The Tree of Knowledge by Daniel Miller (room on the broom read aloud .txt) 📕

would last longer, but like a child who realizes he’s opened all of the Christmas presents, Albert shrugged and accepted that his bliss had now come to an end.

The woman in white plunged the butcher’s blade into his stomach, and as Albert cried out, she gently touched his lips to shush him. Sharp burning spread through Albert’s chest like the blood spurting from his wound as Eva calmly guided him to the ground. He looked down and could see the bright-red blood, so gloriously vivid, so alive against the white placket of his tuxedo shirt. Tears seeped down his cheeks, but Albert felt no physical pain. Looking at Eva one last time, he closed his eyes and lay still as death crawled over him . . .

And then he awoke.

For a moment, Albert did not know where he was, how he got there, or what had happened to him. He only knew heartache. Acidic, unrelenting heartache. And as he stared up at the ceiling of the old farmhouse and slowly became aware of his whereabouts—his immediate past, his future—he shook in silence.

Chapter 10

Albert crept out of his room to grab a glass of water, or something stronger, hoping to forget his dream. As he made his way down the carpeted hallway, he could hear the sound of hushed voices trading jabs in the night. The hallway leading from Albert’s room opened into a mezzanine that looked over the great room. He pressed himself against the wall and stood on his tiptoes to avoid being seen by the guests below. He tilted forward to catch a glimpse.

Five people sat neatly arranged around the fire engaged in intense but quiet discussion. In the center sat Turner, and directly across from him sat Brick and a woman of such height that she looked like a picture that had been scaled up 25 percent.

On Turner’s left was a bowling ball of a man in a cowboy hat. Jolliness bounced from every body part. His flannel-clad belly was jolly. His oversized mustache was jolly. Even the toothpick in his mouth danced like it was in on the joke. Behind this jolliness lurked an unseen power. It was the eyes. Underneath the smile and the oversized hat, the eyes were always watching, assessing, waiting to spring.

The man on Turner’s right carried no secrets. He vaguely resembled a rodent, but a kind rodent, more like a hamster than a rat. His receding hairline accentuated his narrow face and sloped jawline, and his keen eyes spoke of compassion. While he sat in a wheelchair, he was not weak. The T-shirt he wore beneath his unbuttoned button-down shirt revealed the toned physique of an athlete and a soldier. Albert wondered how it was that the man had become imprisoned in his wheeled cell.

Brick spoke first. “Our top priority has to be getting back that book. We can worry about your two friends later. But we’re going to need a bigger team than just the five of us if we’re going to get into Fix Industries. Angus, who else can we bring in on this?”

Turner stood and paced the room. “No one. You four are the only ones who know about the Tree intimately, and we can’t risk bringing anyone else in on it. Plus, we don’t have time.”

The man in the wheelchair spoke next. “I understand that, Professor, but can’t we bring in some ex–Special Forces people to help us get into Fix headquarters? They don’t need to know about the Tree. We can just tell them that it’s an important state secret. I’m sure Brick knows some mercenaries that won’t ask a lot of questions.”

Brick shook his head. “No, we need someone without any law enforcement or military affiliation. Fix has moles and contacts in every department. If we start trying to recruit a team, the cat is out of the bag and we’re toast.”

Silence hovered over the room while the Book Club pondered the next move.

Finally, the blonde woman spoke. “Why don’t we use them?” She pointed upstairs.

“Who, the nutty professor?” scoffed Brick.

“Yes. The nutty professor. And the girl. Think about it. Angus, haven’t you always said that only a savant can harness the true power of the Tree? Well, we’ve got two mental calculators sitting upstairs, right? We’re talking about bringing in outside people who we can’t trust when we’ve got the two people we need right here.”

“This is crazy,” said Gabe, wheeling away from the circle. “I’m sure your two friends are wonderful, very smart people, but they’ve never been in any kind of combat operation in their lives.”

The blonde woman leaned forward in her chair. “So, we teach them. Angus, you can teach them about the Tree. Brick, you can teach them hand-to-hand. Raphael, you can teach ’em to shoot; Gabe, you can show them a few of your toys; and I can give them a crash course on psyops.”

The bowling ball with the toothpick leaned forward. “This is a little bit crazy . . . but I like it. We got a few weeks before they crack the code, right? I can do shooting and explosives in a week. We can make this happen. Whatchya think, Professor?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it might be the best option we’ve got.”

Chapter 11

“Ugh,” grumbled Detective Weatherspoon as he slumped into his desk chair at the police station.

The digital clock on his cluttered desk showed ten a.m., but the burly detective already wanted to go home. He had approached the station this morning eager to get back to work after his brief stint in the hospital, but before he could get through the door, he was mobbed by local media hungry for the latest gossip on the “Princeton Station Massacre,” as it was being called. Weatherspoon had attempted to explain that no one had died in the Princeton Station Massacre, but the reporters seemed to find that statement of fact irrelevant, if not downright annoying. He had tried to