Page 12 of The Paid Companion

T he killer made another adjustment to the heavy iron-and-brass machine and stood back to examine his handiwork. He was so close. He had solved the last great mystery in the ancient lapidary, the one his predecessor had failed to unravel. One or two final adjustments and the device would be complete. Soon the mighty power of Jove’s Thunderbolt would be his to command.

A feverish elation flashed through him, as hot and cleansing as an alchemist’s fire. His whole being thrilled to the prospect of success.

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly dawn. He walked through the laboratory, turning down the lamps. Then he picked up the lantern and entered the crypt.

He had learned that there were two secret entrances to the laboratory. The iron cage that descended from the ancient abbey overhead was useful, but he did not like to employ it frequently because he was concerned, as his predecessor had been, that oft-repeated use would invite the curiosity of those who lived nearby.

True, most people in the vicinity feared the abbey, believing it to be haunted. But some bold person might be tempted to overcome his dread if he happened to notice a fashionably dressed gentleman coming and going from the chapel every night. Therefore the killer reserved the iron cage for those occasions when he was in a hurry.

The lost river was the safer if more tedious route for his regular nightly trips to the laboratory.

At the rear of the crypt, water lapped at the secret underground dock. He got into one of the small, shallow-bottomed boats he kept there. Balancing carefully, he set the lantern on the bow and picked up the pole.

A firm shove sent the little boat into the current of the long-lost river. The vessel floated gently in the dark, foul-smelling water. The killer was obliged to crouch now and again to avoid the ancient stone footbridges that arched overhead.

It was an eerie, unsettling journey. Although he had made the trip many times now, he did not think that he would ever become accustomed to the oppressive darkness and the foul odor. But he took a thrilling comfort in the knowledge that his predecessor had come and gone to the secret laboratory countless times along this strange route. It was all a part of his great destiny, he thought.

One of the ancient relics that littered the riverbanks came into view. The lantern light danced across a marble relief partially submerged in the mud. It depicted the scene of a strange god wearing an odd cap. The figure was shown in the act of slaying a great bull. Mithras, according to the remarks in his predecessor’s journal, the mysterious lord of a Roman cult that had once flourished in these parts.

The killer averted his gaze the way he had learned to do whenever he came upon one of the old statues. The accusing stares in those sightless eyes always made him uneasy. It was as if the old gods could see that place inside him where the strange energy that fueled his genius seethed and simmered; as if they understood that it was not entirely under his control.