Epilogue

PART I

Prologue

ABOUT 10 YEARS AGO

Victor Penlick was well into his 60s, but his drives off the tee were only a few yards short of what they had been 40 years earlier.

“You’re buying,” he said to his golfing pal as he dropped a birdie in the 18th hole.

“Hell, I don’t know why I still do this. I should just give you my wallet and get it over with.” Roger chuckled.

“That works, too,” Penlick said.

Roger Skarlyle had been his friend for decades. An oil magnate, the press accused him of owning half the politicians in Texas. He said they were dead wrong. That the number was closer to two-thirds.

In the clubhouse, they each ordered a ribeye steak sandwich and an iced tea. Victor’s phone rang.

“Hello, Senator,” he answered. “I just so happen to be at Meadow Park having lunch with Roger. That sounds mighty fine. I’ll see you then, Pierce.”

The waiter delivered the teas. It was springtime, and the two men sported polo shirts and golf shorts. They were both clean shaven and wore their hair cropped short, but that was where the comparisons stopped. Victor was tall and slim, and Roger was fat and bald.

“Pierce is flying in from DC,” Victor said. “He recruited another.”

The sandwiches were delivered. “Well, that’s good news,” Roger said, and he took a bite.

“He wants to talk about it tonight. He said the man sits on the highest court in the land.”

CHAPTER 1

PRESENT DAY

The stadium was sold out, all 70,000 seats. On the stage, Derrick Romano’s eyes were filled with laughter as he rapped the chorus,

To the fire, in the fire,

All aflame

Ain’t no shame.

To the light, in the darkness,

Where it burns

Everything turns to ash, baby.

Derrick’s hair was cut short, colored black, and combed forward, framing his almost ghost-white complexion. His eyes were black and piercing, and his lips, heart-shaped and sensual. He and his bandmates—guitar, bass, and drums—were all dressed in black jeans and tees.

The song he sang was the last number for the evening. It was a new piece, and everyone was filled with anticipation. The final song at Romano’s concerts always included a surprise ending.

Five thousand groupies had crammed themselves into the pit at the foot of the stage. The lyrics of the song were on a giant screen behind the rapper, and his fans screamed every word with him. The surprise came as they sang the last line of the chorus the fourth time through, “Everything turns to ash, baby,” when there was a burst of light; it was flames modulating orange, red, and blue as they consumed a man in the middle of the pit.

All the voices became a single shrill siren of horror. Those who were close to the man on fire pushed outward. But the people on the edge of the fenced pit had nowhere to go. They pushed inward.

The smell of burning flesh filled the air of the stadium. People were throwing up, fainting, and scrambling for the exits. Some were unable to move, paralyzed with fear. The drummer finished the song with a cymbal crash, Derrick pumped his fist, and the band left the stage.

359 BC – MACEDONIA

The stone-built hall was cavernous, large enough to host hundreds of guests. This night, candles and hanging oil lamps lit the hall for the dozens of commanders of the Macedonian army who gathered there. They reclined on couches throughout the hall, drinking mead from deep cups, and satisfying their hunger with the roasted and sauced beef, goat, chicken, and wild boar that was piled high on platters. A flutist filled the room with music.

Perdiccas III, the king, and his brother, Philip II, reclined side by side.

Perdiccas gestured with a shank of roasted goat. “I’m proud to lead these men in battle,” he said. He tore off a mouthful of meat.

“No further attempts for a treaty?”

“We have exhausted all such measures. Over the past weeks the Illyrians have swept up a dozen villages inside our borders, leaving behind nothing but corpses.” He took a swig of mead and stood. After he cleared his throat, he shouted, “Men of Macedonia!”

The flutist stopped playing and the men became silent.

“The barbarians stand on our very doorstep in the north,” he said. The men roared with curses. “Tomorrow, we’ll color the border with their blood!” The hall began to rumble with shouts of approval. “I stand in the company of the world’s greatest warriors, men born to fight for their women and children, for their homes and farms, men who will never bow down to another man, men who were ordained before the beginning of time to be victors!” Perdiccas could hardly hear his own voice with the cheering, but he continued: “The Illyrians are not worthy of the expense to sharpen our swords! They are insects to be crushed and swept away; we will put them under our feet!”

The men stood and shouted, “Hoorah!” And they lifted their cups, and they drank.

“In my absence, I leave my brother, Philip, with my signet ring,” Perdiccas said.

Philip stood and held up his right hand.

“I declare him regent until my return.” Perdiccas slipped the ring from his finger and put it on the ring finger of his brother’s extended hand.

Holding their cups above their heads, the men shouted their consent, and they drank again.

Perdiccas and Philip reclined on the couches again. Perdiccas sighed as he grabbed the remaining shank of goat and took another bite.

“When will you return?” Philip asked.

“When the Illyrians bend the knee.”

“May Goddess Tyche go with you.”

“Yes, and many strong and brave men.”

PRESENT DAY

All was gray and the drizzle constant; it was a usual fall afternoon in Queens, New York. They were in Glen Cemetery, and a priest read Psalm 23 over Linda M. Lange’s casket.

She had been widowed at a relatively young age, but she never remarried. For over fifty years she had lived in the same two-story brick house in Bayside, Queens. The one hundred people who stood in the rain for her interment were her neighbors, fellow parishioners, or family.

Clayton, her only child, sat under the canopy with his mom’s brother, two sisters, and other relations. He had sandy blond hair, a cleft chin, and baby blue eyes.

Sprinkling a handful of dirt on the casket, the priest said, “We now commit Linda’s body to the ground—earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

She was such a cheerful person, Clayton thought. A sunshiny day would’ve been better for her sending off.

With the invitation to say a final goodbye, Clayton led the procession and placed a rose on the casket, after which he knelt and touched the names of his grandparents’ headstone that was next to his parents’. Someday, he would be buried here, too.

The reception was at Mom’s house. Her sisters had organized it. Clayton thanked God for his aunts. They were just like Mom—thrifty, industrious, and cheery—stereotypical German women, who had prepared countless plates of food and welcomed all comers with their indomitable smiles.

Making a beeline through the house with many thank yous, hugs, and handshakes, Clayton got to his mom’s bedroom. He shut the door behind him. There was a queen-sized bed covered with a white down comforter. A closet was across from it, which he looked at with a sense of apprehension. He did not like the idea of rummaging around in it now. But this was for her.

He opened the closet door. Mom, didn’t you ever throw anything away? It was packed so tight he was sure there was no need for hangers. There was a cardboard box on the top shelf in the lefthand corner. That was what he had come for. It was one of the last things she had told him about before she died.

What kind of secrets did you hide, Mom?

Shaking his head, he stood on his toes and coaxed the box off the shelf with the tips of his fingers. It fell into his hands, and he read out loud the words she had written in block letters across the top: “CLAYTON LANGE – CONFIDENTIAL.”

With the box under one arm, he made his way back through the house and outside to the car. His phone rang, and he put it on his shoulder to answer as he put the box in the car. Hey, Elliot,” he said. “I’m good. No problem.” He chuckled. “I didn’t want to come to the reception myself. Please tell Sarah thank you for coming to the gravesite. I appreciate you guys. Yeah, sure, in a couple weeks. See you then.”

Elliot wanted to talk about his next novel.

He went back to the reception and stayed until his aunts shooed him out the door with the assurance they had everything under control.

After snaking through snarled traffic into the heart of Manhattan for what seemed an eternity, he finally pulled into the underground parking lot of his building in Greenwich Village.

He pushed open the door of his condo on the fourth floor; Herodotus greeted him with a lolling tongue. The French bulldog had a black coat and a white face and chest.

Clayton stooped and scratched him around the ears and rubbed his back. “How’re you doing, pal? Mom’s gone and life’s pretty sad for me right now.”

The condo had an open design with a vaulted ceiling with a sofa and armchairs that were upholstered with creamy black leather. Lamps, end tables, and a coffee table were Modernist with black metal and glass. A set of shelves against an inside wall displayed his collection of knickknacks from his travels around the world. Authentic Persian throws were scattered on the hardwood floor. There was an enclosed bookcase with his collection of original documents, papers, and books, all of which centered on his love of ancient Mediterranean history.

Paintings by local artists—mostly impressionist oils—hung on the walls.

It was nice, but for an inside glimpse at Clayton Lange’s vibrant mind, one had to visit his office, crammed with books, journals, and notebooks on shelves and in stacks on the floor. There was a row of filing cabinets crushed against one wall and stacked with documents. A computer monitor, printer, legal pad, and cup filled with pens and pencils were organized on top of a long plank desk that was shoved up beside the cabinets. There was a loveseat on the opposite wall, and under the window on the outside wall was an antique oak and wrought-iron typing desk, on top of which sat a manual typewriter with the word, “Underwood,” scrawled across the paper rest.

He set the box down on the loveseat. “Later for that,” he said to the dog. “Let’s get ourselves something to eat.”

CHAPTER 2

PRESENT DAY

“Man, you know I’m with you in everything. But last night?” TJ said as he shook his head. “The dude burning up? And then the people getting crushed in the pit? It wasn’t right, bro.”

TJ had played bass with Derrick since a pickup gig at the club on 126th Street four years ago. He was tall, black, and gangly. Drinking an IPA, he sat with the others around a table in the Gulfstream as it flew steady at 30,000 feet.

Derrick sipped from a can of Monster Energy black cherry. He snorted. “That dude felt no pain. I saw him smile through the flames. And, besides, everyone who goes into the pit knows they’re there at their own risk.”

The lead guitarist’s name was Rex. He scrunched up his nose. “Who can die like that and be happy about it?” He was hungover and drinking seltzer water. Though he was a redhead with fair skin, he had grown up in Camden, New Jersey, and the brothers assured him his soul was as black as theirs.

Dazzle finished a whiskey neat and tapped out a rhythm on his legs with his sticks, his eyes jumping from one band member to another until they settled on Derrick. “I saw the smile,” he said. He wore his fro high and tight.

“Listen, if you boys want to go to the man’s funeral, go for it,” Derrick said. “That’d be dope. But something you all got to understand is that this thing you got in your heads about living forever is nonsense. We live, and we die, and when we do, we can either go out in a flame of glory, sometimes literally, or in a puff of smoke. Period. And besides, the fire marshal said the man had doused himself with gasoline. I didn’t even know who he was. All I did was reach out anonymously and persuade a man to do what he would’ve done someday on his own anyway.”

###

Amelia Irons sat at her desk, reading The New York Times. Floor-to-ceiling windows in the corner office on the 36th floor of the tower gave her a view of Central Park and the skyline.

She was tall and slim, and her full-length black dress made her look even taller and slimmer, an appearance she accented with a string of pearls around her neck and her gray hair in a bun. No one knew her age—she had always looked old. Rarely had anyone shown a romantic interest in her, and she liked it that way. She was married to her work, and she wore a ten-carat step cut emerald on her ring finger to show that.

Derrick Romano had caught Amelia’s interest at a concert at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, California, a couple of years before, singing a song about his love for redheads when every single redheaded woman in the stadium took off her shirt, exposing her breasts. There were nearly 3,000 redheaded women. It was remarkable. But the thing that got Amelia’s attention was Derrick’s remark, “All you girls just made my dream come true.”

Dreams: That was one of the clues for a legendary power she had been looking for. Her phone rang. It was her secretary. “Send them in,” she said.

The door swung open, and two women and two men entered. “Have a seat,” she said.

She seemed to glide as she moved across the office to the captain’s chair at the head of a polished conference table. The black ops team sat around table. “Let’s begin by brainstorming our observations of Derrick Romano’s concert last night,” she said.

“No one has died at one of his concerts until now,” Penelope Savage began. She wore jeans and a long-sleeved white t-shirt. Her freckles gave her the deceiving appearance of innocence.

“That’s not exactly true,” Raven Creed countered. “There was the man who had a heart attack during a mosh pit fight who later died at the hospital.” Creed was six feet tall like Amelia, but that was the only characteristic they shared. Her skin was black velvet, and she wore wax print skirts and blouses in the bright yellows, blues, greens, and reds loved by her West African sisters. She had big, round, green eyes, and her lips were full.

“I said, ‘at one of his concerts,’” Penelope scorned. “There’s a difference.”

“You’re pedantic.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“Ladies,” Amelia intervened.

“May I say something?” Tarek Nasr asked. He continued without waiting for permission. “Regardless of who died when, I think it goes without saying the level of violence at this concert was without precedent.” He was a naturalized citizen as were his parents and siblings, who had immigrated from Jordan when he was in high school. He wore a blue-and-white striped short-sleeved button-up with chinos.

“You’re right,” Jake Silva said. “When Romano began, the things that happened were more like pranks, like the concert where he finished the set with ‘Prey’ and some five hundred eagles and hawks perched on banners and speakers on the stage.”

Jake’s blond mop looked like it had never seen a comb. He wore cargo pants and a t-shirt. In college he had majored in forensic science.

“Or the time he sang about his love of redheads,” said Raven.

“Keep going,” Amelia said.

Tarek flipped open a file folder. “Romano’s actions seem to be characteristic of this power we’re trying to unmask,” he said. “But we still have a question: Does he possess a physical object, like an amulet, that somehow connects him to this power? The fragments of Ptolemy I’s third century BCE diary suggests there was such a thing.”

###

Clayton sat at his desk with the box his mom had left him in front of him. Herodotus was at his feet as he cut through the tape that sealed the lid with a boxcutter. He opened it. Inside, there was an envelope with his name scrawled across it in his mother’s hand. He tore it open and pulled out a card.

It began, “Dear Son, I’m so sorry I could not bring myself to give you these things before I died.” He sighed and wiped a tear from an eye.

He continued reading:

They belonged to your grandfather, Karl. He was a good man, a hard worker and a devoted husband and father. But as you will see, he was involved in some activities which are better left unsaid. Your father insisted we keep these mementos. We argued about it a lot. It is unfortunate he died before we resolved anything.

Absentmindedly, Clayton drew a finger through a chain made of white gold he wore around his neck, which his mom had given to him. He read on:

I probably should’ve thrown all this out and spared you the trouble of dealing with it. But I couldn’t do it. It didn’t seem honest. Perhaps you can use it in your writing. It’s up to you, dear.

Someday we will meet again, but until that time I trust you will do the right thing for yourself and your family. I love you very much.

Your mother,

He set the card down on the desk and took from the box a plaque that read, “Lange’s Chemical Company—Best Medium-Sized Business of the Year. Better Business Bureau, Queens, NY.” He smiled. Dad and Grandpa had run one of the fastest growing businesses in the city, and the BBB had honored them. They said Grandpa and Dad’s product development was innovative, their means of production was cutting edge, and their employees gushed about how the men had created a great place to work.

“Well, that’s harmless,” Clayton said, and he set the plaque on the desk next to the card.

In the bottom of the box was a polished black hardwood jewelry case. “This is a nice piece,” he murmured. He took it out and set it on the desk.

Opening it, he saw there was lots of gold: watches and diamond rings; bracelets, chains, and cufflinks. He had seen in photo albums that the old man loved to wear stuff like this. He lifted the tray out; there was a square envelope underneath with the word “PHOTOGRAPHS” printed across it. He set the tray down and took out the envelope and underneath that there was a medallion. He began to hyperventilate. The pendant was made of gold and silver, and in its center was a symbol painted with glossy black enamel.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he gasped.

His hands shook as he put the tray back in its place. He closed the jewelry box lid and rested his elbows on his knees. Looking at Herodotus, he said, “My heart’s about to beat out of my chest.”

He opened the envelope with the photos. They were black-and-white snapshots, 4-inches square. The first three pictures were of his grandpa with what appeared to be his soldier buddies. They all wore German army uniforms. They had armbands with swastikas, and there were SS insignias on their collars.

Oh my God, Clayton thought.

Grandpa stood next to Adolf Hitler in the fourth photo, showing a medallion on Grandpa’s right chest pocket with an eight-pointed star around its outside edge, a stylized laurel wreath inside the star which was wrapped around a black swastika: one of the highest awards for valor in Nazi Germany—exactly the medallion that lay in the bottom of the jewelry box.

Clayton’s hands shook as he put the jewelry box and photos back into their cardboard hiding place.

Mom, you should’ve told me. I have a thousand questions, but now you’re gone. He rolled his shoulders a couple times. Maybe I should do what she did and hide this stuff for another generation to find. Or better yet, maybe I should throw it all into the Hudson River.