This was his moment to reply to what he supposed was a compliment; however, she had a breathy, airy way of speaking, as though she was always pleasantly surprised by the simplest of things. It was endearing and Jack found himself staring, but then, out of the corner of his eye he saw Robert coming through the crowd toward the main entrance to the ballroom. Jack hadn’t been seen yet and he wanted to keep it that way. He started backing away, saying: “I wish I could, but I can’t. It was nice meeting you, Cynthia and maybe we can get together, you know, after Christmas.”
“My friends call me Cyn. And sure, we’re staying here at the Waldorf. I rather believe that my mother would be perfectly happy to see you...as long as you shave and put on proper attire that is.”
“Yes, sounds good. I will. Thanks, but I have to go, bye.” He practically fled down the hall and took the stairs instead of waiting on the elevator. In minutes, he was back out in the cold and hurrying for the nearest subway. The taxi had been a luxury, one that he couldn’t afford a second time. But there was a second reason why he ignored the line of cabs: he had just realized that it made no sense for anyone to be following him.
His father’s secret was out. Robert already had the text, it was a done deal and there was only one real question in Jack’s mind: Do I make any money off of the translation or should I hold out on principle and starve?
It wasn’t much of a choice. Jack thought of himself as smart, but he was nobody’s genius—there had to be many other scholars who could decipher the writing.
“I’ll ask for five-thousand,” Jack decided once he was warm and safe in his apartment. Safe being the optimal word. Not only had he triple-locked the door, he had gone around his place inspecting every inch of it for hidden microphones or cameras. There were none, though he studiously kept clear of his computer, knowing that there were ways to hack into it, remotely.
He was able to come to grips with his decision and fell asleep by midnight. An hour later he was up with the unsettling idea that maybe he was no longer in possession of the original papyrus. After all, he hadn’t checked on it since he had finished deciphering it over a year ago.
The thought crept into his head, if it could be copied, it could be stolen.
“Crap,” Jack whispered into the dark. The idea was upsetting and yet on the other hand, it cemented the idea that no one would be after him. Why would they be? Here it was a few minutes into Christmas Eve and he was alone: a nothing orphan and a nobody of a student. He fell asleep with a heavy depression settling into his bones.
The next morning his mood was little improved and he went to his bank fully expecting to find his safe deposit box empty; however, it was not. The papyrus lay in the glass tube in which he had originally found it all those years ago. In keeping with his junior spy routine of the day before, Jack held the glass tube up to the light, trying to see if there were fingerprints on it that were obviously different than his own.
With his experience in fingerprints being confined simply to what he had seen on television, his attempts proved impossible. It wasn’t his area of expertise. Handwritten hieroglyphics were. He took out the copies of the text that Robert had given him and his practiced eye quickly saw that the glyphs hadn’t been copied by a machine.
“Thank God for that.”
The idea that someone had put the papyrus in a copier had been worrying him sick. The next thing he saw was that someone with experience had done the copying and yet there were three odd breaks in the lines that didn’t make much sense. There were also four different errors in the copying, small ones, little slips of the stylus that would have led to mistakes in the translation if he hadn’t already known what it said.
In spite of the transcribing errors, he knew he would fix them in the final translation. “For five-thousand dollars, I should do it right,” he said.
After replacing the papyrus, he left the bank and went straight back to his apartment and began the translation. He first translated the piece with the numerous mistakes left in, just to see if that would change the meaning in any way—he was somewhat disappointed that it did not.
Next, he translated the original text, word for word, double checking himself and mumbling the final version in English: “Come Mother of Demons, Queen of Souls from who’s thighs life did spring. Take this sacrifice, Give me entry into the Duat. Bring forth your others as they call and are called.”
He sat back, shaking his head. “Why would Robert pay even a thousand dollars for that? What a moron.” He laughed, just a chuckle,and then sighed.
“Now what?” he said as he looked around his dreary little apartment. Bored and hungry, and wishing that Christmas was already behind him for good, he made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and then settled back down with a new book. The translated work he left sitting on his desk. Why bother hiding it? If Robert came with a gun or some goons in order to steal it, what good would hiding anything do?
Besides, Jack didn’t think Robert would try anything untoward. He wouldn’t be happy about Jack demanding more money, but so what? Jack wasn’t exactly happy that somebody, Robert most likely, had bribed his way into his safe deposit box.
At six that evening, when the residence hall was again morgue-quiet, Jack heard Robert’s shoes tapping up the hall. They were brisker now. Eager. They were also alone. Still, Jack was nervous and took his saber from the door and leaned it against his desk.
“Come in,” Jack said at Robert’s knock. “It’s open.” He hadn’t bothered with locking his door for the same reason that the translation wasn’t hidden.
Robert was dapper as usual: suit, tie, shiny shoes, soft calfskin gloves. “Merry Christmas!” he cried as he came in. His words were cheery, however his eyes were quick. He scanned the small studio apartment and saw the clean white papers on Jack’s desk. He also saw the saber and his grin faltered. “What’s with the sword?”
Jack shrugged. “I fence, or I used to. Before we get started...”
“Started?” Robert interrupted. “There’s nothing really to start. I give you a check and you give me the translation.”
“A check is right,” Jack replied, feeling strangely cool, especially compared to the day before when he’d been seeing spies in every face. “I’ve changed my mind on the amount. I think five-thousand would be a better, more appropriate price since what I translated belonged to me to begin with. Someone has been in my bank. I’m not saying it was you, Robert, but you probably know who it was.”
Robert’s smile became tense. “That’s quite an accusation.”
“It’s not an accusation...yet. Right now, it’s simply a statement. It might become an accusation, though I doubt it. You want this translation badly. You offered a thousand without hesitation and you would’ve gone higher if I had pressed you on it. Once I realized that someone had been in my safe deposit box, I realized that a thousand was far too low a price. In fact, it’s something of an insult, seeing as we are kin.”
The talk of money relaxed Robert and his grin wasn’t forced. “Let me assure you that I don’t think anyone was in your bank, and yes, a thousand is too low. I apologize. I’m used to driving hard bargains.”
“So we have a deal on five-thousand?”
“Yes,” Robert said, again so quickly that Jack wondered if he had gone too low once more. It was a little too late to ask for more. Despite the skullduggery on Robert’s part, that would have been unseemly.
As Robert reached for his checkbook, Jack glanced a final time at the translation and asked: “Why do you want this so badly? Do you have a buyer who doesn’t realize that funeral texts are a dime a dozen?” Robert hesitated and there was something in the way he held his gold-leaf pen that triggered a thought in Jack.
“Wait a minute! You found someone who actually believes in these spells?” A hearty laugh escaped Jack and he shook his head ruefully. “Will they still pay if they find out that the spell doesn’t work? Don’t tell them, but I’ve spoken the words in English and ancient Egyptia
n and nothing’s happened. The gate to the Duat never materialized.”
“But did you paint the glyphs in a circle of sacrificial blood while wearing the head of a bull like the first Viziers used to?” Robert asked, with a chuckle.
“The bull’s head, that’s what I forgot. I knew I was missing something.”
“Maybe next time,” Robert said, adding a flourish to his signature. “Here is your check and now, if you don’t mind, I really do have to get going.”
“Of course,” Jack said. He took the check, stuck it in the top drawer of his desk and then handed over the translation but kept the copies he had been given. There was still a part of him that could hear the echo of his father’s warning in his mind: Keep it safe. Do not sell it or give it away. Keep it secret. Although it was no longer safe, or secret, there was no sense adding to his guilt.
Robert gave a glance at the copies, looked as though he wanted to ask for them back, but only shrugged and turned his back on Jack and headed for the door. “Enjoy your day, tomorrow,” he said and was half out the door before Jack could blink.
“Merry Christmas,” Jack answered, happy to be shut of his cousin so quickly and happy that the entire sordid business was behind him. He felt somewhat coated with sleaze at having dealt with him and guilty as well for having sold his birthright and ignoring his father’s wishes.
“Those had been instructions for mom, not for me,” he rationalized as he opened the desk drawer and picked up the check. It was the largest sum he had ever held in his life; he put it up to the light, giving it a thorough inspection to make sure that there wasn’t anything “wrong” with it.
It seemed perfectly fine. He wasn’t, however. His guilt grew within him and he ended up taking the copies and the check and stashing them back in the top drawer of his desk. The papers and his guilt weighed on his mind and kept him up deep into the night, which was why he slept in very late on Christmas morning.
The sound of shoes, clacking with importance and severity, woke him. They were coming for him.
Chapter 3
Greenwich Village, New York
The stern sounding shoes came right to Jack’s apartment and, even before someone, with what sounded like steel knuckles, rapped on his hollow front door, rattling it in its frame, his first thought was to wonder whether he had unintentionally committed some sort of crime by selling the translation.
“Jonathan Dreyden,” a stern voice that was a perfect match for the stern footsteps, said. It was not a question. “This is the police. Open the door.”
“The police?” Before the knock, he’d had a raw intuition that it was going to be the police, and yet it was still jarring. He was extremely straight-laced. Unlike the majority of his dorm mates, he didn’t have to rush around the room hiding illegal items. He only had to smooth down his blond hair before he opened the door. “Yes?”
There were two men outside his door. One was fortyish and tall with heroic shoulders, a short afro and a tired, drooping hound-dog face; the other was much older, slightly built, with a perfectly manicured beard, a finely tailored suit, a gold Rolex on his left wrist and dark, angry eyes. The younger of the two spoke first: “I’m Detective Richards of the NYPD and this is Mr. Loret of the...”
“Doctor Loret,” the older man reminded. The detective gave the doctor a look that said: Is that really necessary?
Jack stuck out his hand. “Wow, Dr. Loret of the Brooklyn Museum, curator of the Egyptian exhibit. I’ve been to four of your lectures and to your museum easily a dozen times.”
Loret gave Jack’s hand a look of pure disgust. “In preparation for last night’s dealings, no doubt. I believe it’s called ‘casing the joint,’ Detective Richards.”
“That’s enough, Doctor,” Richards said. “You are here as a courtesy. There was a break-in at the Brooklyn Museum last night, Mr. Dreyden, and your name has come up as a possible suspect. May we come in and have a look around?” The detective was already, in a sense, looking around. He was gazing past Jack and into his rather small studio apartment. “You’re free to say no, though I would just come back with a warrant.”
Jack wasn’t worried about the legalities of the situation. He had done nothing wrong, at least, nothing intentionally wrong. He was only worried about his reputation in the archeology community. Despite Loret’s antagonism, Jack had to show that he had nothing to hide. “I have no idea what this is about, but sure, be my guest,” he said, swinging his door wide and ushering both men inside.
Richards went about the room, slowly, his shrewd eyes taking in everything. Loret, on the other hand, began pawing through the books on Jack’s desk. Richards opened his mouth to tell him to stop; however, Jack waved him off. “It’s ok. It’s equally important to me that I clear my name with my colleagues as it is with the authorities. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was here all last night.”
“Do you have anyone who can verify that?” Richards asked.
“A friend of mine was here until about six, but after that, no.” The detective wore a strained grin that suggested that was the wrong answer. Jack began to get nervous, suddenly remembering the check sitting nice and pretty in his top drawer. Perhaps Robert had done something illegal, perhaps he had some hand in the break in—it seemed beyond the realm of possibility that he had actually been the one to break in, personally.
A fat bribe dropped on a bank official was one thing but a break in? No, that didn’t seem like Robert’s style.
Jack’s fears were confirmed when Loret suddenly exclaimed: “Ah-ha!” He held up one of the pages of hieroglyphics that Jack had translated. “This is a clue, detective.”
Richards went to the desk and stared at the glyphs, his hound dog face screwed up in puzzlement. “How do you know that’s the same stuff? That looks like normal hieroglyphics to me.”
Loret made a noise like a strangled snort. “Are you kidding me? Look. See these little wedge shaped characters? That is ancient Sumerian. It doesn’t belong; it’s just like at the museum.”
Jack’s stomach had been sinking with every second and he had to resist the urge to begin biting his nails; however, the idea that there was more of the strange amalgamated script caused his anxiety to disappear in a blink. “There’s more of these glyphs at the museum? I’ve never seen them there.”
Before Loret could answer, Richards snapped his fingers and shushed him with a warning look. “Are you sure these are the same?” the detective asked Loret.
“Detective, I hold a doctorate in ancient history and several degrees in Egyptology and when I say…”
Richards blinked largely as if he couldn’t believe he had to deal with such a smart-stupid person. “Yes or no, Doctor, that’s all I want.”
“Yes, I’m altogether certain.”
The detective rumbled in his throat, a sound Jack took to mean he was considering his options. Eventually, he said to Loret: “Put those down and back away.” Richards then took out his phone and began snapping pictures of the desk and its contents but somehow missed the check that was starting to feel like very damning evidence. All he cared about were the glyphs and the various books. He placed them in evidence bags and then started going through Jack’s collections of pens.
“He used brushes, camel-hair brushes to be precise,” Loret said.
“I don’t own brushes of any sort,” Jack said, growing angry. It felt as though he was being found guilty of something he had nothing to do with.
Richards sniffed his pens before saying: “Just a precaution. By the way, you do have the right remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law.”
Jack’s anger started to simmer and, almost against his will, his eyes went to his saber; it was just a foot away. “I didn’t do anything that may be used against me unless this is some sort of sham investigation. Maybe you should stop right there, detective. You can keep what you have, but you’ll need a warrant to go any further.”
Loret’s eyes gleamed as though this was an admis
sion of guilt. Jack wanted to give him one in the chops just to knock that grin off his face. He barely restrained the urge. “And also you should tell me what I’m being charged with.”
“I’d rather show you,” Richards said. “Really, I’d like to compare these glyphs with what’s at the crime scene. If they don’t match, then we can clear you.”
And if they do? Jack didn’t ask that question, afraid of the answer.
The three of them took an uncomfortably quiet elevator ride down to street level and then took an excruciatingly silent ride in the detective’s Ford Taurus out to Brooklyn. The streets were empty and grey; however, in every window that Jack glanced into he saw happy people or festive lights or the outline of a glowing Christmas tree. It was thoroughly depressing.
Finally, they pulled up at the Brooklyn Museum. There was a disquieting number of police vehicles parked out front. What the hell? Jack wondered. How many cops did it take to investigate a break-in?
It seemed it took nearly a dozen, including a CSI crew who was taking samples of everything and that included the artifacts that were five-thousand years old. “Jeeze,” Jack whispered. Didn’t they understand that they were damaging precious, irreplaceable items? He gave Loret a look that suggested that nothing was worth this much damage. Loret kept his lips tight as though he was sucking on a lemon.
Then Jack saw the glyphs. There were two sets, maroon in color, painted in concentric circles around a pair of sarcophagi. He knew these sarcophagi. The one on the left was where the mummy of a Priest of Thorthirdes had resided for the last thirty-five hundred years. In the other was the mummy of a vizier named Hor, encased in an elaborately painted cartonnage. It had been an utterly amazing piece. Now it was broken and empty like a discarded egg shell. Inside were a few rags of linen and dust.
It was a tragic waste.
Jack’s depression was settling into the marrow of his bones, but then his eyes caught sight of the glyphs. Many were the very ones he had translated for Robert, but there were others among them that weren’t—others that he had never seen before. He was suddenly eager to get closer.
The Edge of Hell: Gods of the Undead A Post-Apocalyptic Epic Page 4
