The Daykeeper's Grimoire (26 page)

I start to hand him the note with the address on it, but then realize we should cover our tracks a little better. Instead, I say “Chinatown, please.”

We’re really close to Chinatown and could probably walk faster than this guy could drive us through the one-way streets, but at least we’re safely in a car.

Then Justine says, “Look behind you.”

I turn slowly around and see a black car with two older men in it, both in suits. Their car is practically touching ours, they’re following so closely. “Do you think they’re …”

She nods.

I lean forward to the driver. “Sir, do you watch those race-around-the-world TV shows?”

He looks at me like I’ve asked him if he eats earwax. He shakes his head.

“Well, we’re on a show and we’re racing against our dads who are in the car behind us.” As he looks in the rearview mirror, I pull a $100 bill out of my pocket and show it to him. “If you can ditch our dads and drop us by the Stockton Tunnel, that would be great.”

The driver takes the money and nods. We’re at a stoplight waiting for a cable car, but right as it’s about to pass us our driver hits the gas. Justine and I are thrown back and I know that we’ll be hit by the cable car. I close my eyes and wait for the impact, but it never comes.

I peek over the back of the seat—the men are still there. The driver is shaking his head and the passenger is talking on a cell phone. Our driver is taking my hundred-dollar offer very seriously and is all over the road. For a moment I almost hope we get pulled over by the police; at least we’d be
safe
in jail. The cab goes so fast down Filbert Street that we catch air, and when we land and bounce a few times I wonder if the old cab can hold itself together. Then we do a speedy turn that throws Justine and me at the door. My lip hits her shoulder and splits open. I have to keep my tongue on it to keep it from bleeding everywhere.

We’re getting farther and farther from Chinatown, but we manage to get two cars ahead of the men. Then our driver reaches for his cab radio and says something in another language. We’re in an industrial area that I’ve never been to before, driving ridiculously fast because there are no pedestrians. The men are trapped behind a slower car, and we see them veer right and left, trying to find a way to pass or intimidate the driver in front of them into going faster.

Then our guy hits the brakes and skids into a cab garage. We see the bumper of the other car just before the tall metal door comes down behind us. The garage is a pass-through style, so another door opens in front of us and our driver zooms through, tires screeching. He weaves his way back to the center of town, not going more than a block before turning. We never see the car following us again.

“Nice job!” I say.

He shrugs and says, “I am from Bombay.”

“The parking garage on Kearny, please.”

The smell of Chinatown hits us before we even see it. Over the years, I’ve spent many afternoons here with Uncle Li visiting his friends, mostly herbalists and doctors of Chinese medicine. They’d always serve me tea and cookies and give me weird things to look at like pickled snakes and dried animal organs. Sometimes if I had a cold or a headache they would do acupuncture on me or give me funky-tasting herbal remedies. If this place Bolon told me about doesn’t work out we can always come back here and stay with one of Uncle Li’s friends.

We get out at the garage, hail a different cab, and slide in, suitcase and all. I show the driver the address on the paper and then Justine and I slump down in our seats, partly to hide and partly because we are so overwhelmed by all of this.

“Where exactly are we going?” Justine asks.

I show her the paper. “Muchuchumil Imports. Bolon gave me this address and said to go there if I needed help in San Francisco.”

We both take turns peering out the back window, and every time we’re surprised that no one is following us. “Do you think they knew we took the case or do you think they followed everyone who left the hotel?” Justine asks.

“I think Tremblay caught a glimpse of me in the elevator. Did you use your real name at the hotel? I guess you’d have to with a credit card—”

“What kind of crappy spy would I be if I used my real name and Mom’s credit card? I went to the bank and got one of those pre-paid American Express traveler cards. You load money on it and it looks and works like a credit card.”

“You are so smart.” I look at my loyal, brilliant friend. “Does this all make you not want to go to Peru now?” I ask. “I will completely understand if you want to bag it.”

“You have got to be kidding me! I am
so
going.”

The driver pulls up to a plain concrete building with one door and no windows. The words “Muchuchumil Imports” are carelessly stenciled on the door over a peephole.

Justine says, “Sketchy,” at the exact same time that I say, “Shady.”

“I guess I just have to trust Bolon,” I say as I knock on the door.

The door opens immediately, as if someone had been waiting behind it. A dark woman with short grey and black hair pulls us inside quickly and then bolts the door.

“Welcome,” she says with a warm smile.

“Thank you,” we reply.

As my eyes adjust to the low light, I see the room is full of fabrics and baskets and other import-type things that smell like they’d ridden too long on diesel trucks.

Leading us past the stacks of goods to another door, she pulls a key on a chain out of her blouse and opens the lock. We follow her into another room, and then she bolts that door. Justine and I exchange freaked-out glances.

“Do not be afraid,” the woman says.

I extend my hand to her and say, “I’m Caity.”

She laughs and shakes my hand. “Oh, we know who you are.”

“And this is my friend Justine.”

She takes Justine’s hand in both of her hands and says, “Justine, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thanks so much,” Justine says. After a pause she asks, “And what is your name?”

“Forgive me, I am so excited to see you that I have forgotten myself. My name is Chasca.”

She is beautiful in that weird way where the sum adds up to way more than the parts. In a picture she would probably just look like a wrinkly Mexican woman, but something about her smile and her eyes and the way she carries herself makes her unusually beautiful.

She breaks the awkward silence and says, “It’s rude of me to keep you all to myself; come and meet the others.”

Justine and I get up and follow her to a different door. She knocks on it in a pattern, then someone knocks back and she knocks again with a different pattern. Obviously they have some security issues here.

We walk in to a semi-dark room that is hazy with bitter-smelling incense. It takes a minute to adjust my eyes, but when I do I see several people sitting in a circle on the floor. They are all staring at me. Chasca says, “Caity, meet The Council. Council, this is Caity.”

They all bow their heads and say hello.

“And this is Justine,” she adds.

One woman motions to us and says, “Come here, sit.” The people scoot together to make room for the two of us and then Chasca goes to the other side of the circle and edges in.

The woman next to me reaches for two cups and a teapot. She fills the cups, hands them to Justine and me and says, “Welcome, I am Nima. We are happy to see you, although this must mean you are in some danger.”

I take the tea. “Thank you. Yes, we got in to a bit of a … situation earlier.”

“Well, you are safe here. For now.” Nima passes the pot to the man next to her, who has the darkest skin I have ever seen. He’s very small but powerfully built and he has a big round face with wide-set eyes. While he refills his cup, Nima says, “Please meet some of our Council leaders. This is Apari, an Aboriginal Elder from Australia.”

Justine and I bow our heads and say hello. He says, “Yow,” which I assume means “hi.”

The person next to him is a woman with long black hair in a braid as thick as a boa constrictor. She looks similar to Chasca, but a little younger and taller. “This is Ichtaca, she is a Nahuatl Daykeeper.”

She looks at me with hypnotic brown eyes and says, “Niltze.”

Next to her is a man who has that ageless quality; I can’t tell if he’s forty or eighty. His skin is the color of red modeling clay and he has the most beautiful hands I have ever seen. “This is Tawa; he is a Hopi Elder.”

“Um pitu?” he says in a voice that is much lower than I expected.

“And you have met Chasca,” Nima says. “Chasca is a powerful Q’ero Elder from Peru. Next to her is Mabudu, a Shaman from the Dogon tribe in Africa.”

Mabudu, a small, bald black man with a white beard says, “Diganai po.”

“It’s an honor to meet you all,” I say.

“The feeling is mutual,” Nima says.

Again there’s weird silence as they all stare at me.

“So you guys know Bolon?” I ask, not exactly sure how I can get to the subject of who they all are and why they’re sitting in the dark in the back of a warehouse waiting for me.

“Bolon is a member of The Council, yes,” Nima answers.

“Are you allowed to tell us about The Council?” I ask.

Nima pours more tea into my cup and says, “We are simply called 13:20—I hope you have never heard of us. We are the ones who preserve the knowledge that the
Fraternitas Regni Occulti
is trying desperately to destroy.”

“You know about the
Fraternitas
?”

“Of course. They have been trying to annihilate us for centuries.”

“You guys?” I ask.

“The Council, yes, but also our communities. The effort to wipe out indigenous people has been systematically deployed for as long as anyone can remember.”

“Like pilgrims killing the Native Americans?”

“Before that and after—all the way to present day. Look around, China is trying to kill or oppress all Tibetans. The United States financially backed the killing of millions of Maya in Guatemala. Europeans all but extinguished the Aborigines in Australia. You see it everywhere: Asia, Africa, the Americas.”

“Why are they so threatened by you?” Justine asks.

“Because we all know what is about to happen. We all know a change is coming and we all know that the Shadow Government, the
Fraternitas Regni Occulti,
is trying desperately to maintain the control they have had for so very long.”

“And are you trying to destroy them?” I ask.

“We do not destroy anything,” she says.

I try to change the subject. “So it’s you guys and Bolon?”

“There are thirty-three of us actually, thirteen women and twenty men.”

Just as I’m thinking it’s not very progressive to have more men than women, Chasca says, “We need fewer women because women are far more powerful than men.”

All the men nod in agreement. I like these guys.

“Where are all the others now?” I ask.

“It’s too dangerous for us all to be in one place. We gather in small groups and only meet together when it is absolutely necessary. The Council has survived for centuries by remaining very secretive. We have our own version of the World Wide Web; one that needs no hardware.”

“Cool! How does it work?” I ask.

Nima shakes her head. “Maybe another time. Now tell us about the trouble you are in. You are on your way to Easter Island are you not?”

It’s hard to believe that for the last couple of hours I haven’t thought once about the fact that I’m going all the way to Easter Island tomorrow! “Oh, yeah. I wanted to have a layover in San Francisco to see my friend Justine; she is going to Machu Picchu for me.”

Chasca reaches for Justine’s hand and squeezes it. “You will love Peru,” she says.

“But we got a little carried away,” I say, “and we took a briefcase from someone who works for F.R.O.”

Justine immediately says, “It was all my doing; I take the blame.” It’s sweet of her to not want to get me in trouble.

“Brave girls,” Tawa, the Hopi man, says.

“Have you opened it?” asks Apari.

I’m mesmerized by his face; I’ve never met an Aborigine before. He looks unlike anyone else I’ve ever seen. “Not yet, it’s going to take awhile. It’s a three-digit combination,” I reply.

He waves his hand and says, “You can do it in no time. Bring it so.”

“You mean right now?” I ask.

He nods. I go over to Justine’s big rolling suitcase, unfurl the robe, and remove the briefcase. Then I place it in front of Apari.

“No no, you will open it,” he says as he points to my spot in the circle. I sit back down where I was, with the case on my lap.

“Everything leaves its imprint in the universe,” he says, “that case carries with it the imprint of its code, even if it had only been opened once. Put one palm over the number and one palm over the case. Now close your eyes, clear your mind, and take a few very deep breaths.” After a short pause he claps once and says, “Now! What is the first thing you see?”

I try really hard to see numbers, but all I see is a flash of the initials on Barend Schlacter’s tattoo: FRO.

I shake my head. “I only see letters.”

“Then you have the code. Count out the letters in the alphabet.”

I’m embarrassed that I have to use my hands to do this; I look like a first grader. “F is the sixth letter, R is the eighteenth letter, and O is the fifteenth letter. Six, eighteen, fifteen … but I only need three digits …”

“Combine the two-digit numbers,” says Mabudu.

“Okay,” I say, thinking aloud. “Eighteen is one plus eight, which makes nine. Fifteen is one plus five, which makes six. So it should be six, nine, six.”

I set the case upright and turn the wheels on the lock, which is hard because they’re tiny and my hands are sweating. I line up the six. Then the nine. As soon as I put the last six in place I know it will work. Call it genetic, call it Barbie-knee syndrome, but I know by the feel of the six rolling in to place that when I push the button it will open.

Click.

“No way!” Justine says. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

No one else seems the least bit impressed.

“And what do you have in there?” Nima asks as she leans in.

It’s a binder of information. “It looks like a manual,” I say as I open it up.

Justine looks disappointed. “Did you think it would be something more interesting?” I ask her. She nods. I feel the exact same way. We risked our lives to get this guy’s homework?

I open to the index of tabs and read it out loud.

Ongoing Priorities—
2nd Quarter Fiscal Year

A) Knowledge Suppression

1. Continue stirring the Mayan conflict in Guatemala

2. Debunk Mayan Astronomy/Calendar

3. Widen Project Khymatos exposure

4. Increase funding to large religious groups

B) Continued Northern Projects

1. Finish destruction of remaining icebergs in Northwest Passage (N.P.) and assess potential Collateral Damage to keep N.P. project quiet

2. Fund expansion of HAARP array through Scientific Grants

C) Expansion in Third/Fourth World Country

1. Ramp up lending to Third/Fourth world countries

2. Continue steady buy-out of utilities/natural resources in Third/Fourth world countries

D) Distraction/Fear

1. Begin phase three of debt plan/recession triggers

2. Introduce new Middle East conflicts

3. Assess need of natural disaster

“This is terrifying,” I say. “Can they really do all that?”

“They’ve been doing things like this—and worse—for several centuries,” Chasca says. “It’s wonderful to have all this information in one place, though.”

“I’m just glad I didn’t make it onto their list,” I say.

Mabudu says, “Look under Debunking the Mayan Calendar—I suspect you are there.”

I flip to tab A-2 and the first thing I see is a photo of me in the kitchen at the castle. Barend Schlacter must have secretly taken it when he was there.

My heart feels tiny and prickly. “I’m in here …”

“Read it!” says Justine, leaning over to see.

“It says, ‘Target: Caitrina (Caity) Mac Fireland, born November 12, 1995, in San Francisco, California. After death of Aeden Mac Fireland (target’s grandfather) lineage went underground for two decades, only resurfaced earlier this year when Angus Mac Fireland (target’s father) came forward to claim the Breidablik Castle on the Isle of Huracan, Scotland. Unknown why this girl or this family is so important in the next stage of development of the
Tzolk’in
. Second Degree Praetor, Barend Schlacter (F.R.O., Bavarian Sect), reports that Caitrina is odd, weak, and incapable of mounting a campaign of any consequence at all. Parents of target are both extremely intelligent but seem to know nothing as of yet. In addition, they are reportedly self-absorbed to such a degree that they would likely never be involved. Target will remain on periphery watch, but is not considered a threat.’”