No visitors were expected that morning. Scowling, the old man made his way back inside just as the bell rang again. “I’m coming!” he yelled impatiently.
Opening the front door, he was surprised to find a yellow DHL delivery van parked out front, the Palestinian driver standing on the stoop in uniform, the white cords of an iPod dangling from his ears. He was holding a chunky rectangular device. Farouq frowned when he saw that the young man was wearing shorts.
“You should dress in proper clothing,” Farouq grumbled. “Do you have no shame?”
The deliveryman shrugged. “You have a package.”
The Keeper’s face showed his puzzlement. He wasn’t expecting anything. “And what might it be?”
“How would I know?” the young man replied. “If you’ll just sign here, I’ll unload it.” He held out the electronic package-tracking module, pointed to an illuminated touch screen signature box, and handed him a plastic stylus. Farouq signed.
“It’s large. Heavy, too. Where would you like me to put it?”
Feeling more anxious, Farouq began stroking his beard—an old habit from his days as a soldier. “In the garage.” He pointed to it. “I’ll open the door.”
Inside, Farouq pushed the garage door button, and groaned as he squeezed past his wrecked Mercedes. The only nearby body shop that was any good was owned by a Jew who, given the current state of affairs, had refused the job. Now the mess would have to sit here until Farouq could find someone who could do the work. Standing with his arms crossed, he pouted as the door slowly rolled back on creaking hardware.
The driver was waiting on the other side with the delivery.
The moment his eyes landed on the crate, the creases in his wooden face smoothed out. He stepped outside and looked both ways down the narrow street.
The driver lowered the crate onto the cement floor of the garage, rolled the handtruck back to the van, stowed it, and drove away.
Farouq eyed the shipping label. The package had come from Rome and the return address was a P.O. Box. The sender’s name was a Daniel Marrone.
The Keeper suddenly felt light-headed.
It took Farouq ten minutes to gather the courage to open the crate. And once he started, it hadn’t been easy. With the cover off, the box had been filled with bubble wrap. Stripping it all away, his fingers detected the cold touch of stone. A sinking feeling came over him—a profound sense of loss and failure. First the book. Now this? Pulling away the last layer of bubble wrap, he stared vacantly at the beautiful etchings on the ossuary’s fractured lid. He immediately recognized the design since he’d seen it in the Ephemeris Conlusio.
Without warning, figures suddenly materialized in the garage opening.
“Stay right there,” a voice commanded in Arabic.
Farouq stood bolt upright to see four men, each with a gun targeting his chest. They wore plain clothes and bulletproof vests, but he immediately knew who had sent them. Shin Bet agents. Ghosts from his past. “What is this?” he demanded.
Ari Teleksen appeared round the corner, his saggy jowls raised on both sides by a sardonic smile. A cigarette dangled between his stern lips. He exhaled a plume of smoke, knowing it would offend the Muslim. “Farouq alJamir,” Teleksen’s haunting baritone filled the garage. “Thought I’d bring you the owner’s manual for your delivery. You seem to have left it in your office.” Gripped between the three fingers of his disfigured hand, he held up a plastic-covered ream. “If you’d like to see the original, maybe I can talk to my friends at the Israeli Antiquities Authority.”
Farouq immediately recognized the photocopy of the Ephemeris Conlusio.
“Just like old times, eh?” Teleksen was grinning now. “Ready to go for a ride?”
For the first time in a long while, Farouq felt afraid. Very afraid.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With deep gratitude, I’d like to thank those who inspired me and provided me with a bottomless well of emotional support and technical expertise:
To my beautiful wife Caroline for her patience and encouragement, and to my loving daughters, Vivian and Camille, for their daily reminders that family is the most precious gift of all.
To all my friends and family—you know who you are!—who have endured my incessant ramblings and provided the stimulating debates that balanced my thoughts and kept my feet on the ground.
To my literary agents and friends across the pond, Charlie Viney and Ivan Mulcahy, who believed in me and helped me realize my full potential—Jonathan Conway too!
To the progressive Judith Regan—thanks for taking a chance with me! To an amazing editor named Doug Grad whose incredible grasp on his craft is only surpassed by his wit ...and Alison Stoltzfus who adds even more talent to a winning team.
Finally, to the remarkable body of research that sits on bookshelves, plays in VCRs and DVDs, and floats around cyberspace for all to experience. Explore!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICHAEL BYRNES attended Montclair State University in Montclair, New Jersey, and earned his graduate degree in business administration at Rutgers.
www.thesacredbones.com
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE SACRED BONES . Copyright © 2007 by Michael Byrnes.
