Triskellion 3: The Gathering by Will Peterson

them closely again, a glimmer of recognition creeping across his face, followed by a smile. “You were the kid who fell off the fire escape?” He prodded Adam gently in the chest.
    Adam nodded. He remembered the incident well. He had fallen from the first floor, nearly breaking his neck, but escaping miraculously with only cuts and bruises.
    “You gave me quite a scare,” Mr Hoffman said, rubbing his chin. “Why, I knew you two when you were just babies. Cute little twins in pink and blue.”
    Adam chuckled, embarrassed.
    “You taking a trip down memory lane?”
    “I suppose we are, in a way,” Rachel said. “We were just looking for any stuff of ours that might have been left here. You know, letters or anything like that. You see we can’t find our dad.”
    Mr Hoffman gave them a look that said as far as he was concerned finding him would be no good thing, but aloud he told them to “Come into the office.”
    They went into a small bleak room on the other side of the basement. Mr Hoffman had furnished it with a cushioned office chair. Padding exploded from the splits in its worn plastic upholstery and a scrawny-looking black and white cat lay curled up in one corner.
    “That’s Bilko,” Hoffman said. “Meanest cat you ever saw.”
    The cat opened its one eye, studied the children for a few seconds, then went back to sleep.
    Besides the cat and chair, there were a kettle, some stained coffee mugs and an electric fire that was not needed in the stuffy underground air. On one wall, Mr Hoffman’s tools were arranged on a board, their shapes outlined in marker pen – where a tool had been lost or misplaced, its ghost remained, silhouetted by the outline. On the other side of the room was a battered filing cabinet and a desk, stacked up with papers, pens, half-smoked cigars, bits of junk in various shapes and sizes.
    Mr Hoffman made a cursory attempt to tidy the surface of the desk, muttering all the while: “Newman … Newman. Apartment…”
    “Three zero one,” Rachel prompted.
    He looked in pigeon holes above the desk that were stuffed with papers and receipts and the odd fast-food carton.
    “Newman. Newman…”
    He climbed up on his chair and looked at wads of envelopes, held together by rubber bands and piled up on top of the pigeon holes.
    “Newman. Newman…”
    He climbed down again and looked in the drawer of the desk. It revealed cigar boxes, tins of cough sweets, tubs of oil and a variety of nuts, bolts and tubes of glue. Mr Hoffman stopped momentarily and scratched his head. He turned to see Rachel and Adam looking expectantly at him, watching his every move.
    “What was that number again?”
    “Three zero one,” Adam said.
    Mr Hoffman opened the top drawer of the grey steel filing cabinet and flicked through the files suspended in the drawer. “Just give me a second…”
    He slammed the top drawer shut and opened the middle one. He ran thick fingers, clearly not designed for administrative work, across the files. Then his fingers stopped. “Newman. Got it!”
    He lifted a file from the cabinet and placed it on top of the other papers on his desk. He opened the folder and Rachel could see there were several letters inside. Mr Hoffman looked at the twins and tapped his head with his forefinger. “Knew there was something somewhere for Newman.”
    Rachel’s stomach fluttered with excitement as she rifled through the letters. One stood out from the statements and utility bills. It was a thick white package with an English stamp showing the head of the Queen. It was addressed to RACHEL AND ADAM NEWMAN in a spidery handwriting that she recognized.
    “It’s from our grandmother,” Rachel said, staring at the postmark.
    The letter was stamped TRISKELLION and dated a little over two years earlier.
    They found a booth in a diner two blocks away and ordered Cokes and all-day breakfasts.
    “Open it,” Adam said.
    Rachel looked around nervously. No one was paying them any attention. She glanced