Journey Into the Flame (9 page)

“The current bid stands at five point two million credits,” he said. “Do I hear five point three?”

It was as if the air had been let out of a balloon. The excitement and the suspense of the last few minutes of the auction had disappeared along with the image of Cynthia Brown. “Do I hear five point three?” he asked again.

Still only silence. The entertainment was over. Everyone knew who would be the winning bidder.

“Going once!” the auctioneer shouted. “Going twice! This is your final opportunity,” he warned, trying to coax one final bid, to no avail. “Sold to the beautiful lady joining us from afar for five point two million credits!” The auctioneer pounded his gavel for the last time that evening, and the room filled with the sound of applause.

At a signal from Ms. Crawley, the side doors of the auction hall opened, and most of the audience began to exit. Some stayed behind to socialize and enjoy one more drink. Waiters started making their rounds again, and the single remaining HoloPad image, that of an elderly man, was laughing and talking animatedly to a group who had gathered around it.

Logan walked over to the large windows overlooking the city. A moment later, Ms. Crawley joined him. “Well, dear, you have become a wealthy man tonight.”

“It is a lot of money,” Logan affirmed, still trying to process everything that had happened. “More than I ever dreamed of.”

“I need to wrap up a few details for the night. Grab some more champagne, celebrate, and I will return shortly.” Ms. Crawley walked away with the auctioneer.

Logan did as she suggested and grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter. He searched for Sebastian to ask him if he thought the books had made the right choice, but he could not find him. He walked over to the technician, who was still fiddling with the broken HoloPad. “See anything wrong?” Logan asked.

“Not one damn thing,” the technician answered. “This stupid device should be working. Hey, you got your PCD handy?”

Logan nodded, taking his PCD out of his pocket.

“Dial this number,” the technician said, and then rattled off some numbers. Logan did so, and within moments, his PCD was connected with the HoloPad, and the image of Logan’s face was being projected. “See, the damn thing works,” the technician said in disgust. “This isn’t our issue.”

“I see you have it working now,” Ms. Crawley said in a vaguely accusing manner as she walked over. “What was the problem with our equipment?”

“It wasn’t our problem.”

Ms. Crawley rolled her eyes and turned to Logan. “As far as you’re concerned, dear, everything is in order.” Ms. Crawley handed Logan an envelope. “Your receipt of sale and the note that fell from the book. You should see a deposit in your account in the morning.”

“Thanks, Ms. Crawley,” Logan said, stuffing the envelope into his pocket. “Thanks for all your help.”

“When you’re ready to leave, just let them know at the door, and they will fetch the car to take you home. Oh, and you can keep the suit. Consider it a gift from Mason One.” With that, Ms. Crawley gave Logan a hug and a kiss on the cheek and returned to the remaining guests. Logan watched as one of the auctioneer’s assistants carefully packed the books for delivery. His guilt returned in full force; he had just severed one of the few remaining connections to his parents. He walked back over to the large windows, drinking his champagne. It was almost ten o’clock, and the streets were still busy. Yes, Logan thought, feeling drained and lonelier than ever. Sebastian was right. Everyone did
have something to do; everyone had someplace he or she needed to go. Except him. Logan drained his drink and decided to stay for another.

Many flutes of champagne and hors d’oeuvres later, Logan half-stumbled out of the auction house and into the car that Ms. Crawley had arranged to take him home. He leaned his head back, tired and a little drunk. After the auction, Logan had tried to celebrate the fact that all his debt had been cleared, and that his ex-wife Susan wouldn’t be hounding him for child support any longer. It had been a long time since he had been free from financial burdens. Logan closed his eyes. He could hear the faint murmur of a news report that the driver was listening to on his PCD.

“No surprise given that fear-mongering speech of hers,” the driver said in a raised voice.

Logan reopened his eyes. “Who are you talking about?” he asked.

“You didn’t hear?” the driver said, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “Cynthia Brown, the head of that Council of Satraya, was killed tonight.”

7

Silence will ally you to spirit in ways that words cannot.

—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

NEW CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, 6:00 A.M., 5 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY

Logan was dropped off in front of his home on Barry Street, a few miles north of downtown New Chicago. He opened the black iron gate and walked up the four concrete steps to the front door, as he had done so many times before. But then he paused. Something was not right. The front door lock was broken, and the door had been forced open. He looked through a side window and saw a light on inside the house.
Run, run and call the police!
Logan turned around. The street was empty, and there wasn’t anyone else in sight. The car that had dropped him off was now far down the street and about to turn onto Racine Avenue.

Logan slowly pushed the door open, trying not to make any noise. The living room had been ransacked; the furniture was tossed about, drawers opened, their contents emptied on the floor. Logan walked down the hallway to the kitchen, which had also been ransacked. The table and chairs had been overturned, and the contents of the cabinets and drawers were scattered about. Even the refrigerator had been emptied.
Who did this?
Logan’s foot slipped. When he looked down, he saw that he was standing in a small pool of blood. He lurched backward and noticed a red trail leading from the kitchen to the staircase.

He followed the trail of blood up the stairs. The hallway light was on, and he could see the trail leading to the master bedroom. As he passed the two smaller bedrooms, he saw scattered clothes and mattresses flipped onto their sides. As Logan approached the master bedroom, he saw bloody handprints smeared on the white double doors. As he entered the bedroom, Logan’s fear turned to shock. On the bed were two bodies lying facedown. Two large knives were protruding from their backs. The sheets were soaked in blood. He screamed.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Logan awoke, startled, his heart racing. Someone was knocking at the front door. He took a deep breath and tried to collect himself. He’d had this nightmare before—if only it were just a nightmare. But it was more than that; it was memory, too. This was how he’d discovered his parents on that warm July night two years ago, less than a year after he’d moved back in with them after his divorce. Logan had returned from a long night of work at the museum and had found his parents brutally murdered in their bed. The police found no clues to the killer’s identity and eventually declared the case unsolved.

Logan’s parents had bequeathed him the
Chronicles
along with the house. He had put the house on the market several times, but the gruesome story of the murders had deterred any interested buyers.

The knocking on the door continued. Logan was still wearing the black suit he’d worn to the auction. He had fallen asleep in the study while thinking about his parents and trying to convince himself that he’d done the right thing in selling the books. An idea that was hard to justify after being told the fate of Cynthia Brown.

“Coming!” Logan shouted, as he rose from his father’s favorite chair. He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes.

When Logan opened the door, he was taken aback. An older man in a floppy wide-brimmed hat and carrying a clumsy tote bag smiled back
at him. “Mr. Perrot!” Logan exclaimed, greeting the older man with a heartfelt hug. “It’s been a while. Come in. Come in.”

“Hello, my boy,” said Mr. Perrot as he took off his trademark hat. “It looks as though you had a rather festive evening last night.”

“Yes, I think I might have had a bit too much to drink.” Logan ran his hand through his hair again and looked at the clock hanging on the wall; it was 6:22
a.m.
“Early to be on a stroll, isn’t it?”

Mr. Perrot shrugged pleasantly. “Old men are early to rise. And besides, sleep has not been a comforting friend these last years.”

Logan nodded. He knew that Mr. Perrot had taken the death of Logan’s parents hard. “I see you’re still wearing your favorite hat,” he said affectionately.

“The habits of young men follow them into old age, I fear,” Mr. Perrot said. “I bought your father a hat like this once, but he said your mother wouldn’t let him wear it. I always suspected that he was really the one who didn’t like it,” he added with a laugh.

Alain Perrot had been Logan’s father’s closest friend, a part of Logan’s life for as long as he could remember. He and his daughter, Valerie, who was Logan’s age, had often joined Logan’s family for weeknight dinners, weekend picnics and barbecues, and all kinds of holiday celebrations. Although Mr. Perrot lived just a few blocks away, Logan hadn’t seen him in months. He felt bad that he’d been so wrapped up in his own problems that he hadn’t made an effort to visit this old family friend.

“It’s really nice to see you. It’s been too long,” Logan said as they walked into the study and sat down. “How are you, Mr. Perrot?” Logan noticed that he looked thinner, and his hair was a bit grayer. His dark eyes lacked their usual sparkle. Something seemed to be bothering him. “Is everything OK? You seem a bit preoccupied.”

“You are as observant as your father was,” Mr. Perrot said. Then he paused a moment. “I went to sleep last night without a care in the world, and when I woke up this morning and heard the news, well, I felt a great weight had been placed upon my shoulders, one that I haven’t felt for many years now.”

“The news,” Logan repeated in a solemn voice, remembering his drive home last night. “You mean Cynthia Brown.”

“The authorities and the Council are not saying very much at the moment, only that her death is being investigated as a homicide. Cynthia and two other Council members, John Davis and Jacob Summers, were found dead at the Council’s headquarters in Washington, D.C., along with a fourth victim. A young lady by the name of Claire Williams, who is reported to be Jacob’s niece.”

Logan sank back into his chair, feeling deeply disturbed.

“You look even more perturbed by this tragedy than I am. I was hoping you would be able to cheer me up, not the other way around.”

“This is all very strange,” Logan said, gravely shaking his head. “I think I might have been a part of this.” He grabbed his PCD and checked his bank account, wondering if perhaps last night had been another bad dream. But it wasn’t; more than four million credits were now in his account. All of the debt collectors had been automatically paid off by the central banking authorities, and all of the overdue child-support payments had been sent to his ex-wife. “I think I might have made a big mistake,” Logan said, as if confessing to the crime.

“My dear boy, how could you possibly be involved in this?”

Logan set his PCD down on the table next to him. “Last night, I auctioned off my father’s copy of the
Chronicles
,” he admitted. “And Cynthia Brown was one of the bidders.”

The color drained from Mr. Perrot’s face.

“At the start of the auction, there were many bidders,” Logan continued. “But at the end, it was only Cynthia and one other person.”

“How could Cynthia be in New Chicago?” Perrot interrupted.

“She participated remotely via HoloPad. So did the other woman.” Logan was growing more anxious as he recalled the final moments of the auction. “They kept outbidding each other, like they were fighting each other for my copy of the books. Cynthia and Andrea kept—”

“Andrea, you say?” Mr. Perrot interrupted. “Was she wearing a
hood? This other woman, was she wearing a crimson hood?” Mr. Perrot asked with great intensity.

“Yes, Andrea Montavon.” Logan nodded gravely. “You could barely see her face.”

Now it was Mr. Perrot’s turn to sink back into the sofa. The weight on his shoulders seemed to become even more burdensome. “They’re back,” Mr. Perrot whispered. “And I fear I know what they’re after.”

Logan asked, “Who are
they
?”

“First, Logan, you have to tell me everything that happened last night. From the beginning. Don’t leave anything out. Tell me everything.”

Logan told him. From the car picking him up, to the conversation with Ms. Crawley, to the bidding war, to the disappearance of Cynthia’s image on the HoloPad and his arrival home, Logan told him everything.

“In twenty-four hours,” Mr. Perrot summarized when Logan was done, “one copy of the
Chronicles
was stolen, another was bought at auction, and three members of the Council of Satraya were murdered.”

“Another copy was stolen?” This was news to Logan. “Which copy?”

“The Pyramid Set,” Mr. Perrot answered. “It was stolen last night from the Cairo Museum. Three guards were found dead.”

“Sir, you said that they’re back. Who are
they
? And why are you so alarmed that this woman Andrea bought my father’s copy of the
Chronicles
?”

“There is something I want to show you.” Mr. Perrot waited a moment before speaking. “How much did your mother and father tell you about our lives before we came to live in New Chicago? About our volunteer work with the Council of Satraya and the rebuilding efforts?”

“Not much, really, just that soon after I was born, we moved to New Chicago, along with you and your daughter. Their work didn’t sound as important as they made it out, if you ask me.” Logan waited a moment for Mr. Perrot to continue. “But why are
you
asking
me
about my parents? You were their best friend.”

“There is something I want to show you.” Mr. Perrot pulled a photo album out of his tote bag and put it on his lap. “Come, sit next to me. I have a story of sorts to share.”