Thirst No. 5: The Sacred Veil

  Seymour nods like he’s suspected all along. “Tell me what happened after Major Klein zapped you with that high-pitched noise.”

  “I remember the train ride to the camp. How I was chained inside an isolated railcar with ankle and leg cuffs made of a strange alloy I couldn’t break. I remember arriving at the camp. The tall smokestacks pumping burnt flesh into the air night and day. Hordes of children screaming at the tracks when they were torn away from their parents. The hood that was tied over my head. The underground dungeon I was led to, where I was cuffed to a metal pole and tortured for ages by Major Klein. With a strange woman always hovering in the background with eyes like a cobra. The SS guards were terrified of her. They never looked her straight in the face or addressed her as anything except Frau Cia.” I stop. “You can see, I remember a lot.”

  “Except how it ended,” Seymour says.

  I want to protest, to lie, but he has me cornered.

  “Not how it ended,” I agree.

  He sighs. “Can you remember another time you can’t remember?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “I wish it were. You know we have a telepathic bond. It’s what allowed me to write about your life before I met you. But that bond began to fail me when I reached what I called the sixth chapter of your tale. I didn’t know what to write next. Suddenly the images were scattered in my head. I tried to stay with the flow of what was coming to me out of the ether—like I had from the start of your story—but I knew a lot of what I was typing was nonsense.”

  “It wasn’t all nonsense.”

  “It wasn’t gospel, either. I wrote that you changed me into a vampire. That we got attacked by a weird alien chick with a ray gun. That you killed her and fled into the desert, where you confronted more evil aliens. As if all that weren’t wild enough, the next thing I wrote about was your rendezvous with a spaceship in the desert. On board the ship were some kind of aliens or angels. I was never sure who they were, but I think there were two of them. Anyway, they flew you up into outer space and explained that once they achieved light speed, the ship would be free of time and space. Not only that, they said you’d be able to send your mind back in time to an earlier version of yourself. That was why they took you into space in the first place. They said you had to go back a thousand years and fix a mistake you made when you accidentally gave your blood to an evil creature. A man from the Middle Ages that the peasants and nobles of Sicily believed to be a necromancer.”

  “Landulf of Capua,” I whisper. The name is as painful to say aloud as Tarana’s.

  “Yes, Landulf. Who first appeared to be the lord of an evil castle on the southern tip of Sicily, but who later turned out to be your seemingly innocent traveling companion, Dante. The leprous eunuch.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”

  “Are you sure? I’ve tried talking to you about this time before and you’ve always changed the subject. Is it because you can’t remember those days?”

  “I remember them when you talk about them,” I say.

  “When we’re together they’re clearer?”

  “Yes.”

  “But when you’re alone they’re more foggy?”

  “Actually, when I’m alone, I never think about that time at all.”

  “Just like you never think about what happened in Auschwitz.”

  “What are you getting at?” I say.

  “What happened with Landulf and what went on in the concentration camp are the only two periods in your life you have trouble remembering. That can’t be a coincidence.”

  I go to protest but stop. He’s right.

  Seymour continues. “In my version of your life story it’s like your guardian angels or whatever sent you back to the eleventh century to fix a mistake. Now Paula is saying you have to go back to Auschwitz and fix another mistake.”

  “Paula never said anything about me going back in time.”

  “Probably because we don’t have a time machine. Look, I phrased it that way to make a point. These two periods in time are linked, not just in your head but in history. According to experts on that period, Landulf drew most of his power from a Christian talisman called the Spear of Longinus. The spear that pierced Christ’s side while he was dying on the cross. A spear that, by chance, still has Christ’s blood on it. Now, jump forward a thousand years and what do you happen to come across but the Veil of Veronica, a second Christian talisman that has Christ’s blood on it.” He pauses. “Now tell me that’s a coincidence.”

  “What you say is fascinating. But I still don’t see how the two time periods are related.”

  “They’re related through you. Through your inability to remember clearly what happened during both periods. And through Christ’s blood.”

  “I don’t know. You’re speculating.”

  Seymour shakes his head. “If you need cold hard facts, let me give you a big one. Landulf of Capua—what was his wife’s name?”

  “I hardly remember his wife. But I know he cut out her heart . . .” I suddenly stop. “God. It was Lady Cia.”

  “Which just happens to be the name of the woman who helped torture you at Auschwitz,” Seymour says.

  The link hits me like a body blow. “I never thought of that.”

  Seymour stands and pats me on the back. “We have to figure out a way to punch through your mental block. I have an idea that might work, but I want to talk to Matt about it before I discuss it with you.”

  “Why tell him first?”

  “The less you know about what it is, the better it might work. I’m talking about keeping you innocent, free of any preconceived ideas. Trust me on this, Sita.”

  “There’s no one I trust more,” I say.

  My words please him. He smiles as he opens the door to the main cabin. “I’m glad. For a while there I thought you were more in love with Mr. Grey.”

  “I care about him. He’s trying to help us.”

  “But you still have no idea where he came from?”

  I hesitate. “Not really.”

  “That’s not a small thing to keep hidden. But if you trust him, I do too.” Seymour stops halfway through the door. “Can I get you anything from the kitchen?”

  “A quart of warm Gestapo blood.”

  “You still hate them, don’t you?”

  “Never to forgive, never to forget. That’s what the Jews who escaped Auschwitz swore to each other.” I shake my head. “Never mind me, I think a part of my brain has become unhinged in time. I need a dose of reality. I need food. Get me a cup of coffee and a roast beef sandwich.”

  “It’s on its way,” Seymour says.

  • • •

  By the time we land in Las Vegas it’s evening and Mr. Grey is slipping in and out of consciousness. I put my foot down. I tell the others I’m taking him to the hospital.

  “We can’t get near Nellis Air Force Base without his computer skills,” I say just before we climb out of the plane. Mr. Grey continues to doze in a rear seat, snoring softly.

  “What about Sarah Goodwin?” Matt asks.

  “She’s going to have to hang on,” I say. “Please, Matt, take the gang into town and check into a hotel. Give me a call and let me know where you are. It’s better if I go alone with Mr. Grey to the hospital.”

  “Why?” Brutran wants to know.

  “Because I say so,” I reply.

  Brutran shakes her head. “The others deserve to know.”

  “Know what?” Seymour asks.

  I give Brutran a hard look. She’s betraying me and I know why. She figures Matt’s the one with the power in our group and she wants to show that she’s on his side. It’s an old tactic with her—always align yourself with the one who’s going to win. How little she knows of my temper.

  “The FBI is looking for Mr. Joel Grey of Boston, Massachusetts,” Brutran says. “They have a missing-person file on him. According to their records, he disappeared two months ago, leaving behind a wife and two children
.”

  “And you were going to tell us this when?” Matt says to me.

  “This evening,” I say.

  “Right,” Matt mutters.

  “I would have told you during the flight but you were busy playing that stupid game,” I say.

  Seymour holds up his hands. “Hold on you guys, this isn’t worth a fight. Tell us who he is. Does he work for some super-brain-shrink-tank?”

  “He works for General Electric as a systems analyst,” I say. “He has no special skills.”

  “That’s impossible,” Seymour says.

  “I talked to his wife,” I say.

  “In Boston. So that’s where you went,” Matt says.

  “I don’t report to you,” I say.

  Seymour steps between us. “Come on, you’re too old to be having a lovers’ quarrel. I want to know more about Mr. Grey. You must have found out something unusual about him?”

  I have not forgotten his strange obsession with the sky but see no point in bringing it up. Certainly, his fascination with astronomy doesn’t explain his incredible computer skills.

  “He’s a totally normal man,” I say, turning toward Mr. Grey, who has begun to slide off the side of his seat. He’s out cold, which might be a plus. He can’t complain about me taking him to the hospital. I add, “I’m going now. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

  I put Mr. Grey in the backseat of a taxi, slip in beside him, and take out my laptop. A quick scan of the Internet shows that the Sunrise Hospital and Medical Center specializes in neurology and neurosurgery. They’re a nationally ranked hospital, which is reassuring. I tell the driver to take us there.

  “Hang on,” I whisper in his ear as he breathes softly beside me. It’s impossible not to think of his wife, Kathleen. By now she must have called the Boston FBI office, although I told her it would be a waste of time. I’m sure they told her I was a fake. But I’m not sure she would believe them. After all, I told her I’d get her husband back to her within a few days.

  Sunrise lives up to its excellent reputation. I’m in the emergency ward less than ten minutes when Mr. Grey is wheeled away on a gurney. I explain to the doctor on duty how my brother suffered a blow to the head two days ago and has been running a fever. The doctor immediately orders an MRI and CAT scan. I sit down to wait.

  A neurosurgeon, Dr. William Tower, appears an hour later. A tall thin man with large beautiful hands, he greets me warmly and takes me aside to speak to in private.

  “Your brother’s in serious condition,” he says. “Whatever hit him damaged his left temporal lobe. That’s a region of the cerebral cortex that’s involved with auditory perception. It’s important when it comes to speech and vision, and it contains the hippocampus, which is key to forming long-term memories.”

  “Are you saying his injury might have affected his memory?”

  “There’s a good chance. Has he been having trouble remembering things?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “I’m not surprised. He has a significant contusion on the lobe. To put it in layman’s terms, the injury’s burst a vein and he’s bleeding in that area. Plus he has overall swelling of the brain.”

  “Will a decompressive craniotomy fix that?” I ask.

  “You know something about neurosurgery?”

  “I considered being a doctor at one time.”

  He nods. “The craniotomy will take care of the immediate swelling. But the bleeding lobe will require more invasive surgery. It must be done now.”

  “Do it,” I say.

  “Your brother has regained consciousness. He won’t let us operate until he speaks to you.”

  “That’s fine, I’ll talk to him. But even if he resists, Doctor, you are to do the surgery. My brother isn’t clear in his mind. Legally, I’m responsible for him now.”

  Dr. Tower hesitates. “I’ll need you to sign certain papers stating that fact.”

  “No problem. And Doctor, I’m very rich, I want him to have the best care. Whatever it takes, fix Joel.”

  “We’ll take care of him,” the doctor promises.

  Dr. Tower leaves to prepare for the surgery. A nurse leads me to a brightly lit room where Mr. Grey lies on a bed with an IV in his arm and an assortment of wires attached to his head, which in turn are hooked up to a device that appears to be taking a steady EEG, or electroencephalograph, of his brain. I know something about EEG printouts, and his looks odd, even for someone with a bleeding temporal lobe. His brain looks like it’s stuck in overdrive.

  I sit by his side and take his hand. His color is ashen, his skin hot. He smiles weakly. “I should have known better than to black out on you,” he says.

  “You can help us save the world once you’re better.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Sita. You have to let me help you.”

  “You’re serious? You’re here to save the world?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s something new. Do you mind telling me how?”

  “I told you. By helping you. You’re the key.”

  “Great. Unfortunately, you’re not telling me what I’m the key to.”

  “The future of this planet.”

  “Which Mr. Grey is talking now? The one with the genius IQ or the one with brain damage?”

  “We’re one and the same. Listen, I’ll agree to have the surgery on one condition. The moment it’s over, you get me out of here. You take me with you to your next destination.”

  “They’re about to cut your head open. After the surgery I’m pretty sure you’ll be heavily sedated. You’ll need to rest if you’re to recover.”

  “And you need to take me with you or everything you love and cherish will be lost.”

  I recoil at the power in his words. There’s no question that he’s telling the truth. He believes what he says, which is not, of course, the same as saying his statement is accurate. It’s been the same since I met Mr. Grey. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I trust the guy.

  “You need to tell me why,” I say.

  “I’m sorry but I can’t.”

  “You don’t even know what our next destination is.”

  “I do.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not Nellis Air Force Base.”

  I stand. “Then why did you let us fly all the way out here?”

  “One road leads to another. You’ll find your way. It’s your destiny to find it. But this time I must be with you.”

  I freeze. “This time?”

  He lies back and closes his eyes. “You thought I was asleep in the taxi but I wasn’t. I know you brought your laptop. Look up the file labeled ‘Veronica.’ I translated the first part of the book. You’ll find it interesting.”

  “What about the rest of it?”

  “I’ll translate it when you break me out of here.” He stops, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Tonight . . . deal?”

  “I want to wait and see how the surgery goes.”

  He begins to doze. “The end of the book is important. The image on the veil, it’s not . . .”

  I sit back down, lean close. “It’s not what?”

  Should I be asking, It’s not who?

  But he can’t answer. He’s out cold.

  I retreat to the waiting room. Dr. Tower stops by with a woman carrying a stack of papers they want me to sign. He says the surgery will last approximately four hours. The time is eight fifteen. He suggests I get something to eat, rest at my hotel, come back at midnight. I agree but after he leaves, and after I sign the papers, I decide to stay in the hospital while I read The Story of Veronica.

  FOURTEEN

  ONE

  I heard talk of a man some people called the Master. The way they spoke of him, it was like they saw him as more than human. When I heard he would be visiting our town, I longed to see him.

  It was hard to get free. My parents refused to let me go anywhere without my brother, and he had to work the week the Master was nearby. But somehow I talked Thomas into taking
the afternoon off. My brother was always very kind to me.

  When we reached the place where the Master was to speak, we learned he had already given his talk. We were disappointed but a follower of his directed us to a house where the Master was staying. The man was friendly and said the Master would be happy to meet with us.

  The house belonged to a rich merchant. Thomas was reluctant to knock on the door. “Veronica, we can’t enter such a beautiful home dressed like this. Let’s leave and come back when he’s giving another public lecture.”

  “We don’t know if he’s giving another lecture,” I said. “Besides, Uncle will never give you the time off.”

  Thomas frowned as he stared at his dusty sandals. “Why would such a great man want to talk to someone like us?”

  I took Thomas by the hand. “You heard what his follower said. His Master treats everyone as an equal. Even girls.”

  We knocked on the door and the merchant himself answered, which surprised us. We assumed a servant would be attending the door. He acted happy to see us and invited us inside.

  “The Master is in the back by the fountain,” he said. “You will know him when you see him.”

  “Does he wear a crown?” Thomas asked.

  The merchant laughed. “No. He’s a simple man. Go, talk to him, you’ll see.”

  I recognized the Master the moment I saw him. The merchant was right. The backyard was crowded with people but the Master stood out in a special way. I wasn’t sure why, but when I looked at him I found it hard to look away.

  He was tall with a fine face and nicely trimmed beard. Yet that is not what drew me to him. If it had been dark I was sure he would have glowed. A strange thought to have, I admit. The man was not bright like the sun. Yet I felt as if he had a light hidden inside, a radiance I sensed rather than saw with my eyes. I felt I had to get near him.

  But Thomas grabbed my arm and held me back. “He’s eating, Veronica, can’t you see? We can’t disturb him.”

  “The merchant told us to talk to him. I don’t think he’ll mind.”

  Thomas hesitated. “Let me speak to him first.”

  I shook off my brother’s hand. “Why you? Because you’re a boy?”