As we pulled into the garrison courtyard, getting strange looks from the Musketeers there, something I at least am used to, D’art hit me on the shoulder. ‘Hey, we’ll take care of getting this junk into your lab. You should go talk to the Captain.’
I swallowed. ‘You’re right. Thanks.’ I jumped down, then stopped and looked at all of them, and repeated, ‘Thank you.’ I’m not good at showing my emotions, but I think they understood for what I was thanking them.
I took a deep breath before knocking on the door to Duval’s office. ‘Come in!’ he called. I smiled to myself
I worked all night again. I really had not slept much the last couple of days, if at all. As I put on the finishing touches, fashioned the ammunition, hour by hour it more resembled what it was: a weapon. But still I worked, driven to complete it, caught up in the storm of creation.
I was about to attach a sight when there was a rap on the window. It was Jacques. He waved through the glass before moving around toward the door. I put the sight down and yanked a rope I had rigged to drop a tarp over the gun. It covered the device just barely in time.
‘I’m off to church,’ Jacques said as he came in. ‘Are you coming?R
I went back to the garrison, and, as I always do when troubled, shut myself in my lab. I tried to occupy my thoughts and hands with other projects, but the notebook consumed me, and eventually as night fell I found myself simply pacing the floor in the dark, staring at the maddening scrap, until I was stopped by the sound of breaking glass. Outside a horse galloped away. At my feet lay a piece of paper wrapped around a rock. The note read:
For more secrets of the Master, meet me on the rue Asperges.
I didn’t even stop to think. I was ready to follow that map Mazarin had spoken of even if it were the Devil himself who handed it to me.
I’ve thought a hundred times about destroying the preceding pages, tearing them out of my notebook and throwing them on the fire of my forge. But the thought of such willful destruction of the incredible discovery they contain gives me pause, and I find myself unable. Maybe I haven’t learned anything at all these last few days. But, if remain they must, then on the chance this notebook too is one day lost and then found again, I want to follow them with a cautionary tale of their destructive nature. Perhaps DaVinci too, after designing this machine, unlike me was wise enough to realize it shouldn’t be built, but like me foun
April 8, 2012: Easter
I’m told the churches around town had record turnouts Saturday night and Sunday morning. I know I went to both services. I guess we all felt we had a lot to pray and be thankful for. All the churches, also, had final rites for anyone ever taken by the House, including Peter Smith. I can’t imagine the number of prayers for him; I think everyone who had ever met him and been helped by him knew he was responsible for the House’s collapse.
As for myself, I just wanted him back.
I was at Ronnie’s that afternoon, drinking a hot chocolate, when my cell phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hel
April 12, 2012
I can’t believe it all happened over Easter weekend.
I’ve tried a few times to put pen to paper and write it all out since, but this is the first time the words have come. Even so, it’s not easy.
He still hasn’t woken up.
This is bad journalism. Start at the beginning.
I was trying to sleep all day after my amaretto bender with Peter, but was woken by knocking on my door in the afternoon. It was Ronnie, looking like he didn’t know what to do about anything. “He’s been taken,” he said.
“…what?”
“Had a rescue this morning, got t
March 28, 2012
Went to the Hell House today and just stood against my car, outside the perimeter fence, thinking. Mary Anne’s description was apt. It looks like a house, but you just know instinctively that it isn’t. I can’t imagine anyone willingly walking in there. Felt weirded out just standing on the outside looking at it.
Had a phenomenal stroke of good luck. Was still standing there thinking when a cab pulled up. Out stepped Smith, barely closing the door before the cab peeled out. He looked a little wryly amused by it. Then he just stood there, waiting. Thought about talking to him, but he seemed preoccupie
Hell House
March 23, 2012
After 3 days searching, and more coffee than I’d care to admit, finally found Peter Smith. Was in a coffee shop, as per rumors, but not one of the chains, some little hole-in-the-wall place called Ronnie’s. Ordered a tea and a scone to celebrate, and took a seat by the door so I could stop him if he left.
Description: A little older than I expected, maybe in early thirties. I must watch too much TV; was picturing some young handsome action star. Average height, slim, dark brown hair, pale eyes. Attractive, in a way. A little prematurely aged, graying temples. Not surprising, considering what he
EPILOGUE
This job had been strange from the start. Contacted by a dying man who didn’t want to be killed. First meeting done over crappy quality videophone to arrange for a real meeting. Then on the way to the appointed café I get in a car accident. A bad one. Lands me in the hospital for several days, no way to contact my almost employer and tell him what’s up. Imagine my surprise when I got out to hear I had taken the job, missed my opportunity, and was at that moment embroiled in a fight at a hotel with a guy trying to kill my employer. In a world where not much shocks me anymore, this was almost unbelievable. I
The Experiment
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
The older gentleman occupying the table looked up at me and said something completely unexpected. “About damn time.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do I look like someone who has shitloads of time to kill?”
“Well.” He, in fact, looked quite ill, like he was losing a battle with some chronic disease. “No.”
“Then shut up and sit down.”
At this point it was obvious he had mistaken me for someone else, and I should probably tell him as much, then go find a different coffee house, one with more than one open seat. Yes, that wou