The Letterbox

by Layton Green

  Who does that, I wondered?

  Also, I’d never known someone from the New Orleans upper crust to be so low-key on the social scene. Someone as wealthy as Mr. Sofistere should have a socialite paper trail, unless he was going to great lengths to stay out of the limelight. The old Times Picayune article mentioned that he had just arrived in New Orleans, but, oddly, it hadn’t noted from where.

  My resources overseas were limited, so I called Bobby Gravois, a private investigator whom I had used on a few cases. Bobby was a hard-boiled Cajun on retainer with Toureau Dagmon, but he did plenty of work on the side. I trusted him and he was good.

  First up: producing a birth record for one Lucius Sofistere.

  -36-

  A few hours remained before we were to slink into the night, fleeing pursuers we could not even name. I climbed to the rooftop terrace of our hotel, trying to organize the thoughts flooding my mind. Thoughts I had been storing until I had time to try to make sense of them.

  When I caught a glimpse of the walls of Pere Lachaise in the distance, I wondered if my subconscious had guided me to the roof, perhaps to unite with the more overt half of my psyche, which dwelled on that terrible night in the cemetery every minute of every hour. Pere Lachaise had become a symbol of all that was dark and secret in life, all that lurks beneath the shallow veneer of that which we call normal.

  Not in my wildest dreams, aloft in my ivory tower of law, could I have imagined an experience like this. We were trekking across Europe, searching for a map that might lead to nowhere or to something that had been lost to time or thieves, pursued by unknown and terrifying entities. There was no reward, no monetary gain, no promise of fame or fortune.

  So why go on?

  Asha was the easiest to figure out. She was convinced her little brother’s spirit was lost and reaching out to her, and she believed the letterbox had somehow facilitated this encounter from the beyond.

  I could see it in her eyes. She was past rationality. Asha was desperate to help her brother and she wasn’t going to stop.

  I also knew there was more to the story, some important detail or past event which she had yet to reveal. I was afraid that if pressed, Asha might tell me something I didn’t want to hear.

  But I knew it was time to ask.

  Jake was, well, Jake. The danger, the search, the uncertainty: none of these things seemed to faze him. Jake’s profession was the pursuit and study of religious relics, so I understood the determination to discover the letterbox’s secrets. Yet he was an anomaly to me, a religious man who lived as if he had nothing to lose.

  I had looked into Jake’s eyes, as well. The man did not fear death—and not in an I-will-be-in-heaven-someday kind of way. The sentiment was more I-have-nothing-to-live-for-and-death-can-kiss-my-ass.

  Whether or not the rest of us continued, for whatever reasons he had buried in his stoic heart, I knew Jake would pursue the secrets of the letterbox to the bitter end.

  And Lou: my closest friend was most comfortable on his couch or reclining at his favorite table in Maison. He did not like change, shied away from danger, and alleged that he did not care about the spiritual connotations of the search.

  So why was Lou still around? My guess was because his life was a tribute to half-finished pursuits. Lou had always aimed not for the stars, but for the light switch next to the television. Though he had a number of advanced degrees, those came easy to him; being a student and obtaining degrees was the path of least resistance.

  I thought this quest was an opportunity for Lou to make a mark, to finish something. He wanted to prove to us—and more importantly to himself—that he could do it.

  Moreover, Lou had not been himself since the man in the crypt had asked about Kika. I didn’t know how the man had found out about her, but it had shaken Lou. Shaken him hard. I doubted he was about to become a believer, but what atheist didn’t long, in a deep dark corner of his self-proclaimed nonexistent soul, for meaning and purpose and creation, rather than cosmic dice?

  And me? The more obvious reason was the soft-spoken, enigmatic, dark-eyed girl I was falling in love with. Because of her brother, Asha was seeing this quest through, and the only thing I knew for certain was that she wouldn’t be alone.

  But there was another reason.

  I didn’t know where the ancient path of the letterbox might lead us. I had no answers for the things we had seen. But the possibility existed that we had witnessed occurrences without rational explanation—supernatural occurrences—and that the map we were following was exactly what the letterbox claimed it to be, in its dead and forgotten language.

  The God Path.

  What a brazen, ludicrous, irresistible claim.

  I realized how much I wanted it to be real. Like the secret heart of the atheist, I too yearned for purpose, a reason for love and suffering and simple human existence.

  How could I live the rest of my life knowing I might have uncovered even the tiniest, most obfuscated part of the answer?

  It was unthinkable.

  I returned to the hotel just before dark and found Asha waiting in our room, her face strained.

  “Where were you?” she said. “I was worried.”

  I gave her a quick kiss. “I just needed to try and clear my head.”

  “Is it clear?”

  “Not at all.”

  I threw my pack together and we left the hotel. We met Jake and Lou two blocks down the street, outside a kiosk. The streets were quiet as we waited for a cab. After switching taxis at the Gare de l’Est bus station, we directed the driver to a station in the Montpellier district. Lou asked him to take a circuitous route, and we saw no sign of pursuit.

  I was surprised at how barren the station was. We bought our tickets and headed to terminal number two; the ten p.m. bus to Prague was the only scheduled departure.

  As we waited in uneasy anticipation for the driver, keeping an eye out for the Druids, I kept expecting the shifty men lolling about the bus station to shuck off their rags and reveal those gleaming white robes.

  At last a short, balding man with a worn gray uniform and an insipid face walked over to platform two. In a listless voice, he called out for all passengers to board. No one stirred except us. We loaded our luggage under the bus and shrugged off the driver’s halfhearted attempts to help us. We chose seats in the rear as the bus warmed up.

  “I hope they get on a plane to Ireland,” Lou said. “Serve the bastards right.”

  Jake maintained his hawkish stare out the window. “We might be in the clear for now, but we need to move fast in Prague.”

  He turned to his side, leaned against the window, and pulled his hat over his face. I hadn’t planned to sleep, but the darkness and soft hum of the bus lulled me. I began to drift, comforted by the weight of Asha’s head against my shoulder.

  We passed the German and Czech borders. Passengers got on and off. Sometime deep in the night, the bus slowed and then ground to a halt. I stretched and lifted my head, looking for lights signaling our arrival at a station, but I saw nothing except darkness and a sliver of asphalt.

  “Where are we?” Asha murmured.

  “I don’t know,” I said, realizing uneasily that we were the only passengers left.

  “Maybe the driver needs to take a leak,” Lou said.

  I poked my head up and saw the driver sitting up front, doing nothing.

  “Hey,” Jake said. “Bonjour hombre! Ciao!”

  The driver didn’t move. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of light. I looked out the window and gave a strangled cry.

  Asha screamed. “Oh my God!”

  In a barren field to the left of the bus, fifty yards away, the night sky had brightened, lit by a huge tripod stand that had burst into flame. Hanging from the apex of the tripod was a round wooden cage, swinging slowly back and forth in the fire.

  Suspended inside the cage, limbs attached to the bars in a spread-eagle position, was a man pumping out jagged, soul-scraping screams.
/>   -37-

  I stared in frozen dread at the spectacle, nauseated by the stench of charred flesh drifting to the bus. Seeing a line of white-robed Druids walking steadily towards us snapped me back to reality. Behind them, a group of figures in black rags shuffled and jerked around the base of the tripod stand.

  “Drive!” Jake yelled at the conductor, who was staring open-mouthed at the sinister parade.

  “Vhat is that?” the driver asked in a frightened voice.

  Jake took out his knife and sprinted to the front of the bus. “I’m not here to hurt you, but if you don’t start this bus right this second I’m gonna give you a smiley face where it don’t belong.”

  The driver didn’t need a translation. He fumbled for the keys and shoved them into the ignition. The bus rumbled to life.

  “Jake!” Lou yelled. “They’re almost here!”

  I turned and saw the Druids steps away from the windows, some of them going for the rear door and some approaching the front.

  “Aidan, watch the rear door. Cut anyone that makes it in. Lou and Asha, watch the windows.”

  I pulled the knife Jake had given me and stood in front of the emergency exit. The bus lurched forward, and I cursed the fact we weren’t in a more mobile vehicle.

  I heard a loud crack and glanced back. A Druid had broken through the glass on the front door. Jake kicked him twice in the chest from the top of the steps. The Druid doubled over and fell off the bus. Another approached, and Jake did the same. Lou and Asha were racing around the bus, trying to lock all the windows. When I turned back, I saw a Druid with an axe ready to swing at the emergency exit.

  I held my knife up, trying to keep my hand steady, adrenaline as much as fear affecting my reflexes. I ducked behind a seat as the Druid’s axe struck the exit window, spraying glass across the back of the bus. I heard a scream from behind as I stood to face the man, but I couldn’t turn around. The back entrance was wide open.

  The Druid dropped his axe and grabbed onto the bus. I stomped on his fingers until he let go, but two more rushed the opening. One of them pulled himself halfway up, and I followed Jake’s lead and kicked him in the face. He fell off, and I kicked at the other one. I missed and the momentum of the kick spun me around—and then I slipped.

  It might have been blood or sweat or loose glass, but I ended up on my side in the aisle, looking straight at the Druid who had almost pulled himself inside. All I could see was shadowy features under the white cowl, and panic overtook me. I kicked at him from my back as hard and as fast as I could, thinking only of the man suspended inside the cage, burning alive on the side of the highway.

  The Druid fell off at the same time two more grabbed onto the back of the bus. I scrambled for the knife and yelled for help. Finally the bus began to pick up steam, and Jake sprinted back to help me. He kicked off another Druid, and as the bus sped up, the remaining assailant dropped away.

  I stood panting in front of the broken rear window, peering through the darkness to see if they were still pursuing us, smoke from the swinging cage polluting the night sky. I kept swallowing to avoid vomiting from the smell.

  Then I turned and saw Lou kneeling in the aisle, holding Asha’s head in his lap as blood poured down her face.

  -38-

  A soft no escaped my lips. I rushed to take off my outer shirt and gently lifted the back of Asha’s head. My hands trembled as I pulled up the armrest and helped Lou ease her into a prone position.

  “I think I’m okay,” she groaned, and I felt relief on a scale I hadn’t known existed. Her eyes shifted to look at me, and she managed a faint smile.

  I checked her pulse, forcing myself to keep a clear head. Lou handed me his water bottle. I started cleaning blood off her face.

  “She must have been hit by flying glass when they broke through the window,” Jake said. “These buses are so old their glass shatters like a plate.”

  We cleaned up enough blood to uncover the wound: a long cut just above her hairline.

  “Somebody give me a clean shirt,” Jake said, “and I’ll make a bandage.”

  She looked down at her hands and shirt. “There’s so much blood.”

  “You’ve got quite a gash,” Jake said as he wrapped the wound. “You’re gonna be fine, but you gave us a scare.” He turned to me and said, his voice low, “Don’t let her sleep with that head injury.”

  She eased against the seat rest. Jake and I looked at each other, and I followed him to the front of the bus.

  Jake grabbed the back of the driver’s neck. The bus slowed, and Jake leaned over. “Don’t slow down. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  The bus resumed its acceleration.

  “Looks like you speak a little English,” Jake said, his voice calm but with an unmistakable edge. “Is that right?”

  “Yes. Little.”

  “But you un-der-stand me?”

  “Yes. Please speak slow.”

  “Oh, I will. Now answer my questions, or I’m gonna throw you out the door and drive this bus myself. Do you have any doubt I’ll do that?”

  The driver looked back at Jake, eyes wide. “No.”

  “Good. Now, where’s the closest hospital?”

  “Plzeň. Pilsen.”

  The driver’s seedy little voice fit his appearance. His hands shook on the wheel as he answered Jake’s questions, and it was clear that self-preservation was his number one priority in life.

  “First off, you’re gonna drive us straight to the closest hospital in Pilsen.”

  The driver nodded and tried to look back, but Jake tightened his grip. “I sorry about—” the driver began.

  “I don’t want your sorry. Just answer my questions. Why’d you stop the bus?”

  “Last night, in Paris. I vas drinking at bar and two men approach. One man say, ‘Do you vant to make easy money?’ I say of course. He say, ‘Very simple. Tomorrow night, on route to Praha, you do one simple thing. Very simple.’

  “He say me, ‘You know train bridge after Czech border? Ten kilometers after bridge, you stop bus for five minutes. No more. Stay in seat. Then you start bus and go to Praha. Very simple. Three hundred euros.’ I say yes, and he give me money.”

  “Which bar?” I asked.

  “I no know. In Montmarte.”

  “Didn’t you think what the man asked was a little strange?”

  “Of course,” he said. “But it vas simple thing, and for three hundred euros . . . five minutes, he say. Vhy not?”

  “I guess you got your why not,” Jake said. “Who were they? What’d they look like?”

  “Two men. I no see faces. They have . . . have . . . .”

  I made a motion of pulling a cowl over my face. “Hoods?”

  “Yes, yes. Cover faces. And bar is dark. Please, I know nothing more. I swear it.”

  “Did one of these men have a burn scar on the back of his hand?”

  He thought for a moment, then swallowed and nodded. Jake tightened his grip, then leaned down next to the driver’s ear. “Those men who gave you the money, the ones responsible for that shenanigan outside the bus? They’re like Santa Claus compared to me. If you don’t take us straight to the nearest hospital, you’re gonna wish you were back in that cage with the burning man.”

  Jake eased his grip, and the driver whipped his head up and down in agreement.

  We returned to the others. I sat next to Asha and she grabbed my hand.

  “I could smell it,” she said. “I could smell the flesh.”

  “Me, too.”

  “They couldn’t have,” she whispered, fear and shock smothering her face.

  Jake went to his backpack and pulled out an old, thin, leather-bound book. The title was History of the Druids. He flipped through the book until he came to an earmarked page. When I saw what it was, my stomach bottomed out, and I gripped the seat in front of me.

  In the center of the page loomed a replica of the scene we had just witnessed: a man, suspended spread-eagled inside a human bir
dcage, screaming as his body writhed in flames.

  “Jesus,” Lou said.

  His face grim, Jake read a passage from the book. “‘The penchant of the Druid high priests for human sacrifices shocked even the Romans, who were accustomed to such sights in the brutal world of the arena. Celtic prisoners of war were routinely given to the high priests, who made sacrifices to their gods of these unfortunate captives. Caesar reports how captives were burned alive in giant wicker cages.’”

  CZECH REPUBLIC

  -39-

  True to his word, the driver took us to an urgent-care center on the outskirts of Plzeň, the birthplace of Pilsner beer. Asha’s wound required stitches. After her discharge, we splurged on a taxi for the final hour into Prague.

  So much for sneaking into the Czech Republic. Instead we limped, tired and frightened and angry, discretion a forgotten ambition, into a secure Western hotel in a quiet neighborhood near the old town.

  That night we gathered in Lou’s room. My old friend was smoking next to a cracked window, and Asha sat next to me on the bed, staring into space. Jake paced the room like a caged animal.

  “I know what we think we saw outside the bus,” Lou said, “but what did we really see? I refuse to believe that was real.”

  “I don’t care if it was real,” Asha said. “It was sick.”

  Jake kept pacing the room. Lou folded his arms and grimaced. “I won’t disagree with that.”

  Asha kneaded her hands together, then spoke with bravado I could tell was forced. “The next portion of the map is in a church. We’ll go there during the day, figure out where to go next, and move on. They’ve yet to approach us in a crowd.”

  I felt madness cavorting about the room. I realized I had underestimated the impact of seeing her brother. Asha wasn’t thinking straight when it came to the letterbox. She wasn’t thinking at all.

  But once again, she had taken the choice away from me.

  “You know it won’t be that easy,” Lou muttered.