Irrefutable Proof: Mars Origin I Series Book II

by Abby L. Vandiver

  “They read it. They googled me and found information about me going to Jerusalem.”

  “You mean when you went like seventeen, eighteen years ago?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Oh sorry. Thirteen years ago. But why are you so upset?”

  “I put everybody’s real name in there. Yours, mine. Oh my goodness, Greg’s. He is going to choke me. Man, Mase, didn’t you read my book?”

  He laughed. “You know I read that thing. But that was a long time ago.”

  I got up on my knees and faced him on the couch. “They know it’s true.” I started whispering, “And, they’ve read The Dead Sea Fish.” Tears were coming out of my eyes. “How could they have read it, Mase? It’s not even out yet?”

  “Who is this ‘they’? And stop whispering, we’re the only ones here.”

  “‘They’ are this woman and her book club. I just can’t believe this.” I fell back on the floor again, flat on my back, spread eagle.

  “Justin.” He pushed himself up on one elbow and looked down at me. “It’s okay. I thought you were okay with all this stuff, even putting real names in. Plus, you’re gonna tell everybody soon enough, anyway. Why are you acting like this? You want people to know the truth. You want to tell it.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  ‘Yes, you do.”

  “No. I. Don’t.” I sat up and glared at him.

  “Then why did you write the book?”

  “Because you told me to.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Cleveland Heights, Ohio

  October 29, 2011

  A warm breeze blew in through the French doors in my study. The wind, ruffling the leaves, sent them rushing, swirling around on the pebbled walkway.

  My mind was just like those leaves. Twirling in circles, going nowhere fast.

  I had been trying to reach Wilcox for the last week to see what else I needed to do. But their phone stayed busy. I couldn’t imagine they had that many calls or that they didn’t have lines that rolled over to an open line.

  Maybe I’ll just send them an email.

  They had sent me an email after I visited with confirmation that the books were set to be released on November 21. They sent my proof copy and told me they had sent out nine release copies.

  Yeah, I know, I thought. I got a call from the book club you sent them to.

  I remembered Kate Gianopoulos had told me, “We’ll do more with this book. More publicity. Get it out there. I think that we could do some advance reads.”

  Well, she definitely did that.

  It was really scary thinking about it going out with my name on it. All non-fiction like. No added back story drama and made-up antics between me and my siblings. Okay, so how they acted wasn’t necessarily made up. Claire and Greg are just as irritating as I portrayed them in the book. And my brother Doobie really thought (still thinks) that everybody in the Bible was Black.

  The Dead Sea Fish (almost changed that title after Mase made fun of it. But I think it’s rather scientific), would be the telling of the true beginning of man’s origin on Earth. I gave plenty of examples and said I would provide proof.

  I’m a scientist. I could do that.

  I was definitely going to be called out on this one. But no worries. Dr. Sabir had what I needed. His buried box would provide me with the proof I needed. All I had to do was get back to Jerusalem.

  The phone jarred me from my thoughts. I sighed. Then it rang again. It was Claire.

  “Hey, Sis,” I said.

  “What’cha doing?”

  “Sitting here thinking about when I’m gonna go back to Jerusalem.”

  “Going back? For what? You feeling okay?”

  “Yep. I’m good. There’s more to the manuscripts than what I’ve been telling everyone.”

  “Well, you really never told anyone.”

  “So then there is a lot more to the manuscripts than what I’ve been telling everyone.”

  “Why do you need to go back?”

  “To get the proof I need, so everyone will believe me. I don’t have the manuscripts, remember?”

  “That’s true,” Claire said. So, you’re going back to get the manuscripts? They were in pieces when we went there thirteen years ago. They’re probably in worse shape now.”

  “Not going for the manuscripts.”

  “No?”

  “No.” I paused. “You wanna come with me?”

  “Yep, just let me know when.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what we’re going to do, or something?”

  “Nope. I trust you. I gotta go. I’ma go to the gym. Better start working out a little more, just in case you have me climbing in caves or whatnot.”

  “We’re old ladies now, Claire, we can’t go around climbing into caves. But when you get out from exercising, you should come by here. I’m expecting some people. They know all about the AHM manuscripts. They found my books. They believe the story, and they want to come and talk to me.”

  “And you’re letting them in your house? Why didn’t you have them go to your office?”

  “Gotta start somewhere. Gotta talk about it at some point.”

  “Yeah, but not to every Tom, Dick and Jane who rings you up. And not at your house.”

  I smiled. Anyone with the Internet and who can type “whitepages.com” could get my address. I heard the doorbell ring. I knew Mase would not be moved from the game he was watching on his sports channel.

  “Bye, Claire. Gotta go. Someone’s at the door. See you in a little bit. Love ya.”

  “Me too. Is that your visitors?”

  “Don’t think so. Too early. Now bye, and don’t forget to come over as soon as you get out.”

  Claire, my younger sister, baby of our eight sibling clan, was the mother hen to all of us. She was going to try and protect me even if it was over the phone. I got up and headed to the front door.

  It couldn’t be them, I thought, glancing down at my watch. Too early. But it is close to that time.

  I peeked through one of the windows that flanked each side of the front door. It was a priest.

  “Oh my God,” I mumbled.

  Oops, I probably shouldn’t have said that.

  “Who is it?” I yelled through the glass.

  “Nikhil Chandra. Father Nikhil Chandra,” he yelled back.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Father Chandra said he was from John Carroll University.

  He handed me his business card that had their logo on it, his name, and a phone number. But it wasn’t embossed and looked more like it had been printed on a laser printer than at a printer shop.

  Standing with the door propped open, I asked, “How may I help you.”

  “I’m a Jesuit priest.”

  “Yes.” I said, smiling but thinking, what does that have to do with anything? But, I figured just like old people, you have to be nice to priests. But how nice, I wasn’t sure, seeing that I wasn’t even Catholic.

  “I understand that you are an archaeologist.”

  Wasn’t sure if that was a question or statement.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Do you mind if I come in,” he asked.

  “What is it that you need?”

  “I work on a committee that is assembling a team of scholars to go to Italy next May to work on deciphering the Voynich Manuscript. Have you heard of it?” he asked.

  I wonder if Dr. Abelson has something to do with this.

  “Are you needing my recommendation for someone? Is this for Dr. Hannah Abelson?”

  “Actually, it’s for you.”

  For me. Hmph.

  He looked harmless enough. But if he wasn’t, and I let him in, I wasn’t sure that Mase would hear my screams over him yelling at the TV. Sounded like his team was losing.

  I pulled the door open wider. “Sure. C’mon in,” I said. Stopping at the foyer table, I looked again at the card, flipped it over and back and stuck it in the table drawer.

  I walke
d him into the living room. He pulled out a pair of glasses, put them on, and started walking around the room as if he were surveying it. Surveying me. His glasses perched on his nose. He walked over to the front window, head down, then he lifted up his eyes over the rim of the glasses, looked out of the window, and turned to look at me. He stood there smiling with his hands behind his back. He had on a black shirt, white collar and black pants. He had brown skin and black hair, he looked about fifty. But really well-built for his age. And he didn’t look like a killer. So that was good.

  “Do you know the person parked out in front of your house in the dark blue Taurus?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, after going over to look.

  I gestured for him to take a seat in the chair by the window.

  “Did someone recommend me?” I asked sitting down on the couch, trying to push the conversation forward.

  “Yes. And we - ”

  “We?”

  “The Committee. The Committee thought that you would be a good candidate.”

  “I don’t know why,” I said. “I only recently learned about that book. I really have no interest in it. I don’t know what it is.”

  “I think perhaps it may be of some interest to you.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  How presumptuous of him, I thought. But before I could say anything, Mase popped his head in the room.

  “Justin,” he said and raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘What’s up with the priest in the living room.’

  “Mase, this is Father Chandra. Father Chandra, my husband, Mase Dickerson.” They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen, Justin, if you need me.” Mase eyed me and nodded at Father Chandra, who looked over at me and smiled.

  “You know that John Carroll is a Jesuit university?’

  “Yes. I know that,” I said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “The Voynich Manuscript came from a Jesuit library.”

  I shrugged. And? I wanted to say.

  “I guess you didn’t know that?”

  “As I said, Father Chandra. I don’t know much about the manuscript, book or whatever it’s called. And I’m not sure you have the right person. You never did say who recommended me.”

  “The book has been around for a long time and no one has been able to decipher it,” he said, seemingly ignoring my question. “Some people think that the book is a hoax. We, the Committee, have looked over your vita and found that you are fluent in several languages. And well equipped to translate difficult work. And, it would seem that you’re able to read hieroglyphs and some cuneiform, so that experience might help you work with symbols.”

  Again, wasn’t sure if that was a question or not.

  “The Voynich Manuscript,” he continued, “could turn out to be a very important document.”

  “I don’t think it would be of any interest to me. As I said, I could recommend someone who may be interested. Hannah Abelson. She’s a Professor Emeritus of Semitic at Case. She’s an expert on languages and has already started work on deciphering it.”

  “We’ve looked over your work,” he said, again not paying any attention to what I was saying. “Read several of your scholarly articles. Very impressive.” He smiled and nodded at me. “We also see that you’ve penned a work of fiction.”

  My breath caught at the back of my throat. What the heck! People who read my book were coming out of the woodwork. He took off his glasses and looked me in my eyes. As if he had said something profound. I guess he didn’t realize talking about that book made me nervous. I didn’t say anything for a long moment, and neither did he.

  Finally, I stood up. “Father Chandra, I really appreciate your Committee thinking of me. But I don’t think this is for me.” I walked toward the front door. It was time for him to go.

  He stood up and just stood there. He looked as if he was thinking. Perhaps about what he could say, or do, to convince me.

  No such luck, buddy, I thought.

  I knew that no matter what he said, I didn’t want anything to do with working on a committee to decipher that manuscript. I really didn’t work well with other people. Plus, I had enough to do trying to find ancient manuscripts left by our people from Mars.

  “Okay,” he said, still smiling like the Cheshire cat. “If you change your mind, you have my number. Invitations to those selected will go out in May. I’ll need to know before then.”

  “Yes, I do have your number.” I pointed to the table drawer where I had stuck his card. “And thank you. Thank your committee, too, but tell them I’m not interested.”

  He walked past me slowly, heading toward the front door. I opened it for him, and was met by three people standing there, one with her hand up, ready to knock. Father Chandra stopped, looked at them, then turned and looked back at me. And, before I could say anything, to any of them, I heard Claire coming in through the back. She must’ve skipped the gym.

  Lord, my house was crawling with folks. It was worse than a tenement house with a roach infestation.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “So how can we help you get proof?” Addie said, sipping the coffee that she had me make a whole pot of. She was lucky Mase’s uncle had come to stay with us when he had some tests done over at Cleveland Clinic, because I never would have had the stuff in my house.

  My visitors consisted of three people from the Westbury End Book Club in Baltimore, Maryland. They had come to Cleveland because, it appeared, the ring leader, Addison “Addie” Hayes, believed every word I’d wrote in my two books. And she wanted to help me “get the evidence” so “we” – I’m guessing that included her – could tell the world. She, her friend Rennie Brown, and her twin brother, Jack, a Major in the USAF, and me and Claire sat around my kitchen to discuss how she help me.

  “Addie,” I said. “I appreciate you wanting to help. But I really don’t think that there’s anything you, or any of you could do,” I looked at each one of them. “It’s not a game like Clue. It takes more than following directions on a card to find out it was Colonel Mustard who killed Mr. Boddy in the Conservatory with the candlestick. When I determine the truth behind ancient artifacts, I scrutinize them, ponder over them and run rigorous tests based on information gathered from years of research by other scholars and scientists. From tons of scholarly articles. Tons of other disciplines. It certainly isn’t like it is on TV or in books.”

  “We can be your Dr. Watson,” Addie said.

  “Or like Miss Marple,” Rennie added. “An everyday person who solve mysteries.”

  “You’ll need us, because there’ll probably be government officials after you.” Addie glanced at Jack, “Although we do have one government official on our side, my brother. But I’m sure,” she said, “they’ll be nutcase zealots, hired assassins and other scholars in a race to find the proof first. We can watch your back.”

  “None of those things will happen,” I said.

  Claire laughed. “Yeah, but that’s just how you were thinking when we went looking for the manuscripts the first time. Greg had to constantly convince you that your murder and mayhem conspiracy theory plot wasn’t real.”

  I bit back a laugh. I did think people were out to get me. Not that I necessarily wanted the three people sitting at my kitchen table to know that.

  “It’ll be like the book Skeleton’s In God’s Closet,” Addie said. “You ever read that,” she asked me.

  I shook my head no.

  “In it people are trying to push this girl off a cliff and down into caves all because of what they found at an archaeological site,” Addie said and then looked at Rennie. They both giggled.

  “Yeah, but what she found was real,” Addie said and pointed at me.

  Those two had a book scenario for everything we talked about.

  We’d been talking for over an hour about my books and “my quest” as they called it. And I found that I actually enjoyed talking about it. It’s not like I had many p
eople I could talk about it to.

  Addie had seemed to become an expert on the subject. She pulled out my books. They were dog-eared and plastered with different colored sticky notes. That was a part of a coding system, she explained to me. Seemed like it was going to be hard to convince them that solving mysteries didn’t happen like it does in the fiction she reads. She didn’t seem to care, though. She was in. One hundred percent. She took right to me, calling me Justin, acting as if we were old friends. Made herself right at home.

  But not Jack.

  Addie’s twin brother, Jack didn’t strike me as just a tag-along, or a ‘the Martians did it’ convert. He wasn’t as invested in helping me solve the mystery. He stood, leaning up against the sink. His arms folded over his chest, he stared at me most of the time we talked. I offered him a seat, but said he preferred to stand. I was just going to ask his opinion on what his sister was saying when the phone rang. I looked at the Caller ID on my cell. It was Simon. This was the third time he had called this week. I missed the other two calls and hadn’t called him back.

  Must be something important.

  “Claire. Hold down the fort,” I said. “I’ve gotta take this call.”

  I walked over to the family room that was an extension of the kitchen, and picked up.

  Not his usual flirtatious self, Simon wanted to know if I had any more questions about the Book of Enoch. I asked if that was what he had called so many times about. I thought perhaps something was wrong. No, he assured me, he was fine, although he didn’t seem his normal self. I told him that I had done some studying on my own, but not much. And for some reason, I told him about my upcoming trip to Israel. Then he turned into Professor Abelson, throwing a bunch of questions at me.

  I swear. It was more than I could take. So many people coming to my house. So much confusion in my head. So much noise from the cacophony of voices echoing through my kitchen.

  Book of Enoch. Voynich Manuscript. Fictitious assassins.

  My mind was being bombarded with too much stuff.

  I hung up from Simon. Told him I’d call him back when my house cleared out. And as soon as I walked back in the kitchen, Jack Hughes walked up to me and said, “I need to know what you know about nuclear activity on Mars.”