The Immortals Trilogy Books 1-3: Tales of Immortality, Resurrection and the Rapture (BOX SET)

by C. F. Waller

  “You may have wondered why I did not ask for identification,” the man says softly.

  I nod, saying nothing.

  “Well, the gentleman who purchased this box was a dear personal friend of mine,” he explains in a quiet voice that I have to lean forward to make out. “He told me that at some point his son might come to claim the box and only he would have the key.”

  “You’re talking about Dorian Faust?” I suggest.

  “I’m not familiar with that name, but my friend was a very private man,” he replies a hair confused. “Your father did give you that key didn’t he?”

  “He did,” I assure him.

  “Then the box and its contents are yours,” he suggests, waving a hand over the table.

  “Excuse me,” I blurt out as he starts to the door. “You wouldn’t happen to know where my father lived or if he owns property near here?”

  “He stayed at the Gattlin River Lodge,” he tells me. “We auto paid his room from an account here.”

  “Did he live there very long?”

  “Let’s see. The Lodge opened in 1982 and he moved in before they had their first customer,” he tells me. “Moved out last week. Before that I have no idea.”

  “And you have known him since when?”

  When asked this, a grin washes over his face and he leans closer.

  “I have worked here at the Wagon Wheel for thirty years,” he whispers. “I knew him that entire time. And yes, he did look very young for his age.”

  Pulling back, he winks at me and leaves the room. I am unsure if I should be shocked that this man knew my father’s secret. My impression was that if you made your gift public that the immortals came for you. Apparently, like many things I have learned in the last week, this appears to be more of a guideline than a rule. More disturbing is that I just used the word father to describe Dorian.

  “My father the Mad Hatter,” I snort.

  Inside the box is a large book. Its leather bound, maybe fourteen inches long and ten wide. Picking it up, I see it’s thick, maybe four inches. Setting it on the table I find two rolls of cash. Bills rolled up and held by thick rubber bands. The outer bill is a twenty, so at least five grand per. I slip these into my front pockets. The only other item in the box is a plastic case. It’s small, the back side blue and the front clear. Inside is a coin and on the back is a business card. The card is from an auction house in New York City. It’s a silver coin that appears to be worth a dollar.

  “I’ll assume more than that,” I say, pocketing it.

  Pushing the box out of the way, I open the book. Page after page of hand written notes are revealed as I flip. Each page also has a key. The keys are older at the front and get newer as I flip through the book. Some are sewn on, while the ones at the very back are taped. Every page has an address and a list. On most, there is a title over the list. Flipping to the middle I pause and read the list. It’s all furniture, some for every room. At the bottom is has the date of October 16, 1912 listed as the relocation date.

  “So wherever it was before,” I talk aloud in the empty room. “They moved it to this address on that day. Over a hundred years ago.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stands up when I turn to the last page. The key is thick, with a laser cut square tip. The insignia on it is foreign to me. On the page there is no list, simply a bank address in Austria. The heading European Storage is written on the bottom over the notation Account book and Keys. I ponder the significance for a moment. If this book is a map to storage lockers full of antiques.

  “Then the Austrian Locker could lead to God knows what,” I utter aloud, but put a hand over my mouth. “No offense,” I whisper, recalling Rhea’s reaction when the Lord’s name was mentioned.

  After a pause to take in the possibilities, I flip a few pages, looking for another key to match the Austrian one, but come up empty. On the second to last page I see ten tiny padlock keys in a row. The header says Car Locker Six and an address in Wichita Kansas. I stop reading the list of cars when I get to the second one.

  “1967 Mustang GT 500,” I read under my breath and pause, forgetting the rest of the list exists.

  I remain in the room for a half an hour, before remembering that I left Rahnee in the car. I start to take the book with me, but then remember my new friend. I do like her, but can I trust her with the treasure I have apparently inherited? It also occurs to me that if I am truly a minor-immortal, this cash of treasure will have to last a long time. I decide better safe than sorry, thinking Dorian would have liked that.

  I tear the car page out of the book to take with me. I also remove the last page with the odd Austrian key. Before returning the book to storage, I turn the box on its side and shake it. On the bottom is a sheet of shelf paper or something, which falls out when the box is turned over. Under it are a handful of pictures.

  The top few are black and white. The edges are wavy and the year and month they were developed is printed in the lower right corner. The black and white ones, numbering four, all say Aug 65 on them. The first one features a pretty blonde woman sitting at a kitchen table holding playing cards. There are people on either side of her, but their heads are cut off in the shot, leaving her as the only identifiable person. She is smiling and holding up her cards showing four of kind. With her other hand, she’s holding up four fingers. Her smile is crooked on one side, giving her a mischievous appearance.

  The second is the same woman sitting in a lawn chair. It looks like the same outfit, but one thing is now apparent.

  “Pregnant,” I utter, exhaling loudly.

  Quickly flipping to the third I am not surprised to see her posing for the camera with three others. One is a man I do not know, one is Beatrix and the last Dorian. The image of Dorian behind the woman I assume is my mother, arms wrapped around her, his face on her shoulder stuns me. Beatrix is not surprisingly wearing a similar turn of the century dress as was her way. It looks as if the foursome is outside. After studying the image for several minutes I land on the one fellow I don’t know. As if by instinct I flip the photo over, looking at the back.

  Dorian, Jennifer, Bee and William

  Jens B-Day at the Cavanaugh Lake house

  “William,” I mutter. “Bee said there was a William on The Calling Tree under her.”

  The last black and white photo is just Dorian and the blonde woman. He sits in a lawn chair with her in his lap. He pretends to be crushed by her and she frowns as if this can’t be so.

  This mystery solved, I realize my mother’s name is Jennifer and her birthday is in August. Looking back at the photo one question fills my head.

  “Why was my mother hanging out with three semi-immortals?”

  Swapping to the color photos I flip through them quickly. These are all from a children’s birthday party. The kids are all very young, maybe four or five. In most they are posed around a table in pointy party hats. On the table is a white birthday cake with a candle shaped like the number five. Flipping one over I receive all the information I need to understand the images.

  Arron’s birthday

  Sept 70

  In the photo’s one boy is at the center of them all. This has to be me, but I have no memory of it. As I scrutinize them one at a time I catch something. In one as I sit at the table there is a hand on the back of my chair. The sleeve is long and a white frilly cuff protrudes from the end.

  “Beatrix,” I whisper. “No doubt Dorian was there as well.”

  I spend an unknown length of time going over the pictures, before remembering once again that Rahnee is still in the car waiting. I return all of the pictures but one to the box and then set the book on top of them. The first black and white picture with just my mother holding up cards I put inside my blazer pocket for safe keeping. It’s not lost on me that she is a card player like her son. This thought puts a smile on my face, but even more so in my heart.

  I poke my head out the door and wave. This brings the manager back. When I ask if I can return it
to his care he agrees. Apparently no more payment is due. He locks up the box and returns my key.

  “Come back when you can,” he bids me goodbye at the door. “My son works here as well. Should I not be here when you return, take one of his cards.”

  I do, understanding his not being there means dead of old age. I have not had enough time to process such things, but realize I may have to start viewing the world with a wider lens. Sooner or later I will have to sort out my feelings on being immortal.

  I walk down the street to the car. Rahnee waits with both windows down, leg up on the console from the backseat. I slip in the driver’s side and start the car.

  “So,” she blurts out. “Did the key open anything?”

  “It did.”

  I don’t say any more and after a full minute her patience wears thin.

  “Well?”

  “Have you ever been to Kansas?”

  “You mean like Dorothy and the Tin Man?” she asks sarcastically.

  “Yes,” I nod, pulling out into traffic. “I need to go to New York, but I was thinking we should get rid of this car. Whose car is this anyway?”

  “Decker rented it,” she sighs wistfully.

  “Safe to assume if we get pulled over driving it there could be trouble.”

  “Stands to reason,” she agrees.

  “Dorian had some cars,” I offer, handing her the page torn from the book. “I thought we might cruise down to Wichita, grab a car, and then hit New York.”

  “You have the coin don’t you?” she asks, suddenly serious.

  “What coin?” I answer, curious why she knows about it and I didn’t.

  “The ten million dollar coin,” she insists. “The one Dorian promised to Dunn if he didn’t let me kill him.”

  “When did this occur?”

  “When Beatrix and Dorian were stuck with him. She told me there was a deal and to be careful of Dunn,” she informs me.

  “And yet, you let him shoot you?” I blurt out, changing lanes and turning onto the highway.

  “Honestly I didn’t think that gun would fire.”

  “You’re a horrible judge of guns and people.” I grumble. “How have you survived this long?”

  “Sparkling personality.”

  “Hardly,” I exhale loudly.

  “Oh hush,” she barks. “Let me see it.”

  Digging it out of my pocket, I hand it back to her. Upon visual confirmation, she approves of the plan to go to New York, but drags her feet on Kansas.

  “Did you even look at the list?” I whine.

  “I guess,” she grumbles. All American cars. Big fat slow American cars.”

  “You’re not going to be driving anytime soon,” I explain. “I was thinking of having a look under the hood of the GT 500.”

  “Mustang car?” she asks, confused as paper ruffles in the back seat. “It’s old.”

  “It’s the newest car on the list,” I argue, thinking the next closest was a 56 Bel Air.

  “Let me look on my phone,” she mutters, as I watch her roll on her side to dig her phone out of her pocket. “What did Rhea mean when she said that I am not into you?” she mumbles as she surfs.

  This catches me off guard. When Rhea said that in the heat of us fleeing the scene, I didn’t think much of it. It seems as badly hurt as she was, Rahnee recalls it very clearly.

  “It’s nothing,” I deflect. “She thought I had a thing for you and warned me it wasn’t mutual.”

  “I might be into you,” she mutters, still surfing away on her IPhone without looking up. “No way for her to know either way.”

  “You had a thing for Decker,” I tell her, pausing after saying his name in case it will upset her.

  “A person can have more than one thing in their lifetime,” she states. “When is your birthday?”

  “According to you about a week ago,” I chuckle.

  “Agreed,” she says clearly recalling our shower in Laughlin. “But when is your real birthday?”

  “Two months,” I reply.

  “Oh, it’s coming up soon. What do you want this year?”

  “Same thing I got last year,” I blurt out before I can take it back.

  “Is this the car?” she asks, handing me the phone and thus changing the subject.

  Careful not to wreck the car I’m driving, I see she has the IMDB page for the movie Gone in Sixty Seconds pulled up. The Eleanor car front and center.

  “That’s a movie car, but yes,” I admit, handing the phone back. “That’s a GT 500.”

  “I like it,” she nods in the rear view. “I’ll take the white one.”

  “White one?” I stammer, confused.

  “Sure, this list says there is a white one with red stripes and a black one with white stripes,” she explains, handing me the paper back. “I get white, you get black. A his and hers set.”

  Peeking at the list while trying to stay in the middle of my lane, I see that she’s correct. There is a second GT 500 listed. My thoughts drift back to my birthday request.

  “I can’t just go giving away a half million dollar car,” I pretend to balk. “Maybe on your birthday if you’re good.”

  “How about I get you what you want on your birthday, complete with a big red bow, and you let me slide on the car?” she offers very sweetly. “The white one though, not the black one. For the black one, you get a new tie and a birthday cake.”

  “I think we can come to an agreement on the white one,” I try to say confidently even though my heart is pumping inside my chest. “But I want to see the bow on the gift. No deal if you’re not wearing it.”

  “Really?” she grumbles. “The bow is a deal killer?”

  “Deal or no deal,” I demand. “Your call.”

  “Fine,” she agrees sounding put out, but clearly pulling my leg. “I’ll wear the bow.”

  “How many birthdays does a guy get a year?” I press her, recalling the last one was only a week ago.

  “One, if I have to wear a bow,” she growls.

  “And without a bow?”

  “That’s negotiable. Tell me something, you got all cars or are there more pages in the book you ripped this page out of?” she chuckles grabbing the sheet of paper back.

  At first I am surprised she has deduced that I left the book in the box and only brought out this page. Is she interested in me or the treasure map? Given how I feel about her, I am willing to take a chance that’s it’s at minimum, a little of both.

  “Maybe you got a page with some jewelry or something?” she asks, after I fail to answer her query about the book.

  In the rear view, she grins at me playfully. I nod and try to calm myself. You miss every shot you don’t take I recite in my head before opening my mouth.

  “If I recall correctly, there is a page with diamonds.”

  THE END

  EPILOGUE

  September 1st, 2087

  Swartenpohl, Germany

  Church bells ring in the air. The small crowd of parishioners file neatly out of the church down the worn marble steps. I exchange well wishes and handshakes as I walk to the parking lot. It’s not raining as much as misting today, but there is a stiff breeze. Grey clouds blot out the sky and I readjust my fedora to keep it from blowing off. I pause to peek around the building and see the hand carved marble cherub that sticks up over the other tomb stones in the small cemetery. It’s a hair on the gaudy side, but she deserved it.

  “Mr. Faust,” Father Michael shouts as he extricates himself from a crowd of well-wishers. “A moment?”

  “Of course,” I reply, stopping.

  The Father and I go way back. I knew him when he was a young boy. His own grandfather was the vicar here some forty years gone by. Both have shared my secret with no one, helping me to keep from drawing attention. Every decade or so I stop attending for a bit, then return as a relative of myself. During the last self-imposed banishment he came to my home and prayed with me in private.

  “What can I do for you?” I as
k as he catches up.

  “It seems the Sanctuary’s roof is leaking in the west wing,” be begins tentatively. With all this rain, they tell me we need to repair it quickly.”

  “It has been damp.”

  “I hate to ask, but we have no time to raise the funds,” he explains, looking down at the ground. “You could consider it a loan until funds can be raised.”

  “Nonsense Father,” I reply. “Email me the amount and I will send it to your bank.”

  “You are too kind,” he exclaims, shaking my hand firmly.

  “Your people are still putting the flowers on my wife’s grave are they not?”

  “Of course Mr. Faust,” he assures me. “Every Sunday.”

  I nod thanks and turn to go.

  “I cannot thank your enough,” he exclaims.

  “It’s my pleasure,” I assure him. “As usual this transaction will remain between us. I don’t wish to be connected to it publically.”

  “As you wish, but I can’t understand why?”

  “I don’t need anyone thanking me besides you,” I assure him. “Send me the number.”

  “You are my angel,” he smiles before heading back to his flock.

  “Be careful who you trust,” I mutter to myself as I turn to leave. “The devil was once an angel.”

  The parking lot is full of electric bubble cars. They range from white to neon pink and green. There are a few Tesla’s and a nice Mercedes, although I think they recalled the battery pack in the Mercedes, meaning it’s more than likely a death trap.

  In the far back row sits my car. A one hundred and twenty year old GT 500. Without a doubt this is the oldest running automobile being driven anywhere in Germany. The white paint is cracked and the tires are showing wear, but she still runs. I pat the roof when I approach.

  “Let’s go home shall we,” I whisper as if sharing a secret.

  Slipping behind the wheel, I see the red hood stripes are cracking. How long has it been since I had that frame off for restoration? I make a note to call Luigi, but realize I went to his funeral a month ago. It’s near impossible to find anyone who’s seen a real car before, let alone worked on one. I bought all the parts I could decades ago, but I think these are the last set of rubber tires, meaning I will have to refit the newer carbon fiber type they use on the Tesla’s.