Irrefutable Proof: Mars Origin "I" Series Book II (5 page)

Chapter Six

Cleveland
, Ohio

By
the fall of 2000, Hannah Abelson had been able to secure a job in the United States, and buy a house. When she’d bought that house, and hung her diplomas on the
wall, she also knew that her new employer would sponsor her visa for permanent
residence. Cleveland would be her home until the day she died.

Or
the day that Justin Dickerson died.

Hannah
had traveled to Cleveland after disposing of Ghazi. Contacting friends she had
in the U.S., everyone had been eager to help her. The first day she had stook
in her new faculty office, Hannah had checked off on her list “Position
yourself close to J.D.” She was only a stone’s throw from ‘J.D’s’ home and job.

Taking
care of Justin was next on her list.

After
she had had time to contemplate, she thought that perhaps she did act, rather,
react
,
to finding Ghazi with Dr. Sabir’s notebook too hastily. She had felt just a
tinge of remorse for not fully investigating what Ghazi knew before putting the
poison in his
botz
. In her country there had always been so much
conflict, people not understanding the reasons that others acted. The
violence resulting from that
conflict too often touched her personally
.

Her
father had wanted her to learn diplomacy; to practice it. To be strong and
independent. He wished for her to be educated and help her country. At first she
balked at it, she wanted to marry. Be normal. Like the women in American
movies. But growing up in a country that was in a constant struggle had taught
her a lot. And then after a while, her father thought she wasn’t capable of any
of those things, and gave up on her. Perhaps, in contrast to what her father
had thought, she had learned some diplomacy after all. And proving her father
wrong pleased her.

 So,
she had decided, she would give this Dr. Dickerson a reprieve – for the moment.
Until she found out fully what she knew.

That
only meant, she reasoned, that it would take a little longer to cross her off
the list.

Case
Western Reserve University
had hired Hannah Abelson as a Professor
Emeritus in Semitic. Her credentials were impeccable. She was fluent in
Aramaic, Arabic and Hebrew. She was a linguist and cryptologist. And she had
written several scholarly articles on the digs around Jerusalem. Case had even
put Hannah on the board that awarded grant money to individuals for work in
anthropology and archaeology.

They
certainly kept her busy when she first arrived. Nonetheless, during that time,
Hannah had found time to investigate Dr. Justin Dickerson. She had found where she
worked, where she lived, and what kind of car she drove. On more than a few
occasions Hannah had sat outside both the museum where Justin worked back then and
her home for hours, just waiting and watching. And on some of those days, once
Justin emerged, she had followed her around for the rest of the day. She
learned all she could about her routines, her habits, even her husband. But she
hadn’t been able to befriend her, so she hadn’t found out exactly what Justin
was doing. Or, how much she knew about the manuscripts.

She
needed help.

Perhaps
someone that worked with Justin would make a good choice. Or, maybe someone she
could bribe. She would have a lot of clout with her new position. That person
could watch from the inside. She would watch from the outside until she could
wiggle her way into Justin’s life.

And
she did find someone who had worked out beautifully. He was able to find out
intimate details of her work and kept Hannah abreast of it all. And she helped
him as well.

After
a few years, Dr. Dickerson came to Case to teach. Hannah took every opportunity
to spy on her after that. As Justin Dickerson made friends, and got on
committees, Hannah would make the same friends and get on the same committees,
and surreptitiously question others that knew her. She followed Justin around,
staring at her, assessing her. No longer from behind the scenes. Out in the
open. She had to know Justin. And, she thought, it had paid off.

Hannah
read all the articles Justin wrote, found out all about the classes she taught.
And, Hannah determined after much contemplation, that as far as she could tell,
Justin never did anything with the information from Dr. Sabir’s notebook.
Perhaps, Justin
didn’t
know anything about it.

But
Hannah didn’t waver in her mission.

She
would do nothing for now. She would watch Justin, just in case, and she would
wait.

No
matter how long it took.

Chapter
Seven

Cleveland
Heights
, Ohio

May 23, 2011

Cool,
dark dirt invaded my senses. I could smell it as I let it filter through my
stretched out fingers. I had taken off one of my flowered garden gloves and sat
on the cobblestone path that edged my flowerbed. I was planting a row of deep
pink New Guinea impatiens and sat down to ease the pain in my knees. Mase came
out through the French doors of my study and sat on one of the two steps that
led to my flower garden.

“Hi.”
I smiled at him.

“Hey,
babe.” He smiled back. “You got a letter from your publisher.”

“Oh.
Okay.” I leaned back on my hands and looked up at the sky. Not too much
daylight left. Probably wouldn’t get all my plants in the ground today.

“I
sat it on your desk.”

“Thanks,”
I said.

“Is
it about the new book? ‘The sequel?’”

I
laughed. He just wasn’t letting up. “Yeah. ‘The sequel.’” I closed my eyes and
let the sun’s warmth cover my face.

Opening
one eye, I looked over at Mase. There was no peace for me, as long as those AHM
manuscripts were holding on to more secrets.

He
must have read my thoughts. “So, what are you calling the new book?”

“The
Dead Sea Fish.” I grabbed my gardening gloves, put them on, and picked up another
flower. I pushed it down into the last hole I had dug.

“The
Dead Sea Fish?” He turned up his nose. “Are you serious?

I
nodded my head.

“How
did you come up with that?”

“Brigitt
came up with it.”

“Your
cousin, Brigitt?”

“Yep.”

“That
lives in North Carolina?”

How
many cousins named Brigitt do I have?

“Yes,
my cousin Brigitt that lives in North Carolina.” I glanced over at him.

“How
does she know about the book?” he asked.

“I
told her.”

He
made a face. “Thought you weren’t telling anyone about that book?”

I
pursed my lips and shook my head. I was doing a lot of things with those
manuscripts that I didn’t think I would do.

He
looked at me questioningly. 

“I
told her.” I held up my hands as if to surrender.  “Yes, I told her I wrote it.
Then whenever we talked she would tease me, calling it,
The Dead Sea Fish
.”

“What
did you tell her it was about?”

“Aliens.”

“No
you didn’t.”

I
laughed. “I may as well have said aliens. She thought the story sounded crazy.”

“Did
you tell her it was true?”

“No.”

“Hahaha.
That’s funny.” He put his elbows on the step behind him and leaned back,
shaking his head.

“I
don’t see anything funny about it,” I said and smiled.

“Did
she read it?” he asked.

“No.
She only reads black authors - ”

“You’re
black.”

I
rolled my eyes up in my head. “Oh yeah. I forgot I’m black. And, oh my gosh!
You’re black, too!” I sat back on my legs and tugged at the fingers of my
gloves, pulling them off. “What I was going to say before I was interrupted,
Mase, is she likes black authors who write novels that are filled with love and
drama. She doesn’t do sci-fi.”

“Love
and drama.” He chuckled.

“Yep.
Just like her. Full of drama.”

Mase
laughed. “Lucky for you, huh?”

I
smiled because although I did tell her that I wrote it, for the longest time I
didn’t want her, or anyone else, to read it. I was too afraid of what might
happen.

“So,
you decided to name the next book The Dead Sea Fish?”

“Yep.”
I pulled my legs around and sat, Indian style, and fiddled with my gardening
glove.

“That’s
like getting a title from your sister, Claire.”

“I
like it.”

“What
does it mean? Are there any fish in the Dead Sea?”

“No.
And, there aren’t any men on Mars.”

“What?”

“Millions
of years ago, there were fish in the Dead Sea. It wasn’t as salty and could
sustain life. Just like Mars.”

“I
don't get it.”

“We’re
the Dead Sea Fish.”

“Babe,
are you starting to feel depressed again?”

I
didn’t say anything to him. I put my gardening gloves back on and grabbed
another impatiens out of the slat. After he saw he wasn’t getting an answer, he
got up and headed back in the house.

“Don’t
forget to look at the letter I put on your desk,” he said over his shoulder.

I
dug another hole.

“No
need putting this off,” I said out loud.

I
stuck the trowel down in the dirt, pulled off my gloves, and threw them down
next to it. I may as well get to it.

I
stood up and brushed the dirt off my bottom and knees and slapped my hands
together. I followed behind Mase back in through the French doors, into my
study.

Chapter
Eight

The
letter from the publishers sat front and center on my desk. Mase wanted to be
sure that I didn’t miss it. How could I have? Even if I didn’t get the letter,
they would be calling me soon enough. Kate Gianopoulos didn’t seem to give up
on me. Maybe she was eager to let the world know the truth. I couldn’t
understand why. They couldn’t have made “one red cent” (my mother’s saying) off
of the last book.

I
stood behind the desk, grabbed the letter opener, and ripped open the envelope.
I sat down holding the letter in my hand.

I
had left out so much stuff that was in the manuscripts in that first book, I
thought as I sat there holding the letter, not even looking down to see what
was written.

The
Dead Sea Fish.
It was going
to be more honest. More academic. The thought of putting it out really scared
me. But it was only part of it.

One
step at a time, I thought. Peel away that stinking onion layer by layer. Maybe
then people would be more receptive. It needed to be known, though. So, I went
back and forth between having the guts to tell the story, or not putting myself
out there. Or not only putting myself out there, but getting the proof I needed
and dropping it all on the world. Getting the proof had won out.

Deep
down (way down), I knew after I read the Latin in the back of Dr. Sabir’s notebook
that just giving out the information from the manuscripts wouldn’t be enough. I
would write the book, since the publishers were waiting. I would get the ball
rolling, while I worked on getting the proof.

I
looked down at the letter and saw the encircled feather logo. Meredith-Wilcox
Publishing, known mostly nowadays as just Wilcox Books, was a family run
publishing house in Cincinnati. It was in Lincoln Heights, a neighborhood that
wasn’t what it once was. But that change hadn’t affected Wilcox Books. It was
an old business, small but self-contained. Housed in a bungalow-styled brick
house, on a corner lot, it once served as the Meredith’s personal residence.
Now the basement had been converted into a fully functional printing shop that
produced all the company’s books. The warehouse was the attached garage and the
rest of the house served as the offices.

I
thought about that little publishing house. Sitting stalwart, overcoming all
the challenges it had gone through. Standing through the test of time, bending
with the winds of change that blew in a new wave of self-publishing and Indie
authors, those not seeking or needing traditional publishing, Wilcox Books was
still a vibrant company.

I
read the letter. It was pleasant enough even though what it really was saying
was, “What the heck are you doing? Send us the darn book already.”

 I
leaned my body forward, rested my elbows on the desk. Hands holding up head, I
started to chew on my nail. My eyes wandered over to my bookshelf. There on the
shelf was even more of a shocker than what the manuscripts had revealed.

Dr.
Sabir’s little secret at the back of his notebook. Those four seemingly
innocuous pages in Latin. I remembered how I didn’t bother translating them
when I did the rest of the notebook. Thought they couldn’t mean much, and I
didn’t know Latin. It would have been a chore to translate it. But, scrawled
out in fountain pen, barely legible, written on the last pages was a revelation,
was an eye opener. Concealed in the open, Just the few pages that separated it
from the words that I knew belonged to the original manuscripts, made me not
give it a second thought.

At
first.

I
laughed out loud. Maybe I shouldn’t have ever taken the time to learn Latin. I
really only did it to fashion some kind of relief from my brothers’ taunts.

Greg
found out that I didn’t know Latin when we originally went to Jerusalem looking
for the AHM manuscripts. And at the time he really didn’t make a big deal about
it. Practically didn’t say a word about it. (Probably with all the crying and
pouting I was doing about the useless manuscripts, he just didn’t have the
opportunity). But once he got back home, he told two of my other brothers and
the proverbial you-know-what hit the fan. They couldn’t get enough of teasing
me about it. 

My
brother Doobie’s face twisted all up, he pointed his finger at me, held his
stomach and covered his mouth like something was going to jump up out of his
throat. He finally choked out some words. “How can you speak six - ”

“Seven.”
I corrected, closing my eyes and bracing myself for the onslaught.

“How
can you speak
seven
languages and not speak Latin!”

They
just couldn’t seem to understand. Yeah, I spoke seven languages. And yeah,
Latin was an ancient language that was spoken by the Romans that crucified Christ,
and I am a
Biblical
archaeologist (emphasis all on ‘Biblical’). And I
know there was a sign posted at the site of Jesus’ crucifixion with one line in
Latin. And, (yes, another ‘and’ to make it seem even more implausible that I
didn’t know the language) Latin had spawned the romance languages - French,
Italian, and Spanish. But I didn’t speak any of the romance languages. And I
didn’t know Latin.

I
had taken German in high school. And I could speak German. And I could speak
Aramaic, Hebrew, and Greek, the languages of the Bible. I knew Egyptian
hieroglyphics and Sumerian cuneiform, but you don’t “speak” ancient symbols. I
could read Sanskrit, but too few people nowadays speak a true form of that, so
I didn’t count those. But, I could speak Arabic, Turkish, and of course
English. That made up my seven languages.

I
had spent a lot of time in the Middle East. Digging. Finding artifacts.
Pleading with government officials, in their native languages, to give me
permits to dig some more and allow me to send artifacts I found out of their
country for examination. I didn’t study the languages in school. I picked them
up from the people who spoke them. No one spoke Latin. I didn’t dig in a Latin
speaking country. There is no such thing as a Latin speaking country. I had no
need to learn Latin. Plus, I had Dr. Margulies back then. He knew the language
and I never gave one thought that he might not always be around.

But
he died. My mentor and my friend couldn’t help me anymore. And my brothers
thought me lacking, which made me feel that way, so I learned it. And then,
twelve years after first translating the AHM manuscripts, I decided to give a
try at translating what was in the back of Dr. Sabir’s notebook. And what a
revelation that was. It opened up a whole new can of worms.