Seams in Reality

by Alex Siegel

  "It is also believed that the Great Pyramids were built around large seams. Scattered evidence supports this theory, but the seams have faded away during the forty-five centuries since the construction of the Pyramids. Only curious artifacts remain such as stones which appear to have been transmuted.

  "The Egyptian sorcerers used ritual chants in their training. A single recitation could take an hour, and a master sorcerer was expected to get every word exactly right from memory..."

  Andrew glanced to either side nervously. He intended to study the book at length when he returned to the privacy of his college dorm room. For now, he just wanted a sampling.

  He had an idea. He went to the index in back and looked up "Gustav Pinch," the name of his grandfather. Andrew was delighted to find an entry. He quickly turned to the page which was nearly at the end of the book.

  The section was just a list of modern sorcerers with a short description by each one. Gustav Pinch was described as "one of the intellectual giants of his era. He explored exotic forms in bold, and some say, reckless experiments. He is best known for accomplishments in long-range telepathy. There are credible reports of him communicating at distances of over a mile. He died during one of his legendary experiments, and two other sorcerers of less renown also perished."

  Andrew frowned at the last line. Blake's father was one of them.

  "Andrew!" Dan yelled from the other side of the motel. "Where are you?"

  Andrew hid the book under his shirt and ran around the motel. Dan was standing at the door of their room.

  "You didn't get enough fresh air today?" he said. "You needed more?"

  "I just felt like wandering," Andrew said.

  "Stop it. Let's both just stay in and rest. We're hitting the road at dawn tomorrow. We have to make up for lost time."

  * * *

  Andrew opened his eyes. He was lying in the bed of his motel room. It was the middle of the night and very dark. Dan was snoring in a second bed.

  It took a moment for Andrew to realize what had awakened him. He had a clear memory of two journals: 1909 and 1910. The titles were written in the same handwriting and even the same type of pen. That can't be, Andrew thought.

  He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and called Tonya.

  "Hello?" she answered in a sleepy voice.

  "This is Andrew. You told me 1909 and 1910 looked like they had come from the same author."

  "Apparently."

  "But that's impossible," Andrew said. "According to you, Serkan forged 1910 before he ever saw 1909. They should've looked completely different. Maybe they're both forgeries."

  Tonya paused. "That's an excellent point."

  "What do we do?"

  "I think you and Charley need to have another conversation with the rare book dealer. It felt like something was off when we talked last time. He knows more than he told us. Unfortunately, I have to go to Washington, so you're on your own."

  "OK," he said. "We'll take care of it."

  "Good. I'm counting on you. Bye."

  Andrew hung up the phone.

  "What was that about?" Dan said from the other side of the room.

  "We need to talk to Mr. McGahern again in the morning."

  "I thought we were done with that mess."

  "No," Andrew said. "Not nearly. In fact, I think it's about to get even more interesting."

  * * *

  Blake opened his eyes. He was in a dark hotel room. A BPI agent was sleeping in the next bed, so Blake kept still and silent.

  He slowly reached under his pillow and took out a phone. It was the secret phone he used for communicating with his operatives. He checked the messages.

  A new message read, "Followed truck to Mumford Army Base in New Mexico. High security forced us to abandon pursuit, but truck stayed on base."

  Blake grinned broadly. Today, he had learned the U.S. Army was guarding the BPI's secret vault of dangerous artifacts, and now he knew the general location. The plan was working.

  Blake turned off the phone and slipped it back under his pillow. The next step would be very risky, and once he crossed that bridge, he could never go back. The good news was he wouldn't go to prison again. If the BPI caught him, he would be killed on the spot. The stakes couldn't possibly be higher.

  He laid back and allowed himself to dream about his bright, shiny future. He would accomplish things no sorcerer had ever accomplished. His name would become synonymous with power. The leaders of the world would kneel before him one day.

  He sighed with happiness.

  * * *

  Andrew, Charley, and Dan walked into Antiquarian Books and Letters. Mr. McGahern was sitting at his desk. He was wearing a brown jacket over a white shirt. Tight-fitting white gloves kept his skin from touching a book so old, the paper was brown. He was studying a page with a magnifying glass.

  He looked up from his work. "You again?"

  "Yes," Andrew said. "We have a few more questions."

  "I told you everything."

  "We're not so sure. The man who visited you a couple of weeks ago was named Serkan. He had a second journal called 1910, and he sold it to Crawford, but he claimed it came from you. It was very similar to 1909. Doesn't that seem strange?"

  McGahern swallowed nervously. "I don't know what you're talking about. There was only one journal."

  Andrew considered his options. Beating up the old man would be a criminal act, and Andrew couldn't do that. He looked at the old book on the desk and had another idea.

  Andrew walked over. "What are you reading?"

  "It's Rousseau's Social Contract and Emile, printed in 1762."

  "Sounds expensive."

  "Very," McGahern said.

  Andrew looked around. The little shop reminded him of a small, disorganized library.

  "You don't seem that wealthy. How could you afford such rare books?"

  McGahern bit his lip.

  Andrew grabbed the Social Contract off the table.

  McGahern squealed like a pig. "Hey! Be careful! It's fragile!"

  Andrew grabbed a chunk of pages. "I'm going to rip it to shreds if you don't talk to me."

  "You wouldn't!"

  Andrew pulled, and there was a slight tearing sound.

  "No!" McGahern cried. "You win! Serkan gave me 1909 and told me to sell it to Mr. Crawford. I got to keep the money, but I had to lie about where the journal came from." He lowered his head. "I knew this was a terrible idea."

  Andrew looked at Charley in confusion.

  "I'm not sure I understand," Charley said. "Serkan knew about Crawford?"

  "Serkan knew everything when he came in here. He told me how to make contact with Mr. Crawford and what to say to him. The first time I met him was when I delivered 1909. He wasn't a regular client."

  Andrew put the Social Contract back on the desk. McGahern quickly put his arms around the book as if it were a baby.

  "Where did Serkan get 1909?" Andrew said.

  "I don't know." McGahern shrugged. "Maybe he wrote it. There were signs the journal wasn't authentic. The paper had a modern feel, and the ink was too uniform. I certainly don't know about a 1910."

  "You were told to lie to us?" Charley said.

  "Yes," McGahern said. "Serkan seemed to know somebody would come. He was very specific about what I should tell you. He even wrote the catalog card for me. That's all I know. I swear. He never explained his motivation, and his girlfriend hardly talked at all."

  Andrew, Charley, and Dan moved to a far corner so they could talk privately.

  "This is crazy," Andrew whispered. "Why would Serkan do such a thing?"

  "I don't know," Charley replied. "It doesn't make any sense. How did Serkan even know we would come here? It's like the whole thing was scripted."

  Dan nodded. "The whole thing stinks."

  "Let's call Tonya," Andrew said.

  He took out his phone and made the call.

  "Yes?" Tonya said.

  "This is Andrew again. We just had
a very interesting conversation with the book dealer." He relayed what he had heard.

  After a long pause, she said, "Somebody is playing us all for fools."

  "Serkan?"

  "No. He's dead. The person behind this devilishness must still be alive. Have another visit with all the other people we talked to. Follow the trail of breadcrumbs backwards."

  "Sure." Andrew wasn't looking forward to another long day in the car, but clearly, it was necessary. "What's going on with you?"

  "We're getting ready for the Sorcerer's Tribunal. It's weird having Keene stand as the accused instead of sitting on the bench. I'll try to delay the proceedings to give you more time to work."

  "OK. We'll get on it right away." He hung up his phone and turned to Charley and Dan. "The Southern Museum of the Great Wars is our next stop."

  * * *

  The museum still looked like a big brick barn to Andrew, and the parking lot was still nearly empty. He wondered how the museum paid for itself. Its rural location certainly didn't attract a lot of tourist traffic.

  Andrew and Charley were in the back of the black limousine. Dan was driving again now that Tonya wasn't around to tell him not to. Andrew certainly didn't mind sitting close to Charley. The stress of the last couple of days had derailed his efforts to create some romance between them, but he was ever optimistic his time would come.

  Dan parked in front of the museum, and everybody got out. An "OPEN" sign hung on the glass front door. The three of them went inside.

  A girl sitting behind a counter was selling tickets, but Andrew thought it was funny. He could see half the museum from the front door without spending a penny. The space was divided into two parts corresponding to the two Great Wars.

  The World War I section showed the clumsy transition to modern military technology. A glass case full of bayonets and swords was next to a case full of powerful rifles. A wax model of a cavalry soldier sat astride a stuffed horse. The soldier was frozen in the act of charging a machine gun, and Andrew could tell how the confrontation would end.

  The World War II section was all modern. A diorama showed life inside an underground bunker in London. There was a collection of cannon tubes ranging in size all the way up to monsters Andrew could fit his head inside of. Maps showed which countries controlled which territories during every year of the war.

  Dan paid for museum tickets because it seemed like the right thing to do. He was using a BPI credit card anyway. Andrew asked for Carlisle Tritt and was directed to the shop in the back.

  The old man was repairing a vintage naval uniform using a sewing machine. The machine was also an antique, and he was quietly cursing at it.

  He looked up. "You kids, again. Did you find that book?"

  "Yes," Andrew said. "Thanks for your help, but we have a few more questions. Do you have any records describing the book?"

  "No. I told you before. There was nothing in my notes."

  "So you don't know if it actually passed through your hands."

  "That's right. Did McGahern know about it?" Tritt said.

  "In a way."

  "Then why are you asking me? All I know is a guy with a shaved head wanted it, and I sent him to McGahern, just like you."

  "That guy gave the book to McGahern," Andrew said. "He may have even written it."

  "That doesn't make any sense. You must be mistaken, but I guess I don't really know."

  Andrew frowned and turned to Charley. "Shall we move on?"

  She shrugged. "I guess our next stop is Mrs. Chesler."

  * * *

  For the second time, the limousine drove up to the plantation home with white columns in front. It was impressive, but Andrew found the house repugnant on reflection. It brought back images of slavery and suffering he had seen in history class.

  Dan parked. He, Andrew, and Charley stepped out into cool, breezy air. The weather was a bit chilly today.

  Andrew climbed a short staircase and went to the big front door. He knocked loudly.

  An African-American man in a tuxedo opened the door. "May I help you?" His tone suggested he wasn't actually interested in helping Andrew.

  "We were here the other day. We need to have another conversation with Mrs. Chesler."

  "About that book again?" the butler said.

  "Yes. Exactly. We're hoping to get a little more information."

  "Wait here, sir."

  The butler closed the door, and Andrew heard him walking off.

  His stomach growled, reminding him he had skipped breakfast, and it was getting close to lunch time. He had already spent four hours in the car today.

  After several minutes, the butler opened the door again. "Follow me, and please, avoid stepping on the carpets. We try to keep them clean."

  The group walked through the house. The interior was sparsely furnished in a very traditional manner. The wooden chairs had tall, elegantly carved backs. Columns framed many of the windows and doors. Andrew guessed the vaulted ceilings were more than ten feet high. Electric lights looked like gas lamps or candles. Giant mirrors created the illusion of extra rooms.

  They found Mrs. Chesler listening to music being played on an old record player. Andrew had never seen a vinyl recording in actual use before, and the spinning black record fascinated him. The music sounded dull and scratchy. He didn't understand why aficionados felt analog recordings were superior in any way.

  Mrs. Chesler was still dressed as a grieving widow in all black. A large glass of dark liquor was on a table beside her.

  "Still looking for that book?" she said.

  "We found it, actually," Andrew said. "Thank you. Now we're just trying to get some more background information."

  "I think I told you before. I never saw any book. It was probably buried in the pile. Edward Chesler brought back a lot of memorabilia from World War I."

  Andrew was seeing a pattern. Serkan had pretended to search for 1909 before writing it himself, but Andrew still didn't understand why.

  "Let's talk about your husband's murder," Charley said. "Have the police found anything new since we last talked?"

  Mrs. Chesler shook her head. "I think they stopped investigating."

  "What was the exact sequence of events? The man with the scarf came by asking about the book...?"

  "That morning. My husband died less than twenty-four hours later."

  Andrew furrowed his brow. If Serkan was the murderer, then he should've been more careful. Meeting the victim immediately before the crime was a sure way to arouse suspicion. Sorcerers were trained to have iron-clad mental discipline and total control over their emotions. The idea of Serkan rushing stupidly into a murder was inconceivable, assuming he would commit a murder at all. It was like he had wanted to get in trouble.

  Charley's dark expression suggested she was having the same thought.

  "If you think the man with the scarf was involved in the death of my husband," Mrs. Chesler said, "you should tell the police. I don't even recall his name."

  "It was Serkan," Andrew said, "and he's dead, so even if he did it, there's no point in investigating him."

  "I would like to know the truth."

  "So would we."

  She cocked her head. "I thought you were book collectors. Why do you care about my husband's death? How do you know about Serkan? What's going on?"

  Andrew couldn't answer that question truthfully, and he didn't want to lie to a grieving widow, so he just remained silent.

  "We have to go," Charley said with a polite smile. "Thank you for your time. Again, we're sorry for your loss."

  She walked out of the house. Andrew and Dan followed her until they reached the limousine. Once they were alone, they stopped to talk.

  "The deeper we get into this," Andrew said, "the less sense it makes. Some of the stuff Serkan did was really dumb."

  Charley nodded. "The whole investigation was strange. We tracked down the journal after only a couple of days. I mean, you would expect finding a rare book would take mor
e time."

  "Serkan made it easy for us. We just had to follow the obvious leads. He wanted us to look in that safe and find the journal he wrote."

  "But he made himself look like a renegade in the process. He destroyed his own reputation and put his master at risk."

  "And then he died," Andrew said. "Why? What was he hoping to accomplish?"

  "Maybe the last stop will tell us. We have to go back to his parents' basement and take a hard look at the evidence that started us down this road."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Andrew, Charley, and Dan climbed down a creaky wooden staircase into a basement. Not much had changed. The small room still contained stacks of boxes, furniture, and appliances. A line of refrigerators spanned decades of historic styles, but none were plugged in. A tapestry of cobwebs decorated the rafters. A pile of various hats probably had an interesting story behind it.

  Andrew led the way to the footlocker containing the relics of Serkan's ancestor. Andrew dug through the contents until he found the letter he had read before.

  "This is the only evidence the journal was found during World War I," he said, "or that it existed at all before Serkan came along."

  "Let me see," Charley said.

  She took the letter and held it up to the light. She gently rubbed the paper between her fingers.

  The footlocker contained a glass jewel box full of other letters. She grabbed one of those and gave it the same treatment.

  "Well?" Andrew said.

  "The paper isn't the same," Charley said. "I'm thinking the letter was just made to look old. The color and texture aren't quite right either. Now that I think about it, something else is strange. The letter claims the journal came from Cologne which is in France, but the journal was written in English. We should've noticed that before."

  "Somebody planted a fake letter in the footlocker?"

  "Serkan, obviously. He was down here. The BPI can verify it isn't authentic."

  They had read Edward Chesler's name off of a photograph during their first visit. Andrew grabbed it out of the footlocker and pulled it out of its frame. He rubbed his fingers against the shiny surface of the photograph.