Book of Names

by Slater, David Michael

  He changed it again.

  “Tensions over the destruction of the towers are reaching a boiling point in the Middle East. There is a genuine chance of—”

  Mr. Brown turned the radio off.

  Daphna feared she was not going to have the courage to face whatever it was that Dr. Lewis had in store for her, so she focused on the prize again, this Book of Creation, and its apparently unlimited promise. Then she thought about the book in Heaven that had drawn her to it, that blank book she’d not mentioned to a soul. She thought once again about the letters flowing through the one next to it: A’s and D’s and G’s. There was another letter, she suddenly remembered, but she wasn’t sure what it was. And maybe it wasn’t a G she’d seen. Maybe it was a P. Was it somehow spelling someone’s name? Could her book somehow be the story of her life? Is that why the pages were blank—since it wasn’t fully written yet?

  Daphna realized Quinn was talking again. They were moving quickly now, heading toward downtown Portland.

  “The Masons do indeed date back to Egyptian times,” Mr. Brown was saying, evidently in response to a question Quinn had asked. “If you’ve read the Bible, you know about the rather famous conflict between the Egyptians and the Hebrews, though conflict isn’t really a fair word for oppression. Anyway, as you may know, the Hebrews, despite being enslaved, proved victorious, due, according to the Bible, to the direct intervention of their God. The Egyptian civilization eventually perished while the Hebrews went on to flourish. The Masons—”

  “Didn’t believe it was due to the direct intervention of the Hebrew’s God,” Daphna guessed.

  “Correct,” said Mr. Brown. “Not ‘direct’ anyway. They came away determined to discover and usurp the power of the Jews, who they claim have subsequently, and secretly, gained control of the world.”

  “But that’s exactly what they want to do,” Quinn objected.

  “Of course,” Mr. Brown replied. “It’s the classic deception: Accuse your enemy of that which you are guilty of yourself.”

  “But the Jews never had the book, did they?”

  “We have long regarded The Book of the Living as apocryphal, but the Masons have always believed it to be real. You may know that the Ten Plagues were what eventually persuaded the Egyptian Pharaoh to release the slaves, the final plague, to be more specific: Death of the firstborn sons. The Masons claim this was the only plague, and the Egyptian firstborn sons—”

  “Disappeared,” Daphna said.

  Mr. Brown nodded. “They believe the book is the real reason the Jews have not only survived but thrived down through the millennia while so many other peoples have come and gone. And the Brotherhood has done everything they could think of to get it from them. I mean everything. The expulsion from Spain in 1492? Ferdinand and Isabella were secret Masons. Before that, in the 1200’s, the Jews were expelled from England for refusing to give up the book. Though The Book of the Living was never our concern, we eventually concluded that it could not possibly exist, or at the very least that the Jews did not have it—This was after World War II.”

  “The Holocaust?” Daphna gasped. “That’s right! Nora said Hitler was a Mason!”

  There was silence in the car for a while as this sank in. Finally, Daphna said, “Some people think Jews have horns.”

  “Ignorant people,” Mr. Brown replied.

  “But, the history of that—”

  “Yes, it relates to you and your brother directly.”

  “Their ribs?” Quinn asked.

  “As I mentioned, the Masons tried everything they could think of to wrest this book away from the ‘Elders of Zion,’ as they called the non-existent world Jewish leadership they believed to be in possession of the book. The legend of the thirty-six is no secret among the learned,” he explained. “There was a time the Masons thought they could find them by identifying some kind of anatomical anomaly, or at least to throw a scare into the ‘Elders’ that they would someday find them—and thus blackmail them into handing over the book. Fortunately, they failed.”

  “Jack the Ripper,” Daphna said.

  “What?” Quinn looked hopelessly confused.

  “Dex told me. All that mutilation. They were looking for—I guess they didn’t really know what they were looking for.”

  “The Masons have made numerous attempts over the centuries to identify the Lamed Vavniks,” Mr. Brown explained. “Fortunately, they lack the skills we possess in that department. But at long last, it seems they’ve won their prize. I might mention by the way,” he added almost off-handedly, “the Thirty-six haven’t always been Jewish.”

  “That seems only right,” Daphna said. “It’s not like Adam and Eve had a religion.”

  Quinn didn’t seem to be listening anymore. “It was just a book,” he muttered. “Just a lost book in a burned-down bookshop.”

  Mr. Brown shook his head. “There is no such thing as ‘just a book,’” he said, but he did not elaborate.

  “You’re part of the Church, aren’t you?” Daphna asked. “They know who the Lamed Vavniks are. And that’s how you have a man at the Vatican.”

  “No, we are most certainly not,” said Mr. Brown, and rather adamantly. Then he said, “Ah, good, we’re just about here.” They were on Park Street, nearing the Portland State University campus.

  “There’s the Art Museum!” Daphna exclaimed, having suddenly spotted it. She pressed her face to the window.

  Mr. Brown looked at her in the mirror, apparently surprised by her feeling the need to point this out.

  But then Quinn suddenly shouted, “Look!” He pointed at a police car stopped directly in front of the museum.

  “Stop! Stop the car!” Daphna cried. She jerked wildly on the door handle. Dex and Nora were in that police car.

  Mr. Brown pulled over two blocks past the museum. He turned off the engine but did not unlock the doors.

  “Wait!” Quinn urged while Daphna struggled wildly to lift the recessed door lock. “We know some of the cops are Masons—one of them has a bandaged head—he could even be the one who crashed in the tunnel. You told Dex they were looking for him. He might have—”

  “Gotten himself arrested,” Daphna realized, sitting back again. “But the museum—”

  “They’re still using the museum,” said Mr. Brown. But he wasn’t talking to Daphna or Quinn. He was on his cell phone. He clicked it, then put it into his pocket.

  Then he turned around and said, “The museum used to be Portland’s Masonic Temple. We haven’t known where their leaders have been meeting for years, but it must still be there. How clever of them to keep using it. Often the first place people ought to look is the last they do.”

  “We need to help!” Daphna cried. “The Book of the Living might—”

  “—be of no help at all,” Mr. Brown said. “The only thing we can be certain of is a terrible struggle should we try to wrest it from the Masons. If your brother manages the feat, wonderful. In the meantime, we will have complete privacy to conduct our journey.”

  Daphna turned around and saw Dex and Nora get out of the squad car. The cop with the bandage got out with them. He also had his arm in a sling. The three of them walked up to the glass front doors of the museum, and after the cop unlocked them, went inside.

  Daphna took in a long, deep breath and let it out. Then she turned around.

  “If you really want to help your brother,” said Mr. Brown. “If you really want to stop the evil spewing from the sky before it settles upon us all, you must help me find the book I seek.”

  “Alright already,” Daphna said. “Let’s stop flapping our gums and go get the damn thing.”

  CHAPTER 28

  jesus 2.0

  Dexter tried to reassure Nora as they walked toward the redbrick façade of the Portland Art Museum, but she was praying yet again and therefore deaf to his words. It was just as well, because he knew they were empty. It was now absurdly, ridiculously hot. He had never been anywhere this hot.

  Dex had
no idea what he was going to do, or what they were walking into. They climbed the front steps and approached the center set of glass entry doors.

  Above the front doors hung a huge banner proclaiming, “Jesus 2.0.” It said the exhibition opened today, but no one seemed to be inside.

  Madden, who’d left Richards in the car, tried the door with his free hand. It was locked. There was definitely no exhibition opening today. It must have been cancelled. But then Madden took out a key ring, shook out a particular key, and opened the door with it.

  “Follow,” he said, locking the door after ushering them in. He didn’t seem especially happy to be dealing with Dexter this time around. Nor had his partner. After Richards had made a call on his cell, neither had spoken a word on the drive from Hillsdale.

  They were in a kind of vestibule or waiting area with a ticket booth and some chairs arranged around a statue.

  Madden led the way through another set of glass doors into the first gallery, a high-ceilinged hall filled with portraits of Jesus. The artists had given him just about every possible look. He was Caucasian, Black, Chinese, and Native American, for starters. His outfit and hair varied even more. He had dreadlocks; he was bald; he was wearing a turban; he had long blonde hair; he wore a dress.

  “This is all so—” Nora said. “I don’t know what this is all so.”

  Dex agreed.

  Beyond that they passed through a narrow gallery full of images of Nativity scenes. There were sculptures, paintings, and multi-media displays. One of them depicted the Three Wise Men as the Three Stooges, another as the Three Little Pigs. Dex saw some kind of three-dimensional projection in the corner of the Three Wise Men giving the Baby Jesus cell phones, tablet computers, and noise-cancelling headphones.

  “I don’t see the point of this,” Nora said. “It seems so—wrong.”

  Dex didn’t know what to think about it. It seemed mostly silly, as silly as Virgil Durante’s museum of horrors. Why was he always being led into museums?

  Next they entered The Last Supper room. It was a large rectangular hall with three flat leather benches in a line at its center. The walls were packed with paintings, nearly floor to ceiling all around.

  “Sit and wait,” Madden said.

  Dex and Nora took a seat on the middle bench.

  “What happened to your arm?” Dex asked.

  “Your goddamned sister, that’s what.”

  “Oh.” Go Daphna, Dex thought, wishing he could get the details.

  “Take some time to think about telling them what you know,” Madden snapped. Then he added, “Take some time to think about all the things you don’t want to happen to you if you refuse.”

  “We’re sorry about the bicycles,” Nora said. “And for being out during the curfew.”

  “What?”

  “Ah—nothing,” Dex said.

  Madden didn’t seem interested, anyway.

  “Do you have cell phones?” he asked.

  “Ah,” Dex said again, “no.”

  “Come here.”

  Dex and Nora looked at each other.

  “Now.”

  Nora got up and hurried over.

  With his free hand, Madden patted her down. Nora, mortified, turned red from ear to ear.

  “Now you.”

  Dex went over and submitted to the pat down, which seemed unnecessarily harsh.

  When Madden was satisfied, he simply turned and left, locking the door they’d come through behind him.

  “Dex, what about your phone?” Nora asked when the door clicked shut.

  Dex sat back down on the bench next to Nora and pulled the phone out from between two of the cushions.

  “I put it there when he was searching you,” he explained. Dex put it back in his pocket.

  “What if they search us again?”

  Dex hadn’t thought of that.

  “Maybe we should leave it hidden here,” Nora suggested. “If there’s an emergency, we’ll know where to run to get it.”

  “Okay.” Dex tucked the phone back between the cushions. “We’ll get it on the way out,” he added, trying to sound certain that they’d be coming back out.

  Dex didn’t know what to say next, so he looked around the room for a minute, waiting. But nothing happened.

  “You lied to a policeman,” Nora finally said.

  Dex looked at her, amazed. “A policeman sending us to a bunch of psychos bent on taking over the world.”

  “I know—I know,” Nora said, looking embarrassed. “It’s just that—I couldn’t do it, even if—I mean, isn’t lying, well, lying? Does God care what your reasons are for doing something bad?”

  “Nora,” Dex sighed, “you sound like Daphna used to. Wait—is that also why you wouldn’t get on the bike? Because it wasn’t ours?”

  Nora nodded.

  “Look,” Dex said, shaking his head, “the world isn’t black and white. If God stuck around maybe it could’ve been, but it’s hard to know what’s right and wrong sometimes.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that life is complicated. That’s probably the only thing I’ve learned. You might have to do something that feels wrong if we expect to get that book back, not to mention out of here in one piece.”

  Nora nodded. She looked like she was seriously considering his words, which pleased Dexter tremendously. He looked around the hall again, this time actually taking in what he saw.

  Like the others, it was all about alternative versions. These renderings varied as much or even more than what they’d seen so far. The only thing they had in common was that they all featured Jesus and his Disciples at a meal.

  Dex saw the one Daphna had mentioned, the one in a fast food restaurant, where everyone was eating burgers. Jesus stood, holding up a shake, as if to propose a toast with it. In another he was actually holding up a piece of toast. In another they were all in a school cafeteria, having a food fight with slices of pizza and soggy grilled cheeses.

  Most were more conventional than those, though the style of the room and the types of foods and accouterments on the table were all very different. Most, like the one at the Vatican, had Jesus sitting in the center of the table with his disciples on either side. Dex recalled he was holding a glass of wine in that one. The disciples all looked horrified. Some here did as well, but many had very different expressions, from sneers to hysterical laughing. One had them all drunk and another asleep. In a few Jesus was standing—actually on the table in one. Some of the tables were laden with Chinese food boxes, others giant legs of lamb. There were plates and goblets and glasses and mugs. One had sippy cups. Everyone was wearing bibs in that one.

  Dex’s mind raced to come up with ways to get The Book of the Living as he looked around. He was certain it was there, in the museum, somewhere, and it was fairly likely he’d wind up seeing it. But under what circumstances, he had no idea. It was impossible to formulate a plan unless you knew exactly what you were planning for. Dex was also certain the Masons didn’t know how to use the book, but how could he take advantage of that fact? He needed help! He should call Daphna.

  Nora was praying again. Her eyes were closed.

  “Nora!” Dex snapped. “You can’t pray your life away!”

  She opened her eyes, stunned.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” Dex said, ashamed of the outburst. “I think your praying is great. I think it’s great that you can deal with bad situations by leaving them. But you can’t really help—help me, help us, here, now—if you’re not really here.”

  “You’re right,” Nora admitted, her eyes downcast. “I know I hide inside. I’ve been hiding inside all my life.”

  Something made Dex want to kiss her again just then. But he didn’t dare.

  “I’m so scared,” Nora said. “Why are they making us sit here like this?”

  “They want us to get as nervous as possible,” Dex guessed, thinking it was working pretty well. “You know, like how the cops make people sit in the interrogation rooms forev
er while they—never mind. They just want to break you.”

  “One’s missing,” Nora said.

  Dex looked to see what Nora was suddenly pointing to.

  There, right in the middle of the main wall, which was otherwise packed with paintings spaced no more than a few inches apart, was an empty space, a long horizontal strip of bare wall, perhaps five feet long. There were a series of hooks there, holding nothing.

  “I think people might be more fascinated by what’s not there than by what is,” Dex said.

  Nora turned to him. “Why is that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dex replied. “I guess because everyone always thinks there’s something better out there than what they’ve got. Grass is greener kind of thing, I guess. Though it seems like, for some people, that includes the entire world.”

  Nora nodded, closed her eyes, and withdrew into herself again. But this time a tear dripped from her right eye and ran down her pale cheek. Dexter desperately wanted to brush her hair aside to wipe it away.

  “I’ve always felt that way about my father,” Nora admitted. “I’ve always wished he was someone else. I’ve always dishonored him.” Then she opened her eyes and said, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “At school, in the hall. You were going to start smashing things with that backpack.”

  “I—Yes, I guess I was.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I fell—almost fell—and I saw how scared you were, and I knew I had to help you.”

  “You needed to be someone’s hero—Is that it?”

  “No. I don’t know. Maybe,” Dex said. “Yes, a little. But mostly I was feeling like there was really no point to trying so hard and risking so much all the time if the world wasn’t going to give me credit for it. It didn’t seem living like that was worth it. But since I met you I don’t seem to care so much any more.”

  “I have something to confess,” Nora said.

  “You do?”

  “I’ve done something bad, so bad.”

  “Nora—”

  “I tripped you, in the hall. And then I grabbed your legs—on the floor—on purpose.”