The Projection Room: Forbidden Doors

By Carol Golembiewski

The strange and deadly event that occurred in the projection room at the Milwaukee Art Museum were almost a distant memory for Bruce Mallory, a talented scientist and inventor. Several years had passed and Bruce has settled into family life, but his contented existence is turned upside down when he is contacted by the new director of the museum, wanting the room reinstalled to its original site. Things become even more ominous when Agent Baker catches wind that the two stolen “Angels of Death,” paintings and their location has been uncovered as well.

A short time later, Bruce and the mysterious Agent Baker are immersed in a treacherous quest to recover Georges Bosque’s “Angels of Death” paintings. Bruce, who understands the dark power behind the artwork, has vowed to destroy the priceless paintings if he unearths them first. Meanwhile, both Bruce and Baker are aware they’re being manipulated and guided on their mission by a power within the military/intelligence echelon. Now the men must race to find the artwork before the ruthless Casper Layton and his genetically modified experimental soldiers feed his desire for revenge and release the deadly entities back into the land of the living.

In this ongoing tale of danger and vengeance, a scientist and a mysterious agent embark on a life-and-death mission to find and destroy priceless paintings before a dark power releases his evil onto the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Jul 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781458222725

Carol Golembiewski

Carol Golembiewski was born and raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, earned a degree in Art Education from Mount Mary University, and taught in both Wisconsin and Florida. Currently, she is a high school art teacher with a background in computer graphics, photography, ceramics, painting/drawing, and art history. Carol resides in Wisconsin. This is the fourth book in a series.

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Copyright © 2020 Carol Golembiewski.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-2273-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2272-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020902709

Abbott Press rev. date: 07/24/2020

Contents

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Dear Readers,

I am sorry it took so long for this one to come out, but thanks for your patience. I hope it was worth the wait.

Now, some are going to ask me, Is this the last Projection Room book? I’m going to honestly say I don’t know. There might be a five, but I make no promises. I have other books planned, and I have an idea for another series that might involve some of the characters in this series as well, so they’re not necessarily going to disappear (Yes, a spin-off! It’s very possible. There, I said it!) That’s why I introduced the character of Deuteronomy Jones, the late-night radio talk-show host in the pages of this book. I can’t say when, but something is percolating on the creative backburner at the moment of writing this.

In the meantime, hope you enjoy where this book takes you.

Carol Golembiewski

Prologue

THE DREAMS OF THE TWO came to him once more. They had been so silent all these years, all these decades. He awoke with a start. Georges had forgotten to pull down the window shade as the light from the full moon woke him up. He listened, but the only sound was the light breathing from Lillian on the other side of the bed. He winced as the light hit his deep-sleep accustomed eyes and tottered toward the window. He couldn’t help but look up at the moon as he reached for the edge of the shade. He went back to his nightstand for his glasses to take a better look at it, being that it seemed unusually large and bright. The artist in him wanted to just look and take it in. When his eyes had their fill, they caught some movement. When they refocused, he gasped. There they were, not just mere shadows, but less than solid. Their faces looked back at him—the two angels of death in the window’s reflection.

He stepped back and with a harsh whisper that bordered on a cry, No!

The malevolent one looked beyond him at Lillian sound asleep on the bed.

No, not her. You can’t come for her. Take me instead, he pleaded.

He turned when Lillian stirred and called out in her half-sleep state. Georges, who you talking to?

No one my love, you’re dreaming. Go back to sleep. His head snapped back to the window, but they were gone. All that remained was the moon instead. He looked at his normally steady hand—it was trembling, yet with it, he pulled down the shade. Almost stumbling over the edge of the rug, he returned to bed.

Are you alright? she asked, even though not fully awake.

Yes. I had forgotten to pull the shade is all. The moonlight woke me up, then played tricks with these old eyes.

The next morning seemed like all the others that blended one into the other, but it wasn’t. That very day he searched his belongings for an old sketchbook. It was his early sketches he made while recovering from his wounds during the war. It was a fateful day in which Georges made a decision that his wife did not yet know.

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Lillian Bosque placed the plate in front of Georges. He had been quiet and withdrawn of late, but this time he seemed to have gone deeper and further away.

I noticed you’ve resumed working. This is good.

He simply nodded at her comment as he looked at his food. She quickly glanced at him holding his utensils before she noticed his arm. What happened there? You cut yourself.

Just clumsy of late is all. I was stretching two large canvases and I injured myself.

She nodded in acknowledgment as she poured him more coffee and they ate in the comfortable silence of a couple that no longer had to speak of their affection.

Less than two weeks had passed and once again Lillian and Georges went about their morning breakfast routine when she noticed something. Besides Georges becoming increasingly pale, she noticed more scars on his forearm. His sleeves, which were normally rolled up as was his habit, were buttoned at the wrist. It looked out of sync with how he normally dressed. A small detail, yet after all these years it was something she noted. As she looked at his sleeves, she noticed the scars. She grabbed his arm, mostly out of alarm and concern as she pulled the sleeve up and gasped. What is this? What are you doing to yourself? This is not ‘clumsy’.

It is none of your concern. I know what I’m doing.

And what exactly are you doing—trying to slash your wrists?

No. You wouldn’t understand if I told you, so let it go. He pulled his arm from her grasp, yet showed no anger or hurt. All she noticed was a look of purpose in his eyes.

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Baker, Mallory here. I need your help at the museum right now. You’ll need to get me a team assembled. There’s a mess here—hazmat, forensic. This needs to be handled...delicately.

Bruce looked over at the two paintings once more on the easels in the projection room and then back at Noelle. She managed to stay composed and together, but he could tell from the look in her eyes that she would start to lose it-soon. He couldn’t blame her. He was wondering what was keeping him together too, other than knowing he’d have to answer questions first. He held out his hand; it definitely wasn’t steady.

They were safe, but what would happen when Baker and even Rand and his people showed up would be anyone’s guess. All he knew was that one day he’d have to figure out what had happened—what had caused this bizarre effect, and why these two paintings were the catalysts of something this strange and deadly. What did Georges Bosque do? What did he create, and why?

Baker belonged to a very covert group of agents simply known as the Sentinels. Their only function was to watch, report back and if possible, rein in possible abuses of power within the military-intelligence complex.

Bruce didn’t like Baker personally, but he trusted him. That’s why he was the first person Bruce would call. He ended the call and went back to Noelle, and grasped her hand. It was trembling, but holding hers seemed to steady his. He pulled her to himself and held her, trying to comfort her as best he could. It’s okay, we’re safe. I promise.

Her body collapsed into his, seeking the assurance and hope of his words until they all came to clean up the mess.

IT HAD BEEN MONTHS SINCE Andrew Duncan had been home. He was maybe an hour at the most from his place when the phone rang. Yeah.

Dude, I walked, fed and dropped Trouble off at your place. I think she’ll be pretty happy to see you.

His buddy was nice enough to keep his dog for him. She was a beautiful Rottweiler/Lab mix he had raised from a puppy. Trouble had been his companion since he got out of the service. When he volunteered for the program, the only thing that gave him pause was what to do with Trouble for the long months or more he’d be away. He was so grateful that Wyatt volunteered to take her. He was good with dogs, so it worked out.

It had started to get dark when he pulled into his garage. He opened the door and noticed that the smells of his garage and home were the same, but stronger, more intense. He sniffed the air, smiled and called out to Trouble through the door. He heard a welcoming yelp and the sound of hard nails clicking on the tiled kitchen floor beyond.

She would first do her joyous running in a circle as if to chase her non-existent tail, and then do one of her half-jumps until she got her customary rubs and pats as she slobbered on him. And it would have seemed that it would have been a happy reunion of dog and owner, but this time, something was different.

In the partially darkened kitchen, she started her circle and then paused to sniff the air as Andrew passed through the door. Her body went stiff and she lowered her head. To his surprise, a low and dangerous growl rose from deep within her chest.

Surprised, Andrew stopped in mid-stride. What girl? What’s wrong.

What sounded like a low growl and then roar poured from the dog as she lunged for his throat. He instinctively reacted, pushing the dog’s head violently upward with a snap. She fell to the ground—limp and dead before Andrew could even reconsider how he reacted.

He looked down a long moment at his beloved pet. Why did she do that? Why did she attack him? He reached down and patted her head. Finally, he sat by her side. His shoulders slumped defeatedly as he cradled her dead body and wept for her.

IT FELT ODD TO BE back here after the lapse of several years, but little had changed even with a new director at the Milwaukee Art Museum’s helm. The Chuholy chandelier still hung within the large white expanse below the Calatrava wings, which lead to the morning sun-lit hall leading to the rest of the museum’s permanent collection.

He half expected to see Max, the long-gone security guard turn a corner and give Geoffrey Cavanaugh a nod almost resembling a salute as he walked down the long white marble path to the older part of the museum. But both men were dead and buried now.

The new director, Derek Jameson, had called and asked for a brief meeting. Bruce reluctantly agreed to meet in his office here at the museum. He checked in at the admissions desk where a new security guard with a deep commanding voice approached and then escorted Bruce to the administration offices, which took him near some of the paintings that came alive that night all those years ago. Bruce slowed as they approached The Wood Gatherer.

Do you mind if I take a brief detour?

The guard looked at Bruce with a curious frown, but then shrugged as this guest walked off into the European Gallery for a moment without so much as a pause for his response. The guard followed behind, saying nothing. He was mildly puzzled to see Bruce standing in front of Shaving Day at the Monastery.

This painting must mean something to you, the guard commented.

Bruce smiled sadly to himself. Yes, it does. It’s like seeing an old friend you have a history with, I suppose, Bruce answered without looking back at the guard. He stood silent for a long moment before he took a deep breath and looked at his watch.

Okay, let’s go. He saw the Custodian sculpture by Duane Hanson in the distance, but he didn’t want to pay that work of art a friendly visit.

Not another word was exchanged between Bruce and the guard as he was escorted to the museum director’s office. After thanking him, the guard deposited Bruce at the administrative assistant’s station just outside of Jameson’s office. Susan, Geoffrey’s former assistant, was still there. She looked up from her computer monitor and paused a moment.

Bruce, Bruce Mallory? Is that you?

Yes Susan, it’s me.

I hardly recognized you, what with the glasses and this. She stroked her chin as she looked at his recently acquired facial hair.

Well, before I just needed the glasses for reading, now I just need them—period. And the Van Dyke? Well, Noelle suggested it. She thinks it makes me look rakish and debonair.

Hmmm. Well, that’s odd. Noelle had such good taste. Well, it definitely makes a statement.

Bruce squinted and nodded, fully aware there was an insult in there somewhere. So how are the great-grandchildren? he parried.

You know, Bruce, I’m taking a second look at Mr. Jameson’s appointment calendar and I don’t see you here. Sorry you wasted your time coming.

Yeah right, Bruce chuckled.

They just picked up where they left off several years ago. He pulled out his wallet to show her pictures of Noelle and the kids when Derek Jameson walked out of his office.

Susan, has Mr. Mallory arrived?

Yes. This is Mr. Mallory, she answered.

He locked eyes with Bruce. Oh—pleased to meet you, Mr. Mallory, he said as he extended his hand and smiled politely.

Derek Jameson looked to be in his mid-forties and was of a slighter and lankier build than Bruce. His blond hair seemed too long in the front as it seemed to fall into his face too much. Bruce assumed he wore it that way to give him a more eccentric and artsy flair, and it did.

He ushered Bruce into the office and beckoned him to sit. As he did so, he looked around Geoffrey’s old office. Instead of the wall filled with masks from a myriad of cultures, there was a decided Chinese flavor instead. Bruce guessed it was the Tang Dynasty since Noelle favored that period as well. In the corner, he made a mental note of a statue, most likely of the Tang Dynasty as well. It was a guardian figure that was created to guard the tombs of the deceased. It had a fierce, dangerous expression that stared back with bulging rage at him as it reflected in the window behind Derek Jameson. He pulled his attention away from his immediate surroundings when he realized Jameson had begun to speak.

I suppose you’re surprised that I contacted you, Mr. Mallory.

Frankly, yeah, I am. I didn’t leave on the best of terms with your board.

I’d like to speak to you about the projection room venture, the equipment and installation we acquired from you several years ago.

Bruce smiled politely, and cleared his throat, I don’t give refunds, Mr. Jameson.

Derek looked surprised and then smiled. Oh no, that’s not the issue. We’d like to put the room back into operation. You see, I looked over your paperwork and the transcript of your last meeting with our former board. It was uhh...needless to say, an interesting read. Anyway, you stipulated that you would not provide the supporting software or technical expertise as long as Bosque’s Angels of Death were still on the premises. Well, as you know, we lost those paintings en route to the Portland Cubist Exhibition not long after your departure.

Did you recover them yet? Bruce ventured.

No, and still no leads on those thefts. And now we have in storage the room tiles and such. We still have the space in our museum, but we can’t use them. We don’t want a refund, we want it back up and running so we can try to recoup some of our losses. What with losing the paintings and the room too...

Bruce took off his glasses and leaned forward. And your board is okay with working with me again?

Mr. Mallory, much of our current board is not the same group of men and women you worked with. They’re good with this decision...really.

It’s been my understanding that some of the tiles have gone missing. You’ll need to either find or replace those at your expense of course.

Of course, Mr. Mallory. The board has agreed to renegotiate your consulting and support fees too. We did contact the authorities the moment we determined some of the tiles were missing, but alas—nothing.

I’ll have to check my schedule and see if my assistant and I will be able to reconstruct...

Oh, no need, Mr. Mallory. The room is back up and is only missing your computers, software and the tiles that are missing, and of course, your genius.

Bruce hid his amusement at the comment about the museum having contacted the authorities regarding the pilfered tiles since he was pretty sure it was the authorities who had stolen them in the first place. But the room already being reassembled and waiting—that piece of information genuinely surprised him. He didn’t know if he should be pleased or annoyed and a little disturbed with this man’s presumption.

Jameson got up from his desk. I’d like to show you what we’ve done. If you’ll follow me?

Derek Jameson was out the door before Bruce knew it. He got up to follow, but that Tang guardian figure reflecting back at him from the window caught his eye again.

He wondered at that moment if perhaps they really weren’t so much guardians after all. It never dawned on him until this very moment that perhaps these images were just another culture’s version of the angels of death that gathered the souls of men for good or for ill. And another artisan, much like Georges Bosque, gave them form too.

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When Derek Jameson deposited Bruce back into the projection room within the Milwaukee Art Museum, he sensed that Bruce wanted very much to be alone. He looked around the room, reliving that night in stops and spurts. For a brief moment, he was back there when that point of light grew on the back of the tiled wall and two somethings or someones walked within that projected cone of light as they entered this world.

Jameson watched Bruce, keenly aware of his discomfort at being back here, especially back in this room.

Bruce walked over to the back wall that had a handful of tiles missing and pulled out his cell phone. Jonah—you know that operating system that’s in the vault. Bruce covered the phone with his hand and looked at Derek. I hope you don’t mind...

Oh, of course, you need to discuss something privately, I understand. I’ll be in my office, when you can, just come by and let me know if you can see us doing business or not.

Bruce smiled politely at the man, and with that Jameson left. He waited until the sounds of his footsteps had faded from hearing before resuming the conversation with his assistant. Jonah Burnham waited patiently on the other end of the call. He knew where Bruce was, and by the sound of his voice, there was a rare, grave tone. He had been Bruce’s employee since Bruce landed back in Chicago. He didn’t know the whole story about the deaths at the museum, but he had just enough of the story’s puzzle pieces to know that what Bruce was asking him to do next would be sort of a big deal.

Yeah.

I’m texting you the access code. Use it, delete it, and then I want you to hand deliver it to me at the Milwaukee Art Museum.

When?

As soon as possible. Today, but make it the second thing you do after this call.

Okay. The first thing?

Call Baker and tell him where I am and I want to talk to him right away. I’ll be waiting, so tell him not to drag his sorry ass.

Should I use those exact words?

Yep. Why not. Those exact words.

Bruce Mallory ended the call and put out his hand. It was trembling.

To burn off the anxiety he was feeling, he paced the room for what seemed like an eternity. He silenced his inner voice, wondering if then he could hear them, those two and their cold, parchment-dry lifeless whispers, but all he could sense was a very average silence instead. For that he was grateful.

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It took about two hours, but eventually Bruce heard the squeaking wheels of the cart he knew carried the computer and software that once powered this room that deadly autumn night.

Jonah turned the corner to see a grim expression on the usually grinning face of Bruce Mallory. He made a note of that rare expression before handing off the equipment.

In silence, Bruce took the handle of the cart from Jonah and started unpacking the equipment. Finally he asked, Did you get a hold of Baker? Because I haven’t heard from him yet.

Yes, and I told him that you were here, at the museum, answered Jonah.

You did? Good.

There was a long pause as Bruce continued to unwrap power cords and plug them into the back of the unit. Was he surprised? he finally asked.

Hard to say, it is Mr. Baker after all, answered Jonah.

Yeah, good point. He doesn’t show much, at least anything one would call human emotions. Bruce quickly looked around the corner, and then added, I had to check to see if he was here. It’s eerie how he seems to be right there when you’re talking about him. Have you noticed that?

Jonah chuckled slightly, Now that you mention it—yeah, I have.

They paused a long moment, half expecting Baker to show up, but—nothing. Then they looked at each other and half-chuckled. It seemed to break the tension.

Bruce spoke, "You don’t have to stick around