“The cryptex hasn’t been seen for centuries, but back at the turn of the last century, a group of millionaires and antiquarians who called themselves the Cryptex Club collected clues to its whereabouts. Some of these were ancient objects like the Gorizia dodecahedron.
Others were bits of medieval manuscript. They got close to finding the cryptex, but something stopped them. No one knows exactly what...
The Chosen One drove with the window open, breathing in the rich smells of the New England forest. His eyes felt heavy and gritty from lack of sleep. His gut protested at the several cups of coffee he had downed during his brief rest stops as he drove in a winding route. His legs and lower back felt stiff from driving for so many hours. His neck was beginning to ache too. And yet he felt content. He was doing the Lord’s work. And what a place to do it in! Ever since leaving the Glencairn Museum with the Gorizia dodecahedron, the Chosen One had spent the last two days driving around some of the oldest churches of the land. He had headed through eastern Pennsylvania, then north and east to cut through the southern Hudson Valley before moving due east into Connecticut and then north into Massachusetts. Avoiding the highways, he took the winding two-lane county roads through villages and isolated farmland. He stopped only for gas, or to sit and pray in the old colonial churches of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, sacred relics of a time when this had been a Godly land. While time was of the essence in the great work he had been commanded to do, his meandering path was necessary. First, it calmed him. The old sacred places always calmed him, cleared his mind and strengthened his faith. He knew he was a weak vessel. After the last two sacrifices he needed to bolster his will, and nowhere did he feel closer to God than in some fine old wooden building whose walls had echoed with prayers for centuries. His large detour served a worldy purpose as well. At his stops at gas stations, he would make sure to park where his license plate was clearly visible to the camera, and he would go inside to make some small purchase or other, where in the brightly lit interior his face would be recognizable on the camera. There were those who would stop him, those who saw his liberation of the ancient secrets as theft, and his sacrifices as murder. Unwitting tools of Satan. He must fool them all. So he drove and prayed, prayed and drove. He was a Godly man, a pure man. All his impurity had been washed away through prayer, meditation, and shedding the blood of the unbelievers. And once he had been purified, he had been rewarded with a revelation. The sun dipped down behind the trees, twinkling through the thick foliage. With night coming on, his body betrayed him. He let out a wide yawn. He slammed his fist into his forehead three times. The weakness of the flesh! After all his efforts, his flesh remained weak! The throbbing pain in his forehead kept him awake and alert as he drove on. A sign told him Washington, D.C., was still 150 miles down the road. Once he made it, he’d find a motel. Too late in the evening to get started this night. These things took preparation. Thought. One should not rush the work of the Lord. For to fail would lead to damnation. So he wouldn’t break in tonight. He’d find a motel, sleep the sleep of the just, and tomorrow he’d continue on to the museum. He’d walk through the building when it was open to get a better look at it and break in once it had closed for the night. In the rapidly dimming light of dusk, he spotted a hitchhiker up ahead, walking along the verge close to the line of trees. He’d seen many on his marathon multi-state journey and had passed by them all. Something about this one made him look twice. The hitchhiker looked significantly older than the driver’s forty years. Maybe in his fifties or sixties. Wiry and bent, with a salt and pepper beard reaching halfway to his stomach, he carried a large backpack as he walked down the side of the highway with his thumb extended. On the back of the backpack was painted a large white cross. That was what had caught the Chosen One’s attention. That and the fact that they were far from any town. “A Godly man in the wilderness,” the Chosen One said to himself, his voice coming out hoarse. He slowed as he passed the hitchhiker and pulled off on the shoulder. In his sideview mirror he saw the man grin and trot up to him. “Where are you going?” the Chosen One croaked. “D.C.” “The Lord has smiled on you. So am I. Throw your pack over the seat into the back. Just be careful not to hit the dummy.” The hitchhiker knelt on the passenger seat and pushed his backpack over into the back, which was half filled with toolboxes and more than a hundred books stored neatly in milk crates. In a large, padded box, open at the top, lay a remarkably realistic three-foot-high dummy. It looked like a young boy, with shorts and a little button-down shirt, a happy smile, wide blue eyes, and a cowlick on his painted blonde hair. Only its skin looked unreal. It was gold. The hitchhiker stared at it a moment before closing the door and buckling up. The driver hit the accelerator and sped down the two-lane road. No cars were in sight. “Thanks for picking me up. With it getting dark I was praying I wouldn’t have to spend the night in the woods.” “You a Godly man?” the driver asked in his croaking voice. “Yes, I am. Saved at a service at Yahweh Evangelical Church in Carson City, Nevada, thirty years ago. Been on the straight and narrow ever since.” “Hallelujah.” The driver picked up speed. They were a bit southeast of Allentown, passing through state game lands. No houses here, nor farmland. A sign gave directions for Lake Nockamixon State Park. “When were you saved?” the hitchhiker asked. “Fifteen years ago. I wasted my life before then. God granted me the chance to turn my life around after he saved me from dying of an overdose.” The hitchhiker made a face. “I used to dabble in that stuff before I saw the light.” “I was in it pretty badly. Smoking heroin.” The hitchhiker looked at him. “I thought people injected heroin.” “Most people do. I didn’t like needles. I was afraid of blood back then. So I smoked it. It ruined my voice.” “Sorry to hear that.” “It’s all right.” The driver made a ghost of a smile. His muscles, unused to the expression, felt stiff. “I have someone else to speak for me.” A chirpy child’s voice came from the back of the van. “Praise the Lord. When I grow up, I’m going to be a soldier for Christ.” The hitchhiker looked over his shoulder, and not seeing anyone back there, he looked at the dummy and then back at the driver, grinning. “I was about to ask if that was a ventriloquist dummy. That was amazing. How did your voice come out so clear?” “One of the Lord’s many miracles,” the driver said in his own hoarse whisper, “When I throw my voice it comes out as clear and pure as when I was a boy.” “You do shows?” “Yes, I offer my services to Sunday schools all over the land. The children love that little dummy.” The ventriloquist’s dummy started to sing. “Jesus loves me this I know, because the Bible tells me so.”
The hitchhiker laughed. “We used to sing that in Bible camp. I wish I had embraced the Lord then instead of straying from the path.” “Bible camp,” the Chosen One grumbled. “It’s no wonder you strayed if you went to one of those pits of sin.” The hitchhiker gave him a curious look. “Pits of sin?” “Pits of vice and sin!” “Easy, brother. I don’t know what Bible camp you went to, but my—” “A nest of vipers! Satan’s kindergarten!” the driver shouted so loudly his voice cracked. He rubbed his throat and winced. Don’t be shy, kid. Where in Scripture does it say we can’t do this? And remember, the Bible says you must obey your elders. The hitchhiker raised his hands. “Whoa! Whoa! No need to get upset.” “The Lord will wreak his vengeance. I am only a weak vessel, submitting to His will,” the driver said, his voice a gravelly whisper. The hitchhiker stiffened and looked out the window. They drove in silence for a couple of minutes, the darkness gathering over the land. The headlights shone on an empty highway. Softly, the ventriloquist dummy began to sing, its pure voice lilting from the back of the van. “Sinners all burn in hell, And the Lord smiles at the smell, The righteous slay the unbelievers, And tear the throats of deceivers.” The hitchhiker cleared his throat. “You know, I think I want to camp for the night. You see, um, I forgot I had promised to meet up with someone back in East Brunswick. So, I’ll just camp and hitch a ride going the other direction tomorrow morning. Sure is nice to meet you, though. Now if you could just let me off here, that would be fine, and God bless you.” The driver slumped his shoulders. Another weak will. Another half Christian. A sign for a scenic view appeared in the headlights. “I’ll drop you off at the vista point. That way it will be easier to get a ride in early morning when people stop to see the view.” “That would be real Christian of you,” the hitchhiker said in a tight voice. He took off his seat belt, turned in his seat, and pulled his backpack over the seat. Just as he did so, two things happened: an approaching car with its high beams on sped up behind them, shining light through the windows of the van’s rear doors and illuminating the back; at the same moment, the hitchhiker yanked his pack up and accidentally knocked over a toolbox. It fell open, and wire cutters and a large knife fell out. Stains on the blade could just be made out in the dim light. Stiffly, the hitchhiker sat down, pretending he didn’t notice. But the Chosen One noticed. He slowed, and as the overtaking vehicle passed and the pull-off came into view, he turned onto it. He stopped in a small parking lot with a descriptive sign looking out over a small, forested valley, half hidden in the dark. “This will be fine right here,” the hitchhiker said. “I’ll get you a bit away from the highway, so the noise doesn’t disturb your sleep.” “That’s all right. I can walk.” The hitchhiker’s voice had an edge to it now. His hand rested on the door latch, even though they were still moving. The headlights revealed a narrow Park Service road of cracked concrete leading out of the parking lot and down into the valley. Here and there tufts of grass pushed out from the asphalt. “I can walk from here,” the hitchhiker repeated. The driver didn’t seem to hear him or didn’t care. Instead of responding to his statement, he said instead, “For the rare seeker, the one who keeps to the true path, there is a way to know God better than anyone other than the Apostles themselves. There is a lock, but before one can open the lock one must find it, and to find it one must assemble the key. That will both tell you the location of the lock and give you the means by which to open it. And when the right man opens it, all will be revealed, and the man so blessed will be like one of the Apostles.” The driver coughed and rubbed his throat. He was unaccustomed to talking so much with his own voice. When he threw his voice into Little Peter, it didn’t hurt his throat. Only when he spoke for himself did his sinful old habit cause him pain. He licked his lips, swallowed, and continued as he drove slowly down the Park Service road and the hitchhiker fidgeted beside him. “I have been searching for the key for many years. Its pieces have been scattered and hidden. It is a difficult path, and few stay on it for long. I’ve met many who try and quickly fail. Godless fools, mostly. I know of only one other seeker who is truly committed. She may be Godless too. I don’t know. I hope not. I have learned so much from her. Someday I’ll meet her. If she is Godless, I will correct her. If she is Godly, I will make her my wife. She will bear me many children I will put on the right path. Together as a family we will wash this sinful land clean the only way sin can be cleaned from the land.” From the back, Little Peter said, “The streets will run red with the blood of the unbelievers.” The driver slowed the van and stopped. “Thanks, brother!” the hitchhiker said, already jumping out. “This will be just fine.” The hitchhiker took off running, struggling to put on his pack. Calmly the Chosen One put the van in park, switched off his headlights, looked around for the lights of any approaching vehicle and, seeing none, reached in the back and retrieved the knife. He did not rush. The hitchhiker was loaded down with a pack and had nowhere to hide. Plus, as an instrument of God’s will, there was no chance he would not manage to chase down his quarry. In the last dim light of dusk, the driver could just make out the hitchhiker. He had left the road and tried to cut across the woods, only to trip in the gloom and fall. Now he struggled to get up. It looked like he had hurt his ankle. The driver walked toward him, hand gripping the knife. “Stay away from me!” the hitchhiker cried, shucking off his backpack and managing to get up. He turned and hobbled off. The Chosen One increased his pace, narrowing the space between them. But he did not run. He did not need to. God had hurt this false Christian, this devil in disguise who might go to the police, those Pharisees who pervert the words of the Lord. The Chosen One’s heavy boots crushed the undergrowth and gave him firm footing on the wet, uneven ground. The hitchhiker, trying to hurry in worn old sneakers, kept slipping or getting caught up, slowing him further. “What do you want!” the hitchhiker pleaded. “To open the lock,” the driver replied. “To reveal God’s hidden secrets and purify the world. But I do not have to wait to purify the world. I can start purifying it right now.” The hitchhiker’s eyes bugged in terror. He picked up a rock and threw it. The driver dodged it easily. As he bent to pick up another, the Chosen One rushed him. “Please!” The hitchhiker grabbed the Chosen One’s knife arm, but with his free arm the Chosen One gave him a powerful punch that knocked him flat. The Chosen One grabbed him by his hair and pulled him up, putting the keen edge of the knife to his throat. “No,” the hitchhiker whispered. “You’re a Godly man. I can see that. You’re a good man. Think. Would God want this? This is not God’s way.” The driver snorted. “You don’t know God’s way. So few people do.” He cut deep into the hitchhiker’s throat, the blood gushing onto the damp forest soil. “Thy will be done,” the Chosen One intoned. As the man flailed and choked on his own blood, the Chosen One began to gather stones and brush to pile on top of him. A low ditch and some bushes provided cover to hide the backpack. The body and backpack would not remain hidden forever. Sooner or later, the Devil would lead someone to them. But he did not have time to bury it properly. He had to hurry on to the capital of this accursed nation. He prayed God would grant him enough time to do His work. Once he had hidden everything as well as time allowed, and cleaned the knife on some leaves, he walked back to the van, feeling at peace, his mind clear. The Lord had sent this false Christian into his path as a sign. The Lord wanted to test his fortitude. He had been tired, worn down, needing his little road trip around the old churches in order to buck up his spirit. What he really needed was greater faith in God’s master plan. Where once he had felt weary, now every nerve sang with energy. His hooded, gritty eyes now sparkled. The stiffness of hours of driving had vanished. As he climbed into the van, he felt like he could drive all the way to California that very night and kill every sinner in the state. Leaving the door open so the light remained on, he quickly checked that no blood had gotten onto his overalls. He did not see any. He was getting good at slaughtering the unrighteous without leaving traces. Having that knife in the top of a toolbox, a toolbox he had forgotten to latch, that was a slipup. Slipups were unacceptable. He smacked his forehead with his fist three times. “A weak vessel,” he shouted. “I am a weak vessel!” He gripped the wheel, his heart pounding fast. The calm he usually felt after sending a sinner to Hell was tinged with the realization that he had stumbled, made mistakes. God did not accept mistakes. “I will try to do better, my Lord,” he whispered.
~~~
.jfif)
It has been an interesting experience since I decided to find bargain books at BookBub as my main source of e-books... I have always been somebody who is willing to read just about any book that comes my way. You are right, I don't support book banning for any reason. Indeed, it is part of our precious freedom of speech, even though many times I might be personally offended by what I choose--or not choose--to read. One of the most offensive for me is the corruption by those who merge religion, politics, and violence, supposedly having the violence blessed by God...
When you read The Death Code novel by Ava Strong, you may quickly realize that the villain is a religious fanatic... We find that at a church camp in his early life, he was sexually abused by a counselor... In today's world where, now, religion is being used as a political tool, we find that many, many people are being swayed--controlled by false narratives about what is happening being the plan God has for America... More and more people are discovering that the lies which have led to violence, prejudice, war, theft and more have no relationship to God's Love and Truth...
The Death Code--outside of the more obvious psychopathic serial killer with a fanatical lifestyle, is a extraordinarily written story that I call "treasure hunt" books... You know, those books or movies that have a main charactr that is sent to stop the bad guys from obtaining secret documents, or hidden treasures and keep them safe from being used to "destroy the world" as we know it...
In this first book in a new series, we find that an FBI agent has been picked out to be moved to a new FBI unit covering Antiquities... Daniel Walker was to be the only agent, based upon his educational history background, which was really more than that, even though not documented due to traveling with his mother during his early life... But Walker was not happy to be moved, having a good record in hunting down serial killers for years...
Who knew that the very first case in his new unit would be to find a serial killer, who happened to be on the hunt for hiddle antiquities!?
Walker soon realized that he really had no choice--that the various shortcuts he'd used in the past had caught up with him and he was to work to save his career in this relocation... The thing is, that, the first murder and theft had already occurred! Walker knew the mechanics of investigation, but how did he find out about the information needed on the various antiquities?
Enter Remi Laurent, who, you should immediately know, is "almost" as obsessive as the religious fanatic... But her obsession, from a professional standpoint, was to find the exact set of antiquities that the Fanatic was hunting! Right now, Laurent was teaching “History 330: Codes, Ciphers, and Hidden Messages in Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Art.” In fact, her credentials was that she was known as one of the leading professors in this field... It didn't take much research for Walker to find Laurent...
“So you’ve heard of the cryptex?” she asked. “You know of my research?” “Yeah. After the second murder, I searched the Internet for info about secrets or treasure hidden in medieval art collections. He isn’t the typical thief. He could have taken any number of priceless artifacts and didn’t. He was looking for something hidden. It didn’t take long to find you and your research into that cryptex thing. I want to talk to you about it.” “What did your research tell you?” Professor Laurent asked. For a moment Daniel felt like a student getting a pop quiz. “It’s sort of an early version of the Rubik’s cube. A series of ivory cubes all connected that have letters and numbers on them. It supposedly held great secrets if someone could crack the code and open it.” “What did you think of that?” “Well, I got to admit I began to get bored. It sounded like a conspiracy theory cooked up by Internet addicts who have bad spelling and write in all caps. But then I found you, a real academic from a top university who took it seriously. That made me think it’s real.” “It is real.” Did he detect a note of defensiveness in her response? Maybe she got ragged by some of her colleagues. It was a bit of a wacko subject, after all. Probably a good idea not to ruffle her feathers too much...
So, it also didn't take much time to convince her to help him with this case! Remi had come to Georgetown from France and had been somewhat shocked that the students here were not as enthusiastic about her choice of study as many were in France... So, when the FBI said they could seek her full-time support, she wasn't too upset... Especially since she had also learned that the second murder and destruction of an antiquity had occurred!
“So you think this is the same man?” A rising suspicion of a motive pushed itself into Remi’s consciousness. It seemed too crazy to take seriously, but she could not shake it. “We have security video of what looks to be the same man. In both cases he picked the lock on a door and disabled the alarm and security cameras. It has to be the same guy. It got me to wondering why he targeted those museums and that got me to researching what those museums had in common.” Remi’s heart was pounding hard now. In a tremulous voice she said, “And that led you to me and my research into the cryptex.” Agent Daniel Walker nodded, and all of Remi Laurent’s hopes were fulfilled. And all of her fears.
The book never says exactly why the villain was in such a hurry, but, as they started on trying to figure out where he would go next, it soon became possible that he would be traveling to various universities which might house relevant antiquities. Trouble was that there were over 10 and they could not travel in time to be ahead of his own schedule. Soon they started to check for where antiquities were on loan, but had at least one false choice which lost credibility for Remi--at least in her mind... But, readers will begin to find that Daniel Walker was finding that Remi was not only a beautiful and warm person, but that she was indeed an expert in what was involved in this case... The problem was time. Because the Fanatic was moving nightly, even having broken into another location without anybody realizing it, which did not require another murder... But then, the Fanatic began to worry that God was not happy because he had not "sacrificed" blood upon receipt of the next clue...
And then, one day, Remi was alone at an exhibition and when she turned around, she saw a man with his eyes on the antiquity she had been examining... And their eyes met and held...
And Remi did not share than encounter with anybody, especially her FBI partner... Yes, she was obsessed as well...
Really enjoyed the cat-and-mouse chase and the exploration of where and why the next clue might be... Yeah, it is indeed like a puzzle that you find you must solve in order to move on... This one is highly recommended simply for the brain exercise! LOL
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