The Book of 21 (11 page)

John wondered how many appendices the book had. He scrolled back to “Appendix K” and found the letter. Dunglison’s interpretation seemed faithful to the message of the original letter. Of course, the letter in the manuscript was a typed reproduction and not a photocopy, so John wondered if Dunglison had made simply the stuff up.

John returned to the section on the Brethren, and found that they ceased to be visible to the public around 1706, when Hanstitch was killed by his wife’s lover. Dunglison then discussed several poems and folktales about the “Brethren of the Rocks.” These seemed boring and verbose ghost stories. John decided to move on to the next item in Dunglison’s letter.

He scrolled down to the section on the Jonas Farm. The farm burned to the ground during the American Revolution; patriots set it ablaze because it sheltered munitions for the British. Before that, according to Dunglison, it was rumored that Jonas practiced the black arts. Dunglison then presented folktales about ghosts, goblins, and cloaked old witches in the woods around the farm. It looked like a bunch of worthless fairy tales.

The tale “Goblin of Jonas’ Woods,” however, was particularly interesting to John. In a tale reportedly told to Dunglison by a sixty-eight-year-old Sarah Klingle, the goblin would eat unwary nighttime travelers that passed through the wood around the farm. The next morning, Jonas would unlock his door to find the traveler’s wagon and horses, but nothing else.

John wondered about this a bit. He was previously unaware that goblins held such distaste for horsemeat. He thought it more likely that Jonas ambushed the poor travelers, stole their cargo, and buried them somewhere.

He scrolled down to the section on Krumpmeyer Wood. A group of witches named the Manaseura supposedly met there, again until 1706. Dunglison spoke of the group being “convinced” by the Brethren of Roxborough to “relocate” to other pastures where they would not frighten the local folk. Dunglison recounted two tales of ritualistic sacrifice that local farmers reported to the authorities in the area. He followed those tales with a letter from Hanstitch to William Penn, in which Hanstitch explained that the allegations were “exaggerations.”

John let out a sigh; this was taking a while. He wondered if Dunglison’s murder resulted from the fact that the man seemed to be incredibly boring. Filtering through all the references to other works made the reading tedious. He rubbed his drooping eyes. The manuscript was scholarly and benign enough, so it was a prime candidate for the “read later” pile.

While indulging in a sip of bourbon, John moved to the couch with Hallman’s papers. He hoped they held more insight than the manuscript. John unfolded Hallman’s papers and, below Hallman’s sticky note, found a photocopy of a handwritten letter, dated September 2, 1684.

After squinting to read the opulent writing, John realized that it was the letter William Penn had sent to Hanstitch. This brought a smile to John’s face. While not the original document, it at least showed that Dunglison was not inventing the story. If the need arose, John could give it to the handwriting analysis team to see if it really was Penn’s handwriting, or if someone was screwing with Dunglison.

The next paper in Hallman’s stack was an original, and quite old based on the brittle paper and lavish handwriting in faded ink. Hallman had attached a sticky note to it. The note read:

After discovering I had inadvertently left this letter in my stack of notes, I went to return it to the archives the next day. I found the rest of the old documents were gone. We decided it best to keep this paper until the rest of the documents could be located. Please be careful with it: it is three hundred years old.

The document was now folded and crumpled from being stuffed in the false book and then in John’s coat. It looked like it might rip apart at any minute. John tried to straighten it, but that just seemed to make the paper weaker.

Looking again at Hallman’s note, John wondered who really used the word “inadvertently.” Further, he wondered who just happens to discover they left a three-hundred-year-old document in their stack of notes. The stereotypical picture of the absent-minded professor came to John’s mind, but the vision ended with John pondering whether Hallman was aiming to add one more trophy to his bookshelf.

The words “September 17, 1706,” sat at the top of the letter. It read:

My dearest Jan,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. Unfortunately, I write to bear sad news. I fear that our efforts over the past fortnight, the relocation efforts with the M_______, may have been incomplete. There are several reasons for my suspicions, some of which may seem like the infirm mind of an elderly gentleman playing tricks on him. I hope that is the worst of our fears, but I felt compelled to warn you of my situation.

Last week, my young boy Toby found me in my library and spoke of a man in the wood outside our home. While gathering firewood, Toby said he saw a man in a black cloak watching him. The man slipped off into the trees.

Toby spoke of seeing the man on two other occasions. Both times the man was in the wood, watching the home. Both times, the man slipped away quietly into the trees. Since then, I have forbade Toby from gathering wood, deciding it better to risk the life of an old man rather than a child, should the man mean us harm.

What compels me to write, at this time, are the events of this morning. I saw the man myself though the window of my study. He was quite a distance off. At first, I feared that I was growing infirm and gullible to the wild imagination of a young boy. I waved to the man, and he simply turned and slipped away into the trees, just as Toby described. It was when he turned and revealed his profile that I began to dread more seriously. I believe he was the tall dark man who escaped us at the ferry and created the tragic accident that is causing us to lay Evan Fields to rest.

Should there be trouble, my oath shall hold. I have destroyed my copy of the key and committed it to memory, as you have begged me to do for so long. Should you worry about the lock, rest assured that I have made arrangements so that dear Evan will have been the one to take the secret to the grave, should you ever need to convey that fact. The new lock fits the old key. Those outside our order, those without faith, would fail in a headlong rush of greed that blinds them to their surroundings. Only we, who look to heaven for the true path, would have the way, which we already knew, confirmed.

The choice of Philadelphia was an excellent one. Do not sway in your choice of the site. It will show how we held the door so that the old ones could not deny Christ’s name. It will show everyone the truth in our faith. That is reason enough to give one’s life.

If I cannot have the pleasure of your company again, I will say that I will rest happily knowing that the door will rest safely at the feet of Francis.

--

Your servant,

George Trumbull

John looked over the letter again, and marveled at the pretension strewn through it. One line, in particular, showed a self-righteous tone—a tone he hated. He mockingly recited, “Only
we
, who look to heaven for the true path, would have the way, which we already knew, confirmed.” He took a sip of bourbon and groaned, “Give me a break.”

A second large sticky note clung to the bottom of the second page. Hallman’s script shrank to a barely readable size, to fit a great deal of text on the small piece of yellow paper. The note read:

The references to the door, Philadelphia, and the denial of Christ’s name confused us at first. See the passage from the Book of Revelation.

Trumbull died three days after this letter: heart attack in the woods. Hanstitch was already dead when Trumbull wrote this: killed in a struggle with his wife’s lover. She committed suicide in grief the next day. (over)

John lifted the sticky note to reveal writing on its back. The note continued:

I still have not figured out what was meant by the feet of Francis. Another letter read something like “at Francis’ feet, only when the second sign no longer points to the prize, shall it be revealed.”

John turned to the next page to see the printed passage attributed to Revelation 3:7-11, which he had read at Hallman’s apartment. Given all the religious references, John suspected that the passage that mentioned Philadelphia was from the Bible. John’s brow furrowed in thought, his mind occupied by the idea that a city founded only a few hundred years ago, was named in a holy book that was much older. Unfortunately, he lacked a Bible to validate the passage.

He went to his computer and typed in the first line of the passage. The search engine returned thousands of choices. The printout seemed to be a legitimate quotation of the Bible; still, John would have preferred to check the text against an actual printing, rather than a page pulled off the Internet.

Turning to the next page, he found it held two typed columns; each column held an incomplete list. The left column was labeled “The 14 that held the key” and held the names of Jan Hanstitch, Evan Fields, George Trumbull, and others. It ended in three blank lines, denoting that Hallman did not have all of the names. The right column was labeled “The 21 Old Gods.” That column held seven names in the first tier that included Baphomet, Hela, Tammuz, Mithra and some others that were spelled with a combination of letters that eluded pronunciation. Two lines were indented below each of the seven, with several of these left blank as well. Hallman was apparently digging to reconstruct the lists before he died.

John fanned through the stack. Only one page had a drawing on it, and that page, entitled the
La Clef de David
, was basically a rectangle with two lines running through it. Their illustrations were even more cryptic that their letters. He thought the whole idea that a picture was worth a thousand words must have been somewhat recent.

John glanced at his watch. It had taken him over half an hour to read Trumbull’s ornate handwriting and scan through Hallman’s twisted lists. He needed to get an outside perspective, and he had a person waiting at Eligio’s that might be able to provide that. All the actual people mentioned in these papers were dead; John figured they would stay that way while he learned what Amy knew about this mess.

Chapter 11:
On the Town

Eligio’s billed itself as a brick oven pizzeria, but its décor reminded John of the old Italian restaurants he knew from his childhood. The walls were clad in ebony paneling that stood in stark contrast to the white tile floor. Small table lamps and tiffany chandeliers supplied the lighting. The Tuscan coziness gave John the impression that he might meet a mafia Don at any minute.

He scanned the place for Amy and found her waving at him from a booth in the corner. She wore a gray hooded sweatshirt, which was unzipped enough to reveal a slight amount of cleavage and give the impression that she wore nothing else underneath it.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he said as he slid onto the leather bench across from her.

“Not a problem, all of my friends are tied up, and I needed to eat. Sorry, I already ordered.” She motioned toward her plates.

One plate held bruschetta and another held a combination of olives, giardiniera, prosciutto, and cheeses. John smiled; at least, he thought, she was not grazing on salad.

“Oh thanks,” he said with a wave of his hand, “but I just have a few questions, and then I’ll get out of your way.”

“You’re off duty, right? Relax and have a drink. The Long Island iced teas are excellent.”

“Impressive—most women would be sipping on some sort of frozen fruit daiquiri.”

“I like strong drinks that knock you over and make you gasp.” She brushed a stray lock of golden hair out of her face and smiled. “Just like my men.”

“Well, then you should have gotten the name of that bum.”

“Are you ok? That was a nasty smack.”

“I’ll live. I’ve had worse.”

The waiter showed up and slid a napkin in front of him.

“I’ll just have a Coke,” he said before the waiter could ask.

Amy raised her hand to catch the waiter before he turned away, and asked, “Can I get a shot of bourbon?”

John wondered how much liquor she planned to imbibe, then let the idea go and asked, “Do you come out to Rittenhouse a lot?”

“I have a place on Nineteenth by Chestnut Street.”

“Nice area for an apartment, especially when you are a grad student.”

“I have three roommates that I split the rent with.” She sighed. “I’m getting too old for the whole roommate thing. I need a place to myself. I just want to come home, hear nothing, know what I left in the fridge is still there, and walk around in my underwear.”

“I know the feeling,” John said, as his mind pondered the picture of Amy in her underwear. He pulled himself out of the daydream and asked, “So what is a nice girl like you doing at a place like Penn Commonwealth?”

“Well, I used to be a counselor.”

“Like a camp counselor?”

“No, a social worker.”

“Ah, so how did that get you here?”

“These poor people would come in with nothing, and I’d have to help them get their lives straightened out. It was strange, because really, my life was more of a mess than theirs, except for the fact that I had money.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, while trying to figure out what this had to do with her being at the university.

“I mean I had no direction. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I felt like a fake as a counselor. I’d help all these old ladies and young people, and they would all tell me these stories: ‘my granny always said…’ or ‘my uncle Leroy once told me…’ You know, those old stories. The stories had a lot of wisdom in them.”