"Some people would say the evidence of God is all around us."
"Those people are idiots." He ate some more pasta. "I'd like to talk to God just once before I die. I don't need long. Thirty seconds would do just fine. Is that too much to ask?"
"Not for me. Then again I'm not God."
"You can say that again. Anyway I'd like to settle a few things before I go. You know, clear my conscience."
A realization dawned on me. "You didn't come here to help me find the Amber Room. You came to reconcile with Pat."
He shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Why didn't you call him first?"
"Because he's the most stubborn man alive. No way in hell he'd pick up a call from me."
"Well, you've definitely got his attention now. Maybe we can use that to our advantage."
"What do you mean?"
"You've got a history with him, right? So, remind him of stuff, talk about the good old days. It's the only chance you've got of getting closure." I took another bite. "And the only chance we've got of staying past tomorrow."
"I don't know. Pat's not the sentimental type. He's just an asshole, plain and simple."
"Dutch? Dutch Graham?" The unfamiliar voice was feminine and smooth as silk.
I turned my head. A woman stood behind me. She was tall and possessed the statuesque build of a ballet dancer. Her face radiated regal authority. She made no attempt to hide her many wrinkles. But she still managed to put forth a youthful appearance.
"Liza?" Graham's jaw dropped. "Liza Oliver?"
She smiled. "It's Liza Baxter now."
His jaw dropped even further. "You married Pat?"
"That's what it says on our marriage certificate." She offered her hand to me. "I'm Liza."
Her grip was light but full of life. "Cy Reed."
"Nice to meet you." She looked at Graham. Her smile lit up the room. "It's been so long. I can't believe you're here. Does Pat know? He's going to be so excited."
"Somehow I doubt that," Graham said. "So, what are you doing these days? Still focused on biology?"
"I gave up science. Now, I help Pat manage this place."
"Sounds like a difficult job."
"It is today." She sighed. "But it's not so bad. I get to help other people achieve their goals."
"That must be fun."
"Glamorous too, if you like penguins." Her eyes flitted back and forth. "Are you guys sticking around for awhile? I'd love to join you for a quick lunch."
"We'll be here."
She turned around and walked across the room. Her movements, effortless and graceful, stood out among the awkwardness.
"So, that's her?" I said. "That's the girl?"
Graham didn't move a muscle.
"Dutch?"
A sudden shiver ran through him. "Yeah, that's her."
I eyed my burger. Ketchup dripped out the side, oozing onto the plate. "She seems nice."
"Yeah."
I covered my burger with a napkin. Out of sight, out of mind or so I hoped. "Do you want me to stick around?"
He shook his head. "No. I need to handle this alone."
"Okay. But only under one condition."
"What's that?"
I stood up. "You convince her to let us stay."
Chapter 11
A clipping metallic sound, soft yet jarring, rang a discordant bell in my ears. I slowed to a halt and peered down a short corridor. I saw four doors, all closed. A large rectangular-shaped container sat at the far end of the corridor. Its sides screamed "SKUA" in bold yellow letters.
I glanced back at the main hallway. A circular sign hung from the far door. The words Fitzgerald General Hospital curved around its edges. The center featured a cartoon penguin, decked out in a colorful scarf. At first glance, he looked happy enough, waving his flipper and smiling brightly. But his drooping red eyes told a different story.
I wondered about the man from the Desolation. Was he still alive? If so, would he make a full recovery? Or was he doomed to drink out of a straw for the rest of his life?
Metal clattered loudly against concrete. I heard a string of soft curse words coming from the corridor. It sounded like someone was hurt.
I strode into the corridor and stopped outside a door. It was marked Fitzgerald Station Records. I heard muffled voices, two of them, coming from inside it.
I pushed open the door. "Hello?"
Something struck my legs. I toppled into the room. My sore chest smacked against concrete. Air emptied out of my lungs.
I lifted my head. The room was dark. But light from the hallway illuminated a portion of it. So, I could see it was a mess. File folders, papers, and sheared padlocks were strewn about the floor.
I looked up. A hooded figure hovered over me. Its left hand held a pair of three-foot long bolt cutters. Its right hand reached toward the door.
The door swung shut. Darkness swept over the room.
This can't be good.
I rolled to my back.
The bolt cutters slammed into the ground, inches from my head. I leapt to my feet. Opened my mouth to call for help.
A second figure charged me. Its fist slammed into my stomach, cutting me off. I sank to my knees.
The figure reared back for another blow. I blocked it and delivered a left cross in the general direction of its face. It gasped in pain and twisted away.
A fist crunched against my back. My fingers curled. My body stiffened. I twisted around.
The bolt cutters smashed into my face. I crumpled to the floor.
A few seconds passed. My ears detected scuffling movements and crinkling papers.
I forced my eyes open. I saw the two figures kneeling next to some filing cabinets. They appeared to be stuffing file folders into large duffel bags.
They stood up and walked across the floor. The door opened. I saw bright light. Then the door closed again. Darkness spread its cloak over the room.
I maneuvered myself to a sitting position and took a few deep breaths. For the first time, I noticed a curious odor lingering in the air. It was a peculiar mixture of mustard and grease.
My eyes widened. It was the exact same odor I'd smelled on that guy from the plane, the one who'd refused to talk to us. I searched my memory. Ted something or other. That meant his partner was probably the other guy, Dan Trotter.
My legs felt wobbly as I stood up. I made my way to the wall and hit a switch. A few overhead bulbs lit up.
Quickly, I examined the leftover papers and file folders. I saw nothing remotely interesting. It didn't make sense.
What the hell do they want with old personnel records?
Chapter 12
Models failed. Standards morphed. Knowledge changed. Paradigms shifted. Nothing in life was truly permanent. And yet, hardly anyone recognized that fact.
The wind picked up speed. Roy Savala tugged the brim of his cowboy hat, shielding his eyes from the blowing snow. The wind grew faster and faster. But Roy refused to budge.
Roy had spent his entire life standing athwart the winds of public opinion. He didn't care what experts or scientists said. As far as he was concerned, anything was possible. He possessed a truly open mind.
All people were born with an open mind. But they lost it when confronted by textbooks, teachers, the media, and peer pressure. There was no room for independent thinking in the modern age. Only the current paradigm was acceptable.
Roy knelt down. Using his trowel, he cleared snow away from the huge stone block. It was one of many in the area. This one, ten feet wide and six feet tall, was particularly large. Its edges consisted of straight lines. Its corners formed perfect right angles. That was a telltale sign.