The Newton Prophecies

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Move your goddamn asses!" DiBianco's father shouted.
         They tucked in close to their knees and rode the monstrous wave of snow and ice down the mountainside. It roared like a mighty beast longing to devour them in one solemn gulp. The sound was deafening. The ground shifted and quaked.
         Time seemed to stop and suddenly DiBianco felt something grab him from behind, pulling him to safety. Though he wasn't safe. Not even close. He watched his mother and father tumble head over foot through the raging avalanche; skis twirling through the air, poles spearing the sky like deadly javelins.

         Ding.

         The elevator doors opened. A rush of cool air filled the small space and sent a chill up DiBianco's spine. He took in a deep breath, wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, and gazed at the brass letters spanning the wall in front of him.

FEDERAL BUREAU
of
INVESTIGATION

         The feeling of panic slowly lifted, but the sweating did not. Without a word the agents led DiBianco down a corridor, through a set of double doors--gold Department of Justice seals etched into the glass--bypassing security, and entered the heart of the bureau's offices.
         DiBianco knew nothing good could possibly result of this. His heart raced. He tried to concentrate on what he knew about the Newton Papers, on the theories he had whipped up. Who was behind their disappearance?
         "Hi Artie," an attractive brunette said, cruising past a large restaurant-style coffee maker, then veering off into a brightly lit room just beyond.
         She's bubbly, DiBianco thought.
         "Uluba. Room B. I'll be there in a moment."
         Afridi guided DiBianco through an old steel door--an opaque window with a black "B" stuck at its center rattled as it opened--into a small room with a square table barely large enough for two, perhaps four, if they didn't mind kissing, and a huge pane of glass, a massive window overlooking Cambridge Street. "Have a seat, Mr. DiBianco."
         But DiBianco didn't sit.
         The room was bright. The immense heat beaming in from outside made the room more like a sauna. His hair grew wet, like he had just stepped out of a shower, however the stench in the room did nothing to reinforce that sensation.
         Afridi stood by the door, legs parted slightly, arms crossed, gazing at DiBianco with eyes that screamed, I know what you did and you're going to pay.
         DiBianco gazed down at the street: people walking, jogging, living their lives, eating their sandwiches, drinking their Cokes. He didn't know why, but watching them seemed surreal. He felt his life dangling in the balance. He knew, if he didn't figure out this mystery, and soon, he would likely never walk those streets again.
         I've got to get out of here.
         The door opened and Camillin entered with a large manilla folder. "Have a seat."
         Afridi closed the door.
         Camillin tossed several photographs on the table and DiBianco's eyes reeled in horror. Some of the world's most influential people: priests, scientists, historians, politicians--all dead. Murdered.
         "What is this?" DiBianco said. "Why has none of this been mentioned in the news?"
         "Mike," Camillin was calm, but DiBianco had little doubt, it would not remain that way for long. "This is one of the worst problems we've ever faced. Frankly, until we have some satisfactory answers, we cannot tell a soul."
         "That's crazy! How in the world hasn't the media caught wind of this?" DiBianco's eyes bugged. "That's Senator MacDonald for Christ's sake! How is it that the press hasn't realized their prized presidential candidate is missing?"
         "As you can see," Camillin started, his voice losing its patience. "We haven't much time. All eight of these assassinations have taken place in just the last few hours. The news will be plastered with this at any moment."
         "Holy Christ."
         "There is more," Agent Afridi said, dropping several black and white photocopies on the table.
         DiBianco's eyes lit ablaze. "Are those--"
         "Indeed," Camillin said. "They're photocopies of evidence left at the crime scenes. Each victim had a different page hidden somewhere on them."
         "Original pages?"
         "They appear to be."
         "What the hell's going on?"
         "Why don't you tell us, Mr. DiBianco?"
         DiBianco was silent. He gawked at the photocopies, trying to make out Newton's handwriting. All but one paragraph had been blacked out. It was like someone had taken a magic-marker and had crossed out every line of Newton's writing except one small area ... a clue. "I can't read this." DiBianco looked at the agents. "I need the originals."
         "I'm afraid we can't do that."
         "Why? They're obviously clues."
         The agents looked at each other coldly.
         "What?"
         Just then the attractive brunette who had spoken to Camillin upon their arrival, stormed the tiny interrogation room. "Artie!" she cried. Her breathing was heavy.
         "Jesus Christ!" he said, startled. "What is it?"
         "Harvard Divinity," she gasped. "There's been an explosion!"

** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **