Read The Tavernier Stones Online
Authors: Stephen Parrish
The Tavernier Stones (30 page)
But Ramsey and Rosalie were silent, as always. That was the problem with having dead friends: they didn’t give a lot of advice.
As uncomfortable as it was to think about, he knew he would be joining them before too long. In the context of history—in the grand scheme of the universe—the time remaining to him was painfully short. And then, when his life was over and it was
his
turn to go into the ground, what legacy would he leave by having hunted for treasure?
his
turn to go into the ground, what legacy would he leave by having hunted for treasure?
Searching for the lost Tavernier stones was not the most noble of undertakings. Making maps was noble. Working with his hands was noble.
Farming was noble.
On his way home, an idea occurred to him. He rejected it instantly on the grounds it was impractical and unnecessary. But it kept creeping back into his consciousness, demanding fair consideration.
Burn the maps. Burn the notes.
Burn everything.
Burn everything.
He laughed out loud. It would solve most of his problems.
Although he felt he was close to finding the lost Tavernier stones, possibly even closer than anyone else, he was sure he would not be any happier with them in his pocket than he had been before he was aware of their existence. In fact, searching for them had made him unhappier than ever before.
When he arrived home, he found a counseling letter from Harry Tokuhisa. The man hadn’t wasted any time. It wasn’t enough merely to give a verbal warning; Harry had to cover his ass in writing. The letter warned John that if his performance didn’t improve, he would be subjected to disciplinary action. It further noted that his appearance had become disheveled and that he sometimes mumbled incoherently when addressed. Perhaps, it suggested, he should seek professional help.
No wonder Harry had put his comments in writing. Their friendship was too strong for him to say them to John’s face.
He went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Disheveled? Well, maybe a little. But how could Harry say anything about him, when several of the English working in the building were—how could one put it politely—unkempt? But then, their appearances hadn’t been changing. And they weren’t going anywhere in the organization, either.
He found a book of matches in the kitchen. He wished he had a fireplace, but a metal trash can would have to do. He filled it with his notes, his work on the cipher, his sketches of the stones, everything.
He was about to shove all the Cellarius maps in as well, but changed his mind at the last second and condemned only the Palatinate map. The rest he held back for his collection. He carried the trash can to the patio behind the house.
Making maps was noble. Working with his hands was noble.
Farming was noble.
He lit a match.
The phone rang.
He hesitated. If he ignited the contents of the trash can and left to answer the phone, a fire would rage unattended on his patio. He blew out the match and went back inside.
“Hello, John.” It was Annette. “I just wanted you to know we’re all thinking about you.”
“That’s a comfort.”
“Seriously. Some of us feel Harry’s treating you a little harshly under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“You know. Your … condition.”
“Oh, yeah. My condition.”
“And we hope you can make good use of this vacation.”
“It’s not a vacation if it’s involuntary.”
“Regardless. Make good use of it, John. Your situation might be a little more serious than you realize. I know about the counseling letter. It’s only the beginning.”
After a pause John said, “You mean things are going to get
worse
?”
worse
?”
“If you don’t … turn it around.”
“The condition.”
“Right. Listen, the real reason I’m calling is to ask you out to dinner.”
“Oh, that’s sweet of you, Annette, but I don’t know if this is such a good time. I have so much to do.”
“Hear me out. I’ve invited you to dinner at least a dozen times before. You always say you’re too busy. Now that you’re suspended—let’s go ahead and use the word—you certainly have time for a meal. So if you’re going to turn me down again, at least come up with a different excuse. Or, preferably, the real reason.”
John mulled it over. He wished Sarah were coming by tonight. She was the only person he wanted to talk to, the only one he was sure would listen. But given the circumstances—the
other
circumstances in his disintegrating life—no such visit was remotely likely.
other
circumstances in his disintegrating life—no such visit was remotely likely.
“Okay,” he said. Plenty of time to burn stuff later.
“Meet you at the Oasis in half an hour.”
The restaurant was full. So was the bar, where John and Annette waited for a table. The noise in the bar obliterated all subtle inflections of speech and allowed only short, high-energy bursts of conversation.
John had been there once before, to attend an office party. He remembered tasting excruciatingly hot salsa and grinning at all the silly oriental fans poking out of cocktails.
He ordered a mineral water.
“Change that to a Long Island iced tea,” Annette told the bar-tender. “And make it two.”
“Iced tea, good idea,” John said, raising his voice to carry over the din. “The caffeine will keep me alert.”
Annette smiled. “You are truly precious.”
They were awkwardly silent over their drinks. It was the first time they had ever socialized together outside the office, and John didn’t know how to proceed. The look on Annette’s face suggested she was eager to share something.
“You’re going to be fired, you know.”
“I am?”
“Harry’s had a counseling session with you, and now the first letter. Company policy requires two letters be given. He’s probably already drafted the second. I’ve seen this pattern before.”
“I didn’t know I was screwing up that bad.”
“You’re not. Not really.”
“Harry and I have been friends a long time.”
“It isn’t Harry. It’s someone higher. Someone who doesn’t like you, maybe because of who you are. Your recent behavior has provided that person an excuse.”
John stared into his drink. Annette wetted her lips and cleared her throat.
“I, on the other hand, have always been fond of you.”
Misery loved company, and alcohol was no third wheel in the party, either. Three Long Island iced teas later, John was willing to admit the affection was mutual.
It was shortly before dawn in Mainz, and Frieda Blumenfeld had woken to the sound of dogs barking. She rolled over in bed to check on her husband: his steady breathing told her he was still sound asleep.
The dogs were howling as though they had treed a fox and wanted all the world to know of their accomplishment. Blumenfeld figured she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, so she might as well get some work done. She put on a robe, boiled water for coffee, and selected a few pieces of classical music.
The barking grew louder. She turned up the music to drown it out.
In his store-top apartment in the
Innenstadt
of Mainz, Mannfred Gebhardt was also awake. He had stayed up all night, his weary eyes fixed on the papers strewn about his living room floor, his expression of earnestness gradually degenerating into one of distaste. Never before had he felt more useless than now. Except in jail.
Innenstadt
of Mainz, Mannfred Gebhardt was also awake. He had stayed up all night, his weary eyes fixed on the papers strewn about his living room floor, his expression of earnestness gradually degenerating into one of distaste. Never before had he felt more useless than now. Except in jail.
He really ought to handle the materials more, he thought. Treat them roughly, make some creases and ragged edges. So Blumenfeld would think he’d actually been doing something.
The wall clock told him another dreary day was about to begin. He wondered what the old lady would discover today and call him stupid for not having discovered himself.
His gaze fell on Cellarius’s last map, and his eyes, almost of their own accord, focused on the oblique pictorial illustration of Idar-Oberstein.
Then on the Felsenkirche, the Church in the Rock.
Finally on the steeple of the church.
He waited a full minute for what he saw to sink in, to make sure an alternative explanation would not snatch his idea away. Then he reached for the phone.
“What is it?” Blumenfeld asked flatly. The staccato beats of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony filled the pause that followed. In the background, Gebhardt could just make out the sound of dogs barking.
“I think I have something.”
It was eleven o’clock in Philadelphia, and Sarah Sainte-James had just come out of the bath. David Freeman was already asleep in their bed. Sarah wrapped a towel around her head and settled down into David’s beanbag chair in front of the television, but she was unable to follow the plot of the old movie. She was thinking about John Graf.
It was funny; she kept catching herself thinking about him. Ever since they’d met, she’d been intrigued by his gentlemanly manners, his sturdy ego, his unpretentious ways.
Intrigued? Maybe she should just say “impressed.”
Most of the men she had known had been good looking and fast talking. Get-rich-quick schemers. Extroverted and bold. Like David. She had met David just as her life was bottoming out; her agency had dumped her, and she was working for Barclay Zimmerman, helping him switch stones. Zimmerman wanted his X-rated movie theater to be more profitable, and he wanted Sarah to earn the profits. David found her sitting on the steps of the theater one afternoon. Her face was in her hands, and she was weeping uncontrollably.
Other books
[Invitation to Eden 21.0] Falling or Flying by RG Alexander
Seis problemas para don Isidro Parodi by Jorge Luis Borges & Adolfo Bioy Casares
The Tree of Story by Thomas Wharton
The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1) by Chris O'Neill
The Inside Job by Jackson Pearce
Is That What People Do? by Robert Sheckley
The Course of True Love (and First Dates) by Cassandra Clare
The Leper's Return by Michael Jecks
