Journey Into the Flame (23 page)

Your friend Camden Ford

Mr. Perrot sat back on the sofa, filled with great trepidation. Now he thought he understood what Simon and Andrea were after. That promise,
immortality
. If they were to uncover and harness the power of the final symbol, humanity would confront a daunting new force of never-ending evil.

Feeling a greater sense of urgency, he leaned forward and looked at the notes lying on the table. There were no dates on them or any indication of the order in which they’d been written. He flipped them over to see if anything was written on their back sides but found nothing. Then the obvious question occurred to him: Where were the answers to these queries? If Camden had indeed placed the notes in the old study and Baté had been able to read them, surely Baté would have provided answers. Logan mentioned that he had seen two piles of notes with eleven notes in each pile. That would suggest that Baté had answered Camden’s notes.

Mr. Perrot sat pensively for a moment. He knew his friend Camden would have written down the responses. He recorded everything.
Maybe he wrote the answers in his missing journal
. Mr. Perrot looked at the two remaining boxes.
Perhaps the journal and the responses are in one of those
. The clock chimed again. Time was passing far too quickly.

•  •  •

Feeling tired and a bit discouraged, Mr. Perrot placed the lid back on the last of the boxes. Neither of them had contained Camden’s journal or Baté’s responses to Camden’s inquiries. After looking through the
contents of all thirteen boxes, the mystery had only grown deeper and more ominous. Mr. Perrot sat still on the couch and considered his next move.
Perhaps there is another closet, other boxes that Logan did not mention,
he thought.

“You are playing games with us, Camden,” he said aloud. “I fear that the King’s Gambit was not your only riddle.”

Mr. Perrot stood, walked behind the desk, and opened some of the drawers. Then he walked to the corner of the study and opened a small access door to the old grandfather clock that had been relentlessly ticking off the minutes of the day. He shut the door in frustration as it revealed only the intricate internal workings of the clock.

He turned and looked at the bookshelves behind Camden’s desk. On the middle shelf, he saw Camden’s origami figures. He walked over and picked up the figure of a dog, which was his favorite. Origami was an art that Camden had perfected but never succeeded in teaching to Mr. Perrot. More fond memories flew through his mind. As he set the figure back on the shelf, a thought suddenly struck him.
Camden, you clever, clever man!

25

Having great questions is not enough. You must be patient enough to wait for their answers.

Great questions will make you a great philosopher, but having great answers will make you a wizard.

—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

WASHINGTON, D.C., 12:30 P.M. LOCAL TIME,

3 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY

Logan ran down the steps of the WCF building. While the fresh air provided some relief, he needed to find a peaceful place where he could pull his thoughts together. The undeniable similarity between what he had witnessed in the lab and what he’d seen in the candle vision deeply disturbed him. He noticed a colorful banner hanging from a streetlight, promoting a Renaissance art exhibit at the National Gallery.
Perfect,
he thought. That was just the kind of place he was looking for.

As he turned to walk down the street, his PCD sounded. He saw from the number that it was a call from the museum in New Chicago.

“Hello, Mr. Rampart,” Logan said. “Did you get my message?”

“Yes, but you didn’t provide any time frame for your return,” Mr. Rampart replied.

“Yes, I know, sir. An urgent personal matter came up.”

“I heard about your press conference yesterday. But that does not
change the fact that we have a deadline to meet. When can I expect you to return?”

Logan paused. “I’m not sure, sir.”

“You are giving me no real choice in the matter. I’m going to have to find a replacement for you. The museum can’t afford to let Mr. Quinn down. I’m sorry, Logan.”

“I understand.” And with that, the call ended.

Logan was disappointed by Mr. Rampart’s news. While his finances were now in order and there was a very large balance in his bank account, he still wanted to finish the restoration work. He wanted to finish it for Sebastian.

As he looked around for a street sign, Logan was suddenly shoved from behind. He hit the ground hard, stopping himself with his hands. He rolled over quickly and saw two burly men in black leather vests over white T-shirts looking down at him through heavily tinted sunglasses.

“You’re Logan Ford,” one of the men said. There was a ten-centimeter scar along the right side of his face just below his cheekbone.

Without giving him time to answer, the other man grabbed Logan’s arm and pulled him to his feet.

Logan struggled to free himself. Then, when he saw the slender third man in his early sixties emerging from behind the other two, he stopped. “You’re Randolph Fenquist. The leader of the Sentinel Coterie.”

The older man didn’t answer. He moved his long, stringy brown hair out of his face and pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He eyed Logan up and down as the man with the scar flicked a lighter.

Logan looked into Fenquist’s fanatical eyes, eyes he had seen before in paintings depicting zealots in times past. Mr. Perrot was correct: Fenquist looked like a frustrated man bent on causing trouble.

“So you’re the son of Camden and Cassandra Ford,” Fenquist said. He took a few puffs and blew the smoke into Logan’s face. “I bet there are quite a few people who would like to meet you.” Logan said nothing. Fenquist shook his head. “Coming forward like that was a mistake, though. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt like that sweet Cynthia.”

“We know you had something to do with Cynthia’s murder,” Logan said. “They saw you give something to that girl—” Logan stopped himself, realizing he’d said too much.

Fenquist’s expression darkened. He glanced at the man with the scar before saying, “I had nothing to do with Cynthia’s murder.” He took a puff of his cigarette. “I see Andrea suddenly resurfaced from her prolonged hiatus. Back to her old stomping grounds—North Carolina, I think it was? Maybe she had a score to settle with Cynthia. Maybe your lady friend and her government lackeys should go check her out.”

He took a step forward and got right up into Logan’s face, their noses almost touching.

“And if I were you, I would return to your nice brick house on your nice quiet street. You’re dealing with people and things you don’t understand, son.”

Logan didn’t respond. But the fact that Fenquist knew something about where he lived bothered him.

“Is there a problem here?” a deep voice asked.

Logan was relieved to see two policemen walking over to them, hands resting on their holstered guns.

“No problems,” Fenquist said. “Our friend here fell, and we were just helping him up. We wouldn’t want him to fall again.”

One of the men replaced Logan’s backpack on his shoulder, and the other brushed the dirt off Logan’s back.

Fenquist looked straight at Logan. “I hope your sins don’t keep you from heaven’s gates.” He patted Logan on the shoulder and, with his two thugs in tow, he got into a shiny black SUV at the curb and sped away.

“You need any help?” an officer asked, as he handed Logan his PCD, which had fallen onto the sidewalk.

Logan wanted to say yes, but he knew the officers couldn’t help him. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m fine.” And quickening his pace and occasionally looking over his shoulder, he resumed his trek to the National Gallery.

Maybe Valerie was right, he thought on the way. Maybe the Coterie did have something to do with the Council murders. Although the Coterie spoke of peaceful disagreements, Logan now had firsthand proof to the contrary.

He walked along Constitution Avenue and looked through the double-layered security fence that now surrounded the entire Memorial Park grounds. On the other side lay the ruins of the once-grand monuments of the capital. Rubble, stumps of buildings. A debate still raged about whether the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument should be rebuilt or remain that way as a reminder that what we assume will last forever can be destroyed in an instant by man or nature.

Logan searched through his backpack and found his membership card, which allowed him free entry to all museums in the Federation. The West Building was the only part of the National Gallery of Art to survive the Great Disruption. The Sculpture Garden and the East Building of the grounds had been destroyed by an earthquake. The West Building’s glass atrium had been slightly damaged but was rebuilt during the reconstruction efforts of the Rising.

Logan displayed his pass and entered. He had no particular destination; he was simply happy to be in a familiar environment. He took a seat on a bench close to the entrance and watched the people passing by. Slowly, his stress faded away. An elderly couple walked over, obviously hoping to sit down, and he gave his place to them.

While most of the museum was crowded with summer visitors and tour groups, Logan wandered into a quieter, less busy wing where the Renaissance exhibit was located. Early Renaissance statues and paintings from Florence soon surrounded him. He looked at works by Botticelli, Uccello, and Francesca, reading the curator’s notes about their significance. Logan walked up a flight of stairs and entered the enormous Reproductions Room, where copies of great paintings through the ages were kept. One particular painting there caught Logan’s eye. It was a depiction of a third-century Roman soldier who was bound to a
tree, his body pierced by arrows. A woman gently tended the soldier’s wounds. The painting was titled
Saint Sebastian Tended by Irene
.

Just then, Logan heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Still on his guard, he looked around but didn’t see anyone coming. The only other people in the room were a young couple looking at a painting by Masaccio.

Logan continued to read the description of the painting: “
Saint Sebastian was a patron to all soldiers of his time, for he helped them to keep their faith. He was declared the patron of people who suffered plagues, for it was reported he cured many who were afflicted.”

As Logan gazed at the painting, he thought of Sebastian Quinn and wondered if he’d been named after this saint. Although he’d only had two brief encounters with Mr. Quinn, he thought Sebastian was an appropriate namesake.

“Tough way to die,” a man’s gruff voice remarked behind him. “He must have really pissed off the king.”

Logan turned and saw a blond-haired young man, more than six feet tall, standing next to him, looking at the same painting. “Yes,” Logan said, a bit startled because he hadn’t noticed the man approach him.

“Those were messed-up times,” the man continued. “People getting killed for what they believed in.”

“Still happens,” Logan said. He wasn’t in a mood to talk to strangers, not after what happened with Fenquist and his goons, so he walked away to explore the rest of the large gallery.

Only a few steps away, he once again found himself standing in front of the painting that seemed to be at the center of his life. It was a large reproduction of Michelangelo’s
Creation of Adam.

Is it a coincidence that the Saint Sebastian painting is so close to this one?
Logan wondered. Mr. Quinn had never told him what all the faces in the painting represented, so he studied them now. Some were depicted with shadowy lighting, while others were clearly revealed. Some of the angels seemed to be holding back God’s advancement, while others seemed to be pushing him.
What was the relationship between the iron collar I saw in my vision and the DNA insert that Sylvia discovered in the lab? Artists such as Michelangelo didn’t randomly put images into their works without great thought. Everything had a purpose . . .
Logan felt discouraged; he would never learn the answer to this question now that Mr. Rampart had fired him. He’d never have another opportunity to speak to Sebastian Quinn.

A large—and very loud—group of summer-school students entered the hall. Gone was the silence that had aided Logan’s contemplation. A teacher was leading the exuberant group of ten- and eleven-year-olds right over to where Logan was standing. He stepped aside, allowing the fifty little souls to gather in front of the painting. Logan didn’t mind; the children reminded him of Jordan and Jamie and the happy times he’d spent with them at the museum in New Chicago, showing them his favorite paintings. The teacher raised a red flag, and the children quieted down.

“How many of you remember that big statue of David we saw?” All the kids raised their hands, and there was a little bit of laughter. “Yes, the man who was naked. Well, this painting was done by the same artist. Michelangelo.”

“Is that David again?” asked a young boy who was pointing at the painting.

“No,” the teacher replied. “This man’s name is Adam. And the old man over there is God.”

“Who are all the people floating around God?” a little girl asked.

“Those are God’s angels.”

“Oh, so the angels are telling God what to do,” the little girl said.

“I hope they tell Adam to put some clothes on,” a boy in the group added, sparking another chorus of laughter. He was promptly punched in the arm by the girl who had asked the question.

As Logan listened to the children’s questions, he received a call on his PCD. It was Mr. Rampart again.
Well, he can’t fire me twice,
Logan thought as he picked up.

“Hello, Mr. Rampart,” he said, covering his ear with one hand. He had a tough time hearing with the children nearby.

“I called Mr. Quinn to inform him that in order to meet the deadline, I was going to turn the project over to another artist,” Mr. Rampart said. Again, he went straight to the point. “I informed him that you had to deal with an emergency and would not be able to finish the work by the agreed-upon deadline.”