by S. L. Duncan
Gabe decided the classes weren’t necessarily harder than in high school, but the focus on the work was way more intense. Much, however, remained the same from New York. Each class still ended with a stampede toward the door.
Back at the dorm, Gabe discovered a note on his door. He pulled it off and opened the envelope. Come to the Vault Room. 5 p.m. Don’t be late. Dad.
“So much for normal.”
Outside the Norman Gallery, Micah paced in the snow, biting her nails. Her brow was scrunched together, fixed in a worrisome expression as if she’d just received bad marks on a test. Gabe approached and noticed a police constable in the doorway to the building, checking people’s identification before they entered.
That’s new, Gabe thought.
Micah’s eyes went wide as they met his, and she rushed to meet him. “Bad things, Gabe. Bad things,” she said and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him close.
“Misplace your halo?”
“Don’t be an ass,” she snipped. “Someone tried to break into the vault.”
“What? Did they get in?”
“No, but that’s not the problem.” She motioned to the officer rifling through some indignant student’s backpack. “There’s an investigation. The curator is involved, and he and Carlyle don’t exactly see eye to eye.”
Gabe followed Micah through the gallery and down the stairs to the vault’s office. Other than the unusual amount of strangers inside the small space, everything seemed in order.
“Figured it might look a little different,” Gabe said. “Did they break in and clean the place?”
“Nobody physically tried to break in. It was a hacker trying to disable the security system,” Micah said.
Gabe noticed a technician working on the LCD screen next to the vault door, explaining something to his father as he worked. The screen had been removed and dangled loose to the side, making way for wires connected to the technician’s laptop.
“For the third time, you bloody Cyclops,” Carlyle shouted, “what’s inside the vault is none of your concern.”
The recipient of Carlyle’s verbal assault didn’t flinch. Instead, he removed a pocket watch from his coat and placed it on top of the pocket-sized notebook he held. His glass eye remained fixed and as expressionless as his long face while regarding the time. The intended impression was clear—he was an important man, and this interaction was a needless bother.
“Curator?” Gabe whispered to Micah.
She nodded. “Mortan Balor is his name.”
“Professor Carlyle, please,” Balor began, his tone pompous in a way that suggested he was talking down to the Scotsman. “There’s no need to be rude. The university values very much your contributions to the field of religious history, but we are concerned about the contents of your vault and what might prompt a—what is the term? Yes, a cyberattack. As the appointed liaison to the local authorities, I feel it is imperative that we fully cooperate with each other and that, of course, means full disclosure.”
“Even if I wanted to show you what was inside, which by the way I do not, I lack the power. To do so would violate the conditions on which my benefactor grants this university its annual donation. I would hate to inform them that the board wishes to breach their agreement and seek donations elsewhere,” Carlyle said.
Balor snarled, curling his lip into a forced grin, and then his singular gaze turned to Gabe and Micah. “And who are you? Students? Do they have information pertinent to this inquiry?”
Gabe felt uneasy as the curator evaluated him and Micah like they were something to detest.
“Pupils of mine,” Carlyle said. “They were scheduled for tutoring this afternoon.”
Balor flipped a page in his notebook and licked the tip of his pen. “Do they not have names?”
Gabe felt suddenly accused of something as the man studied him, the one good eye staring down his beak nose, waiting for an answer.
Carlyle nodded to Micah, and she said, “Micah Pari.”
The pen went to work on the page. “And you?”
“My name is Gabriel Adam, sir.”
“An American? Interesting. A coincidence, I’m sure, that their timing is so peculiar to this incident. Surely it will please the board to know that the Head of Divinity takes such a specific interest in attending to his students,” Balor said to the professor. “Nonetheless, the university would simply like assurances that what is contained inside the vault is not a danger to the student body or the integrity of this institution.”
“It isn’t,” Carlyle snapped. “There, now. You’ve been assured.”
The curator seemed to stiffen. “Very well. I will submit a detailed report to the board and the president.”
“Please do give them my best,” Carlyle said with a patronizing smile.
Balor folded his notebook and placed it inside his coat pocket as he slinked out of the room and up the stairs.
At the vault door, the technician was stowing away his instruments. Gabe’s dad then led him to the exit and thanked him for his work. As soon as the upstairs door shut, he turned to Carlyle. “He said the network’s firewall held but could not say where the attack originated. But I think it’s safe to say it was local. Why would they attempt to deactivate the security, if they couldn’t physically enter the vault?”
“Indeed,” Carlyle said. “Is it possible you were followed from New York?”
“Anything is possible at this point. Although as vulnerable as we were on that trip, it seems logical that the advantage would have been taken. I’m not certain there is a connection between the events at the cathedral and this.”
Carlyle grumbled something that gave the impression he agreed but then said, “Unless the enemy believes there is something of greater value kept inside the vault. Something that might give the enemy absolute power over all.”
His dad caught the professor’s implication. “Certainly not. Kept here? That would suggest the enemy is as blind as we are in this ordeal.”
“I concur,” Carlyle said. “And perhaps they are.”
Gabe looked at the vault and felt, he assumed, much like Balor did. “So what is in the vault? What’s so important that you need”—he pointed to the huge metal door—“that?”
“The vault holds only one item that warrants such protection,” Carlyle said. “But it is useless to the enemy. What the vault doesn’t hold, and what the enemy might believe to be contained inside, is significantly more important.”
“If they do believe it’s here, they’ll stop at nothing,” his father said.
Carlyle nodded. “As they should. That book is the key to our victory.”
“Are you going to tell us, or should we start guessing?” Gabe asked.
“Carlyle thinks the enemy believes the Apocalypse of Solomon is here,” his dad said. “It is a book that dates back to the Old Testament and foretells the End of Days, the same one that also predicts the second dimensional war.”
“A book? Have they never heard of a library? Or the Internet?” Gabe asked.
“You won’t find this book in either place,” Micah said. “The Apocalypse of Solomon suffered the same fate as the texts found in the Dead Sea Scrolls—destroyed in the fourth century because they weren’t good enough for the Roman Empire’s master plan for Christianity. A heresy, collected and burned, each and every copy.”
“You’ve been paying attention in class,” Carlyle said. “Please continue.”
“The Romans were, if anything, quite efficient,” Micah said. “Paper and the ability to write were sort of a luxury in that time, so finding and burning them all was hardly a bother. Some rebelled, though, hiding copies in clay jars in the desert or anyplace else that was outside Rome’s watchful eye. Like the Nag Hammadi Library and the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Apocalypse of Solomon survived in a similar way, kept in the possession of Carlyle’s people.”
“Exactly,” Carlyle said. “The Qumran Essenes and our ancestors before us were meticulous historians who recogniz
ed that the cryptic text told of the signs alluding to the End of Days and took extraordinary measures to protect that information.”
“What signs?” Gabe asked.
“There are many. Get a mirror, and you’ll find one on the back of your head,” Micah said.
Gabe looked at the vault. “If the enemy is wrong to believe it’s here, then where is it?”
“Only two exist,” Carlyle said. “The only physical copy is kept by the Vatican, and though I have not seen it, its age may render it unreadable. The other is standing right in front of you.”
“In front of me?”
“I am the book,” Carlyle said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
John Carlyle is a rogue, Mortan Balor thought as he wrapped up his day in the office above the Norman Gallery. He packed his itinerary for tomorrow, already detailed down to the minute, along with several folders of inventory notes and scheduled events, all placed neatly into a leather satchel. Before he closed it, he grabbed the small framed picture of his deceased wife from the desk and secured it safely inside the bag.
Outside the window that overlooked the castle courtyard, lanterns began to burn to life in the fading light typical of northeast winters. Below, two figures exited the gallery, a male and a female. He recognized them as the American and the girl from Professor Carlyle’s office.
That man has no business influencing the minds of students, he thought.
Frustration over the professor’s complete lack of deference to order and rule sparked anew. Balor decided that the best course of action would be to make a formal complaint to the board and perhaps draw their attention to his negligence as a school head. If they determined his errant methods were more dangerous to the reputation of the university than losing the funding provided by Carlyle’s mysterious benefactor, the professor could be removed, and along with him, the anarchy his presence caused at the college. The man kept irrational hours, coming and going from the new museum regardless of whether or not the building was open. And to deny all school officials access to lists of what was kept inside the vault? Enough to drive mad any curator who held the slightest pride in keeping an accurate inventory. Balor thought about how hard he had worked to make the Norman Gallery a respected addition to the university, and it deserved to be run with professional distinction. Professor Carlyle’s departure would be good riddance indeed.
Balor smiled at the possibility as he watched the American and girl part ways to their respective dorms.
A jingle chimed and vibrated in his jacket pocket. He removed his mobile phone to see a message—new text.
Text? He’d never used this function of the device and didn’t appreciate others sending them, thinking it rude not to take the effort to make a phone call like a civilized person. With the press of a button, the message appeared.
Mr. Balor, I have information that might be useful to police investigation. I know what is inside vault. It is dangerous. I wish to share with you my discovery but remain anonymous. Do not wish academic retaliation. Meet me in 15 minutes at the Ice House behind the Count’s House under Prebends. Come alone. Onetime offer. Signed, Prophet.
Balor scanned the message again, focusing on the word dangerous. I knew it. Such a message was not a surprise. Lunatics like Professor Carlyle are never tolerated long, even by the student body. In the end, order must be maintained, he thought. An excitement flourished at the prospect of returning normalcy to the Norman Gallery. Carlyle’s end might soon be in the palm of his hand.
He checked his watch. Not a minute to spare if he wanted to get to the riverside on time. Balor hoisted his satchel and fled his office.
In the cold of the night, he hurried across the cathedral grounds and then made his way down South Bailey Street until he came to Durham Gate. Passing its singular arch, he took one of the paths that led down to the trail found at the bottom of the deep gorge carved by the river. Balor knew that his anonymous source, this Prophet, had picked the perfect location to maintain anonymity. At this time of evening, it would be dark and isolated, and not another soul would be found in the area.
Near the Prebends Bridge, hidden along the path beneath a thick overhang of trees, a tetrastyle miniature Greek temple appeared, known as the Count’s House. It was a heritage site dedicated to a Polish noble who had died centuries ago in the city. The building’s A-line roof was supported by four pillars and had benefited from a recent renovation into a public garden. A black iron gate blocked the entrance into the building, and another to the side led to the rear.
It had been pushed open.
Balor stepped through the gate and walked around the small temple. In the near pitch-black, he regretted not bringing a flashlight. The steep incline of the hill formed a natural wall that enclosed the back of the building. Though he couldn’t see, he knew the area well from summers spent walking the river. Balor hoped to find the Ice House, a cave-like open structure built into the hill that tunneled into the earth, guarded only by a rusty gate. As the name suggested, it had been used to store ice before the age of modern refrigeration, but if his memory served correctly, it more closely resembled a tomb rather than a house.
Using what little light the screen of his mobile phone projected, he found the tiny Ice House nearly buried in a pile of snow-covered fallen leaves. The rubble retaining wall supporting the waist-high rock structure looked in disrepair. Money from the city’s renovation plan had apparently not reached this far off the main path.
Behind him, he heard the sound of crunching twigs and snow. There a dark figure stood, several yards away. Balor could see that the person was rather large for a student, and he could not make out any of his features because he was clothed in a dark outfit.
“Are you Prophet?” Balor asked.
“Mortan Balor?” Prophet asked in a low voice. He stepped forward and held out his hand as if to present something.
The evidence, Balor thought. “You do a great service to your university, sir. I am indebted to you and can assure you that your involvement will never be spoken of after tonight.”
“I believe you.”
The last thing Mortan Balor saw was a focused stream of blue light erupt from the Prophet’s hand.
The curator crumpled to the ground, his chest smoking from the burning hole that passed through his heart. Part of the hill behind Balor caught fire for a moment and then fizzled out in the wet snow.
The Prophet knew the man’s sacrifice was for a greater purpose, a greater good, though he was surprised by his lack of regret for having to kill him. He had accepted this as his fate. His duty. There will unfortunately be others, too. He approached the body and began searching, patting down the clothes. In the pocket of the dead man’s trousers something jangled.
The master key to the Norman Gallery.
He pulled out the key chain and smiled, placing the prize in his coat. This gave him the access he had been denied in the attempt to hack the vault’s system. He acknowledged the mistake. Now he understood more force would need to be applied if he were to get what he wanted. The change in strategy suited him, a direct course of action preferred to hiding in the shadows.
The Prophet dragged Balor’s corpse to the small rusty gate and cleared away the debris in front of the Ice House to allow it to open. With some effort, he pushed the dead man deep into the tunnel and then buried him along with his satchel in fallen leaves.
His plan to secure the treasure inside the vault was now nearly complete. Only one step remained—create a distraction. The Prophet looked at his watch. No time to waste.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
An hour later, Gabe met Micah on the Palace Green having already returned to their dorm rooms to dispose of heavy schoolbags and catch up on the day’s homework. She had taken the opportunity to change into an outfit that looked more suitable for an evening out. Her long hair and the high turtleneck of the fitted black sweater she wore put her freshly glossed lips and dark eyeliner on display like a piece of art in a gallery. Ga
be felt underdressed in his usual blue jeans and brown jacket.
She didn’t say much as he followed her down the hill into Durham’s city center. His thoughts returned to the conversation at the vault and what Carlyle had said. Ancient texts, dimensional wars, the End of Days, and living books. His life had become fully cemented in the weird. Before these ideas led him into an endless loop of questions, he regarded the girl ahead. He couldn’t help but notice the way she placed one foot in front of the other as if she were walking a line. Her legs were hypnotic. Like her cinched waist. And rolling hips. And . . .
She turned and her eyes met his. For a nanosecond, Gabe felt a sting of embarrassment, like he’d been caught in a forbidden act, but she hadn’t noticed his stare.
“God, I’m famished. Haven’t eaten all day,” Micah said as they crossed Elvet Bridge. “Fancy a bite at the New Inn? It’s a decent hangout for students. Good music.”
Gabe stopped, snapped from his trance, and the nagging questions returned. Micah had promised to discuss their situation at the vault over dinner and a drink, but he needed answers. Now. “How can you think about socializing? There’s taking things in stride, but you’re acting as though none of this is a big deal.”
She rolled her eyes. “How would you like me to act? Shall I run through the streets, shouting at the top of my lungs about the end of the world?”
“No. But I would think you’d at least be a little concerned. This might be familiar to you, but I’m having some difficulty taking it all in.” Gabe watched the boats pass under the bridge on the River Wear. “What did Carlyle mean, that stuff about being the book?”
“Once upon a time,” Micah started, her tone childish and mocking, “the Essenes were, outside of the Vatican, the only custodians of the book. Like ancient librarians, know what I mean? So, when Rome cracked down on illegal texts, they secretly passed it within their society from generation to generation, like some kind of verbal rite or whatever. A ritual of a sort. They memorized the book, I think. In one of my theology classes we learned of a transcription practice used by Jewish scribes to copy the Torah bit by bit. Word for word. The Essenes probably used a similar method.”
