The Demon Signet

by Shawn Hopkins

Beneath the question was another inscription, an answer provided by his loving parents.

  Indeed, Son, you have recorded your legacy across the mountainsides and upon the fleshly tablets of numerous hearts. Your work, as short as it was, will forever follow your name through all who shall come to hear of it. We will see you soon, and share in your eternal rewards! We love you.

  Ian frowned, and a tear slid down his face, disappearing into his beard. “Your legacy should’ve been better, longer. You still had so much to do, my friend.” The bitter feelings toward God began to swirl again, but the questions of why and the accusations of it all being unfair had exhausted his mind long ago.

  He stood there for an hour, thinking of the times they’d spent together. Basketball, X-Box… It was a shame that Ashley’s parents never got to meet him, never got to know the man their youngest daughter had fallen in love with.

  Ashley…

  On the drive back to his home, he wondered again at the soldiers, the helicopters, and the obvious cover-up that was concocted in the aftermath of it all. It left him wondering just what in the hell was really going on, what place the ring might have on the world stage. What exactly was it that they had gotten themselves in the middle of? And, as always, the line of questions took him back to the rental car, to the missing person who had driven it before them. If their plane hadn’t needed to land at the regional airport, they would all be getting ready to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner together, Heather and their child, Ashley and Marcus. To think that his fiancée and his unborn child, along with Marcus, Joyce, George, and a hell of a lot of others were all in the ground because of some maintenance quirk, maybe something as small as a single screw… It was maddening, that something so insignificant could, in an instant, rewrite entire lives, turning them from promise to horror in the blink of an eye. How was one supposed to find meaning in something like that? Like this? How did you accept it and move on?

  He tried to put it out of his mind. His mother’s birthday was coming up, and his stepfather wanted him to come to the surprise party. He was supposed to get back to him tonight with an answer. He thought about his real father, the assistant pastor caught screwing his neighbor’s wife on a church pew. Had his brother’s death stolen his father’s faith as it had his own? He didn’t doubt it.

  His mind drifted, as it usually did, to Ashley. He hadn’t talked to her since the week following the incident. He would write her tomorrow. He’d been putting it off for too long.

  Looking up into the rearview mirror, the sun setting beside him, he saw the same black SUV that had followed him into the cemetery. It followed him all the way to Hanover.

  ****

  Ashley was older now, pushing forty-five, though as she sat down on the park bench, she felt more like ninety-five. The years had been far from kind to her, and she was ready for the end. The nightmares, the pain, the questions, the fear… She was tired of their incessant company. Nothing she set out to do in life, once finally being released from the loony bin, had helped at all in moving beyond the horrible events that had taken place more than fifteen years ago. Her fervor for social justice had fizzled out immediately, and she’d abandoned all hopes of finishing her Ernie Davis novel. She just couldn’t find it in her shattered heart to care anymore. The burden was too much, and despite her parents’ gentle objections, she finally turned away from everything she’d spent her life building, moving instead into the embrace of the West Virginian mountains. It was there that she took up a new type of writing, and for a little while it seemed to help. She’d gotten an agent who had helped her land a big contract for her first crime novel, The Best of Intentions. She turned the book into a series, selling over a million copies of each. She enjoyed writing crime fiction, or at least so long as it distracted her from that Christmas Eve. But the escape into the alternate world of her characters didn’t prove so great a shield from reality after all, and soon she couldn’t bring herself to type another word of anything.

  She crossed her legs and leaned back against the wooden bench, her eyes looking out past the liquid expanse before her. It was almost ten o’clock in the morning on a pleasant June day, and the clouds were dancing gracefully across the lake’s surface. For a moment, she was stricken with grief at the prospect of her aged parents and her brother receiving the news. It wouldn’t be easy for them to hear, and she knew she should just wait a little bit longer, until her parents passed. But today was a bad day, and she was sure she couldn’t wait any longer. She would apologize in the note and pray they would understand.

  A tear ran down her cheek, and she relived the moment she opened her eyes in the hospital to see her parents standing over her, tears of great sadness but also relief dripping from their eyes. They’d lost their oldest daughter, but the National Guard had found their baby just in time.

  Her hand rested on the two books sitting on the bench beside her. Without looking, she opened the cover of the first and extracted a folded piece of paper. Her hands worked the letter open, and her eyes dropped to the words, though she knew them by heart. Ian’s message had been written nine years ago, just days before he’d supposedly leapt from his second-floor window, killing himself in the same manner that his older brother had so many years before him. A quote from his mother even served to blame the suicide on Ian’s long-lasting failure to accept his brother’s death. “He’d never gotten over it, and it haunted him until his last day,” she’d said. And maybe it was true, but his mother didn’t know the whole story, what had happened to Heather, what he’d seen. And she certainly didn’t know about the people who might want to kill her son.

  The note told of all he’d learned about Solomon’s ring while expressing his belief that someone was following him. At the time, she’d thought he was just being paranoid. But now she knew better. For everything had changed when a Catholic priest knocked on her door last year with questions from another planet. He wouldn’t tell her how he knew about the ring and what had really happened out on Interstate 81, but he had shared with her a tall tale of conspiracy and coming doom. He’d said he had traveled from Jerusalem, where he was searching for an ancient object that could change the world forever. She’d told him that she was tired of ancient relics and didn’t want anything to do with any sort of them. He’d then asked her what it was like, wearing the ring. She’d asked him to leave.

  The priest—Father Baer, he’d called himself—left her with a warning.

  That warning had been disregarded by one of the books beside her. She’d published Of Idols and Demons, her new novel, independently in just a matter of months, simply because she didn’t think she’d be around long enough to see its release once the big houses got done fighting over it. Her name alone would sell a million copies regardless of the publisher.

  Of Idols and Demons. It was her account of what had happened on their way home from Canada. If the priest’s story was right, about what the ring was and what it might unlock, and if his warning had any merit at all, then what she had just done would definitely be bringing attention her way. Soon, the very people that had thrown Ian out a window would come to pay her a visit as well. But she didn’t care. She was ready.

  Crossing her legs, the dull pain of the bullet wound groaning in protest as it always did, she closed her eyes and thought of Marcus.

  When a jogger found her lying there, a pool of blood beneath the bench, she had a 9mm in one hand and a Bible in the other. The name inside the Bible belonged to one Marcus Jude Hatfield. There was a picture of him and Ashley within the pages, arms around each other, a ski slope in the background. They were smiling, their faces shining with the glow of fresh love. The gun was registered to her, though she’d never bought one while alive. Her copy of Of Idols and Demons was gone, and in fact, the book would be canceled a week after its release.

  For the few fans that were able to order copies in that first week, they were left to wonder at the book’s final paragraph.

  In a world that continues to grow smaller, with healt
h and freedom diminishing at an alarming rate, with America being dissolved into the new Union and a police state ensuing…could what the priest told me be true? Could there be an ancient conspiracy that is finally beginning to reveal itself now, in our day, and all that is missing from its ultimate fruition, from the nations being deceived, is one powerful object? Could it be so that world rulers have become the sport of idols and demons and that, as it says in the book of Psalms, the nations, kings and rulers of the earth have set themselves against God, conspiring in vain against Him? If so, perhaps it is also true what the psalmist says, that God will laugh at them and shatter them to pieces in his wrath.

  I imagine this will be my last word. If so, then may I take Solomon the King’s words, whether recorded actually or fictitiously in the Testament of Solomon, as my own, for surely I can utter the same truth. “I became the sport of idols and demons. Wherefore I wrote out this Testament, that ye who get possession of it may pity, and attend to the last things, and not to the first. So that ye may find grace forever and ever. Amen.”

  Many Years Later

  excerpt from THE SOLOMON KEY

  The Senator punched the roof of the car with a large hand while swearing under his breath. And then he swore again, louder. Sweat was forming on his brow and, in an attempt to ignore it, he turned his attention to his pockets, searching for a pack of cigarettes and lighter. He was angry. They got him. And this time they got him good. Those idiots were there again, despite the late hour and the scattered rain. Every weekend for the last month. It didn’t matter how many of them were arrested or beaten, even tortured, they just kept coming. But this time was different—the major media had caught it on tape.

  He looked out the window, exhaling smoke into the dimly lit, brand new town car. He spread his legs, unbuttoning his expensive suit jacket and slouching heavily into the back seat. The confrontation had ended badly.

  He hated them—the “people.” Hated that they were still able to agitate him. Hated that he couldn’t just squash them all under his heel and finally be done with them. At least not yet. Soon, he told himself, trying to relax. But it wasn’t working. He knew the media would spin it in his favor, but still…it was just more work. And the people he answered to didn’t like more work.

  He lowered his hand to grip the edge of the seat beside him, the cigarette sticking up and sending smoke whisking throughout the yellowish lighting of the car’s interior. He began to panic. Should he worry? Arrogance chased the notion away. By his own esteem, he was much too important a figure to discard or demote. They needed him. And that made him valuable, untouchable. He convinced himself to rest easy, believing that a subtle rebuke might be a possibility, but certainly nothing more.

  The most recent terrorist attack had the people practically begging for a police state to keep them safe, and the ensuing loss of their liberty just about took them out of the picture all together—which is why he was sure he had nothing to fear from this last encounter with them. The power of the former Republic was no longer a threat to men like him or to their secret agendas.

  “Are you comfortable, sir?” the shadow from the driver’s seat asked.

  The Senator blinked, tapped his cigarette with a free finger, and watched the ashes flutter to the carpeted floor at his feet. “Sure,” he grumbled.

  “We’ll be there in about ten minutes, sir.”

  He stared out through the wet window, ignoring his own reflection, his mind dazed by the blurred city lights. He tried to concentrate on the task at hand.

  The driver pulled over on East 157th Street, and a man with an umbrella was waiting at the curb. Opening the rear door, he ushered the Senator out, escorting him under the umbrella into the newly renovated Yankee Stadium. The game was just going into the 7th inning after two rain delays, but the Senator wasn’t there to be entertained.

  They made their way through scores of local police and NAU soldiers before using an alternate entrance into the stadium.

  Three police officers dressed in black uniforms scrutinized them as they approached, their trigger-fingers dancing on their weapons. The man with the umbrella flashed some kind of ID, and the cops let them enter without a word. Once inside and on their way to the owner’s box, a security guard ran up to the Senator, ranting rather excitedly about a smoke-free zone.

  Stopping, the Senator turned, his overcoat swinging in pursuit. “Excuse me?” he growled.

  “It’s an eco crime, sir. I’m going to have to ask that you get rid of it.”

  He smiled a wicked smile and blew smoke into the young security guard’s face.

  “I passed that law, son.” Then he flicked the butt off the guard’s chest, turned, and continued to the owner’s box.

  The security guard reached for his taser gun, but the man with the umbrella stepped in front of him and waved a finger before he could get it out of its holster.

  “Don’t even think about it, young man.” He folded the umbrella. “Or you’ll be working in a labor camp before the game is over.”

  They left the young officer staring blankly at their backs as they walked away.

  The man with the umbrella opened the door for the Senator, ushering him through. Once the Senator was in, the man followed, closing the door behind them and locking it.

  “You look terrible.”

  The voice came from behind the bar.

  The Senator stepped forward, reaching into the chest pocket of his jacket, and extracted an envelope. “I have the information.”

  A man emerged from behind the bar carrying a bottle and two glasses. “Seriously Bill, you look like hell,” he said.

  “Rough night.”

  The man was a good twenty years younger than the Senator, dressed in slacks and a cotton shirt underneath a sweater vest. “A drink then.” He filled both glasses, handing one to the Senator who drained the whole thing in one gulp. The man raised an eyebrow, turned, and walked to an oversized chair, sitting to the sound of the crowd cheering a Yankee homerun. “You hear that?” he asked, nodding toward the tinted glass that hid them from the 53,000 standing fans on the other side. “The sound of ignorance.” He took a sip and waved his hand at the air. “Bliss. They care more about the pennant than their country.” He laughed.

  It was an old tale, and the Senator didn’t need a lesson in how the world really worked by someone younger than himself. Obviously the guy was a Bonesman, but so was he, as well as being a frequent guest to Bohemian Grove. The Senator stepped toward him and tossed the envelope into his lap. “The diagnostics from DC.”

  The younger man sat up, immediately tearing it open. “Is it what we thought?”

  “It’s all in there,” responded the Senator. “Can’t imagine why it’s so important.”

  Pulling a coin-sized disc out of the envelope, the man smiled. “Have the loose ends been taken care of?” He placed the disc on the table next to him.

  “As we speak.”

  The man nodded. “We can’t be too careful these days… What’s the cover?”

  “One of the scientists tried to steal it, to sell it on the black market. He murdered the others before being stopped by security.”

  He nodded his approval. “Will you stay and watch the remainder of the game?”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat, suddenly feeling the walls press in on him. “No. I have to get back. It’s been an awful day.” He made his way back to the door where the gentleman with the umbrella opened it for him.

  “Senator,” the man called, standing.

  He stopped and hesitated, looked back over his shoulder.

  “Did you happen to come from the Pratt House?”

  He answered methodically, trying to sound as disinterested as possible. “No. I came from your wife’s.”

  The man chuckled. “Senator—” he tossed the bottle of scotch to him.

  The Senator caught it, looked it over.

  “Relax,” the man finished. “We’re untouchable. We’re dealing with people that believe k
erosene can disintegrate 110 stories of steel and concrete in an hour.” Then he picked up the disc. “People that believe whatever we tell them to believe.” He walked back behind the bar. “That’s the beauty of this place. We can always count on half a million people coming to watch someone hit a ball with a piece of wood.”

  The Senator forced a smile. To which the man raised his glass and turned away, walking through another door behind the bar. “See you later, Bill.”

  The Senator walked out of the owner’s box, the umbrella man closing the door behind him.

  “I’ll escort you back to your car, sir.”

  ****

  In the owner’s box, the man who did not own the Yankees—but was very close to the one who did—turned the huge four dimensional Ultra Definition TV back on, its nanocrystals shining bright while the visible light technology stimulated his senses with high frequency blinking. He knew it was a Pepsi add, because he suddenly needed to have one, and he again reminded himself to get the feature removed. He hated being manipulated, especially by something he couldn’t see. That was his role, to manipulate. Putting the urge for an ice cold Pepsi out of his mind, he focused on the image that was projected. There he was…the Senator, coming from the Pratt House, ambushed by protestors.

  They were all screaming, holding signs. As the Senator approached his car, one young man stepped out from the group, video camera in hand, and yelled, “America won’t give in to your agendas! We know what you’re doing, and we’re not going to let it happen!”

  The Senator turned, glaring at the punk kid, and slapped the camera out of his hand. “There is no more America!” Then he seethed, “You’re treading on dangerous ground here. Someone could get hurt doing this.”

  To which the kid responded, “Sir, was that a threat? Did you just threaten me, Senator?” It was at that instant that the Senator noticed a major news reporter standing nearby, face frozen in shock, his cameraman recording the whole event. The tape ended just as security guards and police began closing in on the crowd.