by Todd Ohl
Should there be trouble, my oath shall hold. I have destroyed my copy of the key and committed it to memory, as you have begged me to do for so long. Should you worry about the lock, rest assured that I have made arrangements so that dear Evan will have been the one to take the secret to the grave, should you ever need to convey that fact. The new lock fits the old key. Those outside our order, those without faith, would fail in a headlong rush of greed that blinds them to their surroundings. Only we, who look to heaven for the true path, would have the way, which we already knew, confirmed.
The choice of Philadelphia was an excellent one. Do not sway in your choice of the site. It will show how we held the door so that the old ones could not deny Christ’s name. It will show everyone the truth in our faith. That is reason enough to give one’s life.
If I cannot have the pleasure of your company again, I will say that I will rest happily knowing that the door will rest safely at the feet of Francis.
--
Your servant,
George Trumbull
John looked over the letter again, and marveled at the pretension strewn through it. One line, in particular, showed a self-righteous tone—a tone he hated. He mockingly recited, “Only we, who look to heaven for the true path, would have the way, which we already knew, confirmed.” He took a sip of bourbon and groaned, “Give me a break.”
A second large sticky note clung to the bottom of the second page. Hallman’s script shrank to a barely readable size, to fit a great deal of text on the small piece of yellow paper. The note read:
The references to the door, Philadelphia, and the denial of Christ’s name confused us at first. See the passage from the Book of Revelation.
Trumbull died three days after this letter: heart attack in the woods. Hanstitch was already dead when Trumbull wrote this: killed in a struggle with his wife’s lover. She committed suicide in grief the next day. (over)
John lifted the sticky note to reveal writing on its back. The note continued:
I still have not figured out what was meant by the feet of Francis. Another letter read something like “at Francis’ feet, only when the second sign no longer points to the prize, shall it be revealed.”
John turned to the next page to see the printed passage attributed to Revelation 3:7-11, which he had read at Hallman’s apartment. Given all the religious references, John suspected that the passage that mentioned Philadelphia was from the Bible. John’s brow furrowed in thought, his mind occupied by the idea that a city founded only a few hundred years ago, was named in a holy book that was much older. Unfortunately, he lacked a Bible to validate the passage.
He went to his computer and typed in the first line of the passage. The search engine returned thousands of choices. The printout seemed to be a legitimate quotation of the Bible; still, John would have preferred to check the text against an actual printing, rather than a page pulled off the Internet.
Turning to the next page, he found it held two typed columns; each column held an incomplete list. The left column was labeled “The 14 that held the key” and held the names of Jan Hanstitch, Evan Fields, George Trumbull, and others. It ended in three blank lines, denoting that Hallman did not have all of the names. The right column was labeled “The 21 Old Gods.” That column held seven names in the first tier that included Baphomet, Hela, Tammuz, Mithra and some others that were spelled with a combination of letters that eluded pronunciation. Two lines were indented below each of the seven, with several of these left blank as well. Hallman was apparently digging to reconstruct the lists before he died.
John fanned through the stack. Only one page had a drawing on it, and that page, entitled the La Clef de David, was basically a rectangle with two lines running through it. Their illustrations were even more cryptic that their letters. He thought the whole idea that a picture was worth a thousand words must have been somewhat recent.
John glanced at his watch. It had taken him over half an hour to read Trumbull’s ornate handwriting and scan through Hallman’s twisted lists. He needed to get an outside perspective, and he had a person waiting at Eligio’s that might be able to provide that. All the actual people mentioned in these papers were dead; John figured they would stay that way while he learned what Amy knew about this mess.
Chapter 11:
On the Town
Eligio’s billed itself as a brick oven pizzeria, but its décor reminded John of the old Italian restaurants he knew from his childhood. The walls were clad in ebony paneling that stood in stark contrast to the white tile floor. Small table lamps and tiffany chandeliers supplied the lighting. The Tuscan coziness gave John the impression that he might meet a mafia Don at any minute.
He scanned the place for Amy and found her waving at him from a booth in the corner. She wore a gray hooded sweatshirt, which was unzipped enough to reveal a slight amount of cleavage and give the impression that she wore nothing else underneath it.
“Thanks for meeting me,” he said as he slid onto the leather bench across from her.
“Not a problem, all of my friends are tied up, and I needed to eat. Sorry, I already ordered.” She motioned toward her plates.
One plate held bruschetta and another held a combination of olives, giardiniera, prosciutto, and cheeses. John smiled; at least, he thought, she was not grazing on salad.
“Oh thanks,” he said with a wave of his hand, “but I just have a few questions, and then I’ll get out of your way.”
“You’re off duty, right? Relax and have a drink. The Long Island iced teas are excellent.”
“Impressive—most women would be sipping on some sort of frozen fruit daiquiri.”
“I like strong drinks that knock you over and make you gasp.” She brushed a stray lock of golden hair out of her face and smiled. “Just like my men.”
“Well, then you should have gotten the name of that bum.”
“Are you ok? That was a nasty smack.”
“I’ll live. I’ve had worse.”
The waiter showed up and slid a napkin in front of him.
“I’ll just have a Coke,” he said before the waiter could ask.
Amy raised her hand to catch the waiter before he turned away, and asked, “Can I get a shot of bourbon?”
John wondered how much liquor she planned to imbibe, then let the idea go and asked, “Do you come out to Rittenhouse a lot?”
“I have a place on Nineteenth by Chestnut Street.”
“Nice area for an apartment, especially when you are a grad student.”
“I have three roommates that I split the rent with.” She sighed. “I’m getting too old for the whole roommate thing. I need a place to myself. I just want to come home, hear nothing, know what I left in the fridge is still there, and walk around in my underwear.”
“I know the feeling,” John said, as his mind pondered the picture of Amy in her underwear. He pulled himself out of the daydream and asked, “So what is a nice girl like you doing at a place like Penn Commonwealth?”
“Well, I used to be a counselor.”
“Like a camp counselor?”
“No, a social worker.”
“Ah, so how did that get you here?”
“These poor people would come in with nothing, and I’d have to help them get their lives straightened out. It was strange, because really, my life was more of a mess than theirs, except for the fact that I had money.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, while trying to figure out what this had to do with her being at the university.
“I mean I had no direction. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I felt like a fake as a counselor. I’d help all these old ladies and young people, and they would all tell me these stories: ‘my granny always said…’ or ‘my uncle Leroy once told me…’ You know, those old stories. The stories had a lot of wisdom in them.”
“So that made you start studying folklore?”
“Yeah, well, I started writing the stories down. After a while, I realized I was more intereste
d in collecting stories than in doing my job, which made me feel even more like a fake. So I quit, and here I am.”
John nodded. “So, you figured out what you want to do. That’s good.”
Amy leaned in, which pushed her breasts together and made her cleavage even more noticeable.
John tried not to look and fought to see how long he could hold out.
“So how about you, John? When did you know you wanted to be a cop?”
“When I actually realize that I want to be a cop, I’ll let you know.”
She laughed and leaned back, which made it easier for him to keep his eyes on her face. There was a break as the waiter sat the drinks on the table. It gave John an interruption to gather his thoughts, and he decided to be the one asking questions.
“What else do you know about this Book of 21?” he blurted out as the waiter walked away.
“Nobody really knows exactly what’s inside it; just that it can free the old gods and bring back the dramatic swings of fate.”
“Who would want that?”
“Who knows,” she said with a shrug. “Maybe someone who didn’t like where they wound up when things normalized.”
“So, how did you say this thing got back to Europe?”
“You mean hypothetically, right? After all, it really doesn’t exist,” she reminded him.
“Hallman seemed to think it did, and it seems to be something I keep running into.”
“Where?” she pried with a frown.
“I really can’t say.”
“Ah,” she sighed. “Like I mentioned earlier, his theory on how it got back to France, and what happened after that, ruined him academically. According to Ted, a group of crusading knights, led by a real gem named Sir Charles, was assaulting this Muslim temple. After a brutal fight, only a few knights were left. Sir Charles started exploring the place, found this old book, and took the thing back to France. The mention of Baphomet in the list of old gods, and the idea that Charles was a Templar, led Ted to think he could crack the mystery of the Templars. It was academic suicide, and Dunglison kept trying to talk him out of it. Unfortunately, Dunglison kept stealing all of Ted’s other work, so he really didn’t have much left to write about.”
“I don’t get it,” John admitted. “Why was the whole Templar thing such taboo?”
“Ordre du Temple? Knights of the Temple of Solomon?” she queried, as she sat her empty glass on the table and waived to the waiter, indicating she would like another drink.
John shrugged and shook his head.
Amy continued, “The Knights Templar was a group of knights that had great favor with the church. They supposedly held a secret item of unspeakable power. Ted thought that item was Le Coeur Codex.”
“So why was that such a problem?”
“A great number of scholars are drawn into the Templar drama. They all think they can solve the riddle and identify the source of Templar power. It always involves some conspiracy theory, and always results in a dead end. The day somebody starts talking about the Templars is the day they lose their status as a scholar.”
“So I take it you don’t pay much attention to that whole business.”
“Like I said, I read every one of Ted’s papers, so I knew a lot of his thoughts on the whole mess. Even though his theory was very entertaining, I knew enough to stay away from that whole wild goose chase.”
“What if he found the book?”
She pursed her lips and gave him the same look that his mother used to give him when he did something wrong. She then sighed, “You think he found it?”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t. He wouldn’t have shut up about it.” Amy handed the waiter her empty as she took the fresh Long Island iced tea from him.
John shrugged and continued to bluff, “What about the Clef of David that he left in his notes?”
“The actual Key of David?” Amy’s eyes widened, and she took a deep breath. “He left that in his notes?”
“What if he did?” John asked, noting that clef must mean key in French.
“Ted always thought that the key would open the door to the vault of Le Coeur Codex. That would have been big. Can I see it?”
“This is all just hypothetical. I really can’t say much else, let alone show you anything.”
“Well, there’s not much I can say,” she sighed. “Ted did a lot of research. He always had very obscure connections, so I wouldn’t really be able to tell you what meant anything until I saw all of his notes.”
John realized that she had been playing with her hair for the last few minutes but decided the twirling action, as well as the blush in her cheeks, was simply a result of the alcohol.
Amy looked at the hand that was twirling her golden locks and quickly jerked it away. She shifted her hand to her glass and seemed unaware of the fact that she was now gently stroking the glass cylinder. After a second, she picked up the untouched shot of bourbon and dumped it in his half-imbibed glass of Coke.
“This one is on me,” she said with a smile. “Now really, how’d you get to be a cop?”
He regarded her for a second and wondered if the zipper on her hoodie was just a bit lower than it had been before. He smiled and sighed, “You don’t want to hear that boring story. I think I need you to stay awake.”
Amy laughed, then looked him in the eye, tilted her head, and opened her mouth ever so slightly, just as she had earlier, on campus. After staring at him for a few seconds, she said, “You seem to think a lot more about things than most of the supposed scholars I work with. Maybe when this is over, and you’re no longer working on this case, you’ll consider giving me a call. I think I’d like to hear that story. I could use a little excitement.”
Her wry smile and blushing cheeks made John wonder just how exciting she thought his life was. To a student, living her life in books, a cop might seem take-charge. If she liked her men aggressive, like her booze, he could see how that would be attractive. She was certainly attractive to him, but John knew there were ramifications to dating a witness on a live case. He started to shake his head and replied, “I really don’t think it’s—”
“Sorry,” she said, raising a hand. “I think Ted’s death just got to me, that’s all. I’m usually not so forward, but then you realize how short life is, and figure you might as well take the chance when you get it.”
John stared at her and smiled for a few seconds, then divulged, “Well, you seem to know more about what Hallman was doing than anyone else. I’m sure we’ll probably talk a few times before this is over.”
Forgetting himself, John took a sip of his bourbon and Coke. The liquor warmed his throat, but he remained stoic. He thought it best to let Amy think he meant to take the action. After a second, he said, “You know, this old man’s had a tough day. I think I need to turn in.”
“Sounds good,” she said with a smile.
“Seriously, my nose and brain still hurt from this morning.”
“Well then, you just might have a concussion. I don’t think you should go to sleep just yet.”
He was unsure of whether she was really saying what he thought she was saying. Tilting his head to the right, he cracked a smile and said, “Nah, time for me to go.”
Amy gulped down her drink and waved for the check. Turning back to him, she said, “OK, can you walk me home, though? I’m pretty tipsy, and it’s not good for a drunk girl to be walking around alone in the city.”
Thinking about how Dunglison claimed to have been stalked in the weeks before his death, John thought it was best to walk her home. He told himself that it was purely business; he had to protect his primary source of context for all the information that Hallman left behind. They settled the check, and made their way out onto the street. They strolled for about two blocks in silence before Amy turned toward him and grabbed his arm.
“I hope I didn’t come across like a slut.”
John’s eyes opened wide. “No,” he laughed, “just like you were young and full o
f life.”
“You’re not that much older than me, are you?”
“You said you were twenty-six. That gives me seven years on you.”
“That’s not much,” she contended.
As they approached the door to her building, John thought about it. Sometimes, seven years could seem like forever. Right then, he thought she was right; it seemed like a small thing.
Amy stopped walking and motioned toward the stairs of a townhouse. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in for coffee? I could take a look at, well, whatever you have, from Hallman.”
John looked at her eyes, which peeked coquettishly from under spiral locks of gold. Her breasts were heaving under her labored breath, which she was fighting to control. If she could control herself, so could he.
“Thanks, but I’d better get home. Once this is over, maybe things will be different.”
“Thank you, John.” She gave him a smile. “I hope you call me soon.”
He stood and watched as she walked into her building. When the door closed, he realized he had been holding his breath, mesmerized by her swinging hips. He exhaled, “So do I.”
Chapter 12:
A Rude Awakening
John lay on his couch. It felt as if he had barely closed his eyes when he heard something ringing. After a few seconds, he realized it was his new cell phone. The caller ID displayed Lieutenant Murphy’s office number. He tapped the button on the screen, and the ringing stopped.
Putting the phone to his ear, John grunted, “Hello.”
“Hi, John, this is Lieutenant Sanford. I hope I’m not calling you too late.”
The voice was unlike Murphy’s in any way. It substituted a regimented baritone for Murphy’s flowing bass pitch. The guy sounded like a used car salesman.
“Um, no,” John replied. “Who is this again?”