A KEEPER OF RELICS
A Thriller Novel by
Jeff Provine
Chapter 2
The knock sounded six times. The first thud was loud and dull, and the pounding became louder and more foreboding with each strike. After the sixth bang, an unearthly silence filled the air.
Jack tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry. The best he could do was gag himself a little. He could only imagine what was on the other side of that door. It had filled the monk with enough fear to leap out a third-story window. The parchment in Jack’s hand crinkled under nervous fingers.
He paused and blinked. He was beginning to believe the monk. With a snort, he told himself, “Wait, that old man was crazy.”
He made another snort of laughter at his fears and stuffed the parchment into his pocket. Clearing his dry throat with a cough, he walked across the fire-scarred carpet. His white-painted door had been locked for the evening with the chain drawn, the bolt locked, and even the little switch turned so the knob was stiff. Jack did not live in any fear of his neighbors; he just liked to be left alone when he watched television. The last thing he had wanted tonight was someone asking for a cup of sugar or, even worse, a monk on fire bursting through the window.
Jack leaned toward the eyehole and peered. There was a man outside, distorted and twisted in the lens of the eyepiece. He was wearing a gray suit with a red silk shirt underneath, looking like someone in a tax bracket that would never come to such an apartment. Jack pressed his face against the door for a better look, and his cheek suddenly stung as if a bee had gotten him. He leaped back and hissed, pressing his hands against his face. The door was hot.
“This is a weird night,” Jack muttered, rubbing the burn on his cheek. He was beginning to look forward to the next time he could complain of boredom.
Jack looked back at the unopened door. A thousand plans ran through his mind, everything from pretending not to be home to bribing the man just to go away. Jack shook the busy thoughts from his mind and let out a long, slow breath. He told himself, “I’ll just see what he wants.”
Jack pulled back the bolt and twisted the switch to free the knob. His eyes rested on the chain for a moment, and he decided to leave it in place. As he grabbed the knob, it proved to be as hot as the rest of the door. He let go of it, rubbed his scorched hand on his jeans, and then opened the door quickly before it burned him again.
As soon as the knob was turned, the door swung out from the wall. The chain caught it with a thump, and Jack took a step backward. A horrid breeze flowed through the crack, hot and dry with a foul tinge of spoiled eggs. Jack’s eyes watered. Blinking the tears away, he slowly peeked out of the crack.
The man in the suit stood silently on the other side. His skin was pale and ashen, as if he were anemic to the point of death. He had pale hair, brighter than blonde but not quite pure white. His gray suit looked to be tailor-made, and the red shirt beneath was silken. He was twisting his right cufflink with his left hand as he gazed toward the door with black, gloom-filled eyes.
“Um, hello?” Jack finally forced himself to say.
The man’s dark eyes stared at him. After a long, slow beat of silence, the man spoke. His voice was harsh and low, as if he rarely spoke. “Where is the monk?”
Jack swallowed. He could understand why a monk would be running from a guy like this, and a strange urge to protect the fleeing man came over him. At the same time, he felt a stronger urge to protect himself. He decided to stall. “Who are you?”
The man lowered his hands and clutched them into fists. “I am one searching for the monk.”
“Everybody’s vague tonight,” Jack mumbled to himself. He bit his tongue and decided nervous humor was not the best tactic. Narrowing his eyes at the man, he asked, “What’s with the monk?”
“I am searching for him,” the man said. “Help me, and you will be greatly rewarded.”
Jack blinked. “What kind of reward?”
The man slowly reached his hand into his coat’s inside pocket. When he pulled it out again, he had a clip thick with green bills.
Jack’s jaw dropped. The outermost bill bore the image of Benjamin Franklin, looking smug amidst the “100” symbols around him. If the rest of the wad were hundreds, the suited man was carrying thousands of dollars. Thousands of dollars he was now offering Jack.
Something seemed to whisper in Jack’s ear about all he could do with that money. He could pay rent for the rest of the year and take a sabbatical, or he could get a massive entertainment center, or maybe both. Or he could get a sweet car, find a girl…
Jack gasped and shattered the tapestry of thoughts filling his mind. No one honest would offer that much money just to find someone, let alone an old monk frightened out of his mind.
“Listen, buddy,” Jack found himself saying, “I don’t need your money. And if it’s dirty money, I don’t want it.”
The man smiled a demon’s grin of gray teeth. “You can have anything your heart wishes.”
Jack edged back with confusion. Again, something began summoning desires in his mind, but he made a cynical laugh against them. Rolling his eyes, he laughed at the man. “That’s it. You’re as much of a psycho as the monk.”
The man in the gray suit stopped smiling, and Jack slapped the door to close it. Just before the door hit the frame, an ashen hand leaped out, catching the chain in a tight fist.
“Hey!” was all Jack could shout. Taking a step back, he said, “I’m going to call the cops!”
There was no response from the man in the hall. All Jack could see was the gray hand grasping the chain, muscles tightening and dark veins swelling. There was a soft hiss, and wave of heat like an open oven flew at Jack’s face. Slowly, between the squeezed fingers, hot, liquid metal began to drip.
Jack took two more steps back and found that he could not breathe. He gagged and spat before he could finally inhale. When he breathed, he choked against the sharp smell of burning metal and sulfur. Pressing a hand against his nose, he struggled to keep his pants dry.
After a second more of burning, the chain snapped, and the door flung open. The man stared wide-eyed at Jack from the hall. He lowered his fist and opened it, letting ashes and red bits of metal fall onto the carpet. Little fires sprang up wherever they dropped.
“The monk,” the man said, his voice almost growling.
Jack took several more steps backward, until his legs bumped into the edge of the couch. He was too terrified to explain anything.
The man moved his head, leaving his dead eyes in place in his skull as he looked around the small apartment. Jack followed his gaze, watching the man take in the broken glass, scorch marks, and overturned cup. Jack looked at the broken window, wondering just how far the monk had gone. He hoped it was enough of a head start, since now it was time to save himself.
“Okay!” Jack shouted. “I’ll tell you what you want to know!”
“The monk,” the man repeated, turning his gaze back to Jack. Jack leaned backward fearfully over the armrest. “Is he here?”
“No! He jumped out the window just before you got here!” Jack forced a chuckle. “So, um, how about that reward?”
The man squeezed his fists. “Your reward will be your life.”
Jack nodded fervently. He could be content with that.
“Now,” the man said, letting his fists loose again. “What did the monk tell you?”
“He…,” Jack began, but his teeth were chattering. He swallowed and forced them to stop. Squeezing more tears out of his eyes from the sharp stink of brimstone, he said, “He was just some maniac talking about running from ‘them’.”
“Did he mention the Treasury?” the man demanded.
Jack frowned. “No, nothing about a treasury.”
“Nothing!” the man shouted.
Jack jumped. “But, he did say something about relics!”
The man seemed to calm down again. “Yes. Where are they?”
“He didn’t say,” Jack said.
The stench of sulfur seemed to become sharper, and the man took a heavy step toward Jack.
“I don’t know!” Jack screamed.
He tried to back away from the man again and fell onto the couch. The parchment crinkled in his pocket, reminding Jack of the map. He gasped at it, wondering what to do. Something seemed to be urging him to give it away, but the monk’s words rang in his ears, “Promise that you will guard it with your very life.”
Jack inhaled as a sudden courage filled him. The fearful thoughts in his mind faded out, squealing one final demand that he give the map away to protect himself. Jack scooted along the couch, backing away and trying to think of an escape route, until his hand met with something cool and hard on the far side.
It was the handle of his favorite golf club, a five-iron his father had given to him when they had played a father-son tournament. The club was the closest thing he had to a most prized possession. He thought it fitting to save him now and smirked. He let his fingers tighten around the grip, ready to swing.
The man took another step toward him, and Jack straightened himself. Already he could imagine swinging the club up left-handed, out of eyesight until it was too late for his attacker. He would have to do it in one fluid motion, like something out of an action movie.
“What do you know of the relics?” the man asked, his voice echoing with dead rage.
“I don’t know anything,” Jack said, forcing his eyes to narrow. “And don’t come any closer!”
The man took a step toward him.
With a mighty battle cry, Jack swung the club. He flung himself around at the waist and pushed with his shoulder, just as he had done with many swings of the club. His aim was perfect. The heavy end of the club would strike somewhere around the man’s temple, most likely knocking him out or at least stunning him enough for Jack to make an escape.
Instead, it stopped dead halfway toward its target, jerking Jack around by his arm to keep it from being pulled out of socket. He flinched and looked up from his twisted position. The man had caught the club with inhuman strength. His fist tightened around the shaft. A hissing sound began as the metal around his fist glowed bright red.
“No!” Jack screamed.
Harsh heat poured from around the man’s fist, and Jack let go of the club’s handle.
The club fell in two pieces. Jack stared in shock at his lost club. The man’s reddish shadow grew over the broken club, and Jack remembered that his life was in danger.
“I will ask you one final time,” the man said, the demonic echoes changing to a gravely grinding, “what do you know of the relics?”
“I-I,” Jack began, but could not go on. His sensation of courage had disappeared. Pulling himself deep into the couch for protection, he said, “I don’t know anything!”
The man squinted his dead eyes. “You are too pure for lies.”
Behind him, Jack’s television suddenly exploded in a fireball. Jack threw his arms over his face in protection as more heat and the foul stench of burning grew harsher. He peeked up again to see more broken glass covering the floor and melted plastic dripping over the scorched wood of the table where the TV had been. Bright flames began spreading along the far wall.
“My TV!” Jack shouted. His books and action figure collection on the bookcases on the wall were quickly becoming engulfed in flames.
Jack felt panic well up in him, and he began to pant harsh, shallow breaths. He was powerless against the monster before him. Shoving a hand into his pocket, he pulled out the parchment.
“The old man gave me a map!” Jack shouted. “I don’t know anything about it. I didn’t even open it! All I know is that he said it’s about the relics.”
The man seemed to step backward. His black eyes stared down at the brown paper with its waxen seal. He narrowed his gaze and then looked at Jack.
“Give me the map,” the man said. He extended his gray-skinned hand toward Jack.
“I, um, I’ll let you look at it,” Jack said, fiddling with shaking fingers on the seal.
“Give it to me!” the man repeated. The shout was like thunder.
“I can’t!” Jack told him. “I promised the monk to keep it! To guard it with my life!”
The man blinked his black eyes. “Very well.”
Jack licked heat-chapped lips. Maybe he had found a sense of honor in the suited man.
The man pulled his extended hand back and made a tight fist. His dark veins throbbed under the pressure of his grip. “If you must guard the map with your life, then I shall take both from you.”
Jack gasped and pulled the map close to his chest. The man’s hand seemed to burst into flames, glowing so brightly that Jack could not look at it. He reeled his fist back and then swung forward. Jack reached for something, anything, to save him.
He gripped one of the couch cushions and held it up like a shield. Jack felt the shove as the fist struck it. Heat surged from around the sides of the cushion as fire crackled.
Gritting his teeth, Jack shoved, pushing the cushion as hard as he could. The weight on the other side seemed to give way, and Jack added the force of a jump into the shove. He leaped off the couch, tackling the suited man to the floor. The suited man cried out in a language Jack had never heard and struggled under him.
Fire seemed to be everywhere now, and Jack was sweating from more than just terror. The hottest flames leaped up from under Jack, where the man seemed to be engulfed in fire. The cushion was protecting Jack for the moment, but he could already feel its spongy material becoming hot cinders.
Jack jumped to his feet, kicking the suited man beneath the cushion. The map fluttered from his chest in the hot air, and he caught it in his right hand. The air was getting smoky, and it was hard for Jack to see anything between the gray haze and bright flames. There was a dull roar from the fires around the room, sending Jack into mad deafness.
The man flung the flaming cushion off his body and sat up. Jack gasped and kneed him in the chest with all his might. The man grunted and fell back with a thud. Without pausing to check the man’s condition, Jack turned and ran down the short hallway between his bedroom and the bathroom. He jumped into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
It was then that Jack realized the bathroom did not have any windows. He had trapped himself in his own apartment with a fire-wielding madman on the other side of a flammable wooden door. His bedroom would not have been any better, since the only escape would have been an insane jump out the window. He kicked himself for not running over the fallen man and out the open door to the hall.
A demonic growl came from the living room, shaking the closed door like thunder. Dark smoke began to pour from under the door. Jack nervously stepped back, clutching the map to his chest. Pounding stomps began to sound, and Jack counted the few strides that would be between him and death.
He stepped back again, bumping into the edge of the tub and falling backward. Throwing his hands out wildly, he dropped the map and grabbed at things at random. His right hand caught the shower curtain, tearing it from the plastic rings with dull snaps. His left hand fumbled against grimy tiles that he had been meaning to clean. Finally, he caught the cold knob, turning it full blast. The rest of his body tumbled until he was lying sideways in the bathtub.
After a metallic squeal from the pipes, a torrent of icy water struck Jack in the face. He squeezed his eyes shut and spat, scrambling to get away from the cold. When he finally sat up, he was soaked from head to waist. Water dripped down from his hair, and he rubbed his face to brush away the chilling stream. Jack cleared his vision just in time to see the door explode inward.
The door struck the wall, leaving holes in the plaster. Its hinges snapped and it fell to the ground, clattering against the sink before breaking in two. A hot gust of wind blew, tossing the map up from the floor and back into Jack’s hand. What once was the far side of the door was smoldering char. The gaping doorway above it was a wall of gray smoke with the shadow of the suited man.
The man’s black eyes pulsed with darkness as he stepped over the broken door. “The map.”
Jack clutched the parchment in his hand and sat frozen.
“Your final chance has passed,” the man told him. He raised a flaming fist and cocked it behind him.
Jack stared up at the raised fireball. It was supposed to be a normal night, and now he was about to meet his end at the hands of a pyromaniac with magic powers. There was nothing he could do, nowhere to hide, nothing to protect him. He was totally powerless.
He cowered back into the shower, diving backward into the cold torrent. Not knowing what else to do, he shouted, “Oh, God, don’t let me die!”
The man’s fist raced at him, striking the cold water falling from the showerhead. As the water hit the fire, steam mixed with smoke, adding to the haze in front of Jack’s eyes. The shadow of the fist hit him, and he was shoved painfully into the tile wall behind him. Jack gasped, sucking in droplets of water, and imagined that the fireball had gone completely through his chest.
As he continued to breathe, however, he realized that he was still alive. He looked down at the wound, which was nothing more than a little mark of ashes on his soaked t-shirt. The man was standing back, howling and holding his hand as if it had been broken. Jack puzzled over what had happened, finally deciding that when the fist had hit the water, it must have put out the fires, leaving him mortal.
The man roared a deep, howling cry. Little flames leaped up from his shoulders, and then more fires started around the bathroom, scarring the mirror, leaping out of the cabinets, and torching all of the mismatched towels Jack had collected. Under the cold, clean water, holding the map in his hands, Jack was safe.
The man growled. “Your god will not always protect you.”
Jack was so delighted to be alive, he merely laughed in response.
A sudden shrill beep began ringing above the dull roar of fires. The man hissed at the noise and looked over his shoulder. Jack blinked and realized it was the fire alarms in the hall, finally picking up the billowing smoke. Screaming voices and loud slams of doors resounded.
The man hissed again and fled into the gray smoke. He became a shadow in the haze and paused to scream, “I will have the map!”
Then he was gone.
Jack slumped low in the tub beneath the raining coldness. His breathing was harsh and weak from the smoke, but he was just glad to be able to take a breath.
“Thank goodness,” Jack said, wheezing.
After a few breaths, Jack remembered he was in the middle of a burning apartment. With a vicious cough to clear soot from his lungs, he tucked the parchment beneath his t-shirt and dove out of the shower. Everything was a bright blur, his personal possessions turning to ash and smoke.
As he ducked through the heat and smoke, Jack imagined he was lucky to be alive, if he could just keep it that way.