Book of Days

by James Rubart

  He fished it off the floor, breathing in rapid little puffs. Hello, Mr. Death. How are you today? I was just thinking about coming to visit you. "Ann, you still there?"

  "Are you all right?"

  "Other than coming within inches of meeting another Three Peaker head-on, I'm dandy."

  "Those horns were for you?"

  "Yep. I was driving with my legs and the wheel slipped. Then I dropped my phone."

  "Driving with your . . . You're insane. Don't you use a Bluetooth?"

  Heat burned his cheeks. "When I remember to bring it with me."

  "You're breaking the law."

  "Sorry."

  "Buy another one for your car. I don't want anything—"

  No. He couldn't let her say she didn't want anything happening to him. He didn't need those emotions stirred up. "Can we get back on track?"

  "Sure."

  "I'll bet the places with the legend are the Middle East, South America, China, Scotland, Turkey, and Egypt."

  "How did you know that?"

  "Geology." Cameron pulled over to the side of the road and yanked out his notebook. "There's a seventh location, Ann."

  "I know."

  "And that seventh location is—"

  In unison they said, "—Three Peaks, Oregon."

  "Where's your interest meter pegging now?" Cameron asked.

  "On a scale of one to ten, probably a twelve. This is getting entertaining."

  "I'm headed to talk to Susan Hillman about a rock she gave me, then grab a bite and do some serious Google searches on those spots. Wanna meet me at the Ski Inn restaurant—?"

  "Absolutely, say around seven?"

  "You're perfect."

  "I am?"

  Cameron heard a smile in her voice.

  Wow, where did that foray in the land of Freud come from? "What I meant is, that time is perfect."

  "Hello, Cameron, have you prepared yourself to pepper me with all kinds of questions?" Susan looked up for a moment, then continued watering the baskets of rock penstemon flowers hanging in baskets above the four corners of her massive cedar porch.

  "Maybe." He strolled up her steps and stopped at the top. "You weren't surprised to hear from me."

  "No, I wasn't." She turned from her watering and tapped her head. "You're a smart young man. But I will admit I was surprised to hear from you as quickly as I did."

  "You thought it would take me longer to discover the significance of the rock I chose?"

  Susan nodded and set down her watering can. "I could suggest you keep delving deeper into the mystery of the stone, but you've already found out what you needed to discover in that arena. And I suppose I should confirm that Taylor Stone is one of the more significant keys to your quest. But again, you've figured that out by now."

  Susan clapped her hands together. "So since you're already doing all the right things, I'm not sure what help I can be, but I'm certainly willing to try."

  Two white wicker chairs sat at forty-five-degree angles to each other and Susan motioned for Cameron to sit. After asking him to hold his first question, she went into the house and returned a few minutes later with two Arnold Palmers.

  "Here's how you can help immensely," he said after taking a sip of the iced tea-lemonade mixture. "While I'm enjoying my scavenger hunt, picking up one clue here, another there, I would not mind in the least if you simply told me the exact location of where the book sits." He cocked his head.

  "Would you mind if we played a little game together?"

  Cameron shrugged.

  "The rules are simple. You ask me a question, I answer as honestly as I can. I ask you a question and you extend the same courtesy toward me."

  "All right."

  "You start." Susan brushed a strand of brown hair off her face.

  "You just implied that the stone you gave me is connected to the Book of Days. Is it?"

  "Of course."

  "How?"

  Susan shook her head and smiled. "My turn. What do you hope to gain by finding this book?"

  Life. He wanted life instead of the agony of losing Jessie. He wanted answers, meaning, purpose. He wanted there to be a reason his dad left this world too soon. He wanted peace to replace his frustration . . . He wanted to relive the days and years Jessie and he had shared together . . . He wanted his mind to be restored—all the emotions converged into one.

  "I want hope."

  Susan's eyes misted over as she nodded. "What do you hope for?"

  "Unh-uh." He wagged his finger. "My turn again."

  Susan bowed her head slightly and opened her palms.

  "Is the book real, or just some New Age dream, or some pseudo-scientific concoction like the Oregon Vortex?"

  "I suppose many things are possible that we're tempted to say aren't." Susan held his gaze for a few seconds before looking down. "But I do believe there is a book in heaven—God's book—in which He has recorded each man and woman's life."

  "What do you mean—?" Cameron cut himself off. "It's your turn."

  "Go on. Ask. The question game is a silly one, only fun for the first few minutes, don't you think?"

  "Jason said the Book of Days exists on a spiritual plane that he claims he's tapped into. Is that what you mean?"

  "No."

  A quiet confidence played in Susan's eyes.

  "You think there is a God, and you think that He records every moment of every life? Even future events?"

  She didn't hesitate. "Without question."

  "You're saying you know it absolutely to be true?"

  "People who claim to know there is a God and those who claim to know there isn't a God are more similar than either side would like to admit. I believe, yes, but do I know? For certain?" Susan shook her head, a gentle smile on her face. "No one can with 100-percent certainty, Cameron. Not till our days on earth end. So while I will be surprised if that book isn't in heaven, I won't know definitively till I get there."

  A hummingbird hovered near Susan's feeder full of sugar water, flitting back and forth as if wondering if Cameron could be trusted. Finally it began to drink, but only for a few moments before streaking away again.

  "That bird is the only species that can stay in one spot as it flies. The speed with which it moves its wings is mind boggling, up to ninety times per second. Some would say that ability came after millions of years of adaptation; others would unequivocally state the hummingbird is proof of intelligent design."

  Cameron shifted and crossed his legs. "Which is it?"

  "Man has longed to touch the infinite—or explain Him away—ever since Adam and Eve left the garden. In the end, as I suggested earlier, it comes down to what you choose to believe."

  "Susan . . ." Cameron paused. The look on her face was not one of pity, but of longing. For what he couldn't tell. But it wasn't for herself. It was for him. "Thank you, once again, for your time and your wisdom."

  She leaned forward and took both his hands in hers. "Let me say, for me, the critical question is not whether God's Book of Days is here on earth or in heaven, but if it does exist, what kind of lives are we recording in it?"

  As he stood and contemplated Susan's musings, the hummingbird returned, not hesitating to drink more of the nectar, even though Cameron had leaned closer to the feeder.

  "I have always celebrated men and women with passion, and I see you have passion." Susan smiled and her head fell back. "The path life takes us down isn't always where we would choose to go, but in the end, it is possible to wind up where we wanted to be anyway."

  He wanted his brain back. Was that possible?

  CHAPTER 23

  He set the seven bullets on the mantel above his fireplace three inches apart and watched the light from his candles dance on their copper tips. Seven was the number of perfection. But he wouldn't need that many.

  One for Cameron.

  One for Stone.

  Banister? Maybe. He grinned and set her picture next to ones of Taylor and Cameron already on the mantel. Proba
bly.

  He slid his knife out of its sheath and licked the blade. Nothing like the taste of steel. Unless it had a bit of flavoring. He smiled again. Maybe he'd do it that way. Time would enlighten as to the best method.

  After placing the knife to the right of the bullets, he settled onto his leather couch, closed his eyes, and opened himself to the universe.

  Soon, it told him, and he believed.

  Cameron sat waiting for Ann in the Ski Inn, soaking in the smell of fried onions and sautéed mushrooms, thinking about Susan's words. What kind of life was he recording?

  His dad's trips to Africa, the free medical treatment he gave to thousands—definitely worth recording. And the joy his father brought to people with his universal acceptance and uninhibited laughter? Write it down.

  Jessie's volunteering downtown at the Union Gospel Mission, taking those kids from the cancer center up flying? Leading that Bible study for those girls? Pen and paper time.

  Following God gave them purpose.

  But Cameron's life? Sure he coached the kids in Little League and gave extra attention to the boys who didn't have a dad at home, but there wasn't much else.

  He plopped his briefcase in front of his silverware and let his head slump forward behind it. It reminded him of hiding behind snow forts as a kid. Why couldn't the days be that simple again, his quest nothing more complex than smacking another kid in the head with a snowball?

  Cameron took a drink of his ice water and smacked the glass back down loud enough to get the couple three tables down to look his direction. What hard evidence did he have after talking to Susan? He yanked his notepad out of his briefcase. Nothing.

  Describing his emotional state as frustrated was an understatement. He wanted to rip the town apart and force them to give him an answer. Was he the Fool on the Hill? Was he crashing through the underbrush, chasing smoke, trying to find a fire that didn't exist?

  Internally he swore at Susan, Taylor, Jason, and everyone else he could think of. Why wouldn't anyone give him a straight answer?

  He was finding clues but too few and not fast enough. One led him to another leading to another like a stack of Russian babushka dolls, except this stack never seemed to end.

  Cameron sat up and rubbed his ears with the palms of his hands, then his eyes. As his vision cleared, he focused on the yellow pad in front of him. Five pages of notes, plus a reconstruction of the ones that were stolen. Sometimes he could remember every line; sometimes he couldn't remember a quarter of what he'd written down. He circled a few lines in red ink, then closed his eyes and let his head fall back against his chair.

  Was the memory loss accelerating? He refused to let himself think about it.

  He glanced at his watch—6:50—then closed his eyes. Ann should be here in ten.

  "You look tired."

  Cameron jumped and opened his eyes. Taylor Stone stood in front of him, arms folded, smile on his face. He had his signature Oregon Ducks hat on, this one crisper than the one he'd worn at the creek. Probably even had one with a little bow tie on it for formal events.

  He had to snap out of his descent into desolation. He wouldn't get much pity from Stone, and people didn't reveal their secrets to Eeyore. Be charming outside, even though his insides felt like grapes in a winemaker's vat during crushing season.

  "Don't you know as a self-respecting Husky I should rip that thing off your head?"

  Taylor opened his eyes wide. "Huskies respect themselves? I learn something new every—"

  "Do all Ducks have a proclivity for talking in cliché's? Or is it just you?"

  "'Proclivity.' Is that really the way video producers talk in Seattle, or are you trying to impress me?"

  He offered his hand and Taylor grasped it in a warm handshake.

  "Good to see you. Is this a regular hangout for you?" Cameron said.

  "No. It's just where I knew I'd find you."

  "And how would you know that?" Cameron leaned back, twirled his pen, and gazed up at Taylor's knowing smile.

  "I didn't." Taylor chuckled. "I actually had no clue. This is the fourth place I looked."

  "Would you like to sit down and tell me where I can find the Book of Days? Or can I simply abduct you at gunpoint and force you to tell me what you know about it?"

  Taylor stared at Cameron.

  "At some point you're going to trust me." Cameron took a long look at Taylor and smiled. "I know it won't be this moment, but think about it."

  Taylor sucked in a quick breath. "You and I need to go for a drive, my Husky friend."

  "Sorry, I can't. I'm meeting someone here in a few minutes."

  "Your choice."

  Cameron clicked his teeth together. Ann would understand. "Let me make a quick phone call."

  "I'll be outside. If you're not standing beside me in two minutes, I'll assume you don't want to talk."

  "I'll be there."

  Finally. Taylor Stone was going to grab a can opener and let the beans spill.

  As Cameron walked out, he spied Kirk Gillum and a woman sitting at the bar.

  "How's your search going, Mr. Vaux?"

  "Not a lot of progress, but I'm still looking."

  "Good for you." Kirk took a drink of what looked like scotch and soda. "Listen. I'm sorry about the day we met if I was a little rude. I've been burned, you understand."

  "No problem."

  "I hope the book fairy tale comes true for you, and you find what you're looking for."

  Cameron frowned. "I thought you were one of Jason's followers."

  "I am, and the idea of the book is real. But the book isn't real. Do you understand?"

  "Yeah." But he didn't understand. If Jason was pushing the book as genuine to his disciples, why wouldn't Kirk support that belief? And why did he care what Cameron believed?

  Kirk turned back to the bar. "Take care, Mr. Vaux."

  The inside of Taylor's Toyota Tundra matched the outside. Spotless. It didn't have that new car smell but looked like it should.

  Neither man spoke as they pulled into traffic and headed for the east side of town. As the Three Peaks High School football field came into view, Taylor broke the silence. "I bled and danced on that field. Three golden years. Even had a few scouts send me letters, small college only, nothing impressive, but I did love the game."

  "I understand you were pretty decent at basketball too."

  "I see you've been conversing with Arnold Peasley."

  Cameron smiled and nodded.

  "That there?" Taylor pointed to an old mechanics shop with a 1912 Model T Ford sitting out front. "That's where Mr. Gowner taught me to tweak on cars till they purred like well-fed tabby cats.

  "Look at those freestone peach trees over to your left. Tending to them was my first summer job. Thirteen years old and they told me to plant them in perfect rows. From smooth tender shoots to hardened, twisted peach trees in forty-five short years." Taylor sighed.

  "Kind of like you, huh?"

  Taylor jammed his forefinger at Cameron. "Watch it, punk."

  "I've heard it said confessing to a stranger is often easier than those closest to you."

  "For some. Am I about to be glad or regretful that I don't know you?"

  Cameron propped his elbow on the open window and laughed.

  "What? You think if you confess something to me, I'll be obligated to reveal one of the dark secrets you imagine I carry?" Taylor said.

  "Something like that."

  "First, I don't have any secrets, dark or otherwise. Second, I'm not in the habit of confessing to anyone. Nice try."

  Cameron watched the river bordering the highway churn and pummel its rocky bank. "After my wife Jessie died, I did my job every day, never missed work, but I was drunk every minute for six months."

  Taylor glanced at him. "Did you wind up taking a ride on the alcohol-addiction wagon?"

  "No, I suppose I just wasn't made that way. I never had to have it, but I sure wanted it. If I'd gone by the AA definition, I was a full-bl
own member of the drinking consignetti. But when I stopped, I quit cold turkey, no temptation to overindulge again."

  "What made you hit the brakes?"

  "Almost making my car into a toaster oven with me inside. And I knew it would break Jessie's heart to see me that way. My dad's too. I vowed to them I'd never drink again."

  "Oh, really? You think they see you from the great beyond?"

  "I'm an agnostic, not an atheist." Cameron put on his sunglasses. "So I don't know what's out there. Sometimes I think I feel her, feel my dad. Spirit world, heaven, maybe they're there right here now. I wish I knew for sure."

  "Me too."

  Cameron cocked his head. "I thought you were a God person."

  "I am. That doesn't mean doubts don't sometimes worm their way into my mind." Taylor pulled into a deserted park on the outskirts of town. The sun was starting to set behind thin clouds as they got out of Taylor's truck and walked across the parking lot.

  "So what's your current drug of choice, Cameron?"

  "Rock climbing."

  They trudged along a path that wound up the side of a hill, putting them two-hundred feet higher within fifteen minutes. After they both caught their breath, Taylor pointed out the three peaks the town was named for. The mountains—snow covered even in the heart of summer—were framed by two ponderosa pines that stood thirty feet in front of them. Postcard perfect.

  "Do me a favor and stand right . . . here." Taylor stood behind Cameron holding his shoulders and moved him back a few feet to the right. "Take a close look now."

  Cameron stared at the peaks. Taylor had brought him here for a reason, but Cameron doubted if the man would tell him why. Like a rabbit that bolts at the slightest movement, he sensed the man would clam up the moment he pushed him.

  He'd seen the peaks hundreds of times since coming to town: on postcards, placemats, and around every corner of Three Peaks. But something here was different. The angle? The time of day? He couldn't tell. It reminded him of something and made him wish for his notebook.

  There. That was the difference. The angle of the sun on the mountains formed a shadow that mimicked an arrowhead perfectly. And the arrowhead shadow pointed to a spot that looked like a tunnel burrowing into the mountain.