Thirst No. 5 (10 page)

Yet the land behind the house draws me. Roger was clearly heading that way when he fell. It must be the direction they took Sarah.

“Search the house for anything unusual,” I say. “I’m going to check outside.”

“Why?” Matt asks.

“I want to know what he was trying to tell us when he died.”

The backyard is a field of grass, sprinkled with trees, that leads to the lake. The first twenty yards are carefully trimmed, then the growth turns wild and the footprints are easy to spot in the matted green blades. There is a combination of three sets of footprints, followed by only two, which makes me think that Sarah stumbled and was swept off her feet and carried away.

But to where?

The footprints suddenly dead-end at the edge of a clearing. At the center of the meadow is a three-foot scorch mark. Here the grass has not simply been burned—it’s been incinerated into a fine black powder. Yet the footprints stop thirty feet from the mark, and the grass around it appears untouched.

I kneel to examine the powder, but something keeps me from touching it. What’s left of the grass—and the underlying earth for that matter—is giving off a sickly glow. Humans couldn’t see the faint radiance but I can and know what it signifies.

The burned powder is radioactive.

“They took her into the sky,” I say to myself.

Matt calls from the house. He has found something, I can tell by his tone. I’m tempted to take a sample of the powder but doubt the Goodwins have a lead-lined container in their kitchen or garage. I can tolerate tremendous heat, your standard house fire for example, but radiation and I do not get along, especially in high doses. For me to be able see the glow emanating from the scorched circle means it is hot enough to drive a Geiger counter wild.

Inside, Matt shows me a handwritten diary.

The book is small; it could fit in my back pocket.

“It was hidden in the bedroom wall, in a wooden panel,” he says. “They plastered over the spot. Recently, too, the only
reason I was able to spot it was because the plaster was still damp.”

I study the book. The feel of the paper, the smell of the ink, the style of the binding—all these details tell me the book is extremely old. Indeed, it reminds me of handwritten books I owned in in France during the seventeenth century.

But the text is not in French. At first I assume I’m looking at three alternating languages: Latin, Greek, and Aramaic. But there appear to be twice as many Aramaic letters. Then I realize that the author also used an ancient Hebrew script that at first glance can be mistaken for Aramaic.

I can read and write the four languages, of course, I’ve lived with them. But I can’t read a line of the book. It’s in code, a complex code, that someone spent a long time developing.

I’m older than Matt and know more about old languages. I explain to him my thoughts on the book, but he surprises me by pointing out a fact I’ve missed.

“Whoever wrote this was copying it from another book,” he says. “Note the style of the script. The guy wrote without pausing to think.”

“You’re right. But why do you assume it was a man?”

“Few women were taught to read or write that long ago.”

“True. But women were always the custodians of the tradition of the Veil of Veronica.”

“How do you know the book is related to the veil?”

I skip to a line near the back of the book. It stands alone
and it’s the only line that’s not in code, although it was still written in the four separate languages. It says simply,
The Story of Veronica
.

I translate it for Matt. He stands thoughtful.

“You have to break the code,” he says.

“I will.” I tell him what I discovered out back. His puzzlement deepens.

“Are you saying something landed there?” he asks.

“There’s no sign a craft set down on the grass.”

“But the radiation. Who walks around with radioactive materials?”

“Dangerous people. Crazy people. I don’t know.”

The mystery man on the floor begins to stir. Matt and I turn in time to see him open his eyes. He groans in pain and we move to his side. I kneel near his head and take his hand.

“Try not to move,” I say. “You have a serious concussion.”

He stares up at me. His eyes are a warm brown, deep set, and even though he is groggy, I sense a deep intelligence in them. “It’s you,” he says.

I’m immediately suspicious. “You know me?”

“Sita,” he whispers.

“Who are you?”

“Mr. Grey.”

“Why are you here?”

“I was waiting, watching.”

“The Goodwins?”

His eyes fall shut. “I was waiting for you.”

He’s unconscious. I glance at Matt. “Well?” I say.

“He must be from the government. They must have figured out our destination.”

“How? We had the photograph, they didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter. Brutran could have given away the Goodwins with all her poking around online.” Matt pauses. “We should kill him. Or leave him here to die.”

“Roger Goodwin said he fought to save them.” I consider. “As far as we know, the government agencies are not calling me Sita.”

“What are you saying? That we take him with us?”

Reaching over, I cradle Grey in my arms and stand. “Chances are he’ll wake up again. We can question him more at the motel. We can decide there.”

Matt doesn’t share my point of view. “You’re exposing the others to unnecessary risk.”

“I know but it’s not like we have a lot of leads. We have to take a few risks.”

On the way back to our car we spot another trail in the grass. The footprints match Grey’s shoes and lead to the spot where he was spying on the Goodwin home, a cluster of bushes not far from the road. I put Grey in the backseat of our car before hiking to the spot with Matt. There we find a black bag filled with electronic equipment that could have been purchased at Radio Shack. Yet the components are arranged in ways I don’t understand.

“I don’t think he was carrying a gun,” I say.

Matt nods as he studies the bag’s contents. “This doesn’t look like spy equipment.”

“Still think he’s government?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Matt says.

We return to the motel where we left Seymour, Brutran, and Jolie. Matt goes to check on the others while I lay Mr. Grey on my bed and carefully feel around the bruise on his head. The tips of my fingers are sensitive—I don’t need an X-ray to pick up the hairline fracture. The man would probably be better off in a hospital but I’m reluctant to part with him.

Why would he fight so hard to protect the Goodwins?

Matt enters my room, Seymour at his back.

“Brutran is resting,” Matt says. “She told me to tell you she’d talk to us in the morning. Jolie is sound asleep. They’re both exhausted.”

“How come you’re not sleeping?” I ask Seymour.

“Like I could with you two out prowling around.” He pauses. “Matt told me what happened at the house. Pretty creepy.”

“It was sad,” I say.

Seymour comes close, points to the man on my bed. “Should we be making new friends?” he asks.

“He tried to protect the Goodwins. He’s hurt. I didn’t want to leave him there.”

“You could have called 911.”

“Did Matt tell you he called me Sita?” I ask.

It’s clear from Seymour’s expression that Matt left out that particular detail. “I’m not suggesting you kill the guy,” Seymour says.

I nod. “Go rest, both of you. Let’s talk in the morning.”

Seymour is tired and doesn’t argue. But Matt is reluctant to leave. He hovers by the door.

“I hated to leave Mr. Goodwin lying there,” he says.

“I’ve already placed an anonymous call to the police. They’ll take care of the body.” I pause. “You’re worried about something else.”

“You know I have faith in you, Sita.”

“Just say it.”

Matt hesitates. “There’s no reason to think the veil’s going to help us with the Cradle’s program.”

“Tarana wanted Shanti to find it. That’s good enough for me.”

“You assume he’s behind the program.”

“Yes.”

Matt is doubtful. “You were under a lot of pressure at IIC’s headquarters. You can’t be sure everything you saw or felt was real.”

“It was real enough that your mother sacrificed her life to help destroy it.”

The reference to Umara stings Matt and I regret having brought her up. “My mother believed in a lot of things my father never did.”

“Umara believed in Krishna. So did your father.”

“So?”

“So they trusted each other with what matters.”

Matt goes to snap but stops. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. They’re beautiful eyes, but when he’s annoyed, when he’s outright angry, they burn. He speaks in a low voice.

“Do you honestly feel Krishna sent you back to save the earth?”

“It was my choice to return.” I meet his glare. “I came back for you and Seymour. I don’t know about the rest of the world.”

“Did you really see Krishna?”

“Yes. When I died. I mean, when I was dead, before I entered Teri’s body.”

“What was it like?”

Suddenly there’s a lump in my throat. “There are no words.”

“Then why did you return?”

“I told you.”

Matt turns and opens the door, although he stops before leaving. “Since everyone got up this morning, we’ve been going nonstop. I didn’t want to pressure you about this, but Seymour and Brutran need to know why we’re chasing this veil.”

“You said that already.”

“I’m saying something else. It would help if you told them what happened during the war.”

“It would help you.”

Matt nods. “You brought it up but never explained what the Nazis did to you. And how the veil saved you. You should share what you know.”

“Even with Brutran?”

Matt shrugs. “For better or worse, she’s part of our team. And she is awfully competent.”

“I think you like her. Her and her daughter.”

“Jolie’s a doll. But I haven’t forgotten who Brutran is.”

“For all we know it was Brutran who gave the order to take over your body when we were stuck in the mountains. It was that decision that led to Teri’s death.”

Matt hates the fact I have brought up what happened that morning. When he lost all control and accidentally shot me in the chest with a Telar laser. Once again—the guy does have a temper—his face darkens.

“Fine,” he says. “Tell me and Seymour the story. Leave Brutran out of it. But please give us all the facts. Remember, you’re the one who keeps harping on how few leads we have.”

“I doubt a record of my days in Auschwitz will help us locate Sarah Goodwin.”

“You think? Even when her husband said the man who attacked them looked like Himmler?”

“I didn’t know you understood the reference.”

“You weren’t the only one who helped defeat the Nazis.” Matt turns and steps through the door, talking over his shoulder. “I’m in the next room. Shout if you need me. I won’t be sleeping.”

“Stay away from the game. Okay?”

Matt nods but I can tell he’s not listening. He leaves.

I’m upset, and I seldom get upset. It was his damn question. Why did I choose to return? I feel as if I could weep, and wipe at tears that are not there. Then I realize my hands are trembling. They never tremble.

What’s wrong with me?

It’s pretty obvious.

I can’t stop thinking about what it felt like to stand at the threshold of Krishna’s realm. The joy, the utter contentment, the relief . . .

Why did I turn my back on paradise?

Do I really know? Did I lie to Matt?

I push the questions away. I’m here on earth now, that’s what’s real. I have a job to do. I have to decide whether Mr. Grey is for us or against us.

Like with Roger Goodwin, I try my best to link with Mr. Grey’s mind. Closing my eyes, taking a few deep breaths, I allow the now-familiar dome of magnetism to surround my head. It has become so strong that I feel I can almost reach out and touch it.

Instead, I will it to expand and encompass the sleeping man’s body. Since my dark days working with the Cradle, I’ve discovered my telepathic abilities have greatly increased to where I can directly read other people’s thoughts, not simply sense their emotional states. Yet as I reach for Grey’s mind,
I encounter a curious barrier. It’s not like the psychic shield someone like Brutran has deliberately cultivated over years of practice, which relies upon intense concentration to be maintained. This wall appears intrinsic to the man’s mind. It’s blocking me even though he’s unconscious. Also, I don’t feel as if there’s anyone there. It’s a puzzle; it’s almost as if Mr. Grey were a corpse.

“Who are you?” I wonder aloud.