The Letterbox

by Layton Green

  “What’d she say?” I asked.

  “She asked me to come closer. I walked towards the voice, trying to figure out where they had the hidden recorder. Soon I came to the end of the tunnel.”

  “Was she there?”

  “No one was. By this time I felt strange and realized something was happening. I also remember smelling something odd, like almonds tinged with gasoline.”

  “Maybe the drugged state had nothing to do with what we saw in the tunnels,” I said. “Maybe the Druids drugged us so they could steal the letterbox and then—”

  “And then what? Something lured us out of the chapel and into these tunnels where it could play with our minds? Who was it, Aidan? God, Satan, the Easter Bunny? It was the Druids.”

  I cradled my coffee cup. “I understand drugging us and taking the letterbox. But why bother with the rest?”

  “They’re sadistic. Maybe they wanted to make sure we were too frightened to follow them.”

  “I hadn’t considered that.”

  We were quiet for a moment, lost in our thoughts.

  “Lou?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Finish your story. What happened with Kika?”

  “Nothing. The voice said something and I fell unconscious.”

  “What’d it say?”

  He attempted a wry grin, but it turned into a bitter, lopsided smile. “She told me she’s waiting for me, and I told her it’d be nice to see her again. Then her voice changed.”

  “Changed?”

  His mouth twisted. He seemed to be debating keeping up his pretense of jocularity. “She sounded sad, and told me I’m not going to get to go where she is. Because when I die, I’m going to that other place.”

  I averted my eyes.

  “I’m going to see if Jake’s around,” Lou muttered. “Help him research.”

  I headed upstairs to find Asha curled in a chair, writing in her small, leather-bound journal. She set it aside and we headed downstairs to grab a late lunch. Near the end of our meal, Jake and Lou burst into the hotel’s tiny cafe.

  They rushed over to us. Jake pounded his fist on the table. “We found it!”

  “The next location?” Asha asked, gripping her glass.

  Lou plopped into his seat with a thoughtful expression. “It makes sense.”

  Jake spread a few photos on the table. “These are from the Bone Church. I had them developed.”

  Asha and I leaned in. The photo of the glowing stones on the bottom of the letterbox depicted a familiar image: a series of standing stones of varying heights—dolmens—arranged in a rough circle.

  “Stonehenge,” Asha said, before I could get it out.

  “That’s what we thought, too,” Lou said. “It looks similar, but the relative size of the stones is different, the spacing isn’t right.”

  Jake cut in. “There are plenty of ancient dolmen sites scattered throughout the British Isles. Stonehenge just happens to be the most famous. I called a colleague of mine this morning, an archaeologist at Oxford, and faxed him the photos. He got back to me and said this circle of rocks is an archaeological site called Avon Tor.”

  “Where’s it located?” I asked.

  “In the Devonshire moors.” Jake folded his arms. “A few kilometers from Cranmere Pool.”

  I leaned back in my chair and whistled.

  “That’s where the letterbox was found,” Asha murmured. “Back to the beginning.”

  Jake’s lips compressed. “Looks that way.”

  Lou shifted from foot to foot, his excitement dimming. “I want to find out what’s going on as much as anyone, but we can’t do anything without the map. And I’m not about to go chasing after these people.”

  I hesitated, glancing at Asha. “Of course not,” I muttered.

  She caught my glance and took a deep breath. “I saw my brother again inside the chapel.”

  “I thought that might be the case,” Jake said quietly.

  “I think the letterbox is somehow allowing him to come to me. If there’s the slightest chance I can help him—” She cut herself off and touched her ankh choker. “I’m going to the moors.”

  “The Druids are probably already at Avon Tor,” Jake said. “It’s time to call Lucius and get on with it.”

  Lou shook his head and looked down at his hands. My only consolation, and the only fact that lent our decision any sanity, was that perhaps, after the Druids’ theft of the letterbox, we were no longer on their radar.

  But we were about to walk right back onto it.

  -47-

  I felt the need to exorcise some of my stress with physical exertion. Not feeling safe enough for a walk, I settled for pacing the courtyard. The innocence of the sunny day grated on me, the smiling hotel guests an affront to my wounded psyche.

  I reflected on the events in the chapel. Whether I had killed that Druid was unimportant, I realized. What mattered was that I thought I had. My capacity for violence had been laid bare, in all its sinister glory.

  I was searching for meaning, but my search had previously been conducted through the rose-colored glasses of a peaceful childhood and an innate sense of self-worth. I didn’t kill people. I didn’t get put in situations in which I even had the chance.

  I wondered if that was how normal people forced into a theater of war felt: as if they had just discovered a monster living inside them, coexisting alongside their humanity.

  So why didn’t we give our bestial nature free rein more often? A God-instilled moral compass, Jake would answer. Darwinist socialization, Lou would say. Cosmic goodwill, Asha would reply.

  As always, I saw all sides to the argument, and the experience made my lingering questions even more urgent. I needed to know why someone had put me through that. I needed to know why I had been capable of doing what I had done. I needed to know what it meant that I had done it. More than ever, I needed to know what it was all about: the search for answers in darkened crypts, killing each other in the name of God—life, love, beauty, tragedy, good, evil, laughter, tears.

  I needed answers—and I sensed that the letterbox was hiding them.

  Later that day, we crowded around Jake’s phone in his room.

  “While we’re here,” I said, “we might as well call Prentice and see if he’s found anything.”

  Jake used a calling card and put the phone on speaker. After a spell of static, Prentice’s voice cut through. “Aidy, I’m glad it’s you. I have some news. Oh, and you should know they’ve put a new associate in your office. Kevin McLemore—isn’t that a lovely name? He’s only twenty-six. Delicious skin, and fresh as a spring morning. Linda!”

  I heard a voice in the background. “Yes, Mr. Meyer?”

  “Could you please call Mr. McLemore and tell him to come in here and take his pants off?”

  “Prentice!” Linda yelled. “You’re going to get us both fired!”

  “No one can take a joke anymore,” Prentice muttered.

  I rolled my eyes. It was nothing I hadn’t heard before. “You said you found something?”

  “I’m afraid to report that the plot of land in Pere Lachaise no longer belongs to your family, unless you’re related to a corporation. Which is an interesting thought. The tax benefits could be formidable.”

  “Which corporation?” I said, and Jake leaned forward.

  “I had to jump through some hoops to find what you wanted, since the corporation that owns the plot has fronts in place to misdirect the casual seeker. But we both know I’m far from the casual seeker. I actually ended up meeting a charming Frenchman who works in the Parisian judicial records department. But I digress. The plot where Allan Kardec is buried was originally purchased by an individual from California, a wealthy businessman by the name of Ryan Lenard. He held the deed until five years ago, when he sold the plot to a corporation.”

  I made a note to check for a connection between Mr. Sofistere and this corporation as soon as I had the chance. “Why would someone sell a cemetery plot to a corporati
on?” I asked.

  “For money, of course. The question is why would a corporation purchase a cemetery plot?”

  “True,” I mused. “What’s the name of the corp?”

  “Donn Enterprises, Inc.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. And it doesn’t sound French.”

  “The plot’s registered under a French name, but the corporation that owns the plot is British. Now, why would a British corporation buy a French cemetery plot? Shady, Aidy, very shady. By the way, are you sure you’re related to this Kardec person? I looked him up. He was a complete nutcase who started some kind of cult in Brazil. Lenard was one of his followers.”

  “It’s an unfortunate legacy.”

  “There is one more thing, which may or may not interest you.”

  “I’m interested,” I said.

  “Out of curiosity, I checked out Donn Enterprises, Inc. on Westlaw. Pretty disappointing. Donn is a REIT with a tiny market cap and no corporate scandals, as far as I could tell. Even its place of incorporation is drab, some town in the middle of South West England.”

  “Do you remember the name?”

  “One sec, I jotted it down . . . there it is. Grimspound.”

  I thanked him and slowly hung up the phone.

  “The Druids just made their first mistake,” Jake crowed. “Lettin’ an attorney into their crypt.”

  I pursed my lips. “Everything’s pointing to the moors. And I want to know who owns this corporation.”

  “I think I can help with that,” Lou said, with a tight-lipped smile. “Prentice should’ve tried searching for Donn on Google instead of Westlaw. Donn is the Celtic god of the dead.”

  There was an uneasy silence, and Jake rubbed at his stubble. “Let’s call Lucius.”

  Asha pulled out Mr. Sofistere’s number and dialed. Her employer’s voice resonated in the small room. “Superb timing. I just closed the shop. How’s the search coming? I trust there have been no more encounters with our mysterious white-robed men?”

  At first no one moved, then Jake and I leaned in at the same time. I let him speak. “They haven’t shown up since we left Paris,” he said.

  I nodded. Nice word choice. I knew Jake wasn’t telling Mr. Sofistere everything because he didn’t want him to call off the search. I was on the same page, for a different reason: I didn’t trust the man.

  “That’s good news.”

  Jake threw a lopsided smirk at the phone. “Unfortunately, that’s not all the news, and I’ll cut to it. Someone came in while we were asleep and stole the letterbox.”

  A long silence. “I see.”

  Asha leaned in, her face stricken. “We’re so sorry. I just can’t believe . . . we were being so careful.”

  “I believe we can assume who did this.”

  “What’re you going to do?” Asha said.

  His voice had a flinty edge. “I’m going to find these people and retrieve my possession.”

  “Then we’re on the same page,” Jake said. “We think we know where they are. You remember Kardec’s tomb in Pere Lachaise? Aidan did some research, and turns out it’s owned by a corporation called Donn Enterprises. Donn is also—”

  “The Celtic god of the dead,” Mr. Sofistere said quietly.

  “You got it. The corporation is headquartered in the moors, someplace called Grimspound.”

  “I know the place. It’s the only town within proximity of Cranmere Pool, which I’m sure is no coincidence.”

  “There’s more,” Jake said. “We found the key to the next portion of the map, and it’s also in the moors. A ring of dolmens like Stonehenge, name of Avon Tor.”

  “Excellent news.” Lucius fell silent for a moment. “I think its best if I met you myself in Grimspound. I’d like to hear the entire story when I arrive.”

  That took me aback. I would have to ramp up my background search.

  “Be careful,” Asha said. “I know we don’t have the letterbox, but these people . . . .” she trailed off.

  Are capable of anything, I finished for her in my head.

  -48-

  Asha tumbled into sleep. I couldn’t seem to grow tired, so I gave up and headed to the lobby, where guests sometimes left books in English lying around. As I came down the stairs, I noticed Jake sitting in a chair, reading a worn textbook.

  He looked up. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  I flopped in the chair across from him. “I seem to sleep less and less these days.”

  “Welcome to the club. Worrying about your girl?”

  “I have a lot on my mind. But yes, I’m worried about her.”

  His eyes bored into mine, as if looking right through me. He returned to his book, but I noticed after a few minutes that he hadn’t turned a page.

  “What’d you see in that church, Jake?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude,” I said. “I just thought it might be useful information.”

  “It’s not.”

  After another minute of uncomfortable silence, I said, “How long do you plan to stay in Croatia?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

  “If you want to be alone, I respect that.” I stood to leave, but he flicked a wrist, motioning me back to my chair.

  “One reason I stayed in Croatia is because people don’t ask questions there. And I don’t speak Croatian, so anyone who asks a question I can’t talk to anyway.” He closed the textbook and lit a cigarette, taking a few puffs before he spoke again. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s asked me any questions.”

  “Gives you plenty of time to think about your answers.”

  He gave a short, forced laugh. “I guess that’s right.”

  He continued smoking, and I saw a paperback lying on the table next to me. A political thriller, judging from the cover image of a bloody dagger superimposed on the White House. I started to flip through it.

  “I was married once,” Jake said softly.

  I slid the book back onto the table.

  “I met her at Mass when I was at Harvard. She was Northern, pedigreed, sophisticated, beautiful. Everything I wasn’t. I never got why she loved me, but she did. You and the girl remind me of the way we used to be. We could never be apart, and we just saw life in the same way, despite our different backgrounds. I don’t know what else to call it, except for fate. God’s plan, true love, all that crap.”

  He focused on his cigarette. I kept quiet, my body language assuring him of my complete attention.

  “God I loved her. Loved her more than I’ve loved anything. I grew up Catholic near Memphis, Tennessee. One grandfather was an O’Sircy, the other was Cherokee. That’s one hell of a heritage: drinkers and fighters on both sides. I guess the one thing they had in common was a dumb blind faith in God, which trickled down to me, because if you’re an Irish-American-Indian you better believe in something.

  “But I was no altar boy, and I was hardly from Brentwood. There’re parts around Memphis that, well, they aren’t nice places. Anyway, I ended up at Catholic school and, for all my other flaws, I had a knack for the books. School was a way out. I discovered I even had a genuine interest in Catholic history and religious objects. I suppose you could say God and the Church have been assumed all my life.” He held the dying tip of the cigarette an inch from his face. “She was not assumed. I never dreamed I’d find anyone like her, could have someone that good in my life. I knew I didn’t deserve her, but there she was.”

  “What happened?” I said quietly, as sure as I’d ever been of anything that something had.

  “We had ten incredible years together. Happiest time of my life, and it ain’t even close. She taught theology, I worked off grants. One time I was off to Cairo to trace the history of a Coptic manuscript. While I was away, I got a phone call from a hospital in Boston.”

  He swallowed, his mouth narrow.

  “My wife had been raped. Someone caught her in the parking lot outside our church. Beat her up pretty bad. It was a te
rrible time. After a while the pain became bearable for her—until she began to show.”

  I ran a hand through my hair and left it cupping the back of my neck.

  “We had just decided to have kids. She couldn’t deal with the fact that she had her rapist’s child inside her instead of mine.”

  He was talking to himself now, the way people do when remembering something tragic.

  “My wife was a very religious woman, even through the rape. But the baby inside her became an unbearable dilemma. She hated the fact that it was there, but abortion is a sin in Catholicism. Not just any sin. A mortal sin.”

  “I thought suicide was the only mortal sin.”

  “A common misperception. Abortion, murder, there’s a few more. The reason suicide is different, and infamous, is because mortal sins are just that, sins of mortality—not eternity. But when you commit suicide, there’s no chance to confess. You die while in a state of mortal sin, which means there’s no redemption. You go to Hell and you ain’t getting out.”

  “Ah.”

  “My wife knew she could confess after the abortion, but devout people don’t willingly commit any sin. The stress damn near killed her. I supported her, told her to do whatever she thought was right. I could never have stopped loving her, and I would’ve been fine with the kid.”

  His words poured forth, and I had the feeling I was the only person who had heard this story in a very long time. If ever.

  “Twenty-six weeks into the pregnancy I had to leave town again, a day trip to Cambridge. While I was gone I got a call from our priest. He’d received a call from my wife earlier in the day, from an abortion clinic. She went in by herself, couldn’t bear to have me watch. Doctors aren’t supposed to abort at such a late stage, but they will in certain cases, even though the procedure can be dangerous to the mother.”

  He looked down at his hands. “The baby was so far advanced they decided to perform a hysterectomy. But something went wrong. They couldn’t stop the bleeding. She had the doctor call both me and our priest. When the doctor tried to reach me I,” Jake stopped, and got as close to being choked up as I had ever seen him, “wasn’t available. By the time the priest arrived, she was dead.”