Journey Through the Mirrors (14 page)

The man paused for a moment and looked up at a sign dangling at the end of a frayed cable:
Track 7
. He pushed a lock of his shoulder-length gray hair off his face and behind his ear and continued, tapping his cane on the ground with a bit more force. He looked down the platform, lit eerily by beams of dust-ridden sunlight passing through
holes in the roof. The flapping wings of pigeons could be heard as they wandered the station in which they made their home.

The man looked around before making his way down the platform adjacent to a dilapidated commuter train. As he approached, a memory came to him, frozen in time. He gazed down at the tracks under the train as he stopped in front of the number fourteen car. Its doors were open.

The man sighed deeply before stepping inside the place he had once called home. The car had certainly changed; it had been pillaged and ransacked. The thin mattress he had slept on had been pushed into the corner, its bedding stripped. He reached up and grabbed a short pole he had suspended from the car’s ceiling to hang and dry his clothing. Now only a single wire hanger remained. He walked over to the toppled nightstand and set it back on all fours. He smiled slightly as he ran his fingers over some candle wax stuck to the surface. He looked for a candle holder but didn’t see it. Instead, he saw a shattered picture frame on the floor with a photo still inside. It was of a woman with a teenage boy and two young girls.

“Caroline, my love,” he whispered, as he picked up the picture frame. “George, Sophie, Nicole.” His voice cracked as he called out the names of the children.

Gathering himself, the man pulled the photo from the frame and tucked it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He turned and glanced up at the overhead baggage shelf. “I wonder if it is still there,” he whispered to himself, taking a quick step forward and reaching up. He felt around anxiously, shuffling as best he could, using his cane to support him. But what he was searching for had probably been taken long ago.

“Hey!” a voice called out to him. “You shouldn’t be in here. Don’t you know we’re getting ready to demolish this place?” The man turned to see someone in overalls and a hard hat standing on the platform outside the door. “Oh, sorry, it’s you,” the construction worker said, realizing whom he was talking to. “Take your time, sir. Just let us know when you leave.” The worker walked away.

The man fiddled with a gold button on his knee-length jacket as he took one last look around car number fourteen before exiting and making his way back up the platform. He could hear the hustling and bustling of the crew, which he had hired to demolish the train station he had purchased from the city.

Then the expression on his face turned wary. Standing under the dangling sign was someone he was not expecting to see, with a dog sitting at his side. “Why have you come?” the man asked as he limped forward, pausing and resting both his hands on the silver handle of his cane. “I thought we said everything that needed to be said, Sebastian.”

“No, Giovanni,” Sebastian answered. “There is always more to say.”

13

If you do not wish to climb the mountain to the east, then look to the west. Perhaps there you will find one more to your liking.

—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

NEW CHICAGO, 1:11 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 21, 2070

“Welcome back!” Jasper said, jumping out of his chair as Logan walked into the art studio. “How is everyone? Is Jamie all right? We were worried.”

Logan smiled and set his backpack and a large tin box down on the desk, as Jasper took a deep breath. “She’s still experiencing severe headaches, but after Mr. Perrot picked us up at the airport, we took her to a neurologist her pediatrician recommended. The doctor said she must have hit her head, even though she doesn’t remember it, because she has a slight concussion. The good news is that they did a brain scan and didn’t find any serious injuries. She’s resting at home now with Jordan and Ms. Sally, our housekeeper.”

“That’s a relief,” Jasper said.

Logan nodded. “Both kids had a hard time down there. The earthquake was really frightening. Mexico City was mostly spared, but the highways and the airport got ripped up pretty badly. If Valerie hadn’t
gotten us on a WCF transport plane heading to New Chicago while she was arranging her flight back to Washington, we’d still be stuck down there.”

“Well, it’s good to have you back,” Jasper said. “The studio missed you.”

The studio was on the northwest corner of Franklin and Hubbard Streets, a prime location only a few blocks from the Merchandise Mart and the heart of New Chicago. After the Great Disruption, the surrounding area had remained in a state of disrepair for twenty years. As intrastate and global commerce grew during the Rising, New Chicago’s mayor, Tim Malak, pushed to reestablish the iconic Mart’s reputation as the premier bastion of design and architectural innovation. The success of the initiative earned him nationwide recognition. The city’s airport, which had been named for a previous Chicago mayor, was renamed Malak International.

“I expected blue today,” Logan remarked, gesturing at Jasper’s currently orange-colored hair.

“Stay tuned,” Jasper said. “Next Wednesday is turquoise day. What’s in the box?” He nodded at it. “Did you bring me a gift?”

Logan chuckled, placing his hand on the tin box. “No, it’s the reason we went to Mexico in the first place. It contains the artifact I’ve been hired to restore.” He gave Jasper a long look. “Mr. Perrot told me the two of you had a very interesting day yesterday.”

“Understatement,” Jasper replied, as he sat back down. “Did he tell you everything that happened?”

Before he could answer, the front door opened, and Mr. Perrot came in. “Traffic is getting worse around here every day,” he said, hanging his floppy hat on the coat rack.

Logan glanced at Mr. Perrot. “No, he didn’t give me any details.”

“Then follow me,” Jasper said, leading everyone to the work room, where a large wooden crate in its center caught both Logan’s and Mr. Perrot’s attention.

“What’s in the crate?” Mr. Perrot asked.

Logan gave him a questioning look. “I assumed that was part of your
interesting day
.”

Mr. Perrot raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

“It came this morning, without any return address,” Jasper said. “The delivery man didn’t know anything more, either. Do you have any ideas?”

Logan shook his head. He placed his backpack on the floor and grabbed a toolbox from the shelf. He took out a pair of snipping shears and cut the metal bindings around the crate.

Following Logan’s lead, Jasper grabbed a power screwdriver and began to remove the numerous screws securing the lid in place. “This is better than Christmas!”

Logan used the claw side of a hammer to remove some reinforcing nails, while Mr. Perrot watched. Soon the three of them were able to get the lid off.

Jasper removed a layer of packing foam, revealing a framed work of art below. “Oh,” he said, startled by what he saw. “That’s not a happy piece of art at all.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” Logan said, recognizing it. “This is one of the most famous paintings in the world, ‘The Scream.’ ”

“Done by Edvard Munch, if I remember correctly,” Mr. Perrot said, as he picked up a small white envelope lying on top of the masterpiece. “It is addressed to you.” He handed the envelope to Logan.

Logan broke the formal blue wax seal and pulled out a piece of beige parchment paper. He recognized the exquisite penmanship. “It’s from Mr. Quinn,” he said, looking at Mr. Perrot, who slowly nodded, not surprised.

Logan read the note out loud.

Salutations,

Many have claimed to understand the meaning of this work of art. Some suspect it was inspired by a slaughterhouse located near the artist’s home. Others believe it represents the artist’s reaction to his sister’s incarceration in an insane asylum. Some believe it represents how the artist felt when he was going through his own nervous breakdown. I will say to you that these, and the many other theories put forth, are erroneous. This picture is linked with something far more profound. It is related to the activities of another man who was diligently working halfway around the world at the same time. The secret of this picture lies in what caused the artist to make it.

All is never what it seems. As in the Michelangelo, which you now proudly and deservedly possess, science and allegory have wonderfully collided yet again.

Is it not amazing to see how the choices and decisions we make can have profound and lasting effect on those we have never met nor ever will?

For the moment,

Sebastian Quinn

“It appears that Mr. Quinn is not done with you,” Mr. Perrot said. “He has presented another riddle for you to solve.”

Logan turned his gaze to the Munch, which still lay flat in the crate. “It seems so,” he said softly.

“Someone needs to roll the truck backward here,” Jasper said. “First of all, who is Sebastian Quinn?”

Logan glanced at Mr. Perrot before turning to Jasper. “I’m not sure that there’s anyone in the world who can really answer that question,” he said. The events that led to Logan’s first encounter with the enigmatic man could easily be summed up in a sentence or two. But Jasper’s question,
Who is Sebastian Quinn?
, was one that Logan had contemplated many times over the last nine months, coming up with no good answer.

“He is the gentleman who donated the
Creation of Adam
fresco to the studio,” Mr. Perrot said. “He is a good friend.”

Before Jasper could ask another question, a crash sounded in the front of the studio.

“What was that?” Logan asked.

Jasper darted off to find out, and his departure provided space for Logan and Mr. Perrot to speak more freely.

“The last piece of art that Mr. Quinn presented to you turned out to be at the center of a deadly series of events,” Mr. Perrot said. “The anguish portrayed in this painting foretells an even greater threat.”

“I know,” Logan said, frowning. “As little as I know of Mr. Quinn, I’m certain he doesn’t do things idly.”

They carefully lifted the artwork out of the shipping crate and set it on an empty easel, admiring it. It portrayed a person screaming as he stood by the railing of a bridge over a waterway. An expression of agony and terror was on the person’s face as his hands clutched his distorted, ghost-like head. Two men were in the background, one looking over the railing at something in the water, the other looking at a boat in the harbor or a building in the distance. The sky was filled with angry red and orange whorls, seemingly reflecting the intense anguish of the main subject.

Logan moved closer to the artwork. “This is not the oil version of the painting. If I remember correctly, Munch did four versions of this picture. This is the pastel version.” He shook his head. “Amazing what he was able to convey with just a few colors. His style was so different from that of most other late-nineteenth-century artists. This is one of the most polarizing pictures in history; people have always either loved it or hated it.”

“I would venture to say that those who dislike it do so because on some inner level, they feel what this man feels.” Mr. Perrot walked closer to the pastel drawing and looked at the lower part of the frame, where a message had been inscribed on a small plaque. “I can’t make out what it says. This is not a language I understand.”

Logan pulled out his PCD and within seconds an image of the work was displayed, along with a description. “This is the pastel version, which he did in 1895. It was the only one of the four iterations of “The Scream” that had a plaque with words inscribed on it. The message is written in Norwegian.” Logan brought up an English translation on his PCD and read:

I was walking along the road with two friends—the sun was setting—suddenly the sky turned blood red—I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence—there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city—my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety—and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.

“Pretty apt,” said Mr. Perrot.

Logan nodded. “Assuming that this was a sort of self-portrait, what could have possibly taken place halfway around the world that would have made Munch feel this way?”

“May I see the note?” Mr. Perrot requested. Logan handed it to him.

As Mr. Perrot read, Logan put his PCD away and examined the drawing more closely. He wondered if it was the original. Logan remembered the moment he had learned that the
Creation of Adam
fresco, which he had believed was an excellent replica while restoring it, was actually the very fresco that once graced the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Mr. Quinn had somehow salvaged it from the Vatican after the Great Disruption had left the papal city in ruins. Had Mr. Quinn once again acquired another priceless work of art?

“There is some intriguing information in Mr. Quinn’s letter to you,” Mr. Perrot said. “When did you say that Munch did this drawing?”

Logan tore his gaze away from the picture. “In 1895.”

“Mr. Quinn says that this picture is somehow linked to another man halfway around the world. He also notes that science and allegory are combined in it.”

Logan ran his hand across the top of the frame, still wondering if the pastel was the original. “If we assume that the
allegory
portion of this work was provided by Munch . . .”

“Then we might assume that the
science
was provided by a scientist. So we might start by looking for a scientist who was alive in 1895.”

Logan nodded. “It’s a place to start, anyway.”

Mr. Perrot folded the note and put it back in the envelope. “I doubt Mr. Quinn expected you to figure it out within moments of receiving
the drawing, but based on the relevance of Michelangelo’s message to events that were taking place in the real world nine months ago, it seems prudent for you to figure out the secrets of this work of art sooner rather than later.” He handed the note back to Logan.