FOURTEEN

Thomas stepped out of the Orange Public Library and into the fresh air, his mind spinning with the results of his research. The visit had turned up two history books, a National Geographic from the 1970s, and an old fiction book called The Lost Treasure of Africa by someone named Adelia Ehrlenthal. Adelia wasn’t a particularly common name, and fiction or not, Thomas decided to give the book a shot.

The Internet, on the other hand, had been almost useless. An old Goth band had put out an album titled The Book of Sorrows, clogging the search results with videos, pictures, and articles strange enough to make Thomas shudder. After filtering out most of those results, Thomas found exactly one thread that seemed relevant. The summary in the search results had been just enough to warrant a click-through.

Jackman’s proposal referenced a scroll of unknown origin, citing the document as evidence of an ancient treasure . . .

The article was about a British nobleman named James Jackman who acquired an ancient scroll and spent his fortune searching for the treasure it described—mystical crystals that would bestow their owner with unimaginable power. According to the article, Jackman died in 1632, penniless and alone, after multiple unsuccessful attempts to find the crystals. Fruitless expeditions by similarly ambitious treasure hunters led the scroll to pick up the nickname “the book of sorrows.”

The reference to magical crystals was too intriguing to ignore. If the book and scroll were connected, and it seemed like they must be, then maybe the crystals Jackman searched for were the same ones the dark stranger gave to Isham. Thomas had a printed copy of the article in his now-bulging backpack and emailed himself the link for good measure.

If there were more non-Goth references to The Book of Sorrows on the Internet, Thomas didn’t find them. The search for more information about Jackman was a little better. It led to the record for a book titled Los Cristales Magicos: Un Tesoro Escondido, published in Spain in 1634. The author’s name was James Jackman.

Tesoro meant treasure. Thomas remembered that from Spanish class. The translate app on the terminal had brought back the English word for escondido. It meant “hidden.” The Magic Crystals: A Hidden Treasure.

Thomas turned on Willow Street, puzzling through the details of that particular find. The publication date was two years after Jackman’s alleged death. Had Jackman lived longer than the first article asserted? Had the book been submitted before his death and published later? Was the book written by a different person with the same name? There were no answers, and no known copies of the book left in existence.

Prolonged honking and a shouted obscenity pulled Thomas’s attention back to the present, cutting through the web of thoughts and questions. He glanced over his shoulder. A beige van with a heavily tinted windshield was half a block away, approaching so slowly traffic had to veer around it.

The front of the vehicle slanted toward the massive figure behind the steering wheel. Thomas felt a rush of fear. It was the same van he’d seen on the way to school, he was sure of it, only this time, there was a second person in the passenger seat. Just like the giant, the smaller figure was obscured by the dark windshield. Thomas angled to the far edge of the sidewalk, putting as much distance between himself and the van as possible. It crept closer until it was almost parallel, tracking his speed precisely.

Thomas sped up. The vehicle matched his pace. He glanced sideways. The face in the window was hidden behind heavy tinting and long hair, but he could feel eyes on him. He stopped walking and tightened his grip on the backpack. The van continued at a crawl, the eyes of the passenger never leaving Thomas’s face.

“Drive, you freaking moron!” The furious shout was accompanied by a fresh round of honking. A bright red beemer veered around the van, the front passenger leaning out of his window and shouting obscenities. He flipped the bird with one hand and aimed a smartphone at the front of the van with the other.

The van accelerated, leaving Thomas squeezing his backpack so tightly his knuckles were pure white. He stared long after the van disappeared around the corner, profound uneasiness squeezing his chest. The people in the van had been watching him. Both of them. He was sure of it. And he was pretty sure he knew why. They were after The Book of Sorrows.