Book of Souls by Glenn Cooper (3 page)

She didn’t know or much care if his heavy drinking was a cause or an effect, but it was toxic, and he had to promise it would stop. He had to promise to be faithful. He had to promise to let her develop her career. He had to promise to let them stay in New York at least until she could get a transfer to someplace that floated both their boats. He didn’t have to promise to be a good father; she had a sense that wasn’t going to be a problem.

Then she accepted his marriage proposal, her fingers crossed.

While Nancy napped with the baby, Will finished the dinner prep and celebrated with a small Merlot to wet his whistle. The rice was steaming, the table was set and right on time, his daughter and son-in-law arrived.

Laura was just beginning to show, all beaming and radiant. She looked like a willowy free spirit, a latter-day hippie in a gauzy dress and thigh-high boots. In truth, he thought, she looked a lot like her mother a generation ago. Greg was in town covering a story for the
Washington Post.
There was a hotel room on the company’s nickel, and Laura was tagging along for a break from her second novel. Her first,
The Wrecking Ball,
loosely based on her parents’ divorce, was selling modestly to good reviews.

For Will, the book still stung, and as a kicker, whenever he looked at his copy, proudly displayed on an end table, he couldn’t help thinking about its role in cracking the Doomsday case. He’d shake his head and get a faraway look in his eyes, and Nancy would know where his mind was straying.

Will picked up on Greg’s moodiness before he was over the threshold and shoved a glass of wine into his paw. “Cheer up,” Will told him, as soon as Laura and Nancy slipped into the bedroom for some baby time. “If I can do it, you can do it.”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t look fine. Greg always had a lean and hungry look, caved-in cheeks, angular nose, sharply dimpled chin, the kind of face that cast shadows on itself. It didn’t look like he ever ran a comb through his hair. Will always thought he was a caricature of a beat reporter, caffeined-up and sleep-deprived, taking himself way too seriously. Still, he was a good guy. When Laura got pregnant, he stepped up to the plate and married her, no questions, no drama. Two Piper weddings in one year. Two babies.

The men sat. Will asked what he was working on. Greg monotoned about some forum on climate change he was covering, and both of them got bored quickly. Greg was in early-career doldrums. He hadn’t found a big story yet, one he could latch onto to change his oblique trajectory. Will was well aware of this when Greg finally asked, “So Will, last time I checked, nothing ever materialized on the Doomsday case.”

“Nope. Nothing.”

“Never got solved.”

“Nope. Never.”

“The killings just stopped.”

“Yep. They did.”

“Don’t you find that unusual?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been out of it for over a year.”

“You never told me what happened. Why they took you off the case. Why they had a warrant out for you. How it all got resolved.”

“You’re right. I never did.” He got up. “If I don’t stir that rice, we’re going to need chisels.” He left Greg behind in the living room to glumly finish his wine.

Over dinner, Laura was ebullient. Her hormones were in fine fettle, stoked by holding Phillip in her arms and imagining her own. She ladled heaping spoonfuls of chili into her mouth and in between was gabby. “How’s Dad doing with retirement?”

“He’s lost momentum,” Nancy observed.

“I’m sitting right here. Why don’t you ask me?”

“Okay, Dad, how’re you doing with retirement.”

“I’ve lost momentum.”

“See?” Nancy laughed. “He was doing so well.”

“How many museums and concerts can a man stand?”

“What kind of man?” Nancy asked.

“A real one who wants to go fishing.”

Nancy was exasperated. “Then go to Florida! Go fishing in the Gulf for a week! We’ll get the nanny to do more hours.”

“What if they want you to do overtime?”

“They’ve got me on identity theft, Will. I’m just online all day. There’s no chance of overtime till they put me back on real cases.”

Will changed the subject, petulant. “I want to go every day, whenever I want.”

She stopped smiling. “You just want us to move.”

Laura kicked Greg under the table, his cue. “Do you miss it, Will?” he asked.

“Miss what?”

“Working. The FBI.”

“Hell no. I miss fishing.”

He cleared his throat. “Have you ever thought about writing a book?”

“About what?”

“About all your serial killers,” then off Will’s piercing stare, he quickly added, “except Doomsday!”

“Why would I want to revisit that crap?”

“They were infamous cases, popular history. People are fascinated.”

“History! I think it’s sordid crap. Besides, I can’t write.”

“Ghost it. Your daughter writes. I write. We think it’ll sell.”

Will got angry. If he’d been drunk, he would have exploded, but the new Will just frowned and deliberately shook his head. “You guys need to make your own way. I’m not a meal ticket.”

Nancy slapped his arm. “Will!”

“That’s not what Greg was saying, Dad!”

“No?” The apartment buzzer went off. Will pushed himself out of his chair and hit the intercom button hard with irritation. “Hello?” There was no response. “Hello?” The buzzer went off again. And again. “What the hell.”

Will angrily rode the elevator down to the lobby and peered at the empty vestibule. Before he could jump onto the street for a look-about, he saw a business card stuck at eye level onto the lobby door with a piece of tape. THE 2027 CLUB. HENRY SPENCE, PRESIDENT. And a phone number with a 702 area code. Las Vegas. There was a handwritten note in small block letters: Mr. Piper, Please call me immediately.

2027.

The date made him suck air through his teeth.

He pushed the door open. Outside, it was cool and dark, a few men and women on the sidewalks bundled up against the chill, walking purposefully, the way people did in this residential neighborhood. There was no one loitering and no bus.

His mobile phone was in his pocket, where he kept it during the day to trade baby calls with Nancy. He entered the number.

“Hello, Mr. Piper.” The voice was upbeat, borderline jocular.

“Who is this?” Will asked.

“It’s Henry Spence. From the motor home. Thanks for returning my message so promptly.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“About 2027 and other topics.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Will was fast-walking to the corner to see if he could spot the bus.

“I hate to be clichéd, Mr. Piper, but this is urgent, a life-and-death matter.”

“Whose death?”

“Mine. I have ten days to live. Please grant a soon-to-be-dead man’s wish and speak to me.”

WILL WAITED UNTIL his daughter had left, the dishes were done, and his wife and son were asleep before he slipped out of the apartment to rendezvous with the man on the bus.

He zipped his bomber jacket to his throat, stuffed his hands into his jeans for warmth, and paced back and forth, second-guessing the wisdom of humoring this Henry Spence fellow. Out of an abundance of caution, he had slung his holster over his shoulder and was getting reacquainted with the weight of steel over his heart. The sidewalk was empty and dark, and despite scattered traffic, he felt alone and vulnerable. A sudden siren from an ambulance navigating toward Bellevue Hospital startled him and he could feel the butt of the gun tight against his jacket lining, heaving with his accelerated breathing.

Just as he was about to bag the whole thing, the bus arrived and slowed to a halt, its air brakes sighing. The passenger door opened with an hydraulic whoosh, and Will found himself staring at a bushy face high in the driver’s seat.

“Good evening, Mr. Piper,” the driver called down.

There was a shadow of activity from the rear.

“That’s just Kenyon. He’s harmless. Come on board.”

Will climbed up, stood next to the passenger seat, and tried to get a snapshot of the situation. It was a habit from the old days. He liked to swoop onto a new crime scene and suck it all in like a giant vacuum cleaner, trying to see everything at once.

There were two men, the heavyset driver and a beanpole bracing himself against the kitchen counter midway up the rig. The driver, who seemed to be in his sixties, had the physique of a man who could fill a Santa suit without padding. He had a generous beard the color of squirrel fur, which spilled onto a Pendleton shirt and lay inanimate between a set of brown suspenders. He had a full head of gray-white hair, long enough for a ponytail, but he allowed it to flow over his collar. His skin tone was blotchy and slapped-cheek, his eyes tired and cloudy. But crinkle lines radiating from his eyes suggested a bygone sprightliness.

Then there were his appliances. Pale green plastic tubes wrapped around his neck and plunged into his nostrils through prongs. The tubing snaked down his side and plugged into an ivory white box, which was softly chugging at his feet. The man was on oxygen.

The other fellow, Kenyon, was also in his sixties. He was mostly skin and bones wrapped in a buttoned-up sweater. He was tall, awkward in posture, conservative in manner, clean-cut with crisply parted hair, jaw-jutting intensity, and the unapologetic eyes of a military man or a missionary or, a fervent believer in—something.

The inside of the bus was pure recreational-vehicle eye candy, a box car of rolling opulence, black-marble tiles, polished maple-burl cabinets, white and black upholstery, flat-paneled video screens, cool recessed lighting. At the rear was a master suite, the bed unmade. There were dirty dishes in the sink and the lingering smell of onions and sausages in the cabin. The place looked lived-in, a road trip in progress. There were maps, books, and magazines on the dining-room table, shoes and slippers and balls of socks on the floor, baseball caps and jackets strewn on chairs.

Will’s instant take was that he wasn’t in danger. He could safely play this out for a while to see where it went.

A car honked. Then another.

“Have a seat,” Spence said. His elocution was rounded and earnest. “New Yorkers aren’t the most patient folks.” Will obliged and sat on the passenger seat as Spence shut the door and lurched forward. At the risk of toppling, the tall man folded himself onto the sofa.

“Where are we going?” Will asked.

“I’m going to drive around in some sort of geometric pattern. You can’t imagine the complexities of parking this behemoth in New York.”

“It’s been extremely challenging,” the other man added. “My name is Alf Kenyon. We are very pleased to meet you, sir, even though you almost got us arrested this morning.”

While he didn’t feel threatened, Will wasn’t feeling comfortable either. “What’s this about?” he asked sharply.

Spence slowed and braked at the red light. “We share an interest in Area 51, Mr. Piper. That’s what this is about.”

Will kept his voice even. “Can’t say I’ve ever been there.”

“Well, it’s not much to look at—aboveground at least,” Spence said. “Belowground is another story.”

But Will wasn’t going to take the bait. “Is that right?” The light changed, and Spence headed uptown. “How’s the mileage on this thing?”

“Is that what you’re curious about, Mr. Piper? The mileage?”

Will worked his neck muscles to keep both men safely in view. “Look, fellows, I don’t have a clue what you know about me or what you think you know. Let’s just say for the record that I don’t know jack shit about Area 51. My guess is you’re lucky if you get five miles per gallon, so I can save you some money by getting off here and walking home.”

Kenyon was quick to respond. “We’re sure you’ve signed confidentiality agreements. We’ve also signed them. We’re as vulnerable as you. We have families too. We know what they’re capable of. That puts us on equal footing.”

Spence chimed in. “We’ll be in each other’s hands. I don’t have much time. Please help us.”

The traffic on Broadway was light. Will liked being high up, observing the city from a throne chair. He was detached from New York; he wanted no part of it anymore. He imagined commandeering the bus, tossing these men out on their ears, swinging back to pick up Nancy and his son and driving south until the sparkling aquamarine waters of the Gulf of Mexico filled the giant windshield. “What is it you think I can do for you?”

Spence answered, “We want to know the significance of 2027. We want to understand what’s so special about February 9. We want to know what happens on February 10. We think you also want to know these things.”

“You must want to know!” Kenyon added emphatically.

Of course he did. He thought about it every time he watched his son sleeping in his crib, every time he made love to his wife. The horizon. It wasn’t so far away, was it? Less than seventeen years. In a blink, it would be there. He’d be there too. He was BTH, beyond the horizon.

“Your card said The 2027 Club. How do you get into that club?”

“You’re already in it.”

“That’s funny, I don’t recall getting my membership in the mail.”

“Everyone who knows about the Library is a member. De facto.”

Will was clenching his jaw hard enough to ache. “All right. Enough. Why don’t you tell me who you are?”

OVER THE NEXT hour Will lost track of their route. He was vaguely aware of moving through Times Square, Columbus Circle, passing the dark, sprawling Natural History Museum, looping through Central Park a few times, the wide tires of the bus sending showers of brittle leaves shooting through the night air. He was listening so hard the city almost disappeared.

At Princeton, Henry Spence had been a prodigy among prodigies, a teenager with an advanced case of precociousness. It was the early sixties, the Cold War in full bloom, and unlike many of his peers who applied their intellectual horsepower to the natural sciences, Henry immersed himself in foreign languages and politics. He mastered Mandarin and Japanese and had serviceable skills in Russian. He minored in international relations, and given his conservative Philadelphia Main Line roots, his earnestness and rectitude, he practically wore a flashing “recruit me” sign on his back, beckoning the local CIA man. The professor of Soviet Studies rubbed his hands in anticipation every time he saw the crew-cut young man smoking at the Ivy Club, his pale, intelligent face stuck in a book.