The Judas Legacy: The Apocalypse Series, #1

By WM Leesman

Billionaire Thaddeus Robinson has discovered a secret to propel his business empire to world dominance – a set of Roman-era relics, cursed with an evil power to manipulate others. Robinson and his henchman, Enzo, will stop at nothing to amass the 30 mythical pieces, including murder and the kidnapping of an innocent girl.

 

The only thing standing in his way is the mother of the child, a rare coin dealer and his wife, and two students who have stumbled upon Robinson's plot.

In a race across Canada, they must save the girl and stop a megalomaniac billionaire from world domination.

 

The Order lurks in the shadows as a threat to all of their plans. The stakes are higher than ever, and the outcome is anything but certain.

 

"I really enjoyed this action - packed read. The writing flows quickly and engages the reader. Would make a great action movie."

• Language: English
• Publisher: WM Leesman
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781738898404

Book preview

THE JUDAS LEGACY

Book One in The Apocalypse Series

William Leesman

Copyright © 2023 William Leesman

All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. With the exception of historical figures, any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. All events and expressed opinions about historical figures are fictional.

Many thanks to Carole, who parsed through the final edit with a fine-tooth comb to make it better.

Any reproduction in whole or in part, or unauthorized use of the material contained within is strictly prohibited, without express written consent from the author.

ISBN: 978-1-7388984-0-4 (ebk)

ISBN: 978-1-7388984-1-1 (pbk)

This book would not have been completed without the help and support of my wife and partner, Jacki. She saw the original over 30 years ago, helped with its evolution over the years, and encouraged me to persevere to this end.

Characters

Calgary

Brad Stockman – Rare coin dealer

Dian Stockman – Brad’s spouse – Construction supervisor

Ken Stockman – Brad’s father

Toronto

Maricia Rossi – Museum curator

Garrett Brandeau – Maricia’s partner – Head curator

Grace Rossi – Maricia’s daughter

Sandeep – Asst. to Maricia

Henry Hoffman – Professor of history

Vancouver

Thaddeus Robinson- Entrepreneurial billionaire

Enzo Franconi– Robinson’s Head of security

Shaun Davis – Conspiracy podcaster

Freddie Munroe - Conspiracy podcaster

Reghan Cowan – Freddie’s girlfriend, university student

Luke and Shirley Cowan – Reghan’s parents

Constable Jennifer Peterson – RCMP officer

Guillaume Bouchard – RCMP Inspector

Erika Robinson – Thaddeus’ spouse

Joshua Robinson – Thaddeus’ son

Old is New

Vatican City, Italy

Today would be Father Francis Garibaldi’s last day as a priest, if all went as planned.

Standing at the door of the Musei Vaticani, Garibaldi looked at the scaffolding hidden behind the façade. The Vatican was determined to win a centuries-long war with the elements to preserve the ancient buildings, at the same time presenting an illusion for visitors to the Vatican. He waved a key fob taken from his roommate’s briefcase. Current technology contradicted the age of the complex, and a barely audible click allowed his entry. With no crowds, Sunday was his favorite day. His desire to be alone had become an obsession.

He stepped inside and walked the hallway, his crepe soled shoes all but silent. He welcomed the relief away from the cold breath of the Tiber River.

Garibaldi tucked his roommate’s key fob in his pocket. Father Kearney, on loan from the US, was in northern Italy studying until tomorrow. Garibaldi never understood the need to bring foreigners to work in the Vatican. A smile crossed his face.

Tomorrow the crowds would ebb and flow, but today he easily wound his way down the halls, covered bottom to top and across the arched ceiling with legacies of illustrious, long-dead artists. Rich depictions of Biblical motifs drifted past as he made his way to the Restoration Laboratory. Waving the fob again at the lab door, he strode past numerous workspaces. Pieces of art and other relics lay on each desk. Past the desks he turned and entered a small room lined with cabinets on three walls. The Vault, as it was known amongst the curators of the artifacts.

He slipped a pair of latex gloves on and opened a drawer to reveal row after row of ancient coins. Regardless of what he was about to do, he still had a respect for the items in the Vault. In the last row lay specimens from Roman times as well as others, all purchased from a Franciscan monk near Milan a few years ago. Protected by him until today.

Garibaldi took a small purple pouch from the last row and let the coin slip into his gloved hand. It was a silver piece from the King Herod era, depicting a tripod holding a ceremonial bowl and a helmet with long cheek pieces, topped by a star. An emanating warmth pulsated in his hand. He hesitated, feeling the subtle vibration circulate up his arm. It was the last time he would experience this heat. Once a curious sensation, it was now a sickening pulse he craved every day. He hoped the reward would be worth this betrayal. He shook off the guilt, put the coin back in the velvet pouch, and walked to Father Kearney’s desk.

Garibaldi placed the sack inside a clay jar, one of the pieces slated for loan to the museum in Canada. He removed a plain ceramic disc from his pocket, designed to fit imperceptibly, while hiding the small bag. Applying dabs of epoxy, he laid it atop the sack and gently held the disc down until it adhered on the edges.

✽✽✽

Garibaldi sat in his favorite Chinese restaurant, freed from his task.

He took the envelope from his coat pocket where it had been for more than three weeks. The corners were bent with the flap tearing away from the pocket. The letter inside had been unfurled and refolded many      times. The emblem of his father’s law firm taunted him.

"Dear Francis,

We regret to inform you of the death of your mother and father……"

He didn’t need to finish. The words were burned into his memory. An official notice that both his parents were killed in an unfortunate accident. The partner at the firm was terse with his words.

The small newspaper clipping he found in a local paper was less forgiving.

Sam Garibaldi, attorney for alleged Cosa nostra gang members and his wife….

It went on in true tabloid fashion. His parents had been gunned down leaving their home and the Garibaldi estate had been seized by the government. Like the letter, Francis had the contents memorized. His mother had warned him about following in his father’s footsteps and urged him to enter priesthood. He dutifully obeyed her wishes. He stared at the papers a moment longer, not focusing on the words, before refolding them back into the envelope and placing it on the table. Today he wished he had never become a priest and was able to avenge their deaths. Despite his vows, despite his faith, the pain of losing his parents seared to a core he didn’t know he had. Anger boiled like he had never known. He asked his confessor to help him ask God for forgiveness and relief from the anger he felt, to no avail.

Garibaldi stared outside where his Vespa stood with a row of motorcycles lining the narrow street. The wind had subsided enough to make the ride over bearable. He wished he had more than the small scooter to get around. After today’s mission, despite the government actions on his parent’s estate, money would not hold him back.

He would catch a late flight to Switzerland and begin his new life away from the Church. It wouldn’t miss him.

It was the Order that he wondered more about. The Order who had quietly recruited him among the others in the Archives team. They knew of his background and his willingness to walk away from the family business. Garibaldi heard whispers of others leaving the Order, but none of those had done what he was about to do, betray his vow of protection and secrecy. Every day since the letter arrived, he could see the changes in the mirror. He doubted not only himself and his faith, but the Order itself. Every time he came close to the coin, his apprehension and anger grew.

He picked up the envelope to place it in his pocket before setting it back on the table. That part of his life would be behind him.

He paid the bill, exited, and got on his bike. Via Silla with its narrowness, was busy with vehicles parked on both sides. He could see his apartment ahead, past Via Germanico, at the corner of Viale Giulo Cesare. Nearby, a driver honked at him. He looked back. A black BMW honked again. There was nowhere to go on the narrow road. He waved dismissively for the car to have patience until he turned off. It was only a little way, and they could damn well wait.

The car honked frantically, and Garibaldi glanced back again. He didn’t see the Mercedes coming across traffic. The oncoming car broadsided the Vespa, driving Garibaldi into the air and bouncing him onto the cobblestone path. A small Fiat coming the opposite way screeched as its brakes engaged. Not enough to stop it from slamming into the still-rolling priest.

The Fiat came to a rest on top of Garibaldi’s lifeless body, blood pouring onto the street. Had Garibaldi lived he might have heard the young driver scream as she pounded the steering wheel.

The BMW and Mercedes both slipped away in the aftermath of the carnage.

A Scary Surprise

Calgary, Alberta

The weather had gone from a skin blistering minus twenty-five Celsius to a bearable zero, meaning more snow. Brad didn’t mind the snow. Fluffy flakes and no wind created a nostalgia. ‘Twas the season. Or almost. The kind of snow you loved as a kid. Snow days and street hockey. Of course, those days were long past. Driving in snowy conditions was now an adult adventure that could hardly be considered fun.

He looked out his office window overlooking the traffic moving slower and slower as the snow fell. The sad sentimental feeling had grown the last few weeks. The grey sky did nothing to uplift his mood. When Brad left the international juggernaut Goldex to start his own one-man rare coin agency, he left a team of ten who called him crazy. He sank his future into his entrepreneurial spirit. He kept in touch with some of his former co-workers and he knew they would be recovering from the corporate Christmas party. Despite his surprising success, it was moments like this he wondered if he had made a mistake. Breaking out on his own was rewarding but he missed the camaraderie of the team.

Rented office space in a business centre gave him some semblance of interaction in a lonely business. It kept him focused and allowed him to meet clients safely. He stored clients' coins in a medium-sized on-site vault. He still had to navigate traffic across the river daily.

He turned and sat at his desk dialing up what might be his last call of the week.

Larry here.

Larry Wilson was one of the loyal clients who followed him from Goldex, had supported him during the early years and was the reason Brad was in Chicago when his mother passed away a month earlier. He had delayed this call longer than he should have. He needed to be able to talk without having a sense of misplaced anger. It wasn’t Larry’s fault Arleen had died. It wasn’t Larry’s fault that he was now doubting his choice of his own agency and all the time it took away from his family. Brad’s mid-west trip had a sole purpose, to purchase a 1914 Canadian 50-cent piece in mint condition for Larry. Brad’s mother dying would have happened regardless but maybe Brad would have been home to help his father get through the first hours. Brad was still working through the guilt and bitterness of being away. Maybe that was why he had been staring at the snow so long and delaying this call.

Hi Larry, Brad Stockman.

Hey, Brad, Larry responded, sorry to hear about your mom. How’re you and the family doing? The numismatic world was a dwindling arena. It hadn’t taken long for word to get to Larry about Brad’s loss.

Thanks, Larry. We’re doing ok. Brad paused only briefly, not wanting to dwell. I called to see how you like the newest addition to your collection?

That piece is so beautiful, Brad. Flawless. And the colors. Unbelievable. I can’t thank you enough for hunting that one down for me.

Great, Larry. Glad to hear it. I meant to call earlier to see, but…. you know.

No need to apologize Brad. I know it’s been tough. If there is anything Sue and I can do, let me know, eh.

Thanks Larry. I probably won’t talk with you before the holidays, so have a Merry Christmas.

You, too, Brad. You, too.

And just as suddenly, the phone call he had dreaded, was over.

He grabbed his coat and case and glanced one last time out the window before drawing the blinds. The snowflakes grew. Christmas snow, his mom called it. He looked at his watch again and realized how quickly time had flown since Chicago.

He left the office, saying goodbye to the new receptionist. In the parkade he tossed his bag onto the passenger seat of his Jeep. As he pulled away, his phone rang.

Hello, this is Brad.

Brad, where are you? His dad’s voice came through loud and anxious. Brad stopped the Jeep.

Just heading home. Why? What’s up?

Brad, you need to come to the Foothills Hospital.

The hospital? Why, what’s going on, Dad?

It’s Dian. She had an accident at work, and we have her at the Foothills. She’s in emergency.

As a site supervisor for his parents at ArKen Construction, it was likely she had been out in the snowy weather. For the second time this fall, his heart sank. What could have happened? Dian was a safety tyrant. No one was more cautious on the site than she was.

What happened? He added Foothills Hospital to the GPS and too quickly put the vehicle in gear. The tires squealed, echoing through the mostly empty parking lot.

I don’t have any other information right now.

Okay. Okay. I’m on the way.

Brad pulled into the back alley. He took a cursory glance each way and followed the GPS.

He sped up as he turned onto 16th Avenue.

✽✽✽

Brad scanned the emergency room for his dad, Ken. Groups of people everywhere. He hated the smell of the hospital. It had a distinct smell that brought up a lot of unpleasant memories of his youth. All around were people in distress, but his dad was nowhere to be seen.

He walked to the admitting desk.

Can I help you?

Yes, my wife was admitted to emergency.

Her name? She had a calming demeanor that helped.

Dian. Dian Stockman.

The nurse looked down at her computer screen, scanning the list of names.

And you’re her husband?

Yes, my name is Brad Stockman. My dad is with her.

Ah, yes, your wife came in a while ago. You can go through those doors there, she said pointing to the doors to his right. Bed 4B. The first hall on the left and about halfway down.

Brad followed the instructions and walked through the doors. Once through, the atmosphere of disappointing and long delays in the triage were replaced by frenetic yet controlled energy. Staff moved quickly, but with a calmness that belied any concerns. He turned to the left, looking for Dian. He saw the list of numbered As followed by Bs at the end. The curtain was pulled tight at 4B. He gently pulled it back, afraid of what it hid.

He was met with too much calm for an emergency. His dad stood at one side of the bed, his back pushing the curtain into the wall behind.

On the other side, stood a woman Brad assumed was the doctor, a chart in one hand and pen in the other. Between them was Dian, propped up on the bed awake, coherent, and looking every bit annoyed at being here in the first place. All three looked at him when he entered.

The doctor, a tall, fiftyish woman, her graying black hair just touching her shoulders, spoke first.

You must be Brad. I’m Doctor Forest. She didn’t offer her hand for a shake.

I am. What’s going on? He responded looking from one face to another. Are you okay? He focused on Dian.

I’m fine. A little tired. I shouldn’t even be here. I feel…fine.

Her words rang false. You didn’t just go to emergency, let alone get triaged so quickly unless it was urgent. Ken’s face betrayed the disconnect of her words.

What do you mean fine? On more than one occasion, he had told his parents similar protests. He was always fine too. Even when he wasn’t.

I just had some dizziness and a little bleeding.

Bleeding?! Brad exclaimed.

I’m pregnant, Brad. That’s all. I was going to tell you for Christmas. I feel fine now.

Brad’s emotions spun on a tilt-a-whirl. Pregnant? They were pregnant? Why were they in emergency?

I don’t understand.

I thought those words would be pretty clear. Sarcasm was her way of coping.

He looked at her. Then to the doctor with a look of questioning.

Mr. Stockman, Dian is in the first trimester of pregnancy. Unfortunately, she experienced a lot of abdominal pain, dizziness and there was some bleeding…

That word again.

… there’s a possibility of this being an ectopic pregnancy. That can occur with these symptoms.

He looked at his father for clarification, as if his dad would magically have medical-to-real world translation.

The doctor focused back on Dian.

Ectopic pregnancy is where the fertilized egg implants itself outside of the uterus. With these symptoms, it is a very real possibility, although not for certain. If it is the case, it can be a very dangerous situation. We want to be sure. We are suggesting you spend the night with us here so we can run some tests.

Brad looked at Dian. The hardness that had been there when he first arrived melted. Tears began to stream on Dian’s face. His dad left the curtained area giving Brad room to walk around and put his hand in his wife’s.

We’re pregnant? He asked, a ridiculous question now, but one that he had to blurt out.

Uh-huh, she smiled to hide the fear.

Walls Between

Greater Toronto Area, Ontario

Maricia lay awake, her eyes squeezed shut. Streetlight peeped through the blinds. She had a busy day ahead with the Vatican shipment and knew she should be more excited to get to the museum. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to move, knowing any motion might arouse Garrett.

That was the last thing she wanted. His demeanor was changing. He was secretive and distant, and lately every conversation ended with a disagreement. He was a different person than who she once thought he was.

Garrett stirred, inching closer. Maricia reached behind and tucked the blankets around her back. Garrett released an exaggerated sigh. Last night ended in yet another fight. He had insisted on being involved in the shipment, not personally, but by putting his new young assistant on her team.

Maricia saw how Garrett looked at the young woman. The same way he once looked at Maricia.

He rose and flipped the light on in the en-suite bathroom. She couldn’t ignore the brightness.

Maricia didn’t rise until she heard Garrett’s Jag roar out of the garage. Quietly, she peeked in on her stirring daughter before closing the door again.

She poured a cup of coffee as the glow from the streetlight filled the kitchen. How had she gotten here, this miserable? From a fairy tale beginning to a world of hollow living and real walls, seeping into their lives like carbon monoxide gas. Invisible and deadly until it was too late. Was she too late?

In the beginning, they were the newest power couple in the arts and museum crowd. Two curators at the Royal Ontario Museum with rising careers. He exuded a Nordic charisma that was instantly likeable. But conversations stopped when she walked into a room. Despite him standing so much taller than Maricia, she was the one people watched. A modern-day Minerva with a slightly crooked nose, the result of a wrestling match with her brother as a kid, and long black hair that gave away her Italian heritage.

Once he moved in, things steadily changed. Late nights working without explanation. He snapped when she asked about it. He blamed it on the stress of his new position at the museum. Since taking on the Head Curator position, a role many said should have gone to Maricia, his moods grew dark. Bags grew under his eyes. Conversations devolved until bitter words built walls between them. Then it was her and her daughter on one floor of the home and Garrett on another. She found herself unable to stop this snowball from going down the wrong hill. She wondered how long this would continue before one or both snapped. She didn’t want Gracie stuck in the middle.

Maricia fidgeted. She sighed, putting her cup in the sink. She wanted to throw the cup against the wall. But what would she tell Gracie? Besides, the Vatican collection was calling. Today was a big day.

Opening Ante

Lower Mainland, British Columbia

T hat my friends, is the latest on our favorite billionaire to hate, Thaddeus Robinson. The one and only, California oil baron, now hi-tech guru, and environmental genius, Shaun said into the microphone.

Freddie always had a weird feeling seeing the juxtaposition of his friend sitting in front of a green screen while the computer monitor had Shaun sitting in front of cityscape and the image of Robinson in the upper corner. He nodded and smiled at his best friend. He didn’t know how Shaun could free flow the conversation the way he did. Shaun was shy in person and a natural in front of the camera. No cue cards. No teleprompter. Just the list of questions.

This guy, who, according to our sources, Shaun continued, was a failure at everything his dad pushed him into. Now in the last few years, he strikes it big again and again. The 21st century Midas they call him on Wall Street. Sounds suspicious to us too. How does he do it, you might ask? For the answer to that and many other mysteries about Thaddeus Robinson, tune into Skeletons in the Closet next week. We have found all his secrets to success. We even have sources that know where the big man lives right here in…. Shaun’s phone rang. The buzzing stopped Shaun mid-sentence. Real life brought the shy young man back.

Um, uh, that’s all peeps.

Freddie reached over and stopped the broadcast as Shaun reached for the phone.

Hello?

Shaun paused, listening to the caller.

Yeah, this is him. Who’s calling? Uh huh. Ok. When?

Freddie crooked his head trying to listen in on what Shaun was hearing. Shaun waved frantically for Freddie to throw him a pen. Freddie tossed one over.

Shaun turned his back, frantically writing something from the caller. It all happened in less than two minutes. Shaun tucked the piece of paper in his pocket.

✽✽✽

You’re meeting who?!?

I told you. Robinson. Shaun paced in his small apartment, lit only by the glow of three computer monitors.

Robinson? Freddie’s question came again.

Yeah. The. Thaddeus. Robinson. The man himself.

Shaun peeked through the blinds at the sprawling Eagle Ridge hospital below. Freddie knew how much Shaun hated that place after the many visits to emergency, thanks to his stepfather.

Freddie’s parents didn’t know what he saw in the odd outcast. He was a popular athlete at their high school while Shaun was anything but. He was the school’s loner. Every school had at least one. Shaun was that kid. A chance meeting in the emergency room brought them together. Freddie was there for a sports injury and Shaun, for other injuries. But they both loved computer games. Shaun was leery at first, having been bullied a lot. But Freddie genuinely liked the gangly teenager. Eventually, he broke through, and their friendship grew.

You're shitting me.

No way, Freddie. That was his assistant. Isn’t that awesome?

Shaun, I…I don’t get it. Why would he want to talk with us? Nobody has interviewed him since his tantrum on TV when he tossed the table at the host. A billionaire is not watching our podcast.

You don’t know that. This is our chance.

Yes, I do.

Maybe his people watch. Maybe they got nervous that I’m going to expose his secrets. Which I am for sure now, next week.

Freddie looked at posters on the wall. Gifts to Shaun after their most popular airings. Welcome to Area 51 read one. The image of the NSA cameraman on another. The room was lined with them. But there was no poster for Thaddeus Robinson. He wasn’t one of their popular topics. Why was Shaun so caught up on him?

This one’s real Freddie. This is our chance to hit it big.

Silence hung between them.

Why meet with us?

Not us, Freddie. Shaun was quick. Me. Just me. I have to come alone. Here you ask the questions, but I’m the one with the answers. I’m the one he wants to talk with.

What?!? You can’t meet him on your own. You’ve seen pictures of him. This guy will chew you up, Shaun.

Shaun’s gaunt face flushed. It wasn’t the first time Freddie had experienced this physical response in Shaun.

Shaun, you get nervous around Reghan. How are you going to interview Robinson?

That’s different, Bro. Reghan’s a girl and you know how nervous I get around girls.

I think I should go with you.

Shaun’s wireless headset shifted on his thin, curly hair. He flipped to his Assassin’s Creed game. The avatar was frozen in mid-run. Freddie looked at the monitor too. People didn’t understand the power of these games for Shaun. But Freddie did. In them, Shaun was the hero.

I’m on to something, Freddie. Something big.

Like what?

I can’t tell you yet.

Freddie tried to interpret Shaun’s answer. He stared at the wall behind Shaun’s desk at the posters and superhero figurines.

I just don’t understand why this guy wants to talk with you Shaun.

Whatev. I’m meeting him.

You need to let me go with you.

No. Maybe you should take off, Freddie, Shaun said dryly as he pointed at the door.

✽✽✽

Shaun grabbed his coffee from the counter. Extra whipped topping, sprinkles and caramel sauce drizzled across the top. Walking to his car, he glanced up. The forecast called for a light rain in Coquitlam and possibly snow overnight. Shaun hated the snow. Forty-five minutes to get to Robinson’s place in Woodhaven, plus thirty minutes for the interview, then the drive home. He should be back before the worst of it.

Global warming, my ass, he mumbled.

He would apologize to Freddie when he got back. He couldn’t risk losing his only friend. By next week, the world would know about Robinson. He got into his old Volkswagen Beetle, grey as the sky and more than a little beat up. The tires were thin, and the upholstery was shredded at the seams. But it was paid for, and he could figure out how to fix it when it broke down. Which was often. He turned the heater on full blast, but it barely kept out the cold. The windows shook and the engine rattled, yelling out its age.

Pulling onto Guildford, he drove west. The skies tried to spit. He continued until he came to Sasamat Lake. His family had spent many summer days there, a long time ago. Summers meant extra beers. Even early in the day, beer flowed freely. Followed by drugs. He left home as a sixteen-year-old, never to return.

After skirting the lake, Shaun took the exit road as instructed. He pulled to the edge and checked his phone. A couple of calls from Freddie with one message. He hoped Freddie would get over it. A few junk emails on his personal account and more than fifty on their shared podcast email.

They could wait. Shaun wanted to catch the big fish.

Freddie might be his best friend, his only close friend, but Shaun needed to prove his value. Freddie wanted to shift away from the arcane to the political, but their viewers loved reptilian aliens hiding among us and institutions infiltrated by Satan worshipers. Why couldn’t Freddie see that?

Shaun knew there was something supernatural up with Thaddeus Robinson. His name kept popping up in theories on the dark web. No one could get that lucky with investment unicorns, never look older and all but disappear. Shaun followed the lane to the gate, rolling down his window when he saw the intercom box. A voice came through the speaker without him touching a button, making him jump.

Name? the disembodied voice asked.

Shaun Davis. I’m here to see Thaddeus Robinson, Shaun yelled over the rattle of his VW engine.

You are five minutes late, Mr. Davis. I will check if he will still see you.

Yes, I’m sorry. My car stalled, he lied. It took longer than he expected to get his setup ready. A second cell phone was prepped to record the conversation and transmit it to a remote USB.

A moment later the voice came back.

Follow the road up to the house. Do not leave the main road.

The words were demanding and terse.

The gates opened wide enough to fit his car through, and he gassed it up the drive. More than a kilometer later, the mansion came into view. Rising on a gentle hill, surrounded by trees on three sides, it was the biggest house Shaun had ever seen. Something out of a horror movie, six big Tuscan columns rose to support the overhang running the width of the house. All that was missing was moss hanging off the roof and a broken porch swing.

Several cars sat parked out front, all expensive looking. His Volkswagen was out of place next to them. He pulled up behind an Audi, shut off the engine and waited for the chugging to stop. Every day it rumbled longer than the day before. He grabbed his bag making sure he could easily access the extra phone. As he walked up to the door, second thoughts flooded him about being here alone. Ahead of schedule, the rain fell harder.

He didn’t have to knock. The door opened on cue. Shaun was sure he was facing a young, blond-haired Lurch from the Adams family.

May I take your jacket, Mr. Davis? By his accent, it sounded like the guy from the intercom.

I think I will keep it, he answered.

This way. He was led across the foyer to a room on the right. Black stone covered the area, polished to a high sheen. He could almost see his clear reflection in the floor.

Mr. Robinson will be with you shortly. He is seeing to his other guests.

The room was as much library as office. A big black desk, looking every bit as reflective as the black floor in the foyer, sat across the room. The walls were lined with books floor to ceiling, most of which looked as ancient as the desk. Certainly, no paperbacks or comics sat on the shelves, only hard cover books, most with gold embossed writing on the spines. Every size, shape, and color. He probably doesn’t even read these old books, Shaun thought. The door opened.

In lumbered Robinson, looking like his few online pictures. The man’s hermit lifestyle and unchanging appearance fed Shaun’s theories. Shaun heard Robinson was big, but in person he was much more intimidating than Shaun imagined. He was at least a foot taller than Shaun’s own five six stature. Straight blond hair