The Tower: Part Two

THE TOWER: PART TWO

SIMON TOYNE

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part II

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

About the Author

Also by Simon Toyne

Copyright

About the Publisher

12

Cold neon tubes tinked into life in the visitors’ centre as Pierce held the door and Franklin and Shepherd hustled in out of the weather. It was a big, rectangular space large enough to accommodate the busloads of school kids who came here every day to look at the old rockets and dream of riding them to the moon. Shepherd had been one of them once.

‘In here, gentlemen,’ Pierce said, shrugging out of his rain slicker and punching a code into a door next to the ticket desk.

His office had none of the romance of the public areas. There were no pictures on the walls of man’s extraordinary exploration in here, no forming galaxies or wonders of creation, just a framed photograph of Pierce in his State Trooper days wearing a dress uniform and looking a little more lean and a lot more mean than he did now. A coffee pot sat in the corner. The heating plate was turned off but the smell of burnt coffee still filled the room with a smoky aroma that twisted Shepherd’s gut. He hadn’t had time to eat before leaving Quantico and they hadn’t stopped anywhere on the way. Franklin didn’t seem to need food.

Pierce fitted a small key into a large filing cabinet and heaved open the bottom drawer. ‘We get crank mail here all the time, mostly reports of UFO sightings and/or conspiracy theorists and moon-landing deniers who think Hubble is NASA’s latest hoax and all the images are done in Photoshop. Most of it comes in as email but we still get some the old-fashioned way.’ He lifted a well-stuffed hanging divider out of the drawer and started sorting through it. ‘This past year it’s gone nuts. I don’t know if it’s all this weird weather we’re having, or the business in Rome that knocked the Church on its ass or what it is but something sure got the doom and damnation crowd all worked up. ’Bout eight months ago we started getting these.’ He took a clear plastic wallet out of the divider and handed it to Franklin. It was full of postcards, all variations on the same theme – old-master style paintings showing a monumental tower under construction. ‘They’re all pictures of the Tower of Babel. We got the first one in May, then a new one on the first day of every month since. We date stamp everything when it comes in so you can see what order they arrived.’

Franklin snapped his Nitrile gloves back on and carefully tipped the cards out onto the desktop. He picked one up, stared at the strange painting for a second, one stone coil inside another corkscrewing up into the clouds, then flipped it over to read the handwritten message on the back:

And the Lord came down to see the city and the tower, which the children had builded.

The words transported Shepherd straight back to the oak-panelled horror of his school where his Latin master had started each term by reading the same passage from a well-thumbed leather Bible. ‘The quote is from Genesis,’ he said, ‘the Tower of Babel story.’

‘Yep, and they were all sent directly to Dr Kinderman,’ Pierce added. ‘The postmarks are from all over but the writing looks to me like it’s the same person. I didn’t know what to make of them when they first started coming in but we keep everything on file, just in case. Each month there was a different quote, always from Genesis and always referring to the Tower of Babel. Then last month we got this.’ He pulled a single brown envelope from the file and handed it to Franklin. It too was addressed to Dr Kinderman only this time with a printed label. Franklin shook out a single sheet of folded paper and opened it to reveal a typed note:

Build not a tower into heaven for the glory of man.

Nor seek to gaze upon the face of God

For His judgement shall be upon you,

Thou Sodomite and member of the occult tribe,

And that right soon.

The servants of the Lord are watching.

You must destroy your tower

And avert your gaze from heaven

Lest your blasphemy bring destruction upon you

And upon all of the earth.

Sacrifice the tower or the faithful servants of the Lord

Shalt sacrifice you

And your blood shalt stand payment for your sins.

Novus Sancti

Franklin looked up at Pierce. ‘You report this to State PD?’

He nodded. ‘Fancy language aside it’s still a serious threat. There’s a crime reference number in the file.’

‘Novus Sancti,’ Franklin muttered. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

‘It’s Latin,’ Shepherd said, ‘it means “new holy” but by the context I would say it’s being used here as a name.’

Franklin turned back to Pierce. ‘Did the State-ies follow this up at all?’

‘They registered the complaint, told Dr Kinderman to be extra vigilant, asked me to keep them updated on any new developments.’

‘That’ll be a “No” then.’

Pierce bristled. ‘There were over four hundred murders in this state last year; they’ve barely got the manpower to investigate those, let alone divert resources to every crazy with an axe to grind.’

Franklin pointed to the fourth line. ‘What does that mean – Sodomite and member of the occult tribe – are they saying he’s a devil worshipper?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Shepherd replied. ‘“Occult” actually just means “hidden” or “secret”. It could just as easily mean he’s a freemason.’

‘What about “Sodomite”?’

Pierce cleared his throat. ‘Well that’s a reference to … Dr Kinderman was – I mean I don’t think he is now, but in the past he had …’

‘Dr Kinderman is gay,’ Shepherd cut in to put Pierce out of his misery. ‘It’s no big secret, it’s mentioned in his Wikipedia entry. When he was a student he apparently had a brief fling with some guy who outed him when his star began to rise. There was a mild bit of tabloid interest at the time but it didn’t fly very far. Dr Kinderman just made a statement confirming it and saying something like we all do foolish things when young. He also stated that for the past twenty years his only committed relationship has been with his work.’

‘That true, do you think?’ Franklin addressed the question to Pierce.

‘Who can say? What Dr Kinderman did in his own time is nothing to do with me. He certainly spent a whole lot of time here. He was always around – he practically lived here.’

‘Did he seem particularly concerned or surprised when this letter arrived?’

‘Like Merriweather said, Dr Kinderman wasn’t what you would call the conventional type. He didn’t seem scared or anything like that. He listened to what the State Trooper had to say about being careful then got straight back to work.’

‘What about religion – is Kinderman a man of faith?’

‘No, at least not that I’m aware of.’

‘And how many other people are working on this project?’

‘About forty or so.’

‘Yet they only targeted him.’

‘Dr Kinderman is the most high-profile and generally these kinds of stunts are for publicity, which is exactly why we try and play them down.’

Franklin nodded. ‘We’re going to take these away with us and run them through our labs, see if the paper or the ink talk to us at all. The guys in Kinderman’s office are also going to have to remove his hard drive so we can go through it and see if there’s anything there. Any security codes you know of that will make it easier for us to gain access would be much appreciated.’

‘Of course.’

‘You said Dr Kinderman spent most of his time here. Does he have an apartment on site?’

‘No, but he has the next best thing. He has a house in Presley Park, just the other side of the road you came in on. You could walk it in less than five minutes.’

Franklin glanced through the window at the rain-whipped night. ‘Thanks, Chief, but if it’s all the same to you I think we’ll take the car.’

13

Shepherd drove. Franklin stared ahead, facing down the stormy night and saying nothing.

Since voicing his suspicions about Shepherd’s missing two years he had barely spoken to him at all. Shepherd guessed he was sore at him for butting in on his interrogation of Merriweather too. The silence had become an almost tangible thing between them, taking on presence and weight.

When he had applied to the FBI he had counted on the gap in his record not being a problem. He had not been arrested or done anything in those missing years to put him on any of the databases they checked when screening new candidates. As far as the standard computer searches were concerned he was clean. But Franklin was a duty-hardened agent with instincts honed by years of dealing with people in all their broken forms. He’d sniffed out the shadows in his story immediately. But trust worked both ways and he didn’t know nearly enough about Franklin to risk telling him the truth.

Ahead – Turn left.

The flat voice from the sat nav punctured the silence. Shepherd reached out and tapped the screen, broadening the scale of the map until the Space Center appeared directly North of them. Proximity to Goddard had obviously been way up on Dr Kinderman’s wish list and the usual status symbols of cars and big grand houses didn’t really matter to him. As Pierce had suggested, you could probably cut through the woods and walk to Presley Park faster than Shepherd had just driven it.

Turn right in twenty metres, then you will have reached your destination.

Shepherd turned into a narrower road and headlamps swept across a row of evenly spaced houses, slightly smaller than those on the main drag.

‘There!’ Franklin pointed at a one-storey, brick-built rambler set back a little from the road. Shepherd pulled into the empty drive next to it and cut the engine.

The Kinderman residence was entirely unassuming. There was a small patch of grass in front, a tree planted in the centre and neat borders filled with utility plants that would pretty much look after themselves. There was nothing modern about it, no additions, no carport or garage. It still had the original steel and glass porch over the front door. Behind the low building a wall of tall trees surged and flowed in the wind. There were no lights on inside.

‘Let’s see if the good doctor is home.’ Franklin popped open his door and stepped into the rain. Shepherd killed the headlights and followed.

The distance from the car to the house was barely ten metres but Shepherd was more or less soaked by the time he made it to the porch. Franklin was already leaning on the doorbell, listening to its chimes echoing inside the house through the loud drumming of rain on the glass overhead. He pressed it again and they listened out, standing uncomfortably close in the slender shelter of the porch as they waited for movement inside or a light to come on behind the pebbled glass surrounding the front door.

‘Nobody home,’ Franklin said after a suitable wait. ‘Watch the street.’

He dropped down, stuck his Maglite between his teeth and started probing the lock with a pick he had taken from his pocket.

‘Shouldn’t we get a warrant first?’

‘And wake up some poor old judge on a night like this?’ The lock clicked and Franklin stood up. ‘If we find anything we’ll get a warrant, then we can find it all over again: no harm no foul.’ He swapped the pick for his gun and held the Maglite in a fist-grip so the beam shone where the barrel was pointing. Shepherd automatically did the same, months of simulations on Hogan’s Alley kicking in as adrenalin and muscle memory took over and the words of Agent Williams whispered in his head: try not to put yourself in any situation where you may have to draw this weapon.

So much for that.

Franklin took up a position by the door and gestured for Shepherd to take the other side. ‘Remember this is not a drill, Agent Shepherd. This is the house of a suspected terrorist we are entering and, though I don’t think we’ll find anyone inside, I’d rather be prepared than dead. So nice and slow, just like you were taught and do not move until you are covered.’

Shepherd got in position. Franklin reached forward, turned the handle and threw open the door in a single smooth movement.

Time stretched slow as the door swung wide revealing a yawning darkness beyond. Shepherd tensed, his pupils full wide, watching for movement. Franklin moved forward, gun first, the beam of his Maglite probing the dark in a sweep from left to right. Shepherd followed, keeping close, going right to left until the beam of his torch crossed Franklin’s in the centre of the hallway.

No one there.

They moved quickly and silently through the rest of the house – cover and move, cover and move – until they had satisfied themselves that Dr Kinderman was not here and neither was anyone else. It didn’t take them long. The house was not that big.

Franklin hit the lights and they stood in the middle of the modest living-room-slash-kitchen-slash-dining-room taking in what they had previously only glimpsed by torchlight.

If anything, the inside of Dr Kinderman’s home was even less impressive than the outside. A small oak-floored hallway led away from the front door to three others: a small bathroom, a bedroom, and some wooden stairs leading down to the basement. ‘Tell me, Agent Shepherd,’ Franklin said, ‘you ever seen inside a safe house or a terrorist cell?’

‘No, sir, I have not.’

‘Well, look around, they look exactly like this. Functional, clean, unlived in.’

‘We don’t know that he’s a terrorist.’

‘No, but the evidence is stacking up wouldn’t you say?’ He nodded at the large picture of Christ the Redeemer hanging above the fireplace, arms outstretched and looking down at the sprawling city of Rio de Janeiro. ‘Pierce didn’t think Kinderman was religious.’

‘Maybe he just likes big statues, or Brazil.’

‘Or maybe he found God on the quiet and felt so bad about sticking his telescope up the Almighty’s nose that he switched it off and ran for the hills.’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘I guess anything’s possible.’

‘I guess it is.’ Franklin pointed at the bedroom. ‘Take another look, see what you can find, I’ll check the rest.’

The bedroom was as plain as the rest of the house, the picture hanging over the neat double bed the only clue as to the person who slept there. It showed The Pillars of Creation from the Eagle Nebula, clearly a favourite image for the man who had been responsible for discovering them. Shepherd felt odd standing here, in the private space of one of his heroes. It seemed like an intrusion and his presence implied a degree of complicit agreement in Dr Kinderman’s as yet unproven guilt. He put it from his mind, swapped his gun for the blue Nitrile gloves and got to work.

The wardrobe held lots of white shirts, pressed and cleaned and still in their laundry wrapping, a few suits of the tweedy, academic kind Kinderman favoured and four pairs of identical black, wing-tipped shoes, polished and lined up on newspaper, ready to be stepped into. There was a gap where a fifth pair would fit, presumably the ones Kinderman was now wearing.

The drawers contained more clothes but no answers. There were no new death-threat letters stashed away at the back of the sock drawer, no drugs or guns or dubious pornography or bundles of money or anything else that implied a secret, dangerous life. Everything was neat, tidy and unremarkable. He finished his search and stood for a moment in the centre of the room, taking in its incredible ordinariness. It felt like Kinderman might have just stepped out for a late supper and be coming back soon. Part of him hoped he would, but the chaos of his office at Goddard told a different story. Shepherd flicked off the light and closed the door on his way out.

He found Franklin in the living room, hunkered down by the fireplace. ‘Take a look at this.’ He pointed at a fire basket containing a few logs, some sticks and several old newspapers. ‘Notice anything funny about the papers?’

Shepherd picked one up. It was a copy of the New York Post, a relatively unusual paper to find in Maryland. On the cover was a picture of a man dressed like a monk, standing on top of a dark mountain with his arms outstretched, looking just like the statue in the picture above Kinderman’s fireplace. Shepherd checked the date. The paper was eight months old. The story of the man climbing to the summit of the Citadel in the ancient city of Ruin had been more or less a front-page fixture in the spring. Recently Ruin had been in the papers again, this time because of the sudden outbreak of a viral infection that had resulted in the entire city being quarantined.

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