 CHAPTER 10 (section 3) copyright © 2001, S. Y. Affolee Out of curiousity, Adrian sat in his truck flipping through the photographs that Simone had taken of the professor’s office. There were a couple of odd illustrations that seemed to be engravings from several hundred years ago that depicted demons and monsters and spirits under the command of a robed figure who evidently was either the witch or wizard who commanded the summoned creatures. There was the picture of a broken seal that he could make out as one of them, a snake among a bed of black roses. The letter from the envelope was marginally more interesting. It appeared to be an invitation of some sort to come to a celebration and summoning that promised that all its members would reap the benefits of the fame and fortune that would come from obtaining the mysterious Rose. But what caught his eye was the pictures of the pamphlet written in Italian. “L'operazione del Sorto” which from his knowledge of French and Latin, he supposed it translated roughly to “The Operation of the Rose.” The first few pages appeared to be directions for the set up of the Rose and building some sort of circle where the summoned spirit was supposed to be contained as well as some sort of sacrifice that was supposed to be offered—part of controlling the spirit or demon apparently. The last couple of pages seemed to be some sort of philosophical rant about the whole meaning and purpose of the ritual. Adrian shoved the pictures back into their envelope and drove back to Simone’s apartment, confident that the information he gleaned would be of some use. Briefly, his thoughts roamed back to her expression when he had last left her. He knew his remark had been terribly unsubtle, but had he said it too soon? Had he truly scared her? His fingers involuntarily tightened on the steering wheel. More than anything, he wanted to know what she thought. He stopped at Simone’s apartment building, noticing that a gray truck with the words “Wells Brothers Repairs” painted in red on the side. He strolled to the building and took the stairs, two at a time, only to arrive at the landing to see that two older men in their underwear had been tied together and gagged. He ripped the gags off. “What happened?” “Some goons stole our clothes, that’s what,” spluttered one of the men angrily. “We were just here on a routine job to restore a window, you know?” “Yes, I know. Who were these men?” The other man shrugged. “Don’t know. Didn’t get a good look at them since they covered their faces with our hats. But they got into the apartment of a Ms. Sung. Haven’t seen them come out yet, though.” “Simone’s in there with them?” Adrian stormed to the apartment door. “Simone!” “Hey, would you mind untying us?” “I’ll call the police for you,” he said without looking back. He knocked on the door and tried the doorbell. No one anwered. He turned the doorknob and to his surprise, the door opened soundlessly. The lights were still on, but it was obvious that there had been some struggle. Papers were scattered on the floor, a lamp had been kicked over. In the kitchen, tool boxes were scattered about, but there was no indication that the window repairs had even been attempted. He noticed that on the broken window, a shred of gray fabric was clinging to a shard. So the culprits had gotten away through the window. He looked outside, but the fire escape was empty. “Simone!” he called again. No one answered. Frustrated, he slammed a fist against the kitchen counter, no caring if it hurt. Where was she? He wandered back into the living room, intending to find the phone, to call the police although he doubted any of them would do anything since most of the force was occupied with scouring for clues on Johnson’s murder. He passed a hand over his eyes, wishing he had stayed with her instead when he almost tripped on something. Looking down at his feet, he saw a man’s wallet. He picked it up seeing that it was relatively new. There was no identification in it, but there were a few bills and a receipt for a local restaurant. There was also a business card that said “Hermione’s Elanne Antiquities.” Sensing a little renewed hope and hesitant to let it slip through his fingers, he dialed the number to the museum on Simone’s phone. On the other end, he heard ringing. He waited and it continued ringing until he heard a click and an answering machine. “Hermione’s Elanne Antiquities. The museum is currently closed. Our hours are from nine to five. If you are calling about an autioned item, please leave your name and telephone number as well as which item you are inquiring about. We will get back to you as soon as possible.” He slammed the reciever back into its cradle before he heard the final beep of the answering machine. There was no one there. But that didn’t mean that the kidnappers weren’t there either. He took a few breaths to calm himself and picked up the phone again to dial the number to Martinez’s office. “Hello?” The detective drawled on the other end. “It’s me, Martinez.” “Ah, Dubois. Nice to hear your voice again. What is it?” “Simone’s gone.” “What do you mean? You asked her out and she fled? Can’t blame her.” “No, that’s no what I mean. She’s gone. Somebody...kidnapped her.” “How do you know?” “The repairmen that were supposed to come to her house? Someone ambushed them and got into her apartment.” “Geez. You’re sure about this, aren’t you? Look. I’m afraid you’ll have to handle this yourself.” “What? There’s this whole cult of crazies out there and you’re saying that I’m to handle this myself? I’m not one of them. I’m not crazy.” “I’m not saying that,” Martinez said through the phone. “It’s just that you called just as I was to leave to investigate the Johnson crime scene. The commissioner had me switched cases. I’m not happy about it, but you know what the boss says, goes.” “And the repairmen that were ambushed?” “That doesn’t sound like top priority for the department at the moment,” said the detective. “Just tell them to go to the office and file a complaint with our pencil pushers. We’ll get to it as soon as possible.” After Martinez hung up on him, he had an urge to fling the offending phone out the window. Instead, he stormed back outside and ripped the cords off the Wells brothers, furiously trying to think of a way out of the predicament. “Hey, thanks man. So when are the police getting here?” Adrian shook his head. “They told me they were too busy. You’re to go to the police department yourselves and file a complaint.” “Well, what is this world coming too?” He did not stay to hear the other man respond. He quickly ran down the stairs back to his truck. A sense of urgency propelled him to go faster. The kidnappers had not issued a ransom, but that did not mean that they even planned to. Time seemed to be critical. The late afternoon sun was slowly descending as he slammed the door of his truck and shoved the key in. It would only be about an hour or two before twilight fell. |