Part 31 (1/2)

We followed the map, using a small compa.s.s of Sarah's from her father. He was a tyc.o.o.n of some kind at a Boston investment bank that had started three hundred years ago as a maritime trading company. In a nod to the past, they gave nautical compa.s.ses to their new executives, and he had given his to Sarah when she graduated from medical school. This was the first time she'd taken it out of its leather pouch, which gave her a perverse satisfaction, under the circ.u.mstances.

The steam tunnels seemed darker now. Somewhere outside, a cold front was pulling the temperature down to minus four--a cold so extreme that all life seemed to pause--and the maintenance lights, usually so bright, were pulsing dimly as the campus struggled to heat itself. The only sound was the occasional hiss or drip far down the tunnel, and of course the slap of our feet, which we tried to keep to a minimum. I thought of the Puppet Man. Sarah was next to me. Miles lagged behind, his leather satchel over his shoulder. He was the only one who seemed totally at ease. He might as well have been strolling to a Phish concert.

I looked at the map in my hands and thought with a s.h.i.+ver: two of the three people who contributed to this are dead--Frank Shepard for about two hundred years, Chance Worthington for about two days. I was the only one whose name was still ticked in the Alive column.

We pa.s.sed under Creighton and Worley. We knew we were under the Michaelson Chemistry Labs when the vapors. .h.i.t us through the air vents overhead, and we pa.s.sed a trash heap of old beakers and Erlenmeyer flasks, all shattered and discarded--a tribute to two centuries of clumsy students. We arrived below Embry House and took fork after fork to place ourselves directly below the Steel Man. I tried to hear the thumping of music as we pa.s.sed beneath that famed party room--I imagined the beautiful people dancing in the style of my generation, rugby players and sorority sisters grinding against each other five floors above us.

And then, at the end of our map, we saw a door. It was one of many in a small deserted hallway. We were in a branch of a branch of a branch of the tunnels. No one would ever come this way unless they knew exactly what they were looking for.

We almost pa.s.sed it.

It would've been an ordinary door, identical to dozens of utility closets and electrical rooms we'd already pa.s.sed, except for the subtle glyph above the door frame: Two small eyes--orange pupils and black irises--staring down at us.

I gave the k.n.o.b a turn, and the door opened.

33.

”Where are we?” Sarah whispered.

”I don't know.”

”This is where you saw the ceremony?”

”No. This is nothing like that. Too small. Too . . . homey. The place I saw was like a cathedral.”

”Well, where is that?”

”I have no idea.”

The place we were in looked like a junior common room in one of the dorms, in a state of bad neglect. There were several couches with cracked and worn leather. There was a rug in the center of the room that had never been fancy, but now it was threadbare. The air was stale. I shut the door behind us and switched on a dim lamp. Old photos covered the walls, hard to make out through thick layers of dust.

On the wall opposite us were two doors.

”I guess we try those,” I said.

”I wouldn't do that,” Sarah whispered.

”Why not?”

”No lock on the door, out there in the hall. Don't you think that's weird? Why wouldn't they lock their door?”

”I don't know. Maybe we just got lucky for once.”

”I doubt it. The only way you'd come through that door is if you were looking for it. I think this room is the lock.”

”What does that mean?”

”I'm not sure,” Sarah said. ”I just wouldn't go touching everything.”

”Look at this,” Miles said.

We turned around.

On a small end table, he'd found two statues; miniature kings standing side by side, carved out of limestone. The pedestals put them at eye level with us.

They were intricately detailed, with lined robes and faces. You got the feeling they were meant to be brothers. One looked kindly, the other cold.

”Look,” Sarah said. She was next to me, pointing at a plaque on one of the pedestals. It had an inscription in foreign letters. It looked like Greek.

”Miles, do they take your Cla.s.sics degree back if you actually use it for something?”

”You mock,” Miles said, ”but what would you do without me?”

He leaned over the plaque and ran his finger across the raised letters.

”It's a parable,” he said. He laughed. ”About two brothers, sworn to guard a crossroads. Not just any crossroads. One path leads to glory beyond your wildest dreams. The other leads to . . . oh.”

”What--death?”

”I wish. It's from Paradise Lost. 'To bottomless perdition, there to dwell, in adamantine chains and penal fire, who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.'”

”Penal fire?”

”Yeah.”

”It's the crossroads between heaven and h.e.l.l?”

Miles nodded.

I looked at the far wall.

”Two doors. Two paths. How do we choose?”

Miles put his finger back on the words. ”According to the parable, you can ask each brother which way to go. But there's a hitch. By law, one of the brothers must always lie. The other must always tell the truth.”

”No hint on which one's which?”

Miles read the rest.

He shook his head.

”That's all it says.”