The Lost Years

23

His secret retreat was in a seemingly vacant warehouse on the far eastern side of lower Manhattan. The upper-level windows of the warehouse were boarded. The metal front door was padlocked. In order to enter and exit, he had to drive around to the back, past an old loading dock, to a set of double-wide rusted metal garage doors that to anyone passing would look sagging and broken. But when the doors were opened with a remote he kept in his car, he could drive straight forward into the cavernous cement first floor.

He had gotten out of his car and was standing there now in that vast, dust-filled, empty space. If by any horrible mishap someone else ever managed to get in there, that person would find nothing.

He walked over to the back wall, the sound of his heels echoing in the stillness. He leaned down, pushed aside a grimy electrical outlet cover, and touched a hidden button. A lift slowly descended from the ceiling. When it reached the ground, he stepped onto it, then pushed another button. Slowly as the lift rose up, he closed his eyes briefly and readied himself to return to the past. When it stopped, he took a long breath in anticipation and crossed over the threshold. He switched on the light and once again was with his treasures, the antiquities he had stolen or purchased clandestinely.

The windowless room was as vast as the one below. But that was the only similarity. In the center of the space was a carpet gloriously bright with intricate figures and designs. A couch, chairs, lamps, and end tables were grouped on it, a mini–living room amid a treasure-filled museum. Statues, paintings, wall hangings, and cabinets containing pottery and jewelry and table settings crowded every inch of space.

Immediately he began to feel the calmness that being surrounded by the past always brought to him. He was desperate to linger there but it was not possible. He could not even visit the upper two floors now.

He did allow himself to sit on the couch for just a few minutes. His glance darted from one object in his collection to the next as he feasted his eyes on the extraordinary beauty around him.

But none of it meant anything if he did not own the Joseph of Arimathea letter. Jonathan had shown it to him. He knew instantly that it was genuine. There was no possibility that it was a forgery. A letter written two thousand years ago by the Christ. It made the Magna Carta, the Constitution, and the Declaration of Independence worthless in comparison. Nothing, nothing, would or could ever be more valuable. He had to have it.

His cell phone rang. It was the prepaid kind and could not be traced to him. He only gave the number to one person, then discarded it and bought a new one as needed. “Why are you calling me?” he asked.

“It just came over the news. Kathleen has been arrested and charged with Jonathan’s murder. Isn’t that a good break for you?”

“It was utterly unnecessary for you to contact me about something I would have learned myself in a short time.” His voice was cold, but he also recognized that it showed a measure of alarm. She could not be trusted. Worse, it was clear that she had a growing sense of power over him.

He terminated the call. Then for long minutes that he could not afford to take, he considered the best way to handle the situation.

When he had thought it all through, he called her back and made an appointment to meet with her again.

Soon.