“Well, you’re a long ways off from Manhattan. Not sure why you’d wanna go there anyways, but if you’re lookin to spend the night here, there’s a motel off Loudon Road bout two and a half miles from here.” The man was wiping grease off his hands with a dirty rag.
“Loudon Road?” Mayhew asked.
The guy smiled again, about to play his hand. “Yeah. You want, I’ll give you a lift.”
Scott nodded, deciding it was better to play the game than to go against it. Besides, times were tough. He couldn’t just kill him because of that. “That would be very nice of you, sir. I think we’d appreciate it.”
“No problem at all, it’s just a few minutes down the road.” He turned and walked back up the lawn, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “Hop right in.” He went to the front of the car and slammed the hood shut.
“You sure about this?” Mayhew whispered to Scott as he opened the front passenger door.
Scott whispered back, “Get your money ready.”
And they entered the stranger’s car.
It was only a two minute drive, and the motel was right off the road like the guy had said. “Thank you very much,” Mayhew said as he climbed out.
The man turned away from the steering wheel and looked back at Scott, a knowing look in his eyes. “If by chance anyone were to come around looking for you fellows, what is it that I should tell them?”
“We only have two hundred ameros,” Scott lied.
The guy turned away and looked out through the windshield, visibly upset. Scott had guessed too low. But then the guy turned back and forced a smile.
“If that’s all you got.”
Scott waved at Mayhew, signaling for his money.
Mayhew pulled a hundred and twenty ameros out and handed it to him. Scott then slapped it down into the man’s open palm.
A huge smile beamed from his face. “Your secret’s safe with me, boys. But I wouldn’t be here come sun-up. Not unless you can scrounge up another hundred.” And he winked at them.
To which Scott leaned forward, his eyes suddenly ice cold. “I don’t mind giving you the money. I know you need it. And I appreciate you not alerting the police…” Then he whispered, “But if we get visitors tonight, I know where you live.”
The look of fear that passed over the man’s eyes let Scott know that his point was taken, and he stepped out of the car as the guy started it up. Standing there beside Mayhew, they watched the car head back up Loudon Road.
“You think he’ll talk?” Mayhew asked.
Scott turned away from the road and began walking to the motel. “I don’t think so.”
When they reached the counter, they were confronted only by a sign that read, NO DOLLARS ACCEPTED — PLASTIC PREFERRED. Scott hit the bell and, while they waited for service, swept his gaze through the room. There was a camera up in the corner behind the counter that was aimed right at them.
“I doubt it’s linked to anything but an old recorder in the back room. This place looks like we could buy it with the money I have in my pocket,” Mayhew commented.
A minute later, an old man wearing big glasses and a flannel shirt hobbled through the door behind them. “Oh, didn’t see you come in. Sorry. Was out raking the yard.”
As he rounded the counter and approached the computer, Scott asked, “You take ameros, right?” He pointed to the sign.
The man stopped, squinted up at him through his thick lenses. “Why? You don’t got no card?”
“Stolen,” he lied again.
The old guy hung his head, wagging it back and forth. “The NAU is all about electronic transfers. They want everything on record, and they give a tax break on plastic sales.”
Scott smiled as he nodded. “I understand. Do you have any rooms open?”
“Yeah, pretty much all of them.”
“Well, how about you skip the whole computer part of the process, and we’ll throw in a few extra ameros to make up for your loss?”
The old man blinked. “How long?”
“Just the night.”
He smiled a gapped, enlightened smile. “You were never here.” He reached over for a key as Mayhew reached for his money again.
“Thanks,” Mayhew said, handing over more of his stash.
The old guy squinted through his goggles again and looked up at Mayhew as he took the money from him. “Nice little gash you got on your head there.” Then he smiled again, shoved the Union notes into his pocket, and walked out from behind the counter.
“Follow me. I’ll show you to your room.”
19
It was five o’clock in the evening, and all that remained of the sun was an orange glow floating over the horizon. Matthew Scott was sitting on an old chair in the simple motel room, leaning back with his arms folded. Mayhew was asleep on the queen bed that occupied most of the room, the muted paper-thin UD television hanging on the wall across the room. An old black and white movie was playing, teasing Scott’s sense of reality with an alien portrayal of life within the former US. And even though Scott knew that the program had been an illusion masking the troubles of its own day, it was accurate in at least showing how truly blissful the ignorance of a generation could be — as long as that generation wasn’t the one required to pay the price for it.
The last bits of sunlight were coming through a pair of red curtains covering the window, setting the room on fire with dark hues of orange and red.
Scott couldn’t sleep. Too many nightmares were waiting for him there. Instead, he was going over the last three days, moment by moment, trying to figure some way out of his predicament.
Suddenly, he began to feel the room creeping in on him, the walls getting closer, suffocating him. He felt trapped. Trapped by his circumstances, trapped by his memory, trapped by his conscious, and trapped by his future. Shifting his gaze away from the beam of light that was sneaking its way between the curtains and running up the wall beside him, he set it on the worn messenger bag that was resting by his foot. A piece of the puzzle, the priest had said.
And then restlessness began attacking his legs, forcing him to concentrate on not tapping his foot. But images of people on fire began playing in his mind’s theatre, and he couldn’t take sitting there anymore. He got up, pins and needles jabbing his legs, and reached down for the bag. Crossing the room, and not even glancing in Mayhew’s direction, he left.
Loudon Road was quiet. There were no houses around that he could see, and only an occasional car busied the road. He didn’t know where he was walking to, but the walking itself was his end so he didn’t really care. Didn’t care that he may have just walked out on Mayhew for good.
Without knowing how much time had passed, he eventually found himself standing in front of a diner, its big flickering neon sign peering down at him. Danielle’s. Feeling the weight of the bag hanging from his shoulder, he figured he could use somewhere to sit, to discover just what nonsense it might contain.
It took him three seconds from the time he opened the door to process the whole layout and everyone in the place. It was relatively small for a diner. The seating area was shaped like an L with bar stools wrapping around the front counter, and the kitchen was through the doors behind the register. There were three people in the diner. One guy was sitting alone in a booth next to the window at the bottom of the L, and a man and a woman were sitting facing each other at the top. The guy sitting by himself had his back to the door. Balding, broad shoulders, slightly slouched posture. He looked like he was around two hundred pounds. Out of shape, older. He was reading a paper, sipping a coffee. Hadn’t touched his half-eaten burger in a while. He was holding the coffee in his right hand, empty sugar wrappers and creamers on the table to his right. So he was right handed. He was all the way against the wall, his right shoulder leaning against it. Which meant he didn’t have a gun. A gun holder would have sat on the side of the table facing the door, in a position where he could use it. He wasn’t a threat and definitely wasn’t interested in Scott’s pr
esence.
The couple was younger, and the guy was too busy trying to sneak a peek down his date’s shirt to even notice him. Both of his hands were holding hers on top of the table while they waited for their food.
Three seconds. That’s all it took. And then he was standing at the counter, waiting for someone to tell him to be seated. There was no one there managing the storefront, and he was about to seat himself when a guy wearing a dirty apron opened one of the kitchen doors and peaked out.
“Take a seat. She’ll be with you in a second.” And then he disappeared again.
But not before Scott got a glimpse into the kitchen. It was empty, no police lying in wait.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. Turning away from the counter, he went for the last booth in the room where the young girl would be the only one that could see him. Pulling the bag off his shoulder, he dropped it onto the table and sat down. He was facing the door, the window beside him giving him a panorama of the parking lot and a good portion of Loudon Road. After eavesdropping on the conversation ahead of him for a few moments, he leaned back against the bench and scanned the ceiling. He couldn’t find any cameras, but he knew they were there.
The waitress came out through the kitchen doors. She didn’t have a notepad in her hand or in her apron, so either she’d been working here for a while, or the menu was pretty simple. He didn’t care. He wasn’t buying anything.
“Good evening, sir.” Her voice matched her face. Friendly and soft. She was an attractive woman, tall in heels, brown hair, great eyes. About thirty-three, give or take a couple of years. No wedding band.
Scott smiled politely. “Hi.”
“What can I get for you?”
He was instantly attracted to her. “If it’s all the same to you, miss, I’d just like to sit here.”
She eyed him over with a curious smile. “No money?” Her smile was seductive, and her eyes couldn’t hide their teasing.
Scott figured that in a small town like this any guy that was even remotely attractive would earn such attention from the likes of her. He shrugged. “I lost my wallet.”
“Well, since we’re so busy…” She looked around and laughed. “You can stay as long as you’d like.”
He smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
She smiled back and turned away in a manner that tempted him to follow. He was sure it was planned that way. He sighed, wanting to follow and hoping that Edward couldn’t read minds from his heavenly abode.
Reaching into the bag, he pulled out the two books and set them on the table in front of him. Their covers, brown calfskin leather, the smell of which had faded long ago, were beaten from constant attention, and the pages they contained were yellow with age. There was a long piece of twine in the bag, the books having once been tied together. Whatever was written on these pages were things the priest hadn’t trusted Daniel or Mayhew with.
He noticed the waitress watching him from behind the counter and smiled. She smiled back. And then he turned one of the covers back, bringing the diner’s light across a loose piece of paper. It was folded up and resting against the first page. Gently removing the loose paper, he unfolded it and discovered a drawing of North America with what appeared to be the spirit of a man whimsically floating up out of its center like some genie or ghost. He was holding scrolls in his hands and over his head was an eye enclosed within a triangle. And then Scott noticed a rose and a cross on his cloak. A rose. Scott stared at it for a moment, but there were no other markings on it to explain its meaning. Folding it back up and replacing it, he looked instead to page one of the mysterious book.
The page had no lines, and the priest (presumably) had filled the blank page with the sketch of a strange symbol — Christ on the cross, a double-headed phoenix behind Him, and a Bible passage in Latin encircling the whole thing. He wasn’t sure what it meant and so turned the page.
THE TESTAMENT OF SOLOMON
Scott had never heard of it and wondered if it was the title of the priest’s own work, or if it was an actual piece of history. There were notes scribbled beneath the title that seemed to answer his question.
Old Testament pseudepigraphical work. It is considered a haggadic-type folktale and is commonly dated between the 1st and 3rd century AD. The standard Greek text contains comments on fourteen Greek manuscripts written in Koine Greek and is generally not believed to be a translation document — though it was believed by some in 1896 to have been translated from the Hebrew. Other scholars think it to be a Christian revision of a Jewish document, the original document actually being the very collection of incantations which, according to Josephus, was composed by Solomon himself. Still others believe it to have been edited by a Greek-speaking Christian if written by a Greek-speaking Jew. Most, however, attribute the Testament to a Greek-speaking Christian. Its origin is unknown, but the common candidates include: Galilee, Egypt, Asia Minor, or Palestine. In 1945, Coptic translations of fifty-one tractates were discovered in Egypt. One of them entitled “On the Origin of the World” mentions “The Book of Solomon” and seems to refer to the eighth chapter of the Testament’s demonology. However, it is also possible that it refers instead to the 1st century BC “Hygromancie of Solomon.” If, however, it is referring to the Testament, then it would provide further proof of it coming from 3rd century Alexandria…
He looked up from the page, turning his attention out the window and into the parking lot. Demonology? He felt like he was trapped inside a bad joke. First Roswell, now demons? He turned the page anyway.
Chapter 1:5-7.
Moving his eyes over the penned words, a strange sensation swept over him.
When I, Solomon, heard these things, I went into the Temple of God and, praising him day and night, begged with all my soul that the demon might be delivered into my hands and that I might gain authority over him. And it came about through prayer that grace was given to me from the Lord of Sabaoth* through Michael his archangel. He brought me a ring, having a seal consisting of an engraved stone. He said to me, “Take, O Solomon, king, son of David, the gift which the Lord God, the highest Sabaoth, has sent you. With it you shall imprison all the demons, male and female, and with their help you shall build Jerusalem. But thou must wear this seal of God. And this engraving of the seal of the ring sent thee is a Pentalpha.**
*transliteration of Heb. Sabah (army): the Lord of (heavenly) armies.
**“some manuscripts include this. Pentalpha being a 31 letter word written in the 2nd and 3rd of a series of concentric circles, an engraving with ‘O Lord our God’ plus a group of Semitic-sounding names.” — DC Duling
Scott turned the page to find verses from the next chapter, this time with more drawings in the margins. Among the doodles was a cross wrapped with a single rose. He flipped through the rest of the book, and it was all more of the same — selected verses from Testament of Solomon.
Leaning back against the seat and staring up at the ceiling, he wondered if what he just read could possibly be speaking of the same ring Mayhew now had in his pocket. He tried not to care. Instead, he watched the waitress walk over to the young couple and ask how everything was. Then he watched her walk over to him.
“Everything okay?” she asked, an inquisitive smile across her lips.
Scott shrugged, and she squinted playfully. He was about to say something that would ensure him spending the night with her, when a sudden twinge of guilt erupted from his dead conscious. Though his wife was probably remarried or maybe even dead, he had still left her, and this feeling something for a stranger only fanned those flames of shame. “Are you Danielle?” he asked instead.
She leaned against the booth, putting her hand on her hip. “Nope. I’m Cindy.”
“Would you care to join me, Cindy?” He didn’t know what he was doing anymore, his morality on and off the merry-go-round faster than he could keep up with it.
She laughed, flashed him another killer smile, and turned away from him, confident as to how this game would end.
A police car.
He swore under his breath, all thoughts of the girl and the books in front of him gone. He glanced away from the cop making his way across the lot and found the waitress. She was looking at the cop, and then she was looking at him. She wasn’t stupid. Bored with little self-respect, but not stupid. She disappeared into the kitchen.
Grabbing the menu from the table, he opened it, pretending to read as the cop entered the diner. Scott could feel the cold gaze of authority sweeping over him, processing him. He forced himself to focus on the menu, the prices.
A shadow stretched over the menu, someone standing over him.
He looked up to see Cindy’s pretty face smiling down at him with a reassuring look gleaming forth from those amazing eyes.
She poured him a cup of coffee and whispered, “On the house.” She winked at him. And then she began talking loud enough so that the cop could hear her. “Indecisive tonight, huh? Well, I think I’d personally recommend the club sandwich with a side of French onion soup.”
“Sounds great, Cindy. Thanks.” And he mouthed the words, “I mean it.”
She bent over, the smell of her perfume tickling his senses, and her lips touched his ear. “If you need to, there’s an exit in the back.” Then she quickly kissed his ear before retreating back into the kitchen. “It’ll be right up, Frank.”
Scott lowered the menu, noticing that the cop was now on a barstool at the counter. He didn’t seem too interested in anything but the menu. Scott sipped the coffee and watched Cindy come back out through the kitchen doors and lean on the counter facing the officer. She started talking to him like she knew him.
The Solomon Key Page 14