“How was your climb?” Rachel’s voice came on after the first ring. They had spoken every day since the death that had traumatized them both. The outspoken grad student had been more of a comfort than his colleagues, all of whom were supportive but also awkward around him.
“I needed it. I’m at the office now.”
“I told you not to go back there yet.”
“Didn’t know where else to go.”
He glanced out the leaded-glass window into another misty evening. Even before the tragedy with Elijah, he’d preferred the quiet of late nights and early mornings in the lab. At ten thirty on a weeknight, the streets were quiet. He saw just a single student out for an evening jog. Obscured by the fog and only dimly lit by the yellow streetlamp, the student—some kind of athlete, Ethan thought because of his size—shortened his stride, came to a stop, and then bent over to tie his shoelace on the sidewalk.
“I found something strange.” He held up the Post-it note.
“In the lab?”
“A note Elijah left. Some sort of code.”
“Can you decipher it?”
“It looks familiar, but my brain has been kind of fuzzy.”
He knew it was time to wean himself from his nightly Ambien. More than a week or two of use would result in his developing a dependence on it. He hadn’t slept well after Natalie’s death either.
“What does it say?”
“I told you, I can’t figure it out.”
“No, the code, what is it?”
“Oh, sorry.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand that held his phone and then squinted his eyes. “HV5822 L91 L44 1985, 214”
He heard her writing as he read the code. She was silent for about fifteen seconds. Just before he was going to ask if she was still there, he heard her laugh. He couldn’t help but smile. Even though he didn’t know why she was laughing, her laugh was contagious.
“What?”
“You are tired, aren’t you?”
“You know what Elijah meant?”
“I’m heading out the door. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“You don’t have to come here. Just tell me—”
“I’m grabbing my bike now.”
Before he could protest further, she clicked off. He studied the note, frustrated that he couldn’t place what seemed so familiar yet was just out of reach. He felt conflicted about Rachel hurrying over to help him late at night. While he welcomed how understanding the insightful and attractive woman had been over the past few days, she was still a grad student and he a professor. He couldn’t allow himself to develop feelings toward her. He glanced back out the window; the jogger was gone.
Rachel bounded through his lab door, flushed from her ride, hair damp from the mist.
“That was fast,” Ethan said, unable to suppress a grin. In spite of his caution, he was happy to see her.
“Guess I needed the exercise too.”
She dropped her helmet and jacket by the door and pulled Elijah’s desk chair next to his. When she sat, their knees touched.
“Okay, show me this code.”
He handed her the Post-it note. She glanced at it for a few seconds and then returned it to him, smiling. “Yep, just as I thought.”
When she explained its meaning, he slapped the note onto the desk. “Of course! How did I not see that?”
“You’re exhausted.”
He rubbed his eyes and then massaged his temples. He knew that in response to the stress he’d been under his adrenal gland had been producing copious amounts of the hormone cortisol, which allowed him to work longer hours and continue to function, but the downside was that his body was starting to wear down.
“Yeah, I know.”
She leaned in toward him and put her hands on his knees. “Look, you just lost your mentor, a man who had become a father figure to you. It’s okay to grieve.”
Her eyes seemed to be searching his, as if she were trying to communicate something more than her words were saying. But he had never been good at reading people in that way.
“I’ve been thinking lately—” he began.
She threw her arms in the air. “Thinking! You can’t think or analyze your way out of this situation, Ethan. Sometimes you need to feel your way to the truth.”
“That’s what Elijah told me after Natalie died.”
“Who’s Natalie?”
“She was my fiancée.”
“The woman you were engaged to died?”
He felt his breath catch in his chest. He hadn’t spoken about Natalie’s death to anyone other than Elijah in years, but something in the way she stared at him, patiently waiting, caused him to open up that compartment in his mind. The story began to spill out. His words seemed to flow from him like a river winding its way through a valley without obstruction.
“A drunk driver? My God, that’s horrible.”
“The funeral was surreal. I still remember the texture of the mahogany wood of her coffin: cold and slick. The scent of flowers seemed to burn my nose. To this day I still can’t stand the smell of lilies. Then I had to smile and nod at the platitudes of those who came to pay their respects.” He shuddered at the memories he’d tried to keep safe in their dark home in his mind.
She took his hand. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. First your father, then Natalie, and now Elijah: you’ve had those closest to you suddenly taken away.” Her fingers interlaced with his. “And worse, you were helpless to do anything about it.”
“But I did have control with Natalie.” He swallowed hard. His throat had tightened, constricting his air. “I was driving the car that night. If my reactions had been faster, I might have been able to swerve out of the way when the other driver came into our lane. I might have saved her.” He swallowed again. “She died and I barely received a scratch.”
Her fingers tightened around his. “You can’t do this to yourself. In our interconnected lives, any control we think we have is only an illusion. You’ll never find peace if you play the what-if game. There will always be more ifs.”
He knew she was right. But then, there was still one piece to the story he had omitted; a fact he would keep locked away forever. He gazed at their hands, resting on his knee. Her skin was smooth and warm. As painful as talking about Natalie’s death was, he was surprised to realize that he felt some easing of the tension he’d been carrying in his chest.
“I wish I knew how to stop that,” he said.
“When I was in Kenya, one of the park rangers I worked with pointed out to me how the animals had an advantage over us in a strange way. Evolution has blessed us with minds that can reason and learn, but our minds also cause us to worry, to replay the past in an endless loop, and to project an infinite number of troubling futures. But the animals don’t have these concerns; they live in the present.”
“But my mind is my greatest asset. It’s how I make my living.”
“True, but are you in control of your mind, or is it in control of you?”
He’d never thought in those terms before. He’d always assumed that he was in control, but then he’d never really examined what he meant. He, Ethan Lightman, was a neuropsychologist at Yale studying the innermost workings of the human brain, but was he just his mind—his thoughts and conscious awareness—or was there something more? He thought again of Elijah and the Logos. Might their machine address this question?
Her eyes were still searching his. He smiled and released her hand. Somehow their roles had reversed. He was older, and he was the professor. Yet this student had challenged him to look at his life in a different way. He was feeling an inkling of a connection to her that he hadn’t felt in years, but that was as far as it would go. He glanced at his watch. He had just enough time.
“Thanks for listening to me ramble on, but the library closes in thirty minutes.” He peeled the yellow note from his desk—the one containing the code that Rachel had deciphered as a call number for a book in Sterling Memorial Library.
/> “Always happy to give unsolicited advice to a professor.” She winked as if to acknowledge the role reversal that had just taken place. Strangely, he didn’t feel uncomfortable with what had happened. “Can I come with you? I’d love to know what book Elijah was planning to check out.”
“Sure, I could use the company.” He told himself that her opinion might be valuable in case the book had something to do with the mystery of Elijah’s death. But the truth was that he enjoyed having her around, even though he knew their conversations had already become too personal.
As they hurried out of his lab, he shifted his attention to what might be waiting for them in the dark stacks of Sterling Memorial Library. Elijah had sent him a message from the grave. He had to find out what this book might reveal.
CHAPTER 23
THE MONASTERY
Something was wrong with the monk walking toward Mousa. He had just rounded the bend at the far end of the cloistered hall. The man was dressed in a brown cassock, just as he was; and like him, he was also accompanied by a young priest. The priest’s white collar seemed too small for his wide neck, and his short dark hair was matted with sweat from the effort of half-carrying the frantic monk.
When the two men reached him, he saw in the candlelit darkness that the monk struggling in the priest’s arms was also an Arab, like the other monks he’d seen in the monastery. His pupils were dilated, and they darted back and forth as his mouth produced a series of unintelligible grunts and whimpers.
“Hello, Brothers,” the approaching priest said through clenched teeth.
He found it strange that no one in the monastery addressed each other by name: it was “Brother” this and “Father” that. Still, the treatment he’d received from the American clergy was better than what he’d received from his own kind in the UAE prison. Soon, they promised, he would be well enough to go home to his family. In the meantime, all he had to do was humor their good-hearted but persistent attempts to convert him to their faith.
“He’s very ill,” the priest continued. “Going to the infirmary.”
The two priests exchanged concerned glances. He thought that he detected a slight shrug coming from his own companion. Then the deranged man caught his eye. For a brief moment the monk’s eyes locked onto his. The voice that came from him spoke in a high-pitched Arabic that communicated pure fear.
“I’ve seen him! Satan! Allah has sent me a vision of Hell!”
Before he could respond, the man’s eyes glazed over, and he returned to his babbling as the priest ushered him down the hall. During a rotation in a psychiatric ward as a resident, Mousa had seen a patient who had experienced a psychotic break with reality. This man’s symptoms were quite similar. Then, as now, he was surprised by the real terror such an experience had the power to induce. He then recalled the horrors of the secret prison and the tortures he had endured. Maybe this man had endured worse. Allah, praise these priests for helping, he prayed. But he suspected that the monk’s condition was more than they could handle here. He needed to be in a psychiatric hospital.
The young blond priest he’d met a few days ago spoke as if reading his thoughts. “He has suffered greatly. He may be beyond our care here. God’s plans for us are a mystery.”
“You believe that God plays with our lives as a chess master moves pieces around a game board?” The words came from his mouth before he had a chance to censor them.
He’d tried to keep his faith to himself during his stay at the monastery. How long had he been there? He wasn’t sure anymore. They never went outside, and he always felt tired. He couldn’t recall ever sleeping so much in his life. During the days (or nights, he wasn’t ever certain) when the various priests sat with him in his room, reading from the Bible and talking to him about their faith, he politely listened and occasionally nodded in agreement. He thought it best not to offend the men who were nursing him back to health. Anyway, he was already familiar with many of the stories they told him, since the Qur’an told many of the same tales.
“Just because we cannot understand God’s plan does not mean He doesn’t have one, Brother. Just look at the incredible design that is the universe we live in. How could there not be a plan?”
He weighed his response. Ever since he had taken up an interest in science as a young man—before he’d even thought of becoming a doctor—he’d begun to question the meaning of Allah. If Allah could just tinker with the world at will, then what meaning did the scientific laws have? Everything in his world, from televisions to airplanes, worked without exception because of fixed, unchanging scientific principles, not divine intervention. On the other hand, if Allah was only a creator deity who formed the universe and the laws behind it, but then left it to run itself, then why even believe in such a remote God? When he was seventeen and had finally gathered up the nerve to express his questions to his physics teacher, his teacher had given him a book of writings by the seventeenth-century scholar Mulla Sadra. That book had changed his spiritual life.
Mousa chose his words carefully. “Maybe our problem is in thinking about God as supernatural being.”
The young priest cocked his head. “But how else does God have meaning? How else can we account for existence?”
“What if, Father”—he found it strange to address a man two decades his junior as Father, but he respected their customs—“we see God not as an all-powerful, Zeus-like figure, but as something greater than a being? What if God is the essential source of being itself?”
The priest scrunched up his brow. “I’m not sure I see how that works.”
How did he explain what was impossible to explain? What was beyond words, beyond symbols, beyond understanding? Then he recalled an explanation his physics teacher had used after young Mousa had returned from reading Mulla Sadra filled with questions.
“Take snowflakes.”
“Huh?”
Mousa knew the metaphor was imperfect, as all such talk of Allah must be, but he tried to explain. “Think of each of us as a snowflake. Each snowflake is a unique individual with its own distinct, crystallized structure.”
The young priest thought for a minute and then said, “So you see God as the cloud that produces the snowflakes?”
He shook his head. “What if God is more like the water that makes up the snowflake? The water is not only responsible for the existence of the snowflake, it also links each individual snowflake with every other snowflake—each is unique, yet each shares its essence in an eternal connection with the others.”
The priest was silent as they approached the end of the hallway, where a pair of carved wooden doors with heavy iron hardware was set into the wall. Mousa had seen these doors numerous times on his way to the dining hall, whose entrance they’d just passed on his left. He knew that the doors led to the chapel, but he had never been inside it before. He turned to the priest, who rested his hand on the large iron ring that acted as a handle. Had he gone too far in explaining his understanding of Allah? The priest seemed to be contemplating his words, his eyes now fixed on the door before them. Then, with a slight shake of his head, the priest turned to him.
“Today is a special day, Brother Mousa.” The priest smiled. “You are about to meet the Bishop.”
He turned the handle, and the heavy door swung open without a creak or groan. The intense light that poured forth from the chapel rocked Mousa backward, blinding him.
CHAPTER 24
STERLING MEMORIAL LIBRARY
YALE UNIVERSITY
Ethan and Rachel climbed the stone steps of what appeared to be a tenth-century gothic cathedral. The imposing façade before them was actually the early twentieth-century Sterling Memorial Library, whose fifteen levels of stacks held over four million books.
Ethan pulled the iron ring on the heavy wood door, revealing a second, smaller glass door inside. They were the only ones entering at this late hour; weary students filed out past them. The heels from Rachel’s shiny black boots echoed in the cavernous and quiet hall. Ston
e buttresses rose from the floor, holding up arches far above their heads. The ceiling was carved from thick wood beams, while the stained glass windows in the side walls added to the cathedral atmosphere. Directly ahead of them, where the altar should be, was the main circulation desk. Ethan’s eyes caught the painting above the desk: a woman holding a book. The flat dimensions and rich gold and red colors reminded him of a pre-Renaissance painting. To his left was the main reading room with its arched windows, barrel vaulted ceiling, and walls lined with shelves of reference books. At almost any other time of day the long tables in the room would have been filled with students clicking away on their laptops, but now they were empty. He pulled the slip of yellow paper with Elijah’s writing on it from his pocket and approached the middle-aged woman with short mousey-brown hair and thick black eyebrows who was stacking books on a trolley behind the desk.
“Excuse me, can you tell me where to find this book?”
The woman peered from behind round wire glasses, looking him up and down. “Faculty?”
“Professor Ethan Lightman, Psychology.” He nodded to Rachel. “Ms. Riley here is one of my graduate students.”
“If you leave this with me”—she took the note from his fingers—“I can pull the book from the stacks in the morning and have it delivered to your department by lunch.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shifted from one foot to the other. “I hate to ask, but I really need this tonight.”
“Well, the stacks are open. You’re welcome to go up there yourself.” She glanced at the paper again. “HV—that’s political science. Third floor mezzanine.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking back the note.
“You need to hurry. Library closes at eleven forty-five.”
Turning to his right, he removed his wallet from his front pocket and approached another desk, this one smaller and lower. He held his Yale ID out to a man in a blue rent-a-cop shirt with a head of wispy gray hair. His attention on a magazine, the guard barely glanced at either his or Rachel’s IDs before raising a wooden arm that led to a bank of elevators.
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