by D. B. Gilles
“But enchanted objects are all from myth and legend.”
“Not all, Dalton. That is the myth.”
Chapter 8
Luger Pabst was a mass of contradictions and he used it to his advantage in every area of his life.
Nothing about him seemed threatening, and certainly not dangerous, on the surface. If there were one word to describe him it would be timid. It would be easy to mistake him for a country priest living in a remote Italian village. Trim, angular, soft-spoken, unusually large ears, neatly trimmed black hair and a nose that seemed too small for his face, made him almost unnoticeable. He was purposely vague about how he earned a living, but let people think he was an importer. What he imported was never clear.
It was his ordinary appearance that served him well in his line of work.
He was in his mid-40s, but looked ten years younger, a fact he credited to rigorous daily exercise, vegetarianism and high-end moisturizing products. When he was on assignment he wore nothing but black, but in his downtime he dressed in clothes bought at K-Mart or Target. Plaid shirts, khaki pants, penny loafers, white socks. On more than one occasion, new tenants in the exclusive condo he lived in on Sutton Place mistook him for a deliveryman.
He had a thing for the 1950s, not only in dress, but the political and moral climate, entertainment, and sexuality. He was addicted to soft-core porn from that decade: women in girdles, slips, garter belts and brassieres. He especially had a thing for older, maternal females wearing aprons. The hard-core raunch that permeated the Internet disgusted him. Each year he contributed thousands of dollars to anti-pornography organizations.
At Christmas, he gave each doorman one thousand dollars, the porters and other building staff five hundred and the super three thousand. He was their favorite tenant and they catered to his every need. When he had to go out of town on business, they held his mail and watered the numerous plants both in his apartment and on his terrace. To anyone living in the building who knew him, he was the ideal neighbor.
After finishing talking to Henri, Luger quickly changed into his work clothes: black shirt, black slacks, black sport coat all from Paul Stuart, and black Cole-Haan loafers. He brought with him his 9mm Glock semi-automatic pistol and Emerson Horseman SF Tactical Folding knife, which he’d used since his days with Interpol.
Although Henri, and all of his employers, thought of him as a contract killer, Luger considered himself a soldier for hire, as well as negotiator. He didn’t relish killing anyone, much preferring to use his verbal agility than deadly violence. It was too messy, and because he worked alone, he deplored having to dispose of the body and the required vigilance to clean up.
With a negotiation, there might be some bloodshed, but no one would die. Despite his deadly killing skills, he preferred to simply confront his prey, leave with what he came for and move on. His specialty was urban surveillance and reconnaissance, which meant that he possessed an uncanny ability to follow, or find, people who made themselves scarce.
If they’re out there, I will find them, he would guarantee his employers and rarely would he disappoint.
Luger rang the attendant in the garage beneath his building to have his BMW ready and within minutes he was driving down Second Avenue towards the Roosevelt Hotel on East Forty-fifth Street.
He hoped that Ursula Borkart would be forthcoming with the information. He disliked killing elderly women because they reminded him of his grandmother, who raised him after his mother was murdered.
Chapter 9
Proctor waited for the remark to sink in.
“Benjamin Franklin and Casanova became friends and formed an alliance they called The Brimstone Society. Its sole purpose was to combine their joint knowledge with that of other alchemists, scientists and magicians to discover two things: eternal life and how to conquer time.”
“Magicians?” said Dalton.
“Back in the Renaissance, science and magic were considered one and the same. Gradually, science overtook alchemy. The scientists in The Brimstone Society had to do research, which was costly, so a few, carefully chosen men of great wealth were invited to join. Such an invitation was a rare gift. Secrecy was imperative. Members didn’t tell their wives or husbands. They took their membership to the grave, only rarely passing it on to a child who could be trusted. That’s how I got in. The men of science wanted to study The Brimstone’s potential and possibilities for the greater good, but some of the money men were after their latest amusement: to be able to travel in time. They were kicked out. Until the middle of the twentieth century, The Brimstone Society was still kept secret enough to go unnoticed by the masses. But with the arrival of the Internet it became harder to keep things clandestine. A new generation of moneyed entrepreneurs evolved. They were interested in using The Brimstone to achieve even greater fortunes and power. One, in particular, is our nemesis. Her name is The Duchess.”
Proctor set The Brimstone on his desk. “I’m certain this is the real thing. But the only way to know for sure is to see if it works. We’ll have to make a practice run. And I will happily be your guinea pig."
Proctor’s remark caught Dalton and Juliet off guard.
“Guinea pig?” Dalton said. “Are you serious? I mean... just like that you would risk everything to go back to eighteen-eighty-nine with no guarantee it’ll work?”
“I’ve waited the bulk of my life for this opportunity. I’ll need a few days to handle some obligations, rearrange appointments and whatnot. Of course, I have to share the news with The Brimstone Society that I’m going. But right now, I have two pressing questions: what was The Brimstone doing with your father on the night he died, and how did he learn to make it work?”
Dalton glanced at Juliet, then back to Proctor. “We have a theory.”
Dalton filled in Proctor on the details of the connection between his father and Eliza Kinkaid starting with the entries in her sketchbook and including The Brimstone being purchased at the Paris flea market and sent to Eliza. Dalton also brought up the francs found on Peter Hillyer’s body at Cleopatra’s Needle and the way he was dressed. The three of them went through Eliza’s drawings and entries in the sketchbook, page by page.
The final piece of information Dalton revealed was, “We think that my father found a way to transport Juliet’s sister back to Paris in eighteen-eighty-nine.”
Dalton and Juliet braced for Proctor’s response.
Without expression, Proctor absorbed the information. “I’m sure he did. The obelisk had to be the portal. Combined with The Brimstone, your father made it all work.”
“How? That looks like nothing more than a piece of old jewelry.”
“Yes. It is old.” Proctor pressed the first Egyptian hieroglyph twice and the base of The Brimstone opened. Dalton and Juliet noticed a soft glow inside, much like a battery-operated candle. They looked at each other, than back at the glow. Proctor pressed the hieroglyphs and the base closed.
“The ancient Egyptians had a calendar based upon the phases of the moon that followed a calendar system of 360 days.” He wrapped his right index finger and thumb around the vinaigrette. “There’s a miniature version of that calendar no larger than a quarter inside. This is where the date one wishes to go to is set. The weather is also a factor. There must be thunder and lightning. This is where Benjamin Franklin enters the picture. What he created was electrical energy the old school way: lightning.”
Proctor opened the compass on The Brimstone. “My guess is that if we were at the obelisk, with some specific maneuverings of these charms, The Brimstone can start a cloudburst. Juliet, I submit that your sister stood near or was touching Cleopatra’s Needle while Peter manipulated The Brimstone. Each of these items has a purpose. The compass working in conjunction with the timepiece working in conjunction with the hieroglyphs on the bottom and those on the obelisk plus having the date set on the calendar combined with the sudden thunder and the lightning enabled your sister to disappear.” He turned to Juliet. “As to where she wen
t, it had to be to another obelisk somewhere in the world.”
“It would’ve been Paris,” said Juliet. “That’s where she wanted to go.”
“Dalton, had your father not been struck by lightning, I believe he was going to accompany Eliza on the journey. She was undoubtedly dressed in clothes of the era too. They would’ve fit in perfectly. “Did your sister speak French?”
“Fluently.”
Proctor shook his head sadly. “Instead, the poor girl wound up in Paris with no way to get back.”
Proctor peered at a slight indentation on The Brimstone’s bottom. “Interesting. My guess is that the same, or a different lightning bolt, struck this, as well. Right beneath the timepiece.” He turned to Dalton. “How maddening that he left you not a clue of some sort.”
“There was a text message,” said Juliet.
“Oh?” Proctor arched his left eyebrow.
Dalton told him about the call qi mdfo lxg text. “I’ve never been able to figure it out. I contacted a code- breaking specialist who worked in the Department of Defense for thirty years. He felt that the letters didn’t provide enough to go on and that even the best code breakers weren’t much better at breaking a handful of random letters than a layman.”
“The fact remains that Peter wanted you to call someone,” said Proctor. “Through his work he undoubtedly knew hundreds of people, probably thousands tangentially. Dalton, I’m sure you’ve gone over it endlessly, but in light of what you now know about The Brimstone’s power, could there be one specialist your father might’ve turned to? Someone he could trust?”
“Some were total eccentrics bordering on crazy, but it’s been so long, I can’t think of any one person.”
“We know my sister got it from her friend in Paris,” said Juliet. “Where could it have been before then?”
“Until this moment, that was the last sighting anyone in The Brimstone Society heard of. And none of us knows how it got there. Our thinking was that it had become part of someone’s estate and the person who bought it thought it was a worthless trinket, and accordingly, it wound up in the flea market. Historically, the sightings have been infrequent. Fake Brimstones have appeared through the years. Sold for outrageous sums to wealthy fools too desperate to do a thorough check. I’ve personally seen two. There was a rumor that Winston Churchill had the real Brimstone, as did Eva Peron. They did not.”
“What about Paris in October of eighteen-eighty-nine?” said Juliet. “Would it have been there then?”
Proctor shrugged. “Napoleon the Third was thought to have owned it in the eighteen-fifties, then later, Jules Verne because he wrote about space and air travel. Around The World In Eighty Days was published in eighteen-seventy-three. If it were H.G. Wells, that would be another story. He was only twenty-three in eighteen-eighty-nine. He didn’t write The Time Machine until eighteen-ninety-five. There was also hearsay about Gustave Eiffel.”
“The man who built the Eiffel Tower?” Juliet asked.
“Yes.”
“So where does this leave us?” asked Dalton, pointing at The Brimstone. “It’s all irrelevant if it doesn’t work. And that takes us back to seeing if it does. Are you serious about being the guinea pig?”
“Indeed.”
“The only way we’ll know it works is if you wind up in Paris in eighteen-eighty-nine.”
“Correct.”
“And then you’ll have to come back.”
“Yes.”
“Then what?” said Juliet.
“That depends,” said Proctor. “I’ll make this very simple. If it’s money you’re after, The Brimstone Society offers a reward in the amount of two million dollars. If you turn it over to us, the money is yours.”
“I’m not interested in money.”
“Then what do you want?”
“To find out what happened to my sister.”
“If Juliet’s sister was transported to Paris seven years ago, where is she now?”
“Presumably, in Paris, eighteen-eighty-nine.”
“They wanted to arrive in Paris was October sixth, eighteen-eighty-nine. Could you send someone to that date?”
Proctor raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Someone?” said Proctor. “I assume you mean me.”
“Actually, I meant me,” said Dalton.
Stunned, Juliet turned to Dalton. She was about to speak when Proctor said, “Yes. I could send you to that date.”
“Dalton, what the hell?” said Juliet.
Proctor beamed. “Are you serious about this? Because if you are, I insist that I come with you.”
“If you can get me there, it’s the least I can do.”
Juliet grabbed Dalton’s arm. “What are you thinking?”
“You hired me to find your sister. I want to find her for your sake, and if I do, I want to talk to her about my father’s final days. He worked on this project during the last days of his life. I need to know what he expected to get from this.”
“How would you find her?” said Juliet. “You don’t even know what she looks like?”
“You can get us a picture. We’ll take it with us. And, she drew a self-portrait in her sketchbook.”
“We’ll need proper attire for the period and money. Fitting in will be crucial.”
“I still have my father’s francs.”
“That will help. We can always get more when we arrive. What about the period clothes he wore?”
“I gave them to a homeless shelter.”
Proctor looked closely at Dalton. “We’re about the same size. I’m something of a pack rat when it comes to garments. I never discard anything. I have some Edwardian suits from my youth that should fit us both. We can buy more era-appropriate attire when we get to Paris. My French is a bit rusty, but it will come back once I start using it. Let’s see, what else? Comfortable shoes.”
“Alright, I’ll play along for argument’s sake,” said Juliet, frustrated. She turned to Proctor. “Assuming you could send Dalton and yourself back to Paris, how would you find my sister?”
“Forgive the simplicity of my answer, but we would look for her. You should know that if, and when, we get there, we would be arriving the same day as your sister.”
“How could that be?” asked Dalton. “Seven years have passed.”
“Because time stands still. The past will always be there. So will the date on which she arrived. Kennedy was assassinated on November twenty-second, nineteen-sixty-three. That date is there right now. Same with 9/11. Same with the day your sister vanished. Yesterday will be there a hundred years from now. But the thing is, knowing the day Eliza vanished isn’t as important as the day she arrived.” He looked at The Brimstone, then at Dalton. “Your father, manipulating this correctly, pinpointed October sixth, eighteen-eighty-nine. Anyone going back would arrive on that same day, despite the passage of seven years.”
Juliet looked skeptical. “I can’t wrap my head around that.”
“Isaac Newton thought time was like an arrow,” said Proctor. “Einstein said time was a winding river. It’s all about the energy. Speed of light. Speed of sound. Quantum physics. Much too complicated to explain. If an object moves fast enough through space it can alter its passage through time. Bla-bla-bla. Much easier to show you.”
“What about age?” said Juliet. “Eliza was twenty-one when she vanished. I was fourteen. I’m twenty-one now. She would be twenty-eight.”
“If I’m right, your sister will be the age she was when she left. If I’m right we would arrive in Paris on the same day, within hours of Eliza. Perhaps within minutes.”
“You’re basing this on what?” asked Dalton.
“A lifetime of research combined with endless hours of theorizing with others like myself on how The Brimstone worked. There were so many fine minds merging, but we could never figure out what the portals were. If only we knew who counseled him on this. It had to be this ‘qi’ person he wanted you to call. We could find out more.”
Proctor picked
up The Brimstone. “I need time alone with this. We have a café on premises. You two go there as my guests. Take the elevator outside of my office to the lobby, make a right at the first hallway and you’ll see it. I’ll call you.”
Chapter 10
Upon entering the lobby of The Roosevelt Luger found a sign indicating that the Magician’s Convention was being held in Auditorium B on the third floor. As Henri had said, there were photographs of the members of the panel. Ursula Borkart was the only female. It was an ordinary black and white headshot. Luger decided that Ursula had probably been very attractive when she was young. She had a kindly smile and full lips. He’d always been drawn to elderly women who took care of themselves by dressing and appearing as if they still cared about being sexually alluring.
He also noticed another sign indicating that this particular event started at 3:00 and went until 6:00. It was now almost 5:30.
He stepped inside, made a quick look around and guessed there were roughly three hundred people in the room. Ursula was on a makeshift stage sitting with four men, taking questions from the audience. He couldn’t see much more than her face and upper body. Henri was right. She did look like an aging hippie. She wore granny glasses and her long, thick salt and pepper hair fell over her shoulders. Around her neck was a paisley scarf tied in a French loop.
Knowing that he couldn’t approach her until the session ended, he found a chair in the back of the room and sat down.
He guessed that Ursula was in her 60s and, from the looks of her upper body, seemed slender. If push came to shove, he knew she would be an easy target. He wouldn’t need to use the gun or knife. If necessary, he could break her neck with a minor tweak. That was his kill preference. It left no blood or mess of any kind.
He sent Henri Arpin a text: