Matt Eaton - Blank

She moved as quietly as she could toward their window. But just as she drew level with the priest’s front step, the door whipped open. Luckman whistled at her softly. She stifled a yelp of fright.

He waved her inside. “Something wrong?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she whispered. “The neighbours are restless.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He closed the door behind her and led the way to the study.

Dozens of books were stacked in several piles on the floor.

“This your handiwork?” she asked him.

“I’ll get to that.”

He handed her the notebook on which John Cutler’s name was scribbled like some handwritten mantra.

“What do you make of this?”

As soon as she touched the pad she knew.

“It’s the priest’s handwriting. It was worrying him – something about this man, a meeting perhaps. There’s anger and fear mixed together. Whoever John Cutler is, Father Paulson didn’t like him.”

She turned to the mess on the floor. “So what are you looking for?”

“A safe. But it seems to be well hidden.”

“You think it’s built into the bookcase?”

He shrugged. “I’m flying blind here.”

Mel noticed a small plinth had been built into the end of the bookcase in one corner of the room. There was a chess set on top of it. She tried to pick it up, but it wouldn’t move.

“That’s strange. You can’t move this board, but it’s not exactly a convenient place to stand and play chess.”

He stared at her, and then the chess board. She was right. It was a pointless affectation in a room that was otherwise clinically plain.

“It could be some kind of trigger,” he mused. “If so it’d have to be magnetic. You’d need to make the right move.”

Luckman picked up a chess piece and placed it in the middle of the chess board. Nothing happened.

“This could take a while,” he decided.

“Maybe not,” Mel whispered. She pulled Better Chess for Average Players off a nearby shelf, placed its spine on Paulson’s desk and allowed the book to fall open.

“If a certain page is opened frequently a book spine will often open at that place,” she explained.

It opened at pages 28-29, on which there were five illustrated chess moves.

“OK, so which one?” Luckman asked her.

“That one,” she decided, pointing. “It’s the only move that doesn’t require a massive reordering of the pieces.”

The illustration showed most of the pieces in starting order – only two white pawns were in play.

“Your move,” he told her.

She smiled, moving the two white pawns on Paulson’s board into the positions that matched the diagram.

But nothing happened.

“Oh,” she sighed, disappointed. “So much for that idea.”

“Wait.” He stared at the diagram, back at the chess board, then back at the book. “You haven’t finished.”

“Yes I have,” she insisted.

“No – look more carefully. Two pieces are missing.”

“Oh my God, you’re right.”

A white knight and a black knight were absent from the board. As she removed them they heard a click inside the wall. Adjacent to the chess board, a hook on a round brass plate – seemingly attached to the wall near the corner of the room – swung open to reveal an electronic keypad.

He was about to laugh in triumph when they both heard a car pulling up out front. Luckman popped his head into the hallway and caught a glimpse of headlights on the ceiling through the front windows. Someone had just parked on Paulson’s driveway.

“We have visitors,” he whispered to her. “Stay here.” He slipped into the hallway to steal a look from the front of the house. The neighbours had phoned the police. Paulson’s front gate was sliding open. Luckman saw a uniformed officer emerge from the driver’s side of the police car. Detective Pollock climbed gingerly to his feet from the passenger side.

“How long do we have?” she asked.

“A minute, maybe less.”

Mel picked up the chess book and placed it back on the shelf to cover their tracks. “Any bold ideas on the combination?” she asked anxiously.

“We’ve got maybe three goes at it,” he told her. “After that, any system this sophisticated will most likely lock us out and sound an alarm.”

His mind was racing. It would be far safer to simply get out while they still had the chance. He closed the door to the study. There was no lock on the door. The window was the only other way out. They might just be able to grab the safe’s contents and make a break for it. He didn’t want to have to do this a second time.

“Mel, open the window,” he whispered. “Quietly.”

Luckman reached for The Keys of Enoch . The first key was numbered 101. He gave it a try.

Nothing.

He cursed under his breath.

“Alpha and Omega,” Mel whispered.

“What?”

“I dunno – the words just popped into my head.”

“First and last,” he realised.

Luckman could hear the cops rattling keys. They would be inside in about 20 seconds. If Pollock found them now they might never get another shot at this. Luckman flicked to the back of The Keys of Enoch for the number sequence of the final key. He added first and last together and typed in the six-digit sequence. As he did so they heard the front door open.

“Police,” Pollock announced, and for a fraction of a second Luckman feared the man already knew who was in here.

A panel of the bookcase swung free. It was about a metre high and half a metre across. Luckman shone his torch through the gap. There was enough room for them both.

“In there,” he ordered.

Luckman switched off the desk lamp. The click sounded deafening, and it occurred to him then that the light must surely have been visible in the hallway under the door to the study. He swung the brass hook plate back into place. He heard the policemen running toward the study as he followed Mel into the secret compartment.

There was more room than he had expected. A handle on the inside of the secret panel allowed him to pull it back in place. He maintained pressure on the door until he heard a click.

They were trapped like rats but out of harm’s way for the moment. As Luckman slowly stood up, half expecting to bump his head at any moment, a small video screen flickered to life, offering enough illumination to outline the dimensions of their cage. Neither of them dared speak – there was no way of knowing if the chamber was soundproof.

The screen flared white and then revealed a CCTV image of Paulson’s office. Pollock and the uniform were in the study and waving torches around the room, noting the books all over the floor.

“Look,” Pollock said, pointing at the window. “There’s your entry and exit point. Probably kids. Just the same we better leave a car out the front.”

Luckman sighed in relief as they began to search the other rooms of the house. He became aware another light had switched on behind them. He turned to discover they were on a small metal landing from which a flight of metal stairs descended at least two storeys underground. Bunker lights illuminated the stairs at regular intervals.

“Lead on,” she suggested.

“Slowly and quietly,” he told her.

After about a dozen steps Luckman tapped lightly on the walls of the stairwell with his knuckle. They were solid steel, had to be at least a centimetre thick. Blast proof. It felt like they were inside a massive gun barrel.

“I can’t get those words out of my head,” Mel whispered.

“What words?” Luckman asked her.

“Alpha and Omega. It’s like a mantra.”

“Don’t knock it – you saved our arses back there.”