Book of Souls

Chapter 26

Will and Isabelle sat in the library, the Nostradamus letter before them on a table. The enormity of their discoveries of the past two days had left them spent. Each seemed more momentous. They felt like they were two souls floating within the eye of a hurricane-everything around them peaceful and routine, but they knew they were dangerously close to a swirling, violent storm.

“Our book,” Isabelle muttered. “It’s had a profound effect on great men. When this is finished, I’m going to rush out to buy a copy of Nostradamus and read it with a newly found seriousness.”

“Maybe it was your book that made Calvin and Nostradamus great,” Will said, sipping his coffee. “Without it, they might have been historical also-rans.”

“Perhaps it will make us great too.”

“There you go again.” Will laughed. “I know it’s getting harder and harder for you to think about keeping this a secret but I’d rather you lived a long anonymous life than a short famous one.”

She ignored him. “We must find the last clue though I can’t imagine how it could top the first three. I mean, my God, the things we’ve found!”

He had an urge to call Nancy to thank her for her contribution. She’d be at work. “It’s all about the son who sinned,” he said.

Isabelle frowned. “I don’t know where to start on that one.” She heard her name being called from the Great Hall. “Granddad!” she shouted loudly. “We’re in the library.”

Lord Cantwell came in, clutching the newspaper under his arm. “Didn’t know where you were this morning. Hello, Mr. Piper. Still here?”

“Yes, sir. I’m hoping today’s my last full day.”

“Is my granddaughter not being an adequate hostess?”

“No, sir. She’s been terrific. I just need to get back home.”

“Granddad,” Isabelle asked suddenly, “do you consider any of the Cantwells as great sinners?”

“Other than me?”

“Yes, other than yourself,” she replied playfully.

“Well, my great-grandfather lost quite a bit of the family fortune in a speculative arrangement with a shipbuilder. If it’s a sin to be a fool, then he’s one, I suppose.”

“I was thinking earlier-sixteenth century thereabouts.”

“Well, as I mentioned, old Edgar Cantwell was always considered a bit of a black sheep. The man flip-flopped from Catholic to Protestant with whippetlike speed. Rather expedient, I should think, but he avoided the Tower and kept his head.”

“Any blacker marks than that?” she asked.

“Well…” By his expression, Isabelle thought he had come up with something.

“Yes?”

“There was Edgar Cantwell’s brother, William, I suppose. There’s a small portrait of him as a boy hanging somewhere or other. In the early fifteen hundreds he accidentally killed his father, Thomas Cantwell. He’s the largish picture in the Great Hall on the south wall. The one on horseback.”

“I know the one,” Isabelle said with growing intrigue. “What happened to William?”

Lord Cantwell made a throat-cutting gesture. “Did himself in, supposedly. Don’t know if any of that is true.”

“When was that? What year?” she asked.

“Damned if I can tell you. Best way would be to check the date on his headstone.”

Will and Isabelle looked at each other and sprang up. “You think he’s in the family plot?” she exclaimed.

“Don’t think so,” Lord Cantwell sniffed. “Know so.”

“Tell me there’s a family burial ground here!” Will said loudly enough to make the old man grimace.

“Follow me,” Isabelle cried, running out the door.

Lord Cantwell shook his head, sat himself down in one of the vacated chairs, and began to read the paper.

The Cantwell cemetery was in a wooded glade at the far end of the estate, not an oft-visited corner as it distressed the lord to visit his wife’s plot and the vacant patch that awaited his remains. Isabelle came by occasionally but usually on a bright, summer morning, when the cheerfulness of the day counteracted the heavy gloom of the place. It had not been attended for several weeks, and the grasses were high. The weeds were wilting from the lateness of the season, and they drooped lazily against the stones.

There were eighty or more stones in the plot, small for a village cemetery, large for a private family ground. Not all the Cantwells had made it in. Over the years, many had fallen in battle in one war or another and were buried on English battlefields or in foreign lands. As they entered the glade, Isabelle explained how difficult it had been to get the local Council to give her grandfather a permit to bury his wife there. “Health and Safety regulations,” she huffed indignantly. “What about traditions?”

“I like the idea of a family plot,” Will said gently.

“I’ve got a bit chosen for me. Under that lovely old lime tree.”

“It’s a nice spot,” Will said, “but don’t be in a hurry.”

“Out of my hands, isn’t it? All predestined, remember? Okay, then, where’s our sinner?”

William Cantwell’s headstone was one of the smallest in the graveyard, almost completely overgrown, so it required a methodical search through the centuries to find his marker near the middle of the plot. It simply had his name and the date, 1527.

“Darkly near a son who sinned,” Will said. “I guess we need a shovel.”

Isabelle returned from the garden shed with two. They were isolated but they began their work guiltily, looking over their shoulders since they weren’t engaging in the most socially acceptable of activities.

“I’ve never done dug up a grave.” She giggled.

“I have,” Will said. He wasn’t kidding. Years ago he had a case in Indiana, but he wasn’t going to go there, and she didn’t press for details. “I wonder how deep they planted them in the old days?” He was doing the heavy work and was starting to sweat. There were two other ancestors close by, so there wasn’t enough room for both of them to dig simultaneously.

He shed his jacket and sweater and kept the shovelfuls coming, producing a mound of dark, rich soil on top of a neighboring grave. An hour into the enterprise, both of them were getting discouraged; they wondered if William was there after all. Will climbed out of the hole and sat on the grass. The afternoon sunlight was autumn-hard, and there was a crisp chill. Isabelle’s lime tree was noisily rustling overhead.

She took over and jumped in like a little girl diving into a swimming pool, both feet hitting the bottom at once. There was a curious dull thunk when she landed.

As one, they both asked, “What was that?”

Isabelle choked up on her shovel, dropped to all fours, and began scraping the ground with the blade exposing a rough metallic surface. “God, Will! I think we’ve found it!” she shouted.

She dug around the object and identified its edges. It was a rectangle about eighteen inches in length, ten inches in width. As Will watched, she pushed the shovel into the ground beside one of the long edges and pried it up.

It was a heavily tarnished copper box. Below it was the rotting, green-stained wood of a coffin lid. She handed the box up to Will.

It had a heavy patina of green and black but it was evident that it was a nicely etched piece of metalwork with little round feet. The edges of its lid were encrusted in a hard, red material. Will dug at it with his thumbnail, and pieces chipped away. “It’s some kind of wax,” he said. “Sealing wax or candle wax. They wanted it to be watertight.”

She was at his side now. “I hope they were successful,” she said expectantly.

They had the discipline to cover up the grave before addressing the box, but they raced through the task. When they were done with the backfilling, they ran to the house and made straight for the kitchen, where Isabelle found a sturdy little paring knife. She worked the hard wax from the whole perimeter and, like a child opening the first present of Christmas morning, ripped the lid off.

There were three parchment pages, stained copper green, but they were dry and legible. She recognized them immediately for what they were. “Will,” she whispered. “It’s the last pages of Felix’s letter!”

They sat at the kitchen table. Will watched her eyes dart and her lips make small movements, and he exhorted her to translate on the fly. She began to read it slowly, out loud.

On the ninth day of January of the year of our Lord 1297, the end came to the library and to the Order of the Names. The scribes who numbered greater than one hundred had been acting strangely, lacking their ordinary diligence of task. It was as if a pall had been cast over them. Indeed, it seemed a lassitude which we were unable to fathom as they did not and could not speak their minds. And prior to this day a harbinger occurred which foretold the coming events. One of the scribes did incredibly violate the rules of man and God by taking his own life, thrusting his quill through his eye into the substance of his brain.

Then on the Last Day, I was summoned to the library, whereupon I found a sight that to the present makes my blood run cold on its contemplation. Every last one of the scribes by which I mean every green-eyed man and boy did by his own hand pierce an eye with the tip of his quill and cause his own death. And on their writing desks each one had completed one last page of writing, many of these pages stained red with blood. And on each page were written the selfsame words-9 February 2027. Finis Dierum. Their work was done. They had no need to write more names. They had reached the End of Days.

The great Baldwin, in his supreme wisdom, did proclaim that the Library should be razed as mankind was not ready for the revelation it contained. I did oversee the placement of the slain writers in their crypts, and I was the last man to walk through the vastness of the Library chambers amidst the endless shelves of sacred books. But these, dear Lord are my great confessions. I did light with my own hand the stacks of hay placed around the Library. and I used as torches the pages upon which were writ Finis Dierum until all were burned. I watched the timbers consumed by fire and saw the building collapse upon itself. But I did not, as Baldwin had proclaimed, throw a torch down into the vaults. I could not bear to be the earthly cause of the destruction of the Library. I fervently believed then, as I do now, that this decision should rest solely in the hands of God Almighty. In truth I do not know if the vast Library underneath the building was destroyed by the conflagration. The ground did smolder for a very long time. My soul too has smoldered for a very long time, and when I walk over the charred ground, I know not whether ashes or pages lie beneath my feet.

But I confess, dear Lord, that out of blasphemous madness I did randomly pick one book from the Library before it was sealed and burned. To this day I know not why. Please, I beg Your forgiveness for my wickedness. It is the book that lies before me. This book and this epistle are evidence and testimony for what has occurred. If, dear Lord, you want me to destroy this book and this letter I will gladly do so. If You wish me to preserve them, then I will gladly do so. I seek from You my Lord my God and Savior a sign, and I will fulfill Your wish. I will be Your obedient and most humble servant to the end of my days.

Felix

The third and last brittle and yellowed page was written in a different hand. It seemed a hasty scrawl. There were only two short lines:

9 February 2027

Finis Dierum

Isabelle began to cry, softly at first, then in a crescendo, louder and louder until she was sobbing, sucking at air and getting red-faced. Will looked at her with sorrow but he was thinking about his son. Phillip would be seventeen in 2027, young and full of promise. He was a hairbreadth from crying himself, but he got up and rested his hands on her heaving shoulders.

“We don’t know if it’s true,” he said.

“What if it is?”

“I guess we’re going to have to wait and see.”

She stood up, an invitation to hug her. They held the clench for the longest time until he told her simply and baldly that it was time for him to leave.

“Must you?”

“If I get back to London tonight, I can catch a morning flight.”

“Please stay one more night.”

“I’ve got to go home,” he said simply. “I miss my guys.”

She sniffed her nose dry and nodded.

“I’m going to come back,” he promised. “When Spence is done with these letters, I’m sure he’ll give them back to the Cantwell family. They’re yours. Maybe one day you’ll be able to use them to write the greatest book in history.”

“As opposed to the middling thesis I’ll write otherwise?” Then she looked him in the eyes, “You’ll leave the poem?”

“A deal’s a deal. Go fix your roof.”

“I’ll never forget the past few days, Will.”

“I won’t either.”

“You have a lucky wife.”

He shook his head guiltily. “I’m a lot luckier than she is.”

She called for a taxi. He went up to his room to pack. When he was done, he texted two messages.

To Spence:

Mission accomplished. All 4 found. Bringing them back tomorrow. Prepare to be amazed.

To Nancy:

U’r brilliant. U nailed the prophet. Amazing stuff. Home tomorrow. Can’t believe how much I miss U. Won’t leave U again.

That night, Cantwell Hall was quiet again, down to two residents, an old man asleep and his granddaughter, tossing and turning in her bed. Before she turned in, Isabelle had stopped in the guest room and sat on the bed. It still had Will’s scent on it. She breathed it in and started to cry again until she heard herself saying, “Don’t be stupid.” She obeyed herself, dried her eyes and turned off the light.

DeCorso was watching from the bushes. The guest bedroom went dark, then Isabelle’s bedroom lit up. He checked his luminescent dial. He hunkered down and typed Frazier an e-mail on his encrypted BlackBerry, its keyboard glowing in the night, his hard thumbs mashing the keys:

Finishing up at Wroxall. Have received Piper’s hotel and flight details from Ops Center. He used his credit card! Still has no idea we’re on him. Plan to intercept before he gets to Heathrow. Still awaiting your instructions re Cantwells.

Frazier read the e-mail and wearily massaged his own scalp. It was midafternoon in the desert, but, underground, time of day was an abstraction. He’d been at his desk nonstop for two days and didn’t want to spend a third there. The operation was coming to a head, but there were final decisions to be rendered, and his boss had made it clear that in light of the unsavory options, they were going to be Frazier’s calls, not his.

“These things are in your job description, not mine,” Lester had growled over the line, and Frazier had wanted to reply, “So your hands stay clean and your nights are restful.”

Frazier’s decision on Piper was the easiest one.

DeCorso would intercept him at his Heathrow hotel, immobilize him by any means necessary, and retrieve all the items he’d found at Cantwell Hall. A CIA extraction team would do a pickup at the hotel and transport them up to the US airbase at RAF Mildenhall, where Secretary Lester had a navy transport plane standing by. Piper was BTH, so there was no chance of DeCorso killing the bastard, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t seriously damage the goods. So be it, Frazier thought. As long as we get our hands on any material that could compromise the integrity of the mission at Area 51.

Then they’d round up Spence and any of his confederates and add the missing volume to the vault. He imagined there’d be some kind of on-site ceremony, but that was the kind of nonsense the base rear admiral could decide.

The decision on Cantwell Hall was trickier. Ultimately, Frazier did what he’d often done when faced with these kinds of situations. He let the Library help him make up his mind. When he reviewed the pertinent DODs he nodded knowingly. His mind turned to the specifics of the plan. He had no doubt DeCorso could accomplish the job effectively. His only concern was the Brits. The SIS was behaving like a swarm of angry hornets over the Cottle affair, and the last thing he needed to do was poke a stick into the nest and twist it around. He would warn DeCorso to be careful, exceptionally careful. But on a risk-reward basis, he was certain it was the right course. What good was neutralizing Piper if the girl and her grandfather could spill their guts about whatever the hell they’d found.

He typed an e-mail to DeCorso with his orders and a stern litany of admonitions.

This was probably going to be his last mission with DeCorso, he thought, without a trace of sentimentality.

When Isabelle switched off her light, DeCorso peered through his night-vision scope to make sure she wouldn’t go roaming. He waited a good half hour to be on the safe side, then began his work. He had his favorite cocktail for this kind of a job-cheap, easily bought, possessing the perfect balance of speed and coverage. Kerosene, paint thinner, and camping stove fuel in just the right ratios. He lugged two five-gallon jerry cans up to the house and quietly began soaking the entire circumference of the building. The old Tudor frame would catch quickly enough but he didn’t want there to be any gaps. He was after a ring of fire.

He worked his way back around to the rear garden. There was still a half a can left. With a small suction cup and a diamond cutter, he carved out a pane of glass in the French Room, directly below Isabelle’s bedroom. He poured the remaining liquid directly inside. Then, with the insouciance of a factory worker ending his shift, he lit a match and flicked it through the window.

Isabelle was dreaming.

She was lying at the bottom of William Cantwell’s grave. Will was heavy on her, making love, and the top of the wooden casket was creaking and groaning under their weight. She was startled, and in fact deeply upset, at the incongruous pleasure she was experiencing amidst the ghastliness of the surroundings. But suddenly she looked over Will’s shoulder into the sky. The sunset was glowing orange, and her lime tree was heaving in the breeze. The soft rustling of its great green branches soothed her, and she was completely happy.

As she was succumbing to smoke inhalation, the ground floor of Cantwell Hall was a raging inferno. The fine paneling, the tapestries and carpets, the rooms crammed with old furniture were no more than kindling and tinder. In the Great Hall, the oil paintings of Edgar Cantwell, his ancestors, and all who followed him bubbled and hissed before dropping off the burning walls one by one.

In Lord Cantwell’s bedroom, the old man was dead of smoke inhalation before the flames arrived. When they did, creeping up the walls and spreading over the furniture onto his night table, they caught the corner of the last thing he had read before going to bed.

The Shakespeare poem curled into a hot yellow ball, then it was gone.