Infernal

5

-65:26

At the bottom Jack found himself in a dark, tiny cube of a room, maybe eight by eight. Daylight through the door above provided faint illumination. Probably should have gone back to the car for the flashlight, but hadn't wanted to waste the time. The enlarging of Vicky's mark had filled him with a desperate urgency.

He looked around. Shelves lined the space, stacked with envelopes and magazines and books of all sizes. The one he'd seen had been large, somewhere between sixteen and twenty inches on a side.

He stepped to the nearest shelf and began pulling things off it. They felt soggy—water must have seeped through and worked its way down here. He caught sight of photos in the magazines as he tossed them on the floor—naked boys. No surprise there.

He worked his way along the shelves until he came to a steel cabinet, like a fuse box. He tugged on the handle. Locked.

Well, he'd fix that.

Jack pulled his Spyderco folder from his back pocket and snapped out the blade. He worked it along the edge, wiggling and pushing until he had a third of the blade inside, just above the lock. Then he leaned against the knife, prying… prying…

The door popped open.

Blessed be the man who invented tempered steel.

Jack pulled open the door and squinted into its dim interior. Only one thing inside: a book—big like the one he'd seen Brady bring down here. Had to be the same.

But was it the book?

Jack pulled it out and hefted it. Heavy. The covers and spine seemed to be made of stamped metal. He stepped to the center of the space and held it in the shaft of light under the trapdoor.

Markings embossed on the cover… he squinted at them… looked like random squiggles at first, then they swam into focus… words… in English…

Was this what the prof had talked about… the text changing to the reader's native language?

Compendium ran across the upper half in large serif letters; and below it, half size: Srem.

Jack felt his throat constrict. He'd found it. Goddamn it, he'd found it. But was it what he needed?

He pounded up the steps to the main floor where he'd found Tom standing by the rear wall with a shocked look on his face.

"Got it!"

Tom didn't seem to hear. He clutched a couple of torn, water-stained eight-by-ten photos. He held one up and looked at Jack.

"Here's a picture of some guy with Oprah." He held up the other. "And here's the same guy with President Clinton. I know I've seen him before but I just can't place him."

Might as well tell him, Jack thought. Sooner or later it'll come to him.

"That's Luther Brady."

Tom's eyes widened. "The Luther Brady? The Dormentalist? The pedophile?"

"The same. Look—"

"The indicted-for-murder Luther Brady?"

"Yes."

And you're talking to the guy who put him there.

"This must be his place!" Tom pointed to the open trapdoor. "How did you know about that?"

"I know about a lot of things." Jack jerked his thumb toward the front door. "We're getting out of here. And you're driving."