The Tree of Knowledge

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2021 Daniel G. Miller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Houndstooth Books, Dallas, Texas
Edited and designed by Girl Friday Productions
www.girlfridayproductions.com
Cover design: Bailey McGinn
Project management: Bethany Davis
ISBN (paperback): 978-0-578-75320-1
ISBN (ebook): 978-0-578-75321-8
First edition


To Mom and Dad for allowing me to dream and teaching me how to bring my dreams to life.


Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat . . .
—John Milton, Paradise Lost


Part I
Discovery


The serpent said to the woman . . .
For God knows that in the day you eat from it your eyes will be opened,
and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.
—Genesis 3:4–5


Chapter 1
Wally McCutcheon eased into the creaky chair at the security desk of the Bank of Princeton. He treasured these rare moments of peace that working night security provided him. This particular night was a special one, for he would be spending the evening with his two best friends: black coffee and warm pecan pie.
Wally had just begun to nibble on the considerable piece of pie Nancy had lovingly baked—the dear woman even claimed to appreciate his “love handles”—when he was interrupted by a gentle yet persistent tapping on the front door of the stone building. He peered out through the glass door. Outside the main entrance of the bank stood a wiry figure in a black trench coat and fedora holding an umbrella shimmering with droplets of rain. Wally wondered how yet another fat-cat alum could be lost. He considered ignoring the stranger to focus on his pie but begrudgingly heaved his frame out of the chair and made his way to the front door.
Wally flipped the entrance lock, opened the glass door, and barked, “Bank’s closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow morn—”
A fierce kick dislodged Wally’s kneecap and dropped him to the ground.
Wally grunted in pain and struggled to stand up, but the stranger’s gloved hand grabbed his throat, crushing his windpipe and stanching the flow of oxygen to his brain. His cheeks burned and his eyes strained to escape his skull.
Through the pounding in his ears, he heard the assailant whisper three simple words: “Safe-deposit box.”
Wally lifted his quivering arm and limply pointed to the thick walnut door at the end of the hallway.
With two swift moves, the stranger ripped the security card off Wally’s belt and forced a soaked rag over his mouth and nose. Wally tasted the chemicals flowing from his mouth into his lungs, choking the consciousness from his body.
Frantically, he clawed at the intruder’s trench coat, tearing at the pockets, hoping to escape the chemical fog that seeped through his brain, but the stranger’s grip was too strong. Realizing this could be his last breath, Wally looked up at his killer.
Her eyes were onyx with flecks of gray orange, like the wolves Wally used to hunt when he was younger. She removed her hat, and Wally cried out as her straight dark hair tumbled down her back. He squinted and searched her eyes, silently pleading with her to stop. The silhouette in front of him faded first to red, then to gray. Then all went black.


Chapter 2
Professor Albert Puddles was sweating.
He had been a tenured professor of mathematics at Princeton University for over two years, but he still felt a singular anxiety before his first class of the academic year. Albert hated anxiety. Not because of the feeling itself, but rather what it represented . . . emotion. Emotion implied the absence of logic, and logic was Albert’s one and only religion. Logic provided a cool, comforting refuge against the hot, emotional chaos of the world. Logic was precise. It made sense. It didn’t change from one day to the next. It was everything life should be and so rarely was.
For the vast majority of his thirty-four years, Professor Puddles had employed this logical precision in every aspect of his life. In contrast to his “New Age” colleagues who had taken to wearing jeans and untucked shirts in their classrooms, Albert wore a perfectly tailored suit and bow tie every day. To him, an untucked shirt lacked method and order. It implied carelessness, sloppiness, even recklessness. Like weeds in a garden, this could easily infect a person’s thinking, and inconsistency in thinking was something that Albert Puddles was simply unwilling to tolerate.
Yet despite his greatest efforts of logical self-analysis, Albert had been unable to banish the entirely irrational stage fright that gripped him upon seeing his students gaze upon him in poised silence. When he looked out at the hundreds of voracious eyes, he couldn’t help remembering the trials of his childhood.
Ever since he could recall, Albert had possessed a deep appreciation of order and method. At age ten, he was identified as a mental calculator, a savant who could do multiple complex calculations in his head. When he was twelve, he convinced his mother to bring him to Germany to compete in the Junior Mental Calculation World Championship. The JMCWC brought together young savants with notable skill in mental calculations to compete in solving a variety of large-number calculations. Albert won the tournament by solving