The Harmony Scroll: Book 2 of the Peacetaker Series, #2

By Edita A. Petrick

One curse that must be lifted if humanity is to survive....

 

Carter tries to convince Dr. Hunter that history is full of clues that lead nowhere. Especially such tales as thousand years old hearsay about a treasure ship that sunk in a storm. And while the history professor in Stella might be inclined to agree and turn her back on such tall tales, the mother in her can't. Not when the life of her son depends on it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edita A. Petrick
• Release date: Oct 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996637176

Edita A. Petrick

I'm a writer. That's all that can be said here. I love writing and I absolutely hate marketing. It just goes to show you where your natural talents lie. Writing comes easy. Marketing...that's something I will be learning until the day I die. All I can say about my books is that they're meant to entertain.

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The Harmony Scroll

Book 2 – Stella Hunter Mysteries

Edita A. Petrick

Copyright © 2015 Edita A. Petrick

www.editaapetrick.com

twitter.com/EditaBoni

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COPYRIGHT NOTICE—ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The content of this book is protected under Federal and International Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be electronically or mechanically reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or retention in any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from Edita A. Petrick.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, locations, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Book Cover Art by: Elaina Lee, For The Muse Design

Ebook Formatting by: Maureen Cutajar of Go Published

Print ISBN: 978-0-9966371-3-8

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Prologue

It was an unusual spring night in upstate Montana. The sky that had been dressed in grimy rain clouds for days cleared by the time George Tickle decided to close down his gas station—earlier than usual—and head outside to lock up the pumps. The crisp fresh air and blue-black sky dotted with crystalline stars confused him. He stood on the cracked strip of concrete that separated the gas station from the pumps, passing the keys from one hand to the other, suddenly not sure whether closing up early was a good idea. Just minutes ago when he grabbed the keys which were hanging on a nail driven into the wooden window frame, he could have sworn it was pouring outside. He sniffed the air just to make sure he wasn’t experiencing one of those lucky portents visions that Dr. Drew kept talking about in his Grow Your Business, Grow Yourself tapes. It took a lot of sniffing on account of everything within miles being washed down by rain, day in, day out these past couple of weeks but finally he drew in a faint smell of gasoline. His mouth creased in a relieved smile. Carefully, almost timidly, he lowered his head.

Well, I’ll be, he mumbled. Not only had it stopped raining so suddenly as if someone had closed a spigot in the sky, but the rain had already soaked into the ground through the mosaic of cracks in the concrete apron. There wasn’t a single glistening puddle. Everything had been washed down and scrubbed by water that carried all the grime away. Well, that explained why the station did not smell like a gas station—most of the time.

He scratched his chin then cleared his throat. Nah, he might as well lock up. Most evenings traffic in or out of Sunburst, Montana (population 492) on the best of days, was thinner than his wallet. Suddenly, as if to contradict him, a robust noise of a powerful engine ripped through the air and a dark shape of a large SUV passed by the gas station so quickly George barely had time to register its passage—or the fact that the truck did not have its headlights on.

What’s going on here? George took a step toward the road when something made him halt and lift his head. Even as he stared, a shadow high up in the sky blocked his view of the star-shine and slid across like a tattered blanket. Then George heard it. Not quite like a waterfall and not quite like a swarm of insects, the rushing noise came from way up high where there shouldn’t have been anything to make a noise like that, especially at night.

What’s going on here? George repeated, shaking his head because the shape had receded into the distance and soon blended into the night. He stood there, catching small bursts of the strange slapping noise, trying to decide what to do.

Ah, figures, he grumbled when the night seemed to have sucked in the straggly shape from the sky just as it reached the table top of Slider Hill. He locked up the pumps and headed for his truck parked off to the side. He lived just upwind from the gas station and could have walked home but it had been raining all week and he was getting too old for walking on a rain-soaked path where the mud could literally suck the boots off your feet. He drove out on to the road and was about to take the right fork that would see him home in less than five minutes, when he snorted and wrenched the wheel to the left, heading for the town. He was going to give Stella a piece of his mind. He had kept his mouth shut when she ruined a good house that her aunt Hazel left her. He had bit his tongue when she painted it yellow and had even nodded at her whenever he picked up his grandson from the school bus and offered his little friend a ride home. Stella’s boy was a good youngster, polite and respectful and George didn’t mind Stan bringing him over for supper now and then. The boys were good friends. But the line had to be drawn somewhere and he was going to do it tonight. Most folks would take a car when going to visit. Her guests came in trucks without headlights and in helicopters that sat down on Slider Hill just behind Stella’s house. Someone had to set her straight.

He could have stopped the truck a mile away and still have seen Stella’s house. The yellow siding burned like a devil’s torch in the night. He stopped the truck where a line of tall pine trees snaked up the hill and got out. He looked around but did not see any other truck shape which meant Stella’s visitors never bothered to turn on the headlights. Mumbling to himself, he stared at the treed slope. It was going to be a slippery climb on account of that rain that just wouldn’t let up. He took off his baseball cap and swiped his forehead, just thinking how often he’d have to do it before he reached the top of the hill. His Kodiaks let him dig into the soil but it was still a treacherous climb. He stopped halfway up where the slope levelled off and the tree line curved closer to Stella’s house and leaned against the tree trunk to catch his breath. Most decent folks would put up roller shades or curtains. Stella couldn’t be bothered. He saw her through the kitchen window, sitting down with the boy. It was way past supper time so she had to be ‘tutoring’ him; that’s what Stan told him she did, to both of them when she had them over. He took off his cap, swiped his head with a forearm and jammed the cap back then resumed his climb. The slope might have levelled off a bit but the ground was soggy and slippery. The last few feet before the table top, he had to lunge from tree to tree to keep his balance and not tumble down, right into Stella’s back door. Finally, his breath calmed down and he found a spot where a bush grew close to a fat tree trunk. It was a bright night, with crystal moon hanging high in the sky. He made out the helicopter shape clearly. It was a big beast, nothing like the radio station copter that now and then flew over Sunburst. He caught scraps of voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He propped a hand against a tree and leaned as far as he dared until he saw them.

For’ners, just as I thought, he whispered to himself. There were three of them, dressed as if they were going ice-fishing—except fishing season had ended way back in February. The only thing that was open this time of the year was black bear and a beaver out in the eastern region but who came to hunt in a chopper? Only foreigners came to Montana in the spring and dressed in blazing crisscross orange survival suits with blazing yellow reflective strips. He smelled smoke and then saw tiny glowing dots from cigarettes. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry to go visit Stella. Then again, she wouldn’t let them on to her porch, never mind inside if they came with lit cigarettes. Suddenly one of the figures turned around and George let out a breath from surprise.

"Whatcha going to do with a rifle there, my boy?" he thought. Well, it wasn’t a hunting season, so a rifle-shape slung across the back could not be a good thing. Could they be poachers…smugglers? Crouching as low as he could, he balanced himself with his hands touching the ground, and crept closer until he could distinguish the words. Whatever language they spoke, it was quick and nothing like any language he’d ever heard around Sunburst but now and then they’d say something in English. Suddenly he caught a familiar word.

Montreal? he mouthed silently and craned his neck. He moved the tree branch off to the side so he could hear better and made out a few more words from the torrent of guttural sounds. He didn’t know where the Bell Street Pier was but it sure as heck wasn’t in Montana and he doubted any of Stella’s night visitors would pray to St. Jude or visit Seattle. Her visitors were the kind who liked to dig around cemeteries—or so he heard. Just then he caught a movement. The one with the rifle on his back raised his hands as if surrendering whereupon the one standing closest to the craft turned and walked around the helicopter’s bulbous front.

Holding his breath, George let go of the branch. If they were smugglers they would have to be drug smugglers and he should get out before he made noise and sealed his fate. Just then he heard the whirring, creaking sound of a rotor struggling to make a revolution. Was the pilot going to leave his buddies behind? He had to see what was going on. He pushed the branches aside when something blasted him in the face. It felt as if a hand gripped his neck and forced his face into ice-cold water—and then yanked him up and burned his face with a blow-torch. He covered his face with his hands, feeling the moisture trickle through his fingers and moaned. Staggering and stumbling, he made it half-way down the hill when he pitched forward and landed on his knees. His face was on fire. A moan forced itself out of his throat. He started to pant to hold back the noise, and then he grabbed a handful of his t-shirt and tugged until he felt it rip. He staggered up, dabbed his face with the cotton fabric, and keeping the hand pressed against his face while feeling with the other for support, he lurched from tree to tree until his knees gave out again. The pain was terrible. He had to go knock on Stella’s door now. He needed to call Betty to come and get him. He couldn’t drive the way he was—the way he felt. If Stella asked what happened he would tell the truth. He didn’t know. He was coming to see her…no, no. He was coming to see Sheriff Glass. He heard a strange noise and by the time he ran outside, all he could see was a shape in the sky, heading for Slider Hill and he was concerned. His grandson and Stella’s boy liked tobogganing on Slider Hill…no, no. That was in winter time. It was already spring and hardly any snow patches on Slider Hill.

He grunted when a new wave of burning pain flushed through him but forced himself to open his eyes just enough to see tree shapes and lurched ahead to where he glimpsed the brightly lit outline of Stella’s kitchen window. He needed a doctor. Who knew what those foreigners did to turn the air into acid rain. He needed….

Suddenly, he felt uplifted as if someone had stuck an inflatable mattress under his body. At the same time a brilliant flash seared the dark night all around him and finally he heard a horrendous boom.

Oh, my God…. The rest of the words froze on his lips. Where just moments ago was the yellow-siding house with Stella and the boy sitting at a kitchen table, now all that remained was a smoking crater with burning cinders as far as he could see.

Chapter 1

The night shift nurse walked into the room just as Carter was pulling on a pair of jeans.

What do you think you’re doing? she demanded, hands braced on her hips.

Getting dressed. I’m leaving, he said, with a slight groan. It still hurt to use any muscle on his right side, especially if he went longer than three hours without painkillers.

Not on my shift, Mr. Carter. Now, into your pajamas and back in bed or I’m calling security. It makes no difference to me whether you spend the night handcuffed to the bed or sedated because those will be your only choices once security gets here. You’ll leave when Dr. Flanders says so and not a moment sooner.

I’m not a prisoner, he said, turning his profile to her. He didn’t want her to see that it took considerable effort to speak with only half his mouth.

You’re not a model patient either, the nurse said, snickering.

Three days ago when the doctor took off the bandages she said I was ready to be discharged, he grumbled.

I wasn’t there, but I doubt Dr. Flanders would have said that. There’s post-op therapy, Mr. Carter. And by the look of those juice containers and straws all over the floor I can see just how ready you are, she said, her voice thick with sarcasm.

Three specialists, two in the Bethesda Naval Hospital and one in Baltimore, told him that there was less than ten percent chance that he’d have his old face back again working as it should. The plastic surgery would clean up his scarred cheek, part of his throat and right shoulder, but the injured half of his face would be left paralyzed. The Baltimore specialist had software that allowed him to model the post-reconstructive result, presumably to allow the patient to decide whether he wanted a clean cheek but visibly drooping right eyelid and grotesquely twisted right side of the mouth, or whether he wanted to keep his scars. The Bethesda specialists couldn’t decide whether he would retain fifty percent of his neck mobility or significantly less.

Saunders persuaded him to see a fourth specialist, a young doctor at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center.

I’m sure you’ve heard this before, Mr. Carter. There’s a great deal of nerve damage, she said, running her fingers along his scarred cheek, but I don’t think it’s all permanent. I’m willing to give it a try, if you are.

Dr. Govind in Baltimore Memorial said there’s only a ten percent chance…. he started.

She interrupted him. Accountants deal in percentages. I’m a doctor. There’s an excessive build-up of scar tissue in this area, she said, outlining with her finger the plane under his right eye and along the cheekbone. The peripheral vision in your right eye’s already affected. It’ll get worse as you get older. Ten years from now you might lose sight in your eye entirely. I can’t promise that the nerves will regenerate in the entire affected area but with therapy, I believe there’ll be significant improvement.

Three days ago when she removed the bandages she stepped back, tilted her head and smiled. A few minutes later, when he finished examining her handiwork in a mirror, he agreed that in spite of the bruising and swelling the results were what both of them hoped for—except the right side of his mouth that felt numb. She took a box of apple juice, stuck a straw in it and offered it to him.

He pushed the straw in his mouth and felt nothing. When he tried to suck the juice it spilled out of the side of his mouth. After a few more attempts, he ended up crushing the juice box and flinging it at the wall.

It might take a few weeks before you have any feeling in that part of your mouth, the doctor said, keep trying and don’t get discouraged. I’d like to start the speech therapy this afternoon. To further motivate him, she told the nurse to take out the intravenous, saying that she believed he would be able to take his medication orally well enough.

By dinnertime, he was in a better frame of mind. After the speech therapy session, he was able to speak with only minor slurring of words. The therapist told him that most patients learned to speak normally using only one corner of the mouth. He spent the night pushing the straw into his mouth and willing his lips to close around it and pucker. When he left his room for the third time to get more juice boxes and straws from the small kitchen down the corridor, Mrs. Dwight, the night nurse barred his way.

Dr. Flanders cut you some slack, she said, holding out a paper cup with gel caplets. It makes my job harder because I have to keep after you. You’ve ten seconds to swallow these before I haul your ass back inside and put you on intravenous. She stared at him all through the five attempts it took to fit the caplets into his mouth and wash them down with juice using the feeling part of his mouth.

Get a good night’s rest, she said, moving aside so he could get back in his room.

The next day, after two speech and one physical therapy sessions, he braved to smile at Saunders when the FBI agent came to see him.

Looks damn good, Carter, Saunders said, tilting his head as he looked over Carter’s cheek. His face was still swollen but the raccoon eyes were much lighter and the brownish seams were already fading. In time, they would disappear altogether. According to Dr. Flanders, the most important thing was that the vision in his right eye would return to where it was before he walked into the stadium in Cairo.

I think I can finish healing at home, Carter said, hoping Saunders wouldn’t notice the effort it took to resonate his voice.

What’s the rush? Saunders asked. Aren’t they treating you well?

I’ve spent fifteen years as a soldier and never set a foot in a hospital, Vern, he said. And the only time I saw a medic was to get my tetanus booster shot. But this last year I’ve already clocked two months hospital time. That’s enough. I want to go home.

I know what you mean, Carter. I don’t know how I’d feel if I had to be cut off from the world for more than a couple of days. Too bad Walter Reed’s not a wireless enabled facility. I’d have brought you a cell phone and a laptop the moment you were out of surgery. You’ve been here four weeks. Do it right this time, and hang on until you’re one hundred percent.

Yeah, sure, he mumbled, shrugging even though what he really wanted to do was pound the wall with his fist. A year ago, when he was released from the Bethesda Medical Center with a scarred face and neck that looked like a huge wad of old pink bubblegum, Saunders had no problem accepting that Carter was back to his old one hundred percent standard. But now a man who had checked into a hospital for elective surgery had turned into a security risk.

It’s my fault, Carter. I was wrong, Saunders said. I shouldn’t have let you get back to work after Cairo. Hell, if one of my agents is injured in the course of duty he’s off at least for six months. There’s more to healing than just mending flesh.

I’m not one of your agents, Carter mumbled, looking away.

I signed your contract. Justice Department pays your salary. You work for me, like it or not. What happened in Cairo was a….

Riot, he interrupted. And I was one of its casualties. I consider my injuries to be a result of a workplace accident. It doesn’t mean I’m carrying excessive psychological, emotional, or spiritual baggage.

Is that what the doctor diagnosed as the ancillary problem? Saunders murmured, tipping his head to one side and smiling.

Come on, Vern. I know she put you up to this. I’m here because I’m forty-five and have at least another twenty years of work ahead of me. I need my eyesight, as much as I need my face back so people won’t turn around and stare when I walk by. I’m not much use to you if I can’t blend into the crowd. Now get me out of here. I’m fine.

Your wife and daughter didn’t even know about your Cairo injuries, never mind the fact that you were having surgery again, Saunders said, his voice hardening.

Ex-wife and what’s your point?

Communication. It’s a human thing, Carter. Your doctor believes that you can only benefit from post-op therapy. I concur. This time, you will do it right and the sooner you start, the better. I’ll see you tomorrow, he said, tipping his fingers to his forehead and left.

Carter squashed half a dozen juice boxes and just as many straws before he calmed down. He hadn’t told anyone he was going in for surgery. There didn’t seem to be a point. Saunders knew because Dr. Flanders was his wife’s cousin. Besides, the FBI Agent had to know since part of Carter’s medical expenses would come out of the Justice Department’s budget, while the rest would be covered by his veteran’s medical benefits.

Saunders came to see him when Carter was still in the recovery room. He was aware of the FBI Agent touching his shoulder, but couldn’t distinguish whatever words of comfort he was saying. The doctor told him that his face, neck, and upper chest would be bandaged for up to three weeks, but she failed to mention that Carter would spend most of that time swimming in and out of consciousness.

The criminal element must have either taken holiday during the month of May or went into hibernation because whenever Carter grew aware of his surroundings Saunders was there, next to his bed, patting or squeezing his shoulder—and the FBI Agent always brought with him a crowd of visitors.

Carter felt as if someone jabbed him in the chest with a huge needle when he heard Barbara’s voice. His ex-wife held his hand, squeezing it as she murmured words of comfort he could barely distinguish. His daughter, Katie, put her head on his chest. He obliged her by breathing deeper so she could see he was alive. Although he could move his hands, he was immobilized from the waist up and breathing through a tube stuck into his mouth. Katie asked him to tap his finger into the palm of her hand—once for yes and twice for no—then started asking him questions. Did he know she was there? Did he know Mom and Bill were there too? He moved his finger in a circle. She understood and introduced her stepfather. Then she proceeded to tell him about her life—school, friends, hobbies, her part-time job at the veterinarian’s, her boyfriend.

Stella came too. She brought Gabriel and her entire family, plus a few colleagues. Bruce Hunter and the new Mrs. Hunter were attending a conference at the George Washington University, while the old Mrs. Hunter and the children were doing the Smithsonian and visiting other tourist attractions in Washington.

In spite of the drugs that made him feel as if he was listening to the echo of voices sounding in a distant cavern, he wanted to laugh when Stella gave him an abridged version of her Washington itinerary. Ten years wouldn’t be enough to see what she planned to see in a week. He made an O with his thumb and forefinger to show her that he approved of her newfound tolerant attitude. The Hunter clan stayed for a week in Washington and Stella came to see him every day, often when Saunders was visiting as well. Carter thought it was ironic that his visitors kept coming to communicate with the man who was unable to reciprocate.

Gabriel has another month of school and then we’re into the summer vacation, Stella said, tapping his hand with a finger. I’ve talked to your boss. He thinks you definitely need a decent vacation.

He grabbed her finger and gave it a tug until her knuckle cracked.

She laughed, forced his hand back down, then said, You’re not going to get another job contract until you’ve had a vacation, so it’s no use, you know. I want you to come with us to Italy. We’ll start in Rome. If I don’t find additional useful clues about the Harmony Scroll there, we’ll head for the Adriatic coast. If that doesn’t pan out, we’ll swing over to France—hell, we have two months. We might even hop across Gibraltar, though I hope we won’t be that unlucky.

He made a fist and punched it in the direction of her voice.

It’s settled then, she said. I knew you couldn’t resist accompanying me on another quest.

He brought his thumb and index finger together to show her he wanted to write. When she fitted a pen between his fingers and pushed his hand down until the pen touched a hard surface, he scribbled down furiously, What quest? What you up to now?

She put her hand on his chest, rubbing it lightly as she spoke, I’m sure it would have occurred to you by now, Carter, that we—or rather that Gabriel can’t live with this issue hanging over his head.

He tapped the pen against the writing surface again, then wrote, Amulets destroyed?

She sighed. Yes, but it’s more than that, Carter. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about what if someone figures out the exact nature of the amulet required to activate the Peacetaker again and then fashions it.

He tapped the pen against the paper and wrote, Peacetaker identity secret.

Yes, so far.

He drew a question mark.

She sighed again. My book’s into its third printing, Carter. And I don’t mean the one I’m still working on. It should make me deliriously happy that I have a bestseller, but I keep wondering whether the book’s popularity is a really good thing. Each and every one of the amulets used to activate the Peacetaker in various ancient cultures is referenced in my book, in detail. You don’t have to be a student of mythology to figure out which amulet belongs to what culture.

He tapped the pen against the paper and wrote, Identity secret, yes?

You and I are the only people in our country that know who he is and where he is, she said.

He scribbled again, But?

Gahiji and Moses, she said.

Dead, he wrote down.

Yes—but I doubt that the two of them were the only ones in Cairo who knew about the Peacetaker. You told me that your operative visited Gahiji in the hospital in Cairo. Why would he do that?

He tapped the pen against the paper but didn’t write.

Which means your operative had orders—from you—to keep track of Gahiji. That’s why he was following him and saw the car that ran him down. You spent five years compiling information on Moses. Whatever you were doing in Cairo last year had to do with the late billionaire. Gabriel told me that Gahiji brought him to Cairo, to his apartment. But he stayed there only a few days. Gahiji took him to a restaurant where he introduced him to a man in a white suit with a diamond ring on every one of his fingers and many bodyguards standing around. Children notice things like that. The boy’s fluent in half a dozen Arabic languages. He said the man spoke Egyptian to Gahiji but Lebanese to everyone else around him, including the serving staff. Lebanese is a blend of Aramaic and Arabic. One of the waiters then took Gabriel and sat him down in another part of the restaurant. Gabriel said they never returned to Gahiji’s apartment but stayed in a hotel where Gahiji introduced him to the man Gabriel ended up calling Uncle Kraft. That man not only spoke Egyptian and Lebanese, but very good English with only a trace of French accent. There was also a woman. She visited this man in the hotel several times. Gabriel said she spoke in French to the man and in American English to him. There are a lot of people outside of the US, Carter, who know about the Peacetaker. They may not know all the details, but they know enough to be a threat.

He pressed the pen against the paper again and quickly drew three question marks.

If I ever finish my second book, I’m going to have to dedicate an entire page to Frank, Abigail’s husband. Do you remember him?

He quickly opened and closed his hand.

Maybe the first thing we should do when you get out of here is to go down to San Francisco, pay a visit to Frank and Abigail. She keeps emailing me to come visit her anyway. Frank was in London in December, attending a Blessington House auction. There was a manuscript he was interested in, but the owner withdrew it before the bidding started. He only managed to take a cursory look. It was a classical Latin text, attributed to St. Gregory the Great, from the 6th century. It was found by a team of archeologists, excavating the ruins of one of the Byzantine Greek monasteries build in the Po Valley just after the war between the Ostrogoths and Byzantine Greeks. St. Gregory was a prefect of Rome who heard the voice of higher calling and converted his many estates into Benedictine convents. When the Lombards attacked Rome in 592, St. Gregory, a bishop by then, negotiated peace but he couldn’t have been in an optimistic frame of mind because he ordered his entire library packed and stored far away from Rome. At least four pages in Gregory’s manuscript deal with the Harmony Scroll. The Reflections on the Harmony Scroll were written during the six-year period Gregory spent in Constantinople. The scroll contains an incantation that’s supposed to counteract the Peacetaker curse. We’re going to track it down—but first I need to find out whether the incantation’s written in Phoenician, Latin, Greek or some other language. That’s why we have to first see Frank and Abigail. She kept rubbing her hand in circles over his chest as she spoke. He grabbed her hand and forced it away.

You know we have to do this, she said softly, not trying to free her hand.

He released it, felt around with his fingers for a pen and held it up, indicating he wanted to communicate again.

She chuckled when she saw what he wrote and said, No, Carter. It will really take two months, not the two weeks you’re willing to commit to this quest, because I don’t think we’ll be that lucky. I mean, no mortal man or woman could hope to be that fortunate as to find what Vatican scholars, pilgrims, treasure hunters and mercenaries have been hunting for nearly two thousand years.

He was ready to rip off