She knelt over a pile of books, scanning the titles. Some were leather-bound gilt-edged tomes — collectible books, not meant to be read, but one overturned shelf had contained a number of perfect-bound trade paperbacks, ranging in subject from geography and history to political science to UFO encounters. Most of the titles on the more speculative end of the spectrum sported amateurish and often lurid cover art. She opened one and idly thumbed through it, noting pages that had been marked with sticky notes and entire paragraphs highlighted in fluorescent yellow.
She realized that she was looking at Roche’s research library, the garden where he had gathered the raw ingredients to brew up his outrageous conspiracy concoctions. It was an apt metaphor. The pieces to Roche’s Phantom Time theory were lying scattered before her, but the exact recipe — the specific ingredients and proportions — had died with the man.
“I really don’t think you should be touching anything,” Kellogg said from the relative shelter of the stairwell. “This is a crime scene. We should step away and summon the police.”
Professor threw him a withering glance, and cupped a hand over his phone and continued speaking in a subdued voice.
Jade set the book aside and turned to face Kellogg. “What exactly do you think the police will do?”
“Well…”
“The police will write this off as a simple break-in,” She continued. “Vandalism. Nothing more. But they will probably seal this place off so that we can’t conduct our own investigation. Is that what you want? Is that what you think Mr. Roche would want?”
“I see your point.” Kellogg’s eyebrows drew together in a frown, then he brightened. “Do you think there’s something here that will help us crack the case?”
Crack the case? Jade thought. This guy has read too many Sherlock Holmes stories. “I doubt the people who did this will have left any evidence behind, but that’s not what we’re looking for.”
“What then?”
“Just before he died, Roche told me he wanted me to find something. Proof that this latest theory was right. I don’t really know exactly how to do that, but maybe if I can retrace his steps, so to speak, I can figure out what sort of proof he wanted me to find.”
“You want to rewrite his missing book, is that it?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have put it that way, but yeah. And the first thing we have to do is put this place back together.”
Judging by his expression, Kellogg found that prospect about as exciting as root canal surgery, but before he could reply, Professor ended his call and rejoined the conversation.
“I have to go to Sydney,” he said with the abruptness of pulling off a Band-Aid. “Tam has given me the green light to join the search for Flight 815.”
“Join the search? How is that going to help?”
“There are a lot of wild rumors about what happened, but I’m guessing the authorities have kept a lot of information about the disappearance out of the news. Maybe if I can get inside, I can get someone to open up and tell me what they really think is going on, and that will give us an idea of who’s behind it.”
The full import of his words finally hit home. “You’re leaving?” Jade was surprised by her reaction to the prospect.
“Just for a few days.” He cocked his head sideways, brows furrowed in consternation. “I figured you’d be happy for the breathing room. You’re always telling me that you don’t need a babysitter. I think you’ll be safe here, but you’re welcome to come with me.”
Jade tried to affect a mask of indifference. “Tagging along really isn’t my style. Besides, I’ve got my own leads to run down.”
“You sure?”
Jade was anything but sure. Although she would never tell him to his face, Jade liked having Professor around for a lot of reasons, and she was dismayed at the prospect of being separated from him for an indefinite length of time. But “tagging along” was exactly what she would be doing. She had nothing whatsoever to contribute to the search effort. The idea of sifting through the disaster zone that was Roche’s library was not particularly appealing, but it was something she could do, and truth be told, she wanted to know the secret that had evidently cost Roche his life.
She looked away, hoping that he would not see the hesitancy in her eyes, afraid that if he asked again, she might not be able to refuse. As she did, she glimpsed another book title. Like the others, it was a slapdash production; the cover featured a sepia-tinted black and white photograph, emblazoned with bold red letters in a Comic Sans typeface. It was the letters that had caught her eye, or rather the words they formed:
Fogou: Doors to the Underworld
She picked the book up and murmured the title, or at least a phonetic approximation of it. “Foh-goo.”
She flipped it over and glanced at the back matter. Fogou, she learned, was a term for ancient Iron Age subterranean vaults scattered throughout Cornwall and Scotland. The brief description of the dugout chambers reminded her of the kivas used by Native Americans in the southwestern United States, but that was not what had initially aroused her interest. Rather it was that word.
Fogou.
It was what Gerald Roche had said with his dying breath.
She raised her eyes to Professor and managed a smile. “I’m sure. Be sure to send me a postcard from Down Under.”
EIGHT
The gray drizzle permeating London intensified to an almost constant downpour the further north Jade traveled, but as she left the urban and suburban environs of the metropolitan area behind, Jade’s mood steadily improved.
Part of the reason for this change was the almost magical contrast between the stormy sky and the green pastures and fields of rural Great Britain and the Scottish Lowlands. Although it was a lot colder and darker than she ordinarily preferred, she could understand how people could easily romanticize the moorlands and heath.
Mostly however, the reason for her elevated spirits lay with the fact that every mile brought her closer to a tangible objective.
She arrived in Kilmaurs, a picturesque settlement in East Ayrshire, Scotland, on the afternoon of her third day in the United Kingdom. It had taken her that long to make sense of the clue she had discovered in Roche’s library, though in truth, it was not much of a clue.
She had not shared her discovery with Professor, who probably would have told her that she had misheard Roche, nor had she discussed it with Kellogg, who probably wouldn’t have known what to make of it. Because it was such a slim lead, she decided the best course of action was to continue with the plan to conduct a methodical search of Roche’s home. After seeing Professor off, she and Kellogg returned to Mortlake and started sifting through the mess. The clean-up was not that much different than what she did everyday on a dig site.
That first evening, after several ultimately fruitless hours of reconstructing Roche’s research library and sweeping up shards of broken glass, Jade yielded to her nagging curiosity and read the book about fogous. It was a short read, long on folklore and quick to jump to the kind of sensational conclusions that would have thrilled fans of the Alien Explorers television series.