by Nina Post
“About what?” she asked.
“Those books you were talking about. I’ve heard a few things from, uh, various sources. The Zaanics books is what they’re called, am I right?”
As turbulent as Mort’s words made her, she could have been back on the Island Hopper in a typhoon. “Holy shit, Morty. You know about Zaanics?”
His shrug was like a hesitant ‘yes.’
This piece of information could have knocked her right off the boat. “And you’ve heard other people talk about it?”
“Yep.”
Cate sat on a tackle box, astonished. First Jake Dumont and now this. So who leaked it? How much did Jake, Morty, and anyone else know about the books?
“How can you know that?”
He shrugged. “Industry chatter.”
“No, Morty, I need more. Give me names. Give me an explanation.”
He held out his hands. “Settle down, J. Edgar, I don’t have names.”
“If you remember any, I want them.”
“Does it matter?” he asked.
She laughed. “Yes, it damn well matters. It matters because I didn’t think anyone outside the family” — she purposely didn’t say ‘families’ — “knew about the books. But now it turns out there’s port chatter?”
Mort touched her upper arm for a moment, and his smooth, dry mitt of a hand imparted instant warmth. “You’ve got to be careful. You’ve got people after you.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“That’s all I’ve picked up. I know they exist, I know that they’re written in a secret language — and I know that there are people looking for them. I’ll keep my ear to the ground. But I get the impression that these books of yours are, let’s say, incendiary.”
She nodded in agreement. “They’re not really mine.” But they felt like hers. They made her feel connected to something.
He raised a bushy brow. “May as well be yours.” He let a moment pass in silence. “You still chasing the stones, Miss Ladron? Still high water?”
Did he disapprove now? Mort meant a lot to her, but she’d had more than enough of any man’s disapproval. “I’ve put what you taught me to good use.”
“It’s a perilous game.”
“I’m skilled at it. Thanks in part to you,” she pointed out. “And you’re tarred with the same brush, troacher,” she added with a quick grin, though she was impatient to return to the topic of VZ and find answers, details. She had a flash of memory from high school — talking to a friend who knew a boy liked her, and grilling her for every detail. Only in this case, it was about VZ: tell me exactly what they said, exactly how they said it …
He chuckled. “You know what I do is different.”
She shrugged. That was a rabbit hole of semantics she didn’t want to descend into. “Fine lines, Morty.”
Mort reached out an arm and squeezed her around the shoulders for a second. “You’re a snarl-knot, ladron. But it’s not too late for you to do something else before you unrove your life-line. It goes by fast.”
“I’ll think about it.” That was all Cate was willing to concede. “So, about the books …”
“Well, there’s something else you may not even be aware of.”
She rolled her eyes. “No kidding. Lay it on me.”
“Rumor has it there’s a fourth book.”
Cate tensed, fixed her eyes on his. “That’s impossible. We would know about it.”
“It’s a miniature book, as old as the other ones,” Mort said. “Supposed to be the scribe’s own notes.”
“The scribe?” She knew he meant Jean Dumont, but didn’t want to say.
“Like I said, I’ve heard some things. And I heard that this scribe’s own account of things is in the miniature book.”
Cate let out a long breath. “You seem to know more about this than I do.”
“You keep to yourself, as I recall.” Mort flashed her a grin. “I know what it is to want to be numb and insulated. I’ve been in white squalls before, and you know what I mean.”
He’d had his heart broken once or twice. Cate nodded.
“The difference between me and you is, I just talk to more people. Keep my ear to the rail. And I know that these books are dangerous, so keep your weather-eye open.”
Mort was warning her to be on her guard.
Chapter 16
When they landed at SFO, Cate felt a weight off her shoulders. She and Benjamin had made it out alive, which was more than they could say for Mohini.
It was almost dusk, and outside the window she could see the Bay and the slim, swooping lines of the bridge, and the dafoh creeping in over the ocean. A tendril of the Journey song threaded through her mind.
“It’s our fault,” Benjamin said. “It’s my fault.”
Steve Perry’s voice faded in the background of her mind.
“I feel terrible about what happened to Mohini, but what happened was unforeseeable,” she said.
This cheered him up. His mouth curved into a big grin and he waggled a finger at her. “See? Lawyer.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.”
Benjamin looked out the window, pensive again, as the baggage handlers started to unload the luggage. “I have to apologize to you.”
She turned to look at him. She let him have the window seat because she needed to be on the aisle. “For what? Taking me to Micronesia and not snorkeling a single time? For overpacking?”
Benjamin turned toward her. “I realize now that you had more patience than I gave you credit for. Your line of work concerns me.” He put a hand to his chest and shook his head as though appalled anew. “On one hand, I admired the chutzpah. On the other hand, I suppose I presumed you were merely impatient to make money and compromised who you were.”
“I was impatient to make money.” So she could survive, obviously, but also to prove she didn’t need them, prove they hadn’t broken her.
There was more to proving that than money. If she were like her sisters, then her accomplishments would be meaningless.
“But,” Benjamin continued, “knowing that you did an apprenticeship in this … this vocation that I wish to God you would discontinue — ”
“After doing what you want me to do,” Cate threw in.
“It changes how I think,” Benjamin finished saying, with a slight nod to acknowledge what she said. “I’ve been thinking about what you said in Chuuk, and I talked to Mort, just for a few minutes. You worked hard for not much money. You worked for a sense of purpose and structure. And Mort,” Benjamin said the name as though uncomfortable with it, “Mort did what your own father never did for you.”
“You could say I inherited his business,” Cate said. “Though I paid for it. And I don’t mean that figuratively.”
“I just wanted to tell you before we went our separate ways — I, to honest work and high culture, you to something else.” The seatbelt sign went off and people started to claim their bags from the overhead compartments.
“Thanks. That means so much,” she said in a bone-dry tone.
“Actually, I need to settle Mohini’s estate.” A cloud passed over his face, then he looked at her. “I wish you would find something else to do for work, Cate.”
“And if we wish very, very hard, maybe a unicorn will canter up to us in the taxi line.”
Once they cleared customs, they went their separate ways and she stopped at a table in the food court area to check her voice mails. There were two from Noah that made her laugh, a doctor calling to confirm an appointment that was nine months in the future, and Gaelen, informing her, with barely restrained glee, that Cate had missed her father’s funeral service — even though it was supposed to be two days later — because she had to “shift her schedule.”
Gregory Severn looked out to his pool and cabana house from the glass door. He held the cordless phone up to his ear and spoke to his sponsor.
“I’m keeping busy. In just a few weeks, I’ve collected what’s perhaps the world’s most autho
ritative survey of late 1800s wooden croquet posts. It’s part of the new Gregory Severn. I’m going to try new things, feel different things. I’m tired of the consistency.”
The doorbell rang. “Someone’s at the door. Yeah. Talk to you later.” His maid hurried toward the door but he headed her off. “I’ll get it, Capri,” he told her. “You go home — it’s already ten minutes past your stop time.”
Capri smiled, nodded, and went to the kitchen to get her keys. Gregory put the phone on the hall bench, looked through the glass side panels, then opened the door. His eyes narrowed in confusion, but he smiled politely. “Romane! What can I do for you?”
“Hello, Gregory. May I come in? I need to talk to you privately.”
He opened the door wider. “Of course. I was just doing a little paperwork.”
Gregory turned and beckoned for her to follow him. “Well, let’s sit down, shall we?” He led Romane to the kitchen then brought chips and salsa over to the table. “What would you like to drink?”
“Water will be fine,” Romane said, her smile close-mouthed and brief.
“Water it is.” Gregory filled two glasses with ice and water and put them on coasters. “Now, what can I do for you? Is there a problem with the board?” There was really no other reason she would come to his house, unless it concerned the philanthropy division.
“Gregory, I’ll get right to the point. It’s recently become evident that you made an under-the-table deal with the Chinese government on behalf of Lyr Logistics.”
He laughed. “I don’t make those kind of deals. There must be a mistake.”
Romane turned the glass in a slow circle. Her nails were painted a dark blue. “I would like to hear what you have to say about it. You’ve served on our board for years and are a highly respected director and advisor to our executive team. Clearly, evidence like this is deeply unsettling.”
“What an outrageous accusation. What evidence are you referring to?” Gregory leaned forward, brow tightened.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you yet. I wanted to make you aware that our CFO is looking into the matter.”
He pressed two fingers to his forehead. “It has to be some kind of set-up. I would never make deals without passing it through the board and the executive team.”
“Let’s table that for now,” she said.
“You don’t bring up something like that then table it. We have to discuss it.”
Romane dipped a chip into the salsa. “What do you know about the language?”
Gregory was utterly baffled. His stomach felt like roughly-handled bread dough. “Jude’s in charge of it now, you should talk to him.”
“Let me clarify. What do you know about the Zaanics books?”
“That’s Benjamin’s area. I don’t have anything to do with the books.”
We don’t need to talk to Jude,” Romane said. “The Severn family has an equal stake in the language, and should have an interest in them.”
“Of course.”
“And to be honest with you,” she lowered her voice, “I’m worried.”
Despite the previous drama, Gregory tilted his head. He took VZ, the VZ Yesuþoh, and the books very seriously. “Worried about what?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m worried that my sister is doing something misguided with the language.”
Gregory nodded and sucked in a breath. “I see.”
“Do you know anything about that?”
Romane looked distraught at the notion of her sister abusing her position as steward. Gregory rubbed his chin, mulling it over, then decided to talk. “Your concerns are not unfounded.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you know something?”
“I suspect that your sister is negotiating with someone to sell the books.” An even more shocking accusation than what Romane accused him of in the first place, he thought.
“Do you have any evidence of this?” she asked.
“I overheard a conversation,” Gregory admitted. “It was clear to me that she had the intention of selling the books.”
“And were you planning to go to anyone with this information?” Romane asked. “Doing anything about it? I considered it, but she’s my sister, and family is very important to me. I wanted to ask for your advice, since you’re one of the few people I can talk to about it. And now that my father’s gone …” Romane closed her eyes.
“I know, I know,” Gregory said, patting her arm in sympathy. “You’re in a difficult situation. I’m glad you came to me.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked. “What can you do?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Romane nodded, and glanced down at her lap, where she had her phone. She typed out a brief message and sent it. “But the right thing to do — ” she started.
“Would be to stop her,” Gregory finished. “The language, the books — they’re not for sale.” He stood at the refrigerator to refill their glasses. He was horrified that Gaelen had thought of doing such a thing in the first place, that she was so willing to betray both families, cast aside her duty like it meant nothing.
The Lyrs had already cast aside one of their own, he thought, but so had he. Aaron Lyr did so because of his pride, but Gregory had evidence his son rejected the stewardship. Did that merit losing him? God, no. After talking with Nightjar, Gregory was beginning to suspect he had acted as impetuously and carelessly as Aaron Lyr. He lost his sweet, smart, optimistic son and pulled his glib, cold-hearted one closer. Oh, how did I reach this age only to be such a damn fool?
Jason walked into the kitchen. He was dressed casually, in jeans, blue sweater, brown jacket with four front pockets, and brown gloves. To Gregory, Jason always seemed blurry around the edges, and it wasn’t his vision.
“Jason! How — ” Gregory had a glass in each hand. One of the glasses sloshed over the rim.
“The door was unlocked,” Jason said. “I’d dropped Romane off a few minutes ago and had to do a quick errand.”
“Ah. Well. Would you like a drink?”
“No.” Jason’s soft tone stilled Gregory. After a moment, Gregory blinked and set down the glasses on the counter as Jason stepped closer to him. Romane got out of her chair and approached them, eyes shark-flat.
“Romane, what — ”
“I’m sorry, Gregory,” she said, though clearly wasn’t. “I can’t let you threaten us.”
“Threaten us. You mean your sister.” He realized she had played him, and fear laced up his spine.
“It’s time our family actually gained something from this burden.”
“You mean, profit from it.”
Romane smiled and shrugged. “You’ve served on the board long enough, Gregory. You’re a liability now.” She nodded to Jason, who took a roll of tape he’d kept concealed in one of those jacket pockets, then wound the tape around Gregory’s mouth.
Gregory yelled, which just came out as Mmmh!! then started to panic. His heart raced and jacked up his blood pressure, and sweat prickled in his armpits, at his hairline, on his chest. He panicked and couldn’t breathe. Capri, his maid, she would hear. No, he’d sent her home. Another mistake. He’d made so many mistakes, so many …
Jason flicked out one of the tools from his pocket knife. Gregory saw it was a blade, or maybe a nail file. He felt excruciating pain and warm liquid on his face. He screamed and then started to sob.
“We’re not done with you,” one of them said, he couldn’t even tell, and then one of them mentioned Jude.
What did Jude have to do with this?
There was silence. Had they just left? He tried to calm himself to listen, and after a minute, discerned some low talking.
No, they were still there, talking in the corner of the room, maybe arguing over whether or not to kill him. He wasn’t sure which side he would be on.
Time passed. What was on his face? Tears? Blood? Something else? Gregory was not a religious man, but he started to pray. The troubles of my heart are enlarged. O
bring thou me out of my distresses. Look upon mine affliction and my pain; and forgive all my sins.
He thought he heard a door, then Capri’s voice saying his name — “Mr. Severn?” And then “I forgot my phone.”
Sweet, desperate relief streamed through his fear, but he was afraid for his maid. And then Romane barked out an order.
“Mr. Severn! Oh my God …”
Capri. That was Capri’s voice! He yelled her name, but the tape muffled it. Where was Jason? Romane?
No one took the tape off his head, but he heard Capri’s fast breathing. He heard a scuffle, more yelling.
The pain, the fucking pain … it was enough for ten of him. Twenty.
He couldn’t stop crying. It felt like he was crying, anyway.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” Capri’s voice. She was talking. She’d called 911. Where were Jason and Romane?
No, it wasn’t 911. She was calling someone she knew, she asked them to “Come, right now. Yes, it’s urgent.”
Gregory whimpered through the too-tight tape.
Noah. Forgive me.
Warm hand on his shoulder, warm breath on his neck. “You’re safe now, Mr. Severn. Tell me, do you believe in the resurrection of the dead in a future age?”
It took Gregory a second to parse this. He shook his head no.
“I do,” his maid whispered.
He made a sound. It was supposed to say, Am I going to die.
He made another sound. It was supposed to be, Noah.
“Shhh,” Capri said. “I don’t think you’re going to die, Mr. Severn. But you might. And I know you’re afraid you will. We’re going to help you.”
We? Who was we?
There was the sound of a door closing, then a second person entering the room, and then an urgent, murmured conversation. He caught the scent of bergamot and something that made him think of a leather horse saddle.
Where were Jason and Romane?
Then, Capri called 911. Why did she need this other person there first? What even was the point of wondering? People were baffling to him.
Time, his surroundings — everything blurred, and then, mercifully, there was nothing.
