The Death Code (A Remi Laurent FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

PROLOGUE Glencairn Museum, Bryn Athyn, Pennsylvania Midnight Ted Peterson walked through the Great Hall, his shoes echoing in the darkness as he moved the beam of his flashlight around. Twenty years on the job next month and he still couldn’t get over the beauty of this place. The Great Hall was built to resemble some palatial feasting room of medieval Europe. Ted’s light played over a couple of saint statues and some centuries-old furniture of velvet and mahogany before moving up to the balcony where, along the wall, hung several different types of polearms. Ted knew the names of them all. Halberd. Glaive. Spetum. His light reached toward the ceiling, the darkness of the vast space swallowing the beam to allow only the shadowy hint of Gothic arches and wooden beams. His light moved down, running along the keen edge of a German Zweihander sword nearly as long as his own 5’8” height before moving to the graceful tripartite stained-glass windows. Ted stopped before reaching them and let out a sigh. During the day, with the light streaming through, the saints on them glowed with breathtaking color and the floor of the great hall was carpeted in a rainbow pattern. He played his light over the figures, catching a faint glimmer of the light he knew he’d see in tomorrow’s glorious sunrise, and smiled. He always made sure to be in the Great Hall at sunrise. The security guard headed out of the Great Hall, continuing his rounds. He paused at an Ottonian ivory in its glass case. It was the cover of some book from the 10th century, the volume itself long vanished, leaving only its glorious cover. A delicately carved crucifixion was framed with a border of colorful enamel and gold filigree, a masterpiece of pre-Renaissance art. The beam of his flashlight made the centuries-old ivory seem almost translucent and gleamed off the colored enamel and gold. And they called this era the Dark Ages? Ted smiled. Of the more than 8,000 objects in the museum, this was one of his favorites. Such detail! So much work and artistry had gone into it! He could give an hour-long lecture on just this piece. In fact, he could do the same with most of the objects here thanks to the years of enthusiastic reading and a few precious trips he’d managed to pay for by scrimping and saving from his meager salary. Yeah, this job paid pretty badly. At least he didn’t have a wife or kids to support. And at least his spirit, and his eyes, were rich. How couldn’t they be in this place? If only they made him a docent. He was more than qualified, except for the fact that he only had a high school education. The board of directors only cared about the piece of paper, not the person behind it. And, truth be told, he’d never been good with people. He never could think of what to say, and when he did say something, it came out all wrong. Ted Peterson felt more at home in museums than bars, more comfortable reading than socializing. He doubted he could hold an audience, even an interested one. He’d never be anything more than a watchman. Ted sighed. Oh, well. At least he got to work in a place of beauty and history. A distant crash made him turn, heart skipping a beat. It sounded like it came from the east stairway. He hurried that way, adrenaline pumping. In all his years here, he’d only had to deal with intruders once, when some kids from the local high school had broken in on a dare. They’d been so scared when he caught them that he’d spent most of the ten minutes it took the police to arrive trying to calm them down. Could it be more kids? Or maybe a real burglar this time? He felt fear, but also a protectiveness. If it was a burglar, the guy would have to reckon with Ted Peterson. Heart beating fast, he passed through the Italian Renaissance room, his light zigzagging across delicate paintings of the Virgin Mary and elaborate bronzes of Classical themes until he came to the staircase. And stopped. No one was in sight. But at the head of the stairs stood a pedestal that usually held a plaster bust of the great historian Edward Gibbon. Now the bust lay on the marble floor, shattered into a dozen pieces. Ted stood listening for a moment. Not a sound. Shining his flashlight all around and seeing no one, he tiptoed to the broken bust. Something looked strange about it. He leaned closer, blinking with confusion. The bust was hollow. He could see from a portion of the top of the head and a big chunk of one side that there had been a space inside, about the size of a paperback. “Took you long enough.” The soft whisper coming from the Italian Renaissance Room shoved his heart up to his throat and made him spin around. He took a couple of hesitant steps forward and shone his flashlight all around the room he had just passed through. No one, and no place to hide. There hadn’t been anyone when he went through just a few seconds ago, and there wasn’t anyone here now. But the voice had come from here. There was something else strange about that voice. It had sounded like a child, a young boy. A soft step behind him. Before he could turn, a strong arm pinioned both his own to his sides, and he felt the cold, keen edge of a knife set against his throat. “Sounds can be deceiving,” a hoarse voice rasped in his ear. Ted trembled, more from the voice than the strong arm or even the knife. He heard madness in that voice. “P-please,” Ted stammered. “I didn’t see your face. I can’t identify you.” “No one ever does.” “Just go. Please. I got a family.” Actually, he didn’t. No wife. No kids. A sister in another state he barely talked to. Hardly any friends even. He’d always been a bit of a recluse. That was why he volunteered for the night shift. To be alone. Comfortable. But maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe he should have tried harder. Reached out more. “Thy will be done,” the voice intoned in a rough croak. Ted Peterson felt the knife cut into his throat in a cold slice of pain. Hot blood burst out of the gaping wound. He choked on it, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come. His desperate inhalation made a sickly sucking sound through the gap in his throat. His lungs filled with blood. Ted was drowning. His legs gave out. The man let him go, and Ted fell to the floor. The only things he felt now were pain and regret. The second-to-last thing Ted Peterson saw in the light of his flashlight as it fell beside him was a pair of black boots caked with bright red mud. What was that sparkling in the mud stain? Something bright, like flecks of gold. Then his weakened eyes lowered, and the last thing he saw was the expanding pool of his own blood.