The Thrice Born Read online

  Jason checked his watch, eyeing the stacks of the materials again. “I’ve got a meeting this evening. We can talk after that.”

  Jason left then and Corky took a moment to let the facts sink in. So the visitors had one of their own in Vegas. Very interesting.

  He shuffled his research books into somewhat organized piles and headed for the bathroom. He did his best thinking in the shower, something about the warm water and steam, he guessed.

  He let the water run in the shower, letting the day’s visit from Jason replay, letting his mind work and sort the facts. He closed his eyes, hearing the steamy water make the higher pitch from the showerhead like it did sometimes when the pipes got hot. He held his face to the shower spray and rinsed the soapy lather, and then looked to his right at the shower’s glass door.

  In the steam of the glass on the door was writing, strange characters of what looked to be a Semitic language. A cold feeling flushed over Corky, the hair on the nape of his neck standing up despite the heat and pelting water. He traced the letters beneath them in the steam, and then, to his horror, realized they were still forming. The last few characters drew themselves as if by an invisible finger, forming the cryptic symbols.

  He carefully pulled the door open a few inches, eyes fastened on the letters forming in the steamy glass. They continued.

  He glanced around the door; no one was in the bathroom. He hadn’t thought there would be, as these letters were forming from the inside of the shower, where he was standing. Without taking his eyes from the slowly written characters, he reached to the side of the top of the rattan shelf that straddled the toilet and found the clipboard hanging from a nail on the wall. He held the clipboard to the side, out of the shower water’s range, and carefully copied the characters now starting to run with condensation.

  He wrote faster, the pen attached by a string to the clipboard making hesitant scratches of ink in the dampness.

  Suddenly a high-pitched shriek filled the shower, a sharp, raptor-like sound that made him drop the clipboard on the rug and cover his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut against the screaming noise that seemed to be right beside him. He opened his eyes to slits, and then nearly fell as the head of a demonic-looking angel-like figure stuck into his face from the steam.

  Corky couldn’t even gasp, so close was the face, able only to stare back at the yawning mouth of double-row, jagged teeth that stretched in an elongated howl at him.

  And then it disappeared back into the steam and the noise was gone. Corky twisted the shower faucets, grabbed a towel around himself, collected the clipboard, and dashed dripping wet to the living room.

  He stood with wildly racing heart looking at the highest shelves along one wall, eyes going over the spines. Beside his dog-eared copy of layman’s hexapla was the book he sought. He pulled the Hebrew lexicon down, one hand still on the towel wrapped loosely at his hips, and dropped onto the love seat with the coverless slot machine. He flipped through the pages of the lexicon, finding the heading he sought, and nodded as he gave the clipboard a closer study.

  He reached under the seat and found a notebook and marker and began to copy the sketchy letters from the shower door onto a blank page in the notebook.

  “Aramaic,” he muttered, printing legibly despite his haste. “I’m thinking Aramaic.”

  On the page the columns were stacked into sections listing Hebrew, Greek, Aramaic, Latin, and English. It took a few moments of deliberate page to page translating, but within fifteen minutes, Corky Deleon was dry, the love seat was damp, and he had his translation.

  “Yup, Aramaic,” he said with a grin. “Roughly, ‘Treasure in Heaven’.” He glanced to the second row of characters, rechecking his work. “‘Dragon’s Teeth’. Probably Teeth of Dragon, but close enough.”

  He sat back, pushing his hair out of the way when a drop of water dared fall on the notebook page. His gaze rose to the bookshelf again. “Dragon’s Teeth. I’ve heard that one before.”

  He got up and tied the towel around himself better and went to his bedroom. Among the unmade bed and stacks of science fiction, fantasy, and alternative reading publications was another bookshelf, this one crammed with hardcover books. He grabbed the one he wanted and sat down on the bed, leaning against the wall.

  Staring back at him was the back of the book titled, Lemuria: Cradle of Psychotronic Energy, and the author, Dr. Bill Norwood. Corky nodded at the photo of the author. He was a large man, with a full head of graying hair for his mid-fifties, and looked back at the reader with the air of reserved authority. Corky opened the book to one of the pages marked with a chain.

  He frowned, moving the chain to one side as he spread the pages open. One passage seemed to jump out at him. “‘It is our belief that the island is somewhere in the vicinity of the so-called Dragon’s Teeth, a large, peculiarly-shaped coral reef in the Bahamas.’” He frowned. “But what has that got to do with ‘Treasure in Heaven’? What does that have to do with any of it? I don’t get it.”

  He sighed, and the movement made the chain marking the page slide onto his towel. He picked it up, not recalling ever using a chain or necklace to mark a page. It wasn’t his; wasn’t his girlfriend Mary Ann’s. He held it closer, realizing there was a small pendant at the end. He lifted it higher so the later afternoon light could fall on it through a half-curtain window.

  He set the book down and examined the pendant better. It was a coin-shaped medallion with an angel in relief, detailed in gold like the chain, and appeared to be an heirloom. He didn’t remember seeing it before.

  Suddenly a blinding light filled the room, the pendant absorbed in the shine, and he looked up to see in the center of the light a woman. He recognized her, feeling both awkward and stunned.

  Estelle reached a hand to him, but not to take the pendant. She looked very motherly, almost as Corky had seen the Virgin Mary depicted in some Christmas cards, and then her mild expression was eclipsed by a flash of near panic claiming her face.

  “Protect him!”

  And then she was gone. The light was gone with her.

  Corky swallowed noticeably, wondering whether he’d heard her speak aloud or if it was just in his head he’d heard the words. He took a cautious breath, and placed the chain back in the book at the passage he’d read, and scooted to the other side of the bed.

  He took a full minute to find clean boxers and a pair of jeans and pulled them on, and then sat down at the small, cramped computer desk beside his worn-out juicer. He flicked on the monitor. The screensaver flashed from the ‘X-Files’ I Want to Believe image to his homepage.

  He typed into the search engine. “Tesoro de Cielo,” he said, “and Dragon’s Teeth.” He hit Enter, and Google listed entries for the topics.

  He watched the screen, one hand reaching to the juicer. He hit a button – the wrong button – and a grinding noise came from it. Corky looked at it, shut it off, and looked inside the carafe. The oranges inside were shriveled and dark.

  He decided against making verdigris-laced juice from aged oranges and instead let his full attention go to Google’s findings.

  The image of a Spanish galleon in the listings looked enticing, so he clicked on the corresponding link for the search text. It brought him to a treasure hunter’s webpage full of colorful images, pirate maps, ads for cruises, and how-to tips for metal detecting equipment. Corky leaned forward in his chair, anticipating.

  “‘Tesoro de Cielo,’” he read from the main article. “‘A fifteenth century Spanish galleon loaded with precious silks and gold treasure that disappeared near the Dragon's Teeth in The Bahamas.’” He grinned, reading on for a moment, and then relaying it to himself aloud, as he usually did, to help ingrain the knowledge. “According to the web site, the only records documenting the catastrophe are found in a partially destroyed sailor’s diary and in a few documents from the Spanish inquisition, chronicling the life and death of a sailor, one Rufio Catalán. According to the Vatican archives, the diary describes a very unus
ual marine catastrophe... Damn it!” he cried, grinning wider at the screen. “Tesoro de Cielo is a ship! Ha!”

  It took a few minutes of searching the website’s site map and a few other pages on the Internet, but ten minutes later, Corky was making a very long distance telephone call to one of the smallest yet powerful autonomies in the world. He cleared his throat, wishing he could converse with this caller in Italian. He glanced at the clock on the computer.

  “Buona sera. Vatican City Library and Archives,” an older man’s elegant Italian-influenced English said. “Father Elmo here.”

  “Hello, I’m sorry to call so late,” Corky said. “My name is Corky DeLeon. I’d like some help in finding a document.

  “Ah, American? Yes,” said Elmo. “What can I do for you?”

  Corky felt the need to speak quickly. “I understand that the library contains a collection of ship logs obtained by the Inquisition.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I am looking for the diary of a sailor named Rufio Catalán.”

  There was a slight pause on Elmo’s side. “A diary’s not a log.”

  “I know,” Corky said, reaching for a pen and pad of paper as his fingers grew nervous. “But I believe you have it, too. I’m also looking for the records of his interrogation.”

  “In regards to what ship?”

  Corky thought he detected a cooler tone in Elmo’s voice. “The Tesoro de Cielo.”

  There was a slight chuckle. “Ah, but that’s just a Biblical quotation. It means 'Treasure in Heaven’.”

  “I know that, Father.”

  A definite crispness came to the line. “No such records exist, Mr. DeLeon.”

  “It’s in your catalog along with records of his experiences in the Spanish inquisition.” Corky clicked back through the web pages on the computer until the screen showed Vatican City lit by a dusk sun. No, his information was right, if the web page was correct. Corky frowned at Elmo’s change in attitude.

  “I assure you, Mr. Leon, that’s a mistake. I know the catalog backwards and forwards,” he said gravely. “There are no such documents in the Vatican collection.”

  There was a click on the other end, and then a faint, stunted buzz, and a screech of fax line.

  Corky hung up the phone, confused. He looked at the website. There was no update stamp, no webmaster to contact. Perhaps it was outdated, or simply wrong.

  He sat back in the chair, slumping. He thought he was close to something. He closed his eyes, half expecting a screech or a light or maybe a voice.

  Instead there was the hitching sound of his fax machine as it lurched out a page. He sat up and reached for it, waiting for it to finish.

  The page was blank for heading with no real message, just a couple lines of numbers and symbols, and after a few seconds, Corky realized they were coordinates.

  He glanced to the bottom. The country code was 39; he’d just looked up that information. It was Vatican City.

  Corky gave the numbers a more thorough study, and then nodded. He was more than a little familiar with the coordinates.

  Jason could not keep his mind on the staff meeting that evening. He sat at the head of the large oval table where the Security and housekeeping staff had gathered for what was, to them, a pivotal decision to be made.

  “So it comes to this,” the head maintenance man was saying, feeling slightly superior to be lording over the Security team, for once. “We can either revamp the drain system on the lower end of the gym and hope the flooding is minimal, or we can close down the pools for three weeks and take our chances with the early holiday season traffic not minding that one of our best draws is out of commission.”

  Chuck wasn’t really in his element with this kind of security; he’d rather take on a cranky roulette table any day. “I don’t see how it affects security. It’s a housekeeping or maintenance issue. Plumbing, right?”

  The head of maintenance gave him a frown. “Any time you shut down an area containing a pool in a hotel,” he said, “it’s a security issue. You have to post twenty-four hour security guards at each public access point. That’s city council ruling. The Gaming Commission is onboard with that, too.”

  The last statement got Jason’s attention. “Shut it down and block it off,” he said, his interest nowhere near piqued, but tapped. “Get the pools drainage problem corrected and then reopen the pools before the holiday rush.”

  The maintenance man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Another staff member was about to speak, but the door opened and Corky looked in. Normally no one interrupted these meetings, but this time Jason was ready for the intrusion. He’d spent the whole afternoon mulling over what he’d learned at Corky’s house, and he didn’t like being in that mind rut alone. What he really wanted was to have a tête-à-tête with Estelle, but he wasn’t certain he was equipped for that yet. If he was wrong, if he and Corky were wrong, then it was quite an accusation to spring on her.

  Every person at the table was looking at Jason, each noting his absentmindedness, and now each coming to similar conclusions.

  “My notes can wait, Mr. Newhart,” the head of housekeeping said, standing up before Jason could even nod. She smiled and straightened her manila folder and its contents. “Tomorrow?”

  Jason nodded to her, and the rest of the staff followed her example. Within seconds the room was empty except for Jason and Corky.

  “I had another visitation today.” Corky met Jason at the far end of the table, the boxes of donuts left in the center of the table not catching his interest for once. He set the pendant he’d found in the book on the table before Jason. “I think you’ll be interested in this.”

  Jason sat straighter. He picked up the pendant and studied it closely, turning it in the overhead light.

  Corky opened the briefcase he’d brought and set Norwood’s thick book on the table, opening it to a page showing a crude drawing of an angel similar to the pendant and the one Jason had. “Look familiar?”

  Jason nodded, eyes skimming over the image and parts of the text. “What exactly does this all this mean?” It wasn’t the question he really wanted to ask. “What is Estelle doing here?”

  Corky turned the book over. Bill Norwood looked back at them. “Whatever happened, happened a long time ago. I don’t know, but if I’m correct, this is the guy with the answers. This island – he calls it the Island of the Fallen,” he found another page in the book, “— may be the first place to look.

  “Right here,” he said. “In The Bahamas. Hogsty Reef is notorious for eating ships; has been for a long time. The SS Richmond P. Hobson is still visible. She went down in 1963. Land of the Bermuda Triangle.”

  Jason looked at the outline of the island. “Why does he call it that? Island of the Fallen.”

  Corky tapped the pendant. “You sure you don’t already know?” He shrugged at the tolerant look Jason gave him. “Okay. You sure you want to know?

  Jason’s meeting with Corky had been fruitful, but it hadn’t answered any of his most pressing questions, rather leading to more, with more elusive answers. He didn’t know anything yet, not really; just conjecture, a bunch of maybes, and somewhere in the thickest cloud of uncertainty, was his wife. And son.

  He didn’t relish asking Estelle about it, but he was determined to. As soon as he arrived home that night with the book in hand, she knew something was in store.

  She shook her head immediately as he set it on the island counter in the kitchen. An odd look of recognition and dread washed over her. “Where did you get that, Jason?”

  “Corky DeLeon.” He saw her defenses go up, that self-contained front she put up whenever he had a question she didn’t want to answer. “I want some answers. And this,” he said, one hand on the book’s back that showed the author, “has helped me see the truth about –”

  “No, Jason, no!” she cut in, waving the book away. “Forget this stupid book. It’s nothing. One man’s silly ideas. Put the book away.”

  “Why?
” He took her shoulders as she turned away from the book. “What’s on that island?”

  “Nothing.”

  He noticed she didn’t bother asking the pertinent questions he thought she would. “Oh?”

  “Nothing is on the island. She gave the book a vile look. “You will just go on a silly cat and mouse game. You will find nothing.”

  He frowned, his hands softening on her shoulders as she fought back tears. “Tell me about the island, Estelle.”

  She looked away, to the canisters lining the sink counter.

  “What do you know about the island?” He made her look at him. “You said silly cat and mouse game; not wild goose chase? Why? What’s on the island? You obviously know what I’m talking about, what Corky’s thinking about. Tell me about the island.”

  “For God’s sake, Jason, I have told you a thousand times,” she said almost wearily, “that some things should be left alone.”

  He took half a step back, letting his hands slide down her arms to her elbows. “I’m supposed to leave you alone, then?”

  “No, not me. Everything else.”

  “Everything else?”

  “Anything connected to the island.” A sob caught her voice, and she pulled away from him, sinking to a kneeling position as the tears began.

  He squatted before her, wiping away the first tears brushing down her cheek. “If you don’t want me to pursue this, then you have to tell me something,” he said gently. “I have a right –”

  “Of course you have rights.” She sniffed, but the tears were now running down her face. “I know that, Jason.” She stood up, her tone still soft but somehow bolder. “But I cannot talk about this anymore.”

  She turned from him and left the kitchen.

  Jason slowly stood up and watched her shadow as it climbed the first few steps of the staircase. He heard her light tread on the second floor, heard their bedroom door close.

  He looked to Bill Norwood’s book on the counter. He stepped closer, not touching the book, personally holding the author responsible for the current tempest in his life.

  “What do you have to do with my wife?” he asked the book jacket.