Kyle’s smiling eyes lingered on her.
“I’m not interested in selling it,” Crow said. “This is what I really need your help with.” He showed him the paper with the quatrains. “This came with the book.”
Kyle studied it for a moment. “Yeah, like, it’s in French.”
“Oh,” Crow said. “I thought you might…”
“Speak French?” Kyle said. “I took a few years in high school and college. I can order wine in Paris, but that’s as urbane as I get.”
Crow handed him his pad with the translated verses.
“That’s more like it.” Kyle read the eight lines. “Definitely not Nostradamus but certainly someone who’s intimately familiar with him.”
“Like, maybe, the First Face of Janus?” Crow asked.
O’Hara looked up slowly from the pad. “How do you know about them?”
“Apparently you do, too,” Crow said. “It looks like I’m the only one who didn’t.”
“Is that who gave you this?” Kyle asked.
“We don’t know. The man who passed this along to me was killed shortly after.”
“Jeez, man.” He glanced suspiciously around the room as if someone were watching. “Why couldn’t you stick to writing cyberpunk or whatever it is you write? This is major league stuff, bro.”
“Any guesses on what the quatrains mean?”
“Well, I would say they refer to Century 4, Quatrain 71.”
“That’s what I told him,” Rosenfeld said.
O’Hara gave her a flirty glance and a wink. “This part,” he said to both of them, “‘His first face sees’ certainly means the First Face of Janus. ‘When the clock strikes twelve.’ Hmmm.” He opened a drawer and scrambled around for his book of quatrains then opened to the one in question. He read the four lines to himself. “I’d say a wedding, maybe. That would be my guess. ‘Add the note of C twice / And take away the score,’” he said, referring back to the notepad. “Sounds like something musical. Maybe the score is a musical score. I don’t know. I’m gonna have to pass on that part. ‘Count on good stock / Rich in grace.’ Probably something to do with a fine family? All this is maybe.”
“Any chance this is from the Unriddled Manuscript?” Crow asked.
Kyle looked at Rosenfeld then at Crow. “How do you know about that?”
“I just know. Is it from the Unriddled Manuscript?”
“Doubtful.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s still riddled, dude. My guess is it’s meant for internal use.”
Rosenfeld cleared her throat.
“What?” Kyle said.
“That was her theory, too,” Crow said. “How do we figure out what it means?”
“If you’re in the clique, you probably understand all this gobbledygook,” Kyle said. “Of course, you’re obviously not in the clique.”
“The Custos Verbi is trying to stop him,” Rosenfeld said.
“We think,” Crow added. “We’re not exactly sure what’s going on.”
“Jeez, you’ve got the CV on your ass, too? What did you do to piss these people off?”
“Nothing. I was minding my own business. This thing drops in my lap. I go see a guy named Dr. Grumbling in Virginia.”
“An old professor friend of mine,” Rosenfeld said.
“He tells me all about the First Facers and the CV,” Crow said, “and they shoot him dead right in front of me.”
“Holy crap!” O’Hara covered his mouth then lowered his hand to his chin. “The CV killed him?”
“And his housekeeper,” Rosenfeld said.
“We think it’s the CV,” Crow said.
“They used a drone,” Rosenfeld added.
Kyle’s eyes darted back and forth between them.
“And we think they killed the man in Montreal,” Crow said. “The man who gave me the book and the quatrains.”
“Look, man,” Kyle said, “I don’t know how far into this thing you are, but extricate yourself, like, right now. You’ve fallen right into the middle of a prophecy war.”
Crow’s look told him he was not dissuaded.
“I’m serious,” O’Hara said. “That’s what they call these things. They’ve been going on for centuries. These people play for keeps, man. For real. Get out while you still can. Go back to your Bingabobians and other space creatures you’ve created and forget you ever saw those quatrains.”
“Somebody’s got to stop this,” Crow said.
“Are you frickin’ kidding me? What are you, Superman? Benson, listen to me. You cannot stop this. Whatever happens happens. Comprender, amigo?” He turned to Rosenfeld. “I speak a little Spanish, too.”
“I get it,” Crow said, “but I can’t help but think there’s a book in here somewhere.”
“A book?” He looked at Sidney with helpless exasperation then back at Crow with disbelief. “A book? Is that what this is all about? A book?”
“No, that’s not what it’s all about. Somebody’s gotten me involved in this for a reason.”
“Yeah, because you’re stupid. Get out of it.”
“The curiosity is killing me.”
“Yeah, dude, it just might.”
“I’ve got to chase this rabbit a little further. I’ve got to find the Custos Verbi and show them I’m on their side.”
O’Hara gave him an astonished look then turned to Rosenfeld. “Is he serious?” He turned back to Crow. “Are you serious? You’re playing with nitroglycerin.”
“Listen to me, Kyle. I’m in too deep now. I’m a marked man. I can’t go home. I can’t go to my publishing company in New York. I can’t surface until I convince these people that I’m not a First Facer. I’m like a fugitive.” He looked at Rosenfeld. “We both are.”
“How about all three of us,” O’Hara said.
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Crow said. “I made damn sure we weren’t followed here. They wouldn’t have any quarrel with you.”
“Yeah,” Kyle smirked, “like that old dude in Virginia?”
“Grumbling was up to his neck in this thing. He knew everything about the CV and the First Facers and they knew it. You don’t know that much, do you?”
O’Hara said nothing.
“Do you?” Crow asked again.
“No. I’m not like some expert on this. I hear things, OK? I’m curious but not too curious. Know what I mean? Let me put it this way. I know enough to know that I don’t get involved with anybody who’s fallen into a prophecy war.”
“But if we walk out of here empty-handed, I don’t know where in the hell we can go, Kyle. We have to find them before they find us.”
Kyle O’Hara looked at him for a moment. “OK, look, if you’re determined to stay in this thing—”
“I don’t have any choice.”
“I get it. If you’re in for the duration, then you need to go see somebody who eats and sleeps this stuff. He might be able to lead you to the CV.”
“Who’s that?” Crow asked.
“You didn’t hear it from me.”
“I promise.”
“His name is Jean-Claude Delacroix. He’s like the Nostradamus guru, man. He’s the resident scholar at La Maison de Nostradamus in Salon-de-Provence.”
“France?”
“Yeah, France. And if he doesn’t know what these quatrains mean, surely somebody over there will. Nostradamus is like a cottage industry in those parts.”
“What about the book itself?”
“This thing?” O’Hara put it back in its sleeve and handed it to Crow. “It means nothing.”
“Then, why did he give it to me?”
O’Hara pulled the white gloves from his hands. “Let me ask you something. If some guy showed up at a book signing and gave you a sheet of paper, what would you do with it?”
“I’d toss it.”
“Exactly. Even if he put it inside a contemporary book it would hit the circular file, or even if you kept it you’d never look inside. He gave you a valua
ble ancient book to get your attention and guess what, bro? He got it.”
“But why me? I know so little about Nostradamus.”
“I don’t know, man. Maybe because you’re gullible enough to get involved, but this is shadow government stuff like you’ve never seen. I’m tellin’ you, it is bad news.”
“Could be, but I’ve got to follow this thing until I clear myself. I do that by proving to the Custos Verbi that I’m on their side. I do that by stopping this prophecy.”
“And you think stopping the prophecy will prove to them you’re not a First Facer?”
“Yes,” Crow said.
“Yeah, well, good luck with all that. Look, I’ll give you Delacroix’s info, but that’s as far as I go, man. Keep me the hell out of all this.”
They left with Delacroix’s contact information and descended the steps of the Archives building. Rosenfeld caught a familiar face out of the corner of her eye.
“It’s Marcus,” she said under her breath.
“Who?” Crow asked.
“The guy from the train,” she said through clenched teeth. “This guy’ll talk your ear off.” She flashed a look his way. “Oh, crap. He’s coming toward us.”
When Marcus was about five steps away he called for her. “Sidney?”
She turned around trying to act surprised. “Marcus? What are you doing here?”
“I thought that was you. I was going to ask you the same thing. Doing some sightseeing?”
“Yes. Yes, we were. Oh, Marcus, this is my friend Benson Crow. Benson, this is Marcus…”
“Foster,” Marcus finished for her. “Nice to meet you.”
They shook hands.
“Nice to meet you,” Crow returned. “So, Marcus, what brings you here?”
“Oh, me? I have a meeting inside.”
“I see. Who with?” Crow interrogated.
“Benson,” Rosenfeld scolded.
“No, that’s OK,” Foster said. “I’m, uh, I’m meeting with the deputy archivist.”
“Is that so?” Crow exchanged a quick look with Rosenfeld. “What about,” he pressed, “if you don’t mind my asking.”
“Not at all. I have a client. He has a letter written by Abe Lincoln. We’re trying to make a deal with the National Archives.”
Crow backed down. That was a little too specific to be made up. That or this was the luckiest guy on the planet. “Lincoln, huh?” Crow said.
“Yeah, the guy’s grandfather died and he found this letter in his papers. Pretty cool stuff,” Foster said.
“Yeah,” Crow said. “Pretty cool.”
“Well, good luck. It was nice to see you again,” Rosenfeld said.
“Likewise. You folks enjoy your visit.”
She and Crow turned and continued down the sidewalk. Crow’s cellphone rang.
“Tom?”
“OK, so it took me a day to figure this out,” Tom Browning said.
“You found a wedding that fit the quatrains?”
Browning laughed, “You’re getting me back for making you go to Montreal.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This whole story,” Browning said. “You had me sucked in.”
“This is no joke, Tom. The guy in Montreal gave me Nostradamus’ book of prophecies and the quatrains.”
“Yeah, I got all that,” Browning said, “and the next prophecy has something to do with a wedding.”
“That’s what we believe,” Crow said.
“We?”
“Dr. Rosenfeld and me.”
“Dr. Rosenfeld?”
“She’s with Rothschild’s in Boston.”
“She?”
“Yes. She’s an expert on Nostradamus. She’s here with me.”
“Let me guess. Some gray-haired little old lady with a beaded eyeglasses chain attached to her horn rims?”
“Not exactly.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. Hot chick with that librarian thing going on?”
“Stop it, Tom!”
“You stop it, Benson. You send me on a wild goose chase looking for some wedding. I did a search on the Internet. There’s nothing about the First Face of Janus. There’s nothing about the Custos Verbi. Explain that.”
“I can’t explain it, but everything I’ve told you is true. I swear it. The First Face of Janus and the Custos Verbi are very real.”
“Yeah, like Dr. Grumbling and his housekeeper?”
“Yes, like Grumbling and his housekeeper.”
“There was no murder, Benson.”
“What?”
“The police checked it out. Nothing but an old plantation house. No Grumbling. No housekeeper. No murder.”
“That’s impossible.”
“They found the owner. He’s very much alive, and he’s not some old guy named Grumbling. It’s a guy named Stevenson. Fortyish. He and his family live in Georgetown. The plantation has been in his family for generations.”
“So he rented it to Dr. Grumbling, right?”
“No, Benson. You’re not listening to me. The place has been empty for twenty years. There is no Dr. Grumbling.”
Chapter Twelve
“Alejandro, they were here again,” the mustachioed man said softly into the phone in Spanish.
“Did you record them this time?” The small man’s hand was barely large enough to grasp the smartphone.
“I did.”
“And?”
“And it was more of the same. Small talk. Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Just two men talking about books.”
“What kind of books?”
“Don Quixote.”
“What else?” the little man asked.
“Something about a cousin and a fortress. I fear my suspicions may have been misplaced.”
“Carlos, I trust your instincts. We are in this together. You think that it is them, then it is them.”
“And if I am wrong?”
“Then we have surreptitiously recorded the conversation of two old men discussing their favorite books. No harm done.”
“And what about the prophecy?” Carlos asked.
“Sh-h-h,” Alejandro scolded, “never ever speak of it on the telephone. Is that understood?”
The mustachioed man dropped his eyes. “I am sorry. Never again. I promise.”
“I’M JUST ASKING you to trust me, Tom. As long as we’ve been together you owe me that much.”
Sidney Rosenfeld eyed Crow with concern. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.
He held up a finger. “I can’t relax, dammit! Somebody’s trying to kill me! Would you relax if somebody was trying to kill you?” Rosenfeld frowned. “Please, Tom, just do me this favor, OK? Keep checking on those weddings and call me when you have something. I promise you, this is not a hoax. Great. Thanks.” Crow ended the phone call. “That’s impossible,” he almost screamed back at the phone. “I saw Grumbling die!”
“What did he say?” Rosenfeld asked.
“Tom says the cops were there at Grumbling’s place within twenty minutes of my call. He says there was nothing there. No bodies, no blood, no furniture, no nothing.”
“Are you sure they had the right house?”
“It was the right house. Same address. I dropped a pin. He says Grumbling didn’t even own the house. Some guy in Georgetown does.”
“I know that’s not right,” she said. “I’ve been there myself. So, he thinks you made it all up?”
“Yeah, basically. He thinks I’m playing a joke on him.” They walked a few steps before Crow asked, “If Tom’s right and there was no murder scene, who could pull off something like that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s clear Grumbling and his housekeeper were murdered. Who could possibly come in, clean it up, and make it look like it never happened?”
“It would make sense that it was the people who killed him,” she said. “You have to look at motive plus the resources to be able to make a dou
ble murder disappear that quickly. There’s only one organization that fits. The Custos Verbi.”
The flying time from Dulles to Paris was seven-and-a-half hours. Tedious if spent in coach. Delightful in first class for even the most jaded traveler. Stainless steel cutlery, prime cuts of beef, champagne, sumptuous desserts. It’s how successful authors traveled, or those who fancied themselves so. Rosenfeld took in her opulent surroundings while the first class flight attendant removed her dinner plate.
“I could get used to this,” she said. “I wish Rothschild’s treated us this good.”
Crow smiled and took a sip from his cocktail.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Flying first class?”
“No. Why are you chasing this story?”
“Well, seeing as how somebody’s trying to kill me and I can’t go home, I don’t have much choice, now do I? I can either sit around my house and wait for the bullet, or I can try to get out in front of this.”
“Is that really the reason?”
He pulled his bag from underneath the seat. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Come on, you’re an author. This is a juicy story. Aren’t you the least bit curious as to how it ends?”
He pawed through his bag. “Sure, I guess. I’m more curious as to how I get my life back. Why are you with me?”
“You really have to ask? You dragged me into this, remember? I was perfectly content with my work before you crashed into my life.”
Crow dug down deeper into the bag. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry about that.”
Rosenfeld smiled. “Don’t be. Actually, I’ve had a fascination with this whole story for years. I never would’ve pursued this on my own. It’s not my nature. I’m just not very adventurous. I’ve always lived vicariously through the books I’ve read. Now I have a chance to actually get close to a subject I’m really enthralled by.”
Crow checked the side pockets of his bag.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“My phone charger. I think I left it in the first class lounge.”
“You can use mine.”
“Let me see your phone.”
She held it up.
“Thanks, but it’s not compatible with mine.”
“You can always buy another one.”
“No, I’ll tell the airline where I left it. They’ll hold it for me.”
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