The Sixth Book: A New Novel

By Jason Hagemann

After being framed for his father's murder, William Nash finds himself on the run for his life, clueless about the crime or why he's become a target. His early search for answers yields almost nothing except a curiously preserved artifact and the cryptic writings of his father. Complicating things further, his ex-girlfriend Victoria, a psychiatrist who can't figure out her own psychotic attraction to danger, insists on joining him. She pushes him to dig into the darkest parts of the mystery, leading them both ever closer to the killers.

From the rugged trails surrounding the Dead Sea to an enigmatic hotel along the Nile River to the dark streets of Manhattan, they track down each new clue, constantly aware that they're being tracked as well. If there’s any hope of surviving and clearing William’s name they’ll have to decipher his father’s notes, translate an ancient text and solve his father’s murder without getting caught by the police or the mysterious cult that’s stalking them.

It's a harrowing mystery, one that began over 3,000 years ago with the death of the pharaoh Akhenaton. And while the murders have piled up over the years, William is determined to end the violence and finally unlock the secrets of The Sixth Book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Hagemann
• Release date: Nov 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310573446

Book preview

Chapter 1

Israel, the Dead Sea Basin

The Present

Don’t go out there alone.

That warning consumed Richard as he sprinted down the rocky trail. I should have listened, he thought as a dusty cliff wall whipped past him on his right, and a steep ledge loomed to his left. He was panicked, straining to hear the footsteps of his pursuer, but all he heard was the pounding of his own boots furiously crunching along the uneven path.

Richard had plenty of fears, some of which were actually rational, but his greatest was that someone else would find the pharaoh’s body first and try to destroy it. And as he fled from the unidentified Bedouin man, he was certain his fears had become reality.

Bullets of sweat started to drip into his eyes. His breathing was heavy, and he felt his lungs begin to burn. The air below sea level had a higher concentration of oxygen, which should have made it easier to breathe, but it didn’t. He couldn’t continue at that speed.

He turned his head slightly and glanced back. Nothing. He slowed his pace and kept checking behind him. He took a few more steps, turned around completely and stopped.

Dazed and chugging air, he stood there, staring back at the trail, watching for any movement, listening for any sounds. But there was nothing except a long cloud of dust settling back onto the ground, no sounds except his own labored breathing. For a moment, he felt relieved.

Then he felt like a fool.

He placed his hands on his knees and closed his eyes. His greyish-blonde hair whipped back and forth in the gusty breeze, as he mentally forced himself to calm down. He raised his right hand and rubbed the back of his neck. He then pressed down and smoothed each eyebrow, massaged each cheek twice and allowed his face to relax.

He was safe. The Bedouin man he had seen earlier in the distance was not following him. His life wasn’t in danger. His therapist had warned him that his paranoia was getting worse, and, incredibly, the neurotic man had finally been right about something.

He straightened himself up, exhaled slowly and fished out the map he had been given. He stretched it out in front of him, alternately studying it and his surroundings for several minutes before determining his location. He shook off the remnants of his panicky mood and reminded himself why he was there.

I’m close, he thought. He folded up the map and put it back in his pocket. Steady and slow now, he continued down the winding path toward the bottom of the basin.

His journey had begun that morning when his guide picked him up in Jerusalem. After a short drive to the southeast, he was dropped off at the beginning of an unmarked trail. He walked for four hours over a landscape that changed dramatically over 4.6 miles. What began as rolling hills, slowly transformed into ravines, cliffs and rocky paths, as he descended into the Dead Sea Basin. Richard had been advised, on three separate occasions, to travel with a companion, but he couldn’t fathom having anyone else present if he actually found what he’d been looking for. He had to do this alone.

He increased his pace now and caught a glimpse of the Dead Sea off to his left, its deep blue water framed by mounds of salt that looked like snow drifts from this vantage. Thousands of years ago, this land had been part of Egypt. Cleopatra even created history’s first spa just a few miles from where he stood. Most people were oblivious to ancient Egypt’s influence on modern culture. That would change soon.

The world was finally ready for this information, and he was certain that his decades of research, his alienating behavior and his excessive secrecy would all be worth it. He also enjoyed the serendipity of finding the answers here, near the Dead Sea caves, where it all began.

He paused to consult the map again. The wind was blowing harder, and the edges of the map fluttered as he tried to steady it. He spotted his destination about three miles to the south. He was on the right trail. With the map in both hands he visually traced the next stretch of his trek.

Suddenly, a violent shock of wind thrust the map out of his hands and over the ledge. He reached for it and almost took a step to chase it, but stopped immediately. The edge of the trail in front of him was a steep drop-off. The map was gone.

A flash of reflected sun caught his eye and he noticed a thin, bald man on a trail a hundred yards away with a camera pointed at him. A tourist? Out here?

But before he could process that thought, slow, steady footsteps echoed on the path behind him. Richard’s neck tensed and he jerked around to see the Bedouin man rounding a corner and coming into full view.

The bitter taste of fear flooded Richard’s blood. Familiar, but unwelcome.

The man approached slowly and seemed calm. Excuse me, sir, he said as he approached. Do you know where the main path is to the ruins of Kumran? His English was abnormally accented. He was dressed in a full-length white tunic. He wore dark sunglasses, and his head piece was wrapped tightly to protect him from the sand. Almost none of his face was exposed.

Richard said nothing. He simply stood there staring.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you, the man continued cautiously. I was just lost and out of water.

Richard was on guard. You look like you would know this area better than I would. How did you lose your way?

I look like I know this area? Next you’ll be telling me that you have an Arab friend and asking if I know him.

Richard was taken aback. Did he just make a joke? Confused, and concerned that he might be letting his paranoia control him again, he forced a laugh.

The Bedouin man continued, I am not from the area, my friend. I am meeting some others at the ruins. We are on vacation and we got separated.

Richard noticed an odd timbre to the man’s voice, almost as if the accent was being faked. He remained on guard, certain that something was wrong.

Ah. Yes, this area is more difficult than I expected, Richard said. It is easy to get lost if you don’t know where you’re going. Those ruins might be on my map, which is waiting for me on the trail below. Richard smiled cautiously, You know, I saw you a while back. I thought you might be following me.

Ha. You got me. Yes, I was following you. I was hoping that you would wind down to a main path and that, from there, I could figure out where I was.

Richard relaxed slightly and said, Ah, well, that explains it. You had me on edge. You’re welcome to walk down with me. I have an extra bottle of water in my pack here. Richard pulled off his backpack, and, as he did so, he noticed a ring on the man’s left hand. He stood motionless. A memory stirred, and images flashed through his mind as his eyes darted from side to side trying to determine if his instinct was right – that the man standing in front of him was not lost at all, that he wasn’t even a Bedouin.

Slowly, he mouthed the words, It can’t be-

A fist came at him like a flash and impacted his chin so hard he felt like his neck might snap. He stumbled backward and dropped his backpack. His back slammed into the cliff face, and a small part of him felt more secure in this position, several feet away from the edge and the perilous drop below. Richard lifted his hands, balled them up into fists, feigning that he had the skill to use them.

But his assailant was too fast, landing a freight train of a hook before throwing his knee deep into Richard’s gut. That pushed all the air out of Richard’s lungs. He doubled over and tried to wail, but he couldn’t make any sound come out. He felt a blunt force on the back of his head and went down hard onto his hands and knees, still trying to wheeze in some oxygen.

The man walked casually over to the backpack and picked it up. Finally. His voice was unaccented now, familiar. Do you know how long we’ve been searching for this scroll?

Richard didn’t respond. He lunged for the man’s legs, attempting to tackle him, but instead his chin took hit from the man’s knee. That one was the worst so far, like an anvil striking bone. He stumbled backwards into a crouching position, his feet as unsteady as his eyes.

The man lurched forward, throwing multiple punches that came like drum beats, as he worked his way between Richard and the cliff wall. The man’s head piece shifted and slipped off, revealing a familiar face. Richard forgot where he was for a moment and was too stunned to stop the next jab to his temple.

That one threw him off balance, and a powerful shove came next. It sent him hurtling backwards, feet sliding on the dusty gravel like he was on roller skates. He couldn’t stop his inertia, and he shuffled off the side of the cliff with a silent gasp.

Miraculously, he found a rocky protrusion, grabbed at it frantically and barely managed a grip. His arms went tight as the weight of his body was concentrated into the course rock beneath his fingers. His feet dangled, and he didn’t dare to look down. As he instinctively felt out the rocky cliff face with his stomach and legs, he noticed that he might have enough leverage to work his way back up.

He looked up, and the sun bore into his eyes, blinding him momentarily. He felt the adrenaline in his body surge. This is it. I can pull myself up. He felt a shadow cast on him and he looked up again. The silhouette of the man was ablaze with the halo of the sun. He saw the man’s arm reach over the ledge and begin prying his hands off of the cliff. It was over. Strangely, in this intensely dire moment, Richard’s mind became serenely clear, and he focused on the man’s ring. It was made of ivory, and the Ancient Egyptian symbol carved into it was unmistakable: a fiery circle with wings extending outward.

That image was seared into his mind as he plummeted to his death.

Chapter 2

New York City

36 hours later

Richard died on impact, triggering a series of events. The first was a text message that read: Archeologist lost footing. Scroll unaccounted for.

The man with the hooded eyes received it and knew what it really meant. We failed.

24 hours later, inside a macabre place of worship that had once been an office building basement, he found himself looking at the text message again, his deep set eyes creasing at the corners. He could still feel the frustration percolating in his blood, but now it was starting to mix with something else, with the feverish anticipation of the text’s real meaning: he had just been promoted from surveillance to trigger man.

He knelt down on one knee and fidgeted before the Egyptian statue in front of him. He closed his eyes. He needed to pray, needed to ask the gods for guidance, needed to start the ritual, but he couldn’t focus. He couldn’t get the questions out of his head.

Why hadn’t they sent him? Why hadn’t he been the one to confront Richard on the trail near the Dead Sea? Didn’t they know that he would have been successful? That he would have come back with the scroll?

It was insulting that after all of his field work that they’d given the assignment to some know-nothing rube, an amateur, a joke among the congregation, simply because of his connections. And because of that mistake, they were right back where they started. No artifact, no leads.

He stopped fidgeting and looked up into the distant eyes of the winged goddess Ma’at. Her stiff granite arms were extended, her eyes upward, as if longing to return to her place of origin, eager to leave the very earth she helped create.

Between the man and the statue sat a small marble altar with ancient hieroglyphs carved into it, writing that he didn’t understand. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the freshly stabbed offering on top of it – a brown hare, twitching every few seconds with its last signs of life.

It was quiet in the subterranean temple, except for the sound of his own breathing – steady and rhythmic, echoing off the stone walls around him like a scratchy vinyl record stuck on a silent groove. The man closed his eyes, circled his head three times and placed his left palm above the rabbit.

He spoke the words of the ritual with the same cadenced intensity that he always did. He offered the creature’s life to the goddess before him, promised his loyalty and made a single request. Then he opened his eyes and watched the hare give one final jerk, smearing its own blood with its paw before it fell deathly still on the altar.

He’d performed the ritual a thousand times before, and it still made him feel peaceful, made him feel strangely dark and strong to have that sort of power over life. There were so many things in the world that were out of his control, but not this. This ritual injected order into a world plagued by chaos.

But there was something else about the ritual that made him anxious, something about it that reminded him of his earliest childhood memory – the incident that made him the man he was today.

He was five years old, living in a small Connecticut town that looked as wholesome as a 1950’s Saturday Evening Post cover. On one particularly scorching summer’s day, his father, the only surgeon in town, brought him into the frigid air of the local hospital, led him to the OR, and forced the boy to watch him perform open heart surgery.

It never would have happened in a larger city. It never would have happened in any other hospital. And it never should have happened in front of someone so young. But it did.

He watched as the spindly patient was fitted with an endotracheal tube that pushed air in and out of his lungs. He watched as the anesthesiologist injected the man with drugs that made him lose consciousness. He watched as his father cut a long gash down the center of his chest, broke the sternum and exposed the man’s slowly spasming heart. He watched his father carve away some fatty tissue that reminded him of the color of his emphysema-plagued uncle’s kitchen walls. He watched it all, with a mix of horror and fascination. And almost an hour later, he watched the man die, right there on the operating table, just ten feet away. He was frozen in place in the wintry air of the operating room for what seemed like months, staring at the lifeless body that couldn’t be revived.

But the image that burned itself into his brain wasn’t that of the man’s lifeless body. It was the image of his father reaching into the man’s chest cavity and touching the elderly man’s heart with his gloved hands, prodding it, squeezing it, cradling it. He realized, even at that early age, that his father was important, that he held power over other men, that he had some sort of physical and emotional control over the world. He was mesmerized.

And he wanted that power too.

It was at that moment that his father transformed from being a hero into being a god. And he worshipped him from that day until his father’s death ten years later.

But when that happened, when his father died, when he lost his hero, his god, he was inconsolable, lost for months. It was all-consuming. He was struck with the painful realization that not only did he not have his father’s power over life, but his father didn’t either. No one did. It was in that moment that he lost both his idol and his innocence. He was left with a painful, dark void that would remain for almost a year.

And that’s when he met the priest, the man who would save him, the man who would supplant his father, the man who would become the god-figure he so desperately needed to feel complete again. It wasn’t long before the priest became the primary focus of his thoughts, his power like tendrils on the man’s mind, stoking a desire to please him, no matter the request.

It didn’t matter that, at the time, he had never heard of the priest’s strange, esoteric religion. What mattered was that he was a man he could worship, a man he could follow, a man who would take away his pain.

Looking up at the hallowed expression on the statue before him, the man with the hooded eyes whispered his request once more. It was a simple one.

The scroll.

It was all he wanted. The scroll would provide his far flung cult with the legitimacy he’d longed for. He would be the third most powerful man within The Order, and his rank could only improve.

He dipped his index finger in the quickly-cooling hare’s blood in front of him and placed it in his mouth. Rabbit’s blood had a salty sweet taste to it, like warm caramel. He enjoyed it. He dipped two fingers in the blood this time, coating them more thickly, and placed them in his mouth again. There was nothing like the taste of death.

He felt the sensation immediately, the palpable power of the gods coursing within him, filling him with strength and ambition, just as it always did. The heka, he knew, was in the blood.

There was an evangelical look in his eyes now. He thought again about the kill he wasn’t allowed to execute. Richard. The amateur had failed The Order. The only upside was that now his role was taking precedence.

He’d been assigned a surveillance job months ago, a task that was second nature to him. As an ex-Egyptian military officer, he was well-trained in covert operations. Bugging an apartment was a cake walk. Following a mark was easier than finding porn on the internet. And given that his target was such a self-absorbed fool, such a compulsive brooder, tailing him would be an assignment easy enough for his grandmother to handle.

He looked at his watch. Time to go. His mark would be leaving the awards ceremony momentarily and heading to his usual bar. He would be confused, easier to watch.

The man with the hooded eyes nodded to himself, knowingly. His target would lead him to the scroll. He wouldn’t have to do much. Just follow and listen.

All he had to do was follow the fool. Follow Richard’s only son – William.

Chapter 3

Manhattan

One hour later

The drizzle outside was almost thick enough to swim through. It smeared the windows of the bar with thick globby drops that pulsed to the bass of a Miles Davis tune that oozed out of unseen speakers.

William sat slumped in a sturdy wooden chair, his forearms resting on a weathered table. He wrapped a steely hand around his Old Fashioned, like it was the only thing anchoring him to this world, and exhaled slowly.

Unbelievable. The word came out as a gentle grumble, much like the thunder outside.

His right index finger began rapping against the distressed table as if beating out Morse code. He said it again, this time slower and more complicated, like a man trying to tell an entire story with one word, Un-be-liev-a-ble.

Believe it. It happened. You need proof, they have the whole thing on tape. His friend James eased into a smirk behind his black-rimmed glasses, and continued trying to dispel the melancholy permeating the air. I’m sure you could get a copy, buy some popcorn, torture yourself with it over and over. It would suit this masochistic mood you’ve been in lately.

William grunted vaguely and fell silent.

They’d been best friends since college and an unlikely team from the get go: James the outgoing socialite and William the awkward introvert. But it was just that dynamic that made them such great friends. James coaxed William out of his shell, introduced him to beautiful women, and William provided the sort of dry grounding that prevented James from overindulging.

Tonight they were at their usual spot – The Grey Owl, a small Manhattan bar in an unmarked alley, off an obscure street in Alphabet City. It bore no sign, had no address, and the only entrance was through an inconspicuous black door on the side of a brownstone.

In the 1920’s it had been a speakeasy, and it still clung to that air of secrecy and taboo with an epic desperation, as if swilling gin was only satisfying when it was forbidden. Rare absinthes and spirits lined the wall behind the bar, and the hardwood floors had that ‘just-cleaned-with-whiskey’ smell to them. There was a subtle thrill to it all, something illicit, like you were eluding the police – even though prohibition had ended almost a hundred years ago.

William’s gaze roved around and landed on the bar’s antique silvery blue wallpaper. He followed the creases up to the mottled stone ceiling and let Miles’ blue notes sink in. He took a long draw from his drink, set it down gently and looked at James.

It wasn’t a complete disaster, was it?

Define complete.

William strummed his fingers and worked himself into his best ‘don’t be an asshole’ expression. You’re not at work. Stop analyzing my speech and just level with me. Did I say anything coherent?

James wanted to tell him that it sounded like he’d resurrected a dead language, hung it up for target practice and then shot at it with a 12 gauge shot gun, but he figured his friend had suffered enough for one night. He picked up a piece of bread and chewed it while he thought. What does it really matter, anyway? It wasn’t that big of a deal. You were just stepping in for your dad at the last minute. They all know you’re not an archeologist. No one expected eloquence.

William shrugged. No one expected mindless blathering either.

And it’s not like there were that many people there.

James, there were over 500 people in the audience, one of whom is my new boss.

You’re exaggerating. It was only about a hundred.

Five rows of tables, ten deep. All of them full. 12 people standing. Five hundred and twelve people.

James swallowed, tried to mask his astonishment. That’s some quick math. I forgot who I was dealing with there for a minute. He tapped his drink with his fingers and took a different tack. What if I told that that sort of thing happens to everyone?

I don’t know. Is that what you’re going to tell me?

Stop pretending you’re smart. That’s my job. Now listen, do you know what happens when I get nervous? I use increasingly complicated words, as if over-articulating will cover for my insecurities. It usually just comes out as unintelligible gobbledygook. A guy once told me that he needed a Babel fish to understand me.

I know. I saw it happen to you once. It was hysterical.

It’s not funny, William. It’s an occupational hazard.

If only your college advisor had warned you about the dangers of going into Linguistics.

Will, listen. Imagine this – you’re on a date with someone you want to impress, you get nervous and instead of doing something normal like clamming up or spilling your drink, you start breaking out monstrous words like ‘atrabilious’ or ‘omphaloskepsis’. That’s what I did. I used those actual words, on a date. A first date no less. I sounded like a complete phony. You’re being atrabilious tonight by the way.

Well, James, I don’t know what either of those words means, but I’d gladly trade psychosomatic afflictions with you. Mine causes girls to flee. He looked at the dwindling liquor in his glass. Which is fine, I guess. I haven’t been interested in anyone since Vi-

James cut him off before he could bring up his ex-girlfriend’s name. You’ll get no sympathy on that front. You’ve heard my serial Titanic-esque love stories. The gay men in New York are not easy to court. I might go on more dates than you, but they all end with some icy tragedy.

William paused, sizing up James’ assertion. Yes, I’m afraid you have me beat there. Your love life makes Romeo and Juliet look like a sitcom. He shifted in his chair and sped up his speech, "But can we get back to the real issue here? Where is my Dad? And what possible excuse could he have for putting me in that position? Not showing up…for his own award ceremony?"

I’m sure Richard will have a perfectly reasonable excuse. He probably got delayed at an airport somewhere. Buy the man a cell phone and drag him out of the dark ages.

He likes the dark ages.

Yeah, well, that runs in your family.

William drained the rest of his glass, held it in his hands as if he might will more alcohol into it.

Why don’t we look on the bright side of all this? James shifted his tone. He leaned forward on one elbow, palm extended to William. First of all, you look great in that tux.

It was true. In spite of William’s mood, he still cut an unconventionally handsome profile.

Thank you, William shrugged.

Second, you were great up there.

You’re lying. William stared at the bottom of his glass and jostled the ice, trying to make a symmetrical pattern form.

No, I’m not. For a molecular biologist who knows nothing about archeology and had no prep time, you were incredible. He raised a hand denying any chance for an objection. Third, the only reason that everyone in that audience stared at you with such contempt was because they were all jealous that they didn’t win the award.

One side of William’s mouth curled upward. Now there, you might have a point.

And fourth, just say the word and I will hunt all of them down and beat them senseless with a 9 iron.

William softened on that one, got his ice to settle into a position that made him feel better. He felt the alcohol find his blood and banish any remaining anxiety. James Henry Sheridan, sometimes you’re about the best friend a guy could ask for. I ever tell you that?

Often. And you’re right. James flashed a subtle smile. I went to friend finishing school.

Never heard of it.

You wouldn’t. It’s very exclusive. Now… James paused, pointed his drink at William, Anything else you need to get out? Because gloomy doesn’t go with that Tom Ford suit that I lent you.

I think I’m good. I yield the remainder of my time to the gentleman in the French cuffs. William mustered up a half smile as he gestured at his friend’s more stylish tux.

The gentleman in the French cuffs accepts the time yielded to him by his friend from Connecticut and will use it to finish off the remnants of this tapenade before his friend realizes how good it is. James picked up a piece of bread and dipped it into the bowl of crushed olives, took a bite and raised his eyebrows as he chewed. He cradled the bowl as he slid it directly in front of him, his free hand forming a barrier wall in case William got any ideas.

William’s smile spread, as he heard the music change to a Ligeti etude, a piece that sounded like a gorgeously complicated algebra problem. His shoulders relaxed, and he felt his eyes loosen. William had finally settled into a less-melancholic mood and was riding it into something that approached mellowness.

What makes this place so great do you think? William asked.

James was still chewing. No one tells the tourists how to find it.

William nodded, contentment across his face. Yeah. The word came out like an exultant sigh.

But then he felt a sudden knot in his stomach, a strange sensation that traveled up his spine and pulled at the back of his head, as if someone was staring at him. His brow creased, and his gaze drifted to the back of the small room where a thick man with a solemn face and hooded eyes sat quietly looking at him. He had a simply drawn tattoo on his left forearm that looked like an eye or a sun. He wore a dark sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a still-wet, brown slicker hung on the back of his chair. There was something about the man that unnerved William, something that he could sense from all the way across the room. The man’s eyes didn’t just pierce the low light of the bar, they pierced something inside William.

That guy is staring at us. William said without moving or pointing. He felt his skin bristle.

James looked over, and the man held his stare. We’re at a dive bar in the lower east side in black tie attire. We stand out. He raised a friendly hand into the air, which was returned with an almost imperceptible nod.

William nodded as well, raised his glass to the man and tried to shake off the strange feeling that had just come over him. Where’s our next round? I’m empty, he said as he clinked the ice in his glass, and I have a vague memory of ordering something already.

My ice cubes are looking a bit lonely as well. But you know Rox. It’s her bar. She’ll serve us when she’s good and ready. He looked around, no bartender in sight. And now that you’re done wallowing in self pity, can we talk about the real mystery here? James eyed the manila envelope on the table.

William poked it gently, as if he were afraid it might explode. This? Dad said not to open it until he got here.

Yeah, but he was supposed to be here already. Seems like you’re legally bound to open it now.

You know you’re a linguist, not a lawyer, right? That’s a terrible argument.

My friend, you forget. I dated a lawyer.

So that makes you an expert?

I wouldn’t say expert. He thought for a moment. I’d say dilettante.

Definition?

One who takes up an activity merely for amusement, one who dabbles.

Ok, now, that I’d agree with. And by that reasoning you should be a dilettante in just about every topic known to man.

I think I was just insulted – or flattered, I’m not sure which, James mused. He wore his unlucky dating record like a badge of honor and enjoyed lampooning it as much as anyone.

"Well, I am curious. What profession haven’t you dated?"

James’ light brown eyes swam as he considered the question. Firemen are still on the list.

William shook his head and a smirk broke through even though he tried to suppress it. I’ll be sure to warn the local ladder squads. He picked up the 8 ½ x 11 envelope and weighed it in his hand. Dad was so cryptic about this thing. I wonder why he didn’t just bring it with him. Why does he have to be so weird and paranoid about everything?

As if anyone’s parents are sane. Your dad is stumbling through life just like the rest of us. James loosened his bowtie as he let those words sink in. Now open that thing or I will.

I don’t have a letter opener.

Yes, without a letter opener how will we ever break into that impregnable repository of…paper. Just use my butter knife.

William considered punching him, but the booze had sanded down the sharpest splinters of his mood, so he just shot him a threatening look as he tore into the envelope and emptied the contents onto the table. There was only one item – a single photograph of a piece of stone with hieroglyphs carved on it. A single phrase was written in ink on the bottom of it - Aton in Mallawi. William rotated the photo, so that both he and James could read it.

What is it? James asked.

William looked confused. An artifact from his dig site, maybe?

James looked at it carefully. Why would he send this to you?

William shrugged. The words are strange. It looks like he misspelled ‘atone,’ but Dad never misspells anything. And what would he have to atone for?

That is an odd thing for him to write to you.

Maybe he was planning on talking about it at the ceremony? Maybe it was related to his award in some way.

I don’t know. That was a lifetime achievement award. Not sure how something this specific would relate.

Can you read the symbols on it? William asked.

I can make out the individual hieroglyphs, but I’d need some reference materials to actually figure out what they mean.

And you call yourself a linguist.

You know I specialize in living languages. This one is dead, has been for millennia. I studied it back in college, but that was over a decade ago. Besides, I’m sure your dad could explain it better than I could.

William looked at the strange photograph again. There was something about it that seemed familiar, something about it that made him nervous. He stared at it, futilely trying to discern meaning from it.

He gave up, looked at James and said, I don’t like this. It’s out of character, even for Dad. He picked up the photo and slid it back into the envelope.

I’m sure he’ll clear everything up once he gets here.

Here’s hoping. William shook his head slowly. Dad’s impossible to understand.

No denying it. Richard is a mysterious man.

William glanced towards the back of the room again and noticed that the man with the hooded eyes was now reading a magazine by candlelight, or at least pretending to. And even though the man’s eyes were down, William imagined that he was still staring, still looking at him with those strange green eyes. Which reminded him of another pair of green eyes belonging to someone else entirely.

You’re right. Dad is mysterious. Even Victoria couldn’t figure him out.

And then he froze. He hadn’t meant to say it. Victoria. Her name hung in front of him like a loose thread on a sweater, daring him to pull at it.

He didn’t want to think about her, didn’t want to get swept away by that current. But trying not to reminisce about Victoria was like trying to swim across an ocean riddled with whirlpools. Eventually, he was going to get sucked in.

She ended it over a year ago, and from that moment forward the whole world seemed stale. He still loved her, couldn’t hide it, didn’t want to. He could still see her wild jade eyes when he closed his own. They were like dark green fire, burning with danger and compassion and intelligence all at once. The first time William looked into them, they pierced the fabric of reality and opened a portal to another place and time.

Victoria was a force of nature, a powerful wind that swept over you, held you and brought you along with her no matter what you’d previously planned. She was categorically different from every other woman he’d ever met, and he’d fallen for her precisely two hours and seven minutes (he’d calculated the time after the fact) after their first ‘hello,’ when she turned her psychological prowess on him, pegged him as an INTJ, and skillfully detailed his strengths and weaknesses.

Normally, this would have left him squirming. Instead, it had turned him on.

He’d loved her with a strange mix of admiration and confusion. But, he later realized, the emotion that really kept things interesting was fear. On some level he was afraid of her, and that fear made things interesting, made things exhilarating, made life feel new and fresh and bursting with possibility.

William wiped his hand across his face, rousing himself from his thoughts. There’s no algorithm for understanding women, least of all Vic.

Well, you could try to write one. If ever there were a nerd worthy of the task… James’ focus shifted suddenly, and he grinned. Oh thank God, our coping mechanisms. Hey, Roxy.

A curvaceous brunette walked up to the table carrying two pint glasses, a green and brown murkiness swirling within them. Gentlemen, this is called the kitchen sink. They both looked at her with confusion.

She set the drinks down. You said you wanted something serious. ‘Think mobster on a bender’ were your words if I remember correctly.

Yes, we said that, James nodded, remembering the first frantic moments of their arrival when he’d ordered several food and drink items at random on the bar menu.

If it’s too much of a drink for you, I can swap it out for, oh I don’t know, she looked both of them up and down, a white wine spritzer? She let the playful dig to their masculinity hang there for a moment and then said, No? Great. I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.

Oh wait, one more thing, Rox, James said. Could we get an order of the gnocchi? James gestured with his fingers, waving them over the table as he spoke, as if he might conjure the food into existence, saving Roxy the trouble. Oh and another foie gras crostino? We’re in the midst of mulling the deeper quandaries of existentialism.

You know, that’s more of a cheesy tater tot activity, she quipped. I’ll bring you a hefty order of those.

You’re the boss.

OK. I’ll put your order in, schnoodle, Roxy said, winked and walked off.

I don’t know how you eat so much and stay so trim, William said.

You know I don’t eat that much. It’s just that when I do eat, he smoothed out the air with his fingers, I eat well.

William picked up his glass and took a long sip. He winced as the alcohol struck the back of his throat. Damn, he said as he smashed his eyes shut and lifted his shoulders, I can feel it burning a hole in my esophagus.

Good. It will distract you from the hole in your pride. James raised his glass. Drink up.

William paused for a moment and worked up the courage to take another sip. He swished it in his mouth this time. Actually, I’m kinda warming up to it. Either that or my taste buds are going numb. William’s pint glass had a series of hash marks running up the side. He eyeballed his current drink level and devised a strategy to drain the liquid one-third of a hash mark with each sip.

This drink is powerful, I’ll give it that. It’s serviceable, despite its aesthetic inadequacies. James set his drink down with gravitas. And now let’s switch to the good news.

"Good news? Didn’t know that was still around. Thought that went out with acid washed jeans."

James perked up. What was that? What did you just do there? Was that a joke?

You know it was.

And a fashion joke no less.

I was emboldened by the booze, I guess. This stuff works fast.

William Nash making a fashion joke. Mark your day planners, folks. He nodded and smiled. This is good. And now, back to the good news – your new job. James lifted his swampy drink in a toast.

Oh that.

Congratulations.

Thank you. William tapped his glass against James’ and took a small sip.

Now let me tell you a little bit about your new boss, James said.

Wait. You know him? Actually never mind, that doesn’t surprise me.

We went on a date a couple years back. He lives in the West Village. Brilliant guy, bad kisser.

Well, apparently they let that slide when they made him the head of the department.

"I tried to warn