The Secret of the Stones by Ernest Dempsey (reading fiction .TXT) 📕

a chair. And you understand that if you were lying to me, I would certainly kill you. But what makes you think that I am not going to do that once I find the Golden Chambers?”

Tommy swallowed hard. That thought had occurred to him. “Why would you do something like that? Once you have found the chambers, you will be able to disappear to anywhere in the world. Even if I did tell the police, not even Interpol would be able to find you. With the wealth the chambers would provide, you could live worry free forever.”

Apparently, Ulrich had heard enough for now. “Fine then.” He set the blade back down on top of the desk. “But if you try to cross me at any point, you and the Wyatts die. Understand?”

He nodded his acknowledgement.

“There will be police.”

“I doubt there will be more than one guy watching the place. And I am guessing he will be at the front. You can park at the back and slip in through the neighbor’s yard.”

Inside, Tommy was hoping there would be more than one cop on the scene, but the reality was there might not be any at all. Still, he had to at least appear to be helping this guy for now to keep suspicion at bay. Ulrich seemed ruthless enough to kill him at the slightest provocation. And the last thing he wanted was to endanger the Wyatts. All he could do at this point was play along and hope that Sean was trying to figure out the clues.

The calm and logical way in which Tommy spoke seemed to convince Ulrich. “I will go to your house, but this better not be a trap. If it is, I assure you, the Wyatts will not receive a quick death from a fiery explosion.” He laid the blade down on the desk again. “They will take a very long time to die.”

15

Atlanta

Sean and Allyson followed Mrs. Borringer up the carpeted stairs into a hallway with walls that were cluttered with family photos and reminders of years past. Though the Borringers did not have children of their own, they certainly had no shortage of relatives. There were pictures a plenty of boys and girls with what must have been siblings or cousins. A few black-and-white pictures that appeared to be quite old dotted the wall space, one of which was a wedding photo. In the corner of it, a date was written in with what looked to be faded black ink. It stated June 20, 19—something. He couldn’t make out the last two numbers.

“A picture of my parents on their wedding day.” She answered Sean’s questioning glance at the wall. “That is my favorite one,” she smiled, lost somewhere in the etches of time.

They continued down the hallway to the last doorway on the right. The door was open, leading to a small office. It was humbly decorated with a few simple black and white nature photos in dark wooden frames. The desk was colored a deep black but hardly posed as contemporary or trendy. It could have almost passed for an antique. A laptop sat quietly on the surface. A few letters, probably bills, and a lone candle accompanied the silent PC.

Next to the desk was a bookshelf, also black. There were only a few books filling its decks: the Bible, the Torah, the Koran, and a few books on ancient mysteries. Amid the collection of spiritual and historical reading was one book that seemed somewhat out of place. A collection of stories and poetry by Edgar Allan Poe, while considered an American classic, was odd sitting next to the works around it.

“Your husband must have really enjoyed studying religion,” Sean broke the silence again. It must have been difficult for the newly widowed woman to reenter a room where her husband surely spent a great deal of his time.

“Yes,” she replied. “He loved to read by candlelight. Sometimes, we would read together downstairs, but after I would go to bed he would come in here and continue. His search was tireless.”

“Search?” Allyson queried.

“His search for God, dear. My husband did not accept the traditional views of God: an old man with white hair up in the sky. He wanted to know who God truly was. If he could find out what God was, then perhaps he could know his creator even better.”

“Sounds like quite a heavy task,” Sean continued.

“Most people spend their whole lives believing what they were taught since they were children. My husband did not simply just accept what was given to him. It was simple enough for him to believe in a higher power. He could never wrap his mind around the mathematical improbabilities that would produce a world full of species through mere chance. Believing in a creator was easy. The intricate way in which organisms work and behave is a delicate design, one which Frank had the utmost respect for.”

“So he believed there is a God. He just wasn’t sure which one was the right one?” Allyson’s comment was uncertain.

“Not exactly, dear,” Mrs. Borringer looked fondly at the books on the shelf, her gray-blue eyes weary. “You see, Frank believed that there was a small piece of truth inside each religion. At one point, thousands of years ago, we all came from one place. Most people know it as Eden. From there, the story of God mutated and changed as the population of the Earth migrated farther and farther from the epicenter and as the years passed. The many different stories you read in the Koran, Bible, and Torah came from what was at one point a