John Carter Read Free

me inside. “Your uncle’s death came as a shock to all of us. He was a model of health and vigor.”
    Standing in the immaculately kept foyer, I could scarcely believe the news. “How did he…”
    â€œA stroke. Just dropped dead in his study, not five minutes after sending for me and the doctor. When I arrived he was already…gone.”
    We entered the front hall and I stopped short, staring at the scene before me. Artifacts filled the room: relics, maps, charts, documents, photographs from architectural sites representing all the ancient cultures of the world. They were spread haphazardly around a central desk—not like a museum display, but as if they were all vital parts of some massive research project.
    â€œThe man never stopped exploring,” Dalton continued. “All over the world. No sooner’d start in digging one hole than he was off to Java or the Orkney Islands to dig another. He said it was pure research, but it always seemed to me like he was searching for something.” He cast a pious gaze heavenward. “God grant that he has found it now.”
    I was barely listening. My attention had been drawn to a large world map stabbed with dozens of tiny pins, all interlinked by multicolored threads. And beside it: a portrait of my uncle, fierce and powerful, but with a hint of sadness in his eyes. He was a very vigorous man who’d seemed to stop aging at a certain point. He looked no older than my earliest memories of him.
    Dalton gestured at the portrait. “Every inch a cavalryman, to the very end.”
    â€œMy mother said Jack never really came back from the war,” I said. “That it was only his body that went west. I always suspected something happened to him in those days, when he was young.”
    â€œMany men bear scars from that conflict,” Dalton said softly.
    â€œHe used to tell me the most wondrous stories.” My breath caught briefly, and I wiped away a tear. “I’d like to pay my respects.”
    Dalton led me outside and across the grounds to a plain stone mausoleum, standing free amid the green-fringed paths. It was barely large enough for a single body, and above the door were etched the words inter mundos.
    â€œBetween worlds,” I whispered, running a hand over the perfectly smooth door.
    â€œYou won’t find a keyhole,” Dalton said. “Thing only opens from the inside . He insisted. Open coffin; no embalming, no funeral.”
    I walked around the clean, almost featureless stone tomb. Still searching for clues.
    Dalton smiled wryly. “You don’t acquire the kind of wealth your uncle commanded by behaving like the rest of us, eh?”
    That evening, I sat in a small annex of the front hall as Dalton recited my uncle’s will. My attention kept straying to the artifacts: small statues, obscure maps, strange carvings from cultures I’d never seen before…
    â€œ. . . hereby direct that my estate shall be held in trust for twenty-five years, the income to benefit my beloved nephew, Edgar Rice Burroughs, at the end of which term the principal will revert to him in full.”
    I snapped my head around in shock. “What?”
    Dalton nodded. “In full,” he repeated.
    â€œI…of course I always adored him. But it’s been so long. Why…?”
    â€œHe never offered an explanation, and I never asked for one.”
    Dalton reached into his briefcase and pulled out a worn, leather-covered journal fastened shut by a large clasp. He pushed it across the desk to me.
    â€œHis private journal,” Dalton said. “He was most explicit that you, and only you, were to read its contents. You might find some kind of explanation in there, I suppose.”
    I touched the book, ran my fingers across its soft leather cover. “I’ll leave you now.” Dalton stood. “Again, my condolences.”
    Staring at the book, I was scarcely aware of