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.”