by Layton Green
We raced to the far side of the entrance plaza, to a set of stairs leading underground. The entrance to the crypt. At the bottom of the long staircase, a turnstile was set into the roughhewn stone wall, blocking the entrance.
There was no sign of the woman. An older man sitting in a chair behind the turnstile put a hand up, pointing to a sign with admission prices.
“A woman!” I gushed. “She just came down here. Did you see her? Did she go into the crypt?”
His face wrinkled and his English was good, so I knew he understood me. “There was no woman here, monsieur. The last visitor left twenty minutes ago.”
“She just came down these stairs.”
He held his palms up and gave me one of those condescending expressions the French have perfected.
Besides the staircase, the turnstile offered the only other exit. There were no tourists, nowhere else she could have gone.
Was the man part of the deception? I took another look at him, at the tired face and faded brown uniform. If he wasn’t an hourly museum worker, then he was a damn good actor.
Asha started for the turnstile, and I grabbed her arm. “I know it’s a museum, but we’re not going down there by ourselves.”
She clutched the turnstile. “She knows something about my brother.”
I pulled her away, and Asha fell into my arms, a whimper of pure emotion escaping her lips that I knew encompassed all of her hopes and fears about her long-dead brother.
-34-
I led Asha up the stairs and back into the sunlight.
“She had to have gone into the crypt,” she said. “But why would that man have lied?”
I had no response. Yet another mystery.
“Her reaction to the letterbox was strange,” she continued. “As if she was afraid of it.”
“It was all strange. My guess is the Druids sent her. Either to get us to leave the letterbox behind or to rattle us even more.”
“But why be so evasive? And how could the Druids have known where we were going, or that I had the letterbox with me?”
“That I don’t know.” I stepped to the curb to flag a taxi. “Asha, let’s go home.”
She sighed and tried to look wistful, but failed to hide the obsessive look in her eyes. “We can’t leave the others,” she said.
I took her hand. “Jake’s fine by himself, and Lou won’t take convincing.”
She shook her head, her next words a suit of armor encasing her with conviction. “He’s my baby brother, Aidan, and he’s out there somewhere. He’s out there and he needs my help.”
That evening we all met in the hotel’s conference room. Jake and Lou had no insight as to our strange encounter.
Jake put his phone on speaker and we gathered around. I had done some thinking on the ride back from Notre Dame, and had an idea.
“Before we call Mr. Sofistere,” I said, “I want to make a quick call.”
“What’re you thinking?” Jake said.
“I was trying to come up with ways to find out more information about the Druids, and I thought of Kardec’s crypt. I think we can find out who owns it.”
“Wouldn’t the cemetery own it?” Asha asked.
“Cemeteries sell plots of lands to individuals, and those transactions are recorded.” I grimaced. “I’m going to call someone. He’s a pain to work with but he’s good.”
I dialed and we heard the jangle of a ringing phone. “Prentice Meyer’s office.” The voice belonged to Linda Gladstone, Prentice’s secretary.
“Linda,” I said, “tell Prentice to stop looking for mansions on the French Riviera he can’t afford and get on the phone with Aidan.”
Linda sounded flustered, as usual. “Yes, sir. I’ll get him right away. Good to hear from you.”
“You, too.”
I heard muffled conversation and then the double click of a phone transfer.
“Aidy!” Prentice cried. “Where are you? And just so you know, I was shopping online at Saks. They have a new Helmut Lang line which my personal shopper failed to mention, the negligent bastard.”
Jake looked at the phone like there was an alien on the other end.
“Paris,” I said.
“I was picturing you someplace more like Karachi or Detroit, or some other third-world hellhole. You were always bringing some filly to firm functions who could barely speak English. People talk, you know. So how’s unemployment?”
“Liberating,” I said. “And terrifying. Listen, I need a small favor. I’d do it myself if I was stateside, but I need an answer while I’m here and you’re the best I know.”
“Of course,” he preened. Flattery got one everywhere with Prentice. “What is it?”
“You have access to international property records, right? I understand that for the kind of construction deals you do, you conduct extensive title searches on property you purchase, sites you develop, et cetera.”
“Correct,” he said. “Excepting dictatorships and theocracies, property titles are a matter of public record. Though the extent we’re able to search for and verify property owners differs by country.”
“Understood. Listen, I need to trace ownership of a piece of property in France. I’ll of course pay for your services.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. France has excellent public records. Better than here. It shouldn’t be a problem, though it might take a few days to get a response. What’s the address?”
I hesitated. “It’s a plot of land in a cemetery. A crypt.”
“Excuse me?”
“People buy plots of land in cemeteries just like anyplace else. You should be able to research it.”
“That wasn’t what alarmed me.”
I forced a laugh. “I’m tracing my family history, and I’ve hit a snag. I think one of my relatives is buried in Pere Lachaise. Name of Allan Kardec.” I spelled it for him. “I need the surname of the person who purchased the plot, so I can continue my records search.”
“Pere Lachaise, eh? A fine place to be interred. I have serious doubts as to this Kardec person’s relation to you, but I’ll put a first-year on it. Shouldn’t take long.”
“It’d be a huge favor.”
I hung up with Prentice, and we prepared to dial Mr. Sofistere. Jake spread his hands. “Take the lead, Counselor. You’ve got the slick tongue.”
Asha dialed, and Mr. Sofistere’s familiar baritone answered. I leaned in. “Mr. Sofistere? It’s Aidan and the others.”
“I was hoping to hear from you,” he said. “How’s Paris?”
“It’s very French. We haven’t had much time to enjoy the city, but the accommodations are superb.”
“How’s the search progressing? Were you able to locate Kardec’s tomb?”
“We were,” I said, the memories from the night before rushing at me like approaching headlights on a one-way road. “Although it turned into somewhat of an . . . event.”
Mr. Sofistere didn’t respond.
“We haven’t said anything before now,” I said, “and I apologize. We didn’t think it was serious. To make a long story short, we believe we’re being followed by a sect of modern-day Druids. Though to be honest, we’re not sure who they are.”
There was a prolonged period of silence. Somehow, despite the distance between us, I felt uncomfortable in his presence.
“Tell me more,” he said finally, his voice low and even.
“We’ve seen them on a few occasions, always dressed in white robes. They seem to think they have a claim to the letterbox. They chased us through the cemetery, and we hid in a crypt until morning. It was not a pleasant experience.”
The four of us shared a glance, an unspoken acknowledgment not to discuss the encounter with the shadowy figure in the tomb. Not when we weren’t even sure if what we had seen was real.
When Mr. Sofistere spoke, there was an edge to his voice, the subtle but dangerous tone of a businessman whose interests are threatened. “Following is one thing, pursuit another. Was anyone injured? Perh
aps we should cancel—”
Asha cut in. “Aidan’s an attorney. It’s his job to worry. No one was injured and we’re fine.”
I stared at her. Lou also looked shocked, but he didn’t comment.
“Jake?” Mr. Sofistere said. “What’s this about?”
“It’s probably just a bunch of rejects from the Freemasons. I don’t know how they found us, but I’ll handle it.”
“Aidan?”
I looked at the worry and sadness etched into Asha’s eyes, and hoped I wouldn’t regret my next words. I let out a breath before I spoke. “I don’t think there’s any real danger. At least not yet.”
Asha squeezed my leg in thanks.
“How could they possibly know about the letterbox? And chasing you through a cemetery? Asha, are you sure you don’t want to return—”
“Everything is fine,” she said, with a light laugh. “I promise we’ll be careful going forward. You said you wanted to know everything, so we thought you should know.”
The tension in the room was like grime coating a window. Part of me regretted mentioning our pursuers at all, and part of me wanted Mr. Sofistere to order us off the search.
“If Jake wasn’t there,” he said at last, “I wouldn’t even think about letting the rest of you continue.” He hesitated long enough to make me wonder if he already knew something about the Druids—perhaps even why they were interested in the letterbox. I resolved in that instant to find out everything I could about Lucius Sofistere.
“History says the Druids vanished,” Mr. Sofistere continued, “but elite sects have a way of surviving in the shadows. Who can say? But if the situation deteriorates, I will suspend the search.”
We all shared another glance. It had already deteriorated.
“On the other hand, it means the letterbox is causing quite a stir. I’ll continue investigating from over here. Did you manage to locate the next section of the map?”
Jake related what we had found. Mr. Sofistere was animated by the discovery. “I’ll make the arrangements. When would you like to leave?”
“Tomorrow,” Jake said.
I drummed my fingers on the table. “Perhaps you could make reservations for us on an airline to, say, Ireland. We’ll purchase tickets to Prague at the train station just before we leave.”
Mr. Sofistere rumbled his approval. “A good choice, especially with the Celtic connection. Is there anything else?”
Asha glanced around nervously, as if her secret fears were on display.
No one spoke.
Except for Jake, everyone seemed exhausted from the night before. Jake mentioned something about studying the letterbox while we slept. I think he had terminal insomnia.
I sat in bed with my back against the headboard, still trying to process the events of the last twenty-four hours. Asha slid under the covers. She always claimed a chill except on the warmest of days. It was the middle of October, and a finger of cold had wormed its way into the marrow of Paris.
I could feel her shivering next to me. “How can you be so cold?” I asked.
“I guess I was made for warmer climes. This bed is cozy, though.” She snuggled in tight against me.
I stroked her hair, and she said, “I’m afraid.”
“I can’t say that I’m feeling relaxed.”
“What’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
I flipped off the reading light and slid down next to her. She settled into the crook of my arm. I kept thinking about her words at Notre Dame, but the longer we lay awake in silence, her body close against mine, the more the incident in the courtyard became the anomaly she had suggested it was.
I slept terribly and woke much too early. When I stumbled downstairs for coffee, I found Jake reading a paper and smoking. “What’s the plan?” I asked.
“I have someplace I want to go before the train station.”
“I thought Mr. Sofistere was buying plane tickets.”
“I don’t think it’s very likely someone’s checking flight reservations. I think it’s more likely we’re being followed. Let them do their spying and we’ll put ’em on a train to Dublin, then take a night bus to Prague.”
I nodded, thinking it was a good idea if Mr. Sofistere didn’t know our route, either. “We can’t be too careful,” I said. “Do you mind if we tag along today? It’s probably better if we stay together.”
“Suit yourself,” he said.
“Where’re you going?”
His grin was enigmatic. “You’ll see.”
-35-
Later in the day, Jake handed a taxi driver a piece of paper with an address, and the four of us stepped out of the white Peugeot taxi in front of a plain-looking storefront with a sign that read JOIALLERIE.
“Jewelry shop,” Lou translated. “What do you want with—ah. You want to analyze the stones on the bottom of the letterbox. Good idea.”
“I heard some expats in the hotel discussing importing emeralds. This guy’s supposed to be good.”
We stepped inside. A huge bearded man stood behind a counter laden with an array of gemstones. I couldn’t shake the notion he was a trained bear offering up the wares of a wealthy sheik.
“May I help you?” he said.
Jake never seemed surprised that foreigners spoke English, as if it was what they should be doing. “We need a little expert analyzin’.”
“Monsieur?” the man said, confused by Jake’s accent.
“We need an analysis of some gemstones,” Lou said.
“What is it that you have?”
Jake pulled out the letterbox, turned it over, and showed him the bottom. “We need an opinion on these. It’s hard to see right now, but—”
“Quartz crystals,” the man said.
Jake’s eyes widened.
“They are not hard to re-cog-nize,” he said, his voice rising on the last syllable. “If I may be permitted to take to the back for a quick look-see?”
“Sure,” Jake said. “Be careful. It’s an important family heirloom.”
“Oui oui. But of course.”
The man cupped the box in his paws and sidled through a rear door. After a while, he emerged with a thoughtful expression.
“Zee craftsmanship is amazing. The stones have been cut into extremely small pieces and . . . affixed . . . to the bottom of the box. And they form some kind of patt-ern in the bottom left corner.”
“Yes, we’re aware of that,” Lou said. “Family tradition.”
“And where is your family from?”
“England.”
The man looked at Lou and then back at the letterbox. He shrugged, as if it wasn’t his concern.
“How long do the crystals last?” Jake asked.
“They are mi-ne-rals, of course. Zhey last forever.”
“I didn’t realize crystals could illuminate so strongly,” Asha said.
“Oui.” He ran his hands over the stones. “Your crystals are of a varietal especially conducive to illumination. Moreover, they are phosphorescent.”
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“To fluoresce you need light source. Phosphorescent crystals can absorb the light slowly, and still illuminate after the light source is removed. They are rare, these stones. I cannot tell you where they were cut or put on the box, but I can tell you where they were most likely . . . where they were . . . what is zhe word . . . .” He snapped his fingers. “Har-vested.”
“Where they’re from,” Lou stated.
“Oui.”
“And?” Jake asked, his voice sharp with eagerness.
“Lituanie. What is it you call this country?”
“Lithuania,” Lou said.
The jeweler refused to take our money, insisting it was no trouble. We thanked him and left. Jake told him he would make a good Southerner.
“Lithuania,” I said as we left the shop. I knew it was one of the oldest countries in Europe, somewhere north of Poland on the Baltic Sea. “That’s congruent
with what Mr. Sofistere told us about the carving on the edges of the box. Remember? He said it was a style used in Southern Russia and the Baltic States. And that it was odd that the box turned up in England when it did.”
“But even if the stylized wood and stones are from or inspired by the Baltic region,” Asha said, “the map and the Ogham inscription could have been added at any time and at any place. The more important question is what the Druids were using it for.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Lou said, thoughtful. “When did the Druids die out?”
“It’s hard to say,” Jake said. “Unlike most indigenous religions they encountered, the Romans feared the Druids and went to great lengths to wipe them out. No one really knows how deep in Europe they pushed or how long they survived.”
“Or whether they died out at all,” Asha said quietly.
We talked it over for a few more minutes, not reaching any conclusions, and then made the long trek back to the hotel. Once again, we only seemed to encounter more questions.
Lou discovered that two buses left for Prague that night, at seven and at ten, from a bus station on the northern outskirts of Paris. We decided on the later bus, since it would be dark and we could make a show of going to bed before sneaking away.
Asha took a quick nap before we left, but I couldn’t sleep. I hit an Internet café near our hotel and started my research on Lucius Sofistere. I found almost nothing on the Internet other than a thirty-year-old article in the Times Picayune, when Lucius had opened Antiques and Objets d’Art. Before that he was a blank.
Scratching my chin, I decided to play outside the sandbox. I logged onto LexisNexis, one of the world’s two premier legal research sites, and used Toureau Dagmon’s general default password to log on to the horribly expensive database. LexisNexis contained not just case law, but records of all types, including arrest and civil suit proceedings, mortgage history—just about anything an aggressive attorney might grab onto.
Mr. Sofistere was clean. Too clean. He didn’t even have a residence or vehicle purchase history, which meant he must have bought his house through a corporation.