Devil's Whisper Chapter 11: A Storm Brewing

After bidding farewell to Aussie, Kate wasted no time and set off to follow the boy. He emerged from the university and, instead of boarding a bus or tram, quickly hailed a taxi and climbed inside. Kate settled into her car and trailed the taxi closely.

“Where’s he headed?” she muttered to herself as she turned onto a side road. Ever since she spotted the boy in the cafeteria, staring intently at the torn scrap of the Rubaiyat, her intuition had been on high alert. There was something about the way he looked at the cryptic note while Aussie translated it that seemed off. His tense expression and anxious eyes raised questions in Kate’s mind. Why did he seem so uneasy, as if he’d witnessed something shocking?

Ten minutes later, the taxi pulled into a bustling local market in Adelaide and came to a stop. The boy got out, paid the driver, and briskly walked ahead, leaving Kate to observe his every move.

She parked her car and stepped out, quickly disguising herself with a cap and sunglasses. Wrapping a scarf around her neck, she concealed her identity. Blending in was crucial; she couldn’t risk being spotted and losing him in the crowd. With her disguise in place, Kate seamlessly merged into the throng of people, ready to uncover the boy’s motives.

Watching as the boy crossed the road and disappeared into a pawn shop, Kate followed, crossing the street and approaching the shop cautiously. Peering through the glass door, she saw a few customers milling about while the boy stood silently in a corner. “Why is he lingering there if he came to buy or sell something?” she wondered.

Minutes passed, and the shop gradually emptied until only one customer remained. Kate noticed the boy’s anxious gaze fixed on the aged shopkeeper, as if he had something urgent to communicate. She needed to enter the shop without drawing the boy’s attention. Spotting a group of foreign tourists entering, she swiftly merged with them, slipping inside unnoticed. Hiding behind a medium-sized cupboard for sale, she waited, listening intently.

Once the tourists left, the boy approached the counter, frustration clear in his tone. “I came here to talk to you, and you were ignoring me as if I wasn’t even here,” he exclaimed.

“Clark, had you come here as a customer, I would have attended to you immediately. But since you came to talk to me, I couldn’t do so in front of other customers,” Jim explained. The old shopkeeper’s weathered face was etched with concern, his eyes narrowing as he studied the young man before him.

Kate’s eyes narrowed as she listened, her curiosity deepening. So the boy’s name is Clark, she thought, filing the information away. There was something about this exchange that felt significant, something that tugged at her instincts as a journalist. She leaned closer, careful not to make a sound.

“Now, tell me, why did you come here?” Jim pressed, crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze locked on Clark’s tense expression.

Clark hesitated, his jaw tightening as he gathered his courage. “Jim…” he began, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “You have to send a message to The Watchers and inform them that the lost original copy of the Rubaiyat has resurfaced.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. Jim’s face went pale, his disbelief evident as he stared at Clark. “Wait, this can’t be… the original copy of the Rubaiyat has been lost for decades! It’s impossible,” he said, gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white as he struggled to process what he was hearing.

But Clark was unwavering. “I’m telling you what I saw,” he asserted firmly. “Tell The Watchers that the original Rubaiyat, penned by Omar Khayyam himself, has emerged from the depths of time. I’ve seen a torn page adorned with five quatrains and cryptic symbols. Those symbols signify that the brutal cycle of death has commenced and will not cease until the book’s new owner fulfills his sinister purpose.”

Every word seemed to cast a darker shadow over Jim’s face. The old man’s breath hitched, his heart sinking as the weight of Clark’s revelation settled over him. This was the last thing he wanted to hear, yet fate had chosen this moment to confront him with the grim reality. His mind raced, imagining the relentless cycle of death unfolding, the lives that would be lost, the chaos that would ensue.

Kate’s eyes widened as she listened, her pulse quickening. The Rubaiyat? The Watchers? A cycle of death? This was no ordinary conversation—it was a thread leading to something far bigger, something dangerous. She felt a surge of adrenaline, the thrill of uncovering a story that could change everything.

“Who’s got the Rubaiyat, Clark?” Jim asked, his voice low and tense, as though even speaking the words aloud could summon trouble. His eyes searching Clark’s face for answers, already bracing himself for what he might hear.

Clark hesitated, his expression grim. “I don’t know… and even if I did, you think I’d still be breathing?”

Jim exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the situation. “True,” he conceded, his voice heavy with resignation. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the fragments of what Clark was telling him.

“If you don’t know who has the original Rubaiyat, how did you find out it’s resurfaced?”

Clark leaned in, his voice dropping even lower. “I couldn’t identify who had the original copy. But earlier today in the university cafeteria, I spotted a woman sitting with Professor Aussie. She was showing him a torn page that seemed to be a printed version of the Rubaiyat. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a photocopy of the original. The lady appeared distressed, urgently asking Professor Aussie to translate the Persian quatrains into English.”

Jim’s eyes widened. “Do you recognize that woman?”

Clark shook his head. “No, but if I see her again, I’ll remember.”

Jim nodded slowly, his mind working through the implications. “Alright, let me reach out to The Watchers first, then I’ll get back to you,” he said, his tone decisive. “Wait for my call.”

“Okay,” Clark agreed, his relief evident. He trusted Jim to handle this, even if the situation felt overwhelming.

As Clark turned to leave, Jim reached out, his hand gripping the young man’s arm. “Stay vigilant, and don’t tell anyone else about the original Rubaiyat. It could jeopardize your safety,” he cautioned.

Clark met Jim’s gaze, nodding solemnly. “Yes, I understand,” he acknowledged before promptly exiting the shop, the bell above the door jingling softly as he disappeared into the street.

Meanwhile, Kate had overheard every word. Now she just needed to wait for Jim to move away from the counter so she could slip out unnoticed. “Who are The Watchers?” she pondered. “Why did Clark and Jim seem so frightened? What’s the story behind the original Rubaiyat penned by Omar Khayyam, and why did it vanish decades ago only to resurface now?”

As Jim turned back to his work, his face etched with worry, Kate slipped out of the shop, her mind spinning. And more importantly, she thought, “What connection does the Rubaiyat have with the unidentified body found at Somerton Beach?”