“And, as I recall, something of an amateur cryptologist.”
Edie grabbed a sharpened pencil and a blank sheet of paper. “Okay, where do we start?”
“Given that Dr. Franklin purposely hid The Book of Moses, we must assume that is the first signpost. What connects the secret missive to the proposal for the 1776 Great Seal is—”
“ ‘Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God,’ ” she interjected, transcribing the motto onto the sheet of paper. “Making it the second signpost.”
“Perhaps.” Unlike Edie—who tended to hurl herself at a conclusion—he preferred a more circumspect approach. “There’s a possibility that the phrase is an anagram.”
“Oh, I get it. You think the letters of the motto can be rearranged to make another phrase.”
He grabbed a pencil and began scribbling several word combinations. “We’ll need to shake the tree and see if any fruit falls from the limb.”
“I like God and stone,” Edie said, leaning over his shoulder to examine the list.
“As do I.” He stared at the remaining twenty-six letters, wondering if they’d undertaken an impossible task. “This may take some time.”
It did. Three hours and fourteen minutes, to be precise. As well as four sharpened pencils and ten sheets of paper.
Physically exhausted and mentally drained, Caedmon turned to Edie. “Well, what do you think? I know, it’s not perfect.”
REBELLION TO TYRANTS
IS OBEDIENCE TO GOD
=
BIBLICIL ATEN STONE TO
GODS EYE DO NOT ERR
Caedmon underscored the first word with his finger. “This may be an archaic or variant spelling of the word biblical.”
Edie chuckled. “Personally? I think it’s a colonial typo.”
“Whether it’s a typo or a variant spelling, I think we found our second ‘signpost.’ ”
“I agree,” his partner enthused. “The ‘biblicil aten stone’ obviously refers to the Emerald Tablet, which used to be kept in the Ark of the Covenant. And ‘Gods eye’ is clearly a reference to the All-Seeing Eye. Together, they form a flashing neon signpost that leads to . . .” Edie frowned, her voice trailing into silence.
“As you have just surmised, we’ve reached an impasse.”
Because without a bloody map, the newly discovered signpost was meaningless.
CHAPTER 67
“ ‘The pale ghost escapes from the vanquished pyre,’ ” Caedmon murmured, glancing about the Christ Church burial grounds.
Standing beside him at the grave site, Edie shuddered. “The joint definitely feels haunted. As in ‘Who ya gonna call?’ ”
Having left Library Hall, they’d been en route to their hotel when he espied a placard publicizing the great one’s grave site. Of like mind, they’d nipped inside the cemetery, hoping to find a signpost inscribed on Dr. Franklin’s last resting place. Perhaps a cleverly worded epitaph. Or an ingeniously designed emblem.
Instead they discovered the humble inscription: BENJAMIN FRANKLIN and DEBORAH. 1790. Husband and wife buried side by side, each grave marked with a simple stone slab, no mention of Franklin’s brilliant achievements. Ashes to ashes.
Digital cameral in hand, Edie snapped several photos of the conjoined slabs. “A teensy clue would have been nice.”
“I, too, had hoped for a snippet,” he admitted, well aware that while they’d deciphered the Great Seal anagram, they had no idea how to parlay the secret message into something concrete.
Moses. The Knights Templar. Sir Francis Bacon. Benjamin Franklin. The magus. The warrior monks. The alchemist. The Deist. Separated by the centuries, they were bound, one to the other, through a complex web of symbols and secrets.
Biblicil aten stone to Gods eye Do not err—what the bloody hell did it mean?
Glancing at the burial slab, he plaintively sighed.
Pivoting in his direction, Edie took his photo. “I’m going to label that pic ‘Caedmon in pensive mode.’ Since there’s no All-Seeing Eye on the tombstone, we can assume that ol’ Ben didn’t take the Emerald Tablet to the grave.”
“Damn. I shall have to scratch that possibility off the list,” he good-naturedly grumbled.
As Edie continued to take photos, Caedmon took a moment to survey the grounds. Serene in the way that old cemeteries often are, the two-acre brick-walled enclave was also curiously surreal. On the near horizon, looming office buildings cast dark shadows onto the marble yard; and in the near distance, the erratic rumble of car engines lulled the dead to sleep. The pungent odor from a hot dog vendor’s cart combined with muffler exhaust, the fused scents wafting over the brick enclosure.
“This is going to sound strange, but I have no idea where my mother is buried. Somewhere in Orlando, I suppose.” Edie lowered the camera from her face, enabling him to see that she had a deep pucker between her brows. “Is there still such a thing as a pauper’s grave?”
Startled by the candid remarks followed by the unexpected query, he fumbled a bit. “Er, yes. No doubt cemeteries still maintain a pauper’s section.” For the poor always ye have with you, he thought, but didn’t say, not wanting to unintentionally cause offense. Then, inspired, he said, “I could help you locate the grave site.”
The pucker deepened. “Why? She’s not there. She was never there. You know, high on arrival.”
Caedmon presumed the odd remark referred to her mother’s heroin overdose.
“The here and now, that’s all we have,” Edie continued as she stowed the digital cameral in her shoulder satchel. “Take your pleasures where you can because tomorrow the sheriff’s deputy might slap an eviction notice on the trailer door. Although, don’t get me wrong, there were times when my mother and I were very tight. Just two little hamsters on the wheel of life.” Smiling wistfully, she made a twirling motion with her fingers.
He placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her toward him, wrapping his arms around her fuchsia-clad torso. His Edie. So beautiful. So intrepid. And at times so incredibly fragile.
“I didn’t say that to elicit your sympathy.”
“I know.” He rested his chin on top of her head.
“Change of subject: Is it just me, or is there something weirdly seductive about being in a graveyard?” Tilting her head, Edie peered up at him as she slid her hands under his wool blazer. “No need to answer. Your heartbeat just accelerated a notch.”
“Close contact has that effect.”
She affected a disappointed moué. “Here I thought we had something special, but it seems that a close encounter with any woman can—”
“Not true,” he interjected, pulling her even closer. “And you’re the only woman of my acquaintance who can do this to me.” He purposefully pressed himself against her midsection.
“Oh my. Now my pulse just quickened.”
Throwing back his head, he laughed.
“Hel-lo! That remark was supposed to turn you on not make you laugh uproariously.”
“My apologies.” He softly nuzzled the corner of her mouth before moving to a flushed cheek, then a shell-colored lobe, all the while breathing in her scent, a heady vanilla. Raising a hand, he smoothed a flyaway curl from her face.