The Ghost Manuscript

by Kris Frieswick

“Well, I’m going to anyway,” he said. “Get in.” He opened the passenger door of his beat-up pickup and guided her up to the seat before she found the strength to resist. The truck smelled like diesel, seaweed, and leather. Dafydd hopped in the other side.

  They drove back to the Farmer’s Arms, making stranger-type small talk about the weather. He pulled into the parking area.

  “Do you need help up those stairs?” he said.

  “No, oh god, no,” she said. “And what would Peter think? I have a reputation to uphold.”

  Dafydd laughed. He reached into the cup holder between their seats and extracted a business card. “My cell number is on there. Call me if you need anything.”

  “I will,” she said as she slid off the seat onto the gravel. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said and gave her a wave.

  Carys somehow mustered the strength to lift her legs up each of the stairs to her room. She stripped off her clothes, climbed into bed, and fell into a dark, complete slumber. She did not dream.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Frank never drove his own car for work. Too easy to trace. For the drive up to Aberystwyth he rented a Mercedes S-Class using a fake ID and credit card. He was done with crappy cars. Plus the Merc was the only one with GPS. Frank had no idea where anything was in the United Kingdom once he breached the loving embrace of the M25 ring road around London.

  Frank drove north into Wales. He loved the British Isles, but he couldn’t wait to leave. The relentless, overcast, misty, windy weather was for plants and birds, not humans. He couldn’t wait to move to his place on St. Bart’s. He’d get a tan or, more likely, a blistering sunburn. Every day, he’d be out there on his lanai, just sucking in as much warm sunshine as he could, skin cancer be damned.

  The construction on the villa was just about done. Occupancy permits were a few weeks away. Once this job was done, he’d just stay in a hotel in Gustavia until the house was ready. Maybe do some boating. He hadn’t spent much time on boats since he left the navy and fell into his current career as the enforcer-cum-business-partner for a psychopath. Mum would have loved St. Bart’s. But she still would have found something to complain about, just so he didn’t get too big for his breeches.

  In spite of the rain, Frank had to admit that this part of Wales was one of the most beautiful places he’d ever seen, more beautiful even than St. Bart’s. He couldn’t see very far—the clouds were so low, they chopped off the top of the mountains, but there was something about this land; the way the road dipped up and down, around and through the villages, hidden in the same little valleys for a thousand years. The rivers and trees were just where they’d always been, no matter what happened around them. It gave him peace, which was something in short supply in his world at the moment.

  Six hours after leaving London, thanks to the female-voiced GPS, which he named Beryl, he found himself just outside the University of Aberystwyth, at 352 Gordon Court. It was a nice house, built of dark gray brick, the ubiquitous Welsh building material. The surrounding terrain was a low, windswept, treeless moorland. The houses on this little street were huddled up together to protect each other from the wind and rain. He parked a few houses down from Anthony Jones’s house and waited.

  Half an hour later, an SUV pulled up in front of the house. A pretty middle-aged woman and a dark-haired boy of around fifteen got out and went up the stairs into the house.

  The kid looked just like Carys Jones.

  The rain beat down on the roof of his car like an assault.

  4

  Wednesday, June 20

  Carys awoke at eight o’clock that morning. She’d been in bed—off and on—for nearly twenty hours. She’d managed to drag herself downstairs for a late lunch at three the previous afternoon, then again at eight o’clock for some dinner and a very short walk along the waterfront. Her gut throbbed with a dull ache the entire time. This wasn’t jet lag or hunger. Something was wrong with her. Each excursion was utterly exhausting. The last thing she saw before her head hit the pillow after dinner was Lestinus, standing like a sentinel at the foot of her bed.

  “Do not abandon me,” he said. “We must find him.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. As her mind faded into darkness, she was oddly comforted knowing that he—whatever he was—was watching over her.

  When she woke up that morning, she felt slightly better. Then she rolled over and the ache in her belly flared. Maybe the walk to retrieve her car would help. She rose, showered, dressed, collected her bag, and went downstairs to the pub.

  No one was there, so she went straight out. She stopped at a small outdoor cafe along the way to the library and got a coffee and a scone, which she ate slowly, watching the people pass by. The tide was up. The water of the bay sparkled, and the sun beat down on her shoulders, warming her quickly. Even the wrong-way traffic seemed friendlier and more sedate. She was beginning to like it here.

  Lestinus formed in the chair across from her.

  “They live without fear,” said Lestinus in Latin as he watched the people pass. “None of these people, not even you yourself, would exist if he had not.”

  “It’s not true, Lestinus,” said Carys quietly. There was a couple sitting two tables over. She shifted her body so they couldn’t see her speak. If they did, she could legitimately claim she was practicing her Latin.

  “If he hadn’t held back the savages,” said Lestinus, “everyone with Roman blood in their veins would have been exterminated, or bred and intermingled with them.”

  “The people you see here are the result of fifteen hundred years of intermingling with those savages,” she said. “They took over the British Isles. The people who sit on the British throne right now have savage blood in their veins.”

  “It can’t be true!” said Lestinus with disbelief. “How could it happen?”

  “You presume that there are superior and inferior breeds?”

  “Of course there are,” said Lestinus. “If you had seen what these illiterate monsters were like, you would not question their inferiority.”

  “That’s not very Christian of you. Didn’t the Lord make all men in his image?”

  “They weren’t men. They were animals. The Lord had abandoned them and they him.”

  “I know the feeling,” she said.

  She arrived at the library just as Celeste was unlocking the doors. The old woman looked up and seemed surprised to see her.

  “Good morning,” Celeste said. “You look like you’re feeling better.”

  “I do feel a bit better. I was hoping you’d show me those maps of the islands this morning.”

  Celeste looked her up and down, and then nodded in agreement and waved her in.

  Moments later, they were back in the clean room in the back. Celeste pulled out two surgical masks from the tall cabinets. She handed one to Carys. Celeste put hers on, but Carys placed hers on the metal table. Celeste left briefly and returned carrying the red leather-bound manuscript. Celeste opened it very slowly, smoothing her hands over the parchment.

  “Now, this one is my greatest treasure,” said Celeste.

  She flipped through the manuscript gingerly to an illuminated drawing, the thick, ornate gold lettering glowing on the parchment. Next to the text was a drawing of a small island, covered with ancient Christian crosses, which looked like plus signs with a circle drawn around the axis. There were mountains, streams and houses depicted as well.

  “This is a map of Bardsey,” said Celeste. “During the sixth century, this island was just as sacred as Holy Island. They called Bardsey the Land of Twenty Thousand Saints. There was a monastery, and it was said that three trips here was as sacred as a single trip to pray in Rome. There have been people there since the Iron Age.”

  “How did they get there?” she asked, leaning over the book. The thick black lines of the artist�
�s pen were dark and clearly defined against the creamy parchment, the sign of impeccable preservation, and the colors of the illuminated drawing almost sang on the page. She found herself smiling.

  “Boats, rafts, whatever they could put together, I imagine,” said Celeste. “The Welsh have been mariners since prehistory. And Bardsey’s not far from the end of the Llŷn. Nasty water though.”

  “So I hear,” she said.

  “The caves that Dafydd was talking about are along this section of the coast,” said Celeste, pointing to the western shore. “Lose at least three people a year to cave diving there. Very, very dangerous.”

  Carys leaned over to more closely inspect the drawing, but before she even realized she was doing it, she stuck her nose into the bindings and inhaled deeply.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” said Celeste.

  “Do what?” she asked.

  “Sniff the book. I had a friend who got sick doing that.”

  “Sick?”

  “Yes. Very sick.”

  “How?”

  “He was a researcher. A treasure hunter really,” said Celeste. “He spent ten years of his life reading old musty ships’ logs in the British Library looking for the location of privateer sinkings in the 1700s. There were hallucinogenic mold spores in the books. He spent so much time inhaling them that one day he swears one of those privateers—they were pirates really—made a house call.”

  Carys froze.

  “That’s when he quit treasure hunting,” said Celeste. “He said the vision showed up for a couple of months after he quit his research, and eventually it faded away.”

  “What do you mean a pirate showed up?” she asked.

  “He had a vision of one,” said Celeste, “but it was more than a vision. My friend, Andy, said he was as real as you or me. Talked to him, too. The pirate told him things. Andy said he thought he was losing his mind.”

  Carys sat back down on the chair.

  “From mold? It gave him visions?”

  “Hallucinations, yes. But more vivid. And it also gave him a nasty lung infection,” said Celeste. “It traveled to his kidneys. He’s on a donor list. That’s why I always wear one of these.” She tapped the surgical mask.

  Her hands began to shake. Celeste looked down at her.

  “Ms. Roberts?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just realized that I…I need to get moving. Thank you so much for your help.”

  She turned and walked to the door and back out into the main library, then straight for the exit.

  Outside, she leaned against the whitewashed wall of the library, warm from the sun, hoping the heat would penetrate her. She stayed icy cold.

  Lestinus appeared next to her. He said nothing.

  She turned away from him, walked to her car, got in, and drove back to town. But her hands started shaking so badly that she had to pull over on the side of the road in Oystermouth to compose herself.

  He was a hallucination after all. One so real, she felt she could reach out and touch it. Have full, complex conversations with it. Be surprised by it, mesmerized by its tales. And learn from it.

  She wanted Lestinus to be a ghost. She wanted him to be able to tell her things she could use in her search—new things. Things that she didn’t know. That Harper didn’t know.

  And he had. He’d given her details that weren’t in the book. Taliesin, for one. Where had that come from if he was just a hallucination? Hallucinations don’t know things.

  At least she wasn’t going crazy. She was hallucinating, but it was because of a natural process, a toxic mold. She should have been more relieved.

  Instead, she tilted her head back and looked up into the ceiling of the car, willing herself not to burst into tears. Her stomach growled mightily. Please let that be hunger, she thought, and not a goddamn kidney about to explode. Her friend at the lab at Harvard had told her about the mold. She hadn’t processed or even deeply questioned it.

  No one had ever said a thing, in all the years she’d been working in this industry, about mold in old books causing hallucinations. It was the craziest thing she’d ever heard. Not counting the monk’s tale, of course.

  Would it have mattered even if she had known? Did it matter now that she did? Would it have changed anything that was happening?

  She was no closer to figuring out where the tomb was than she’d been two weeks ago. Nicola was in the hospital, clinging to life. The only thing she’d managed to do was narrow the search down to two huge islands off the coast of Wales. It would take her the rest of her natural life to figure out where the hell they’d stashed Arcturus’s corpse. She was so, so tired.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Frank dialed Gyles. He picked up in half a ring.

  “What news?” Gyles mumbled.

  “The father’s on the move. He’s got what looks like an overnight bag, and he’s on the move.”

  “Any idea where he’s going?”

  “I’m following him south along the coast on the A487,” he said.

  “We can safely assume he’s heading straight for the woman,” said Gyles. “I need not remind you to stick to him like glue.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “By the way, that woman you shot?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “She died last night,” Gyles said.

  He felt a sharp twinge in his throat. He swallowed hard and it went away.

  “Plourde called me a few minutes ago,” Gyles continued. “As you can imagine, he was not pleased, since he gave you the gun that killed her. He is concerned about potential consequences.”

  “Do we know if she gave the cops a description? Any way to trace it back to me?” he asked.

  “We don’t know, but it’s probably best that you’ve left the country,” Gyles said.

  “That Jones bird probably told the cops about me,” he said. “She could give them a pretty good description.”

  There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone. Gyles’s leather chair squeaked. A chill ran up Frank’s spine.

  “Is there any chance you left any forensic evidence at the location?” asked Gyles. “Anything that could tie you to the crime?”

  “Absolutely not. I was wearing gloves and a ski mask, so there’s no skin or hair. No video ID possible from the scene, even if they had surveillance. I turned off the alarm system and wore gloves and a mask when I went back to toss the mansion.”

  “Sounds pretty straightforward,” said Gyles, his voice slightly lower and slower. “Keep on the father. As soon as you know where he’s headed, call me.”

  He hung up. Tension settled into the space between Frank’s shoulders as it dawned on him just how ugly things were about to get.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Carys got out of the car and crossed the street to the grocery store—the same one from the day before. The produce aisle was blocked by a large trolley loaded with boxes of apples. What is it with goddamn apples today? she thought. Afal. Avalon.

  She was gullible. So very gullible. If Celeste had known what she was really up to, the woman would have laughed in her face. Maybe she had been laughing and Carys just didn’t notice.

  She approached the trolley, and the man unloading it looked up at her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Let me move this out of your way.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Try one of these,” he said. He reached into one of the cardboard boxes on the trolley and grabbed an apple. “Best you’ll ever taste.”

  It was smaller than the huge Red Delicious variety in the case. Less perfect. Less red. Roundish, with some small bumps along the sides. She took it, rubbed it against her pants, and bit into it.

  As her teeth snapped into the crisp flesh, her mouth filled with the richest, sweetest essence of apple she h
ad ever tasted. She chewed the firm meat, which dissolved into something that felt like sugar.

  “These are amazing,” she said to the man. “Thank you so much. I’ll take two more.”

  The man reached into the cardboard box, pulled them out, and handed them to her.

  “They’re organic,” he said. “No pesticides. None needed. They’re from a stock of apple resistant to all diseases, and the bugs don’t attack them.”

  “Are they bred to be resistant?” she asked. “Some kind of hybrid or something?”

  “Nope,” said the man. “Naturally resistant.”

  “No kidding,” she said. “I’ve never heard of that before.”

  “Yeah, it’s a variety discovered back in the nineties,” said the man. “They’re stock from the oldest apple tree ever discovered in Wales. Naturally disease-resistant and no one knows why. My family bought some cuttings from it and started an orchard up in the hills not far from here.”

  “Where’s the old tree?” she asked.

  “Island off the north coast,” he said.

  “Which one?” she asked. The hair on the back of her neck began to prickle.

  “Bardsey,” said the man. “They say that tree is over fifteen hundred years old.”

  She stopped chewing. The man moved the trolley aside.

  “I hope you tell your friends,” said the man, smiling wide. “We just started marketing these.”

  She smiled at the man and stepped around the trolley. She made her way to the refrigerator, grabbed a large bottle of water, and went through the checkout and back outside.

  She went across the street toward her car, but then passed it. Slowly, almost without realizing it, she made her way down to the water and began to walk. She found herself standing back at the playground where she and her parents had spent that pleasant afternoon a lifetime ago.

  There was the little merry-go-round, tired and worn-out and waiting for children. One red horse mounted on a giant rusting spring wobbled back and forth in the breeze, as if tilted by an unseen hand. She sat down at the picnic table, the one where her parents had sat all those years ago, and stared out at the sea.