Truth is a bitter poison
There was no sound. But it was wide open.
I walked to it and stood. I looked up the stairs.
“Hello?” I called.
Nothing.
I walked up. The door at the top was open as well. I saw the giant shrunken head. It was even creepier in the dark of night.
“Hello? Is anyone here? You left your front door open.”
Past the couches, the French doors were open as well. Beyond was a carpeted hall. Tasteful lighting. A few single doors. At the far end, another double set, but like nothing I’ve ever seen, before or since. Vault-sized. Heavy. Made of variously protruding stacked stone cubes — volcanic red obsidian — each rough-hewn and capped in a carved symbol, sort of like a Chinese character. They looked like the doors to another world.
They swung open silently, as if I’d tripped an invisible sensor. Beyond was a chamber at least twice as big as the restaurant below, both in width and in height. It extended to the far corner of the building, so it was flanked with the same floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. Only they were covered in something. Designs. And writing.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, Doctor.” The chef. Definitely his voice. Only I couldn’t see him.
I walked down the hall. “Hey, your front door’s open.”
I stopped at the threshold.
“Holy shit . . .”
The room was enormous, almost like it was bigger on the inside. There was a full-grown tree in the center, branches lush with leaves. They rose up toward a vaulted roof supported by curved iron girders. At the center of it, directly above the tree, was a small stained-glass dome decorated in colorful figures I didn’t recognize. At the base of the back wall, to my right, was a series of five brick alcoves — low archways really, not quite tall enough to stand up in — each locked behind a hinged metal gate. It looked like a Civil War–era prison. There was a single artifact secured inside each nook, except for the one at the center, which was obscured by a folding Japanese screen.
Above the squat alcoves was a three-tiered wall of books that rose straight to the ceiling. It was encased in slightly tinted glass. I’m sure it was polarized as well to keep out even faint amounts of damaging rays. I’d been in enough academic libraries in my career to know a rare book depository when I saw one. The only access was via a pair of flanking spiral staircases, one at each end — black and metal and very narrow. I’m sure the interior, which left just enough space to peruse the stacks, was climate controlled — cool and dry. The books inside were clearly old, like something out of a medieval castle. You could tell by the spines. And there were so goddamned many of them.
But the coolest thing was the lighting. Behind the books, the entire back wall glowed. I couldn’t see the glare of any bulbs. Just soft and evenly radiant panels.
I can tell you, that room is still, without a doubt, the coolest thing I have ever seen. It would take forever to describe everything inside, like the gilding on all the girders and window frames, which seemed to tell a story, like the carvings of a medieval cathedral. Or the odd and unusual trinkets that filled the gaps between the tomes. Or the artifacts sealed under glass. To my left was a man-sized terrarium hiding a rainbow of poison dart frogs — which are legitimately lethal and, it occurred to me, probably illegal to own. To my right, an entire ox was suspended from the high ceiling, hanging by its rear legs from a long golden chain. The chain was attached to a pulley on the vault girder, and it swung slightly, like an organic Foucault’s pendulum. The animal’s blood had drained from the cut in its neck into a giant metal pot underneath, and the carcass moved back and forth over it in a three-inch path. I glanced in the pot and stared at the blood, thick and dark, like liquid mystery, distilled and concentrated.
But it was the tree in the center that really commanded your attention. I couldn’t see the roots or the base, but the bark was gnarled and twisted and ashen gray. Around it stretched a semi-circular counter, like a kitchen, complete with flanking sinks and built-in cutting area and stove and everything. It was raised slightly and faced the windows, like it was a giant podium on which he conducted the city.
The doors closed behind me as my host pulled jars of dried ingredients from a rack. I was busy staring, neck craned, at the high windows. The upper panes were huge and filled with some kind of writing, like nothing I have ever seen, while the lower panes were smaller and covered in scratchy handwriting, some in English. It looked like the white board in my old microbiology lab. Only it wasn’t gridlike and organized. It swirled. The letters grew and shrank as if a madman had been using the panes for a manuscript. There wasn’t a spare inch to a height of six and a half feet — except for one small pane in the very center, directly in front of the tree, which had been replaced by a small, inward facing mirror. Directly back from it, inside the wall of books, a rainbow-feathered garment hung inside a clear glass case. It was a bulky pullover with no sleeves, like a parka made of bird of paradise plumes. Hanging directly above it it was a toothy, snarling mask, while underneath was an oval drum. Both were intricately carved, apparently from a single piece of wood. The drum’s membrane was cross-hatched in a geometric pattern that was worn at the center, presumably from long use.
“Here.” Étranger had poured the powdered ingredients he’d mixed into a leather drawstring bag. He held it out. “Taste this.”
I took it. “What is it?” I sniffed. Nothing. I inserted a finger and felt dry powder. I dabbed a little on my tongue.
I bent and wretched immediately. I spat on the man’s floor. Part of me felt bad for doing so. Part of me was angry at him for making me. I’ve never in my life tasted anything so bitter.
I coughed. “What the hell?” I gagged again.
He retrieved the bag from my hands, pulled it closed, and handed me a napkin. I squeezed the running saliva from my mouth into it and wiped my tongue on the back side. He produced a glass from under the counter and filled it in the sink. He handed it to me and I drank as much as I could before needing breath. He motioned to a stool and I sat.
“Ugh.” I swiped my tongue against the roof of my mouth and drank again. I looked at where I spat on the floor. “What the hell did I just taste?”
“Truth.”
“Truth? It tasted like poison.”
“It is. How was your meal?”
“The meal? It was excellent. Thank you.” I glanced to the floor once more. I took another drink.
“Tell me, Doctor. May I ask you a personal question?”
“You just bought me a very expensive dinner,” I said after a long series of gulps. “The way I see it, you’re entitled to second base.”
“Why are you in public health?”
I scowled. It was as odd a question as it sounds. And vaguely insulting.
“It’s an unusual choice,” he said.
“For someone with my background, you mean.”
“You disagree?”
“No. Hard to argue with that.” I finished the water.
He took the glass. “Another?”
I shook my head. “Can I ask you something?”
He parted his tattooed palms as if they were an open book.
“Why am I here?”
“You walked through the door,” he said.
“That I did.”
He placed his palms on the counter. He looked like he was deciding what to say. “You have access to resources I do not.”
I looked up at the leaves of the tree over my head. Fuck, there was a full-grown tree in there. “How did you know? About the animals?”
“The natural world penetrates even the canyons of man.” He pointed out the windows behind me, to the New York skyline in the distance.
“You already know there’s a circle. Don’t you?”
“No.” He didn’t flinch. “But I suspected. May I see?”
I reached in my bag and brought out my tablet and showed him the data I’d collected. I pointed to the missing segment in Jersey and explained the issue. I said I had been out testing my theory before dinner.
He listened intently.
“Do the words ‘Prepare the way’ mean anything to you?” I asked.
His eyes turned to mine. “What did you find?”
“Wasps.” I squinted. “And a rat carcass. Across town. Big sucker. Skinned. With a — ”
“Crown of wax,” he finished.
I nodded.
He stood straight. “Can you show me that place?” He walked around the counter and reached for a coat draped over one of the stools.
“What? Now?”
He nodded and swung the coat around him. It was remarkable — cut like a Tibetan chuban but without the padding. The two flaps of the front wrapped around each other like a robe. The top was held shut by three large buttons — one near the neck, one at the apex of the flap, and one farther down that he left unfastened. Each button was different. The top was carved metal. The one in the middle was a dollop of polished, shining amber. I couldn’t see the third. I was a little disappointed he didn’t reach for the brightly feathered pullover hanging in the middle of the wall of books, but the chuban was impressive enough. It looked well used, as if he’d worn it on repeated trips around the world. The crooks of the elbows were permanently wrinkled and the hem was the tiniest bit frayed in spots. But the coolest thing was how the dye had faded to a mottled, splotchy gray-and-white, like an early morning fog.
I looked at my watch. “It’s almost 11.”
“Are you tired?”
I wasn’t. At all. I’d been going all day. But I felt like I could work another twelve hours straight. “What the hell was in that powder?”
The stone doors swung open.
“Please.” He held out his hand. “There is not much time.”
I’m posting the chapters of my forthcoming hardboiled occult mystery in order until the book is released in early 2018. You can start here: I saw my first dead body the summer we moved to Atlanta.
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cover image by Jack T. Cole
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