by Dean Kutzler
“I’m doing research for a piece on, aaah, the history of old churches and, and St. Paul’s is the oldest surviving church in Manhattan.” He almost slipped and said the Notre Dame Basilica in Montreal, the piece he was supposed to work on before the phone call about his uncle.
Tapping the bundle in the doorway with his boot and cocking his chin at the make-shift package the man asked, “What’s in the tarp?”
“Oh, that’s just my camera equipment.” Jack wiped the sweat from his brow and grabbed his goatee.
“Wrapped in a tarp?”
“Times are tight, Coach isn’t getting any cheaper. Gotta make do ya know?”
“Well, if this is your camera equipment,” he said planting his foot on top of the bundle, “then why are you taking it away from the action?”
Jack stared at the man’s boot resting on top of the pilfered book. The man had a good point. Any reporter would be scrambling at the chance to shoot footage of a burning church, regardless of the danger or the fear of getting caught.
“Oh, I forgot my tripod and I didn’t want this bulky mess getting in the way of the men hard at work at their jobs,” he said closing his eyes, shaking his head in sympathy at the men. It was the best he could come up with, hoping the rub would ease the man’s approach. This was it. If he demanded a look inside the bundle, Jack was screwed. Unsure of how far the fire chief would escalate the situation, Jack would have to give it his best shot and sprint for the gate with the bundle. He’d die first before leaving it behind.
The man’s eyes flicked back and forth between Jack and the package, his face stern but otherwise unreadable. Jack’s plan had to work. His back-up plan of run-like-the-Dickens wasn’t really an option he wanted to try.
“I don’t know how they fight fires in Montreal, Mr. Elliot, but safety comes before the media here in New York City,” he said, lifting his boot from the bundle. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take this equipment and wait outside the gate with the rest of the news hounds. I don’t even know how you got in here.”
No problem there. Jack thought about protesting for a hot second but figured he’d better not push his luck. He reached down and scooped up the bundle and headed for the gate. His plan worked like a charm. Sometimes it was good to be the press, although he hadn’t liked the fire chief’s use of his name from the ID. That meant he’d remember it.
Once Jack felt a safe enough distance was between him and the church, he hailed a cab and headed back toward the brownstone. The subway would’ve been faster, but he wasn’t dealing with the monstrosity under his arm down there. His fingers were just itching to get a look inside the book. He’d have torn into it and looked on the ride back, but there wasn’t enough room in the cab to unfold the huge banner. Plus this wasn’t his favorite cabby and Jack was sure he’d protest.
As the cab honked and bounced its way over potholes up Bowery, the thought that should’ve come to him from the first flicker of flame, crept into his head like a hairy spider sending a chill down to the loins in his underwear.
Who set fire to the church? It was too coincidental to be an accident.
More importantly: Why?
He hugged the bundle tighter. Were they trying to burn the book he’d found in Angeli’s office? Or were they trying to kill him? Or both? From the rage and swiftness that the fire had taken hold, there was no way it had been an accident. Thinking back, he remembered the noise he’d mistakenly thought had been pigeons. Someone had been inside. Jack sat, stroking his goatee and contemplating the seriousness of the situation as the cab drove through midtown.
November 12, 5:14 A.M., EST
The Brownstone, Upper East Side
THE CAB PULLED alongside the curb at the brownstone. Looking up at the handsome brick structure through the dirty cab window, Jack couldn’t quite call it home, but he felt eventually that would change in time. Selling it never even crossed his mind. This had been his uncle’s home and a big piece of his heart would never let it go. It would be like selling the access rights to Memory Lane.
He struggled, squeezing out of the cab with the bulky book in both arms. He closed the door with his hip, handing over the fare money between clenched knuckles. They were wrapped so tightly around the edge of the bundle they were paper-white.
He schlepped the book up the stair to the brownstone’s front door and dropped it on the stoop with a big yawn. He just remembered that he hadn’t had any coffee this morning and after the morning he’s had he could certainly go for a nice, aromatic cup of Starbucks. He closed his eyes and imagined breathing in the aroma, walking into his favorite cafe as he carefully pushed the brownstone’s door open. Dragging the book inside by the tieback, he quickly disarmed the alarm and dragged it over to the wall, by the basement door. It should be safe while he got his java-fix.
A few quick taps on the alarm panel and he was out the door and on his way to the closest barista.
November 12, 6:38 A.M., EST
The Brownstone, Upper East Side
WHEN JACK RETURNED from having a hearty breakfast and soul-soothing latte at Starbucks, he noticed the broken front door was ajar. “Not again,” he mumbled to himself. He’d forgotten to call the locksmith, but was sure he’d secured the door. The alarm wasn’t going off, which meant it either just happened or it happened a while ago and the alarm monitoring center shut it off. But then they would have called. He quickly checked his phone for a missed call or message in case he hadn’t heard it ringing.
Nada. Neither.
He carefully leaned against the door and listened again for the entry alarm.
Silence.
Jack kicked open the door and jumped in—Bruce Lee Style—in case he needed to defend himself, again.
After a couple seconds he smirked at his necessary overreaction. He was caught off guard once today—it’s not happening again. Then he noticed his actions weren’t foolish after all. The basement door was open and he knew it’d been closed when he brought the book in earlier.
What the hell was down there and who was looking for it?
Anger filled his being and rage pumped his legs as he stormed into the kitchen; enough is enough. He’d let his anger almost get him killed earlier, but after being a victim, the anger and rage became focused. This time, they weren’t getting the better of him.
He went to pull the kitchen drawer open when a flash of silver on the counter caught his eye. He ran his hand over the forged stainless steel handles of the Wüsthof knives in the block set, until he found the Chef’s knife with the 8” long slicing blade. Testing the edge with his thumb, a sliver of red appeared between the prints. Before he left the kitchen, he eyed the cutlery block once more and pulled out the 7” Santoku, just for safe measure.
Amply armed, both blades at the ready and feeling confident from the adrenaline rush, he tightened his grip on the knives and stormed towards the basement door. “I’ll give you one chance!” He bellowed down the stairs, flipping on the light with the tip of the Chef’s knife. “The police are almost here,” he lied, “and this time I’m armed. You got two seconds to come up here and tell me what the hell you’re doing in my basement!”
After three seconds of silence, Jack ran down the steps wielding the knives like an actor in a Ginsu commercial without the tomatoes. The all-too-familiar scent of mildew flogged his nostrils while he checked the second room immediately. Nothing but the moldy antiques. To be doubly sure, he poked about the sheets with the Chef’s knife to make sure no one was hiding underneath. Even the wheelbarrow and bricks were untouched.
The basement was empty.
He searched the dank rooms twice over and, as far as he could tell, nothing was missing, unless someone snatched a piece of moldy furniture he hadn’t noticed before. Then a glint under the stairs reminded him of the busted trophy and he decided to make the basement trip worthwhile and fetch it before he went back upstairs.
When he cornered the alcove beneath the stairs, his mouth dropped open at the sight. His trophy w
as beneath the steps beside a rusty crowbar. Bright red bricks were haphazardly busted and strewn alongside the wall on the dirt floor. A hole had been busted through the brick wall, revealing a passageway behind it. The unbroken part of the wall looked as if it had been recently constructed.
He fished out his phone and lit up the interior of the passageway. The faint light danced about the walls while he waved the phone side to side. The passageway turned the corner, and from the looks of the hand-carved stone walls it was very old. Poking his head in through the hole and shining the phone downward, he saw the floor was made of the same stone, unlike the basement’s dirt floor. Whatever the structure was, it was here way before the brownstone. Trusty as his phone was, he’d need more light before he stepped a foot in there, knives or not.
The steps creaked from the beat of his feet, sending dust down on top of his trophy as he pounded his way upstairs as fast as he could. He couldn’t contain the excitement. He felt like Indiana Jones. He ran around the bundled book and nearly tripped, heading for the front door. Glancing back at the bundle, he thought that would have to wait until later. The passageway was more exciting at the current moment.
For the second time today, he secured the front door as best he could and made another mental note to call that locksmith. He went to set the alarm when he realized that he’d never shut it off when he busted in like Bruce Lee. Realization dawned: Someone either knew the code and disarmed it earlier, which was impossible since he’d reset the code when he’d first entered the brownstone, or they somehow had managed to disarm it another way. Shaking his head in confusion, he admitted he wasn’t a magician. He didn’t have time to figure out the trick and left the useless panel unarmed and ran into the kitchen.
He found a flashlight on the first try in the drawer beneath the cutlery block. He hesitantly returned the Santoku, favoring the pointy Chef’s knife, and tested the flashlight. The strength of the beam stung his pupils to pinpoints. Fully charged. He frowned at the Santoku resting in the cutlery block. He didn’t want to leave it, but couldn’t effectively hold both knives and the flashlight. A vision of slicing off his ass cheek quickly faded the idea of pocketing the Santoku. With the day he’s been having, anything was possible.
He padded back down into the basement and stood before the busted brick hole. He never imagined something like this existing under his uncle’s brownstone, let alone anywhere else in Manhattan. It made him wonder what other secrets were buried beneath the city. This was the stuff seen in movies. His head was swimming with questions. Where did it lead? Who broke into it and how did they know it was there? Another question surfaced from the back of his mind like a bad penny that keeps turning up. Had his uncle known it was here? He’d definitely been involved, but the ever-existent question remained: To what extent? Was he one of the bad guys? Trust chased away the last question. He refused to pass judgment upon his uncle until he got to the bottom of whatever was going on. So far the odds were stacked against his uncle, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t giving up on his memories of the man that had believed in him when his own father hadn’t. Uncle Terry had been a good man. Jack felt it deep in his bones.
But was he blinded by those same warm childhood memories?
Before he stepped into the hidden passageway, guilt pricked at the back of his neck at all the bad decisions he’s made as of late and he was about to make another one. This time it was only his own life in danger, not his mother’s. He’d called from the house phone earlier and had hired his mother the best protection his uncle’s money could buy and it still hadn’t stanched the guilt. The thought of someone hiding in this passageway turned the prickling at his neck into full-blown goosebumps, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. He knew it was foolish to go in there without any backup, but he’d faired pretty well from the last attack and he hadn’t even been properly armed, he thought, gripping the blade tighter. He was ready this time. It was a bad decision and he was in too deep but he hadn’t involved the police this far, only for the first break-in. Why start now?
He lifted his leg over and into the hole, accidentally knocking a few loose bricks into the passageway. Ducking down, he pivoted on his foot and backed his torso into the room, following with his other leg. He turned around, careful not to trip on the fallen bricks and snapped the flashlight on, flooding the passageway with a beam of light.
Tiny dust particles floated past the beam as he explored, setting a cryptic tone in the air. The passageway was big enough to fit two hefty adults side by side in length and tall enough for the ceiling to be just out of arms reach. He placed his hand against the cool stone wall and felt the succession of chisel marks in the finely hewn blocks that fit neatly together at the seams. He wiped ancient grime from his palm as he shined the flashlight closer to the stone and confirmed there was no mortar holding the uniform blocks together. Tipping the light up toward the ceiling also confirmed the entire structure was made from the painstakingly hewn stones. He marveled at the huge seamless stone slab ceiling. Would the answer to the age-old question of the pyramids as to how they moved these huge blocks of stone ever be uncovered? Is that what this place was? Some kind of pyramid or temple, buried under the city of cement and commerce?
Shining the light forward, he continued his way to the end of the passage where it rounded the corner. He took a deep breath and his nostrils flared at the faintest smell of cloyingly sickening incense that hung on the stagnant air. Moving through the passage, he ducked below a rusted iron sconce as he cornered the wall, wishing he had a match. He walked another fifty feet before he abruptly stopped.
He stretched his foot out and ran it along the edge of the stone flooring. The passageway continued down a set of steep stairs made of the same hand-carved stone. He didn’t want to have a tumble way down here. Holding the flashlight at a higher angle, he couldn’t see an end in sight. It either veered around the corner or stretched past the beam’s reach. Feeling like he was about to enter the bowels of the unknown, his neck bristled with excitement. He’d never been afraid of much as an adult or a kid, except for the damned closet. But as fun as this little adventure seemed, the possibility of real danger could be as close as the next corner. The front door may have been jarred open by a gust of wind, but without a doubt he’d shut the basement door before he’d left for the church.
The stairs went on forever, as he trudged down hand-carved stone after hand-carved stone, before he reached a landing about six feet square in diameter. The landing went down a shorter set of steps before him or branched off into another passageway at his right. Catching his breath and dabbing beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he noticed the sickeningly sweet scent of incense had grown in intensity the further he descended. Anything but that awful mildew smell.
Flashing the light back up the stairs, his best guess was that he’d travelled about a mile and a half down the steps, proving he was right earlier on both accounts about the length of steps and the bend in the passage. But this time, directing his flashlight forward, it reached the telltale chisel marks of flooring that he’d hoped didn’t turn yet another corner of stairs. So far, his journey had been linear in descent. More than once on his way down, he’d thought about running back up and finding something to leave a trail, like Hansel and Gretel, so he wouldn’t get lost.
Eons of dust coated the landing. Flashing the light down and grabbing his goatee, he could see the slightest outline of footprints decorating the filth. Following the prints with the light, the trail continued out of view down the steps, then back up along the wall into the other passageway. There was no way of telling whether someone had just come down or if the prints were centuries old. There were faded footprints everywhere. The blade twinkled in the light of the beam as he twisted it. That’s why he had the slicer.
He chose the stairs for ease of retracing his steps. That way he’d only have to follow the steps back up to get out of the strange underground temple.
Refreshed from the short break, intrig
ue renewed his steps, and he quickly padded his way down, into an alarmingly immense room. He was finally getting somewhere. The rising scent of sickeningly sweet incense was at its peak now and it began to overpower his nose. At first, he didn’t know what he was looking at when he shined the flashlight over the mess of jumbled items scattered about the room.
Shadows danced about, forming stretched silhouettes before creeping away to the corners of the room, as the beam of the flashlight shone through the items. When his eyes adjusted, he saw the items were all disheveled and some overturned, as if someone tore through it all in search of something. The room was filled with different kinds of tables made from various materials—wood, stone, metal—all in different shapes, styles and sizes, littering the entirety of the vast expanse. Staring out over the spacious room, he realized this space was a lot larger than the immense brownstone above.
As he stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked over the mass of items, searching back and forth with the flashlight, the majority consisted of the strange tables, but haphazardly placed between them were rectangular boxes. Like the tables, the boxes all varied in sizes and material. There had to be hundreds of them. Some were really small, some were painted and adorned with jewels, some had strange bullhorns protruding from their corners, some were made of gold and some looked like plain old wooden boxes.
What the hell was all of this?
Then, suddenly remembering the footprints, he was aware that someone could be hiding anywhere amongst the mess. With his back against the wall, he crept around the perimeter, careful not to bump into the iron sconces lining the room. Shining the flashlight in between all the items, shadows danced about the room as he searched for signs of life. The number of items was great, but not too great for the size of the room where he couldn’t see someone hiding amongst it all as he searched in between the strange tables.