The Moses Riddle (Thomas McAllister 'Treasure Hunter' Adventure Book 1) by Hunt Kingsbury Page A
Authors: Hunt Kingsbury
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sentence, paragraph, and page became laborious. He read on, however, determined to finish.
There were times when he thought he might be asleep, but the reading had become more vivid and then, suddenly, it was in the first person. Someone was writing about strange visitors, guarded treasures, and time spent—days spent—by a stranger with a long silver beard in the old temple at Saqqara. But soon Thomas got lost, had trouble following a line, trouble defining basic words. He wondered why the Notes had changed so much. Why they’d gone from basic restoration description to the story of a man with a long silver beard, who traveled with guarded treasure, and then on to a story about a fair-haired maiden, so beautiful, so vulnerable, yet so full of veiled deceit, and he could see the veil but he couldn’t see through it, no matter how hard he tried, until finally she became the incredible, perfect-woman in Turgenev’s Torrents of Spring . The girl who opens her window to the street, to her young lover, bosom exposed, sweet wind blowing beautifully through her immaculate hair, and Thomas ran to her, and she embraced him with all her might, pulling him close, against her bosom, in a move that was all at once so taboo, innocent and sensual that for the first time since his firing Thomas became happy, truly happy. But, then, the footsteps behind him, always the inevitable footsteps. And there was Sir Thomas Moore. Approaching. Not with his rose, the famous last rose of summer, but rather a gun. And Thomas remembered that every season ends, and all roses die, and he remembered the lines to Moore’s incredibly sad poem about the rose, lying senseless and dead, soon to be followed, by friendship, love, gems, hearts, and all fond ones that have flown, and then amazingly, shockingly, there in the Notes, Moore asks, in all his crotchety genius, how the hell could anyone live in this bleak world alone?
At seven in the morning, Thomas woke up. He was beginning to feel the effects of a serious hangover when adrenaline shot through his body. He knew, instinctively, that something had happened the night before. With difficulty, he took himself chronologically through the previous night. Something had excited him while he was reading the Amenophis Notes. He couldn’t immediately remember what it was, but he knew one thing. He was on to something . . . and it was big.
Thomas’ mouth felt as if it were stuffed with cotton as he walked up the stairs to the kitchen. The pain in his head reverberated with each step. He had never before consumed so much alcohol. Normally a very light social drinker, his tolerance was low. And he never smoked. It was a habit he abhorred. He took the empty pack of Marlboros from his pocket and flipped it into the trash can.
He opened the refrigerator door, not knowing what he’d find. Thankfully, there was half a pitcher of orange juice. He filled a glass, quickly took two small sips, and immediately felt better. It would be hours before he would feel normal again. In fact, if it weren’t for the miniscule shots of adrenaline he kept getting, he would’ve been really sick. He took another sip of orange juice and headed back down to the basement to find out what the hell he had read that had gotten him so excited. Whatever it was, it was thankfully proving much stronger than his hangover.
When he reached his desk, he eased himself into his chair and picked up the Amenophis Notes . After Gene had called, he’d read some or all of Volume II. Somewhere, in one of the three books, he’d hit on something. But he had no idea what.
He perused Book I and didn’t see anything but standard builders notes. After he almost threw up from moving his eyes back and forth across the pages too quickly, he took a short walk around the basement. When he returned he finished Book II. Still nothing. With only one book left, he was becoming convinced that it must have been a dream that had gotten him so excited.
He opened
There were times when he thought he might be asleep, but the reading had become more vivid and then, suddenly, it was in the first person. Someone was writing about strange visitors, guarded treasures, and time spent—days spent—by a stranger with a long silver beard in the old temple at Saqqara. But soon Thomas got lost, had trouble following a line, trouble defining basic words. He wondered why the Notes had changed so much. Why they’d gone from basic restoration description to the story of a man with a long silver beard, who traveled with guarded treasure, and then on to a story about a fair-haired maiden, so beautiful, so vulnerable, yet so full of veiled deceit, and he could see the veil but he couldn’t see through it, no matter how hard he tried, until finally she became the incredible, perfect-woman in Turgenev’s Torrents of Spring . The girl who opens her window to the street, to her young lover, bosom exposed, sweet wind blowing beautifully through her immaculate hair, and Thomas ran to her, and she embraced him with all her might, pulling him close, against her bosom, in a move that was all at once so taboo, innocent and sensual that for the first time since his firing Thomas became happy, truly happy. But, then, the footsteps behind him, always the inevitable footsteps. And there was Sir Thomas Moore. Approaching. Not with his rose, the famous last rose of summer, but rather a gun. And Thomas remembered that every season ends, and all roses die, and he remembered the lines to Moore’s incredibly sad poem about the rose, lying senseless and dead, soon to be followed, by friendship, love, gems, hearts, and all fond ones that have flown, and then amazingly, shockingly, there in the Notes, Moore asks, in all his crotchety genius, how the hell could anyone live in this bleak world alone?
At seven in the morning, Thomas woke up. He was beginning to feel the effects of a serious hangover when adrenaline shot through his body. He knew, instinctively, that something had happened the night before. With difficulty, he took himself chronologically through the previous night. Something had excited him while he was reading the Amenophis Notes. He couldn’t immediately remember what it was, but he knew one thing. He was on to something . . . and it was big.
Thomas’ mouth felt as if it were stuffed with cotton as he walked up the stairs to the kitchen. The pain in his head reverberated with each step. He had never before consumed so much alcohol. Normally a very light social drinker, his tolerance was low. And he never smoked. It was a habit he abhorred. He took the empty pack of Marlboros from his pocket and flipped it into the trash can.
He opened the refrigerator door, not knowing what he’d find. Thankfully, there was half a pitcher of orange juice. He filled a glass, quickly took two small sips, and immediately felt better. It would be hours before he would feel normal again. In fact, if it weren’t for the miniscule shots of adrenaline he kept getting, he would’ve been really sick. He took another sip of orange juice and headed back down to the basement to find out what the hell he had read that had gotten him so excited. Whatever it was, it was thankfully proving much stronger than his hangover.
When he reached his desk, he eased himself into his chair and picked up the Amenophis Notes . After Gene had called, he’d read some or all of Volume II. Somewhere, in one of the three books, he’d hit on something. But he had no idea what.
He perused Book I and didn’t see anything but standard builders notes. After he almost threw up from moving his eyes back and forth across the pages too quickly, he took a short walk around the basement. When he returned he finished Book II. Still nothing. With only one book left, he was becoming convinced that it must have been a dream that had gotten him so excited.
He opened
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