Chapter 6
Sharyn stopped her friends at the edge of a dark park. Across the street, a line of brick rowhouses formed a continual barricade. “Hold here.”
Naomi crowded next to her. “When are you going to tell us what’s going on?”
Sharyn simply shook her head. Back at the Forum, their group had retreated inside the hall and exited out its north side, away from the smoke, flames, and sirens.
There, they had ordered an Uber. Sharyn had the driver drop them off on the far side of the park.
Her father had instilled in her a healthy (or perhaps unhealthy) level of paranoia.
She studied the houses. Their apartment was a third-floor walk-up at the top of the rowhouse across the street. She spotted nothing untoward or suspicious. Their flat’s lights remained dark.
“Okay,” she said and headed quickly across the street.
The other two kept at her heels, clearly responding to the tension exuding from her. Still, they trusted her enough to not press her further.
At least, for now.
She climbed the steps and tapped in the code for the lock, but a shadow swept into view on the far side of the entry door.
Sharyn stumbled back. But it was only Mrs. Kenworthy, the middle-aged caretaker who kept a small flat on the ground floor.
She opened the door and waved them inside.
A chair sat outside her door with a tub next to it, shaped like a cauldron and half full of candy.
Her apartment door had been propped open, and a television droned inside.
“You’re all home early, aren’t you?” she said. “I was about to lock the place up.”
“Thank you,” Sharyn said. “But we may be headed out again.”
Tag cast Sharyn a quizzical look.
Mrs. Kenworthy only smiled with a knowing wink. “Of course. How foolish of me. Something tells me you’re just getting started.”
Sharyn prayed that wasn’t true. She wanted all of this to end.
Their group climbed the three flights to their floor, which they shared with four other flats. Once inside their own, Sharyn took a breath, while leaning on the door.
Naomi pointed a finger at Sharyn’s chest. “You need to tell us what’s going on. Why are you in such a fright?”
Sharyn swallowed, pushed off the door, and came to a decision. “I’ll show you.”
While Professor Wright’s warning still burned inside her—tell no one—she could not stomach keeping this secret any longer. She trusted her friends and wanted their counsel. The fire at the Old Library could not be a mere coincidence.
Something had gone wrong.
But how wrong remained to be seen.
Until then, she needed help and led the pair into her bedroom.
She crossed and dropped beside an old blanket chest. She pulled it open, sifted through her folded sweaters, past an old Army jacket, and retrieved the book.
It still remained protected in its cloth wrap.
She had not dared uncover it, fearful of being drawn further into this mystery, sensing the danger it represented.
But there was no shirking from that responsibility now.
She knelt back and parted the folds of cloth. “Back at the Old Library, Professor Wright gave this to me.”
“Wait . . . Professor Julian Wright?” Tag pressed her. “The head of our program?”
She nodded and did her best to explain all that had happened, stressing the urgency in the man’s attitude. “He believed the book wasn’t safe at the library, not even in his own possession. But I don’t know why.”
Anger spiked though her for being thrust into all of this against her will.
Though, she knew that wasn’t entirely true.
She had accepted the responsibility. While it would be easy to say she did it to curry favor with the director of the postgraduate program, she knew the blame lay deeper.
She had difficulty saying no. It went back to having to always be the good daughter, to stave off triggering her father’s outbursts—as if she had control over him.
Now she knew better, but such self-awareness didn’t stop those deeply ingrained reflexes.
What have I gotten myself into?
Both her roommates dropped and crowded next to her, eyeing the strange text on her knee.
The leather bindings were clearly old, centuries at least. She fingered two bands of copper that held the text clamped shut.
The release appeared to be a small metal tin, embedded with an eyeball-size crystal orb.
As she wiped dust from it, the sphere rotated under the thumb.
She warily drew her fingers away. “I don’t know what the hell this is or why it’s so important.”
Naomi leaned in, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Do you see any title? Or the name of the author?”
Sharyn flipped the volume back and forth. “Nothing.”
Naomi wiggled to free her phone. “I should record this.”
Sharyn pushed her friend’s arm down. “No, not until we know more.”
Tag pointed to the cover’s center. “Look at that embossed emblem. Like the spokes of a wheel, all pointing to various symbols.”
“Very cryptic,” Naomi noted.
“Whatever it is, the book must be valuable,” Sharyn added. “Enough for Professor Wright to send it off with me. Just prior to that, he had taken a call. He had sounded shocked, even angry.”
“Maybe the call spooked him,” Tag offered, then used his cane to push back to his feet. “Still, why give it to you? If he was concerned for its safety, why not take it himself?”
Sharyn recalled the professor’s urgency. “He warned me to keep it hidden. To not even tell him where I hid it until he deemed it safe.” She stared over at the other two. “I think he feared whoever was after the book might know he had it.”
“So he sent you scurrying off with the prize.” Naomi sat heavier on her heels. “Away from him.”
Sharyn clutched the book harder, aching to know why this was so important, but she remembered Wright’s other warning. “He also told me not to attempt to open it.”
“Like we could,” Tag scoffed. “It’s clearly locked with some code tied to that crystal. I can see symbols engraved into it. Am I right?”
Sharyn held the book at an angle toward the room’s lamp. “You are, but it looks like the symbols are inside the crystal, like flaws in a diamond.”
“Truly?” Tag reached over to see for himself.
Sharyn pulled the book away with a twinge of possessiveness. “We can leave this mystery for later. Right now, we must change and get out of here.”
Tag frowned. “You mentioned that to Mrs. Kenworthy. Why?”
Naomi stood up. “Sharyn is right.”
Tag looked between the two women with confusion.
Sharyn explained, “Someone clearly attacked the Old Library, setting fire to it. Professor Wright could’ve been caught there.”
Naomi continued, “And if Wright was there, he might have been forced to reveal where the book was—and who he gave it to.”
“If they got my name, it wouldn’t take them long to find out where I live.” Sharyn frowned. “Again, I could be wrong about all of this, but I’d prefer not to take any chances.”
“Then shouldn’t we go to the police?” Tag asked. “Tell them what you told us.”
She remained silent, unsure. Wright’s last warning blazed in her mind’s eye: Trust no one. Instead, she reached into a pocket and removed the business card given to her by the professor. She had already studied it earlier. It was blank, except for a single phone number engraved on it.
“The professor told me to call this number if there was any trouble.” She fished out her cell phone. “Let’s try this first.”
Naomi and Tag shifted closer.
Sharyn dialed the number, noting the international code for France. As the connection was made, the phone rang and rang.
“Anything?” Naomi pressed.
“No one’s answering. It’s not even going to voicemail.”
“It is almost midnight,” Tag noted. “Maybe no one’s there at this hour.”
Sharyn waited another half-minute, then hung up.
“What do we do?” Naomi asked.
She stared at the other two. “For now, let’s get moving. Retreat somewhere and lay low.”
After growing up in a volatile household, she had learned to live by this credo. Her father had reinforced it during her training: When there’s danger, keep your head down. Heroes only get themselves killed. While it wasn’t the most noble of sentiments, it was a practical one.
Sharyn stood. “After we’re clear of here, we can reach out to the police.”
“Sounds good,” Tag said.
The three separated and quickly shed their costumes and climbed into streetwear.
Sharyn pulled on jeans, a warm turtleneck, and thick-treaded boots.
She packed the strange tome into a crossbody bag and slung it over her shoulder.
She then draped an oversize Army jacket over everything and tugged on a ball cap.
“I’m ready!” Naomi called from her room.
“I need another minute,” Tag answered.
Sharyn used the time to cross to her nightstand.
She collected a few extra precautions. She snapped a small Kevlar sheath to the strap of her crossbody bag.
It held a combat knife—a folded stainless-steel karambit.
Her father had drilled her on the weapon’s use, assuring her in tight situations that it would serve her better than a gun.
Not that she could have attained the latter in the United Kingdom.
Even the knife only had a three-inch curved blade, the maximum allowable here.
She also grabbed a flat leather pouch from the drawer—another gift from her father—and shoved it into her jacket pocket.
She flashed to standing before her father with her wrists bound in plastic zip-ties in front of her.
He had her bite the loose end of the binding and tighten it until the ties dug into her skin.
He then instructed her: Raise your arms above your head, elbows wide, then thrust your arms down as hard as you can.
As she did, the tie miraculously broke, snapping apart at the lock, and fell away. She stared down in amazement.
Nothing can trap you if you keep your head, her father had warned her.
She prayed that still held true.
She joined the others in the small common room with its tiny kitchen.
Tag had donned a fashionable ankle-length duster over a black hoodie.
Naomi wore her denim jacket with the Welsh symbol embroidered on it, pulling it over a puffy pink vest. She had also changed into jeans and a scuffed pair of Doc Martens.
“All set?” Sharyn asked.
Tag frowned and stared past Sharyn’s shoulder. “Looks like we may be talking to the police sooner than we expected.”
She turned. The window behind her flashed with a strobe of blue lights, rising from the street below. But she had heard no siren—which only set her heart to pounding harder.
“Move quietly,” she warned and headed to the door.
One after the other, they crept out onto the third-floor landing. Sharyn held them back, then crossed and peeked down the center of the stairwell. Harsh voices echoed from below. She heard her own name.
Then Mrs. Kenworthy blustered angrily. “At this bloody hour? I don’t see why you must—”
A pair of sharp pops cut her off.
Sharyn covered her mouth. From her time spent at the gun range, she recognized the muffled spats of a silencer
A heavy shadow fell into view.
Mrs. Kenworthy . . .
Her body was quickly dragged off. A breath later, a door slammed, likely from the caretaker’s flat as the murder was hidden away.
Then a trampling of boots pounded toward them.