MYSTERY: THE BIG THRILL - A BEAUTIFUL CHANCE: Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Suspense Crime Thriller (ADDITIONAL BOOK INCLUDED ) (Mystery thriller Suspense Collection Literature & fiction)

by Amanda Grace

  He began to slump, unable to hold his own weight. His eyelids grew heavy as he struggled to stay conscious. The three men from the room now stood before him, their hoods pulled back over their heads. Each stood with their hands pressed into the shape of a triangle held at chest height. Darkness consumed him, his body falling limp.

  When Johann awoke, he had been stripped of his clothes and tightly bound at the wrists and ankles to a large ceremonial table. Groggy and confused he called out, the echo resounding through the empty catacombs. The four men silently surrounded the table, their heads bowed. Panic set in as he fought and struggled against his bindings.

  "He has spoken," the four men mumbled in perfect unison. "The time has come, the sacrificial lamb awaits. He shall receive His bounty." One of the hooded men pulled a sword from its sheath.

  The sun peeked above horizon, a new day having dawned. The tranquil morning air was shattered with a piecing shriek. Men and women ran from their homes, gathering in the town square where a woman lay crumpled in a distraught and emotional ball. Motioning toward the church she wailed incoherently. Several women knelt and comforted her, while the men cautiously entered the cathedral.

  What awaited them was nothing short of horrific. Johann's headless naked body lay in a pool of crimson blood on the floor. His legs having been bound, arms spread, forming an inverted cross. His torso had been expertly carved and hollowed from just below his ribcage to his pelvis. A set of rudimentary symbols had been branded on his sternum – a triangle with a six bordering each side. At his feet sat a small wooden crate, atop which sat his severed head. On the floor a short message had been written, each letter having been painted in blood, "We are of one deity, of love and hate, of birth and death. This is how we preach."

  The heavy rain continued to fall outside; occasionally the flash of lightning would illuminate the dark interior of the library at St. Sylvester's University. Inside the quiet roar of the weather could be heard, the sporadic clap of thunder echoed through the practically empty library.

  The historic library reflected its age in its design. The main hall was large, its ceilings rising high above the numerous rows of bookcases. Each shelf was lined with leather bound texts, some dating back hundreds of years. The intricate wood floors had been polished, each step echoing throughout the hall, though presently it was quiet.

  All the library's lights had long been switched off, though a lone desk lamp sat illuminating a large stack of books perched neatly atop one of the many desk. A student in his late twenties sat hunched over the books, his eyes darting from one text to the next. Aggressively he took notes as he read through aged newspapers, and detailed accounts of local history. Excitedly he flipped through pages, frustratingly switching from one manuscript to another. He had stacked the multiple volumes of history around his desk, each filled with multiple page holders.

  Frustrated and overwhelmed he leaned back in his chair. Tiredly he rubbed his eyes before resting his hands on the back of his head, starring down at the texts before him. He sighed deeply. Thunder clapped, drawing his attention. Silently he starred out the large windows, his mind raced with everything he had read.

  Lightning flashed once again, and out of the darkness a pair of hands grabbed the young man's shoulders, pulling him backward. A blade flared in the scarce blue night's light bleeding into the room. His chair clattered to the floor, the noise lost in another crack of thunder.

  The bright morning sun climbed above the horizon. The blue flashing lights of several emergency vehicles surrounded the grand arched entrance to the library. Crime tape was strung in an effort to limit access to the scene, and several officers stood before the building, sharing notes, and discussing what had happened inside.

  A small crowd of students had gathered, watching the commotion, and murmuring amongst themselves. A woman sat on the stairs leading up to the entrance. She was wrapped tightly in a blanket, breathing occasionally into a brown paper bag. She sat sobbing softly, uttering incoherently to herself. Two officers flanked her, each providing comfort in their own way.

  A black SUV pulled up in front of the library, and a tall man climbed from its back seat. His hair was starting to turn slightly grey, and created a sort of salt and pepper look. His black trench coat flapped in the morning breeze. He was in his early-fifties, though he looked to be no more than forty.

  "Are you Doctor Carlsson?" he barked tersely at a man standing nearest the doorway, as he climbed the stairs.

  The man turned and nodded, extending a hand in greeting, "Inspector Alan Bishoff I presume? It's Malakai, but please, call me Kai." The detective ignored the gesture, pushing past the man and into the library.

  Malakai Carlsson was a Professor of Religious Studies. As a professor he was young, thirty-seven. He was shorter than most others around him, though he never acted as though it bothered him. His dark brown hair was parted somewhat messily to the right, and blew slightly in the breeze. He was smartly dressed in a tan suit, suspenders, and a red bowtie still waiting to be tied. His brown eyes strained to see against the bright morning sun.

  He turned on his heels, and began to follow Detective Bishoff into the library. "His name was Sebastian Christoff. He was a PhD student here at the University," he informed the officer. "He had recently submitted his dissertation for review to myself and another Professor – Dr. Duncan Alberts in New York. He had focused his research on cult history and occultism. In fact his dissertation was titled 'An Understanding of How Religious Occultism Impacted the Development of Religious Practices of Catholicism', though he had begun focusing more heavily on local history as of late. Specifically a group known as The Judasian Order."

  A decently sized group of men stood around the cluttered desk, and Sebastian lay naked on the floor. His blood soaked clothes had been neatly folded and stacked beside him. His body had been positioned in a cross, his feet pointing toward the library and his head closest to the desk at which he had been working. A triangle had been drawn in blood on his cheek, a six marking each side.

  Bishoff snapped on a pair of latex gloves as he knelt by the body, examining the deep slash across the neck.

  "All the way to the spine," he mumbled, tilting the chin up to get a better view of the wound. "Where's all the blood? The clothes are soaked, there's a small puddle under the body, but that doesn't account for what he would have lost here… And with a wound like that where's the splatter? It should be everywhere; the murderer would have been covered head to toe… But this place, its been wiped clean." Motioning to the area around the body.

  He stood and walked around the body repositioning himself at the feet. On the floor a simple message had been scrawled in blood. He read the lines, "We are of one deity, of love and hate, of birth and death. This is how we preach."

  "Looks like this is more your department than mine doctor…" He joked dryly.

  Bishoff ordered that the group of detectives split up to check several different sections of the library, while he stepped aside to make a report back to the station. His baritone voice echoed throughout the library.

  Carlsson stood leaning over the desk straining to read through a few of the books, which lay open and spread across the desk. His eyes darted wildly across the pages of the old manuscripts, straining to read the aged and fading text.

  "Finding anything interesting?" Bishoff cooed leaning over his shoulder.

  "Um…" he hesitated, finishing another page. "Actually yes... Is there anyway I could possibly take a closer look at this text?" He motioned toward one of the smaller books on the table.

  Bishoff sighed and gave a slight nod of approval before directing his attention toward a few evidence bags his detectives had returned with. Excitedly Carlsson grabbed the book and flipped a few pages prior of where Sebastian had stopped. He wandered a few paces away, his eyes never leaving the yellowed pages. He bit his lower lip in an effort to hide his excitement. It was a habit he had developed as a young boy – a habit that had never quite left him.

/>   He set the book down onto a nearby desk, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. His fingers pounded out a number on the screen as he walked toward the library's main exit. Bishoff and the other detectives watched curiously as he made his way hastily across the library's foyer.

  Carlsson paced nervously back and forth before the building's entrance; habitually he bit at his fingernails. "Come on Duncan… Answer your phone…" he implored under his breath. It was then that the phone was answered, almost as if a world away his message had been delivered.

  "Duncan its Kai, listen, I don't have time to explain, but I think Sebastian was honing in on a major discovery here. Do you remember his claim that there was a secret sect, The Judasian Order, dating back several centuries? The one that was founded in this region near-ish the university?" he rattled off without so much as a greeting. His questions were answered with silence.

  "Duncan, can you hear me?"

  Over the phone he could hear music begin to play in the background. The sudden crashing of a drum, a stringed symphony, overlaid with intense choral vocals. The piece was unmistakable in its dramatic rise and fall, the Latin lyrics ringing clearly. A shiver shot up his spine – Carl Orff, O Fortuna.

  "Duncan? Duncan, what's going on?" Carlsson pleaded.

  "For where God built each church, so too built the devil his chapels," a low gravelly voice replied. Carlsson's face flushed white; he recognized the quote as a variation of one of Martin Luther's. He slumped, his pacing stopped. It was as if in that moment he bore the whole world on his shoulders, sharing in the burden of Atlas. His stomach knotted, and he grew slightly dizzy. In the background a man started to scream in terror before the call suddenly cut off.

  Spinning wildly he ran back into the library, desperately searching for Detective Bishoff, his footfalls echoing rhythmically throughout the vast expanse. He pushed his way past several officers and up to Bishoff.

  "Detective! Detective, please a moment of your time!" he interrupted out of breath, pulling the man from the midst of his conversation.

  "Professor, what is the…"

  "Detective, please," he cut in not allowing Bishoff the opportunity to protest his having pulled him away. "I just phoned Dr. Alberts in New York, I wanted to share some of the information that Sebastian had uncovered here last night." He motioned toward the stacks of books on Sebastian's workstation. The detective shifted annoyingly, his eyes piercing with anger.

  "And, doctor?"

  "Sir," he paused slightly, his mind racing to find the right words to express what he had just experienced. "Sir, when his phone was answered, it wasn't by him. I don't know who it was, but the person began playing a recording of 'O Fortuna', then quoted Martin Luther. Just before he hung up I could hear screaming – tortured, horrible, unnatural screaming…" His voice trailed off as his mind was pulled back into that moment.

  "Dr. Alberts is in New York you say?" Bishoff motioned for one of his men to join them. Carlsson nodded. "Do you know his address? Where he might have been? It's rather late there right now…"

  Carlsson shrugged his shoulders in frustration, "I don't know. I would imagine he would be at his apartment, though who knows… Perhaps his office at the university…"

  Detective Bishoff explained the situation to one of his sergeants, and directed him to get in contact with the New York Police Department immediately. "Professor, you mentioned Dr. Alberts earlier. That he had been sent the victim's dissertation for review. Why were you calling him now?"

  "As I mentioned, Sebastian had been writing his dissertation about the influence of occultism on the development of religious practices, specifically Catholicism. In that paper he focused heavily on the development of a group in this region known as 'The Judasian Order'. I think they're involved here," he relaxed slightly, his underlying and natural penchant for teaching bleeding through. "The cult was originally founded as a secret society by a group of intellectuals who distrusted the church around 1696. But unfortunately that is about the extent of our knowledge of the group. What we do know is that over time they began to transform from a secret gathering to share ideas and philosophies into one of religious practices." Bishoff nodded his understanding in an attempt to hurry the explanation along.

  "They chose Lucifer as their deity, and established satanic rituals similar to, but opposite of, the church – still reaching back to their fundamental hatred of the religion. The sect became violent with the murder, emboweling, and decapitation of Johann Christoff, a young father of two, in the mid 1700's. He was left overnight in the narthex of a cathedral for the villagers to discover when heading to Sunday Mass. Though we don't know exactly if The Order was responsible for the brutal slaying of Johann, they did lay claim to the crime many years later in a letter to the Pope. The same exact words smeared across the floor here were also scrawled on the floor of that cathedral. Not to be a conspiracy theorist, but Sebastian was a direct descendant of Johann."

  Agitatedly Bishoff rubbed his eyes letting out an exasperated sigh. "Doctor, I appreciate the history lesson here, but unless you have something more than two blood related murders over the last three hundred years, that's going to help me solve this case, and catch a murderer, then I'd suggest you get to the point."

  "Yes, apologies… Um… In his dissertation, that Duncan and I were editing, Sebastian had theorized that The Order became violent because they had acquired an artefact, documentation, or sensitive church information of some sort that they needed to protect. But it was only a theory, and he couldn't offer any proof. These texts and manuscripts," he said gesticulating excitingly toward the desk, "that he was reading through actually provide strong evidence that that is in fact the case. Though his timelines would have been off significantly, the artefact’s probably not actually having been acquired until several hundred years later, though that isn't especially important right now. That said it provides a motive to work off of, as he was getting close to unravelling a fairly intricate web of deceit."

  Bishoff shook his head in frustration, "Dr. Carlsson, as fascinating as that might be, it doesn't really help me in solving this case. As soon as we hear back from New York we'll contact you with whatever information they can give us. In the meantime, please allow my team to work without interruption." He smiled unenthusiastically at Carlsson, then turned and began heading back to the, now covered, body of Sebastian Christoff.

  Carlsson paced nervously around his university office, each unexpected noise causing him to start. He'd impatiently awaited word on Duncan, though inside he knew what had happened. It was just a matter of time until he was discovered, on display somewhere in Manhattan.

  The office was rather large and well decorated, save a few unfinished touches. The back wall had been built as a large bookcase, and was filled with a multitude of worn leather bound editions of encyclopaedia’s, research books, and classic literature. The desk was stained dark, though it was nearly impossible to see it under the numerous different stacks of papers, university documents and folders spread across its surface. To the far side of the room large windows provided an excellent view of the courtyard below, a winding path leading toward the campus' small, but ornate chapel. Opposite the windows, a few paintings leaned against the wall, never having quite been hung.

  An unexpected knock on the door caused him to jump. "Just a moment," he called recollecting himself. He straightened his collar, tugged slightly at his jacket, and took several deep breaths before he made his way to the door.

  Danica Iverson stood waiting for him, her arms full of aged and leather bound books. She pushed her way past him, and scurried toward the desk, her green Converse shoes squeaking with each step on the hard wood floors. With a low grunt she heaved the stack of books onto the desk, and brushed the dust from her plain white tee shirt.

  She was in her mid-thirties, though it would have been hard to tell. Her skin was a light olive, perfectly hiding her age. She was rather tall, a fact extenuated by Carlsson's lack of height. She had shoulder length brow
n hair, which she often had pulled back. Her soft brown eyes hid behind the frames of fashionable glasses. And though her prescription was rather weak, she enjoyed the way she looked in them, as she felt as though she looked more studious when wearing them. She was the kind of beautiful that didn't require any help; regardless of the outfit she wore, she turned heads. Despite her lean frame she was rather muscular, an attribute she had acquired from her time spent in the military. Although she had spent several years in the service, she was extraordinarily well educated, having received two degrees before serving – one in Christian Studies, and the other in Early European History. Her memory was impeccable and bordered on photographic; it had served her well both in the service and in her studies.

  She glared over her glasses at Carlsson. "The next time you need this many books, you better come help me carry them," she playfully quipped. "Now what's going on Kai? You've been acting strangely all morning."

  Carlsson feigned a smile and shut the door. He slowly walked around his desk, deliberately taking his time so as to gather his thoughts, and took a seat in his large brown leather chair. He leaned forward placing both elbows on his desk, resting his chin on his fists.

  "I'm not sure what the university has released… Danni, Sebastian was killed today, well last night… Murdered in the university library…" His words hung heavy in the air. The young woman gasped, and took a seat across from him, a look of disbelief in her eyes.

  "It's worse," he paused, the gravity of the situation beginning to set in, "I called Duncan earlier, while I was with the investigators. He was killed while I was on the phone," his voice cracking slightly.

  "Are you sure about Duncan?" she asked instinctively, though she knew it was a silly question.

  "The police are checking with New York. There hasn't been a final word."

  Danni leaned back in her chair, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. She stared for several minutes. The room was quiet, save for the occasional footsteps of students passing outside. "Why Sebastian and Duncan?" she heard herself ask aloud.