Garden of Secrets Past

THIRTY-TWO


Kingston waited for half a minute. Nothing happened. All was silent save for the occasional rustle of leaves from the beech trees whose lower branches brushed against the temple roof.

“Any joy up there?” Andrew asked in a stage whisper.

“No. When I press the wheel, nothing happens.”

“Press harder.”

“I have.”

“It’s probably stuck after all these years. Try thumping it with the heel of your hand.”

After several vigorous thumps, Kingston gave up. “Still nothing. Any other bright ideas?”

“Let me think.”

A half minute of silence passed before Kingston spoke again. “Maybe you should come up and try—I doubt you’ll be able to reach it, though.”

“Try one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a wheel, right?”

“Of course it’s a wheel.”

“Then try turning it.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

Kingston placed his spread fingers against the wheel of the chariot, on the four spokes evenly spaced around the hub, applied pressure, and turned counterclockwise. To his astonishment and relief, the wheel moved. He heard a series of muffled clicks from somewhere inside the wall. More sounds followed—grindings, scrapings, and knockings, as if some gigantic primitive clock mechanism had been activated. He looked down, eyes fixed on one of the stones below, about ten feet away. The thin ribbon of mortar around its edges was starting to crumble as it inched slowly upward. It continued to rise, as if lifted by an invisible hand, leaving a thin layer of powdery dust on the surface of the surrounding stones. Kingston half slithered and half jumped off the trough, and landed near Andrew, who appeared mesmerized by what was happening.

They looked at each other briefly, nothing more. Words seemed superfluous as they waited for the mechanism to complete its job. A minute later all movement and noise stopped, and the temple fell silent again. They moved closer to examine the result. The thick slab of stone now appeared suspended in air, its base three inches above the surface of the floor. A foul, musty odor wafted from the hole, making them cover their mouths and noses. On closer inspection they could see that the stone was supported in one corner by a thick metal rod.

“It must pivot on the rod,” said Kingston, grasping the stone in his large hands.

“Ingenious,” Andrew said admiringly.

Kingston pulled on the stone and it swiveled effortlessly, perfectly balanced on the rod. He brought it to rest clear of its original position. They moved in closer and saw a primitive wooden ladder attached to the wall of the three-foot-square opening—beyond that, pitch-black. Kneeling, Andrew turned on his Maglite and pointed it into the hole. All they could see below was a dirt floor. They looked at each other momentarily, as if to say You go first, then, without a word, Kingston bent down, gripped the rails, stepped gingerly onto the second rung of the ladder, testing its sturdiness, and glanced at Andrew before descending. “Here goes,” he said. His foot was on the next rung, supporting most of his weight, when suddenly it slipped. Immediately he knew why, cursing his stupidity. Mud from the cow pasture had wedged between the heel and sole of his shoes. He should have scraped it off. Gripping the rails with all his might, he dangled, his other foot searching for the rung. He managed to get a toe on it and found his footing.

“For Christ’s sake, be careful,” Andrew said, keeping his voice down.

Kingston glanced up at Andrew. “I’m okay.”

The words had barely left his mouth when an ominous crack and sound of wood splintering echoed in the space below. Andrew watched, helpless, as Kingston fell backward into the dark of the hole.

Andrew was already climbing down the ladder. “Are you all right? I’m coming down there,” he said.

“A bit shaken up. My ankle doesn’t feel good, though.”

Using the edge of the rungs, close to the rails, Andrew made his way carefully down and turned on his flashlight. Kingston was lying on his side by the wall, a few feet away, gripping his ankle.

“Bugger!” he said, looking up at Andrew.

Andrew knelt beside him, knowing there was little he could do other than to help alleviate the pain and make Kingston as comfortable as possible while he went to get help. “All we can do right now is to try and stabilize it and help reduce the swelling,” he said. “And don’t try to take you shoe off. That’ll make it worse.” He unzipped his parka, took off his scarf, and wrapped it tightly around Kingston’s ankle, cinching it as best he could. “That should help a bit,” he said, standing. “Just stay put, and don’t try to stand or move around. We’ll get you in a more comfortable position, then I’m going to the house to get help.”

Kingston nodded, knowing that Andrew was right. The pain was starting to set in, and he guessed that his ankle was badly sprained or even fractured. With Kingston propped against the wall with Andrew’s jacket as a pillow, Andrew ascended the ladder, leaving Kingston alone.

“Hang in there, and whatever you do, don’t try anything dumb,” he said at the top. “The cavalry’s on its way.”

For a minute or so, not wanting to use up the flashlight batteries, Kingston sat in the semidarkness of the hole, only meager starlight coming from the opening above. He now wished that it were a moonlit night. He flicked on the flashlight and shone it around. He was in a rectangular room, roughly twelve by fifteen feet, with old brick walls and a crudely plastered ceiling. Despite his pain, a hollow sensation was welling in his gut, a surge of mounting disappointment. The room was empty.

He turned the flashlight off. It doesn’t make sense, he thought. Why go to all the ridiculous trouble of keeping it such a guarded secret—the elaborate mechanism, those complicated codes? It must have been built to conceal something. It was like Howard Carter finding an empty pyramid. The obvious explanation was that it had once held a cache of some kind that had been emptied long ago. After all, the temple was built in the mid 1700s. The more he thought about it, though, the more convinced he was that he and Andrew were the first to discover the vault since it had been built. He remembered when they’d watched, spellbound, as the stone had risen, disturbing the dust of centuries, the fetid stench that had filled the air. Until proved otherwise, he would cling to that opinion.

For no reason, he shone the flashlight hastily over the space once more. He thought he saw a movement in the opening above. He fixed the light on it and left it there for a moment. He must have been wrong, he concluded, turning off the Maglite, returning to his thoughts.

He was trying to calculate how long it would take Andrew to reach the house and return with help. He would likely be intercepted by security when he got close to the house. That would speed things up, thought Kingston. He started to wonder how long it had been since Andrew had left. He mouthed the thought to himself. “Must be at least—”

His words were suspended in air. The muffled thud of a silencer was unmistakable. The bullet struck Kingston in his upper chest, slamming him hard against the wall. The flashlight rolled away out of reach. In seconds another shot followed. It passed over Kingston’s head and thudded into the soft brick wall above him.

Lying on his side on the dirt, he placed a grimy hand inside his parka against his right chest just below the shoulder. It was wet with blood. Trembling with the shock and excruciating pain, the realization that someone was trying to kill or maim him brought on a wave of nausea. He tried to turn, to look up to see who was there or what might happen next, but he couldn’t. He stared up at the wall waiting, in dread. Then he saw it. One of the bricks a few feet above him was fractured and part of the surface shattered by the impact of the second bullet. He caught a tiny glint of steel, guessing it was the edge of the bullet that was still embedded in the soft mortar. Underneath the muddy ocher of the bricks, he saw yet a different color.

Gold.