Illuminated

Matt Bronleewe

Cover Page

Invitation from the Author

My “day job” is as a writer/producer of music. Therefore, I couldn’t imagine ILLUMINATED without a musical accompaniment. I called on some of my closest and most talented friends in the industry to help out. I hope you’ll enjoy listening to this soundtrack as much as I enjoyed writing the novel to it!

The soundtrack is available totally free at Mattbronleewe.com.

Advance Acclaim for Illuminated

Matt Bronleewe has crafted a seat-of-your-pants thrill ride into a world of cryptic messages within ancient documents. Illuminated is what The Da Vinci Code should have been. The characters are more endearing, the twists more believable, the story more satisfying. And don’t even get me started about that nasty she-villain! Illuminated is sure to be a welcome addition to any suspense fan’s library.

—Robert Liparulo, author of Deadfall, Germ, and Comes a Horseman

If you turned National Treasure into International Treasure, traded Da Vinci codes for Gutenberg Bibles, married it to Indiana Jones, and finally added the pacing of 24 you’d be in the neighborhood of Illuminated. Make sure you have plenty of time when you pick this up because you may not easily put it down. Better known as one of the founding members of the band Jars of Clay, Bronleewe has struck gold with his first novel. This one goes to eleven.

—Mark Parolini, Aspiring Retail

I think we’re going to have to invent a new genre to describe Matt Bronleewe’s “theological thriller,” Illuminated. Obsessively detailed and so fast-paced it could outrun a freight train, Bronleewe’s debut is a taut, intelligent ride that will induce finger cramps from how tightly you’ll be clutching the pages.

—Robin Parrish, author of Relentless and Fearless

Matt Bronleewe bursts onto the scene with a spirited thriller. I always love authors who can mix history and suspense, and Bronleewe does so with doses of fact, sprinkles of laughter, and bucket-loads of action. Reading Illuminated is like watching a big-budget summer movie played out on the pages.

—Eric Wilson, author of A Shred of Truth

Matt Bronleewe’s ability to take something and turn it into an opportunity for innovative expression is one of the very reasons I choose to work with him so often and respect him so much. And Illuminated is no different. I was educated while I was entertained. This is not your every day read, but such an intelligent escape from it. Loved it.

—Tiffany Arbuckle Lee a.k.a. Plumb,
Songwriter and Curb Records recording artist

Illuminated is a riveting debut from a fresh new voice in thriller fiction.

—Chris Well, author of Tribulation House

Illuminated is a wonderful work that shows Matt Bronleewe is simply warming up.

—Dan Haseltine (reader of some books,
and writer of essays), Jars of Clay

Multi-talented is a vast understatement when used to describe Matt Bronleewe! I have worked with Matt in his song-writing and producing capacity for many years now and have long been impressed with his creativity. Now we add novelist to the list! This book reads like a movie. With drama and realism combined, Matt takes his readers on an unforgettable and thought-provoking journey. Rock on Matt!

—Rebecca St. James

Illuminated flickers with past secrets, present puzzles and a future that could fade to black at any moment.

—In the Library Reviews

Title Page

ILLUMINATED

matt bronleewe

Copyright Page

This item is produced by permission of The Huntington Library, San Marino, California.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

Author is represented by the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc.,
7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920,
www.alivecommunications.com

Thomas Nelson books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business,
fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail
[email protected].

Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

Page Design by Casey Hooper

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bronleewe, Matt.
  Illuminated / Matt Bronleewe.
    p. cm.
  ISBN 978-1-59554-249-6
  1. Manuscripts, Medieval--Fiction. I. Title.
  PS3602.R64266I45 2007
  813'.6--dc22

2007015670

Printed in the United States of America
07 08 09 10 11 QW 9 8 7 6 5

Dedication

For Karin.
Your love has illuminated the path of my life.

Truth is captive in a small number of little manuscripts that guard the common treasures. Let us break the seal that binds these holy things, let us give wings to truth that it might fly.

JOHANNES GUTENBERG

contents

prologue

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

twenty-four

twenty-five

epilogue

further mysteries

acknowledgments

Prologue

prologue

AD 1415
KONSTANZ, GERMANY

The storm clouds unleashed their torrent of rain upon the people gathered by the street. None scattered for cover. All were waiting for the heretic to pass by. All were waiting for the opportunity to spit in his face, throw a rock at his feet, mock his defiance of the Holy Roman Empire. Their hatred grew as they jostled for a better view, a front-row view of the hellfire in the devil worshipper’s eyes. Seventeen-year-old Johannes Gutenberg struggled through the confusion, his own eyes fixed on his father.

“Try to keep up,” his father said. “The metallurgist won’t wait forever.”

“Coming,” Johannes said. But he stopped for a moment to glance at the spectacle on the street. A block ahead he saw a man draped in heavy rusted chains, walking toward him. A small battalion circled the man, swinging their swords to keep the raucous crowd at bay.

“Johannes!” his father said. But the boy lost sight of him, lost among the growing throng. Pushed to the ground, Johannes crawled to the edge of the street. He stood as the chained man approached. Johannes squinted up, seeing that the heretic wore a tall, pointed hat—a miter—the same hat a priest wore. Only this one bore a terrifying image of the devil and a mocking title: Ringleader of Heretics.

The chained man staggered to the ground. Without thinking about the implications, Johannes leaped to his side to help him. A soldier pointed his sword at Johannes’s neck. “Leave him alone, boy!”

He ignored the soldier and gazed into the heretic’s eyes. Despite the man’s state of distress, there was not a shred of malice in them. In that moment, Johannes sensed a peace so deep and so profound that the howling of the crowd around him faded to a whisper. The man murmured something, motioning him closer. Johannes leaned in.

“Boy, get away, or you will burn at the stake with this devil worshipper!” the soldier barked. “Do you hear me?”

The heretic reached out and placed a small object in Johannes’s hand. “What is it?” he asked, fingering a small metal disc. But the heretic did not reply.

A sharp pain stabbed Johannes’s shoulder, the point of a sword digging into his skin. He felt himself lifted and shoved back into the crowd. The press of bodies prevented him from falling, and he slipped the object into his pocket. He turned to watch the heretic shuffle down the road, the angry mob still swirling about him. Had this all really happened? Had his encounter been nothing more than a strange dream?

His father’s strong hand yanked him to his senses. “Where on earth have you been? There is no doubt I will be late now. Your mother will not be proud to hear that her son has caused such disgrace.”

“Sorry,” he said. He followed his father down a side street, away from the crowd, fingering the hidden disc. “What will become of that man?”

“That’s no business of ours,” his father said. They walked for many blocks in silence. His father studied a map, and before long they stopped before a small green door.

After two knocks, the door opened and a face appeared, broad and ruddy, with wisps of hair sticking out from his head like shocks of bleached wheat. “Can I help you?”

“It’s Gutenberg. And son, for that matter.”

“Gutenberg? Yes, yes, come in,” the metallurgist said, ushering them inside. “I’ve been expecting you. Didn’t know if you would make it with all the quarreling going on.”

“We almost didn’t,” the father said, glaring at his son. “Where is the machine I have traveled so far to see?”

Johannes’s cheeks flamed. The metallurgist pointed toward the adjacent room. “Go ahead,” he directed the elder Gutenberg. “I think you’ll be more than pleased with the progress we’ve made. It can stamp nearly twice as many coins as the last machine.” Johannes, not invited to see the device, hung back. He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew the metal piece out into the light, as if seeing it with his own two eyes might confirm that it was real. It was a coin.

“May I take a look?” the metallurgist asked. He took the coin and bit it between his yellow teeth. “Tin,” he pronounced, flipping it back to Johannes. “Where did you find that?” he asked, his voice as much accusing as curious.

Johannes held up the coin and watched the light dance on its edges. “A man in the street gave it to me. The one they were calling a heretic.”

The metallurgist looked over his shoulder, then back at Johannes. “That man will die today. And his death will mark the beginning of a new age.” He pointed to an image on the coin: a woman’s face. “Do you see this?” he said, voice quivering. “It is the mark of the coming revolution.”

“And what about this?” Johannes asked, indicating an impression on the flip side.

The metallurgist smiled. “That you will have to discover for yourself.”

One

one

The occupants of Flight 1213 weren’t surprised when the lights went out. They had been flickering for the last ten minutes, so it was no shock when the blackness hit. It was more surprising, however, when the airplane dropped from the heavens like a bird shot in midair.

August Adams could hear the scream from first class over the deafening roar of the engines. A drink cart raced down the aisle, narrowly missing a curious youngster who retracted his head just in time. The plane leveled out for a brief moment, then dipped sharply to the left. A suitcase toppled out of an overhead storage unit, striking an old man two rows up on the forehead. He slumped forward. The child next to him began to wail.

At the window in seat 24F, August flipped open his seat buckle and jumped to his feet. He climbed directly over the row in front of him, angering the businessmen parked there. “Watch it, buddy!” one of them said as August put a foot on his shoulder.

August thrust his body over the next set of seats. The boy looked up at him and shrieked, “What’s wrong with Grandpa?”

“Don’t worry. It’s going to be okay,” August said to him, grabbing a scarf held out by a woman in the next row. A steady stream of blood oozed from the gash. The man appeared to be unconscious. August rummaged through his mental files, calling up a first-aid manual he’d read during a CPR class. “What’s your grandpa’s name?”

“I think it’s Ford,” the boy said.

August tied the scarf around the grandfather’s head, pressing to stop the bleeding. He instructed the businessman behind him to apply pressure to the wound. The businessman shook his head. “I’m staying right where I am,” he said. Bathed in the red emergency lights that illuminated the cabin, the businessman bore the distinct expression of a man who had just wet his pants.

“This guy might die if you don’t help me.”

The speakers crackled above them, probably the captain trying to tell them to remain calm. Too late, thought August.

“Why don’t you do it?” the businessman asked, voice quivering.

“Because I need to find a first-aid kit,” August said. “C’mon, man! Just loosen your belt and lean forward. Wrap your hands around the top of the seat. I’ll help you.”

“I can’t,” said the businessman. “I’m sorry.”

The two men next to him had their heads tucked firmly between their legs, their arms crossed protectively over their necks. They weren’t going to be any help either.

“Someone get a first-aid kit for this man!” August said, slamming a fist down on the seat. The plane shook again, and he anchored his hand to the armrest like a bull rider.

The lights came back on. August felt a tap on his side. “Is my grandpa going to be okay?” The boy was only a couple of years younger than his own son. August weighed his answer. “I hope so,” he said.

A flight attendant rushed down the aisle with the first-aid kit. She cracked it open and pulled out a wad of bandages, which she immediately placed over the old man’s wound.

“Is there a flashlight in there?” August asked, pointing to the kit.

“I think so,” she said, rifling through it. The plane dipped, and the contents spilled to the floor.

August reached down and retrieved a small penlight. He pried open the old man’s left eye and shone the light in it. He then repeated the process for the right eye.

“You’re checking for a concussion?”

“If the injury caused his brain to swell, there could be dangerous tissue compression inside his cranium. That compression would put pressure on his optic nerves, and his pupils would react strangely to the light.” August stepped into the aisle and had her take a look at the old man’s eyes. “You should check him every fifteen minutes.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“I wish. You should ask for one on board. I just never forget a word I read.”

“Lucky for him.”

“Yeah, well, let me know if he’s okay,” August said, turning to go back to his seat. Down the aisle this time. “The kid too. He looked pretty frightened.”

“He’s not the only one,” she said.

“Sorry about that, folks,” the captain said, his amplified voice clear now. “Please keep your seat belts fastened, as we might be experiencing a few more bumps before we reach New York.”

“If that was just a bump, I’d hate to see what a real problem looks like,” the attractive occupant of 24D said to August as he squeezed past. “Not that you wouldn’t be able to handle it, Superman.”

“Just trying to help out,” August said, sitting down. “I have a boy about the same age.”

“And I’ll bet he gets his casual good looks from you.” She laughed. “You’re married?” she asked, glancing at his ringless fingers.

August wondered if the question implied anything more. “Divorced. One year and counting,” August said. He put out his hand. “August Adams.”

“Xandria Muro,” the woman said, returning the handshake with a confident grip. A memorable name to go with the memorable face. “We’ve got almost seven hours left to fly, so I apologize in advance if I end up telling you my life story.”

August got the impression from her crisp business attire that her life story would be less than thrilling. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I was thinking that I might—”

“Get some sleep?” Xandria asked. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” August said, not sure why he felt bad about trying to avoid conversation. Her embarrassed blush highlighted her round cheekbones, which seemed lifted in a perpetual smile. “I probably couldn’t sleep right now anyway. After all the commotion.”

She accepted the invitation by tucking a gold strand of hair behind her ear and tilting her head. “You were quite the superhero, weren’t you? So what do you do when you’re not saving the elderly?” Xandria asked.

August laughed. “If I’m a superhero, then we’re in trouble,” he said. “I collect and sell rare books. Emphasis on the sell part.”

“How’d you get into that?”

“I thought you were supposed to tell me your life’s story,” August said, restraining a smile. “But to answer your question, I used to be an archaeobibliologist.”

Her full lips rounded into an O. “You studied Bibles?”

“Bibles are a primary focus, but an archaeobibliologist examines all kinds of texts.”

“Examines them for what?”

“Clues. Historical and cultural references, mainly, but also for information about ancient secret societies, lost treasures . . . you know, real-life Indiana Jones-type stuff.”

“Sounds amazing. Why did you quit?”

“I didn’t quit,” August said. “I just got tired of sitting in a room, reading about adventure. I wanted to make some of my own.”

“Is that why you were in Germany?” She pointed to a book on the seat between them about art confiscated by the Third Reich. August had dumped it there when he bolted up.

“I spent a month there tracking down a book. Now I’m going to New York to deliver it to the buyer.”

“Must be a pretty important book.”

“My buyer thinks so,” August said. “It’s a Gutenberg Bible. Dates back to about 1457. It was originally commissioned by a guy named Prince Hunyadi, who wanted to commemorate his victory at the Siege of Belgrade. After Hunyadi died, some of his subjects hid the book. No one knew where it was until about a year ago, when I was contacted by my buyer. He had a tip on where the book was buried. Turned out he was right.”

“I guess that’s not something you’d just send him in the mail.”

August chuckled. “Insurance wouldn’t cover it. Plus, I want to be there to pick up his check in person.”

Xandria smiled. “Must be a big one.”

“Enough to get me back on my feet, hopefully,” August said. “I’ve got to start saving up if I plan to get my son into college.”

“You don’t look old enough to have a kid in college,” Xandria said.

She was definitely flirting. He slapped on his Nicolas Cage smile again and ran a hand over his high hairline. “I’m not. Charlie is only eight.”

“Does he live with you?”

“No,” August said. “He lives with my ex. To be honest, it’s probably for the best. Business keeps me on the road constantly.”

Xandria fetched her purse from under the seat in front of her and pulled out a plastic sleeve full of pictures. “I’ve got two,” she said. “A girl and a boy.” She handed the pictures to August. “That’s Eric. And that’s Samantha. It’s driving me crazy not to be with them.”

“I know what you mean,” August said, glancing through the photos. The beach. The zoo. The carnival. August couldn’t help but feel guilty for not having similar pictures of Charlie. He handed them back to her. “Makes you think about what’s really important in life.”

A muffled ring came from Xandria’s purse. She excused herself from the conversation and answered the call. “Hello? Yeah. Everything’s great. We hit some turbulence, but hopefully it’ll be smooth sailing from here.” She placed a slender finger on her lips while she listened. “Okay. Yes. I will. Yes. See you soon.” She hung up. “Sorry. My horrible boss is always checking on me.”

“You get coverage up here?” August asked.

“It’s a sat-phone,” Xandria said, showing it to him. “Brand-new. A prototype. I work for the provider. I can talk to anyone in the world, crystal clear.” She smoothed out a wrinkle in her black skirt. “You watch, everyone will have one a year from now.”

“I should get one of those,” August said. “I could talk to my son everywhere I travel. He’d get a kick out of that.”

“Now you’re making me feel guilty.” Xandria held out the phone, her clear eyes dancing. “You want to talk to your son?”

August held up both hands. “I wasn’t trying to imply anything.”

“I know you weren’t. But I know how it is, being away from home and everything. Here. I insist.”

August looked at his watch. Charlie lived in Washington DC. There, it was only late afternoon. The timing was perfect. April, his ex, wouldn’t be home for another few hours, meaning he could avoid an argument with her. “I’m sure it’s a really expensive call,” he said, as weak an argument as he could present.

“No problem. It’s a company phone,” Xandria said, placing the sleek device in August’s hands. “I can tell you miss him. Believe me, I understand. You should call him.”

August’s calls to Charlie were far too infrequent. Traveling around the world, he would often forget what time it was back in DC and end up calling at three in the morning. Only a couple weeks ago, April answered, voice groggy, and immediately hung up on him after looking at a clock. “Hey, thanks for this,” he said, dialing the number. It only rang once before someone answered.

“Adams residence. Charlie speaking.”

His voice sounded younger than August remembered. “Hi, buddy,” August said.

“Dad? Where are you? Are you in DC?”

“No, afraid I’m not,” August said. “But I wish I was.” In the background, he heard the sound of the television. Probably PBS, the only thing April allowed him to watch.

“I wish you were here too,” Charlie said. “Hey, Dad, I made a new friend at school today. His name is Nicholas. He likes Power Rangers just like me.”

“Your mom lets you watch Power Rangers?”

“No.”

“Are you watching it now?”

“Yes,” Charlie said, his slow response telling August the rest of the story.

“It’ll be our little secret,” August said. “Where’s Grandma Rose?”

“She’s talking in the other room with somebody.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But I think I heard him say something about the FBI when I was spying on him earlier.”

The FBI? What could they want with Grandma Rose? “You playing Superspy today?” Xandria gave August a knowing smile and raised her eyebrows as she returned her photos to her purse. She had the prettiest—

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