Book of Souls

Kenyon provided running commentary and gasping asides. Although it would be hard to find a more mild-mannered, mild-tempered man, the Cantwell letters were electrifying his thin body, turning his eyes wild.

The Felix letter thrilled them. In one fell swoop, all their years of speculative debate on the origin of the Library was replaced by a contemporaneous account. Kenyon cried: “You see, you big oaf, I was right! From God’s mind to a scribe’s hand. This is absolute proof. Finally, man has its answer to the age-old question.”

Spence shook his head. “Proof of what? Why God? Why not the supernatural or mystical with all this seventh-son business. Or extraterrestrials, for that matter? Why is it always God?”

“Oh, please, Henry! It’s as plain as the nose on your face.” Then, all of a sudden, he realized the letter wasn’t finished. “Where’s the end of this? Is there more?”

Will raised his lowered head to say, “Yeah, there’s more. Keep going.”

Kenyon tackled the Calvin letter next and he read the last of it with rising triumph in his voice.

“Maybe you’re not convinced, Henry, but the greatest religious scholar of his day damn well was!”

“What else was he going to think?” Spence huffed. “He fit it into the context he was familiar with. No surprises there.”

“You’re impossible!”

“You’re monolithic.”

Kenyon offered, “Well, here’s something we can agree on-this is proof positive where Calvin got his bedrock belief in predestination.”

“I’ll give you that,” Spence said.

Kenyon jumped on him, “And if I choose to believe with total certainty, as Calvin did, that God knows everything that will happen because he has chosen what will happen and therefore brings it about, then you’ll have to give me that too!”

“Believe what you like.”

The two old friends batted their arguments back and forth, making no effort to draw Will in. They could see he wanted to be left alone.

The Nostradamus letter made Spence chuckle. “I always thought he was an old charlatan!”

“Looks like you were half-right,” Kenyon exclaimed. “For some reason the full powers weren’t passed down the female line. He inherited half a deck. That’s why his stuff is so sketchy.”

The traffic was heavy on the FDR Drive, but the bus was steadily approaching their lower Manhattan exit. “Okay, Alf,” Spence said. “Time for clue number four. That’s going to be the pièce de résistance, isn’t it, Will?”

“Yeah,” Will answered ruefully, “it’s the big enchilada, all right.”

Kenyon turned to the last pages in Will’s folder. He read Isabelle’s translation of the conclusion of Felix’s letter in a hushed monotone, and when he was done, no one spoke. It had started raining again, and the wiper blades beat like a slow metronome.

Finally, Kenyon whispered, “Finis Dierum.”

“That’s what I always feared,” Spence said. “Worst-case scenario. Shit.”

“We don’t know for sure,” Kenyon sputtered.

“We know I’m going to be dead in three days,” Spence snapped.

“Yes, old friend, we know that. But this is altogether different. There could be other explanations for their mass suicide. They could have gone on the fritz and lost their bearings. Mental illness. An infection. Who knows what?”

“Or they could have been spot on. At least admit it’s possible!”

“Of course, it’s possible. Happy?”

“You’ve satisfied a dying man’s wish to have you agree with me. Keep it up for another few days, will you?”

Will broke in with the pedestrian instruction, “Turn here.”

He was sick of these old farts, sick of the Library and everything associated with it. He’d been wrong to let himself get sucked back into their bizarre world. He wanted to see the back of Spence and Kenyon and forget all this happened. Twenty twenty-seven was tomorrow. He wanted his wife and son. He wanted today.

He guided Spence to the FBI headquarters at Liberty Plaza and waited for him to open the door of the idling bus.

“End of the road, fellows,” Will said. “I’m sorry about next week. What can I say? You’re still letting me have the bus?”

“The title and keys will be sent to you. Someone will tell you where to pick it up.”

“Thank you.”

The passenger door was still closed.

Spence exhaled forcefully. “You’ve got to let me see the database! I’ve got to know about my family! I’m not dying without finding out whether they make it to 2027!”

Will exploded. “Forget it! I’m not doing another goddamned thing for you guys! You’ve put me and my family at risk! I’ve got a whole lot of trouble on my plate now thanks to you, and I don’t have a fucking clue how I’m going to get out of this. Your watchers are no more than paid assassins with get-out-of-jail-free cards.”

Spence tried to grab his arm, but Will recoiled. “Open the door.”

Spence turned to Kenyon with a pleading look of desperation.

“Is there anything that we can do to persuade you otherwise, Will?” Kenyon asked.

“No there isn’t.”