The Ghost Manuscript Page 10

  “This will be the easiest money you ever made.”

  “It will be the easiest money you ever made,” said Frank, half joking. “What with you being safely tucked away on the other side of the Atlantic.”

  There was a long silence. The voice came again.

  “Is there a problem?” asked Gyles.

  “No problem at all, my man,” he said, wiping his cold, sweaty hand on his trousers. “None at all.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  The previous night had been endless. Carys had lain awake, staring at the ceiling, listening with every ounce of energy she had for footsteps on the stairs, or an unfamiliar rustle, or the rush of a nervous breakdown she’d been half-awaiting her entire life. None of them came. Friday morning arrived like a bright blessing. It was only at dawn that she finally drifted off to sleep for two hours.

  She left for the mansion very early and spent the entire day in the sealed vault with the manuscript, doing the slow, methodical work of cross-referencing the text and familiarizing herself with the book’s narrative and points of verifiable historical basis.

  That afternoon, the La Jolla lab called with the results of the carbon dating they’d done as soon as they received the parcel. As before, the parchment dated to the early 500s, likely between 490 and 510. Lestinus could have been recording all the exploits of Arcturus in real time. He’d carried this book with him for decades. No wonder the writing was so tiny—it was unlikely he would have been able to get his hands on another one of these parchments in the midst of war. She was thrilled anew at the knowledge that she was one of the few people who knew of its existence.

  In the late afternoon, her cell phone rang. The ID said “Harvard.”

  “Hey, Bill,” she said. “Didn’t expect to hear from you until Monday.”

  “I know, but I knew you were excited to see the results. They’re very interesting,” said Bill. “The dirt contains high concentrates of alkaline granites, syenogranite, alkali feldspar granite. Some volcanics. I’m surprised to see it in these concentrations. Also, there’s flakes of vegetable matter. Looks like it’s papyrus.”

  “Egyptian,” she said to herself. More confirmation that it had been in Saint Catherine’s.

  “Also, there’s something else,” said Bill. “There’s a mold spore in there. Mixed in with the dirt. It’s organic, so I can’t really figure out what it’s from without further tests. But it’s definitely mold. Probably rode in on the papyrus. Do you want me to dig down on that?”

  “There are always all sorts of things growing in these old books,” she said. “That’s what gives them their lovely smell.”

  “I think they smell like dead animal,” said Bill.

  She laughed. “Can you identify the spore for me?”

  “Sure. It’ll be longer for that, though. We’d need to send it off to another lab, and the prof who runs it is in Aruba for two weeks.”

  “No problem. Finding the granites and volcanics told me what I most needed to know.”

  “Where’d you get this manuscript?”

  “Working on it for a client. Just trying to verify provenance right now. Looks like we just did,” she said.

  “That’s cool,” said Bill.

  “Isn’t it?” she said, smiling to herself.

  Carys stopped her work and left the vault just as the sun was getting low. She sat at Harper’s desk and kicked off her shoes. Nicola hadn’t been at the mansion all day, and for a moment, Carys let herself imagine that this entire library was hers. It was the only place in the sprawling home where she didn’t feel completely out of place.

  She was suddenly overcome by an urge to explore. She normally wouldn’t have given herself permission to wander around in someone else’s private space, but she had broken so many of her personal rules in the past week that she figured she might as well take advantage of her newfound adventurousness in case the old Carys came back. She padded in her bare feet out of the library, leaving the door open behind her, then tiptoed up the stairs like a naughty child, glancing back occasionally to make sure she wasn’t being observed.

  She cracked the first door on the balcony and peered in. It was a sleek, marble-filled half bath. The next door, in the center of the hallway, opened into an enormous sitting area with a couch, a painting that looked like an original Picasso, several side tables with lamps, and a large fresh flower arrangement. On the far end of the sitting area was a hallway that ran the length of the mansion, from left to right. It had four doors along it. She walked to the far end of the hall and opened the first door. It opened into the most palatial bedroom she’d ever seen. Clearly the master suite.

  An enormous canopy bed filled the right-hand wall. A wide stone fireplace, five feet tall, filled the space between two sliding glass doors that led out to the balcony overlooking the backyard. To the left was an entrance to a grand bathroom, decorated from top to bottom with marble. There was massive soaking tub and a shower large enough for eight people. The bathroom was bigger than her first apartment.

  She walked back to the edge of the canopy bed. It was made up, a mountain of pillows stacked artistically. On the bureau to the right of the bed was a collection of family pictures, including a wedding photo of a very young Mr. Harper and a beautiful, willowy blonde who she assumed was the departed Mrs. Harper. Next to it was a scattering of smaller photos of Mrs. Harper at various ages, including one in which she was emaciated and clearly wearing a wig. She had what looked like a forced smile on her face, and her eyes were tinged, Carys thought, by anger.

  On the left-hand bedside table was a half-drunk glass of water, with traces of pink lip balm on the rim. A set of women’s black-rimmed reading glasses were next to it. They looked like Nicola’s.

  Then it all made sense: this was also Nicola’s room. She and Harper were a couple.

  The sharp grief she’d seen in Nicola’s eyes the first time they met, her intimate knowledge of Harper, his life and passions—it all snapped into focus. She felt a pang of sadness when she thought of how big that bed must feel to Nicola without Harper in it. She sighed. She really did have her head stuck too far into the books.

  She left the master suite and went back to the hall and opened the next door.

  It was a sterile but artfully decorated room, done in gray and cream. JJ’s room, she figured. She wondered if he knew the truth about his father and Nicola. There was a small photo of a young Mrs. Harper on the bedside table. On the dresser, below a picture window that offered an expansive view of the backyard, was an eight-by-ten photo. Mrs. Harper had sandy, beach-blonde hair and was slightly freckled. She hugged a child, Carys assumed JJ, then maybe five, who had a full head of the same color hair. They couldn’t have been any happier. At that moment, Mrs. Harper probably thought she had a long, happy life ahead of her.

  Carys felt her throat start to close up, and she instinctively looked up into the bright sky, knowing from experience that, for reasons she didn’t really understand, it would stop the tears from welling. It worked and she looked down again to the forest.

  Just behind the row of trees where the lawn met the forest, she saw something flash. Not like a camera flash. It was more like two small round reflections. She squinted and tried to see what was causing it.

  Back in the forest, she saw a man lower a pair of binoculars and move behind a tree.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Carys arrived home just as the sky was darkening. She sat in her car for a moment, trying not to panic. She had been followed. After she’d missed her exit on Route 16, she’d taken a series of right turns to get back on track. A blue Ford made all the same turns as she did. Now, that same car was conspicuously parked on the street two houses down from hers with a man in the driver’s seat.

  She should have driven directly to the police department, but the driver would likely peel off and try again later. It was too dark to read
the license plate number. As she considered her options, she began to feel trapped, a feeling she thought she’d left in her childhood.

  Slowly, her fear gave way to anger. Who the fuck did this man think he was? Maybe it was the same man who had appeared in her living room. Her breath came in short spurts. She gripped the wheel and forced her lungs to take a deep breath. The rage grew. For once in her life, she let it.

  Carys opened the car door, stepped out, walked around to the trunk, popped it, and pulled out the tire iron. She slammed the trunk and turned to face the car. She saw the occupant shift slightly in his seat. With the iron held in her fist, dangling by her side, she crossed the street and walked as nonchalantly as she could manage down the sidewalk toward the car. Twenty feet from it, the occupant, a very large man in an ill-fitting suit and almost no neck, got out and faced her. His mouth smiled.

  “Are you Ms. Jones?” he asked. He had a Cockney accent.

  “What do you want?” she asked. It came out squeakier than she’d intended. She gripped the iron tighter and lifted the working end up to the palm of her other hand so it crossed her body, a small barrier between her and the stranger.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you at home,” he said.

  “Who are you?” she said, less squeaky. He knows I live here.

  “Ms. Jones, I’m here to offer you a business proposition.”

  “I have an office. You could have called me there instead of tailing me across half the county,” she said. “I’m going to call the police, and if I ever see you on my street again—”

  “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she growled from the back of her throat. “I’m angry. What gives you the right to—”

  “I understand,” said the man, who took a step toward her. She lifted the tire iron. He used his left hand to gently nudge back the edge of his coat, where, even in the fading light, she could see the handle of a gun. The blood drained out of her limbs.

  “Just listen to my offer,” said the man. His aggression was palpable through the cooling night air.

  Brandishing the tire iron like a sword, she stood her ground.

  “I would be happy to discuss this in my office tomorrow,” she said. “As long as you leave that gun home.”

  “We prefer discretion,” said the man. “You have something that we want. We can make you very wealthy.”

  The hand holding the tire iron began to shake slightly. He knew.

  “I don’t own anything valuable.”

  “Well, technically you don’t own it, but you can get it. In exchange, we’ll give you three hundred thousand dollars. We transfer the money into any account you wish when you hand the item to me.”

  “What do you think I have that is worth that much?” she asked.

  “Don’t get smart,” the man snarled, low and deep. “You know I’m talking about the monk’s manuscript.”

  She swallowed hard. “I deal with dozens of rare manuscripts every week. I’m not in a position to sell any of them personally. You should contact my boss at Sothington’s if you wish to make an off—”

  “We want the book. You’d have lots of money and we would have what we want and no one would get hurt. Simple.”

  She stopped breathing.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said.

  The man scowled.

  “You shoulda said yes,” he said. He turned and walked back to the car.

  Carys stood frozen in place as the car pulled away.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  As soon as the man’s car was out of sight, Carys rushed inside, hastily stuffed a suitcase with a few clothes, her laptop, some makeup, and a toothbrush. She ran downstairs and asked her neighbor to take care of Harley—made some excuse about a sick relative. She kissed the cat on the scruff of his neck and handed him over to her sweet, slightly confused neighbor, Milly.

  “We’ll take good care of him,” said Milly. “Don’t you worry.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” She opened the front door and looked both ways before walking briskly to her car.

  Her first instinct was to drive to the mansion, but she thought better of it. Best to stay away from all the places that the man knew about. And how the hell had this goon found out about the manuscript? He even knew it was written by a monk. And who was “we”? After all these years, and all the secrecy, how did anyone know about it now?

  She decided to head to the city—easier to hide in a crowd. On the way in, she called Annie and made arrangements to meet her at a bar in the Copley Place Mall. She could park in the underground garage, and the bar was near the garage elevator.

  Then she called the hospital to speak to Harper. She got the runaround from the receptionist, because in her panicked state, she forgot the fake name under which Harper was admitted. Somehow, she remembered his doctor’s name. The receptionist reluctantly agreed to bring him to the phone.

  “Ms. Jones, it’s Doctor Frankel. How can I help you?”

  “I must speak with Mr. Harper. It’s an emergency.”

  “We’re trying not to create stressful situations for Mr. Harper right now,” said Frankel.

  “Please put me through. It is vitally important that I speak with him.”

  “I must put my patient first, Ms. Jones,” Frankel said. “Perhaps if you can tell me about the problem, I can help you.”

  “It’s private…it’s—”

  “You could come by tomorrow to discuss it with him in person, in a controlled situation, when you’re not as…emotional,” he said. “He’s been making good progress this week, and we don’t want to interrupt that.”

  “Fine, I’ll come by tomorrow morning. What time will you allow me in?”

  “Anytime after ten.”

  “I’ll be there at ten sharp.” She hung up just as she drove into the parking garage off Huntington Avenue.

  She sat in her car and dialed Nicola. When she answered, Carys spilled out a flurry of words that made no sense.

  “Slow down, slow down,” said Nicola calmly. “What is happening?”

  “Where are you right now?”

  “At Adeona,” said Nicola. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “This big goon with a gun followed me to my house tonight, and when I got out and confronted him, he tried to talk me into selling him the manuscript,” she whispered into the receiver. “The monk’s manuscript. He specifically said that. He knew all about it. Nicola, I swear I haven’t told a living soul about that book. How did he know about it? How did he know about me? He was trying to scare me. He had a gun. I’m afraid they’re going to try to get into the mansion to get the book. I saw someone in the backyard tonight.”

  Nicola was silent.

  “What should I do?” Carys asked.

  “We need to get the manuscript, the translations, and you out of harm’s way as soon as possible,” Nicola said. “Did you call John?”

  “They wouldn’t let me speak to him. I’m going by at ten tomorrow morning. I don’t think it would be smart to stay at the mansion tonight. Go somewhere. A hotel, friends, whatever. I’ll meet you at the hospital in the morning, and we can figure out what to do next. You’ve got to get the manuscript out of there.”

  “I’ll bring it with me tomorrow,” said Nicola. “God. I…it’s my fault, Carys. This is my fault.”

  “Did you tell someone about the manuscript?”

  “No, but I sent copies of some of the Welsh sections out for translation, many years ago. It’s the only time that the language in the manuscript has been seen outside of the vault. I sent some to my old colleagues at the University in Aberystwyth. I never told John that I did it. It was so long ago, I thought that my translators had been discreet. None of them were told where the manuscript was from, and they each got such a tin
y portion of the text that I thought they’d never be able to put it all together. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

  “I’m sure that’s not it. There has to be something else. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

  “I’m going to call John right now,” said Nicola. “We need to warn him.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’ll get so agitated, they won’t let us see him in the morning. We don’t want to set off another one of his hallucinating spells. He’s safe there. We don’t have to worry about him.”

  “You’re right, you’re right. Where are you staying tonight?” asked Nicola.

  Carys was on the verge of tears.

  “I’ll be safe. Don’t worry. Take care and I’ll see you tomorrow, Nicola. Please, please be careful.”

  “I will, sweet girl. I will.”

  Carys got out of her car and ran to the hotel’s elevator, took it up to the first floor of the Mall, and walked quickly to the bar entrance. Annie had already gotten a booth in the back when she arrived.

  “What the hell is going on?” asked Annie, her face rigid with concern.

  “I think I’m…” she said, throwing herself into the booth, tears of frustration welling up in her eyes. “I’ll tell you everything, but you have to swear that you will not repeat a word of this to anyone. I’m afraid that I’ll put you in danger if they see me talking to you.”

  “If who sees you talking to me?”

  “The people who are after the manuscript.”

  For the next half an hour, Carys whispered the story of the monk, the manuscript, the hunt for the tomb and its likely occupant, and meeting crazy Harper, who maybe wasn’t so crazy after all. Annie sat silently until Carys told her about the man with the gun. Annie’s jaw dropped open.

  She grabbed Carys’s hand. “This is real.”

  “I know. And they won’t let me in to see Harper until tomorrow morning. I don’t know what to do.”

  “We’ll stay at a hotel here tonight. I don’t want you to be alone until you’re safe.”

  “You can’t stay with me forever.”