"Brother Thomas." One figure stepped forward. "We are finished. Our role is complete."
He paused, looking at the horses with the case, about to head west. The rest of the men were loosely standing in an arc in front of him. These were good men. They had gone through much to accomplish what they had. Honestly, more than any of them had dreamed. But they had fulfilled the writings. It was a shame that none of them would live to see its culmination. He turned back towards the men.
"It is done." He paused. "We have accomplished much, all that we have been asked to, and now, our task is complete. Almost." Turning, he addressed the man at his side, "As discussed, you need to return the Star to Rome. Speak to no man. Two of us, drawn by lots, will assist you. These papers will see you through any borders, for no man will openly dare challenge the order of the Pope. Remember, in Rome, you must speak to our man only, ONLY. If the others even suspect, all could be lost."
"For the rest of us, we must each return to our homes. Speak nothing of this to any man or priest, nor to God himself, if asked. We will never live to see our goal, nor our children, but after..."
He held out a small leather sack.
"Draw one stone," he instructed the group. "The two black stones will accompany the delivery." They all drew, and two stepped forward, holding the black markers in their hands.
The leader nodded, and gave his final instructions.
"Go now. Go in confidence, for as you guard and protect the Star, it will guard and protect you."
The iron box was fastened to the back of one of the horses, and each priest took another mount. Although the site of an iron lockbox would normally tempt the robbers who preyed on the roads, few would chance the wrath of God by attacking a priest, and the few who dared would be unpleasantly surprised by the response of the priests. Neither would have any qualms about encouraging an early introduction between thief and Maker, and both were more than capable of insuring that meeting.
Once in Rome, the lock-box would be placed in an unmarked vault deep under the Vatican, awaiting the time it would be called upon again, protected, unknowingly, by the Pope's own guards.
* * *
Ironic, as this was to be the instrument of his undoing.
* * *
"It is done," he repeated softly, knowing deep inside that it had only just begun.
Chapter 8
Frankie's Find
Frankie woke up at the usual time, in the usual place. He put on the usual clothes, and as usual, skipped shaving – his beard didn't seem all that bad - and as usual, he thought about calling in, but as usual, did not dare. He was disgusted with himself over all that had happened, and even more disgusted that he wasn't able to stand up for himself. Even Frankie knew that his own attitude contributed to his problems. Not that he was about to change, but he knew.
Sure enough, when he arrived, there was no surprise. In a self-fulfilling prophecy, his immediate supervisor sent him back to the same pit he left yesterday.
"Now that it's drained, ya need to clean it up. If that place smells anything like you did yesterday, well, just get it cleaned up. Oh, and NoWienee, get that locker room cleaned up. No one's goin' near that place, the way it reeks. Think you're smart, don'cha. Well, all your stuff's still waitin' on ya. And maybe a little bit more."
Frankie didn't respond as his boss turned and walked away. He stood there for a moment, trying to keep his temper in check. He was smart enough to not give them a reason to fire him. So he stood there and took it. Like he always had. Like he always would. He stayed standing for several more minutes, afraid that if he moved, he'd do something stupid.
Finally, back in control, Frankie grabbed his tools and went back down to the junction room he'd been working in yesterday. At least it was dry today. The room reeked like nothing he'd ever been in before. He didn't think it could have been worse than the day before, but it sure seemed that way. As far as being dry, it's true that the garbage had been pumped out, and the drain was open, but the room was far from clean. Or dry.
The room, some three or four levels down, on closer inspection, had been damp far longer than yesterday's pipe break. He saw the mark on the wall where the level had peaked the day before. The wall was covered not only with several layers, and colors, of algae, but an impressive mix of slugs, millipedes, and creatures he had no way of recognizing. Not that he had any desire to learn. It wasn't a pretty sight.
He put his mask on, a different one from yesterday, and one that was supposed to remove all the contaminants, and took a quick, deep breath through his nose to test it -
- and began to gag. He wasn't even sure how much of the putrid stench was from the leak and how much from the musty room. He wouldn't make that mistake again. He continued breathing through his mouth, hoping he'd get used to the smell. If not, well, it was going to be a long day.
He uncoiled the hose he'd brought with him, stretching it back up the stairway to the first sublevel, where he knew there was a water spigot. The plumbing had been an add-on many years later, and though nowhere near modern, at least it was running water. He hoped. Fastening the hose to the spigot itself turned into the next problem, as the oxidation and scale and other buildup over the years had filled the threads. At least he had anticipated this, and he pulled out the wire brush and pliers he'd brought with him. A few minutes of brushing, and the hose went on. Not easily, and not far, but it was on. Now it was the plier's turn, and the coupling, squeaking in protest, finally went on. At least most of the way.
He turned the handle, or tried anyway. He felt the handle start to give way, and realized it was the handle, not the mechanism, that was starting to give way. Afraid the handle might snap, he grabbed the base with the pliers, and slowly turned it counter clockwise. He felt the hose jump as it began filling with water. A small amount began shooting out in a fine spray at the connection point, but that wasn't much of a surprise.
Although this level, also unused these days, was nearly as damp and decrepit as the one he was cleaning, at least this one had a drain nearby. Any water spraying out and running down into the drain would actually be doing the room a favor. Satisfied nothing catastrophic was about to occur, he followed the hose back down the steps and down the hall.
He had joined two seventy-five foot hoses, hoping it'd be long enough, and it looked like he was right. Just barely. A shop vac would pick up the garbage that he would hose off the walls. It would mean a number of trips up the old stairway lugging tubs of water, but he didn't have many choices.
The hose reached just inside the room. He had enough pressure that spraying from there would hit the entire room. He twisted the valve, and the water exiting started as a wide fine spray, tightening up as he continued turning the nozzle until it was a narrow, forceful stream. Sure enough, as he started, the spray began washing many years of algae and fungus from the walls, along with generations of occupying creatures.
After a couple of minutes he stopped, and used the shop vac to clean up the muddy garbage on the floor, hauling his first load of dirty water up the stairway. This was going to be a long, nasty job.
He finished his second trip, and when he got back, he took a break, lighting up a cigarette. He was finally getting used to the smell, and the cigarette helped. He started counting the additional trips he was going to have to make in his head. Maybe I shouldn't use quite as much water. No point in going crazy cleaning up this place.
Just as he was about to start again with the hose, he heard another brick fall from the wall in the back, right next to the one that had fallen the day before. He knew he'd have to try to avoid that spot, and continued spraying the other walls.
He wondered how long it'd been since anyone had been down there. Certainly the pipe was at least within the past century, but the walls? Who knew. The stacked blocks had been there a long time, and the age was starting to show. Not so much in the blocks themselves, but with the settling of the ground, they had begun to shift, and the water had hastened the process. With some
of the crud washed from the walls, he could see where the bricks had fallen from. He was glad he'd stayed back - a large section of the wall had begun to bulge, at risk of completely collapsing.
Not my problem if it does - I didn't build it. At least that's one thing they can't pin on me - though somebody will probably try.
He had just about finished, vacuuming up his fourth bucket of water and garbage. He was vacuuming the water by the two bricks that caved in when more of the blocks gave way. Some water that had been pent up behind the wall then gushed, leaving an opening in the wall nearly three feet wide, running from the ceiling almost to the ground.
He could see straight through the wall from where he stood, the light illuminating not just the opening, but well inside it. To his surprise, he could see another wall just about two feet behind this one. Puzzled, he set the hose down, and walked in to take a closer look.
Sure enough, there was a second wall. Leaning inside, he could see the wall went the full width of the room, making a complete hollow area at the end of the room, one that no one would ever notice. Certainly he wouldn't have.
Pulling the little penlight from his belt, he looked inside. Water had filled the bottom, where it was still probably six inches deep or so, slowly draining through the opening where he stood. Apparently this area had been better sealed, as there was very little of the mold and attending creatures on this side of the wall. Empty. No wiring, obviously. No plumbing. Just a wall.
Seemed a little odd.
He looked again, the other direction. More of the water had drained, and then he saw it. A box.
What the hell?
He tried to reach it, to pull it out, but couldn't quite grab it. Because he'd had to carry both the hoses and the shop vac, he hadn't brought any other tools, nor his regular cart. All he had were the pliers and the wire brush. Big help they were. He stretched a little further, but just couldn't quite reach it.
He shined the light on it again, trying to figure out what it was. He could see some kind of decorations hanging on the sides, and tried to figure out what he was looking at, as the water continued receding. Finally, it was clear.
An old metal lockbox, with some kind of old fashioned padlocks, nothing like he'd ever seen, fastening the hasps on the two sides that he could see. Multiple locks. Definitely unusual. Looked like a couple in the front, and one at this end, perhaps one at the other. Guess they didn't want anyone getting in that one. He couldn't see a hinge from where he was, but it looked as if the lid was separate, with locks probably on all four sides. Some kind of ribbon was wrapped around it, kind of glued on at spots, but most of it had rotted away, leaving one only able to guess at its original color. Maybe yellow, or orange. White? With all the mildew, anything was possible. There was a reddish spot where the ribbon was touching the box. No, not a spot, it was raised. Almost like it was hot glued, though he knew that wasn't the case.
He changed position, leaning further inside, trying to get a better look. The light was weak, and getting worse, but he was able to see at least a little clearer. He could see where some of the spots had cracked and fallen off, but a few were still intact. What was in it? Still trying to figure it out, he tried getting a clue from the box itself, but knowing nothing about history or archeology, he had no clue.
He was just able to make out a symbol on the side of the box - looked like a capital "E", almost. Not quite, but almost. More angular. Kind of like, what, Egyptian writing, or Latin, or something like that.
That was about it.
One thing he did know. You didn't take out the day's garbage in a box like that.
Something valuable was inside, and no one, but no one, knew he knew. No one knew he'd found it. In fact, no one knew it was here. No one knew it even existed. He climbed out, turning off his penlight.
He sat down to consider his options. Whatever was in that box had to be valuable. No one would know. How could they? This was his chance, finally. Nobody would miss it. Nobody even knew it was there. It was no different than if he had come across it at the bottom of a lake, or in the ocean, right?
He couldn't do anything more today, but that didn't matter. No one had been down here in who knew how many years, and after the way he smelled yesterday, no one was going to be rushing down. Tomorrow, he'd be back. Tomorrow, he'd bring the right tools, and the box, and the treasure within it, would be his.
But tonight? Tonight he would try to find out what was in that box. Plus, a little celebration would certainly be justified. More than justified. He went upstairs to shut off the water. Time to get out of here. It had been quite a while since he'd called in sick - at least a month or so. And this time it wasn't even for a hangover - they'd know that. He had showed up, right? Anybody else would have gotten sick on a job like this. No, this might be a good day to head on out. Besides, he'd cleaned the room, right?
Now that he had justified his decision to go home early, he could think about more important things, like what he would do with all the money he'd soon be getting. He would have to lay a little low, of course, to avoid suspicion.
He'd given this type of situation a lot of thought in the past.
Finally, after all this time. Oh, he would have the last laugh alright.
He wondered what was inside. Probably a cache of gold coins. Maybe some jewelry. He'd find a fence and carefully dump it, perhaps a little at a time, or maybe in multiple places, and then, oh then...
A life of leisure. A life with the ladies. The good ones.
He'd stay just long enough to pack up his - no, he wouldn't pack - he had nothing worth keeping. He'd start over.
He was still living the fantasy when he arrived back at his starting point. Seeing no one around, he packed up and checked out. Thinking better about it, he went back to the shower room.
Man, his boss hadn't been kidding. Or exaggerating. That place reeked. He closed up the garbage and ran the disgusting bag out to the dumpster. Coming back, he propped the door open, making sure the fan was on. Good enough. Then he wrote a quick note - sure beat talking to the guy face to face.
Finished the room, put away hoses. Emptied stuff in shower. Went home sick.
Frank.
Looking at the note, he thought a moment. He didn't want anybody checking on things down below, and perhaps finding what he had found. He thought a moment, then re-wrote the note. He was so proud of himself for thinking like this. Thinking ahead.
Finished down below, but it still reeks. I'll give it a final rinse, and set up fans tomorrow. I cleaned up the shower. Went home sick, probably from down below.
Frank.
What were they going to do, fire him? He slipped out, unseen, making sure no one saw him on the way out. He felt like a kid again, skipping school, and just like then, he was going for a beer. He felt good, almost giddy. Almost enough to skip down the street.
Almost, but not quite.
He was in great spirits, a place he hadn't been in for a long, long while. Walking, almost bouncing into the club, the bartender was a little taken aback. Especially after his abrupt exit last night.
Frankie seemed a little too happy. Odd, Frankie didn't seem the type to be doing drugs.
"Frankie? Everything okay pal?"
"Okay? Hey, it couldn't be better. Set me up, will ya?" Frankie sat down, same stool he always sat in, same grin he'd been wearing while walking down the street plastered across his face. The bartender waited for the foam to settle, then topped off the glass. He set it carefully on a napkin in front of Frank.
Frankie tossed some bills on the counter. "Here you go, Marco. Keep the change."
Marco looked at him suspiciously. Frankie wasn't known as a tipper. "What, you win the lottery or something?"
"Somethin' like that, I guess you could say..." Caution flared up suddenly, popping out of some long forgotten corner of his brain. "No, no. Nothing special. Just feeling good today. Skipped out of work this afternoon. Too nice to spend it there."
"Or here," the bartender
mumbled, not letting Frankie hear him.
Marco scooped up the bills, casting a wary eye at Frankie. "You didn't do anything stupid, did you? Rob a bank or something?"
Frankie laughed, though it was a little forced. "Of course not. Can't I tip the bartender without somebody making a big deal of it?"
Marco just kind of nodded, held up the glass he had been polishing to the light, and satisfied, put it on the shelf. Picking up another, he started polishing it as well as he walked back to the other end of the bar. There were two girls down there that were vying for his attention.
Not much of a choice there.
Frankie was creepy on a normal day with his surliness. This was even creepier.
Frankie was at home here, back at his usual hole, in fact, in the same seat he had been in last night when he tossed his book. Curious, he leaned over the bar. Little more junk, reeked just a little bit more, but there it was, peaking out. His log.
What a stupid idea that had been. Good thing he'd tossed it.
Frankie grabbed another napkin off the counter and reached for a pen. Not having one, he looked around, finally spotting one near the register. He leaned over the bar, stretching, until he could just reach it, and he grabbed it.
Marco watched from the other end, curious. When he saw Frankie start drawing on a napkin, Marco just shook his head, grabbed another glass to polish, and tried to look interested in the conversation between the two girls. They were cute, but oh so stupid.
SUMMATION Page 5