So arbitrary. So meaningless.
Lowered voices outside the door interrupted his thoughts. There was a knock, then Henry Greenbloom entered holding a manila folder. He was a thin, pale, angular man who kept his eyes fixed on the bed as he greeted Ross. Lauren's mother, Diana Wharton, followed with his father. Sam Kelly was a big man, a farmer with calloused hands and a craggy, weathered face, while Lauren's mother was an elegant, alabaster-skinned academic from Manhattan, yet they had become friends. They had lost their partners at about the same time, but the reason for their mutual liking was simple. They were decent people who respected each other and loved their children.
Greenbloom pointed to the chairs arranged by the bed and met Ross's eye for the first time. 'Shall we sit?' His tone was clinical and detached. 'It's important you all fully understand the situation. The fact of the matter is that even if Lauren does come out of her coma, which is unlikely, given the head injuries she sustained, she may well be brain-damaged and paralysed. Her spinal cord hasn't been severed, but the damage between the C3 and C4 vertebrae may have left her paralysed from the neck down. She needs a ventilator to breathe and that may not change.'
Ross glanced at his wife and wondered if she could hear the surgeon's bleak description of her future – or lack of it. Through the window, he heard a car start, someone say a cheerful farewell, and laughter. It was difficult to accept that outside this room life was continuing as normal.
Greenbloom went on: 'The better news is that because Lauren's head and neck absorbed much of the impact the baby is still viable.' Ross felt a painful jolt of hope. Greenbloom produced a scan from his folder. 'According to Obstetrics, the foetus is about the right size for sixteen weeks, measuring around four and a half inches from crown to rump and weighing two point eight ounces. Ultrasound examination reveals clear activity. There's a long way to go, and we'll need to monitor the situation constantly, but it's possible that the baby will reach full term in Lauren's uterus.'
'What about Lauren? What are the options?' said Ross.
'Barring a miracle, there are two. We wait indefinitely for Lauren to come out of her coma, hoping she won't be paralysed or too brain-damaged.' A pause. 'Failing that, after an agreed period of time, we turn off the ventilator.'
'And let her die?' Ross said, horrified. 'What about stem-cell therapy and all the other cures you guys are meant to be working on? I've read there might be a breakthrough in healing spinal-cord injuries in the next few years.'
'There might be, Ross, but I can't see Lauren waking again, never mind walking. The bitter truth is that there's not much more that we or any medical team in the world can do for her. It's the baby we have to focus on.'
Diana Wharton wiped her eyes and reached for the scan. 'Is Lauren suffering?'
'No.'
'And there really is hope for the baby?'
'Yes.'
She turned to Ross and his father. 'That's something, isn't it?'
Sam Kelly rested a hand on hers and smiled. 'That's a lot. There's always hope.'
Ross felt a rush of admiration for his father. A hardworking farmer, beset by disappointment and tragedy, he had learnt to accept and look beyond both. He remembered the day when his father had told him his new baby brother wasn't coming home, and that his mother couldn't have any more children. He had gone on to say he felt blessed that his wife had survived and that Ross should feel glad he still had a mother. Even when cancer had taken her a few years ago, his father still counted himself fortunate for the time he'd had with her. But Ross couldn't be so stoical. He couldn't just accept what was going to happen. Was Lauren at peace in a dark, dreamless sleep or, as in his nightmare, was she calling to him, desperate to be rescued?
Greenbloom stood up. 'We'll do everything we can for the baby. I just wanted to make sure you knew the facts of the situation so you could prepare yourselves for every eventuality.'
Ross blinked back tears of grief and frustration. He had made a career of finding what others couldn't but now, when it mattered most, he was useless. Her mother passed him the scan and he saw his own grief reflected in her face. Then he saw his father's sadness and compassion. In both he witnessed something else: resignation. They were already making their peace with whatever would happen to Lauren and pinning their hopes on their grandchild.
Ross couldn't do that. He studied the scan. The foetus looked like a baby: there was fine hair on its head; its fingernails were formed; the legs were longer than the arms. He wanted a child more than anything in the world, and he wanted it to have the brothers or sisters he had never had, but he didn't know the baby. He did know and love Lauren. He realized guiltily that he would gladly give up the baby to save his wife. His chest tightened and the blood pounded in his head. Whatever the doctor had said about Lauren, and whatever hope there was for their baby, Ross wasn't ready to give up on her. Not yet. Not ever.
13
Yale University, that evening
'Could you please tell me where Dr Lauren Kelly's office is?'
The young student shook his head. 'Sorry, Sister. Yale's a big place. You'll need to ask at Administration. They'll point you in the right direction. Go to the red-brick building, turn left through the arch and it's the big stone place on the other side of the green.' He checked his watch. 'It's getting late but someone should still be there.'
'Thank you.'
'You're welcome.'
As she walked off, leaning on her stick for support, she could feel herself tiring, but soon she'd be able to rest. She enjoyed strolling through the campus. Yale's leafy academic calm contrasted agreeably with the rush of the modern world, and reminded her of a more reflective age. The quiet didn't quell her excitement, though. Her heart was fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird. She was to be rewarded for her patience. The wait was over.
She smiled, suddenly grateful for the technology of the modern world. Jet planes had whisked her from Entebbe to London to Geneva. There, she had finalized her financial affairs and retrieved the item she kept in the bank's safe-deposit box, then flown on to New York. Without the Internet she couldn't have learnt so quickly of Dr Kelly's achievement. God had been smiling down on her that day at the Jambo Internet café when she had found Lauren Kelly's synopsis on the Yale website.
She opened her case, ignored the vacuum-sealed parcel she had retrieved from Geneva, and took out a creased printout. She reread the first lines of Dr Kelly's synopsis and crossed herself. She had forgotten how many times she had despaired of this day ever coming. It was appropriate that it should happen here, a few hundred yards from where the original lay in the Beinecke Library.
She walked into the stone building the student had mentioned and approached the reception desk. The two women behind it were collecting their handbags, getting ready to leave for the night. 'Can I help you?' asked the younger.
'I hope so. Where can I find Dr Lauren Kelly?'
The young woman looked down at her screen. 'I'm sorry. She hasn't been on campus for some days and we've no date for her return—'
'It's okay, Maisie. I'll deal with this,' interrupted the older woman. She adjusted her spectacles and smiled sympathetically. 'Maisie's new here. Is this to do with all that's happened, Sister?'
Sister Chantal fingered her crucifix, dismayed that Lauren Kelly's achievement was already making waves. 'Yes . . . yes, it is.' She had hoped the translation would attract little attention until it was completed. And without her help she was confident that that would never happen. 'Do you know where I can find her?'
'Yes. I'm sure we have the name of the hospital on the computer.'
'Hospital?'
'I assumed you wanted to visit Dr Kelly there because of her injury.'
An icy hand squeezed Sister Chantal's heart. 'Injury?'
The woman frowned. 'You don't know what happened?'
14
A few miles away, Ross Kelly was still trying to process Greenbloom's chilling prognosis. As he left the Sacred Heart Hospital, he felt
curiously drawn to its small chapel.
If the total life of Earth was scaled down to a twenty-four-hour day, then mankind had turned up in the last few seconds – so it was odd that God should have created man in His own image. It made much more sense that man, with his evolved consciousness, had created God. It was one of the things Ross and Lauren had argued about from the very first time they met. He envied the comfort her faith brought her, and marvelled at how believers always credited God with the good things but never blamed Him for the bad.
His mother's faith had comforted her, too, in times of crisis. When she had miscarried, she didn't blame God but sought Him out. And when she developed cancer, she had prayed to Him to give her strength. Even Ross's father found solace in accepting adversity as God's will. But Ross couldn't. He wanted to believe there was some divine order in the world: it made it so much easier to accept everything. But there was no evidence. Over the last few weeks, he had prayed for Lauren, but he had sensed only a void. The few times Ross had glimpsed a spiritual dimension, it had been in the wonders of the natural world: the crystal formations in the vast cave of Lechugia, the Ozark mountains at dawn near his father's farm. Even the awesome history of the planet could make him reconsider his place in the scheme of things.
If God did exist, Ross had no time for the religions that had claimed Him as their own. It amazed him that believers – Christian, Jew or Muslim – could ruthlessly dismiss all other religions and not understand why he might want to dismiss theirs. Religion had done him one small service, though: as a boy he had joined the church choir and from that had learnt he had inherited his mother's perfect pitch.
Perhaps it was those happier memories that now drew him to the silence of the empty chapel. With its faint smell of incense, the pale wood pews, smooth white walls and contemporary stained-glass windows it offered a peaceful haven from the worries of the world. He took a seat at the front, looked up at the cross and wondered why religions cared more about a person's faith than what he or she did with their life. Why did we have to believe in God to be saved? Was He so vain, insecure and petty that He needed us to recognize Him? Why couldn't we just live good, worthwhile lives? Why did He allow Lauren to suffer when she believed in Him, but spared Ross who didn't?
'May I sit here?'
Ross jumped. He turned to see a priest standing in the aisle. There was something familiar about him. 'It's your chapel,' he said. 'I'm not a believer.'
The priest smiled. 'We all believe in something. Faith is what separates us from beasts.' He sat down beside him. 'And this is your chapel. It was intended for people in your predicament, Dr Kelly.'
'You know my name.'
Another smile. 'I'm a great admirer of your wife and her work, which deserves to be more widely appreciated. She deserves to be more widely appreciated.'
At that Ross remembered who he was. 'You were at the Beinecke when Lauren presented her translation of the Voynich.'
The priest held out his hand. 'Father General Leonardo Torino. Yes, I was at the Beinecke. When I learnt what had happened to your wife I had to approach you about her work.' He paused. 'May I explain? Or would you prefer me to leave you alone?'
Since Lauren's lecture, many academics, journalists and general Voynich fanatics had crawled out of the woodwork, demanding to know if she would recover, and when she expected to publish the complete translation with full supporting documentation. Some had even camped outside his house for a few days. He had changed his phone number to stop the calls, but still had to sift through a vast pile of mail each morning. Two days ago Bob Knight had demanded access to the files and notes Lauren had stored at home so that the university could validate and complete her work. Ross had refused, telling him that she, and no one else, would finish it. It angered him that people were waiting like vultures for her to die, desperate to pick over her discoveries. 'You came about the Voynich?'
'Yes.'
'What's your interest in it?'
'It's very simple. I'm the Superior General of the Society of Jesus, and Vatican records show that a priest from my order, a Jesuit, wrote the Voynich Cipher Manuscript more than four centuries ago, but we haven't yet been able to translate his text or understand his illustrations. And although the original manuscript is here at Yale, we feel possessive of it. The story may only be a simple allegory, a parable, but we regard the Voynich as a valuable document created by one of our own and we want to reclaim its meaning. When we learnt of your wife's translation I approached her and suggested we combine our records with her excellent work to complete it. She declined, said she had problems with our making conditions on what she could publish. I was disappointed but respected her wishes. I kept the offer open.' A pause. 'Then I learnt of her injury and discreetly followed her progress. When my work brought me back to America I decided to make time in my schedule to visit you. It's hard to explain, but my order feels indebted to and responsible for her. We want her to be rewarded for her service to the Church, in this world and the next. We will, of course, pray for her and ensure she takes her place in Heaven.'
The word 'ensure' annoyed Ross. 'That's kind of you – but how do you know you hold the keys to Heaven?' Something flickered in the priest's dark eyes – hurt or possibly anger – then was gone. 'No offence intended,' he added. 'It's just that I'd prefer your prayers to help Lauren in this world rather than prepare her for the next.'
'We can help her in this world. That's why I'm here. Our scholars are confident of completing the manuscript in due course, but with your wife's notes they could do it in a fraction of the time. Out of respect for her scholarship and wishes, we'd waive all conditions of publication. Naturally we'd give her full credit for the translation and compensate her financially – whether she recovers or not. The Holy Mother Church has significant resources and we'll do whatever's necessary – financial or otherwise – to help you both through this testing time.'
'You just want access to her notes?'
'Yes. Digital copies will suffice. As a matter of interest, do you know if they contain any mention of something called the "source" or its Latin equivalent, "radix"?'
He shook his head. 'I couldn't tell you. My wife kept her cards – and her notes – pretty close to her chest. Why?'
The priest made a dismissive gesture. 'It's not important. What is important is that her notes would allow us to finish translating the manuscript, and give her the recognition she deserves. I don't expect an answer now but please give it some thought.' He pulled out a card, handed it to Ross, then checked his watch. 'I have some business in New York tomorrow morning but must return to Rome in the evening. I'd be grateful if I could visit you before then to answer any questions. I want you to feel comfortable with entrusting your wife's work to us. May I call on you tomorrow afternoon? Say, about four?'
Ross nodded. 'That should be okay.' He found it reassuring that scholars who not only shared and appreciated Lauren's passion but also felt an ownership of the manuscript would complete her work. And it was important to him that she would receive full acknowledgement. He suspected that Knight would eventually claim her original files for Yale, and most of the credit for her work. Ross would talk to Zeb Quinn but he suspected she would agree to sharing the notes with Torino. If nothing else, it would keep Knight honest. He gave the priest his address.
'I'll leave you to your thoughts, Dr Kelly. Until tomorrow.'
Ross glanced at the Superior General's card. He couldn't help but be impressed that a man in his position had made time to visit him personally. Further proof that he was committed to Lauren's work. As he watched the priest leave the chapel, he noticed he had a slight limp.
15
The Source Page 7