From the Ashes (20 page)

“And you plan on finding and talking to her... how?”

“Oh. Right.” Jon gave a sheepish grin as he offered, “Um, phone book?”

“Jon, this is New York City. Eight million people. Even if she’s still in the same place with the same name, how many Catherine
Smiths
do you think might be in the book?”

’Yeah...” He made a nervous sucking sound between his teeth. “Maybe we should go back to the notebook. He probably had some sort of clue or thought process written down there that he used to find her.”

“And you can find it?”

Jon shrugged, but his expression was hopeful. “If it’s in there, I hope I can. Our minds worked in pretty similar ways.”

“And if Michael was right about your mental prowess, we should be doing just fine.” Mara smiled at Jon. “The student who outgrew his master.”

Jon felt the warmth of blood rushing to his cheeks. “Meh. I don’t know about that. I’ll do what I can, though.”

“And after we talk to Ms. Smith?”

“I don’t know. I’m kinda banking on her being the lead we need to point us in the right direction. If that doesn’t pan out... well, we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

Mara raised an eyebrow at Jon’s deliberately misquoted idiom. “Well, Michael seemed to think that she was key to unraveling this whole thing, and since he knew more about this than either of us do—”

“Then Catherine Smith probably
is
key,” Jon finished. “Alright, I guess we’ll just have to find her, then go from there.”

After Ted’s offer of dessert had been politely declined, the waiter brought their check. They argued about who would pick up the bill, guilt and anger from their fight still tainting the atmosphere, each trying to be the bigger person and pay for the dinner. Jon eventually won, but he allowed Mara to pay the tip.

Picking up their coats, they headed down the stairs and into the chilly night air. The drone of engines and blaring of horns, the shuffle of pedestrians and jingle of coins, the soulful croons of a street musician’s saxophone, and the nasally pleas for charity donations greeted their ears as the soundtrack of the city. Out in the open, in the dark, Jon was cognizant of the weight in the backpack slung from his shoulder. The notebook. Legal-size paper, college-ruled, 80 sheets, spiral-bound. Not really heavy – but it was weighty. Or at least, its contents were. Worth more than its weight in gold to the right – or wrong – person. What clues had Michael left behind? He couldn’t have known he was going to die, but something in that notebook
had
to hold some sort of answer for Jon, to hold some importance that would lead him to the truth that both brothers sought.

As they crossed the plaza to the sidewalk and started walking south down Sixth Avenue toward their hotel, Jon turned to gaze at the towering spires of the iconic skyscrapers around him. Historic buildings from the 1930s, buildings that would have stood witness to the suicide of Roger Blumhurst in ‘57, and, presumably, countless other deaths like Michael’s associated with this alleged conspiracy. Buildings that had been built by magnates like Woolworth and Chrysler – men who built and ruled empires, steered economies, held tremendous power over millions of people’s lives.

And suddenly, the connection he had been sure that he knew came rushing back to Jon. The connection between all of the locations on Michael’s map of Manhattan. It was quite literally staring him in the face.

Years ago, all of the locations on the map had either belonged to or received tremendous funding from the same incredibly wealthy, incredibly powerful man.

John D. Rockefeller, Jr.

Tuesday

The night had been long. Mara’s sobbing in her sleep had kept Jon awake for nearly an hour, her tears stirring something within him, steeling his resolve even further. This was about more than just finishing Michael’s work or unveiling the truth. This was about retribution, setting right wrongs perpetrated against all those who loved Michael – and against however many other victims of this purported cover-up before him. As he had lain in bed, staring at the dark ceiling above, he realized that it wasn’t just Michael’s death he was setting out to vindicate; it was the deaths of everyone who had dared to ask questions someone didn’t want asked, the nameless – dozens? hundreds? thousands? – before him, and perhaps countless more afterward if Jon and Mara should fail.

No pressure or anything.

He had finally fallen asleep after midnight, awakening hours later to the morning sun peeking underneath the drawn curtains. Daylight. The day of reckoning. Or so Jon hoped. He sat up in bed, checked his watch, and swung his legs off the side of the bed. Glancing across the room at Mara’s bed, Jon froze. Her bed was empty.

Had she been abducted during the night? Had the bastards come in and taken her away, maybe trying to use her as a bargaining chip for Jon, the notebook, and everything they knew? But Jon was right there. Wouldn’t he have heard them? Or, more likely, wouldn’t they have taken or killed him, too?

His breaths came in quick, heavy bursts. He leapt to his feet, darted across the room to her bed. The sheets were tossed aside, her suitcase open. Her toiletries bag missing from its conspicuous spot in an easily visible mesh pocket. The sound of water running from the other side of the wall. From the bathroom. The shower.

Jon rolled his head back, clapped his hand on the back of his neck, and squeezed, massaging the tension from his muscles. He was getting jumpy, paranoid. Given, his brother
had
been murdered, and someone
had
broken into Michael’s apartment, attacked Jon, and stolen the laptop, but that didn’t mean there was a conspiracy lurking in every corner. He had to be careful, cautious, but not paranoid. That could backfire.

He sat down on the end of her bed, took a deep breath. Stood again, walked over to the window, drew back the curtain.
Great view,
he thought sarcastically, the window opening onto another row of the hotel’s rooms just across the small alleyway. He couldn’t even see the ground, sixteen stories below, from this vantage point. Most of the windows he could see had their curtains drawn. But then, it was just after seven a.m., and there wasn’t much to see anyway. Jon thought he saw a figure, its features hidden in shadow, peering down at him from a window across the way, but it disappeared behind the curtain before Jon could get a good look. Someone spying on him? Was it
“them”
? Had “they” followed them here, to New York, to their hotel, to their room?
Stop that,
he admonished himself. He was letting his fears, the bloody scene and the gunman he had encountered in Michael’s apartment, run away with him.

His paranoia wasn’t the only issue plaguing him this morning. Nor was the jet lag that was beginning to catch up to him. He missed his brother. Not just because he was dead, although that obviously weighed on him. Growing up with archaeologist parents, traveling around the world, often being the only children within miles, had led Jon and Michael to develop an uncommonly strong bond. When their mother had met her mysterious and ostensibly bloody end in the jungles of the Yucatan, the then-teenage brothers had grown even closer together. The hole Michael’s death had left in Jon’s life, and would continue to leave, was tremendous.

What Jon had set out to do – solving this mystery steeped in history and conspiracy – was nothing new for him. He and Michael had embarked on their share of Indiana Jones-esque adventures throughout their youth, probing the four corners of the earth, like their father, for truths obscured by the mists of time and the shrouds of men. But those adventures had always been shared by the brothers: Jon
and
Michael. For this mystery, possibly the biggest challenge he’d yet to face, Jon was on his own.

Which brought him to Mara. That Michael loved her, he had no doubt. That she loved him was equally unquestionable. Undoubtedly, they would have made a happy, romantic married couple. But would Michael have brought her into the field? Into the dangers that his family seemed to have a penchant for attracting? The fact that she had, inadvertently, been brought into this latest danger, was immaterial to Jon’s internal debate. Was she fit to be a sidekick, assistant, co-adventurer in solving Michael’s murder? In bringing his killers to justice and exposing the truths that they apparently were willing to kill to protect, that Michael had given his life to discover and reveal? Jon had his doubts, and last night’s verbal dustup hadn’t helped. The odds were already stacked against him, and he didn’t need an emotionally distraught, unstable sidekick to further hinder his chances. Nor, he reflected, did Mara need to be dragged along through whatever perils and mayhem awaited them. But ultimately, the decision was out of his hands; the choice was hers and hers alone.

“Enjoying the view?” Jon jumped at the sound of Mara’s voice behind him. He hadn’t even noticed that the sound of falling shower water was now gone, and here she was, dressed and ready for the day, save for the towel she had wrapped around her hair.

“Not really. Just thinking.”

“Shower’s all yours if you want it.” She took a step toward him and made a face. “Whew! And, please,
want
it.”

“Thaanks...” Apparently she’d chosen to put last night’s argument behind her. He’d try to do the same.

“Just kidding,” she said, slapping him playfully on the arm. “Hurry up.”

Jon grabbed his toiletries bag and a change of clothes, and slipped into the bathroom. After a quick shower, he shaved and brushed his teeth. Although he and Mara had talked about how to actually get to Catherine Smith and find out what she had to share with Michael, they hadn’t come up with much of anything concrete. Jon had pored through Michael’s notebook and quizzed Mara for any little clue Michael might have inadvertently given her, but to no avail. Blame it on the shock of his brother’s death, on the attack at the apartment, or on everything moving so very very fast these past few days, but mentally, Jon had hit a major brick wall. But then, staring at himself in the mirror – toothbrush in mouth, froth overflowing – he hit upon an idea.

“The article!” he said to his reflection immediately after spitting in the sink. His reflection seemed to agree, its excitement matching Jon’s. “Mara!” he called into the hotel room as he opened the door and rinsed out his mouth.

“What?” she called back, appearing a moment later with a worried look on her face.

“The article! Maybe if we go to the original article, or the issues on the days after its publication, we’ll find something else about Catherine Smith.”

“Okay. Do you know where Michael found it?”

Jon shook his head. “No, I don’t. I’ve never even heard of the
Brooklyn Herald.”

“And
you‘re
a history buff.”

“Michael never mentioned where up here he found it, then?”

“Nope, ‘fraid not.” Mara frowned and shrugged. “Part of his whole protecting-me-from-‘them’ thing, I guess.”

Jon scratched the back of his head. “Well, if the paper’s not around anymore, their non-existent headquarters won’t have any archives for us to search.”

“Well, Michael found it
somewhere
.”

Jon snapped his fingers. “Leinhart.”

Mara’s lips widened into a satisfied smile. “He’d know.”

“Glad we swapped numbers. I’ll call him before we head out to breakfast.”

“Good idea. My hair’s still drying anyway.” She started to head back into the main room, but stopped short, turning back to Jon. “Oh, and put on a shirt before we head out, if you would.”

Jon looked down at his bare torso, embarrassed, the muscles of his chest and stomach glistening in the steam of the bathroom. Thank God he’d put on his
pants
before he called Mara in. He threw on a gray long-sleeved button-up, grabbed his toiletries, and headed back to his nightstand, and the cell phone that rested atop it.

He dialed the professor’s number, hoping he wasn’t waking him up. Knowing what Michael had to say about the man’s work ethic, though, he doubted he’d be sleeping in on a Tuesday morning. The professor picked up on the third ring.

“Jon!” Leinhart’s tone was energetic and excited. “How are things in New York? Found anything yet?”

“Whoa, whoa,” Jon said into the mouthpiece as he sat down on the bed. “Goodness, sir, you’re awfully... well, for lack of a better term, perky, this early in the morning.”

“No, sorry, Jon. Not perky. Just nervous. For you guys.” Leinhart made a noise that sounded like something between a sigh and a horse’s neigh. “Hell, for me, even. I guess we’re all in this together now, huh?”

“Yes sir. I guess so. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I figure I was neck deep in it before you even got on this side of the ocean, simply through my association with Michael’s work. So have you found anything yet? Did you meet with Ms. Smith?”

“Not yet, sir. We’re still trying to figure out how to find her. Michael didn’t mention how he was going to meet with her, did he? Like a phone number or an address or something to help find her in a city full of ‘Smiths’?”

A pause. “No. Sorry, Jon, but I can’t remember him saying anything about that. He had just told me about her on Friday. Right before...” The professor drifted off.

“Yeah, I know. Kinda screws with your head, doesn’t it?”

“It does, Jon. Besides, the older I get, the more... scatterbrained I get. Of course, we academic types prefer the term ‘eccentric.’”

“Of course, sir,” Jon said with a chuckle. “We were thinking about that article that Michael found...”

“The one with... um, what was his name, Blumhurst—”

“That’s the one. The one that mentions Catherine Smith. Do you happen to know
where
Michael dug that up?”

“He said he found it at the main branch of the New York Public Library.”

Jon’s eyes lit up. An answer? A tangible lead. Excellent.

“In print or—”

“Microfilm,” Leinhart interrupted. “I’m fairly certain he said it was in microfilm. He’d been scouring newspapers for days when he found this one. The weekend before last. Had to get to a seminar the next day or he probably would’ve chased Ms. Smith down right then and there.”