| |
Lauren woke up on her bed at the hotel in Prague with no memory of how she got there. She was still wearing the same outfit she’d worn to the museum, even her shoes. Her head ached, and her bladder was full. With caution, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, gaining her bearings. Once she was certain she wouldn’t pass out or puke, she sat up and put her feet on the floor. She stood, surprised to find herself steadier than she’d expected. Lauren went to the lavatory and took care of her most pressing issue.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, Lauren scowled. Her hair was coming loose from its plait, and she looked like Hell. Her stomach growled and churned at the same time. She glanced at her watch and realized it was well after noon. Going back into the bedroom, she tried to gain her bearings.
Then, she remembered her purse ... and her phone. The last time she’d seen either was at the café ... her purse had still been on the back of the chair; her phone on the table. Searching the room, it surprised her when she found them both laying on the dresser. How they’d gotten there, she couldn’t say. She picked up her phone and found the battery had been drained. The charger was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t in her purse, it wasn’t by the bed, and it wasn’t on the dresser.
Lauren picked up the receiver on the house phone by the bed, intending to call downstairs. The phone line was dead; no dial tone. She looked for the cord and followed it to the end. The cable was shredded. It had been yanked from the wall.
A wave of panic washed over her. She had used the phone to call room service before. The phone had been fine. Why would someone do that?
A mist of sweat broke out on her upper lip. Whatever was going on here, she needed to get home. Some stupid page from an ancient book no longer mattered. Rowan would be worried, and she couldn’t put him through that. Not again. She needed to get home.
Lauren fumbled through the cash, counting it. Plane tickets here were cheap. She had three hundred dollars in her stash, but she also had her Mastercard. That was all she needed. Gathering up her things and cramming them into the suitcase, it took her only a scant few minutes to pack everything into her carry-on bag. She was an experienced traveler and rarely carried much. She tucked the passport, cash, and credit card into the leg pocket of her cargo pants and zipped it up.
She swung the door open with thoughts of home fresh in her mind. Lauren froze when she all but ran into a tall man in a brown trench coat with his hand lifted as if to knock. Two uniformed police officers stood behind him, their hands at the ready over their holsters.
Lauren yelped and took a step back, nearly tripping over her suitcase. He caught her hand, saving her from a nasty fall. “You scared me out of my skin.” She gasped, leaning over with her hands on her knees as she caught her breath.
“Are you Lauren Pierce?” The man in the trench coat asked.
“Yes,” she said, straightening. “Who are you?”
“Tomáš Kovač,” he said. “Detective Kovač.” He showed her his credentials. “Lauren Pierce, you are under arrest. You are being charged with murder in the first degree.”
“Murder?” She stepped back. This time she did trip over her suitcase. The cops stepped in and caught her by the arms and before she knew what was happening, they had her pressed face first against the wall, with her arms wrenched behind her back. “This has to be some kind of mistake.”
“You will have your chance to explain at the station.”
* * *
The advokát, or the public defense attorney assigned to her case — a stern older woman with her dyed black hair pulled back tight — explained her rights to her after she’d been processed into custody. Now, she sat in front of the detective who’d arrested her, feeling numb and terribly afraid. The detective was of average height, not much taller than Lauren herself. He might have been in his mid-thirties or early forties based on the tinge of gray that framed his pitch-black hair at his temples. Those Slavic features were undeniable, from the heavy black brows to the wide bridge of teeth behind his congenial, but serious smile. His eyes were as blue as a summer sky.
“Ms. Pierce,” he said in preamble, but she cut him off.
“Doctor Pierce.” She corrected him.
“My apologies, Doctor Pierce,” he said, emphasizing her title. “Can you tell me where you were yesterday afternoon?”
“Yesterday was a really bad day.” Lauren sat back in her chair, her arms folded over her body as a shield. Her palm came to her face, and she rested her forehead in it. Her gaze went to his black patent shoes beneath the table. “It started out okay. I had an appointment at the museum to meet with Dr. Masa. He came to see me in Cairo a few days ago and asked me to come take a look at an artifact that had been surrendered to the museum some months back. When I got to the museum, I found out there was no one named Dr. Masa who worked there.”
“Who did you talk to at the museum?”
“A volunteer,” she said. “Vincent.”
“Vincent Bača?”
“I didn’t get his last name,” Lauren said.
“Who else did you talk to?”
“The director, Dr. Kominsky. I think that was her name.”
“Anyone else?”
Lauren shook her head, looking up at him.
“Did anything ... unusual happen while you were at the museum?”
“Other than getting stood up by a guy who flew me from Cairo to Prague and put me up in a nice hotel with a driver for the week?” She scowled. “I did get sick while I was there, but no, the weirdness began after I left the museum.”
“Sick?”
“I’m pregnant with my third child,” she said. “I have been suffering from twenty-four-hour morning sickness. I ... I passed out.” The detective’s brow lifted slowly. “I woke up in Dr. Kominsky’s office.”
“Did you speak to her before ... or after you passed out.”
“After,” she said. “But now that you mention it ...” Lauren swallowed hard. “I ... there’s a painting ... just as you come in the museum. It ... it looked like ...”
“Like what?”
“Like me.” Lauren held his gaze while he considered her.
Kovač sat back in his chair. He cast a shaded gaze at her with those bright blue eyes. She could feel him trying to burn through her to see if she was speaking the truth. Finally he sat up and opened the manilla folder in front of him. Inside was a picture. The image was a screen grab from a video. Lauren suddenly had a flash of déjà vu. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Lauren picked up the image. Her head swam as she lay it down. “That looks like ... me,” she said. “It must be me.”
“Why do you say that?”
Lauren looked down. “She’s wearing my clothes.” The woman in the video walked toward the exit with the hotel’s borrowed umbrella in her hand. Her wide stride suggested she was in a hurry.
He placed another picture in front of her. The grainy security camera image showed a man’s back, mostly in shadow as he entered a room. The image was so poor, and the lighting so dim it was impossible to make out any of the features. “Recognize this man?”
Lauren studied the photo but shook her head, handing it back. “I can’t tell anything from this picture. I can only assume it’s a man, since you mention that it is.”
“Is this your accomplice?”
“My what?” Lauren recoiled, the image falling from her hand.
“Dr. Pierce, where were you at approximately 4:00 pm yesterday afternoon?”
“I left the museum before noon,” Lauren said. “The driver took me on a tour of the city. I wasn’t hungry until later. He suggested a café he knew, and he dropped me off there. It was just a few blocks from my hotel, so I told him I would walk back when I was done. He insisted I call him if I changed my mind. I put his number in my cell phone.”
“And what time did you go back to your hotel?”
“I didn’t,” Lauren said. “As I was drinking my tea, three men in black coats approached me and told me I had to go with them. I tried to ...” She stopped. “They shoved me into the back of a van. I think ... I think they must have drugged me. I don’t remember much of what happened after that.”
This new bit of evidence made his brow lift even higher. “Where did they take you?”
“I’m not quite sure.” Lauren swallowed hard and folded her hands on the table in front of her. She leaned heavily on the edge. “I don’t remember. I know the building was tall; ten stories at least. The room was basic ... like this one. They asked me questions about why I was here. They showed me a picture of Dr. Masa and asked me questions about him. They accused me of lying when I answered them. I told them the same thing I told you ... because it’s the truth. But, I did not tell them about the artifact Masa brought me here to see.”
“Which was?”
Lauren hesitated. She stood and turned her back on him a moment. It gave her a second to think. She didn’t know who she could trust at this point.
“Dr. Pierce.” He stood behind her. “I will give you a few moments to gather your thoughts. May I get you something? Some tea, perhaps?”
“That would be nice,” Lauren said over her shoulder. “Thank you.”
* * *
Rowan had the boys in bed shortly after they got home. John Carter had fallen asleep during his run. Henry had dozed off but was wide awake. He got himself ready for bed, brushed his teeth and climbed into bed unbidden. “Will you read to me again tonight, Daddy?” he asked.
Rowan was exhausted, but he couldn’t refuse. He barely got through a chapter before Henry drifted off.
Charles Pierce had been the one who introduced his son to Heinlein when he was a teenager. Normally, Rowan’s dad preferred military dramas and legal thrillers, but knowing Rowan’s love for sci-fi, he’d become a fan of the controversial author. The Moon is A Harsh Mistress had been Rowan’s favorite growing up. He loved the character Wyoming Knot. She was tough as nails and helped lead a revolution. Everyone called her Wyo. Maybe that was why he liked Indiana Jones so much. Indy. Wyo. Both place names shortened. Both brave and bold, kind of like his wife.
Rowan went to the shower and turned on the water, letting it warm as he peeled out of his clothes. He was sweaty and the fact that he could smell his own funk was sufficient evidence that he needed to get into the shower before he collapsed into bed.
It had been a long day, but it had been a good one. The only void was the need to hear his wife’s voice. At least once before he’d been visited by her in the night when he’d yearned for her. He yearned for her now and prayed she’d find him in the dark. Perhaps it had been a dream that one time in Mexico, but it was the dream by which all others were measured. He remembered every detail of her touch and how it made him feel. He also remembered the disconcerting feeling of waking up and discovering it was only a dream. There was no possible way she could have been there.
After he toweled off and pulled on his pajama pants he climbed into their king-sized bed and scooted over into the middle of it. She’d put clean sheets on it before she’d left, but her pillow still smelled of her and he clutched it to his chest as sleep came for him.
* * *
The night was a restless one. He tossed and turned. More than once he woke up because he thought he heard the boys. He finally gave up some time before four o’clock. He stopped by the boys’ room to check on them. Finding them both sound asleep, he left them to their peaceful slumber. He went downstairs to put on some coffee and make himself something to eat.
Rowan didn’t have classes on Friday, but there were several reading assignments he needed to catch up on, so he fixed himself a sandwich and carried his coffee cup and plate to the sofa in the living room. Turning on the television, he adjusted the volume so as not to wake the boys. As he ate, he put on his glasses and picked up his textbook. By sunrise, the coffee pot was empty. He put on a second pot and returned to his studies while it brewed.
Rowan found himself nodding as he tried to focus on the pages. The words began to run together. Closing his eyes while he waited for the coffee, he thought about Lauren and decided to call her when it got a little later. She was probably still sleeping. Just thinking about her made a smile curl in the corners of his cheeks. He missed her, but hoped she was having a productive trip.
* * *
Henry knew he wasn’t supposed to do it. He also knew he had to. His momma had a mission she had to fulfill. Still, he didn’t like it. His father would be furious if he knew what Henry was capable of. It was bad enough that he left his room in the middle of the night, but he also left his own place in time. This was a risk, but one he had to take.
The monastery smelled old. It was old. The air was musty, damp and reeked of smoke and incense. Like most monasteries, the monks made their own vintages of wine as well as ale. The smell of fermentation wafted up from the cellar. Henry moved cautiously down the stone-tiled hallway, keeping to the shadows, hearing the sounds of music coming from the chapel. He didn’t have his mother’s gift for languages, but she’d been teaching him Latin and Greek, so he recognized the words of the song they sang.
The song was a prayer and the harmonious voices resonated through the building. Henry liked music, and he liked the blend of the men’s voices. His mother didn’t think of herself as a good singer, but his dad was. He could play the guitar, too. Henry loved it when he plugged in his electric guitar and played rock n’ roll, but he didn’t do that very often. Their neighbors didn’t like it. The last time his dad had played his electric guitar had been at a party at the University.
“Well, this is odd,” a voice behind him said softly, startling Henry. He froze. “I don’t remember any of the brothers being so ... short.” Henry turned. A portly friar waddled up behind him, limping. “Who are you?”
“My name is Henry Jones Pierce, sir.” The child bowed respectfully.
“Aren’t you a little young for the brotherhood?”
“I’m almost six,” Henry said. “But I’m not here to be a monk.”
“Then what are you doing here, if I may be so bold as to ask, Master Pierce.”
“I’m looking for a monk,” he said. “One who’s going to write a great book.”
“Will just any monk do, or is this one monk in particular?”
Henry hesitated. “It’s just one monk, sir. But ... his name has been lost to history.”
“There are over fifty brothers in service to Our Lord here, young master.”
“We think his name was Herman. They called him Herman the Recluse. By chance, is there a brother here by that name?”
The monk’s eyes crossed at the tip of his nose. “Well, young Master Pierce, my name is Brother Herman, but if they call me a recluse, they’ve never said it to my face ... though I do prefer to spend my time alone, writing and making vellum.”
“Oh,” Henry said. The child blinked back his surprise. “I thought perhaps they had already walled you up.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve done ...or will do ... something to get yourself in trouble and they’re going to wall you up,” he said, innocently enough. “At least that’s how the story goes.”
“I’ve done nothing.” The monk sank down onto his heels to get to Henry’s level. “I have strived to live a pious life. My confessions are quite boring, if truth be told.”
“The story says you wrote a book with all of human knowledge contained within, in a single night...” Henry said.
“A single night?” The monk scowled. “I have been working on just such a project since I entered the religious life, but ... I would have to sell my soul to the Devil to finish it in a single night, even with what I have already completed.”
“That’s what the story says you do,” Henry said.
“I would never,” the monk sputtered. “I am a man of God.”
“I can help you,” Henry said. “But the story has to be passed down through the generations, or we’ll mess up history.”
The monk considered him for a moment. “How is it that you know this? You are just a child.”
“Jesus said great words come from the mouths of babes?”
“It’s from the book of Psalms.” The monk did a double take. “You’re not a witch, are you?”
“Think of me as more of ... of a messenger ... like Gabriel,” he said. The monk seemed satisfied with his explanation. “Can you show me how much of the book you have finished?”
The monk rose. “I am a man of faith, and something in my heart tells me, I must have faith and trust in you.”
“I will do everything I can to help you, but I won’t ask for your soul in return,” Henry said. “I just need you to add one thing to your book.”
“Do you know how many years it will take to complete the task at hand? Are you considering the sacred life, young man?”
“I have studied all the faiths of the world but, I kinda want to be a scientist like my parents, when I grow up. But, I have some knowledge of science now that will help us complete our task before I have to get home in the morning. But you can’t tell anyone. Can you do that?”
“I believe in miracles, too.” The monk nodded. “Come, let us go to my study.”
* * *
“Hey.” A small voice woke Rowan. He sat up, startled. “Hey, Daddy?” He looked around the room, feeling foggy headed.
John Carter crawled up in his lap and sat down in the middle of his textbook. “Daddy? Are you sweeping?”
Rowan was suddenly awake. “Yeah, buddy.” John Carter made himself comfortable in his lap. Rowan pulled the book out from under him. He put his arm around the boy, leaning down, kissing his head. “You’re up early.”
“You, too.” He tugged at the feet of his footie-pajamas. “I hungy.”
“You’re hungry?” Rowan said. “I fed you yesterday.” It was a running joke.
“I hungy,” he moaned, a giggle in his voice.
“So, what do you want?”
“Food!” That was Lauren’s standard response.
“My favorite.” Rowan’s said as he kissed his son on the head. He looked so much like Lauren.
“Pancake, Daddy?” John Carter asked. “Pwease make pancake?”
That did sound good. “I think I can manage pancakes.” Rowan stood and put his youngest up on his shoulders. John Carter loved it when he did that. He liked being tall. “What else?”
“Eggses!”
“Want bacon, too?”
“Yes!”
“Sounds awesome.”
* * *
Rowan had just sat down with a cold cup of coffee and a plate of steaming hot cakes when his phone chirped. Finally! He went and picked it up off the coffee table. The alert identified it as a text from Lauren. Thank God.
Made it to Prague. Nice city. You’d like it here. Miss you. Kiss the boys for me. Save one for yourself.
“Well, it’s about time,” he said more to himself than anyone. He sat back down across from John Carter. The toddler had quite the appetite. He had a huge pancake half devoured. Rowan looked down at his own plate and realized, it was his pancake the boy had absconded with.
“Hey,” Rowan scowled playfully. “Where’d my pancake go?”
“Heny eats it,” he said with a full mouth. It took a moment for Rowan to translate.
“Henry ate my pancake?” Rowan looked at him dubiously. John Carter could eat. They teased that his middle name was What Else Can I Have?
John Carter grinned as syrup dripped off his chin. “More pancake.”
“Yeah.” Rowan got up. “I’m going to have to make more pancakes.”
The next batch was ready when Henry came down the stairs dragging his favorite blanket. He looked groggy. “Hey, slugger,” Rowan chirped. Two pots of coffee had him pinging off the walls. “Want a pancake?”
“Sure.” Henry fell face first onto the sofa, pulling his blanket up over him.
“Hey, what’s up?” Rowan asked, hesitating.
“I’ve been up all night.” His voice was muffled when he didn’t lift his head to speak. Rowan had a hard time understanding him.
“Bad dreams?”
“I had to do something for Momma,” Henry said, sitting up. “That woman.” His exasperated tone sounded familiar. At least once in his life Rowan had said it himself. Okay, maybe twice. Henry shook his head. “I hope there’s coffee.”
“Coffee? Since when do you drink coffee?”
“I’m starting today,” he said. “How do you put up with her?”
Rowan scowled. “What are you talking about?”
“My momma,” Henry got up and dragged himself over to the table, climbing up into his chair. “If I ever have a wife, she’s going to be a lot less trouble.”
“Henry,” Rowan started to snap, but he caught himself and took a deep breath. “Please tell me what on earth you are talking about.”
“You know.” He shrugged. “Taking care of Momma stuff.”
Yeah. Momma stuff. He knew all about that. “Did you talk to your mother? Did she call?”
“Yeah.” He yawned, reaching for a piece of bacon on a plate in the middle of the table. He had to get up on his knees to reach it.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” Henry said, shoving it into his mouth. “But she’s got some explaining to do.”
Rowan stood with his hands on his hips, gazing down at his bare feet. “Doesn’t she always?”