left, the neighborhood always became a bit of a ghost town. That night, however, it was a shame because as Desmond Locke’s driver pulled up in front of an abandoned and dilapidated church that sat in the shadow of Trinity Church on Trinity Place, I would have loved there to be a crowd around so that the three of us might stand a chance of escaping into it.
Instead, Desmond Locke stepped out of the car first, then gestured us out of it with the business end of his gun.
I stared up at the old church in front of us, the building one of my great-great-grandfather’s, but one that was relatively unfamiliar to me. It was more garish than his usual design, lacking the Gothic integrity of most of Alexander’s work in Manhattan, which I suppose made it no surprise that the building looked completely abandoned.
Its heavy wooden doors were boarded over with a mishmash of slats and boards, but despite their appearance, Locke guided us toward them. Once in the shadowy arch of the cruciform base of the church, he moved to the boards blocking the door. He grabbed at one of the solid beams, then easily lifted it on a hidden pivot point, which allowed him to swing open the mass of boards, revealing a cleverly disguised entrance into the building behind them. They swung away as one, and Locke, again gesturing with the gun in his hand, forced us in through them.
Once inside, he secured the door before he turned and motioned us forward through the entryway into the church proper.
I pushed through the inner doors, but what greeted me was nothing like what I expected. The large open nave I thought would be filled with rows and rows of pews and kneelers was instead bustling with activity that gave it more of an office-warehouse vibe. The left side of the enormous area was filled with office space and cubicles behind a half wall, and people working in there. The other side was stacked high with caged-off shelves crammed with boxes, books, and sundry other items I couldn’t identify from where I stood.
I stepped into the space of the main aisle down the middle of the room, taking it all in as the four of us walked along.
“This doesn’t exactly scream church to me,” I said.
“Nor should it,” he said, continuing on. “Let’s just call this a different affiliation of mine.”
I threw him a suspicious look. “I take it my father isn’t part of this particular religious affiliation?”
Desmond Locke shook his head.
“I should say not,” he said. “And I wouldn’t exactly call the
Libra Concordia
a religious endeavor, although its roots
can
be traced back through various denominations of Christianity.”
I stopped walking. “
Libra Concordia
?”
“Balance,” said Marshall, stepping forward. “With one heart.”
“Very good, Mr. Blackmoore,” Locke said. “You know your Latin.”
Marshall shrugged. “Dead languages and gaming go hand in hand.”
Locke laughed at that. “Apparently, they do.”
“What
is
this place?” I asked.
Rory stepped over to one of the open gates of the caged-off area and reached through it for one of the boxes on the shelves. “What is all this?”
Locke reached for her hand to stop her, but Rory’s reflexes were quicker, and she pulled away before he could grab her.
“We call it the Hall of Mysteries,” he said, “for lack of anything more imaginative, and it is just that.”
“How did you accumulate it?” I asked.
“We’ve amassed a great many findings over the years, things the Church might look upon as . . . miracles.”
“Or damnation,” Marshall added. “If any part of this is what I think it is . . .”
Desmond Locke folded his hands together, the gun still in his right one, but lowered now. “And what do you think
this
is, Mr. Blackmoore?”
“I think you have a whole lot of what you say . . . mysteries. But if the Church caught wind of this collection of yours, it could go one of two ways.”
“And those would be . . . ?” Locke
Instead, Desmond Locke stepped out of the car first, then gestured us out of it with the business end of his gun.
I stared up at the old church in front of us, the building one of my great-great-grandfather’s, but one that was relatively unfamiliar to me. It was more garish than his usual design, lacking the Gothic integrity of most of Alexander’s work in Manhattan, which I suppose made it no surprise that the building looked completely abandoned.
Its heavy wooden doors were boarded over with a mishmash of slats and boards, but despite their appearance, Locke guided us toward them. Once in the shadowy arch of the cruciform base of the church, he moved to the boards blocking the door. He grabbed at one of the solid beams, then easily lifted it on a hidden pivot point, which allowed him to swing open the mass of boards, revealing a cleverly disguised entrance into the building behind them. They swung away as one, and Locke, again gesturing with the gun in his hand, forced us in through them.
Once inside, he secured the door before he turned and motioned us forward through the entryway into the church proper.
I pushed through the inner doors, but what greeted me was nothing like what I expected. The large open nave I thought would be filled with rows and rows of pews and kneelers was instead bustling with activity that gave it more of an office-warehouse vibe. The left side of the enormous area was filled with office space and cubicles behind a half wall, and people working in there. The other side was stacked high with caged-off shelves crammed with boxes, books, and sundry other items I couldn’t identify from where I stood.
I stepped into the space of the main aisle down the middle of the room, taking it all in as the four of us walked along.
“This doesn’t exactly scream church to me,” I said.
“Nor should it,” he said, continuing on. “Let’s just call this a different affiliation of mine.”
I threw him a suspicious look. “I take it my father isn’t part of this particular religious affiliation?”
Desmond Locke shook his head.
“I should say not,” he said. “And I wouldn’t exactly call the
Libra Concordia
a religious endeavor, although its roots
can
be traced back through various denominations of Christianity.”
I stopped walking. “
Libra Concordia
?”
“Balance,” said Marshall, stepping forward. “With one heart.”
“Very good, Mr. Blackmoore,” Locke said. “You know your Latin.”
Marshall shrugged. “Dead languages and gaming go hand in hand.”
Locke laughed at that. “Apparently, they do.”
“What
is
this place?” I asked.
Rory stepped over to one of the open gates of the caged-off area and reached through it for one of the boxes on the shelves. “What is all this?”
Locke reached for her hand to stop her, but Rory’s reflexes were quicker, and she pulled away before he could grab her.
“We call it the Hall of Mysteries,” he said, “for lack of anything more imaginative, and it is just that.”
“How did you accumulate it?” I asked.
“We’ve amassed a great many findings over the years, things the Church might look upon as . . . miracles.”
“Or damnation,” Marshall added. “If any part of this is what I think it is . . .”
Desmond Locke folded his hands together, the gun still in his right one, but lowered now. “And what do you think
this
is, Mr. Blackmoore?”
“I think you have a whole lot of what you say . . . mysteries. But if the Church caught wind of this collection of yours, it could go one of two ways.”
“And those would be . . . ?” Locke
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