Courtney nodded and stepped out of the elevator. Mark was right behind her. The hallway was carpeted and pleasant looking. There were windows on either end that glowed with warm, autumn light. Under each was a table with a pretty flower arrangement. They were probably fake, but still made the place look homey. It wasn’t a fancy place, but it wasn’t run down either. There looked to be around a dozen apartment doors spaced evenly on either side of the corridor. All were painted glossy black like the front door. Each had a brass knocker with the apartment number engraved on a metal plate. Mark walked right and Courtney looked left in search of 5A. The “A” apartment was right next to the elevator.
“Go? No go?” Courtney asked.
Mark’s answer was to reach for the brass knocker. He rapped twice. Not too hard as to sound insistent, but strong enough not to appear wussie. They heard the sound of footsteps inside shuffling toward the door. The person stopped, probably to peer out at Mark and Courtney through the peephole. Both of them sensed this, so they stood up straight, trying to look sincere. A moment later the door was unlatched and pulled open a crack. Just a crack. Mark and Courtney looked to each other as if to say: Now what? Courtney stepped forward and cautiously pushed the door open.
The first thing they saw was the back of a man shuffling away from them-an old guy, wearing a plaid shirt and khaki pants. His hair was gray and clipped short.
“Close the door,” he called without turning around.
Mark and Courtney stepped inside the apartment and closed the door. But not all the way. With a silent look, Courtney showed Mark that she was leaving the door open a hair, just in case they needed to make a quick getaway.
“Come on!” the man shouted at them impatiently. “You got this far, don’t be shy now.”
Mark and Courtney walked cautiously after the man, staying close to each other for support, ready to bolt at the first hint of danger.
The apartment was normal enough. It looked exactly like the kind of apartment one would expect an old man to live in. The furniture was old, but in good shape. There were oil paintings of landscapes on the walls and framed photos of smiling people on polished mahogany tables. There wasn’t a single modern touch to the whole place.
Two things stood out though. First was the books. There were thousands of them. In bookcases, on tables, in stacks that reached the ceiling. Whoever this guy was, he liked to read. The other thing was the plants. The apartment was like a greenhouse. There were dozens of potted plants, as well as viney tendrils, that traveled along the walls and across the bookcases every which way, with no beginning or end.
The apartment in general looked very clean, even with all the plants. This wasn’t some slobby old guy who couldn’t take care of himself. So far, Mark and Courtney learned that the guy was neat, he read a lot, and had a green thumb. None of that helped to solve the bigger mystery of who he was though.
“Sit down,” the old guy said while pointing to an overstuffed couch. He then shuffled over to an easy chair and slowly settled into it. Courtney and Mark didn’t take their eyes off him. As he sat, he had to hold on to the arm for support, as if his legs weren’t strong enough to do it on their own. The guy wasn’t frail, but he wasn’t going to run a marathon either. Mark and Courtney did as they were told and sat next to each other on the couch. Both thought it had the vague smell of mothballs. Neither mentioned it.
Now that they were facing each other, they saw that the old man wore small, wire-rim glasses. His short gray hair was almost military in style. He sat with incredibly great posture, which made both Mark and Courtney sit up straight as well. He stared at them with a steady gaze, as if sizing them up. The guy may have been old, but he looked sharp.
Mark got the ball rolling. “I’m M-Mark Dimond “And I’m Courtney Chetwynde.”
A long moment went by. The man kept staring at them. Finally he asked, “Why do you care?”
Mark and Courtney exchanged confused looks. “About what?” Courtney asked.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” the man said. “Why do you care?”
Mark said, “W-We got your address-“
“I know that,” snapped the old man. “You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t. What I want to know is, why?”
There was no nonsense about this guy. He didn’t care about being polite or pleasant or anything else that would have put a visitor at ease.
“We’re here because we want to help our friend, Bobby Pendragon,” Mark said.
“Good,” said the man quickly. “Why?”
“He’s our friend,” Courtney chimed in. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Depends,” answered the man.
“On what?” Courtney shot back.
“On whether or not you’re willing to die for him.”
Whoa. The tension in the room had just jumped a few dozen notches. The old man didn’t even blink. Mark and Courtney didn’t know how to respond.
And then Mark’s ring began to twitch.
He quickly looked at his hand. Courtney saw it too. The gray stone was beginning to change color. Mark shot his other hand over the ring to hide it.
Too late.
“Take it off!” ordered the old man.
Mark looked at him, his panic rising.
“I said take it off! Put it on the table.”
Mark didn’t have a choice because the ring had already begun to grow. He pulled it off his finger and placed it on the coffee table in front of them. Bright light blasted from the stone, dazzling the apartment. The ring quickly grew until it was the size of a frisbee, revealing the dark hole inside. Then came the musical notes. After a final blast of light and music, the ring returned to normal.
Mark and Courtney looked to the table to see what the ring had delivered. Sitting there was another small, silver hologram projector. Bobby had just sent his next journal. It was a totally awkward moment. Mark grabbed his ring, swiped up the journal, and stood up.
“This was a mistake,” he said nervously. “We’re outta here” Mark turned for the door. Courtney didn’t know what else to do, so she followed him.
“Stop right there!” the old man demanded as he struggled to his feet.
Mark turned and faced him head-on. “L–Look, mister,” Mark said with passion. “We came here for answers, and all we’re getting are questions. Well, you know what? I don’t trust you. Why should I? If you think we’re going to sit here and get grilled and threatened, then you’d better give us a good reason why, or we’re gone.”
Courtney gave Mark a quick look, as if surprised he had that in him. She looked back to the old man and added, “Yeah!”
The old man held their gaze, then slowly nodded. He turned away from them and walked over to a cabinet that was built into the wall.
“My name is Tom Dorney,” he said firmly. “I’ve lived in this apartment for near fifty years. I’m not married. Never was. I have two sisters and three nephews.” Dorney took a key ring out of his pocket and unlocked the cabinet door. He swung it wide to reveal several metal boxes, each about two-foot square.
92 101 “I served in the military for twenty years,” he continued. “Saw action in World War Two. South Pacific.” He pulled one of the boxes out of the cabinet and carried it over to the coffee table. It looked heavy, but neither Mark nor Courtney made a move to help. He didn’t look like he wanted or needed any.
“These boxes are fireproof,” he explained. “This whole place could burn to the ground and nothing would happen to what’s inside.” Dorney took another key from the ring and unlocked the box. He gave one more look to Mark and Courtney, as if debating whether or not to open it.
He then said, “And I’m an acolyte. You want proof of that?”
Mark and Courtney nodded dumbly.
Dorney lifted the lid on the box to reveal it was full of papers. Some were in folders, others were rolled up scrolls that were tied with twine. Mark and Courtney stared down at them in wonder.
Mark said, “Are those?…”