The Memorist

Chapter 83

Thursday, May 1^st-4:16 p.m.

Thank God, Meer thought. Someone had heard her, someone who would bring help-but then the single word repeated again. Hello. And again more softly. Hello. And then she knew it was only a pitiless echo.

“Dad?” she whispered, this time not waiting for the answer. “I need to get help… I’m only leaving you for a little while…it’s the only way… I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can…”

She didn’t realize it at first but she was using the same words her father had used when she’d had her accident in Central Park, twenty-two years ago. After the impact with the speeding cyclist sent her flying into the air, her father was there when she came to, leaning over her, telling her not to move, that he needed to get help. Meer could still remember how warm his tears were as they fell on her cheeks. “I need to get help,” he’d said. “I’m only leaving you for a little while…it’s the only way… I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can…sweetheart…I promise.”

“I need to get help,” she said once more. Even though his eyes were closed, he nodded and the corners of his mouth almost lifted into a smile. And then he sighed, and in that one exhalation of breath she felt a vibration that engulfed her and calmed her and gave her courage.

Stepping into the cool void that stank of dampness, mold and rot Meer started climbing. In the paltry light that filtered down from cracks in the ceiling, she slipped on the stone steps and broke through spiderwebs that brushed her face. Reaching the top she found herself in a small chamber with no discernible exit.

The grate in the ceiling was a cruel tease. It was not only too high for her to reach, it was too high for anyone to reach. It couldn’t be the exit she’d come this far to find. Except there didn’t seem to be any other egress. What reason would the Memorists have had to protect the exit to this passageway if it didn’t lead somewhere?

Inspecting each of the surrounding stone walls, she brushed away years of dirt and broke her nails digging in the crevices, looking for something like the keyhole down below in the Society’s vault room.

It wasn’t until she worked her way to the third wall that her efforts proved productive. Under the filth were crude markings: circles with squares in them and squares cut on a diagonal to imply triangles. Staring at the runes, trying to make sense out of them, Meer noticed one that wasn’t a symbol drawn on the stone but an actual rusted iron ring: a handle protruding from the rock.

The metal’s rough edges ripped at her skin and cut her flesh as she tried to turn it but it remained frozen in place. How many years had it been since anyone had used it? She tried again but her hands were bleeding so much her skin slipped on the metal and she couldn’t get a good enough grip. Taking off her jacket she wrapped it around the ring and made another effort, twisting her whole body this time, feeling something in her back protesting but ignoring it, and this time she managed to turn the handle slightly. Gripping it more tightly, she made another effort and managed to turn it a full 180 degrees. The tired hinge gave and the door opened into yet one more crypt and Meer was overwhelmed by frustration. Like the nesting Russian dolls that her father had once brought home from a trip to find a Torah, this mystery seemed to have led to nowhere but a smaller crypt.

Narrow bands of leaded windows at eye level let in what looked like daylight. Looking around in disgust all she saw was the detritus of another catacomb: more bones and skulls, tumbled together like refuse, filling the space, leftovers of lives long past. And then she noticed a shadow on the opposite wall. Something had to be casting it. Stepping forward, she tripped and fell. Her stomach churned as she felt bones crunch beneath her.

The shadow led her to a false wall with a staircase behind it. It was an easy climb; dry and less steep. Only a dozen steps and she reached a door that swung out…easily this time. Warm air, imbued with the scent of resin, enveloped her. Stunned, Meer looked around.

The cathedral’s tall ceiling soared above her. Colored light streaming down from the elaborate stained glass windows fell at her feet. Hearing the murmur of voices, Meer spun around and found two priests talking quietly beside a confessional booth.

Running toward them, the words spilled out of her in a rush. “I need help.”