“Yes, I know, sir. An urgent personal matter came up.”
“I heard about your press conference yesterday. But that does not change the fact that we have a deadline to meet. When can I expect you to return?”
Logan paused. “I’m not sure, sir.”
“You are giving me no real choice in the matter. I’m going to have to find a replacement for you. The museum can’t afford to let Mr. Quinn down. I’m sorry, Logan.”
“I understand.” And with that, the call ended.
Logan was disappointed by Mr. Rampart’s news. While his finances were now in order and there was a very large balance in his bank account, he still wanted to finish the restoration work. He wanted to finish it for Sebastian.
As he looked around for a street sign, Logan was suddenly shoved from behind. He hit the ground hard, stopping himself with his hands. He rolled over quickly and saw two burly men in black leather vests over white T-shirts looking down at him through heavily tinted sunglasses.
“You’re Logan Ford,” one of the men said. There was a ten-centimeter scar along the right side of his face just below his cheekbone.
Without giving him time to answer, the other man grabbed Logan’s arm and pulled him to his feet.
Logan struggled to free himself. Then, when he saw the slender third man in his early sixties emerging from behind the other two, he stopped. “You’re Randolph Fenquist. The leader of the Sentinel Coterie.”
The older man didn’t answer. He moved his long, stringy brown hair out of his face and pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He eyed Logan up and down as the man with the scar flicked a lighter.
Logan looked into Fenquist’s fanatical eyes, eyes he had seen before in paintings depicting zealots in times past. Mr. Perrot was correct: Fenquist looked like a frustrated man bent on causing trouble.
“So you’re the son of Camden and Cassandra Ford,” Fenquist said. He took a few puffs and blew the smoke into Logan’s face. “I bet there are quite a few people who would like to meet you.” Logan said nothing. Fenquist shook his head. “Coming forward like that was a mistake, though. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt like that sweet Cynthia.”
“We know you had something to do with Cynthia’s murder,” Logan said. “They saw you give something to that girl—” Logan stopped himself, realizing he’d said too much.
Fenquist’s expression darkened. He glanced at the man with the scar before saying, “I had nothing to do with Cynthia’s murder.” He took a puff of his cigarette. “I see Andrea suddenly resurfaced from her prolonged hiatus. Back to her old stomping grounds—North Carolina, I think it was? Maybe she had a score to settle with Cynthia. Maybe your lady friend and her government lackeys should go check her out.”
He took a step forward and got right up into Logan’s face, their noses almost touching.
“And if I were you, I would return to your nice brick house on your nice quiet street. You’re dealing with people and things you don’t understand, son.”
Logan didn’t respond. But the fact that Fenquist knew something about where he lived bothered him.
“Is there a problem here?” a deep voice asked.
Logan was relieved to see two policemen walking over to them, hands resting on their holstered guns.
“No problems,” Fenquist said. “Our friend here fell, and we were just helping him up. We wouldn’t want him to fall again.”
One of the men replaced Logan’s backpack on his shoulder, and the other brushed the dirt off Logan’s back.
Fenquist looked straight at Logan. “I hope your sins don’t keep you from heaven’s gates.” He patted Logan on the shoulder and, with his two thugs in tow, he got into a shiny black SUV at the curb and sped away.
“You need any help?” an officer asked, as he handed Logan his PCD, which had fallen onto the sidewalk.
Logan wanted to say yes, but he knew the officers couldn’t help him. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m fine.” And quickening his pace and occasionally looking over his shoulder, he resumed his trek to the National Gallery.
Maybe Valerie was right, he thought on the way. Maybe the Coterie did have something to do with the Council murders. Although the Coterie spoke of peaceful disagreements, Logan now had firsthand proof to the contrary.
He walked along Constitution Avenue and looked through the double-layered security fence that now surrounded the entire Memorial Park grounds. On the other side lay the ruins of the once-grand monuments of the capital. Rubble, stumps of buildings. A debate still raged about whether the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument should be rebuilt or remain that way as a reminder that what we assume will last forever can be destroyed in an instant by man or nature.
Logan searched through his backpack and found his membership card, which allowed him free entry to all museums in the Federation. The West Building was the only part of the National Gallery of Art to survive the Great Disruption. The Sculpture Garden and the East Building of the grounds had been destroyed by an earthquake. The West Building’s glass atrium had been slightly damaged but was rebuilt during the reconstruction efforts of the Rising.
Logan displayed his pass and entered. He had no particular destination; he was simply happy to be in a familiar environment. He took a seat on a bench close to the entrance and watched the people passing by. Slowly, his stress faded away. An elderly couple walked over, obviously hoping to sit down, and he gave his place to them.
While most of the museum was crowded with summer visitors and tour groups, Logan wandered into a quieter, less busy wing where the Renaissance exhibit was located. Early Renaissance statues and paintings from Florence soon surrounded him. He looked at works by Botticelli, Uccello, and Francesca, reading the curator’s notes about their significance. Logan walked up a flight of stairs and entered the enormous Reproductions Room, where copies of great paintings through the ages were kept. One particular painting there caught Logan’s eye. It was a depiction of a third-century Roman soldier who was bound to a tree, his body pierced by arrows. A woman gently tended the soldier’s wounds. The painting was titled Saint Sebastian Tended by Irene.
Just then, Logan heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Still on his guard, he looked around but didn’t see anyone coming. The only other people in the room were a young couple looking at a painting by Masaccio.
Logan continued to read the description of the painting: “Saint Sebastian was a patron to all soldiers of his time, for he helped them to keep their faith. He was declared the patron of people who suffered plagues, for it was reported he cured many who were afflicted.”
As Logan gazed at the painting, he thought of Sebastian Quinn and wondered if he’d been named after this saint. Although he’d only had two brief encounters with Mr. Quinn, he thought Sebastian was an appropriate namesake.
“Tough way to die,” a man’s gruff voice remarked behind him. “He must have really pissed off the king.”
Logan turned and saw a blond-haired young man, more than six feet tall, standing next to him, looking at the same painting. “Yes,” Logan said, a bit startled because he hadn’t noticed the man approach him.
“Those were messed-up times,” the man continued. “People getting killed for what they believed in.”
“Still happens,” Logan said. He wasn’t in a mood to talk to strangers, not after what happened with Fenquist and his goons, so he walked away to explore the rest of the large gallery.
Only a few steps away, he once again found himself standing in front of the painting that seemed to be at the center of his life. It was a large reproduction of Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam.
Is it a coincidence that the Saint Sebastian painting is so close to this one? Logan wondered. Mr. Quinn had never told him what all the faces in the painting represented, so he studied them now. Some were depicted with shadowy lighting, while others were clearly revealed. Some of the angels seemed to be holding back God’s advancement, while others seemed to be pushing him. What was the rela
tionship between the iron collar I saw in my vision and the DNA insert that Sylvia discovered in the lab? Artists such as Michelangelo didn’t randomly put images into their works without great thought. Everything had a purpose . . . Logan felt discouraged; he would never learn the answer to this question now that Mr. Rampart had fired him. He’d never have another opportunity to speak to Sebastian Quinn.
A large—and very loud—group of summer-school students entered the hall. Gone was the silence that had aided Logan’s contemplation. A teacher was leading the exuberant group of ten- and eleven-year-olds right over to where Logan was standing. He stepped aside, allowing the fifty little souls to gather in front of the painting. Logan didn’t mind; the children reminded him of Jordan and Jamie and the happy times he’d spent with them at the museum in New Chicago, showing them his favorite paintings. The teacher raised a red flag, and the children quieted down.
“How many of you remember that big statue of David we saw?” All the kids raised their hands, and there was a little bit of laughter. “Yes, the man who was naked. Well, this painting was done by the same artist. Michelangelo.”
“Is that David again?” asked a young boy who was pointing at the painting.
“No,” the teacher replied. “This man’s name is Adam. And the old man over there is God.”
“Who are all the people floating around God?” a little girl asked.
“Those are God’s angels.”
“Oh, so the angels are telling God what to do,” the little girl said.
“I hope they tell Adam to put some clothes on,” a boy in the group added, sparking another chorus of laughter. He was promptly punched in the arm by the girl who had asked the question.
As Logan listened to the children’s questions, he received a call on his PCD. It was Mr. Rampart again. Well, he can’t fire me twice, Logan thought as he picked up.
“Hello, Mr. Rampart,” he said, covering his ear with one hand. He had a tough time hearing with the children nearby.
“I called Mr. Quinn to inform him that in order to meet the deadline, I was going to turn the project over to another artist,” Mr. Rampart said. Again, he went straight to the point. “I informed him that you had to deal with an emergency and would not be able to finish the work by the agreed-upon deadline.”
“Yes,” Logan acknowledged, trying to figure out why Mr. Rampart was calling.
“It seems you made quite an impression on Mr. Quinn,” Mr. Rampart continued. “He told me that he did not want anyone but you to work on his painting and that I was to resecure your services immediately, as he was pushing back the deadline indefinitely. He urged me to communicate that fact to you straightaway. It appears that I was a bit hasty in my dismissal. I hope you will finish your work upon your return, whenever that might be.”
“Yes, of course,” Logan said, happily surprised. He walked away from the noisy group. “Thank you, Mr. Rampart. I look forward to getting it all done when I return to New Chicago. And please give my thanks to Mr. Quinn.” Logan hung up and put his PCD away. Well, that was a twist of fate, he thought. He looked back over at the painting of Saint Sebastian, the patron saint of suffering, and shook his head. Why had Mr. Quinn taken such an interest in him? Certainly, there were many other artists who could finish the restoration.
The teacher now raised a green flag, and the children followed her out of the hall. Logan could hear the echo of their voices as they made their way out. He walked back over to the Michelangelo. Was the little girl correct? Logan thought. Are the angels really telling God what to do? Maybe. Maybe they represent the conflicting voices in our own minds. Could that be the secret Sebastian referred to?
“Adam looks like he’s living a pretty good life,” a familiar gruff voice said. The same tall, blond man who had snuck up on Logan near the Saint Sebastian painting was standing next to him again.
“He looks a little lazy, if you ask me,” Logan said. He was in a friendlier mood after receiving the good news from Mr. Rampart. “All those faces represent the voices in our brains, you know. Some voices urging us to move forward, others telling us to go back. It’s a wonderful allegory for our lives.”
“You got all that from this painting?” the man asked. “You sound like one of those Satraya supporters. The world could use fewer of them.”
“And you sound like one of those Sentinel Coterie members,” Logan fired back, wondering if Fenquist was having one of his men follow him. He was starting to get a bad feeling about this stranger. He looked around for a security guard, but the hall was empty. The nearest exit was behind him, on the other side of the large exhibit hall, and the last of the children in the school group were leaving. Logan looked back at the man and noticed that one of his hands was concealed inside a pocket of his black leather jacket, which seemed out of place on a hot summer day.
“You’re Logan Ford,” the stranger said.
Logan didn’t answer. He had to figure out how to get out of there. Maybe it was time to start running. “Bit hot for a jacket, isn’t it?” Logan said, stalling for time.
The man looked back at the painting and started to pull something out of his jacket pocket. Logan grew tenser. “I’m cold-blooded,” he said, as he pulled out a small pill box. He took some kind of green tablet from it and put it into his mouth. “Would you like one?” He showed Logan the box filled with little green tablets. “I’m told these things can save your life.”
“There you are!” a voice suddenly called out. Logan turned and saw, with great relief, that Valerie was entering the hall with two agents behind her. “You can’t just leave like that and not tell us where you’re going!”
Logan quickly walked over to her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s been an interesting day,” Logan answered. “How did you find me?”
“We tracked your PCD and your badge,” she said. “Don’t leave like that again. You had me worried.”
He looked down at his shirt and noticed he was still wearing the WCF badge he had received earlier. “Look behind me,” he said, lowering his voice. “I think that man is following me.”
Valerie looked over Logan’s shoulder. “What man?” she asked.
Logan turned around. The stranger had disappeared.
26
Everything you wish to know lies in nature. Ask the tree its purpose, and you will realize your own.
—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA
NEW CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, 2:30 P.M. LOCAL TIME,
3 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY
Standing in front of the bookshelf, Mr. Perrot counted the origami figures; there were ten, one short of the number of notes Camden had written. Mr. Perrot picked up the first figure, folded in the shape of a dog, and, with great care, began to unfold it.
“Forgive me, my friend,” he whispered. “I most certainly will not be able to put these back as I found them.”
He took a letter opener from the desk and used it delicately to pry open the many intricate folds. Soon he began to see words and sentences written on the paper. He tempered his excitement and didn’t rush; the paper was fragile and could easily rip. After several minutes of careful work, the origami dog was gone, and a message was revealed on the creased sheet of paper in its place.
Both of your questions can be answered simultaneously by my simply saying: I am a man just like you. Perhaps another question you might like to ask is, What do you know that I do not yet know? If that is your next query, then my answer would be: I know that a greater mind lives in ALL the peoples of the world. I was taught this philosophy at a very early age and have spent every day of my life dedicated to revealing this truth. It is what you are just beginning to understand. This is your childhood, so to speak. This understanding is what The Chronicles of Satraya wish for the world and all who live upon it. —YM
Mr. Perrot’s heart raced. He had evidently found Baté’s response to one of the notes Camden had left in the old study. He careful
ly gathered the remaining nine origami figures and took them back to the coffee table where Camden’s notes to Baté lay. There he meticulously unfolded each animal figure: a horse, a rabbit, a mouse, a lion, a panda, an owl, a rhinoceros, an elephant, and finally a giraffe. Camden had recorded all of Baté’s responses.
The horse note:
Things will get worse, my friend, before the new sun rises. But do not lose hope. As it is now known, the original Council will break. But the new Council that emerges will benefit from copies of the Chronicles having already been spread far and wide. Fendral’s desire cannot take hold at the moment. But stay aware. He is a diligent man, and he is not alone in wanting to enact his plan. —SAPS
The rabbit note:
No, I am not the author. There is no single author. The books represent the combined experiences and wisdom of many like me who through the ages attained a deeper understanding of life and are waiting for all to awaken. Throughout history, other great books have been given so that people’s thoughts might evolve. The Chronicles of Satraya were not the first, nor will they be the last. But they are to this point the greatest culmination of all prior efforts. Their moment is now, and they will occupy an important segment of human history. —DARGEN
The mouse note:
As it has always been, men and women must find their own way. Their free will must never be impeded. To do otherwise would only prolong their journey. This, in many ways, is the greatest teaching of all. I am permitted, however, to answer your questions. I am permitted to give you knowledge that will help you to direct your own power and your gift of choice. Remember the old adage: When a pupil is ready, a teacher will appear. —I
The lion note:
Remember, any flame can be used by anyone to train the mind to travel to many places. But in order to come to my study, you must use this particular Manas Mantr candle. It has a special link to me and the study. One day, you will be able to arrive without using it. Your mind will be trained sufficiently that this place will be readily accessible to you. However, if the Manas Mantr candle were to burn down before you complete your training, then I dare say you will not be able to visit here until another blessed candle is given to you. But I am certain you will use the tool diligently and successfully as I did long ago. There are other Manas Mantr candles in the world, and none of them was forged or gifted lightly. —OPND
Journey Into the Flame: Book One of the Rising World Trilogy Page 18
