Irrefutable Proof: Mars Origin I Series Book II

by Abby L. Vandiver

  Yes. She had known she’d never get the gun on the plane with her. And, after being gone from Israel for so long, she had doubted whether she could get a gun once she got there. That’s when she thought of how to get the gun there without any problems.

  “Does your package contain anything liquid, perishable, fragile or potentially hazardous?” The postal clerk had asked her.

  “Oh, my goodness, no,” she had answered, brushing her hair aside. She had made her hands tremble, slightly, just so he would notice her age. So they could see that it was she who was fragile. Innocent. Truthful. Elderly. It would make them unsuspecting, she had reasoned. And by saying no to their question of it being “potentially hazardous,” she hadn’t lied. The gun was actually hazardous. Nothing potential about it.

  Not too clever though, were you, Hannah? She heard a voice in her head mocking her. Didn’t think to try firing it first, did you? Not like the old days when you used to shoot with your father’s rifle.

  The grin faded, and she rocked herself back and forth, scratching the casted arm.

  Then, that little twit had had the nerve to call me, Hannah frowned at the thought. To tell me she suspected me of killing people. What she needs to worry about is me killing her.

  Well, you certainly aren’t doing a good job of it, the voice hissed in her head. And how are you going to kill her now and she’s on to you?

  “Oh, shit!” Hannah grabbed her forehead. “Will you leave me the hell alone?” she yelled out. Her heart was racing, she needed to calm down.

  She thought of how she should have killed Justin way back then, when she had left Israel looking for her. But there had been nothing to say that Justin had done anything with Sabir’s untranslated copy in the notebook. She hadn’t written any scholarly articles. Hadn’t made any announcements. Hannah had thought that she perhaps had killed Ghazi too hastily. Now she was upset because she’d hadn’t been just as quick to kill Justin.

  Instead she had recruited help to find out if Justin did know anything. He was supposed to be watching her all those years. But that little chicken-shit had been no help.

  Closing her eyes, she thought about how it all started.

  She remembered it like it had just happened yesterday.

  “You must look at this carefully. Study it. Can you do that for me?” she remembered Dr. Samuel Yeoman had said to her. It was back in 1949 when she had first started to work for him. For her Samuel.

  It was at the request of her father. Rather at her father’s orders. He had insisted after Benjamin had tricked her and had become engaged to someone else. But her working with Samuel had been her saving grace. She knew that just as sure as she knew she would keep her promise to help him until the day she died. Just like a marriage vow.

  And although he was married, she knew that he loved her more than Benjamin ever could have. That’s why she had done what she had. It was for Samuel.

  Samuel Yeoman had needed her. He told her he couldn’t trust anyone but her. There were manuscripts that needed to be found, if indeed they existed. “You must help me find them. Keep a look out for them.”

  He had explained that Dr. Amos Sabir, someone he had thought a very good friend and fellow interpreter, had tried to trick him. Translate lies about the manuscripts. Then he died. “Just. Like. That.” He had snapped his finger. “Struck by lightning. A sure sign from God, no doubt.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “You understand?” She nodded her head vigorously. Surely she could help him.

  “There are manuscripts that must never get out. I need to have anything that may have been written, translated or not,” he had said, firmly. “It must be dealt with.”

  “Yes,” she remembered answering him eagerly. “Sure. But, I can’t read any of it. How will I know if I see it?”

  “You’ll know. See. Here. You can read Hebrew. But the other words, the Aramaic and the Latin . . .” He pointed his fingers at the page. “You won’t know. Correct?”

  “Yes. I mean no. I-I won’t know them. That’s right.”

  “Like this one here.” He pointed to a word in Latin. “Or, this one, and this one, or this one. It’s Aramaic.”

  “No. I don’t know those.” Her face brightened as she understood. “Although, I have seen Latin words before.”

  “But you can’t read them, can you? You don’t know the words.”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “That’s how you will know. When you see all these languages jumbled up together. You’ll know those will be the ones I need. The ones no one must ever see. But you must be very secretive about this. This is very important to me.” She felt her heart ache for him. He had smiled at her and touched her cheek with his hand.

  She had whispered her promise to help him.

  Now, she rubbed that cheek and smiled. Yes, Samuel. My promise.

  Back all those years ago, he had asked her to take the scrolls back to caves. She would have to go alone, he had told her. No one would could know she’d gone there. She needed to be careful. He gave her the scrolls in a clay pot. It was a clay pot that had actually held the secrets of those manuscripts for more than two thousand years.

  He never knew she kept that clay pot. He never knew she put those manuscripts in a metal box. She shook her head at the memory. I’m sorry, Samuel. And, now she just could not do anything else wrong. She had to fix this.

  Justin had to die.

  There could be no other way. He had been so generous in showing his appreciation for her helping him. She couldn’t let him down. Not now. Not ever again. He had bought her a bottle of Rosewater Eau de Toilette. She thought back on how she had fingered the bottle. Stroked it. She had run her fingers gently down the side of the glass. It was beautiful. With her head bowed, she raised her eyes up to look at him.

  “Try it,” he bent over, and had whispered to her. “I know you will love it.” He stepped back. “When I smelled it the first time, I knew it was for you. I just want you to know how much you mean to me.”

  There he had said it. Love. He loved her.

  “I will always cherish it.” She had looked in his eyes. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him too, but she didn’t dare. “And I will wear it every day. Every day for the rest of my life.”

  With thoughts of Samuel, and the promise she made, a calmness came over her. She closed her eyes, only to have to jerk them open again when she heard a knock at the side door.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Robert Kevron sat in his dark blue Taurus across the street from Dr. Justin Dickerson’s house. The same as he had done off and on for the past two or three months. He’d found out about her job. Her family. The books she wrote. Rubbing his hand over the side of his leather gun holster laying on the passenger seat, which held his Glock, he thought about how he’d even taken a stroll through her big colonial-styled house. She and her husband should be more careful about security when they’re away.

  He had a meeting with someone at the Pentagon tomorrow. So he was heading out, but he’d stop back through, to check on her again before he headed back home to wait for their final decision.

  He watched her pull in her driveway in her burgundy Buick LaCrosse, and park next to her husband’s black Cadillac SRX. She never got right out of the car. She’d sit there for a moment or two. Put up her glasses she needed for driving, finish listening to a song on the radio, and then gather up her satchel she used for work and her purse. He’d wait for her to go in before he left.

  Kevron knew that he wasn’t a part of this world any longer. He had retired. But, he felt it might be insurance. Scratch my back and I scratch yours kind of thing. If he brought this to the powers that be, and it was worth something, no matter how small, maybe he wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder. He wouldn’t have to worry that someone wanted to make sure he didn’t share information he wasn’t supposed to share. And from all the years he had spent as a counterintelligence officer, he had gleaned a lot.

  Once she went in, he started up
the car, took a sip of his coffee, and headed for I-90 East. His meeting was to discuss Justin Dickerson.

  NASA had discovered something interesting in the soil samples they had taken from Mars. It seemingly was more than its radioactive properties. Something up there that right now they didn’t want anyone else to know about. Something that might put the United States ahead in the game, permanently. Of course no one could be sure now, but they didn’t want anyone else trying to sneak a peek at what they were doing.

  They didn’t want the information of their work leaked and maybe sabotaged or stolen. The U.S. wanted to be first, and if someone connected dots with Dickerson’s books and real happenings on Mars, and they had an inkling of what NASA’s project was, it might get them a little more curious than they ought to be. Nowadays, all of the U.S.’s secrets, no matter how small or trivial, had some value to someone, somewhere.

  Dickerson wasn’t the flame, but she just might ignite the fire. And a little interest had been shown in possibly figuring out what she was trying to do. He’d help them, and maybe get rid of the threat, however that could be achieved. Whatever the reason for it, wasn’t his concern. He’d give the information he had. And do whatever they needed him to do. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

  He picked up his gun, stuck it under the seat, and put on his blinkers to merge onto the freeway.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Hannah Abelson was dead.

  She was sitting in her recliner in her living room. Dead.

  Me, Claire and Greg went to her house three days after I had spoken to her. I was going so that I could get that confession from her.

  But no, Hannah Abelson had won out. She wasn’t going to have to pay for what she did to Ghazi, or to Wilcox Books. I wanted the satisfaction of retribution. I needed it. But it seemed she had bested me.

  We had walked up the steps onto the porch, and got no answer when we’d knocked on the door. But there had been light on in the living room. Through the curtains at the front of the house we could see a faint white-ish glow, possibly from a lamp. And then Greg went around back and could see through a window into the living room, and there she sat.

  He came back around front and suggested we call an ambulance.

  “Why call an ambulance? We’ve got Claire.” I grabbed her arm and squeezed it. She looked at me out the corner of her eye.

  “Plus, I’m on her emergency contact list. Remember the hospital?”

  “She does have a point,” Claire said.

  “How you gonna get in, Justin?” He raised an eyebrow. “Break a window? I don’t think so.” Greg seemed sure he wasn’t going to like what I was going to say.

  I tried the door. It was locked. I looked at Greg. “This is an emergency. We could just break the door down,” I said.

  “I’m calling Sean.” Greg pulled out his phone and stepped off the porch.

  Sean, our younger bother, was a police detective for the City of Cleveland and lived on the other side of town. I definitely wasn’t waiting for him to get there for me to get into that house.

  “Come on, Claire.” I pulled her down the steps and we headed around back. “Maybe the back door is open, or a window.”

  “And what?” She chuckled. “You’re gonna climb through a window?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I frowned up and pushed her in front of me. “I’m too fat to climb through a window, and too old. You’re going to climb through it.” I was fifty and Claire was only five years my junior, only she was in great shape.

  “I wonder where her husband is?” I said. Claire gave me a smirk. “What? I’m just asking.”

  Stepping around Professor Abelson’s bike parked on the side of the house, I thought to try the side door. Lucky for Claire, it was unlocked. When we opened it up, a putrid odor smacked us in our faces as it rushed out the door as if it were running from itself. Claire covered her nose with the inside of her jacket and went into the house.

  “C’mon,” she said.

  I walked up the four stairs from the door to the main floor, side-stepping several pairs of shoes that hadn’t made it all the way in the house. My eyes practically shut, stinging from the smell, were starting to water. I started coughing and felt my mouth filling with saliva, my gag reflex kicking in. I pulled the collar of my sweater up over my nose and peeked around the corner. I watched Claire walk past Professor Abelson and open the front door, calling out to Greg to come in.

  “What the - ” Greg turned his head and closed his eyes as soon as he crossed through the doorway.

  “Sean’s on his way,” he said, waving his hand in front of him like he could clear the path of air going up his nose. “My God. Are we going to stay in here? I can’t take this smell,” Greg said and stepped back into the doorway.

  We all just stood there, covering our noses and mouths and staring at Professor Abelson, slumped in her chair, until I spoke up.

  “How long she been dead, Claire?”

  “How am I supposed to know? People think because I have a medical degree, I know everything there is about medicine. I am not an ME.”

  Claire sure was getting cranky in her old age.

  “Take a guess,” I said, flatly, ignoring her attitude.

  “I’d say a long time,” Greg interjected as he headed off to the back of the house.

  “Claire,” I said, trying to get an answer from her.

  “Well, she didn’t just die today.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Claire, I know that. I talked to her three days ago. Could you just guess as to what day? Please?”

  “Uhm. If I had to guess . . .” She said walking from side to side of the chair, leaning in looking at Hannah and poking the body with her finger.

  “Yes. That’s all I ask. Just give me your best guess.”

  “I’d say three or four days,” she said standing up and giving me a nod. “But since you talked to her three days ago, I’m thinking she didn’t die four days ago.”

  “Claire.”

  “Maybe you killed her with your accusations.” Claire looked at me, and then pointed to the table next to the chair. “Look, there’s her phone right there. She probably hung up from you, was so scared about you accusing her of stuff that she had a heart attack. And died.” Claire brushed her hands together and pursed her lips, acting as if she had just determined the cause of death.

  “Thought you said you weren’t an ME.”

  Greg came walking back into the living room. “I’m guessing that when she sat down in that chair she had just returned from a trip, because she’s still has unpacked luggage back there.” He pointed back over his shoulder, toward her bedroom. “And, here’s your evidence as to her whereabouts on her little trip.” He held up a white stub. “According to this ticket stub, that trip was to Jerusalem.”

  “Let me see that.” I went over and took the stub from Greg and he turned around and returned to the back of the house.

  “Claire,” I said. “This is crazy. I told her I was going to Jerusalem. I told her when I was going. Do you think it was her who shot at us?”

  “Well, she probably killed Ghazi. She set the fire at your publishing company, and . . .”

  Who would have thought a little old lady would be such a sinister, cunning murderer.

  “The note, Claire. The one in Sanskrit. Maybe she did write that note . . .” I looked at Hannah Abelson, slumped in that chair. “I don’t know, though. I would have already been dead when I got the note if she was trying to kill me in Jerusalem. I just got it when I got back.”

  We were going through Professor Abelson’s things in her bedroom when Sean arrived. He couldn’t believe we were in “this woman’s house,” and that we could be brought up on “criminal charges.”

  Blah, blah. Blah, blah.

  But he changed his tune when Greg fished out a copy of both of my books, and a brown mailing wrapper from the back of her closet. The wrapper, postmarked 1998 and addressed to Ghazi, had my name and house number as a return address.
She must have gotten it from Ghazi, probably after she killed him.

  When Greg found it, Claire looked at me like she had been spooked by a ghost. “That’s why she came to the U.S. She was looking for you.”

  “Yeah, but when she couldn’t find out anything because I’d left the translation for ten years . . . She probably wasn’t sure if I knew what was in them or not.”

  And then something clicked. I smiled at Claire. “Professor Abelson found me alright, but instead of killing me, she’s going to help me. Help me get her notes on the Voynich Manuscript,” I directed Claire. “Get whatever you see and stick it in your purse.

  Sean saw me and took in a deep breath and shook his head. “I didn’t see that, Justin.”

  “See what, Sean?”

  After I got everything I could find, and thought I might need, I told Claire, “Call the coroner.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  March, 2012

  I’d been going over the Book of Enoch, again, and getting nothing. Since I’d gotten back from Israel three months ago, I must’ve re-read that thing fifteen times. I was in my office at Case, hiding out from students and other faculty.

  There didn’t seem to be any difference in the Ge’ez copy and the Dead Sea Scrolls copy except for I knew the Ge’ez copy was six thousand years old and had never deteriorated. The copy found with the Scrolls was in fragments. I figured that the Ge-ez copy might just be written on the same material as the AHM manuscripts, if, like Dr. Sabir thought, they were related.

  I was doing everything I could to decipher the clues without having to deal with the Voynich Manuscript. There had been minds much greater than mine that had failed. People who had dedicated their lives to learning what it said. Plus, I didn’t even have a copy of the whole thing, and didn’t know how to get a copy of it. I just had the pages from Professor Abelson’s house that looked like she printed it off the Internet. And if I went back to Yale to examine it, I wouldn’t be able to remember all that gibberish to come home and write down, photographic memory or not. If that was what it took, deciphering the Voynich Manuscript, to find out how to build spaceships and rid the world of disease once and for all, then those things were lost. Forever.