraph and tried to pronounce the first word, “Mezh-go-rye…something about the spiritual controlling-”
“The reality of the physical realm emanates from the spiritual realm,” Howard interrupted, quoting the words like he was reading from a book.
The old man was in awe of Howard. He took out his smartphone to take a picture of the letter. Howard couldn’t let that happen. He put his hand in his inner suit pocket and drew out a silver pistol with its silencer attached; he pulled the trigger twice. Blood and brains splashed out of the old man’s head and onto the walls of the sitting room.
Howard put back his letter into the plastic bag. The door opened, and his driver came in with a big black leather bag. That was the instruction he got from Howard’s text some seconds ago. While Howard walked out of the room, the driver busied himself, cleaning up the bloodstains and bagging the body of the deceased old man. He disposed of the body, along with the cell phone, in the sea.
They stopped by a pharmaceutical shop before driving back to the hospital. Jakub was still asleep when Howard walked in. He looked at the Polish man with some degree of sympathy in his eyes—not for the terrible situation the traveler had gone through, but for what he was about to do. The information uncovered in the letter was too classified, even for a man like Howard. And the thing about knowledge, it always had a way of spreading to ears that were tuned for it.
Most hospitals had to remove CCTV cameras from treatment units because people complained about privacy infringement. Howard glanced around before injecting a neurotoxin into the pint of drip that was halfway through. Jakub died even before his driver revved the car engine to life.
Hunt for the Lost Sanctum Page 5