The Ghost Manuscript

by Kris Frieswick

  “She’s a beauty,” said Carys, pointing at the boat. Fiona turned into an office. She followed.

  “Yeah, she’s just a couple of years old,” said Fiona. “We’re very proud of her.”

  “Do you go out?” asked Carys. Fiona reached up into a shelf behind the desk.

  “Sure do,” Fiona said.

  “What’s the roughest stretch of water along the northern Welsh coast?”

  Fiona turned to her and smiled.

  “It’s all rough.”

  She pulled down a map book, placed it on the desk, and flipped it open. She pointed to a spot on the map.

  “Welshpool,” Fiona said. “And here’s Shrewsbury.”

  Carys leaned in and examined the map in detail. By walking along any of the rivers near those two towns, someone could get from Welshpool or Shrewsbury up into the mountains within a couple of days. But this information was of no help. The map labeled the mountainous area Snowdonia, colored the dark green of a designated national park, with tightly stacked elevation marks running through it showing the steepness of the terrain.

  “What’s the roughest water along the coastline up here?” she asked, pointing to two peninsulas, each one with a large island at the end of it, along the coast west of Snowdonia. “If you wanted to sail from the coast south or north of these two peninsulas, would that be a very bad sail?”

  “Not particularly,” said Fiona. “But the ocean can get very nasty along the entire coast depending on the weather and the tides. Calm one minute, maelstrom the next. But if you’re looking for rough”—Fiona pointed to a tiny island off the coast of the Llŷn Peninsula, which extended southwest away from the coastline—”that’s rough. Pretty much all the time. When the tide is coming in, the current around this island can get up to eight knots. I used to live up there and I’ll tell you, there were days when that water looked like a giant whirlpool. I half expected sea monsters to appear.”

  Carys leaned over and looked at the map closely. Bardsey Island. A small island about two miles off the tip of the Llŷn Peninsula. “Which way would the current go when it’s that fast, when the tide is coming in?” asked Carys.

  “North,” said Fiona. “Up through this channel here.” She pointed to the water between the island and the peninsula. “When the tide is ebbing, south, it’s not nearly as treacherous. Still pretty dicey though.”

  Carys thanked Fiona and left, even more confused than she’d been before.

  Strolling back down the pier, she stared out into the ocean. She could see the water level slowly crawling up the pilings beneath the pier. The tide here was a force that dictated all, and had done so since people occupied these lands.

  Jet lag was reasserting itself. She needed to move a little bit. Once off the pier, she decided to walk awhile along the boardwalk back toward town. About ten feet below was the mud of Swansea Bay, rapidly filling.

  She had been walking for about ten minutes when she came to a marina and boat ramp. A beat-up pickup truck was on the ramp, hauling a trailer carrying a large inflatable that had just been pulled out of the channel. A man wearing a wetsuit was unloading scuba gear from the inflatable into the back of the truck. He had a broad back and black hair, and despite the cool damp, he had the top of his wetsuit unzipped and draped down around his waist. His honed muscles flexed as he lifted the heavy tanks. Carys let her eyes linger on his back.

  The man turned toward the front of the truck and looked up at Carys. It was the man from the pub the night before.

  Their eyes met briefly, then recognition crossed his face. He smiled and nodded a hello. Carys couldn’t help it—she smiled back. Then she quickly turned around and headed to her car.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Carys got to her room just in time for another wave of exhaustion to come over her. Before she would allow herself to sink back down onto the bed, she had to call Annie and check in.

  “How is Nicola?” was the first thing she said when Annie picked up.

  “Not good,” said Annie. “Not good at all. I’ve been calling every two hours, and they downgraded her a little while ago.”

  Carys sat on the bed, staring at her shoes.

  “You alright?” asked Annie.

  “Yeah. I’m doing research, trying to figure out which island of the ten trillion islands on the coast is the one where they buried the King.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No, honey. The locals know this area intimately. I’m in the best place I could possibly be.”

  “Which is where, exactly?” asked Annie.

  She paused. She should tell her.

  Just then, Lestinus formed by the desk.

  “She does not need to know,” he intoned. “Her ignorance is safety.”

  Carys had to agree. “The less you know, the better,” she said.

  “That’s incredibly stupid,” said Annie.

  “I know,” she said. “I need to lie down for a little while. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Frank was lying on his couch, drinking a beer and watching a rerun of a Chelsea-Tottenham football match. It made him happy. His father had been a big Spurs supporter, and he’d given the bug to Frank. His mother would make them sausage rolls and keep the two of them supplied with beer as they watched the matches when he was young, back when they’d had enough money to pay most of their bills. That ended when his father bolted. Never saw the fucker again. His mother wasn’t qualified for any kind of work that might have earned enough to support the two of them. Poverty—and the Royal Navy for him—wasn’t far behind. The woman hadn’t deserved the life she got.

  He shook off the memory. He’d been home for less than forty-eight hours, and his shoulders were just beginning to relax—a condition that was always temporary—and he didn’t want to screw it up by thinking about his mother.

  The disposable cell on his coffee table buzzed. It was Gyles.

  “Frank, my man, two pieces of good news this morning,” said Gyles. He sounded light, almost happy. “We got a hit on Jones’s credit card. Rental car agency at Heathrow. Looks like the Jones woman is on the island.”

  “How did you—” he said.

  “When you have someone’s Social Security number, you can learn just about anything you need to,” said Gyles. “And Mr. Plourde has it, of course.”

  “Why would she come here?” he asked. “Wouldn’t it just be easier for her to hide back in the U.S.? It’s a big bloody country.”

  “Well, that leads us to the second piece of good news,” said Gyles with a smile in his voice. “Mr. Plourde informed me that he found a letter on Ms. Jones’s desk last night. It’s from her father. Plourde said he didn’t even know her father was still alive. Letter had a return address on it. In Aberystwyth.”

  Frank was silent.

  “That’s in Wales, Frank,” said Gyles.

  “Sure,” he said. He’d never heard of the town. He’d never been to Wales.

  “The father’s name is Anthony Jones,” said Gyles. “I’ll text you his address. I can’t pronounce these Welsh words. Sounds like you’re choking. Plourde googled the guy and said he’s a professor. And, based on the letter, he and the woman are not exactly on speaking terms and haven’t seen each other in a long time. But he’s her only living relative, so if I know my damsels in distress, she’s probably headed right there.”

  Frank’s piece-of-shit father hadn’t even called when his mum died. He’d never forgive him and he’d certainly never ask him for help—even if he knew where he was.

  “I want you to find the father and keep an eye on him for a couple of days in case she turns up there,” said Gyles. “I’ve got a man back in Boston keeping feelers out in case she pops up there. We’re tracking her cell phone, although she hasn’t used it since she disappeared.”

  Gyles let out a low,
sinister snicker.

  “Get up to Aberystwyth. Get eyeballs on the father. Call me when you find something. I’ve got a meeting in Lisbon tomorrow at the National Archeology Museum. A trafficked Roman bust from Iraq has landed there. God, this job is like shooting fish in a barrel sometimes. Anyway, if I don’t answer, I’ll call you back when I get somewhere I can talk.”

  “Sounds good,” he said.

  “Aberystwyth,” said Gyles, and laughed again. “Of all the bloody places. Once you find her, grab that manuscript and the translation and get them to me. You won’t even have to get your hands dirty.”

  Frank grunted. His hands always got dirty.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Carys napped for a couple of hours and woke famished. She put the books in her purse and headed down to the pub to have another steak-and-ale pie. She greeted Peter, who was pulling beer after beer for the thirsty after-work crowd of mostly men who were lined up at the bar. She ordered the pie and a Coke and took a seat, the same one she’d had the night before. She pulled out the translation and began scouring it again for anything that might now stand out—something, anything she might have missed on the first dozen readings.

  The pie arrived just as the pub door swung open and the dark-haired man strolled in. Small town. Same rhythms, night after night. He wore a green cable-knit sweater and dark blue jeans that were just a little bit tighter than they needed to be, and he was carrying a red rubber raincoat. His hair was dry this time and combed back. He didn’t notice Carys and instead greeted a friend at the other end of the bar. A male friend, Carys was happy to note. Not that she should care.

  Carys turned her attention to the pie. It was just as good as the one the night before. She shoveled several more bites into her mouth and then realized someone was standing at her table. She looked up. The man was standing there, smiling down at her.

  “Isn’t that just about the best pie you’ve ever had?” he asked.

  She tried to answer but her mouth was full. She raised her hand, signaled for the man to wait, and quickly swallowed.

  “Yes,” was all she could muster, faced with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

  “I’m Dafydd Reynolds,” he said. “You visiting?”

  “Here for work,” she said, trying her best to not stare at him.

  He pulled out the chair at her table. She slid the translation closer.

  “Is it interesting,” he asked, “your work?”

  “Yes. It is. Are you from around here?”

  “Yeah,” said Dafydd.

  “Jane,” yelled Peter. “If that bad man is bothering you, you just let me know.”

  Dafydd grinned and turned to the bar.

  “Sod off, you old git,” he said.

  Peter laughed.

  “Where you from, Jane?” Dafydd asked.

  “The U.S.,” she said, as she put the translation notebook back in her purse.

  “I sorta guessed that with your accent. What part?”

  “East Coast,” she said.

  “Boston, right?”

  She smiled but didn’t answer.

  “We get a lot of Boston tourists here. What do you do there?”

  She paused. He was entirely too inquisitive.

  “Not a trick question,” said Dafydd.

  Carys rallied quickly to find a suitable lie.

  “I’m a professor, geography, doing some research for a book,” she said. “How about you?”

  “I run a diving company. Take tourists out to wrecks, clean boat hulls, recover salvage. That sort of thing,” he said.

  “That must be fun,” she said.

  “It is. About half the people in this town do some sort of water-based activity, for work or fun. Diving, sailing, fishing, ferries, salvage,” he said. “What do you do for fun?”

  Again she paused, but this time it was because she wasn’t sure of the answer.

  “Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked. “I can go if I am. You just looked like you could use some company. I didn’t mean to intrude.” He began to push his chair away from the table.

  She took a deep breath.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just a little jet-lagged right now.”

  Dafydd pulled his seat back in.

  “I…I don’t do much of anything for fun,” she said. “Seems I’m working all the time. I like to read.”

  “But don’t you read a lot for work?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Yeah, I suppose I do. I guess I’m not really very interesting.”

  “Oh, that can’t be true. Geography is very interesting. And you obviously have an interesting job, because otherwise you wouldn’t be here. So, what are you working on these days?”

  “What do you do for fun?” she asked.

  “I like to dive,” said Dafydd.

  “But don’t you dive for work?” she replied.

  “I guess I’m not really very interesting either,” he said, and clinked his glass with hers. He took a long gulp. “Another?”

  “Uh, sure. It’s a Coke.”

  “That’s a crime here, you know.”

  “I know. I like living on the edge,” she said, warming up to the man despite her better instincts. He hopped up, got them two more drinks, and sat back down.

  “What’s your book about?” he asked

  Her mind scrambled. She sipped her drink to stall for time.

  “It compares ancient Roman place names with modern cities, geographic features—that sort of thing,” she said.

  “Have you been to the library yet? Celeste is pretty famous around here. She’s got books in that library that are so old, she keeps them in special cases,” said Dafydd.

  “I’ve met her,” she said. “I’m actually going back there in the morning to do some more research.”

  “What towns are you researching?” said Dafydd.

  Carys stiffened and he noticed.

  “Don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want,” he said. “Just thought maybe I can help.”

  “That’s very kind,” she said. She couldn’t help smiling. “But it’s unlikely you could help unless you have an encyclopedic knowledge of the rivers and mountains of Wales.” She sipped her drink.

  “Well, Miss Jane, as a matter of fact, I do,” Dafydd said, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. “I’ve been kayaking and hiking here since I was six.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Let’s give it a try. Have you ever heard of a river that starts in the mountains—”

  “They all start in the mountains.”

  “Like all rivers, this one starts in the mountains, and it has four waterfalls. Then it passes through a field filled with flowers, and then empties into the ocean,” she said.

  “Well, that could be any number of rivers,” said Dafydd. “But it sounds like it would be a Class Five river, with the waterfalls. Do you know roughly where it is?”

  “Very roughly. I think it’s within twenty or thirty miles of either Welshpool or Shrewsbury.”

  “That doesn’t narrow it down much,” said Dafydd. He pulled out his phone, typed briefly, and sat back.

  “There are about ten rivers up there that are Class Fives,” said Dafydd. “They all eventually flow down to the ocean. Some come out near Liverpool. Some come out near Barmouth, or Portmeirion, south of the Llŷn Peninsula. And some in between them.” He handed her the phone.

  Carys expanded the view on the screen. It was an alphabetical list of the most extreme kayaking rivers, posted on the North Wales Kayak Association website. She scrolled down slowly. Her head began to ache again just imagining how the words were pronounced. Afon Ceirw, River Clywedog, River Colwyn, River Conwy. Ugh. So many. She looked up at Dafydd.

  “Can you show me where these are on a map?” she asked.

  “Sur
e,” he said. “If you’re going to the library tomorrow, I can swing by and we can use one of the geographic survey maps. Those will be more accurate.”

  She looked back down at the list. Afon Croesor, River Einion, Afon Gamlan, Afon Goedel, Cwm Llan, River Lledr.

  She looked back up at him and examined his face more closely. Damn, she thought, those eyes.

  “I think that’s a great idea,” she said quietly, and took another sip of her Coke, which had become unsatisfying. “You know, I think I will have a whiskey.”

  Dafydd smiled. He got up and returned with two.

  “Here’s to kayaking,” she said, and clinked glasses with him. “What time can you meet me tomorrow?”

  “Early,” he said. “I have a client tomorrow.” Dafydd turned to the bar.

  “Pete! What time does Celeste open up in the morning?” he hollered.

  “She’s usually there by ten,” Pete hollered back.

  “Client’s at noon,” he said. “I could meet you there at ten.”

  “I would really appreciate that.”

  “You didn’t think I was going to be able to help you, did you?” Dafydd said, grinning.

  “No. I did not. But I am thrilled that you may prove me wrong,” she said.

  3

  Tuesday, June 19

  “Afon Gamlan.”

  Carys’s head hurt. She peeled one eye open.

  Lestinus stood at the foot of her bed. He looked agitated.

  “Afon Gamlan,” he said again.

  It sounded like he was saying “a-von come-lan.”

  She continued to stare at him.

  “Afon Gamlan,” he intoned again. “The river.”

  “What are you talking…,” she said.

  She stared at Lestinus for a moment longer, and he stared back. Then she heard what he was trying to tell her.

  She jumped out of bed and grabbed her computer and searched for the kayaking website she’d been reading on Dafydd’s phone the night before.

  Afon Gamlan. Right there in the list of the most difficult kayaking rivers in North Wales. How had she missed that? Dafydd’s eyes and the whiskey, most likely.