|
Only the Future is History
by Rich Lewis
***No portion of this text may be reproduced or copied without the expressed written permission of the author. If you have comment or questions please email the author. You may print a single copy of this novel for your personal enjoyment, which must be destroyed upon completion.***
BOOK ONE; THE BEGINNING
=====================
CHAPTER ONE
------------
Monday morning. The day was beginning as it had for the past two and a half years. I had arrived at work shortly after six a.m. in my daily attempt to get a jump on the day. Work was everything to me right now, and I loved it. Working at the New York Historical Institute offered a variety of challenges for an archeologist. I was not off in the field digging up ancient ruins, or looking for lost cities, but my job was almost as important. I was a researcher, taking information from those ruins of ancient civilizations, analyzing that information, and trying to extract more from it. Archeology had become my whole life. I wanted to know more and yearned to make that one big discovery, or put that one big theory into place that would have an impact on our understanding of those ancient worlds, not to mention improving my professional standing as an archeologist.
Looking up from the book I was reading intently I noticed it was just after 7:30. This mornings task was simple background reading for the project the Institute currently had me working on. My concentration remained on the pages in front of me as my right hand thumbed the pages, and my left hand shifted automatically between a bag of day-old doughnuts and a cup of coffee. I had spent almost the entire weekend with this particular book, "Ancient Tibetan Languages", hoping to find that little bit of information I needed to solve this months mystery.
"Good morning Mr. Scott," a voice boomed behind me, echoing through the room. I jumped at the sound, spilling the lukewarm coffee that had been in my hand down the front of my shirt. Swearing under my breath I quickly grabbed a napkin and tried to clean myself up.
"Did we have an accident?," the voice questioned. I did not bother to respond as Miss Carolyn Williams, my adolescent partner, sauntered over to her desk once again smug in the fact that she had succeeded in scaring me half to death. It was a game she played out every morning, and I constantly thought to myself if she ever applied herself to her work like she did scaring me she could have been a rocket scientist. I was also increasingly disappointed that she was continuously successful.
"So nice of you to announce your arrival to work this morning Miss Williams," I hissed as I sat back down at my desk, having removed the excess liquid from my clothing. I muttered to myself as she simply smiled at me, knowing forgiveness was only moments away. It galled that I could never stay mad at her, and even worse that she knew it.
Carolyn Williams had graduated from Brown University with all the honors and merits that could be had. Tops in her class, the Institute had wasted little time in snatching her up and putting her to work. I had little doubt that Miss Williams could have been successful at whatever she had chosen to do. First impressions revealed little about her intellect. At five foot seven, with her dark brown hair and dancing eyes she could have been a model, or an actress or anything else that required good looks. Her build was slim but gave an athletic appearance, and drew admiring looks wherever she went. Often she gave the impression of being a total airhead and always the impression of being slightly adolescent which at times I was sure was not an act.
"Now Jarrett," she began, "you just take everything too seriously."
"Something you wouldn't know a whole lot about, huh Carolyn? Being serious." It was a morning ritual. She complained of my stuffiness and all business attitude, and I chastised her adolescent behavior.
"I can be serious if I have to Mr. Scott," she said, lowering her voice in a business-like manner. "I even finished that summary of the Cranston book you wanted."
She smiled like a kid proud of a major accomplishment, but I could not let it pass. "Wonders never cease," I began, "how did you ever find the time to squeeze it in with all you high society socializing this weekend?"
With a sour look on her face she stepped over to my desk and dropped the summary on it. "I really didn't have anything else to do," she answered in a hurt tone.
With the last word in, turning my anger to guilt, she turned and headed down the hallway towards the elevator, telling me over her shoulder that she was going up to the research computer lab and punch up a few things. In reality this was also a morning ritual. It would take her at least a half hour to reach the lab and even start whatever task she had set out to do. From our basement desks, she would ride the elevator to the second floor, visit the bathroom to make sure her make-up was just perfect, then flirt her way to the fourth floor computer lab. I had painstakingly investigated this routine, with an accomplice and good friend I had who worked on the third floor. Dave Jenkins and I had spent a week following her around every morning to see just what she was up to when she vanished from the basement. At least now I could have some security knowing I had a good forty-five minutes to finish my reading and prepare for her next “boogie man” imitation.
Pausing for a moment I surveyed the room in which I was sitting. The accommodations that Carolyn and I received were adequate, but far from luxurious. Our two desks were located in the basement of the Institute's building which extended upwards seven floors. Along with our two desks, the basement held the thousands of volumes of research books and data catalogues that were occasionally used by researchers. For the most part the information was stored somewhere on the computers, so we rarely received visitors. Carolyn and I had the assignment to look for the more intricate details associated with our research, things that usually could not be called up on a computer, so they had planted us right next to our main source of information.
The basement was not a bad set up. Carolyn and I each had a desktop computer, and we shared a copy machine. Carolyn had brought in a coffee maker, and I had donated a small refrigerator. We were almost self-sufficient. I also enjoyed the quiet of the basement, and for the most part we were left to ourselves, except for the occasional visit by the maintenance man on his way to the furnace room which was located in the other half of the basement. The Institute had taken the time to carpet the research lab, and install a proper lighting system. Besides being located in the basement the lab gave the appearance of a city library. The only inconvenience was the research lab computer, which was on the fourth floor. Most of the time we simply called someone upstairs to punch up whatever computer work we needed since they were closer. Most of it fell to my spy partner Dave Jenkins. Still, Carolyn made frequent trips to the lab and I was sure the isolation of the basement was the biggest reason for her morning flaunt. It simply did not agree with her social instincts. I on the other hand enjoyed the quiet, and solitude immensely.
Turning back to the book on Tibetan languages I began to read once again. The project we were currently working on held much promise, both in our finding an answer, and in the fact that it would greatly help my career. Two months ago a stone tablet had been found on the island of Crete in the Mediterranean Sea just south of Greece. The stone and the inscriptions on it had been dated to about 2500 B.C. The tablet contained a new style of written language of the ancient Greek Minoan civilization, which had since come to be known as Linear C. By today's standards it was not what most of us would call a written language with specific words built through the use of an alphabet. Linear C was a collection of symbols, possibly representing a simple sound or maybe even a word, an idea or an event. Its predecessors, Linear A and Linear B had been equally challenging in their day. The original Knosses palace, which had revealed those languages, had been discovered years ago by an archeologist named Arthur Evans, and it had taken years to decipher them. It was hoped in today's computer age that Linear C would not take decades to decipher. It was also hoped the Institute's well paid and highly educated researchers would be able to do it within the year.
As soon as the Greek government had released the tablet, the Institute had immediately placed four teams of researchers on the project of deciphering it. Each team had a specific job assigned to it, and it was hoped that all the information could be fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle and an answer found. Carolyn and I were to categorize the symbols. Each of the previous linear languages were comprised of several types of symbols that were very similar in some respect. The symbols referring to the annual Minoan harvest were very similar, yet contrasted greatly with symbols, which referred to Ancient Minoan religion. After placing the new symbols in categories we were to check references to find out any similarities to other ancient language symbols, as well as calculating their rate of appearance.
For the past three weeks Carolyn and I had been trying to find any similar symbols in the other Greek languages. I occasionally drifted off on little excursions, like the Tibetan language, looking for long shots. Historians for many years found that the world was really a small place, even five thousand years ago. People talked, and walked. There were often connections. It was hoped that any similarities we found would offer a clue as to what each Linear C symbol meant. So far we had drawn a huge blank. Nothing.
The newly discovered tablet, almost two feet in height, had yielded twelve major symbols, which we had so far found no previous reference to, along with a smaller variety of symbols thought to be not as important. Although my learned colleague had thought me a bit daft, I had the stirring sensation that I had seen two of the new symbols somewhere before, but I could not place where. After six years of school and two years on the job, I had read a rather large number of books and seen a lot of information in regard to ancient written languages. I had to find out where I had seen them before so I began my side trip from our main objective. In the last two weeks I had shifted through twenty-seven books of some variety on ancient languages. As always, I hoped that this book would bear the information I was searching for.
Finishing the page I was reading I began to turn it, reaching for my coffee that I had refilled after Carolyn had left. With the cup half way to my mouth I froze as I glimpsed the information on the page I had just turned to. I set the cup down on the desk, almost spilling it again, and reached into my desk for my magnifying glass, the excitement building within me. On the page was a picture of a cave drawing in Tibet dated around 500 B.C. Within the drawing were a variety of symbols, and several seemed to leap off the page.
Taking the magnifying glass, I stared at the page. Although the picture was of poor quality and the lighting poor where the picture had been taken, I was almost sure I was seeing what I had been looking for. Within the painting were three of the twelve symbols we had recently catalogued off the new tablet, two of which were the ones I knew I had seen before.
I was stunned. I knew I had seen these symbols before but actually finding them still surprised me. I remembered now seeing the cave drawing picture in a group of slides a professor had shown during a two-day seminar at Georgetown University. Now that I had found my evidence I was faced with explaining it. How could these three symbols be in a cave painting made two thousand years after and thousands of miles away from where the newly found tablet of Crete had been written?
"I'm back oh mighty master," cooed Carolyn returning down the hallway, "Ready to do your bidding." For the first time in weeks Carolyn's arrival failed to stir any reaction from me. I was totally absorbed by the cave painting.
"Jarrett, did you hear me?" I raised my eyes for just a second and motioned her over to my desk. My gaze returned to the picture in the book, still trying to get the picture to focus better under the magnifying glass.
"What exhilarating find have you made now Mr. Scott?" Carolyn mocked me. Slowly, portraying little interest in anything I may have found, she made her way to my desk.
"Just look at the fifth, eighth, and tenth symbols in the cave drawing," I said as I handed her the magnifying glass.
"What's the matter Jarrett, find a long lost relative?"
"Just be serious for once Carolyn and look," I demanded. Taking the magnifying glass and giving me her usual look of disgust she bent over the desk and examined the picture, and like I had been moments earlier, she simply stood there spellbound by the picture.
"Jarrett," she began, "where is this? I've never seen a cave drawing on Crete."
"It's not on Crete," I answered, feeling superior.
"What do you mean its not on Crete? Those are three of the new Linear C symbols, but I haven't seen any of these others before."
"I know. This is Tibet. Ancient Tibet, around 500 B.C." I sat up in my chair as Carolyn straightened from her bent over position and sat on the edge of my desk, the book still in her hand. We just sat there, and for once there was no reply from the wisecracking Carolyn.
***
Later that morning Carolyn and I went up to the third floor to see Dave Jenkins, who was working on team two of the project. He and his partner, George McCall, were working on the patterns of appearance on the newly found samples. It was hoped that by finding a distinct pattern of appearance, meshed with our rate of appearance and categorization that an answer could be found in deciphering the tablet.
Dave Jenkins was impressed with our find, to a point. He was still reluctant to admit there was a connection. The three symbols I had found in the cave drawing were a close match, but not a perfect one.
"I'm skeptical folks," Jenkins announced. There is just no way to prove they're the same symbols." He continued to stare at the picture while he talked.
"Come on Dave," I began, "They're at least similar, separated by two thousand years and miles from the Greek symbols. There's going to be some differences."
"The picture is just too small and blurred to see for sure," Jenkins replied.
"Fine," Carolyn offered. "We find a better picture, or go to the god-forsaken cave."
"Sounds like a wild-goose chase to me," George McCall chimed in, with his usual pessimistic opinion. No one said anything in reply. Even Dave did not enjoy working with George McCall. He rarely said anything, except to be negative, and was very opinionated. McCall was a large man, huskily built with a very gruff exterior both in his looks and his personality. It surprised none of us that he was still a single bachelor in his fifties. Most felt George McCall was just bidding his time until retirement, mad at the Institute for being lost in the shuffle and left down here with us, still doing basic research.
Turning back to Dave I broke the silence. "Can we find a better picture of this cave? With all this technology we should be able to find something," I said, tapping the computer on Dave's desk.
"While we're at it," Carolyn said, "couldn't we input the symbols in the big research lab computer and see if it can locate any other similar symbols?"
Dave pondered the questions for a moment before answering. "Look guys, I'll take a try at enhancing the photo in the book, but I doubt if it will improve much. I don't know if there's any way to cross match language symbols in the computer but I'll check it out."
"Great Dave," I said, glowing from within. "We've got a few things to check on in the archives downstairs and we'll wait to hear from you."
"Fine," Dave replied in a tone that could not be construed as optimistic. "Now why don't you take the lovely Miss Williams and get out of here so I can get to work?"
"Now Dave," Carolyn began as we headed for the door, "let's remember to be professional about our working relationships." I did not say anything but waved briefly to Dave as I escorted Miss Williams from the room. It seemed her brief bought with seriousness was coming to and end. On the way to the elevator she made the brief attempt to stop and visit but I denied her the opportunity.
"Come on Carolyn," I said to her, "We have work to do."
She frowned, pouting as we boarded the elevator. "Always the slave driver," she mocked as the doors closed. I noticed the secretary at the floor entrance had a twisted smile on her face. Miss Williams did little for my reputation.
The next few days passed quickly. Carolyn and I immediately had begun searching through the archives trying to find any other references to the cave drawing in Tibet and anything that would connect Tibet with Crete. As hard as we had been working we had still found little to go on. I knew somewhere there had to be an answer, just as I had known I had seen some of those symbols before. There had to be something somewhere that would help, and I had the feeling it was simple, right on the edge of my tongue, but I just could not nail it down.
By Friday afternoon we still had come with nothing and I was beginning to feel depressed. Just a few days earlier I thought I had stumbled onto the find that makes careers and now that hope was beginning to fade. I had held off until Wednesday before I had begun pestering Dave Jenkins, but he too had drawn a blank. He told me he still had a few more things to run through the computer, but he held little hope in anything concrete turning up. At about six p.m. Friday, Carolyn and I decided to call it a week. A quiet and subdued good-bye was given by each of us and well wishes for the weekend.
Carolyn wasted little time in leaving, as usual. In a brief flurry she threw odds and ends into her briefcase and rushed down the hallway. I took my time packing up some reading material for the weekend, and noticed the Cranston book summary Carolyn had given me Monday, buried under some papers on my desk. I picked that up too and tossed it into my briefcase. I had little else to do this weekend.
When I stepped outside I immediately noticed the frosty chill in the air. It was late September, and I had the feeling that New York’s winter was not far off this year. We had been fortunate the previous winter, having received only moderate amounts of snow and only brief periods of sub-zero cold. All signs indicated that that would not be the case this year. A quick shiver ran up my spine as I pulled my jacket closed and headed for my car.
The parking lot was almost barren as usual. My car, and the cars of the night janitors were all that remained. As I approached my car and unlocked the door I did notice a dark blue sedan parked in the corner that I did not recognize. Although the Institute employed hundreds of people, I had become familiar with the other late night workers and the vehicles they drove. I suspected someone in the office had recently bought a new car and thought no more about it.
During the drive home I decided that I would stop and grab something to eat and spend the evening at home. I was not the social butterfly that Carolyn was, and thoroughly enjoyed spending quiet time at home. It was not that I did not like going out, but by weeks end I was usually too drained to even contemplate it. I had no family to visit, being an only child. It had been almost eight years since both my parents passed away. I worried little about finding that right person to settle down and have children with. At the present time my work was all I wanted. This week had been harder than usual, especially since Monday had started out so well and the week had progressively become worse.
After grabbing a quick hamburger, I returned to my car and headed for home. After weeks like this one the half-hour drive home seemed to take hours. The Friday night crowd had already taken to the streets, and traffic was already picking up. As I drove, I noticed a car kept appearing in my rear view mirror. The blue sedan. A quick surge of paranoia swept through me. Could it be the same car from the parking lot? I chuckled to myself. Maybe Carolyn was right. Maybe I did work too hard.
The weekend passed as it normally did for me, quietly and quickly. I had spent the rest of Friday evening watching television and had gone to bed early. Saturday was spent grocery shopping, as I was determined to start eating right and eat at home more. Although I rarely spent time out in New York's social circles, I did spend a lot of time eating someone else's cooking. At six foot and 200 pounds, I was anything but fat; still there were signs of a potbelly developing. Through high school and college I had been quite active, even playing baseball on a scholarship for a year, yet my periods of exercise had gradually declined. School and work demanded more and more time and my physical health was suffering. As I had balanced my checkbook I realized a little home cooking was in order for a while.
Saturday night I had decided to check out a local nightclub that Carolyn had mentioned, but found very little of interest and returned home early. The night scene just did not appeal to me. On Sunday I lounged the day away and finished reading an old spy novel, and before I knew it, Monday morning had arrived.
Monday morning began as it usually did. Re-energized from my lazy weekend I started bright and early. The first thing I did was put together a "things to do" list. I still had not given up hope that some clue to the Crete-Tibet connection was yet to be found. I also noted that I still had yet to read the Cranston report that Carolyn had given me, and was determined to get to it. After all, Carolyn had taken the time to write it up, I had better spend the time and read it.
Unusual for Carolyn, she was half an hour late. She was always known to push the clock so to speak, and arrive just in time to punch in, but she was never late. The one drawback of working at the Institute was its demand of punctuality and eight hours work for eight hours pay. When she did arrive she was extremely upset, ranting about some idiot driver that had almost run her off the road. The freeways these days were getting very dangerous.
I continued to make my list and dig up the materials for the days work while Carolyn continued her tirade. She was now commenting on the fact that it had probably been some alcoholic, drunk on the freeway at seven thirty in the morning. The language she used would have embarrassed a truck driver. Still slamming things around she stormed off down one of the isles of book shelves towards the back of the basement. I did not bother to say anything as it was usually pointless to attempt to do so at times like these. When she had settled down she would come back to her desk like nothing had ever happened. I chuckled to myself as I contemplated just how much Irish blood she had in that fiery frame of hers.
As Carolyn stormed off down the isles of books I turned back to my desk, and located a group of papers I would need for today's work. As I opened my desk, I felt a strange tingling sensation on the back of my neck. Things seemed a little bit out of place in my desk drawer. I was sure of it. Someone had been inside my desk. My eyebrows rose as I again contemplated my paranoia. This was getting to be a habit. Maybe a janitor had needed a pen, or who knows what else. It was not like my desk held any top-secret materials and I had never contemplated locking it. Thinking no more about it I continued my hunt for the notes I had misplaced. After searching through desk drawers, I finally found them stuffed away in my briefcase. It was going to be one of those kinds of weeks, I could tell already.
Feeling organized and ready for the day, I decided I would visit Dave Jenkins before I got down to work. Carolyn was still off roaming the isles in the basement, doing who knew what. Occasionally I could hear a flare up as she would let loose with a few profanities, but she was beginning to calm down. I walked over to her desk and left her a note about my absence and headed for the elevator.
The first thing I noticed upon entering Jenkins' office was that his partner George McCall was not at his desk. It struck me as rather odd. As many times as I had been up to this office, I had never seen McCall up from his desk. Even more surprising, George McCall was actually engaged in a vocal discussion with Dave Jenkins. After countless visits to their office before this, never once had I seen George McCall act even a little bit social. I was momentarily speechless. As I entered the room I stood there for what was probably only seconds, but it felt like hours. Both Jenkins and McCall had turned to stare at me the moment I had walked into the room. Recovering from the momentary pause, I gave a brief wave and made my way to their coffee machine. A quick gesture by the two men, and they went back to their conversation.
"Look Dave," George continued, "there is not any way to cross reference the symbols we recently found in the computer with all known symbols. There just isn't. Who knows if they've even been programmed into the computer." Taking a sip of the cup of coffee I had poured I thought to myself McCall might actually be acting social, but he was still his pessimistic self.
"Well I think there might be," Dave shot back, making his way over behind his desk and sitting down. "I still say we can cross reference civilization origins with their written languages, and call up anything that hasn't been deciphered." George scowled at Dave and returned to his desk, muttering something about the fact that he never understood why his opinion was sought when no one ever listened to it anyway.
"So how goes it?", I asked quietly, sitting down in front of Dave's desk.
"Slow," he replied. "I haven't been able to come up with anything yet. I filled out the paper work to send to the Chinese government to see if their cultural department will give us any help on locating a better picture of that cave drawing but I wouldn't hold my breath."
"So you think you have a way to reference the symbols," I asked, coming back to what he and George had been arguing over.
"Maybe. It's a long shot at the very most. Its hard to program these types of symbols on any find program in the computer. If they are there they'll be buried in some text concerning their origin, etcetera, etcetera. George may even be right about them not even being in the computer. I'll give things a try, but then I have to get back to my real work." Dave definitely seemed a little on the edge this morning emphasizing 'real work'. I stood to leave, and Dave got up, motioning me to the hall. I quietly followed him out, not saying anything to McCall who seemed to be totally engrossed in whatever he was doing.
"Don't ask me why," Dave began, "but Paulson was up here ranting and raving this morning." John Paulson was our supervisor, rarely seen, but when he was visible it usually meant trouble. "He was giving me some lecture on procedure, and how you should have went through Jackson and Smith before coming to me." Bert Jackson and Lee Smith were another of the research teams. I began to wonder if the little bit of information I had uncovered was going to be worth the trouble it was beginning to create. Paulson usually was a good guy to work for, but he had a real hang up with "procedure".
"Well Dave, just do what you can," I said. "I've still got a few leads, so let me know if you find out anything."
"Sure," Dave replied. "Sure you wouldn't like to have another partner?", he asked, making a motion like he was shooting McCall.
"No thanks," I said, turning for the elevator. "The one I have is goofy enough." Dave smiled and returned to his office as the elevator doors opened. Yes, it was going to be one of those weeks.
On the return trip to the basement I tried to shake off the disappointment I felt. I had really hoped Dave would have been able to find something to help us along. As usual, I guess it was up to me to move things along. Returning to my desk, there was still no sign of Carolyn. Probably off on her morning walk. My disappointment turned to some anger and resentment. I spent several minutes cussing about undependable partners. It was no wonder I never got anything done.
By Monday afternoon I was back to work and in the grove again. Like a bloodhound on the scent, I was slowly tracking down what I needed to know. I had cross-referenced a couple of more titles of books dealing with ancient languages and a couple of them had been located in the archives. I had yet to find another picture of the cave drawing in Tibet but I was determined to do so. Carolyn had also returned to the basement and decided to put in some real work time so it seemed like we actually made some progress. I was almost euphoric.
Although we held the attitude that more information could be found, little else was the rest of the afternoon. For a brief moment we had been ready to celebrate when Carolyn had found a picture of a cave drawing in Tibet, but the picture proved to be the same one we had already seen. By five-thirty we both decided we'd had enough disappointment for one day and packed to go home. Readying myself faster than usual, I decided I would walk Carolyn out to her car.
"You're actually ready to go?," Carolyn asked with a surprised look on her face as I followed her to the elevator.
"Yes I'm ready to go," I answered. "Rather unusual isn't it?"
"Yes it is," she said as the elevator opened. "But its nice to have some company on the way out for a change." We made minor chitchat on the way past the lobby security desk and out to the door and Carolyn asked me about the Cranston report.
"To be honest," I said as we left the building and headed for the parking lot, "it's on my things to do list. I've got it right here," I said, patting my briefcase.
"No biggie," she said. "I was just wondering if you had gotten to it." Once again Carolyn succeeded in making me feel a little guilty.
"Right away Miss Williams," I chided her. "I gets on it rights away."
She gave me a smile as she unlocked her car. My space was right next to hers so I was nearby when she asked me "who bought the Seville?" Looking over my shoulder I saw the car again. It was the dark blue sedan. A quick chill ran up my spine. What was it with that car anyway?
"I was gonna ask you the same thing," I replied. "Its been out here the past few nights. I even thought it had been following me. Kinda weird, huh?"
"Yes, kinda weird," Carolyn chuckled as she slid into her car. "See you tomorrow double oh- seven."
Amusing. Feeling a bit abused I climbed into my car and headed for home, watching the sedan in my review mirror until I could not see the parking lot any more. I still could not say why that car gave me such a weird feeling. About a block from my apartment I saw the sedan again, or at least I thought it was the same sedan. Still, there must be a hundred blue Cadillac Seville’s in New York City alone.
By the time I pulled into the garage at my apartment building I was feeling better. I had by now convinced myself that no one would want to follow me home. What would they be after, my car? I sincerely doubted it. who in their right mind would want a slowly deteriorating 1983 Ford Ltd. Passing through the entrance way between the basement parking garage and the apartment building lobby, I stopped by the mailbox to retrieve a few bills, and headed up two flights of stairs to my apartment. By the time I waited around for the elevator I could usually be in the apartment and halfway through dinner. Besides, the exercise was good for me.
As usual I stopped at the end table by sofa to deposit tonight’s bills with the growing stack already accumulating there and hit the answering machine for messages. After several home shopping offers I heard the voice of Dave Jenkins. He sounded excited, explaining he had some interesting reading for me. I clicked on the television to catch the evening news and retrieved the phone book to find Dave’s home number. I’m sure he had left long before I had and I was not one to wait very long for surprises.
Dialing in the number I turned back to the
television, and froze. Police cars and an ambulance, flashing lights and lots of
onlookers filled the screen. They were in the front lot of the Historical
Center. As Dave’s answering machine picked up I turned the volume on the
television up to find out what was happening. Without thinking I replaced the
phone, eyes locked on the television. A wave of nausea came and went and I felt
the wind rush out of me. They were showing a picture of Dave Jenkins on the
screen. He had been found at the base of the Institute building, and he was
dead.
Back to Storytime Home Page / Back to RiCaL Home Page