The boys heard from the hall and silently exchanged glances. They knew. They nodded as wordlessly they said, The Bad Thing.
Gabbie came down the stairs as Phil used an old news paper to cover Hemingway. “Christ, what a lot of blood,” she said. She glanced at the mess. “How’d they knock over that bookcase?”
Phil looked and shrugged, “Hemingway was next to it.”
“I don’t think a cat could knock that over.” She glanced around. “Jack and I spent a day stacking all this.” She left unvoiced the complaint that they would have to do it again. Hemingway had been her dad’s cat, and she knew he was deeply feeling the loss, despite his outward calm.
“We’ll bury Ernie,” announced Sean.
“By the apple trees,” agreed Patrick.
Gloria said, “All right, in the morning. Early. School day tomorrow. Now, back to bed.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, Jesus! I better call the police back and tell them it was a cat fight. They’re sending a car out this way.”
As Gloria herded the twins ahead of her up the stairs, Gabbie said, “Look at this.”
Phil came over to his daughter, who was peering at something behind the bookcase. “It’s a door.”
Gabbie said, “What’s it doing hidden behind the case?” She climbed atop a trunk and leaned forward, putting her right hand on the wall. She reached over with her left and tried the knob. “It’s locked.”
Phil said, “Maybe that key Mark found will open it. Let’s try tomorrow.”
Excited, Gabbie said, “At least go get it and let’s try now.”
“You’re going to have to move all that crap before you can get the door open.” Glancing around, as if unable to decide what to do first, he added, “And it’s pretty nasty right here. I don’t think we should be shoving things around until we clean up.”
Gabbie turned to face her father. “Okay, but if we try the key in the lock, we can see if it’s worthwhile moving all that crap.”
Conceding the point, Phil went upstairs and fetched the key from where Gloria had put it in the dresser drawer. As he came downstairs, Gloria was just hanging up the phone; she said, “What?”
He explained as they returned to the basement. Phil passed the key along to Gabbie, who hadn’t left her perch. Gabbie leaned over and put the key in the lock. “It fits!” she announced. She gave it a turn. “It works!” The door opened a few inches and she said, “I can’t see anything.”
Gloria said, “Come on, then. You can putter down here tomorrow. You and Jack can dig around all day if you want. But now let’s clean up this mess, then back to bed.”
Gabbie nimbly jumped down from the trunk. “All right. But I’m dying to know what’s in there.”
“Probably more junk,” muttered Phil as he gently gathered together the papers around Hemingway. Gloria and Gabbie retreated up the stairs, leaving Phil alone with his cat. Phil ignored the wet, sticky softness beneath his fingers and carried the cat over to an empty cardboard box. Lowering the bloody mass into the box, he said, “Just like Papa himself. You thought you could do anything, take on anybody, didn’t you? Well, you dumb shit, you finally overmatched yourself.” He sighed, not fighting back the tears that gathered in his eyes. “Well, you were pretty good company for a lot of years, Hemingway.” He sighed and left the box by the door on the top landing, so the boys could bury him in the morning. Without another word, Phil wiped away the tears in his eyes and flipped off the light.
Outside the basement window the black thing watched the light go out. With a sick sound, a twisted laugh, it retreated from the house. Its master would be pleased. Its only regret was that the man had come before it had finished tormenting the cat. Chasing the cat around the basement so the humans would find the lock had whetted the creature’s appetite for sport. It had enjoyed gutting the cat, then pulling out the steaming intestines, but the cat had still been alive when the black thing had been forced to flee. It hadn’t been allowed to prolong the torment a few moments longer. It felt cheated. Perhaps an other time. Perhaps the master would let it play with one of the boys. Considering that happy possibility, it scampered off into the dark.
6
Jack seized a shelf, lifted the side of the case, and swung it around in an arc, letting the other corner act as a pivot. He sat it down with an audible grunt, then flexed his sore shoulder. In the two weeks since it had been drained, it had reinfected, and Dr. Latham had had to reopen it and clean out the wound, giving Jack a second course of antibiotics. Everything seemed under control at last, but the shoulder was still tender. Before the case had touched the concrete floor, Gabbie had the door open.
She pointed the flashlight she’d brought down and flicked it on. She took one step into the large room and halted. “Jack,” she said softly.
“What?” he said, stepping around the mess on the floor and halting behind her.
“Get Dad.”
Jack took one look through the door and nodded. He ran up the stairs, and in a few moments Phil came to stand behind Gabbie. He watched as she played the light over the interior of the small room.
It had been excavated out of the earth next to the house so that no hint of the room’s existence could be gleaned from the floor plan. The ceiling was reinforced so no depression of earth outside would betray its location. Hooks were placed along the right wall, from which hung musty robes. They were white save one, which was red, and from the way the light scintillated across them, they could have been silk.
Seeing the robes, Phil said, “What? Kessler was a Klansman?”
“I don’t think so,” said Jack as Gabbie played the flashlight around the room. On the other wall were shelves on which both books and rolled-up scrolls had been carefully placed. At the rear, a wooden table stood topped by a funny-looking lectern, with a large book resting upon it, flanked on either side by candles. The wall behind the table was hung with a tapestry depicting some sort of hunting scene, done in Renaissance fashion, showing a group of riders, all bedecked in strange armor, exiting a forest. To the right of the riders, lovely women in white danced in a circle before a throne, upon which sat a beautiful queen. At the right edge of the tapestry, the subject matter turned decidedly erotic, as members of the Queen’s court had doffed their clothing and were embracing one another. Those depicted at the farthest right edge of the tapestry were engaged in blatant sexual acts, in couples and groups. At the far left, game from the hunt was hung as trophies. Gabbie felt her gorge rise as she saw that some of the game hanging from the trees was human. Beneath the table, in odd contrast to the rest of the room, was a fairly modern banker’s box, metal, with two drawers.
“What is this place?” said Gabbie.
“I don’t know,” said Phil softly. “We’d better call Mark.”
7
Mark and Gary arrived fifteen minutes later. Phil, Jack, and Gabbie were taken aback by both men’s appearance. Mark looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week and Gary’s color was bad, as if he was fighting a cold or flu. It was clear both men had been working hard, and something in their manner suggested they were under a great deal of stress. As soon as Mark saw the contents of the room, he became animated. “Did you touch anything?”
“No, we just sort of stood around in awe,” answered Phil.
“Good.” Glancing down at the bloody mass of scattered books and magazines next to the case, he said, “What’s all this?”
Phil said, “Something killed Hemingway last night.” When both Mark and Gary looked blank, he added, “My cat.”
Mark said, “Killed it?”
“Eviscerated him. The boys buried him before Gloria took them to school.”
Mark and Gary exchanged glances; Mark said, “Did the room smell strange?”
Phil said, “Not that I noticed. Why?”
Mark knelt a moment to inspect the mess, then stood, shaking his head as if the question was trivial. “Just that foxes or other wildlife can give off a pretty strong odor. Well, I’m sorry, Phil.”
Phil seemed to hav
e accepted the cat’s death. “It’s okay. He was a tough old coot and was going to go out fighting one day anyway.”
Mark nodded. “Who’s seen this?”
Phil said, “Just us. Gloria stayed in town to grocery-shop after dropping the kids off at school. She should be back in the next hour.”
Mark said, “And I’d just as soon no one outside of here knows about this just yet.”
Phil said, “Why?”
Mark sighed slightly. “I’m not sure yet just what’s going on, Phil.” He paused, thinking a moment. “All this,” he said, waving at the room, “has to do with the mystery surrounding Kessler. And maybe some other strange things, as well. Anyway, until I get a few facts nailed down, I think it’s a good idea not to let anybody know about this until absolutely necessary. We’ll tell Gloria, of course, but if the boys can be kept away, or at least cautioned not to talk about this at school.…”
Phil said, “We’ll tell them you just found something secret. I know my boys. They’ll be pains if we try to keep them away. If we let them in on it, they’ll stay quiet about it—for a while, anyway.”
Mark reluctantly agreed. It was Phil’s house and his property, so he decided not to make an issue of the boys’ seeing the secret room. He turned to Gary, handing him some keys. “Get the big tape recorder and some blank cassettes, both cameras, and a stack of legal pads, then we can start.” As Gary headed up the stairs, Mark called after, “And get the sack in the trunk, too, if you would.” To Phil he said, “Can you get a lamp and an extension cord in here?”
Phil hurried upstairs and returned with a lamp from the living room and a long extension cord from his study. Mark removed the shade and plugged in the lamp to the extension cord while Phil plugged the other end of the cord into a socket in the basement wall. The room was illuminated by a harsh white light.
Mark pulled out the little recorder he carried in his pocket and flipped it on. “This is Mark Blackman. The date is September twelfth. I am standing in the basement of the Philip Hastings residence at 76 Frazer Road, Rural Route 6, William Pitt County, New York, this residence also being known locally as the Old Kessler Place or Erl King Hill. I am recording the findings of a hidden room discovered at—”
He flipped off the recorder. “When did you find this place?”
“About three-fifteen this morning,” answered Gabbie.
Gary returned down the stairs with the equipment Mark had requested and began setting up to take pictures.
Switching on the recorder, Mark continued. “… approximately 3:15 A.M., this date. The room is approximately thirty feet deep by fifteen feet wide by ten feet in height. Exact measurements will be made.” Even as he spoke, Gary was unlimbering a builder’s tape measure that he had pulled from the sack. “It was excavated to the east of the house proper, the location giving no sign of the room’s existence to casual observation. The ceiling is braced with double joists and cross-member supports, preventing collapse from above. The wall construction is not visible to casual inspection. Upon the right wall, as viewed from the door, are eight hooks, spaced approximately a foot apart. From each hangs a robe, white in color, except the farthest from the door, which is red. They appear to be silk or satin. Upon the left wall are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves… He continued his description of the room, noting in detail everything he saw. When he reached the altar, he said, “The candles appear to be common wax, but may be more exotic in composition. Analysis will be made. The holders appear to be gold. The—”
“Gold!” blurted Gabbie, and Jack shushed her. Everyone was fascinated by Mark’s work.
“—table seems fashioned from ash or another wood of similar appearance, perhaps olive.” He inspected it from below without touching anything. “The workmanship is typical of nineteenth-century manufacture of the area. As speculation: It may have been manufactured at Kessler’s factory, or even handmade by Fredrick Kessler himself. The book is open. It is approximately fifteen inches high by nine inches wide, page dimensions. It is written … in German, in Gothic script, but in a dialect I do not know, perhaps Old High German or Middle High German.” He described some of the properties of the writing and finally said, “It is most probably a copy of a more ancient text, for it appears to be no older than a hundred years.” He turned his attention to the tapestry, turning off the recorder for a moment.
Looking at Phil and Jack, he asked, “Can you get more light in here?”
Phil said, “I’ve another lamp we can bring in, and a two-way plug adapter.”
Gabbie said, “There’s a work lamp in the barn, the kind you can hang from a hood when you work on a car.”
“Get them, please,” said Mark.
Jack said, “I’ll fetch the one in the barn,” and accompanied Phil up the stairs again.
“Gabbie, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, maybe you could rustle up some sandwiches. Or if you’d prefer, I can contribute to a hamburger run. We’re going to be here awhile.”
“Ah, I can cut up some of that turkey we had last night. And I’ll make a pitcher of lemonade.” She glanced at her watch. “Lunch in about two hours?”
“That’s fine.” Mark removed his corduroy coat and tossed it carelessly across a dusty trunk. He resumed his narration, describing in detail the illustrations on the tapestry, then opening the top drawer of the banker’s box. “The banker’s box is metal, appearing to be no more than twenty years old. Inside the top drawer are what appears to be correspondence and other documents.” He closed the top drawer, opened the bottom, and found more of the same. “It appears there are possibly two or three hundred documents in the box.” He snapped off the recorder. Gary reached into the sack and removed a roll of masking tape, and a black marker, which he gave to Mark. To Gabbie he said, “Now we start cataloging everything.”
“This is fascinating,” said Gabbie, wide-eyed.
Mark smiled. “Tell me that in about six hours when we’re still at it.” Gary tore off a piece of tape and handed it to Mark, who numbered it with a big “1.” He put it on the uppermost shelf in the bookcase, at the left, beneath a rolled-up parchment. He continued until Jack and Phil returned and set up the lights. Then he took out the Polaroid and shot a few pictures to determine exposure. Judging the required numbers, he took the Nikon and began shooting pictures of everything. Gabbie, Jack, and Phil settled in to watch.
8
Three hours later, Mark was still at it. Phil had returned to working on the final draft of his manuscript, making last-minute revisions before the publisher put it into production. Gloria had come home and been shown the discovery. She had watched Mark and Gary a bit, then vanished upstairs when the twins came home from school. Keeping the boys out of the basement had proved little trouble. A few minutes of watching Mark talk into his tape recorder while he pulled down parchments and opened them, and Gary took pictures of them, was all it took to drive away their interest. Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom this wasn’t. They promised to keep mum about the room, certain none of their friends would be impressed anyway.
Gabbie and Jack watched with interest. As a rule, Gabbie wasn’t given to long periods of inaction, but she found Mark’s work riveting. Jack was also curious; as a student of literature, his knowledge of any sort of field-work was nil, and watching the way Mark ensured that each item was clearly identified before it was moved was instructive. Nothing would be misplaced or lost if possible, and the exact order in which things were done was recorded as Mark spoke continuously into the recorder and Gary shot picture after picture. Mark had gone through two ninety-minute tapes and was into the third. He switched off the recorder and stood up, groaning audibly. “These knees are getting too old to camp out on cold concrete this long.” He left the lights on as he exited the room. “Time for a break.”
They went upstairs, where a stack of sandwiches waited. They had been prepared at noon, and it was now past three. Removing the wax paper covering, Gabbie put sandwiches on plates and handed them around while Jack retri
eved a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator. Hearing them in the kitchen, Gloria and Phil wandered in.
“Find out what that stuff is?” asked Phil.
“Not half of it, and it’s incredible stuff,” said Mark.
Gary nodded agreement. “Those scrolls are written in Greek, Old High German, Old Russian, Amharic, and a few in Latin, Hebrew.… Some I don’t know. I’ll have to dig out some books, but I think a few are in Pahlavi.”
“What’s Pahlavi?” asked Gabbie.
Gary looked at her and said, “Medieval Persian. It’s a dead language.”
Jack and Gabbie exchanged glances. “Persian?” wondered Jack. “What’s Kessler doing with parchments covered in Persian and those other languages?”
Mark shrugged and looked at Gary. “Can you translate them?”
Gary spoke around a mouthful of sandwich. “Some. My practical linguistics is a little rusty. I’d do better with Old Church Slavonic or Old Prussian, but I can handle the Russian and German, and the Latin, too. The Pahlavi … ? Indo-Iranian languages were never my thing. I only touched on Pahlavi once or twice. I can get some reference books and take a crack at it, but it’s a little too far east for me.” He shook his head. “But I know someone at Washington who could read it like it was the funny papers. We can photocopy the scrolls and with express mail have an answer in a few days.”
Mark shook his head. “See what you can do first. We can call your friend if we need to.”
“What about the robes and all?” asked Gloria.
“I’ve a few vague ideas, but I’m going to hold off talking about them until we get some of those books and scrolls translated. The German I can read, freeing Gary for the others. I can even read the Old Middle and Old High German, slowly, with a dictionary in hand. And if any of them are in French or Flemish, I can translate them, too. It will take a while, but I think we’ve found the stuff I’ve been after for the last two years. Whatever was going on in Germany in the early 1900s was connected to Kessler and his cronies, and.… “He paused while he thought. He seemed disturbed, despite his outwardly calm appearance. At last he said, “Somehow, something went wrong, terribly wrong, and Kessler and his friends had to flee. There are things involved here that are so … outrageous, I don’t want to even hint at them.”