Journey Through the Mirrors

by T. R. Williams

  “Were you here when Mr. Baltik had a visitor a day or two ago?” Valerie asked.

  They stopped in front of a door marked 169. The doctor nodded. “His nephew came to see him two days ago. He brought his service dog, which Mr. Baltik seemed to enjoy as much as the piano we gave him when he first arrived. Music is the only thing that seems to calm him. I have to warn you, on that note, Mr. Baltik does not communicate very coherently.”

  The doctor turned and placed his right hand on a security pad. The door to room 169 opened, and he entered, followed by Valerie.

  “Mr. Baltik?” the doctor said as he looked around the empty room. He checked the bathroom and then opened the closet door.

  “Is there a problem?” Valerie asked, already knowing the answer.

  “He’s supposed to be here,” the doctor said, his worry clear. “Please remain here while I find out where Mr. Baltik is.”

  The doctor left the room, giving the others room to enter. Logan’s attention was instantly drawn to something on the wall above a vintage piano. It was a hand-drawn copy of The Scream by Edvard Munch.

  Scattered on the floor were writing markers and their caps. The walls were covered with hand-drawn musical notes and some kind of mathematical formula, which was repeated over and over again. “Robert,” Madu said, examining the scribbling. “This is the same note sequence that Sumsari spoke to me about more than forty years ago.” He walked over to the piano, lightly touching the keys. “It went something like this . . .”

  Logan recognized the melody instantly. “That’s the Solokan progression,” he said.

  Madu looked at him. “How did you know that?”

  “That’s what Sumsari called it in one of my mother’s recordings. There was another sequence, too.”

  “The Coffa progression,” Madu said, and Logan nodded.

  Dr. Bradley looked perturbed. He was followed by an orderly carrying an electronic clipboard. “It looks like Mr. Baltik has been transferred to our sister facility in Tennessee,” he said.

  “Transferred?” asked Valerie. “What do you mean, transferred? When?”

  “This morning,” the orderly replied, inspecting the display on his clipboard. “We received the transfer order at nine this morning, and a gentleman arrived at nine thirty to escort him. We didn’t think much about it; transfers happen quite often.”

  The doctor still looked worried.

  “What is it?” Logan asked.

  “When we contacted the facility a few moments ago, we learned that Mr. Baltik still hadn’t arrived there,” the doctor said.

  “Who authorized the transfer?” Valerie asked.

  Dr. Bradley looked at the electronic clipboard. “A Dr. Kline,” he said, staring at the name. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “What about the person who took him? Have you tried to contact him?”

  “I’d never seen him before,” the orderly answered. “But he could have been a new guy.”

  “Why would someone take Mr. Baltik out of the Calhoun Center?” Logan asked.

  “Probably for the same reason we wanted to speak to him,” Madu suggested. “Might I ask if Mr. Baltik ever discussed what he was writing on the walls?”

  “He started doing that a few days ago,” the orderly said, “when he started complaining about severe headaches. He also did that drawing and hung it up there at about the same time.”

  “All right, Doctor, all privacy issues are out the door now,” Valerie said seriously. “We need the name of the man who came to see Mr. Baltik a few days ago.”

  “Mr. Quinn. I think his first name was Sebastian,” the doctor answered, and the others exchanged glances. “Yes, I remember him because of his service dog. Mr. Baltik really seemed to connect with the dog.” The doctor pointed to the top of the piano. “And those,” he said, “those are the military service tags he returned to Mr. Baltik.”

  39

  One thing impossible in the Kingdom of Heaven is to be abandoned. Someone will always be with you.

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  GORNERGRAT, SWITZERLAND, 7:11 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 24, 2070

  There was only one way to get to Gornergrat, and that was by railway. The once-popular Kulm Hotel, built in 1897, still stood on the ridge in the Pennine Alps at an altitude of 3,120 meters, overlooking the Gorner Glacier. A high-altitude research station and astronomical observatories had been located in the north and south cupolas of the building. During the Great Disruption of 2027, the open-air railway leading to the majestic hotel had been destroyed. Gornergrat had become inaccessible, and the hotel had been abandoned. During the Rising, in 2056, a prominent Japanese family had purchased the defunct hotel and converted it into a private retreat. The magnificent views of the mountain peaks of Dom, Weisshorn, Mont Rosa, Lyskamm, and the Matterhorn were no longer viewed by hordes of visitors. Only one person had that privilege now.

  “This is your new PCD and ID glass,” Kashta said. “As you requested, the world will now know you as Adrian Finch. Simon Hitchlords will remain dead to the world.”

  “For now,” Simon said, taking the thin Plexiglas card from Kashta and looking at it. He grimaced at his ID photo, which depicted him as he currently appeared, his face disfigured by burn scars. Simon was sitting behind a large Victorian twin pedestal desk. In front of him was the silver case that Kashta had retrieved from the Château. He looked up at Kashta. “Are you satisfied that your men searched the art studio adequately?”

  “Yes, the books were not there,” Kashta replied. “I suspect that Logan Ford is keeping them at his home. He was not at the studio, either.”

  “Catherine has informed me he and his children will be at the Council of Satraya offices this evening, attending a commemoration in honor of the original members of the Council.”

  “Shouldn’t you be attending, then?” Kashta asked. “You, too, were an original member.”

  Simon laughed. “I’m not sure how welcome I would be.”

  Kashta shrugged. “I will have our men search the house tonight. If the books are there, we will find them.”

  Simon nodded, gazing at Kashta intently. “You will find them indeed. At any cost.”

  There was silence as Simon gestured for Kashta to leave. “Remember, the new staff will arrive tomorrow. As you instructed, none of them worked at the Château.” Kashta walked out of the room.

  Simon leaned forward and pulled the silver box closer to him. He typed an access code into the keypad on the box, and the lid opened. It had been a long while since he had seen his prized possessions. He carefully removed the three original copies of The Chronicles of Satraya and set them on the desk. Then he removed a blue journal. The bloody handprints on its cover reminded him of how the journal had come into his possession. Simon paged through Camden Ford’s notes and paused when his attention was drawn to a short paragraph that Camden had written on June 23, 2036.

  I still wonder about the blue orb I encountered in the woods and the enigmatic light it gave off. I wonder what it was, maybe even who it was. Deya has been very open about her healing experience; Madu is more reserved about sharing his. I think about the man named Giovanni Rast and the gold coins the orb gave him before Fendral killed him and stole his copy of the Chronicles. I remember Marilyn and others saying that a strange blue light had come from the abandoned train car Giovanni called home. When they queried Giovanni about it, he could only say it had magically appeared from the books. I wonder if any of us will ever see the orb again.

  Maybe I can find the secret to the orb in the Satraya Flame or one of these hidden symbols. I am certain now that the partial symbol on the last page is meant to be fragmented. After three and a half years of effort, I still don’t see anything when I look at the blank pages of Deya’s and Madu’s sets. I doubt that I will ever be granted access to Fendral’s books. Maybe no one person is supposed to possess all of them. I can see how that could be a terrible thing.

  Without the personal account of Logan’s father, Si
mon would never have learned about the finer utility of the Satraya Flame and the veiled mysteries of the Chronicles: the hidden symbols on the blank pages that promised extraordinary abilities to anyone able to see them. He was particularly interested in Camden’s mention of the blue orb, because he believed that the mysterious blue light he had seen when he’d fallen into the cremation pyre along the Ganges River had something to do with his surviving that ordeal. Could the mysterious blue light have been the light of the blue orb?

  The journal entry was also a reminder of something that Simon would rather have forgotten: the day he overheard his father explain to Andrea why they had to abdicate their seats on the Council of Satraya. With Camden, Madu, and Deya already having resigned from the Council, Simon’s father and his close friend Andrea Montavon could have seized control of the most influential group in the world at that time. But Fendral had been forced to admit to Andrea that he had stolen the books from a handyman named Giovanni Rast, who used to work for him. Logan’s father, Camden, had somehow uncovered Fendral’s crime and threatened to expose it if Fendral did not step down with the others. Simon had never told his father that he knew of his shame. Until recently, Simon had believed that his family’s secret was safe. But the ruse perpetrated on him by Logan Ford and his comrades revealed that at least three others now knew the secret. All three of them would be at the commemoration, which was supposed to start in a few hours.

  Simon gazed at the three original sets of the Chronicles on the table in front of him. Logan Ford possessed the fourth, which had once belonged to Deya. Simon disagreed with the conclusion Camden had drawn about one person possessing all four sets of the Chronicles. It would be excellent for one person to possess all four sets, as long as that one person was him.

  Simon stood and walked over to the large picture window and looked out at the night sky. He reached into his pants pocket and removed a small plastic bag of painkillers. He took out one of the pills and popped it into his mouth, swallowing it whole without any water.

  40

  The finest moment of your life will be when you are alone and still realize that you are loved.

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  WASHINGTON D.C., 7:00 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 24, 2070

  Logan and Valerie walked through the main entrance of the Council of Satraya building, which was at the corner of 18th Street and New York Avenue. Ms. Sally and the children were right behind them. The iconic redbrick building, which had once been the Octagon Museum, was given to the Council a few years after the Great Disruption to use as a base of operations. It was here that Camden Ford and the other eleven original Council members organized their mission to deliver copies of the Chronicles to every corner of the world.

  Wearing a black suit and a white collared shirt, Logan had spruced himself up for the event. He had resisted Valerie’s efforts to get him to wear a tie, but after seeing how elegant she looked, he had relented and was now sporting a red and black paisley silk tie. Valerie wore a full-length black dress, with lace sleeves and a slit along its left side that came up to just above her knee. Her hair was in an up-do, revealing a set of amber and gold earrings that matched the necklace she was wearing.

  Mr. Perrot, who had arrived earlier, was standing in the foyer with Madu and Nadine. “You look beautiful, my dear,” he said to his daughter, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “All of you are well turned out this evening.” He patted Logan on the shoulder, hugged the children, and shook hands with Ms. Sally, thanking them all for coming.

  Adisa Kayin, the current head of the Council of Satraya, who was wearing his usual colorful African attire, quickly approached them. “Salutations, friends. All of you must come with me quickly. I am told they will not be staying very long.”

  “Who?” Logan asked, as they followed Adisa into an elegant drawing room. A large Oriental rug covered most of the dark wood floor, a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and an ornate fireplace dominated the wall to the left of the doorway. Logan smiled as he entered, seeing three of his mother’s mosaics prominently displayed on easels. Adisa took them to a group of people milling around the mosaics, admiring them.

  “Mr. President,” Adisa said.

  Enrique Salize, the president of the North American Federation, turned around. Accompanying him were Director Sully and about ten other people. Four WCF agents dressed in black suits stood nearby.

  Valerie grabbed Logan by the arm. “These are the business leaders the president invited to Washington to help him work out a solution to the energy crisis,” she explained in a whisper.

  “Did you know they were coming to the commemoration?” he asked.

  “No. The founder of the Tripod Group, Rigel Wright, should be with them, but I don’t see him.”

  “Mr. President,” Adisa said. “I would like to introduce you to Logan—”

  “Logan Ford,” President Salize said, loudly enough for everyone in his group to hear. He shook Logan’s hand and then Valerie’s. “Good to see you again, Agent Perrot.”

  Valerie could see Director Sully’s surprise that the president knew her name. Logan noticed a blond woman standing at the back of the group and craning her neck to get a better look at them.

  President Salize turned to Mr. Perrot. “And you must be the man of the hour.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. President,” Mr. Perrot said.

  “I wanted to stop by and pay tribute to the original Council of Satraya,” Salize said. “As you know, I don’t always see eye-to-eye with the current Council, but no one can deny the contributions the organization made to the world during the Rising, the years when the Chronicles were most meaningful.”

  “Some would say those meaningful years are still going on,” Mr. Perrot said.

  “How did your energy crisis meeting go?” Valerie asked, changing the subject. She could tell that her father was about to start lecturing the president about the value of the Chronicles.

  “Very well,” Salize answered. “We have a solution in the works that will be announced in the next few days.”

  “That doesn’t mean your investigation stops,” Director Sully said to Valerie. “You and your team are still expected to bring the perpetrators of the gas well explosions to justice.”

  “Of course,” Valerie said. “We are not slowing down.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” the president said. He turned back to Mr. Perrot. “Congratulations to you, sir. I hope your term on the Council of Satraya is all you wish it to be.” He nodded farewell to Logan and Valerie, and with that, his group turned and dispersed in the growing crowd.

  “The president’s stopping by was a nice surprise,” Logan said to Adisa.

  “Yes, it was quite unexpected. I’m glad to see he realizes the Council is a force to be reckoned with. Of course, it would not be in the strong shape it is in today if it hadn’t been for your support,” he added warmly, glancing from Logan to Mr. Perrot to Valerie. “The three of you breathed new life into the Council during those dark days following the murders of Cynthia and the others. And now, with the emergence of original Council members Madu and Nadine Shata, I am confident we will grow even stronger.”

  “Where are they, by the way?” Logan asked.

  “Over there,” Valerie said, pointing to the corner of the room. “They’re talking to Rigel Wright. I bet they have a few things to explain to him about Mr. Montez and Elvia.”

  Logan laughed.

  “Dad,” Jordan said, tugging on Logan’s arm. “Can Jamie and I go upstairs? Someone told us there’s food up there.”

  “Yes,” Logan said, “but Ms. Sally has to go with you.”

  Jordan made a face but walked off with his sister and Ms. Sally.

  Mr. Perrot pointed to a large framed photograph that hung on the wall above the mantelpiece. “I see you were able to find a group shot of all the original Council members.”

  “Yes,” Adisa said, leading them over to it. “We found it among some old photos we had in our files.
We plan to leave it up permanently. They all look very happy in that picture.”

  “It was indeed a happy time for the Council and those who worked closely with us,” Mr. Perrot said. “I’m so glad that we are honoring Camden, Cassandra, and the other original members tonight. It makes my second induction into the Council, this time as Alain Perrot, even more gratifying and poignant.”

  Logan was looking not at the smiling faces of his parents but at the expressionless face of the teenage boy standing at the center of the enlarged photo. It was fourteen-year-old Simon Hitchlords, standing with his arms straight by his sides, between his father, Fendral, and his father’s friend Andrea Montavon.

  Valerie leaned in close to Logan and whispered, “I can’t believe she was my mother. I don’t look anything like her.”

  Logan examined the face more closely. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can sort of see a resemblance.”

  Valerie shook her head disapprovingly.

  Adisa turned eagerly toward the fortified glass display case at the center of the room. Logan and Valerie took one last look at the photograph of the first Council members before joining him and Mr. Perrot. The case contained Logan’s set of the Chronicles, which had originally belonged to Deya Sarin, and a distressed wooden box. “The books are the jewel of the commemoration exhibit. The Council cannot thank you enough for allowing us to display them, even for only a few hours.”

  Logan looked over at a man who was standing near the case, admiring the books. His shoulder-length gray hair was neatly combed behind his ears and he held a silver-handled cane in his right hand. He looked familiar to Logan, although Logan couldn’t place him. “Even though the books are in my care,” Logan said, “I still consider them to be Deya’s. I am certain she would have wanted them to be part of the commemoration.”

  “I wish her husband, Babu, were here tonight,” Mr. Perrot said. “He, too, deserves to be honored.”

  “He politely declined our invitation,” Adisa said. “But he did send us the box in which Deya found the books.”