The Tree of Knowledge

by Daniel G. Miller

  Brick Travis stared at Albert without smiling and replied, “Real name’s Jeremy, but you call me Brick. Is your name really Puddles?” He still gripped Albert’s hand like a vise.

  Albert had to admit the sergeant had gotten the better of him, but the pressure in his hand—and his attempt not to yelp—made response impossible. The silence between the two men was fortunately interrupted by a loud guffaw from Ying.

  Brick gave Albert one more long look up and down as if he were sizing up a new recruit that he knew would take some work and then turned to Ying.

  Ying smiled and gave a dramatic mock curtsy.

  Just as he had seen so many times before, Albert watched as a man made of power and stone turned into a teddy bear around Ying Koh. Brick turned to Ying and said, “Welcome, ma’am,” in a soft voice, and shook her hand gently.

  “Travis, I’m sorry I had to be so brief with you on the intercom, but we are in a spot of trouble and I’m afraid I couldn’t get into the details,” said Turner.

  “I figured,” said Brick. “Why don’t we have a seat and you can give me the lowdown.”

  “Albert, since you have been the hub around which the story spins, why don’t you do the honors.”

  Albert laid his eyes upon Brick one more time and attempted to gather his thoughts. It was clear that the man would not appreciate any artistic embellishments in storytelling.

  He gulped and began his tale. “Yesterday morning, I received an unexpected visit from the police. A burglary, which included a murder, had been committed at the Bank of Princeton. In the struggle with the thief before he died, the security guard was able to snatch a paper from the thief’s pocket.”

  Albert proceeded to brief Travis on the particulars of the last few days until the military man raised his hand to interrupt.

  “Did you say she took out the entire police station?”

  “Correct.”

  This piece of information had clearly piqued Brick’s interest. Albert was slightly flattered that he had shared something interesting enough to capture the attention of a man who fought battles for a living.

  “We knew that if the police found me, I would immediately be arrested and potentially worse, and so Professor Turner suggested we come here, collect ourselves, and make a plan to clear my name and expose the truth about Eva.”

  “Eva? You don’t mean Eva Fix?” questioned Brick, his eyes narrowing and a rough emotion evident in his voice.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” responded Albert. “Do you know her?”

  Brick rose from the couch and bolted the door. He gazed into the darkness and turned to the rest of the group. “Have you all turned off the power on your cell phones, laptops, etcetera?”

  Turner and the rest of the group nodded.

  “Angus, have you called the Book Club?”

  “Yes. Gabe, Raphael, and Ariel are on their way.”

  “Gentlemen and lady, I suggest you get some sleep, because you’re in much deeper than you thought.”

  Chapter 9

  When Albert Puddles finally collapsed into the immaculately made bed that had been provided to him, every part of his body cried out in happiness. The sensation of the mattress and soft pillow propping up the young professor’s weary muscles and strained neck was so sublime that Albert hoped sleep would never come; he simply wanted to bathe in slumber. Still, his mind refused to rest. Ideas and images danced in and out of his head like flames in a fire. Eva, the Tree, Turner fighting, the fear in Ying’s eyes, his own panic. He thought of his parents. How he wished he had called them. About his friends, about the school. Would they believe his story? He wondered if he would ever sleep now that his life had changed.

  But he did sleep. And when he slept, he dreamed. And when he dreamed, he saw one image: Eva.

  She sat beside him swathed in white lace, looking up at him with those charcoal eyes and holding his hand with the rare blend of delicacy, devotion, and trust offered by a woman deeply in love. Albert returned her gaze with a pursed smile and a twinkle in his eyes, then stood and turned to his guests, who were anxiously clinking their forks on their wineglasses.

  He wore a tuxedo, but unlike the cheap rentals that he was used to from his friends’ weddings, the coat and pants fit him as though they could never know another owner. The tailored fit made him a man. He ran his hands across the luxurious satin lapel and slid his left hand in the front pocket to reach for his glasses, but realized that he didn’t have any—yet he could see perfectly.

  Standing at the center of the crowded dais with his loving bride by his side, he looked at the aesthetic spectacle that was his wedding. The event was held outside on a flagstone patio under a full moon. The men wore tuxedos, and the beautifully coiffed women wore elegant gowns and sparkling jewels. In one direction, an emerald lawn sloped down to a white-sand beach, gently lapped by the waves of what he knew was a warm ocean; in the other, a mansion of honey-colored stone dominated the sky. The dinner tables and dance floor were flanked by gently gurgling fountains, the water flowing from the mouths of carved nymphs and fauns. Each table glittered with china, silver, and crystal beneath the light of the candelabra. Intricate flower arrangements adorned every spare surface. As Albert looked out at his friends and mentors, he was transformed. Suddenly, the staring eyes, which had so haunted him in the past, shone with admiration and envy. The uncertainty and impatience he had felt around women and men of power had been replaced by a holistic calm. He realized that while he was present in this space, he somehow hovered beyond himself. He felt completely at ease in his own skin but also deeply understood how his guests perceived him.

  And at this moment, standing in front of the microphone, about to make a grand toast at his even grander wedding, he was being perceived as a man of consequence. He imagined that this must have been how James Bond felt as he calmly smoked cigarettes, played baccarat, and traded witty repartee with the glamorous and dangerous. The potent, visible, tangible wave of admiration that surrounded him produced a crush of happiness that Albert had never experienced, and as he looked back at Eva, noticing how her crisp white gown contrasted brilliantly with her shimmering dark skin, he wished this night would never end.

  On this night, the man of consequence spoke with passion and heart. He skillfully spun the story of how he and Eva had met in Professor Turner’s class at Princeton. He reminisced how, on that very day, he knew that she was the only woman he’d ever love. He carefully intertwined self-deprecating jokes with poetic admiration for his wife until he knew that his guests truly understood that theirs was a love most people dream of.

  And as he concluded his toast, Albert looked to his left and saw his parents. They were together, and they were happy. He traded a knowing glance with his father, who raised a champagne glass and winked.

  The next thing he knew, Albert was in the hotel suite looking into the mirror and untying his tuxedo’s bow tie. It had been a glorious evening. Speeches, congratulations, dancing, music, the perfumed air. The large room was immaculately appointed, and rose petals drifted on the floor and bed. He could hear Eva’s humming from the bathroom as he calmly popped the bottle of champagne and smiled back at himself in unvarnished contentment.

  The bathroom door opened, and Albert turned to give his new wife one of the champagne flutes. He immediately spilled half the glass in stunned disbelief when he saw what was in front of him.

  Eva stood before Albert in an exquisite white satin corset and stockings brandishing a giant, glistening butcher’s knife. Her blood-red lips were parted in a smile, and she fondled the pearls of her necklace in an expression of visceral menace. As Albert looked at her, his shock fading, he felt no fear, only sadness. Earlier in the evening, while he danced and drank the night away with his new bride, Albert had known that it couldn’t be truly real, that this feeling could not endure. He had hoped it would last longer, but like a child who realizes he’s opened all
of the Christmas presents, Albert shrugged and accepted that his bliss had now come to an end.

  The woman in white plunged the butcher’s blade into his stomach, and as Albert cried out, she gently touched his lips to shush him. Sharp burning spread through Albert’s chest like the blood spurting from his wound as Eva calmly guided him to the ground. He looked down and could see the bright-red blood, so gloriously vivid, so alive against the white placket of his tuxedo shirt. Tears seeped down his cheeks, but Albert felt no physical pain. Looking at Eva one last time, he closed his eyes and lay still as death crawled over him . . .

  And then he awoke.

  For a moment, Albert did not know where he was, how he got there, or what had happened to him. He only knew heartache. Acidic, unrelenting heartache. And as he stared up at the ceiling of the old farmhouse and slowly became aware of his whereabouts—his immediate past, his future—he shook in silence.

  Chapter 10

  Albert crept out of his room to grab a glass of water, or something stronger, hoping to forget his dream. As he made his way down the carpeted hallway, he could hear the sound of hushed voices trading jabs in the night. The hallway leading from Albert’s room opened into a mezzanine that looked over the great room. He pressed himself against the wall and stood on his tiptoes to avoid being seen by the guests below. He tilted forward to catch a glimpse.

  Five people sat neatly arranged around the fire engaged in intense but quiet discussion. In the center sat Turner, and directly across from him sat Brick and a woman of such height that she looked like a picture that had been scaled up 25 percent.

  On Turner’s left was a bowling ball of a man in a cowboy hat. Jolliness bounced from every body part. His flannel-clad belly was jolly. His oversized mustache was jolly. Even the toothpick in his mouth danced like it was in on the joke. Behind this jolliness lurked an unseen power. It was the eyes. Underneath the smile and the oversized hat, the eyes were always watching, assessing, waiting to spring.

  The man on Turner’s right carried no secrets. He vaguely resembled a rodent, but a kind rodent, more like a hamster than a rat. His receding hairline accentuated his narrow face and sloped jawline, and his keen eyes spoke of compassion. While he sat in a wheelchair, he was not weak. The T-shirt he wore beneath his unbuttoned button-down shirt revealed the toned physique of an athlete and a soldier. Albert wondered how it was that the man had become imprisoned in his wheeled cell.

  Brick spoke first. “Our top priority has to be getting back that book. We can worry about your two friends later. But we’re going to need a bigger team than just the five of us if we’re going to get into Fix Industries. Angus, who else can we bring in on this?”

  Turner stood and paced the room. “No one. You four are the only ones who know about the Tree intimately, and we can’t risk bringing anyone else in on it. Plus, we don’t have time.”

  The man in the wheelchair spoke next. “I understand that, Professor, but can’t we bring in some ex–Special Forces people to help us get into Fix headquarters? They don’t need to know about the Tree. We can just tell them that it’s an important state secret. I’m sure Brick knows some mercenaries that won’t ask a lot of questions.”

  Brick shook his head. “No, we need someone without any law enforcement or military affiliation. Fix has moles and contacts in every department. If we start trying to recruit a team, the cat is out of the bag and we’re toast.”

  Silence hovered over the room while the Book Club pondered the next move.

  Finally, the blonde woman spoke. “Why don’t we use them?” She pointed upstairs.

  “Who, the nutty professor?” scoffed Brick.

  “Yes. The nutty professor. And the girl. Think about it. Angus, haven’t you always said that only a savant can harness the true power of the Tree? Well, we’ve got two mental calculators sitting upstairs, right? We’re talking about bringing in outside people who we can’t trust when we’ve got the two people we need right here.”

  “This is crazy,” said Gabe, wheeling away from the circle. “I’m sure your two friends are wonderful, very smart people, but they’ve never been in any kind of combat operation in their lives.”

  The blonde woman leaned forward in her chair. “So, we teach them. Angus, you can teach them about the Tree. Brick, you can teach them hand-to-hand. Raphael, you can teach ’em to shoot; Gabe, you can show them a few of your toys; and I can give them a crash course on psyops.”

  The bowling ball with the toothpick leaned forward. “This is a little bit crazy . . . but I like it. We got a few weeks before they crack the code, right? I can do shooting and explosives in a week. We can make this happen. Whatchya think, Professor?”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it might be the best option we’ve got.”

  Chapter 11

  “Ugh,” grumbled Detective Weatherspoon as he slumped into his desk chair at the police station.

  The digital clock on his cluttered desk showed ten a.m., but the burly detective already wanted to go home. He had approached the station this morning eager to get back to work after his brief stint in the hospital, but before he could get through the door, he was mobbed by local media hungry for the latest gossip on the “Princeton Station Massacre,” as it was being called. Weatherspoon had attempted to explain that no one had died in the Princeton Station Massacre, but the reporters seemed to find that statement of fact irrelevant, if not downright annoying. He had tried to ignore the mob as he entered the station, but their ridiculous questions still seeped into his brain: “Did you see this coming? Did you identify the attacker’s face? Was al-Qaeda involved?”

  Weatherspoon had answered with a curt “No,” “No,” and “What are you, an idiot?”

  Things got worse as he entered the station. A daunting barricade of balloons, flowers, and get-well cards surrounded his desk, and every person in the station felt the need to check in on his health and emotional well-being.

  The men said things like “How you feelin’, champ?” or “Man, if I ever get my hands on the guy who did this . . .” The women asked, “Are you alright, sweetheart? We were so worried about you” or offered encouragement: “I’m sure you’ll track down the murderer in no time.”

  The one good thing about all these balloons is at least now I’ve got a place to hide out.

  The detective’s hope vanished when he saw a long, suit-clad arm reach through the sea of balloons. Weatherspoon glanced up to see what fool dared to break his balloon wall of peace.

  In front of his desk stood a young, short, clean-cut blond man in a modern, overly tight blue suit. The man wore black Wayfarer sunglasses despite the dim lighting inside the station. A woman in an all-black pants suit with dark, luminescent eyes stood to his left.

  “Detective Weatherspoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Special Agent Scott Beel. FBI. Do you have a moment?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  The agent smirked. “Not really.” He pulled up a chair, but spun it around backward so that he was straddling the front. The woman in black quietly sat down next to him and placed her fedora on his desk.

  “Detective, we have reason to believe that the gentleman who attacked your police station the other day is the same man who robbed the Bank of Princeton, and whom we also suspect of other related crimes.”

  “Oh really,” said Weatherspoon, raising an eyebrow. “And who do you think this man is?”

  The agent slid his chair closer to Weatherspoon’s desk and leaned in. “I think you already know.”

  Weatherspoon leaned right back. “I might, but I’d like to hear you tell me.”

  Eva sighed, stretching out one Chanel-clad foot and flexing it. Men—they always have to have their little playground turf wars. “Detective, we believe that a Princeton professor named Albert Puddles has stolen several national treasures and is responsible for the murder at the b
ank.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” asked Weatherspoon, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the exchange. The woman was neither intimidated by the setting nor appropriately businesslike. In fact, she wore an expression of faint amusement, as if the station were her playground.

  “My name is Eva Fix. I’m the head of security for Fix Industries. We believe that Dr. Puddles has stolen numerous pieces of our intellectual property. We have been working closely with the FBI on this case and have a major interest in determining his whereabouts.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Weatherspoon evenly, rising from his swivel chair, which spun and slid a half-dozen inches. “Would you two excuse me for a minute?”

  The detective stormed into his captain’s office and slammed the door.

  “Pete, what the hell are they doing here?” he shouted, pointing at the two unwelcome visitors through the clear office.

  Captain Willard glanced up from his paperwork and took off his glasses. He massaged the bridge of his nose with his bony forefinger. “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “You know who I’m talking about. Sonny and Cher sitting at my desk.”

  The captain grumbled and returned his eyes to his paperwork. “Some big muckety-mucks in DC want this case resolved, so they sent an agent down. Just play nice and keep them in the loop.”

  “But don’t you think it’s a little odd that an FBI agent and a defense contractor are taking an interest in a murder-burglary here?”

  The captain had known Michael Weatherspoon long enough to sense that the detective wasn’t going to go away until he got his full attention, so once again, he took off his glasses, stood up, put both hands on the table, and leaned over with a full glare. His bright-blue eyes held Weatherspoon’s.

  “Look, of course I think it’s odd. But apparently this guy Puddles has stolen defense secrets, so she and the FBI are very interested. I don’t know the details, and quite frankly, I don’t want to know. All they’re asking right now is for us to keep them informed so that they can be helpful if necessary. And since the professor has probably crossed state lines, we’re likely going to need them anyway.”