The high-pitched whine of the engines was the only sound until Lester gave a politician’s answer. “That’s why we go to the lengths we do to keep the Library a secret. We’ve had a remarkable track record for over six decades, thanks to the work of dedicated men like Frazier here. We only mine the data for geopolitical and national security purposes. We don’t willy-nilly make person-specific queries unless there’s an overriding security reason. We are responsible stewards of this miraculous resource. There have been minor-I’d say trivial-breaches and indiscretions in the past that have been dealt with surgically. This Shackleton affair is the first catastrophic breach in Area 51’s history. I hope you understand that.”
Will nodded and leaned as far forward as the table would allow. He bore into the Secretary. “I understand completely. I also understand leverage. If you ever get your hands on my copy of the database, you’ll stick me in the deepest hole you can dig, and to be on the safe side, you’ll make sure everyone I’m close to disappears too. You know it, I know it. I’m just protecting myself. I’m not a theologian or a philosopher. I’m not interested in big moral issues, okay? I didn’t ask to get involved in your world, but it happened, because thirty years ago I was randomly assigned to be Mark Shackleton’s roommate! All I want is to be left alone, retire, and live my puny little life until at least 2027. Your big adversary is a good old country boy who just wants to go fishing.” He reclined and watched Lester’s sagging face fixed in a passive frieze. “Which one of you boys wants to freshen my drink?”
Back in Washington, he was voluntarily held for a two-day debriefing by Frazier and a group of sweethearts from the DIA who made Frazier seem like a humanitarian. They got him to regurgitate everything he knew about the affair, everything except the whereabouts of the memory stick.
When they were done with him, he agreed to execute the same daunting confidentiality agreement that all Area 51 employees had to sign, and he was released, free and clear, into the waiting arms of his brethren at the FBI.
The FBI director ordered that he not be required to undergo further agency questioning or file a report on the last days of the Doomsday investigation. Sue Sanchez, flummoxed and clueless, offered him a package-paid administrative leave until he had his twenty years, then full retirement. He accepted the deal with a smile, and on her way out he gave her a playful pat on the bottom, and winked when she turned in anger.
Will sat back and listened to the dinner table conversation with quiet satisfaction. There was a domestic feel about it, something traditional and archetypal that put his internal rhythms in harmony. There hadn’t been many Piper family dinners when he was growing up, nor could he recall them during the brief time he provided his daughter with a nuclear family.
He slowly chewed his steak and listened to the repartee. His apartment was a pleasant wreck, piled with moving boxes, suitcases, women’s clothing, new pieces of furniture, and bric-a-brac.
Laura tried to refill his wine but he put his hand over the glass to stop her.
“Are you feeling, okay, Dad?” she joked.
“I’m pacing myself,” he said smugly.
“He’s definitely cut down,” Nancy said.
He shrugged. “The new me. Same as the old me but slightly lower blood alcohol levels.”
“Do you feel better for it?” Greg asked.
“Off the record?”
“Yes, sir, off the record.”
“Yeah, I do. Go figure. What’s up with the book, Laura?”
“All systems go. I’m waiting on the galleys and preparing myself for a life of fame and fortune.”
“As long as you’re happy, I’m okay with whatever the future’s got in store for you. Both of you.”
Greg lowered his eyes, nonplussed by the kindness. The reporter in him still had a burning curiosity about the Doomsday case. He had asked Laura the questions out loud, rehearsing them in case he got the nerve to try to interview Will, but knew the subject was taboo. He seriously doubted he’d ever be told, even if he became Will Piper’s son-in-law.
Why had Will been removed from the investigation and declared a fugitive? Why had the case faded from official discussion with no arrests and no resolution? Why had Will been rehabilitated and gently put out to pasture?
Instead he asked, “So what’s in store for you, Will? You going to do a little fishing, put your feet up awhile?”
“No way!” Nancy interjected. “Now that I’ve moved in, Will’s going to be taking in plays, museums, galleries, good restaurants, you name it.”
“I thought you hated New York, Dad.”
“I’m already here. Might as well give it a try. Us retirees got to keep our minds active while the womenfolk solve bank robberies.”
Later, when they were leaving, Will gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek and pulled her out of Greg’s earshot. “You know, I like your guy. I wanted to tell you that. Hold onto him.”
He knew for a fact that Greg Davis was BTH.
Will lay on the bed watching Nancy personalize his bedroom with pictures, a jewelry box, a stuffed bear.
“You okay with this?” she asked.
“It looks nice.”
“I mean, okay with us? Was this a good idea?”
“I think it was.” He patted the mattress. “When you’re done redecorating you should come here and check out your new bed.”
“I’ve slept in it before,” she said, and giggled.
“Yeah, but this is different. It’s communal property now.”
“In that case, I’ll take the window half,” she said.
“You know, I think you’re my type.”
“What type is that?”
“Smart, sexy, sassy, pretty much all the s’s.”
She crawled beside him and cuddled up, and he wrapped his arms around her. He’d told her about the Library. It was something he had to share with one person in his life, and the secret glued them together.
“In L.A., I looked up something else on Shackleton’s computer,” he said softly.
“Do I want to know?”
“On May 12, 2010, a child is born named Phillip Weston Piper. That’s nine months from now. That’s our son.”
She blinked a few times then kissed his face.
He returned the kiss and said, “I’ve got a pretty good feeling about the future.”
9 JANUARY 1297
T he hem of the abbot’s white robe was soaked with blood. Each time he stooped to touch a cold forehead or make the sign of the cross over a supine body, his garment got bloodier.
Prior Felix was at Baldwin’s side, supporting him by the arm so the abbot wouldn’t tumble on the blood- slicked stones. They made their rounds through the carnage, pausing over each ginger-haired writer to check for signs of life, but there were none. The only other beating heart in the Hall of the Writers belonged to old Bartholomew, who was making his own grim inspection at the opposite end of the chamber. Baldwin had sent Sister Sabeline away because her hysterical crying was unnerving and preventing him from collecting his thoughts.
“They are dead,” Baldwin said. “All dead. Why in God’s name has this happened?”
Bartholomew was systematically going from row to row, stepping carefully over and around bodies, trying to keep his footing. For a very old man, he was moving briskly from one station to another, plucking manuscript pages off the table and making a stack of them in his hand.
He made his way to Baldwin clutching a ream of parchments.
“Look,” the old man said. “Look!”
