He placed his hands over hers and pulled them around. She relented. “I will find out. Just give me some time and we will find the bastard who did this.”
She abruptly turned, bent down, kissed Linnux’s forehead, and departed, leaving the world of logic and reason behind. If these trilby-sporting men refused to leave her and her friends in peace, then she would not permit them peace. She would expose them in any way possible.
On the ride home, the tears still refused to come.’
After entering number 17 and locking both deadbolts, she padded into the spare bedroom where she’d hidden the chests. For eleven formative years she’d called this place her bedroom, from childhood to young adulthood when Gramps was both surrogated father and surrogate mother. The heavy chest, the only one she’d bothered to open, lay at the foot of a bed blanketed by dust. She opened it and caught her breath. Instead of being filled with yellow parchment and black and white photo’s, it was half-filled with Batavia newspapers, none more than a month old.
Lexi rifled through them as fear crept up, climbing out of the dungeon into her logical mind in a paroxysm. “Who could have done this?” she asked Plato 5 as he waltzed into the room. There was only one answer, only one that made sense. But to believe it was to permit another truth far more improbable. She slammed the trunk lid, scaring the cat away.
On the way out she made sure to lock the doors. A pleasant autumn day to head to Willow Hall. Main Street—Route 63—seemed unchanged, Batavian’s going about their daily chores untroubled by the recent murder of Linnux. How blissful their ignorance must be, she mused.
I hate them all.
She hated the business people at Cricklers; she hated the laughing young couples pushing strollers past Hess; she hated them . . . and envied them.
Willow Hall was clogged with students. Shoving through the throng, Lexi entered 33. The familiar yellow police tape framed Linnux’s doorway, an abhorrent canary-colored marker that said IT IS REAL. IT IS FINAL. She tried the knob and found it unlocked. A good thing? She barely had to duck to avoid the yellow line of finality and enter the room.
A hand stopped her.
“Ow! What the f—”
“Oh, sorry,” the behemoth removed his beefy mitts. “I thought you were another spectator trying to steal a peep at the crime scene.” The distasteful manner in which he said crime scene pleased Lexi. They entered the room. Some students passed by and she slammed the door.
“Have there been many?”
“A few. He didn’t deserve this. He was going to MIT, you know.”
His eyes were ringed in crimson bags, and the ruts of dried tears mucked his cheeks. “You cared about him, didn’t you?” Lexi asked.
He gave an ironic flinch—looking like he had been caught at a crime scene—and nodded.
She thought a moment. “Were you two, like, a couple?” The words didn’t sound right. “Was Linnux . . . gay?”
“No,” the behemoth said. “At least, I don’t think so. He was good about me though, you know? God, I can’t believe he’s gone. I hope they catch the welder who did this.”
“The welder? What do you mean?”
“I saw a guy leaving here last night. Through the peephole. He was wearing one of those welder’s jackets. At first I figured he was a friend.”
Lexi braced herself against the wall. Told you. No. Someone must be framing him.
“And you told this to the police?”
“Not at first. But I was about to,” the behemoth confessed. “Then I saw you. I’ve been out since I saw the guy leave. Had to do some stupid errands. When I got back the police . . .”
Lexi stood right up to him, craning her neck and whispering. “Don’t tell the police what you just told me. Let me do some digging first.”
“What, are you some kind of private detective or something?”
“No, I’m just a girl who’s tired of taking it bending over.” She marched out of Willow Hall and into the Dakota, murmuring: “The crowbar is in the garage, second shelf on the left.”
This was repeated this line twenty times on the way home, like a mantra.
Chapter 15
1948
London stood as little world unto itself in the summer of ’48. Over four thousand of the world’s greatest athletes, representing almost five dozen nations gathered here. While thousands crammed into Wembley Stadium for the Summer Olympics, (or the Austerity Games) Virgil met Silas Godspeed in the British Museum a few blocks south of the cheering crowd.
Walking across the ocean of polished floors, his black Dr. Martens echoing, Virgil at last saw his long-time collaborator in their obsession that was the Tower. Silas wore a knee-length burnished amber coat which seemed a blanket on his gaunt form. When combined with his pants, which were a forest green so dark they seemed straining to be black, his entire aspect took on a melancholy air. Two-day old stubble completed the ensemble.
The museum was unnaturally quiet, save for the occasional cheer ringing out from the stadium blocks away. Silas held his hand up for Virgil to stop when he was five feet away.
“What is the code I gave to Virgil Montaigne?”
“Fortuna favet fortibus,” Virgil recited. A pause. “Tell me.”
“I lost him in Israel.” Both men eyed the millennia old treasure of Ur as they spoke. “From what I have been able to gather, there was a rumor that a few prominent Ministers had grown suspicious of Mr. Rold’s inventory—especially of his shipments every Thursday at midnight.”
The ceilings were too high to prevent his whispers from rising and echoing.
Silas grimaced as Virgil asked, “What did the shipments consist of?”
Like an owl spotting its prey, Silas’s focus darted over to the man walking across the other side of the Mesopotamian exhibit. The man looked at them before continuing on his way to the next exhibit.
“Do you know him?” Virgil asked.
The gaunt man withdrew a Pall Mall and struck a match. Virgil noted his ashen and drawn features, his vacant, sunken eyes skulking behind the flame. “I’ve been seeing things,” Silas answered in a ghost of a voice. “Suspicious people, cars tailing me,” he took a long drag. “One of my contacts in the Cabinet went missing. As did my courier. I’d bet a metric fuck ton of gold that Mr. Rold has his own contacts in Her Majesty’s Government. You can’t trust anyone.” He seemed in a hurry to consume the cigarette as he ogled Virgil, smoke curling around his face and lingering—too long.
“You don’t trust me?” Virgil asked. He was forced to fidget when Silas continued his disturbing silence.
“You need to watch your back now. The Tower is no mere terrorist. Whatever his plans, he is patient as a god.” He lit another cig and mumbled quietly to himself.
Virgil took up the conversation. “If you will indulge me,” he retrieved a folded white sheet from an inner coat pocket. “I think I have discovered a pattern, though I am not sure what it means.”
Silas leaned in, sprinkling Virgil’s parchment with ash. “It’s the dates of Dorl’s—Rold’s—appearances and vanishings that interest me. His first known public appearance was—”
“January 29, 1933,” Silas recalled.
“Exactly. The day before Hitler became Chancellor of Germany and formed the NAZI party. For eight years Dorl ran Batavia Primary Factory in Batavia, and there is no record that in all that time anyone actually saw him. There were the rumors and blurry pictures of course.”
Silas took three quick drags.
Virgil could see the impatience barely restrained. “And then Batavia Primary was destroyed the day before the attack on Pearl Harbor. Then, he opens his manufactory in London on February twenty-fifth, the day before that coal dust catastrophe in China that claimed over 1,500 lives. I have evidence that the last of the ore from that mine was the first shipment to his manufactory.”
As Virgil’s voice shrilled with excitement, Silas tapped his cigarette methodically, sometimes forgetting to inhale. “Go on.” His eyes trailed
a couple as they walked past and out of the exhibit. Cheers from Wembley echoed through the corridors.
“Then the manufactory explodes and Dorl disappears again, this time on September First three years ago, the day before Japan surrendered aboard the USS Missouri.” Virgil breathed as though for the first time in hours.
“He acts as though he knows the future,” Silas suggested as the withering cigarette singed yellowed fingers.
“Or, worse,” Virgil chimed in. “He causes these events.”
“If that is true, then we have to be prepared for his next hit. Counterinsurgent soldiers should be in place to arrest him.”
“Is that even legal though? I mean, we have no proof of any illegal activity, just circumstantial evidence and theories—”
“I don’t care!” Sweat was beading on Silas’s forehead, spittle his lips. “He is the head of a major underground organization that makes the Chicago Outfit look like a bunch of coke fiends playing cowboys and Indians. I have the ear of a few ministers still and a few dozen expatriate American soldiers here in Europe that I can call on. They were in my unit in the war.” He paused before tentatively adding, “We can trust them on this.”
By his jostling tone Virgil knew the man was not certain of this.
As Virgil watched, Silas flicked his eyes from wall to wall, checking and rechecking the exits and mezzanine, the fingers of his right hand dancing. The air was cool, almost crisp, yet sweat was a film on Silas.
“You’re talking about performing an illegal operation. I always thought we wanted to find him to question him, for the government to interrogate him. You’re talking about ordering a team of expatriates to operate outside the law. I’m not sure—”
Silas suddenly grabbed Virgil’s collar and snarled, “You’re working for him. The Tower sent you to spy on me.” He shoved Virgil to the floor and walked away, talking as much to himself as to Virgil. “I should have known. It’s perfect. One of his former employees just happens to meet me in a government conference and also just happens to be suspicious of him.” He hacked.
“That’s crazy,” Virgil raised his hands.
“No, it’s genius. That’s why we haven’t been able to locate him in three years; there is no us, only me.” He stopped and turned back to Virgil. “You’ve been dropping little hints of his innocence for years. How could I have been so blind?”
“What about the dates? I didn’t make those up.”
“Another move in the Tower’s endless game,” Silas was now yelling across the atrium as he fled, pointing an accusing finger at Virgil, “You tell him he’ll never find me. You tell him that!”
While walking to Heathrow Airport an hour later, Virgil scanned everything. There was a man behind him, glancing at a postcard rack. The man was tall, stooped under a wrinkled white trilby. Every time he attempted a furtive glance back at him, the man gesticulated. He seemed forever adjusting the hat, huffing and puffing as though he and the hat were tussling.
The man and his trilby followed Virgil onto the plane.
Chapter 16
The never ending day finally changed, from somber gray to deep blackness. The Dakota’s headlights proved their impotency against the dark. Lexi parked, got out. Somewhere in the shadows a dog barked and a train horn blared.
Her head was swimming and her legs quivered. The little jagged brass things in her hand seemed peculiar—mysterious buggers. What are these things? A moment of intense focus revealed the answer to these brass riddles; Lexi unlocked the door. Déjà vu as she passed the shelf in the garage. She stopped and stared, waiting to be enlightened.
But the feeling subsided and she went inside to the spare bedroom. Vision blurred as she saw the three chests. Something was wrong with the picture, but the state she was in did not permit revelations.
With a start Lexi realized she had a crowbar in her hand. With this she pounded the heavy old padlock on the nearest chest and then dropped the crowbar, fell to her knees and cracked the lid. Satan skulked behind the chest. “Did I just take a Sominex?” Lexi—not Satan—asked. The cat ignored her.
Morning dawned, a pink sky the shade of peach schnapps. “High honey,” Simon said from the other side of the queen mattress.
Lexi swiped aside the crest of hair crowning her face and sat up. Surreal pictures danced as she recalled the news about Linnux. Dry sobs as Simon held her. “Have you found the killer?”
“We have a couple of leads, but I don’t want you to think about it. Just stay in bed, relax. I’ll make breakfast.” At the door he asked, “How’s your head?”
“Fine, I guess, why?”
“You hit it yesterday, in the morgue. Don’t you remember? You swooned and fell. Hit your head against the table. Bruised yourself up good, same spot you struck when you slammed the brakes to avoid that cat in the road.” He left for the kitchen.
I fell? Did I tell him about the cat?
A few minutes later the sizzle of cooking pancakes filled her ears, followed by the sound of coffee percolating. She tried to recall falling, but everything lay buried under layers of lies and misinformation. There were only prologues to memories. Something about chests though—something important.
After breakfast, and after kissing Simon goodbye with a hollow promise to rest, Lexi went to the spare room. She fingered the combination lock on the door. “Could have sworn I bought a padlock for this.” Beethoven soared over the swimming images as she went to the garage for the crowbar. A fruitless search, but while in the garage she was inundated with the memory of having struck the chest.
You have to find out what’s in that room. Or what’s not.
With two cups of coffee and faithful old Beethoven, a semblance of clarity returned and, fighting the weight of Linnux’s demise, she went out to the Dakota in the driveway to search for a tire iron. Walking back to the house, she noticed a mailman passing by. He approached slowly, and with wandering eyes. Handed her some mail and did an about face.
When the mailman was gone, Lexi looked down at herself. The middle of the afternoon and she was wearing pajamas and carrying a tire iron. She laughed.
The letter from her agent was tossed aside like all the others save for the one from Boetie and Ferber Lawyers. This one she opened. It was from Mr. Ferber. At her desk in the den, Lexi read how Mr. Boetie had left something for her in his will: a one page attached letter. She read: “Dear Miss Montaigne, blab blah blah . . . my deepest sympathies . . . blah blah . . . you will have to run. No one survives long who seeks him out. Trust no one.”
She crinkled the letter, tossed it and ran for the lock on the spare bedroom door. The first blow with the tire iron hurt her more than the lock, as slender fingers went numb and smeared with rust. After several more blows she found the sensation soothing, a new method of self-injuring. On the fifth blow the lock opened and vomited metallic entrails. She pried it loose and opened the door. Two chests sat on the floor near the window.
This is wrong. But she couldn’t say why and grunted against her mental sluggishness.
Lexi yanked one over to the dresser where there was more room and where streams of sunlight illuminated dancing motes. The bronze lock broke considerably easier than had the combination lock. As she made to open the chest the dungeon whispered the sort of suggestions only self-injurers perceive. Do it! You let him die. You deserve it.
The rusty tire iron in her hand held the answer: Cuts leave scars, bruises depart. She pulled her right pajama leg up and raised the iron in her right hand.
Rusty came down with a loud slapping sound, flat and wet. It was pleased with the sound, and wanted to make it again. It did. Rusty came down many times, transferring some of its orange crud to the fleshy one. Smack-smack-smack. Very satisfying indeed.
“Not good enough,” Lexi said. “One more time I assure you I am certain. This will definitely do it.” On and on she slammed iron against flesh until inch wide pink lines began to appear. “One more time, this will definitely do it.” As she struck she painted
the incipient bruises with oxidized flecks. Each jolt sent euphoric signals through her body.
One final time the bar of retribution came down.
Silence for a few ticks. Breathing calmed as the mental haze submitted to a kind of lucidity that would put polymaths to shame. She ran her hand along the still-growing bruises, palpitated the ginger convex flesh. She smiled, endorphins flooding her system.
Plato 5 sat in the doorway as though to say, ‘What the hell was that?’ Lexi ignored his look and cracked open the chest.
Yellow legal pads filled much of it, along with vintage newspapers. She thumbed through some of these, careful not to crumple the fragile pages. Mad pencil marks traced dull cracked ink here and there with no apparent method. Gramps had circled a fourth page headline: THE SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLIC DENIES HARBORING FUGITIVE.
Gramps had written in the margin: This is no doubt yet more misinformation fed by Mr. Rolds’ underground Society. I am close, and with Russia eliminated and with Mr. Hughes’ funding I suspect I will have him inside a month.
As she rummaged through the chests for hours, ignoring the ringing phone and grumbling stomach, more vague references surfaced referring to Mr. Hughes and to Mr. Rolds’ Society. “Who are they?” Lexi asked Satan. The cat was sitting in the doorway, apparently intrigued.
More digging. Near the bottom of the chest she discovered a crusty envelope addressed to Virgil, dated 1951. Though there was no return address, the letter was signed at the bottom and it expelled delicate traces of apple blossoms and hand lotion.
Dear Mr. Montaigne,
Through channels which shall remain anonymous, I came upon your peculiar state of distress and found myself commiserating. I, like you, am a man possessed of strong and resolute opinions. When we find ourselves not altogether able to attain the summit of our ambition, we must, however uncomfortable it may be, turn to another human for aid. I have followed with no small measure of interest, your quest to ascertain the identity and intentions of one Mr. Rold, aka Mr. Dorl, aka the Tower. However much I should like to find this man myself, certain matters proscribe such action and thus I write to you. I will fund your search for this evanescent fellow and in exchange you will agree to send me a letter every Wednesday informing me of your progress. The letter shall be no longer than one-hundred and eleven words and no less than one-hundred and five. Every fourth line will contain no more than seven vowels. In sum the letter will contain no more than forty per cent vowels and you will not be writing but typing the letters. You will use paper purchased from a stationery store owing no allegiance to the Russians or Germans. To expedite our endeavor, I have included your first check. Happy hunting.
The Fifth Descent of Lexi Montaigne Page 9