Last Writes (24 page)

The note was hand printed and as she had expected, it matched the one Erin had showed them earlier in the week—the one she claimed to have been written by her husband. It was a letter to the congregation, thanking them for everything they had done for the Powers family. It was signed “with agapé love from Rod and Erin.”

But what did it actually prove? Maybe
Rodney
had written both notes. Claudia reminded herself that even though they didn’t match the handwriting she had found in his files, without someone to authenticate those samples as Rodney’s own writing, authorship would remain inconclusive. All she knew now was that they were written by different hands.

 

The spiritual leader of the Temple of Brighter Light was leaning back in his chair, his stockinged feet resting on the desk. Hands clasped behind his head, Harold Stedman gazed at the ceiling, speaking in a low voice, words that Claudia could not hear. When he failed to respond to her knock on the open door, she wondered whether perhaps he was praying. Hesitating to interrupt, she cleared her throat. When there was still no response she called his name.

Slowly, his gaze lowered and he turned, staring as if he did not recognize her. Then his focus seemed to sharpen. He sat up straight and removed his feet from the desk. “Good afternoon, Sister Rose. Come in, please. Have a seat.” He indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk and rose. “Excuse my casualness. I was thinking about something. ‘Lost in thought,’ as they say.”

Claudia apologized for intruding and handed him the envelope. “My report is in here with the final set of handwriting samples that I’m returning to you. Kelly and I will be leaving as soon as she’s awake.”

“Are you sure Sister Brennan is going to be ready for travel? She didn’t look at all well at lunch. I think you might want to reconsider leaving today. Why don’t you stay on for another night and go in the morning, when it’s cooler and more pleasant for such a long drive? You’re quite welcome to stay here.”

She read nothing but concern in his face, and Claudia had to remind herself that Kelly had been surreptitiously drugged and hypnotized, undoubtedly on the orders of this man. It made her want to call him on it, but not wanting to arouse his suspicions she did her best to keep her tone normal. “Thank you, but we need to go. As I mentioned at lunch, I’m needed at home, and Kelly has to get ready for a trial.”

Stedman slipped the envelope she had given him into the top drawer of the desk. “As you wish. I’d like to—” The phone on his desk rang, interrupting him.

It was the only phone Claudia had seen at the Ark since the first day when she’d had to beg to use the one locked in Rita’s desk. Stedman excused himself and answered the call. After listening for a few seconds he put the caller on hold and asked Claudia to wait. He crossed the room in a few strides and opened a door in the far wall, giving her a glimpse of what appeared to be antique bedroom furniture before closing it behind him. So his office and living quarters
were
combined.

While she waited for him to return, she absorbed the Victorian craftsmanship, which was more noticeable here than in the other rooms she’d seen. It was evident in the golden oak corbels that supported the ceiling beams; in the overstuffed easy chair that had been placed before the ornate cast iron fireplace whose andirons stood empty and unused in the unbearable summer heat.

She wandered over to the window and discovered that the angle from the second floor allowed her to view a large area of the vast Ark grounds. She could see the women working in the garden and a small group of children walking together on the path. No wonder Stedman had known she’d been out there the night before. Standing at the window, even in the darkness he could have easily seen her as she left the path by the vegetable garden and entered the back door below. So much for her attempt at stealth.

The realization made her jittery with anxiety, unsure of what Stedman knew or what he thought he knew. She wished he would end his phone call so she could get the hell away from the Ark and all that it represented. To distract herself she began browsing the bookshelves that lined the office from floor to ceiling; enough books to fill a small library.

If he had read a small fraction of these volumes, Stedman must be in love with scholarship. A wide range of Bible translations filled several of the shelves. Eastern religions were heavily represented, and several were tomes from obscure denominations Claudia had never heard of. There were books on psychology, philosophy, theosophy; books about symbolism, paganism, witch-craft ; even a copy of the Satanic Bible. Whatever she felt about Harold Stedman personally, his reading materials were eclectic, to say the least.

She peered through the glass front of a barrister’s bookcase, curious to see what types of volumes Stedman found worthy of keeping under lock and key. Cracked leather bindings and ornate leather tooling told her that the books on these shelves were undeniably antiquarian. The titles were printed in gilt along the spines:
Nostradamus Quatrains, The Book of Concealed Mystery, The Key of Solomon, The Holy Writ Explained, The Egyptian Book of the Dead.

“Are you interested in ancient texts, Sister Rose?”

Claudia swung around. Fascinated by the variety of topics, she had not heard Stedman come back into the room. “Yes, of course; my field is written communication. It doesn’t matter what language or form it takes, nor how old the text, the principles for analysis are the same.”

He came over and stood beside her at the bookcase. “Do you mean to say you can analyze the inscriptions of a monk who lived hundreds of years ago? Or a scribe who lived long before Christ? You would be able to determine something about their personality?”

That strange heat she had felt emanating from him the night before was there again. She edged away, putting a few inches between them. “Oh, yes. The hieroglyphics in Egyptian tombs, for example—it’s possible to tell where one scribe leaves off and another begins; each scribe’s pictogram displays characteristics, just as writings in the romance languages do. There’s no reason why an Egyptian’s work shouldn’t tell something about his character, too.”

Stedman’s eyes were alight with interest. “I find that utterly fascinating. Let me show you something interesting.” He took a key ring from his pocket as he spoke and began sorting through the many keys until he found the one he wanted. “I think you’ll like this.”

He lowered himself to his haunches and unlocked a drawer at the bottom of the bookcase. Taking out a piece of old-looking ivory-colored satin brocade cloth bound by a length of ribbon, he held the bundle as gently as a baby. “This is a handwritten translation from the ancient
Egyptian Book of the Dead
. It’s quite old.”

Claudia stopped listening to him. This piece of immortality—history made alive through the handwriting on the page—drew her in completely. The faded, spidery notes transliterated the original text interlinearly. It brought to mind the image of an elderly translator bent over a desk, carefully deciphering and decoding each word of an ancient papyrus. She read the words to herself:

“ ‘I germinate like the plants. Physical body changes into a sahu—spiritual body . . . the soul liveth, thy body germinateth by the command of Ra himself without diminution, and without defect, like unto Ra forever and ever.’ ”

Stedman’s voice came through to her. “. . . tremendous wisdom.”

Claudia nodded, pretending to have heard what he had said. She hoped it wasn’t anything that required a response.

“The Egyptians believed in a resurrection to another kind of life,” Stedman added.

Claudia wondered whether he was drawing a parallel to the beliefs of the Temple of Brighter Light. “They believed in drinking the blood of their enemies, too,” she said. “I think you’d better have a document specialist look at this and tell you how to preserve it. You wouldn’t want to lose this. I can give you a recommendation to someone.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate it.” Stedman lovingly re-wrapped the papers in their cloth cover and tied the ribbon in a neat bow. “The written word has always mesmerized me,” he said. “I’ll admit my own handwriting isn’t the most beautiful—it’s a little bizarre, in fact—yes, I realize that. But I do love the feel of a good pen in my hand, drawing it across the page, watching the flow of ink it leaves behind. To me, it’s like sharing a truly intimate piece of oneself with the reader.”

Claudia could see why people followed him. There was something about him—
charisma
, she supposed. His air of quiet authority made you want to believe him. She nodded understanding. “At least one graphological author has compared the ductus—that’s the flow of ink from the pen—to the movement of blood in the body. The ink might be smooth or sluggish, or it might become clogged up in some areas the way blood does as it moves through the veins. The ductus symbolizes the life force, the psychic energy that drives the writer.”

Stedman was gazing at her with something like wonder. “I believe you understand that, to me, being able to actually touch these old writings is as intimate as dipping my fingers into the lifeblood of the person whose pen scratched out the words.”

Claudia looked back at him, uncomfortable with the allusion, not finding an appropriate response. He didn’t seem to notice her silence as he replaced the translated text in the drawer and locked it. “There’s something else I think might interest you,” he said. “It’s a document that I’ve never shown anyone.”

“What is it?”

“A sacred text. I think you would appreciate it for what it is, not just for what it says. It’s kept in another area of the Ark, a place where the brothers and sisters can’t access.”

His offer to let her view a special document was intriguing; especially when he seemed so excited about showing it to her. But the urgency to leave the Ark and allow the FBI to get their operation on track made her think twice. Claudia opened her mouth to decline, but Stedman held up a finger for her to wait
.
He picked up his phone and punched in a number.

“Good afternoon, Sister Elkins. How is our patient Sister Brennan doing?” He listened for a few moments, then said, “I understand. Thank you, Sister. Her friend will be over a little later to pick her up.” He rang off and said to Claudia, “She’s still trying to wake up, and Sister Elkins is about to help her take a shower, so it all works out well. By the time we return, Sister Brennan will be all ready to go.”

 

 

 

Harold Stedman led her outside, taking the worn path toward the dining hall. The vegetable garden had emptied at this hottest part of the day. He touched her arm, guiding her to turn right. They were approaching the building that Esther had identified as the bookbindery. With a jolt of surprise, Claudia realized that he was taking her close to the spot where she had hidden the night before and witnessed the appearance of the five hooded figures.

“This is a private area,” Harold Stedman told her as they crossed the gravel median and veered toward the building. “Only members of the governing board are allowed access.”

As they got closer, Claudia realized that there was an eight-foot wall along the edge of the building, not readily visible from even a few feet away, which hid the entry. As Stedman led her around the wall she was able to see how, under cover of night, it would be virtually impossible to see the narrow opening. That’s why the figures had appeared to simply materialize.

The metal door was painted the color of the building, which effectively camouflaged it. When Stedman unlocked it, the door opened with an airtight whoosh. Inside, the twenty-degree drop in air temperature raised goose bumps on Claudia’s bare arms, and she couldn’t help shivering as Stedman guided her to a sharp turn at the end of a short hallway.

Around the turn was a staircase going underground, sloping beneath low ceilings. Thick-cast aluminum fixtures overhead lit the way with amber fluorescent lights that bathed them in a yellow glow. Stedman explained that the wire-mesh covers were explosion proof.

“So this
was
originally built as a fallout shelter?” Claudia asked.

“Yes. Back in those days the spiritual light had not yet become bright enough for us to see what our true mission was. In the days of the Cold War even the Temple elders bought into the hysteria like so many others did. This shelter was built to house fifty people, and we have others on the grounds. That was shortly before I was appointed as an elder, of course. Now we have learned that the Lord God has other plans for us than to perish in nuclear war, or to burrow ourselves underground like moles. So we use the space for storage and for private meetings of the governing board.”

Claudia visualized standing before those elders and having them pronounce the verdict: excommunication. It must be terrifying for someone who had given their life to the organization to be cast out and left without a support system.

Stedman had descended halfway. He turned and saw that Claudia was hesitating at the top. “There’s nothing down here that will harm you,” he assured her. “I think you’ll find this document of some interest. Just follow me.”

“I’m coming,” she said, and was mortified to hear a tremor in her voice. The tremor was not caused by fear of Harold Stedman. He was not a large man and despite his powerful speaking voice, there was a frailty about him that led her to believe he posed no physical danger. Her hesitation was prompted by the memory of an earlier time, another staircase; one that had ended in an underground dungeon and sights she preferred to forget.

At the bottom of the staircase she found herself in an arched hallway constructed of cinder block walls. Stedman took her past several closed doors to one at the end of the hallway. He opened the door and stood aside to let her precede him.