Authors: Richard Doetsch
Dear Mr. Keeler,
On behalf of our committee, I would like to thank you for speaking at our dinner, and while I did not have occasion to attend, I heard you were an inspiration to all.
This necklace is a token of our esteem; it represents peace and love, healing and long life. Though you may not subscribe to its religious implications or symbolism, you should know that it is given with the wishes of what it represents and we would consider it an honor if you would accept it.
It is something that is worn by the men of my Asian culture, but understanding your customs, perhaps you would not find it fitting with your mode of dress, though it may be more suited to your wife, her tastes and style. You would honor us by giving
it to her, affording her our blessing for being the wife of Jack Keeler.
J
ACK SENT A
note back, thanking Toulouse and the council for their generous gift, and had scheduled to meet with him next week as a gesture of appreciation.
Jack had looked at the blue stone necklace thinking of the copper bracelets that arthritics wear, believing in their unproven healing properties; he thought of the Star of David, of the Buddhist yin and yang, and of the holy cross. He reached up and fingered the cross around his own neck, thinking about how he had survived bullets, car crashes, and near drowning … And hoped that maybe the blue necklace Mia wore around her neck would somehow impart the intent of Marijha Toulouse: peace, love, and, most important, long life.
F
RIDAY
, 10:30
A.M
.
M
IA SAT ON THE
edge of the bed, feeling hopeless, the sounds of the city droning in through the locked door.
There was a heavy click of the dead bolt, and the door opened, the sounds of the city growing louder as a tall man stepped into the room. He held a silver tray with a steaming etched kettle of water and blue china cups, along with a plate of pastries.
The man’s skin was smooth like porcelain, the tone dark. His long black hair, pulled tight in a ponytail, hung just past his shoulders, which filled out a black pinstriped suit. He placed the tray on the table as someone pulled the door closed and the latch was reset, sealing them in.
The man pulled out a chair, sat, and crossed his legs as if in ceremony.
“Good morning,” he said in a subtle Eurasian accent. “I’m sorry about your confined accommodations.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned over the two china cups, picked up two small metal sieves packed tightly with tea leaves,
and placed them in the cups. Grasping the kettle in his large hand, he poured the steaming water over the leaves, making a rich, hot tea.
There was a refinement to the man, in the way he talked, in the way he moved. He was precise, with each word spoken in perfect diction; the simple movement of his hand was slow and deliberate as he prepared the tea. With similar precision, he reached into his pocket, withdrew an envelope, and placed it on the table next to the tray.
Throughout the ritual, Mia remained silent, studying his every action. Beneath the tailored Savile Row black suit, there was no doubting his size, his broad shoulders, his powerful hands.
Mia sat there in shock as she recognized him. As impossible as it was, Nowaji Cristos was standing there now. And while she knew of the atrocities he had committed, what he was capable of, these were not what scared her the most.
“You should have no worries for your safety,” Cristos said. “I have very strict instructions not to kill you.”
Cristos smiled at Mia. A pregnant pause hung in the air.
“But I should make you aware, I’ve never been one who listens to orders or instructions. I follow my own path; if I don’t get what I want by dawn tomorrow, I will kill you all.”
With his manicured hand, Cristos pushed the elegant white envelope toward Mia, and without further word, without explanation of what was going on, without asking a single pointed question, the man stood and walked to the door. He gave it two sharp knocks, the door opened, and he disappeared. The door closed behind him, leaving Mia, once again, by herself.
Mia finally inhaled, deep and plentiful, to quell the fear that ran through her, to purge the adrenaline that coursed through her veins, making her tremble uncharacteristically. The impossibility of her encounter, of the man who held her captive, sent her mind into a world of confusion. She had thought, as so many others had, that he had died almost a year ago.
Mia sat there a moment, staring at the elegant tray that stood in sharp contrast to the rest of the room, her eyes drawn to the envelope,
the gravity of its contents weighing on her mind, knowing that it portended something far from the proper breakfast that was just delivered to her. Despite his refinement, despite his gentle voice and manner, Mia knew what Cristos was truly capable of. Mia knew of the horrors this man had done in the past.
She finally picked up the envelope, glaring at the door as if the man on the other side could feel her stare as she lifted the flap. She peered inside, and the false composure of her face finally cracked, all color draining away as her eyes welled with tears.
She withdrew the picture; holding it up, she stared at it. It was taken from a distance, through a telephoto lens, the white sand bright in the early -morning sun. The date stamp in the lower corner read,
June 30.
Today.
There was no mistaking the older woman who sat in a beach chair watching over the children, but Mia paid her no mind. Her eyes were glued to the children playing in the surf. Her heart felt on fire with rage as she stared at the unmistakable faces of her daughters, Hope and Sara.
J
ACK SAT IN
a small office, the desk and shelves stacked precariously high with papers and books all in total disarray. Although the mayhem did have some semblance of order known only to its owner, there was no doubt a single gust of wind would wipe it all away.
Much to her anger, Jack told Joy to stay with the car out on Broadway while he and Frank headed into Kent Hall to the Asian studies department of Columbia University. The old stone building on the far southeast end of campus was the quintessential image of college, with its ivy-covered granite walls and high steel-casement windows.
“Gentlemen.” The voice was distinct, gravelly, its rough tone fermented by liquor and cigarettes. The elderly man wore a bow tie and
suspenders, every bit the professorial image Jack expected, except that the man’s years were far beyond what Jack thought possible.
“Not sure which one of you is Joy, but you look nothing like your voice,” the man said, a hint of mirth in his tone.
“I’m Joy,” Frank said in all seriousness as he pointed toward Jack. “This is DA Jack Keeler.”
The man looked at Jack, a hint of surprise on his face. “Hello, Jack.” He greeted Jack familiarly, as if his advanced years granted him the privilege. He held out his arthritic hand, the fingers locked in a curve.
Jack took his hand and gently shook it, afraid the man would break before him. “Killian Adoy.”
The professor shuffled into the room, his stooped body struggling with the effort. While countless years had twisted his form and wrinkled his face with deep folds, his eyes were like those of a vibrant young man who savored life. He removed his hat, revealing a bald pate, wisps of gray hair scattered around like sparse weeds on a field of dust.
He laid the hat on the table and took a seat before Jack.
“Like Mark Twain, the report of your death seems exaggerated, Jack.”
Jack smiled. Killian reminded him of his grandfather, someone who not only had a unique perspective on life and its folly but also took an interest in him for simply being him.
“I got the e-mail scan, but beyond identifying the language, I can’t make a translation without seeing the text firsthand. I wasn’t sure, was it on parchment or from a book?”
Without a word, Jack held out his arm and rolled up his sleeve, feeling like a child in the nurse’s office.
Killian’s brow arched with curiosity. “Let’s take a look.”
He took hold of Jack’s arm and ran his gnarled, aged fingers along the surface, his eyes keenly focused on the intricate markings.
“This is the language of Cotis,” Killian said with an academic air as he continued to study Jack’s arm. “Some call it the language of
the priests because it is so infrequently used except by scholars and clergy. Much like the language that emanated from Latium and ancient Rome spreading to become the language of Christianity, of scholars, and of science, it has faded away from everyday use. And like Latin, it’s no longer spoken. The Cotis people are a small Asian society whose isolation and small population had caused their numbers to dwindle, their culture to be forgotten, swallowed up by the jungle where they lived. They are still in existence, though.
“Cotis has survived the centuries, thriving in its isolation, developing off of the framework of harmony with nature, with the earth, with the afterlife. Its central city was similar to but a on a much smaller scale than Angkor, the Hindu temple city that was mysteriously swallowed by the jungles of Cambodia with no clue to the fate of its people or culture.”
“We’re in kind of a rush here—”
Killian cut Frank off, “If you want to hear the translation, then you need to understand the culture.”
Frank exhaled in frustration but otherwise remained silent.
“Cotis’s stone temples soared high, parting the foliage to emerge above the treetops as if rising to heaven. They were constructed by skilled craftsmen millennia ago, eight central towers looking like tiered lotus buds, their footings connected in long, meandering passageways, a visual history in bas-relief depicted on the walls: an ancient king arriving atop a majestic elephant, priests plucking stars from the skies, burying horrific beasts in the fires of the sun, wild animals living among the people.
“An elaborate funerary lay on the perimeter; its entrance faced west toward the land of the dead, while its exit faced toward the east, the land of birth. The central palace was the home of the high priest and his family. But unlike the isolation of royalty practiced by the kingdoms of the world and usurped by presidents and dictators, the doors of the palace were forever open. The high priest, his sons, his daughters, and his wife lived with the people and viewed all as equals. The high station of ruler was an expression for the individual’s
attainment of enlightenment, of wisdom, as opposed to sovereignty and holding a superior position.
“The high priests were said to be able to communicate with the dead and converse with God; the membrane between the two worlds was easily pierced by the selfless disciple, which resulted in a lack of fear of death in the Cotis people, as they believed their time on earth was just a phase of their eternal life.
“There were always twelve monks on the Tietien, what some might call a council; they were the highest and most respected of the priestly order. But unlike so many religious orders, the Cotis priests could marry, as love was thought to be one of their god’s greatest gifts and should not be denied to one who has dedicated his life to spirituality. The council was not gender-specific and included both priests and priestesses.
“As in so many temples in the distant Far East, the priests studied a method of combat, a form of self-defense, a martial art that emphasized turning opponents’ strengths and aggressions into their greatest weakness. But these priests were also taught the deadliest methods of attack, a skill set that put the power of death in their bare hands. For while the priests were the symbol of peace, they were also the protectors of their heritage, their people, and would kill any intruder who sought to hurt even the smallest inhabitant of their village. They were a kind of military force that could silently kill intruders before they had a chance to strike, before they even noticed they were about to die.
“Although they abhorred man-made metal tools of death, they studied the weapons and incorporated them into their defenses, knowing that someday they might have to fight fire with fire. They were skilled not only in hand-to-hand combat but also in swordsmanship, archery, and, of late, guns.
“And while they were a prepared force of twelve, they never saw an attack except on three occasions. The first was in 1869, when a British contractor, an arrogant man of greed who thought the ‘savage tribe’ to be nothing more than inferior simpletons, entered
their territory with the intent to mine the village. Looking to harvest precious stones that littered the rich volcanic soil, he and his team set out to round up and displace the ‘tribe,’ relocating the compliant and handling the resisters accordingly. They did not understand the Cotis or the abilities of their holy men and women. The British contractor and the bodies of his men were never found.
“The second attack on their culture came from a man of the cloth, a priest from another sect who sought to convert them all to his god, the
true
god. After being invited in amongst the Cotis people, sharing their meals and hospitality, he was told that the Cotis faith was strong. The Cotis, being a peace-loving society, voiced that there was more than enough room in the heavens and the hereafter for their gods to coexist. And with that, the foreign priest, unaccustomed to being rebuked, abruptly left. He returned days later with guns in hand to teach them of his greater god’s vengeance. His mission never heard from him again.
“The third intruder was twenty years ago, actually another group of twelve. They were military elite, a mercenary group from various European and African nations who had come to commandeer the village for a secret base of operation, a place to conduct their trade far from the eye of society. The soldiers, dressed in black, were trapped in the labyrinthine confines of the temple and urged to leave empty-handed or face the consequences of their actions. Foolishly thinking themselves superior as a result of their training, intelligence, and weaponry, the soldiers refused and continued with their demands. When they didn’t return, their loved ones were told they had been swallowed by the Asian jungle.