Father McCallum awoke to the sound of his phone ringing. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was barely six in the morning. He’d had a restless night, not knowing when the Vatican representative would show up, not knowing what would happen next in the great mystery of the Voynich.
He wanted more sleep. The night before, he had thought about going in to work late. Today was Friday, after all. The phone rang again and he reached for it.
“Hello?”
“Mr. McCallum?” a terse voice barked.
Father McCallum was immediately awake. “Yes, sir.” It was Garrett Eastman, assistant director of the Beinecke Library. Mr. Eastman had never telephoned him before.
“There’s an issue. Can you come down to the library?”
It sounded like a question but the priest knew it wasn’t. “Of course, of course,” he started. “What’s going on?”
“I’d rather discuss it with you once you arrive. Thank you.”
“I’ll be right there,” he said, his heart planted firmly in his throat. He hung up the phone and took a deep breath. He was sure something had happened to the Voynich manuscript.
He showered and checked his beard briefly to make sure it wasn’t too unkempt. He dressed in record time, then headed downstairs. Good thing he’d kept the rental car — he was too keyed up to wait for a bus this morning. He found the car, unlocked it, got in, and drove.
As he approached the library, his fears escalated. There were three police vehicles parked right outside. His first irrational thought was that the library had discovered he was a spy. Should he drive right past? But he couldn’t do that — he still had a job to do for the church. He pulled up against the curb, turned the ignition off, took a breath, and got out of the car.
He made his way through the crowds gathered in front of the main entrance of the Beinecke, then saw an officer stationed at the door.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the policeman said, “the library is closed.”
“I work here,” the priest managed to say. “I was called down.”
“Got some id?”
Father McCallum showed his badge, and the officer held the door open for him.
The priest stepped into the Beinecke, expecting a flurry of activity, but the library was quiet. Too quiet.
“Hello?” His voice echoed in the cavernous area.
Garrett Eastman came through the doorway behind the security station. “Mr. McCallum,” he snapped. “Come in here, please.”
“Where is everyone? Why are there police outside?”
Garrett Eastman waited for the priest to join him behind the security desk then ushered him into the back room, explaining, “The police are searching the building, looking for clues or whatever it is that they do in such situations.”
“But what is the situation?” Father McCallum asked.
“Someone has stolen the Voynich manuscript.”
The Voynich! I knew it! “What? How?”
“How is what we want to know. As the curator of the ancient collections you know all about our security in the Voynich display area. I believe you are one of the few who even had keys to the cases.”
He started to protest. “But I didn’t —”
“Oh, stop,” Garrett interrupted. “You aren’t a suspect. At least not yet.”
Father McCallum had been in the library’s security nerve center only once, during the compulsory tour on his first day of work. The two men stopped near a control panel. A library security guard sat at the panel, and two police officers stood next to him. Above the controls were rows of monitors showing different views of the library.
“Roll the tape,” Eastman said without introducing Father McCallum to anyone.
The security guard punched a few buttons, and they all watched as a uniformed security guard walked into the library.
“You can see he’s carrying something to put the Voynich in — look right there.” The guard pointed to a large black portfolio visible on the screen.
The view blurred into fast forward and then switched and Father McCallum watched the guard on the screen walk to the main security desk, reach under, and pull out a set of keys.
“That’s where Larry gets the keys to the Voynich room. He knows what he’s doing,” the library guard announced.
“Larry?” Father McCallum asked.
“Larry Zarinski,” Eastman said. “He’s been with us for only a few months but came with a stellar résumé, which included other posts at the university. He’d been in a car accident and was off on medical leave but made a miraculous recovery and decided to keep working. That’s when he applied here at the library.”
“The car accident must’ve rattled this guy’s brains loose,” one of the officers quipped.
The camera view blurred and switched again as the guard fast forwarded, and they all watched Larry walk through the library to the Voynich room. He used the keys to enter, and the camera view switched again.
On the screen, Larry set the portfolio down then moved to the case and started to rattle the lid. Then he stepped away from the case and held his arms up.
“You can see his lips moving here.” The guard again pointed at the screen. “I wish we had audio on these cameras.”
The screen went blank.
“What happened?” Father McCallum asked. “Where’s the picture?”
“That’s all we got,” Eastman said glumly. “For some reason the camera went dead, and all we have for the next ten minutes is static.”
“What about when he leaves? Do we see him leave?”
Eastman nodded at the monitor. The static stopped, the guard slowed the film to normal speed, and Father McCallum saw the hall outside the Voynich display room. There was a slight blur of motion, as though the door was opening, and then the picture went fuzzy.
“It’s like that all the way back to the entrance,” Eastman said. “It’s as if someone or something left, but we couldn’t tape it.”
“Something?” Father McCallum exclaimed. “What are you talking about? It was this Larry guy. The security guard. Did you find him yet? Do we know where he went?”
“Oh, we know where Larry is,” one of the police officers said.
“What?” Father McCallum yelled. “Well, get him. We need to get the Voynich back!”
“Come with me,” Garrett Eastman said and took Father McCallum’s arm. He led him through the library to the Voynich room. A policeman stood in front of the door.
“Forensics is still in there,” he said to Eastman. “Do you need to go in?”
“I just want Mr. McCallum to have a look.”
Father McCallum stepped to the doorway and looked in. Two men in white paper suits crouched near a library security guard uniform. The priest frowned. There was something else, something inside the uniform. He gasped and turned away.
“What is that?” he asked weakly.
“That,” Eastman said, “is what’s left of Larry Zarinski.”