The Burning Road

by Ann Benson

  It was denial, she realized. She grabbed her purse and ran out the door.

  The dark-paneled, brass-trimmed elevator she rode down on still looked like it belonged in the commercial bank that had once occupied the building, only to be gobbled up when its CEO and most of the board of directors bowed low to DR SAM and could not rise again. It was a classic case of mid-Outbreak consolidation, a corporate big fish displaying supremacy on the food chain by gobbling up a corporate little fish, with most of the benefit predictably falling into the laps of a few pushy but fortunate stockholders, who had the foresight to make hay while the plague raged.

  Her timing was luckier than it usually was—the bus that went to the university was just coming curbside as she skipped down the granite stairs. Janie passed her right hand over the entry sensor and boarded as soon as the door whooshed open, wishing she could justify the gas to make this trip by car. It would certainly take less time. Somewhere in Big Dattie the ticker on her bus rides along this route would go up one notch, as soon as the day’s ridership data were dumped into the system. But being single, childless, and without an aging family member to support put her into the lowest fuel allotment category, and she was using way too much of her annual gallonage on questionable little jaunts. So the ticker would continue to go up now and then. She made herself stop thinking about it.

  If they would just ease up immigration, maybe there would be enough workers so gas production could get back to normal, she thought wishfully as the bus pulled out onto the street again.

  Maybe Bruce could get in if he agreed to work for a refinery.…

  She hmphed at the ironic realization that her transoceanic lover, should he ever be successful in getting back into the United States, would make more money as a laborer in an oil field than he would in a hospital working as a physician.

  The National Hebrew Book Depository was a quick walk from the end of the bus route, down a slate pathway into the lush woods at the far southern end of the university campus. Tucked away harmoniously among the trees, it was a stunning contemporary building, one that managed to give the deceptive impression of being little more than a cabin in the woods, because its sprawl had been so artfully mitigated in good design. Janie knew from her research into the place that the depository boasted nearly unbelievable security, at the nearly obnoxious insistence of the curator she was going to see today. The rough-hewn exterior planking hid a bomb-, bullet-, and fire-resistant steel and concrete frame that protected the building’s precious contents from the malicious mischief that such a politically charged establishment was bound to attract.

  The curator, Myra Ross, was a compact, gray-haired sixtyish woman whose petite stature seemed incongruous with her immense personality. The first time they’d met, a couple of weeks before at the opening of an exhibit, the tiny woman had looked up at tall, lanky, still dark-haired Janie with undisguised envy, and then promptly tamed her with wit and charm and immense intelligence. Janie found that envy amusing, in view of the energy-per-cubic-inch that the curator seemed to possess, a vitality she considered impossible for herself.

  She greeted Janie on this day with a firm handshake in the reception area outside her office, and as she led Janie into her private lair she said, “I must tell you, Dr. Crowe, there is seldom so much intrigue surrounding a potential donation. I usually know the pieces that people contact me about. But you have me completely stumped and, I might add, fascinated.” She gestured toward a well-padded chair, into which Janie settled.

  In a quick glance around, Janie saw that the walls of the curator’s office were covered with an impressive array of award certificates and diplomas, all mixed in among photographs of the woman herself, beaming in the presence of a stunning assortment of celebrity contributors.

  “You’ve met Barbra Streisand?” Janie said in awe.

  “On several occasions. She’s been an outstanding supporter of the depository.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Oh, she’s lovely,” Myra said. “A lady. Unlike some of our contributors. ‘Here’s the check, now go away,’ some of them have the nerve to say. They don’t want to be involved, really. But Barbra actually came here for the private opening party. It was a thrill, let me tell you. And she is still a beautiful lady. We should all look so good.”

  “Not in this life,” Janie said with an ironic smile.

  “Yes, well … we all have our burdens. But you, may I say, have no reason to complain. Now, why don’t you tell me a little bit more about this book of yours. As I said, I’m intrigued.”

  Janie drew in a long breath. “I think it’s actually more of a journal than a book,” she said. “It was kept by a Jewish physician in the fourteenth century. It was passed down through a series of people who used it for what it was—which I think was essentially a health care manual. All of them wrote in it, but he was the first. And the most prolific.” She paused. “In all honesty, I would have been very surprised if you’d heard of this journal before now. It hasn’t ever been circulated, at least not that I’m aware of. It was in the same place for more than six hundred years, a little house outside London. There was a bit of what you might call ‘intrigue’ about the way it came into my hands. That’s why I’ve been somewhat secretive about it.”

  “I wish you would tell me how you acquired it, Dr. Crowe. I assure you I’ll keep anything you tell me in the strictest confidence.”

  “I understand,” Janie said quietly, “and I don’t doubt that you would. But there are some potential—illegalities, I guess you could say, about the way it came into my hands. I’m not sure it’s wise for you to know about them. At least, not any more than is absolutely necessary.” She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I feel at this time, though, that the book ought to be someplace safer than where it is now. So I’m beginning an investigation into where that ought to be. You’re my first stop.”

  Myra Ross gave Janie an unexpectedly stern look, the rough equivalent of a shaken index finger pointing straight at her nose. “You must tell me if it’s stolen. Because if it is, of course you’ll understand, we can’t possibly—”

  “No. I didn’t steal it. And I don’t think anyone else did, either. As I said, it was lost to the world for a very long time. Until the—well, let me just say that the journal’s last owner is dead—he was burned in the fire that destroyed that house.”

  It was a true statement, if somewhat stretched. “He had no heirs. I rescued the book when it happened. Otherwise it would’ve burned. That would have been a terrible loss, believe me.”

  “If it’s what you claim it is, that would certainly be true.” Myra leaned back and regarded Janie silently for a few moments, taking her measure. “So. You might want to place your journal here. Forgive me for being blunt, but I assume then that you want us to give you something back. That’s usually how it works.”

  “What I want is a guarantee of access to the journal, whenever I want. And your promise that if you buy it from me, it won’t ever be sold to anyone else.”

  “Well, I can promise you access only when the depository is open, unless you make the necessary arrangements ahead of time. We would try our best to accommodate you, if you place it here. But you understand that there are security considerations.”

  “Yes. Of course. That’s what I meant, anyway.”

  “And as far as selling it is concerned, any cloud on your ownership would pass on to us if we bought it from you, so we wouldn’t be able to turn around and sell it again. But your claim of ownership isn’t likely to raise the same sort of questions that ours might—so maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea for us to own it. There are lots of other possibilities. The first one that comes to mind is an arrangement that many institutions like ours favor—a ‘permanent’ loan under contract. That way the book would always belong to you. We would keep it here and display it, but it would still be your asset. You can borrow against it, if you need to raise money, remove it for personal use when you want to, and so on. Surely you’ve
seen placards in museums that say something like ‘On loan from the collection of thus-and-such.’ ”

  “I have. But I wouldn’t want my name posted.”

  “Then it could say ‘Anonymous collection’ if that’s what you’d prefer.”

  “That would be my preference, yes.”

  “It wouldn’t be a problem. It’s very standard practice to use that sort of notation. Now, if that arrangement is satisfactory to you, and you decide to choose us as the book’s new home, we’d have an appraisal done right away so we could be sure it would be properly insured. How much insurance are you carrying on it now?”

  “None, I’m ashamed to say. At least not beyond my normal homeowner’s insurance.”

  With a pointed stare, the curator said, “How do you sleep at night, Dr. Crowe?”

  Janie looked down guiltily. “I don’t know. Some nights, I don’t, to be honest. That’s part of why I’m here.”

  “Well, then, let’s do what we can to remedy that, shall we? Bring this treasure in for me to see. The sooner the better. And be careful.”

  The time difference was something Janie hadn’t gotten used to. She was still at work, and Bruce was getting ready for bed. They’d prearranged the call, but she was a few minutes late, so when she logged on there he was, smiling almost eagerly back at her from the computer screen, a vision in plaid flannel.

  “Nice pajamas,” she said. “Are they new?”

  “Yeah. You like them?”

  “I do.”

  “Harrods was having a sale. I picked you up a little something too. From the lingerie department.”

  “Ooh, show me!”

  “Nope. It’ll have to wait until I see you in person.”

  “Which will, I’m pleased to report, be next month.”

  “Really? Oh, my God, that’s great! Where are we going?”

  “You’ll never guess. Iceland.”

  His excitement toned down a little. “You’re right. That wouldn’t be someplace I’d guess.”

  “The travel agent says it’s actually quite a wonderful place.”

  “Janie, it’s a great big rock. In the middle of no where.”

  “Do we care? We’re going to be busy. And she’s going to send me a booklet, so when we’re not busy we’ll know what else to do.”

  “How long can you get away for?”

  “Five days, maybe six.”

  “Then we won’t need any booklets.”

  She laughed. “That was my thinking too. The agent’s going to get the final itinerary to me in the next couple of days.”

  “Good. You’ll beam it over.…”

  “Of course, as soon as I have it.” She paused for a moment. “God, I miss you. I know it doesn’t come through over the airwaves, but I hope you know it and feel it. I want you to feel it.”

  “I do,” he said. “I miss you, too.”

  “I’m sorry I was late calling.”

  “That’s okay; I wasn’t really sleepy, anyway. Been tossing and turning for a couple of nights now. Can’t seem to get settled—I have all this unspent energy.”

  She snickered naughtily. “Is there something wrong with your right hand?”

  “Ha ha. I’m a lefty, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s been so long I forgot. Anyway, I apologize. I had an important appointment.” After a moment’s pause, she said, “I went out to the Hebrew Book Depository this afternoon.”

  Bruce’s expression darkened slightly. “What for?”

  “I’m thinking about taking the journal there.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, here we go again … you promised me you wouldn’t obsess over it anymore.”

  “I’m not obsessing. I’m just—being careful. I’m worried—what if something happened to it? I would never forgive myself.”

  “Janie—what could happen? You have smoke alarms … you tell me it’s a very safe neighborhood.…”

  “It is, but there have been some break-ins not far from here. I’m afraid—”

  “And of course a thief is going to be looking for a moldy old journal, when all your jewelry is in the house. Come on. I don’t think you need to worry about its being stolen.”

  “Maybe not. But I do.”

  “Well, I think it’s completely unnecessary. But do what you want. I just think there are lots of other more important things to put your energy into right now.”

  There was a sudden lull in the conversation.

  “Speaking of which, is there any news?” Bruce finally said.

  With a sigh, Janie said, “There is. Tom told me my application for reinstatement has been denied again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bruce said quietly. He waited a long moment before asking his next question. “What did he say about the other thing?”

  “He hasn’t heard anything yet.”

  “Did they give him any idea when they might make a decision?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s a big drag.”

  Janie agreed with a nod. “I was really hoping we’d have a better idea of when by now.” She borrowed Tom’s words from the previous day’s conversation: “I guess we’ll just have to be patient for a little while longer.”

  “I guess. It’s just hard … but my God, we’ll see each other next month. It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve really seen you. In person, I mean.”

  She gave a sad smile. “That’s because it has.”

  It took a while to come down from the session with Bruce, so Janie stayed a little later at work to take care of some of the stupid mind-numbing details that comprised her job. She filled out observation logs, posted data, and saw to her correspondence, most of it electronic.

  She opened her mail utility to the usual funny little man in a U.S. Post Office uniform who came onto the screen and waved a handful of letters, the indicator that there were messages waiting. After doing a little tap dance, he expressed his readiness to serve all her mail needs.

  Make that male needs, Janie thought, and you’ve got a deal.…

  She composed and queued everything and sent it out. Then she picked up the waiting correspondence.

  As usual, most of it was junk. There was a brief love note that Bruce had sent before she’d spoken with him, and an invitation to attend a seminar on technology in medicine being sponsored by the medical school where she’d done her studies. A slew of unsolicited advertisements, which she gleefully disintegrated. Then there was a strange, short message:

  Who are you?

  Janie stared at the cryptic little communication, which was signed Wargirl. It had a needling effect on her psyche, and it intrigued her, though she wasn’t quite sure why.

  She studied the electronic details of the transmission. By its lack of flagging, it was a personal message, not a come-on advertisement or any other kind of disguised enticement. But that was about all she could glean, because the date and time of relay had been blocked out and there was no visible return address. The message was marked as being reply-primed, so Janie could answer if she wanted to. She just wouldn’t know where the reply was going.

  Why go to the bother of making it invisibly reply-primed? It was a complicated process, designed to make it inconvenient for crank e-mailers.

  So this either was not a crank or it was a very determined crank.

  “Okay, I’ll play,” she whispered aloud. Who wants to know? she wrote back.

  Wargirl. The nickname sounded young. Kids, she thought. Smart kids. Too smart.

  Then she made a few quick phone calls, the last of which was to John Sandhaus.

  “I did find something that looks like it’s worth pursuing, but not through the Ednet,” he told her. “There’s a site one of my students told me about. You outline your proposal and they match you up to a list of funders for the kind of work you’re interested in doing. Slide you through the whole process in a couple of days.”

  “Sounds too easy,” Janie said skeptically.

  “Well, of course. And there’s the ca
tch. They charge a one-percent fee if you actually get the money. Nothing if you don’t.”

  “I suppose it’s worth a shot, then, especially if it’s only a contingency fee. If they wanted money up front, I wouldn’t even consider it.”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t either. Why don’t you drop by and I’ll help you fill out the form?”

  “You’re actually volunteering to touch a computer?”

  “Who said anything about my touching it? You’re the one who’s gonna do the filling in. I’m just gonna stand behind you and bark instructions. It’s worth a shot, I think, and hey, what have you got to lose?”

  Potentially, some privacy—not that Janie actually thought she had much left. GetGrant wasn’t satisfied with her e-mail address and a description of the proposed work, which she entered in what was probably excessive detail. They also wanted to know everything else about her, nearly down to her shoe size.

  “Doesn’t it bother you,” John asked, “to give out all this information about yourself?”

  As she typed in the last few bits of information, Janie said to him, “I’m already so out there in everyone’s database that it almost doesn’t matter anymore. Sending this stuff out one more time isn’t going to make much of a difference in my life.”

  I don’t think, she added to herself.

  5

  The sound of the hooves reached the thicket where Kate and Karle crouched waiting. They listened, horrified, as the clop clop clop steadily increased in volume, mixing incongruously with the sweet chirping of small birds overhead.

  And then the hooves seemed nearly thunderous, their sound overpowering everything but Alejandro’s unmistakable signal. The birdcall cut through the buzzing of the insects and stilled the birds for the briefest of moments, until the muted choir fluttered upward and let loose a cacophony of caws, loud enough to awaken the poor soul who had just that morning been buried. Kate moaned, “Oh, Père …” as Guillaume Karle grabbed her by the hand and tried to pull her away.