The Newton Prophecies

Chapter 16 (Part Two)

Chapter 16

When the District Line Train arrived at Victoria Station, Peter Clinton tried to remember life before wallowing in the darkness of earth's mysterious underworld.
         London's elaborate subway system carried an official nickname, The Tube. Clinton wasn't much for nicknames but adapted and often called it The Tube, even if it did sound ridiculous.
         The Tube from Victoria Station to South Kensington was a short one.
         Small LCDs played the early news--

         "...Prime Minister Blair is prepared to give his fair-well speech this evening, christening Brown as his successor in the House of Parliament. It's expected to be a warm welcome for the new Prime Minister. After a decade of war and misrepresentation, England's people are ready for a new voice..."

         Clinton was one of the few who still appreciated Blair; not only did he think the war was justified, but vital to national security.
         Clinton glanced back at the LCD.
         The news anchor pulled at his ear. A disheartening gaze swept his face--

         "This just in... The Pope has died. The ninety-seven-year-old Supreme Pontiff, who has struggled with Parkinson's Disease for most of his fifteen years at the helm, died last night in his papal apartment. Again ... Pope Seises XVI, has died at age ninety-seven."

         The camera panned to a young woman, blond, heavy makeup; her eyes glazed over, choking back tears.

         "It's a sad day for the billions who loved him, a man who helped so many throughout his life."
         "That's right Kim," the male anchor said. "Now the waiting begins."
         "Our very own Frank Thompson is en-route to Vatican City. He'll be our eyes and ears while we await--"

         Pope Seises ... dead, Clinton thought. He had just seen the Pope give a blessing from his papal apartment window on the news the night before ... the night he died. How frighteningly unpredictable life can be.
         The train squealed to a halt.
         The doors slid open.
         An announcement crackled the loudspeakers.
         Now Arriving, South Kensington Station.
         This was his stop.
         South Kensington Station was one brief stop Clinton had to make while taking the London Underground to and from school--It connected Victoria Station, across the street from his tiny basement apartment in Westminster, with Russell Square, just two blocks from Birkbeck University--but on this day Clinton's life was about to change ... forever.
         On the brink of 21, Peter Clinton was sharp-as-a-tack, majoring in computer science, world history, and world religion, he was one busy kid. When not at school--mesmerizing his teachers with questions Einstein would have gotten lost in, or doing one-and-a-half reverse somersaults with quadruple twists, off a concrete slab over 30 feet above the surface of a mere 15 feet of icy pool water--he was barricading himself in his apartment, searching the internet for dark secret societies, mythical cults, and crime and corruption of all types, in an attempt to unveil their existence to the world--shed light on the darkness.
         Clinton was a spiritual man, didn't belong to any creed per se, but believed in God and served the best he knew how. With that said, he struggled to pull his attention away from the occult. It fascinated him. Filled his life with mystery and puzzles, more than he could ever dream of solving. Yet he understood the danger, and fought to stay clear of it.
         Clinton laid his laptop bag on the concrete bench and pulled out a pristine hardcover edition of his favorite book and read silently while the Piccadilly train, heading to Russell Square, returned from Heathrow Airport--typically a ten to fifteen minute layover.
         The title of the book, ironically, was The Book. He had read it three times since receiving it six months prior from his science teacher, a treasured birthday gift. He couldn't get enough of it. Written by Michael DiBianco--simply the best author of all time--The Book was chocked with complex and mesmerizing puzzles and dark mysteries. He couldn't resist a good mystery. Unsolved puzzles drove him mad.
         In it were translations of masterpieces by some of the world's most influential people: Einstein, Galileo, Newton, Plato, amongst others. Clinton imagined that DiBianco's mind worked quite similar to his own, which made him a genius.
         Clinton's knee began to bounce. It was his body screaming at him. Find a restroom, fast!
         The train would arrive in less than five minutes. However, the ride to Russell Square was another fifteen; the buildup in his bladder was intense, and it wasn't easing.
         Shoving the book into his bag and slinging it back over his shoulder, Clinton made strides toward the men's room, praying he didn't spring a leak in his jeans on the way. But the men's room was closed. Spans of crisscrossed caution tape barred off both entrances.
         He had to go. It simply could not wait.
         It was dark. Clinton flicked on the light switches. Nothing happened. Fortunately, he'd used this restroom before and knew right where to go. There were no doors blocking the entrances, light penetrated the series of passageways within the horseshoe restroom at both ends.
         He tracked his way toward the urinals, slid his bag around to his back, unzipped his fly, and let the buildup of pressure gush out.
It was orgasmic.
         When he first heard the female voice he swore it came from within the men's room.
         He slowed the hot stream with a solid pinch of his right hand and tried to silence himself.
         A man's voice replied. It was quiet; Clinton couldn't be sure where the voices came from.
         "...room 326." The female said.
         "Are you sure?"
         "Positive."
         "Make sure you keep your headset on."
         "Of course."
         "When you hear the signal--"
         "--I know." She paused. "Is it truly necessary?"
         "Savanna, you're in no situation to argue."
         "I know."
         "I'll take care of everything else."
         "Are you sure he won't recognize you?"
         "Absolutely."
         "Can I see him?"
         "Not yet."
         "I love him."
         "I know."
         "Don't you dare hurt him."
         "That's not part of the plan. You know that."
         "I also know you follow orders like I do."
         "This came from Fuller. Don't worry."
         There was a long silence. The sound of piss striking the inside wall of the urinal rushed back into Clinton's head.
         "He is the one, you know."
         "Are you ready?" The man said.
         Sounds of zippers and button-snaps echoed through the darkness. It was coming from the men's room, of this he now knew for sure.
         Shaking himself dry, Clinton zipped his jeans and left the restroom without even a squeak of his sneakers on the tile. He ducked out of sight and watched a sharp dressed couple leave the opposite entrance to the restroom and make a swift B-line toward the Circle Line pad.
         It was a dark unsolved mystery, taunting him to follow, and without a second thought, that's just what he did.

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