Assumptions (12 page)

Will turned a page, then another, and another
until he reached the back. Every page was blank. He closed it and
fastened the clasp. The carriage clock on the shelf chimed four.
Will bolted to the kitchen and retrieved the file he had returned a
few days before. He slid the sapphire book and the file into his
backpack, shouldered it, and ran out the kitchen door.

The el rattled overhead as it entered the
station. Will waved his pass at the turnstile sensor, pushed
through, and ran up the stairs to the platform. He threw his body
between the closing doors of the nearest car, squeezing his way
onto the train. He braced himself against the pole nearest the door
and rode there until the doors opened at Belmont. Will ran down the
stairs and kept running for blocks, not stopping until he stood
inside Iain Pritchard's apartment.

Pritchard handed Will a glass of water. Will
took a sip and set it aside, still breathing hard. "I need your
help. I need more information. About the book."

"I'm not sure there is much more I can tell
you, Will." Pritchard tapped his index finger on his chin. "I may
have one more reference. Wait here." Pritchard opened and closed
the library doors twice then disappeared into the room.

Will called from the sitting room. "Dr.
Pritchard?"

"Sorry? Had my head buried," came Pritchard's
muffled voice.

Will went to the library doorway. "I was just
wondering . . ." his voice trailed off. The books were no longer
visible, every surface hidden by thousands of small brown paper
bags on the floor, pinned to the walls, taped to the windows.

Pritchard's head popped up on the far side of
the room. "Sorry for the mess. I've been working." Each of the bags
had been tagged.
Bottle cap (domestic), 4 September, 08:14,
Eastview. Bent key ring, 31 October, 08:32, Eastview. Pink gum
(chewed), 4 November, 08:25, Eastview.

"Uh, I was just wondering how you would know
for sure if something was real." Will pulled his backpack onto his
shoulder and held the strap tight to his body with both hands.

Pritchard poked at the bags. He pulled one
out and re-filed it in a stack at the center of the room.
"Archaeological context, carbon dating, and so on. There are a
number of ways to authenticate an artifact. Surely your father
would have taught you that." He snapped up another bag and examined
its contents.

"Yes, of course. But what if there isn't any
of that?"

"Then you learn what you can and you
hypothesize until you have more information." Pritchard stood very
still. The brown paper bag fell out of his hand. “Where is it,
Will?”

"What?" Will stepped back.

"You’ve found the book, haven’t you?”

“No. Not really,” Will answered honestly.

“Where is it?" Pritchard snarled.

“It’s safe." Will’s knuckles turned
white.

“Will, it is not a toy.”

“I know."

“That book, it’s meant for . . .” Pritchard’s
brows furrowed. He folded his arms and turned his back toward Will.
He looked up and down his wall of bags then spoke slowly, “I’ll ask
you one more time, Will. Where is the book?”

Will stepped back again. “It’s safe.”

“How can you be expected to protect it?
You’re only a boy.”

“I know what it can do.”

“Do you?" Pritchard’s voice began to sharpen.
He wheeled around to face Will. “Do you have any idea what it is
like to have your honor . . . to have
everything
stolen from
you? Do you!”

Will stepped back again. "I . . . I don’t
think it’s authentic. The pages . . . they’re all blank."

Pritchard looked at the bags taped to the
window, blocking out most of what little daylight remained. He
whispered to himself, “He opened it. How? It’s supposed to be
impossible to unlock." He glared at Will. "What did you do? You
must tell me! Exactly! Is it still open?”

“I . . . I didn’t do anything.” Will held the
strap of his backpack tightly. “I should go now.”

“I don’t think I can let you go just yet. I
need that book.” Pritchard rushed across the room and lunged at
Will, knocking him to the floor. “Stand up!” Pritchard growled.

Will stayed down, glowering.

“Stand up!” Pritchard grabbed Will by the arm
and forced him up. He dragged Will into the library and, with both
hands, pulled him so close he could feel the heat coming off
Pritchard’s contorted face.

“Where is it!” Pritchard screamed
desperately. The sweat from his brow splashed onto Will's
cheek.

Will tightened his mouth. He tried to pull
away from Pritchard.

Pritchard's expression softened. “Don't you
understand? A book like that could set things right.”

Pritchard looked down at his fists as if they
belonged to a stranger. He opened his hands and stumbled back,
scattering the bags like fallen leaves.

“Will, I’m so sorry." He looked around the
library. “I have to fix this. I know you will do the right thing.”
Prichard sunk to his knees in the middle of his brown paper
sea.

CHAPTER NINETEEN: VESPERS

Will ran out of Pritchard’s apartment and
took the first train north. By the time he reached his stop, the
sun had set. His coat offered little protection from the cold
November evening and, even though the walk from the el station to
St. Ita had been only a few blocks, the chill found its way to his
bones. Will settled into the pew under Ita's window and rubbed his
hands together until he could once again feel his fingers.

Will reached into his backpack, blindly
hunting for the book. He pulled it out, held it between his hands,
and prayed, mouthing the words, giving them physical form, if only
for an instant.

The church door slammed. An old man with
thinning hair at the crown of his head sat directly in front of
Will.

“Cold out there. Needs to snow,” said the
man.

Will inched away down the pew.

The man continued, “Yep. Snow.” He crossed
himself and knelt, saying a quick prayer. He pushed himself back on
his seat. “Bad for my knees, all this cold.” He twisted his body
around and slung an elbow over the back of the pew.

Will closed his eyes, hoping the man would
give up on a conversation.

“See you here every Wednesday. I across the
way. Felt like a little change tonight. So nice to see young people
at church.”

Will opened his eyes. He offered an obliging
smile. The man turned forward. “Oh, looks like Deacon Barrett is
out. Poor man. Sometimes it gets to him, the cold. That's when it
happened, you know."

Will leaned forward. "When what
happened?"

"So, you do speak.” The man turned back
around. “Course, he doesn't like to talk about it. Thinks he failed
that little girl. Oh, it's been years now.” The old man dug out a
white cotton handkerchief he'd stashed in his shirt pocket. He
covered his mouth and coughed hard like old men do. "He nearly
died, you know, trying to save her. But, sometimes there's just
nothing to be done. Some things are meant to be. Told me he never
wanted to see that look her father had at the funeral ever again. I
think he honestly hates those people for pulling him out that pond.
Such a shame." At the front of the church, the priest began to
sing.

Barrett twisted the knob on the radiator to
full open. He curled up under the quilt on his bed, chin to his
knees, and he prayed to stay awake until his body would no longer
be denied. His dream swallowed him whole.

Snow blanketed the quiet schoolyard in a
pillowy layer, undisturbed except for the footprints of one small
animal. The overnight storm had given way to a clear morning, the
sky saturated a blue only achieved in the stark contrasts of
winter. The cross atop the neighboring church cast a sharp shadow.
Around the playground, a waist-high wrought-iron fence stood guard,
black and severe against the undulating snowdrifts piled against
it. A cardinal nibbled the last of the berries on a nearby shrub.
Down a low hill, a half-frozen creek chattered in the cold air.

The nun ticked off her roster while her
assistant, a young seminarian, held open the side door of St.
Anne's Catholic School, releasing a torrent of chirping
six-year-olds, reveling in their long awaited freedom, kicking up
joyful clouds of snow.

The nun called after the children, "Remember,
only fifteen minutes, boys and girls. It's still very cold." The
children scattered.

At the end of recess, the seminarian counted
heads. Thirteen, fourteen . . . no fifteen. No Mary Catherine. The
young man called her name. He ran to the opposite side of the
jungle gym. "Mary Catherine," he called again.

The other children lined up by the door to go
inside. A pair of tracks, rabbit and child, disappeared over the
snowdrift near the gate at the far side of the playground. Beyond
the low ridge, a pale pink hat with a white pom-pom bobbed up and
down. The seminarian ran, calling the little girl’s name.

By the time he reached the creek, the rabbit
was on the opposite side digging for hidden bits of green. Halfway
across, on the edge of a stationary chunk of ice, was the pale pink
hat with a white pom-pom.

Barrett followed the edge of the creek
downstream to where it flowed into a pond. Mary Catherine clawed at
the ice, crying for her mother. Barrett screamed, “Don’t be
afraid!”

The girl disappeared into the water and
drifted under the ice. Barrett ran across the frozen pond sweeping
the snow away until he found her. Mary Catherine’s loose hair
fanned out around her sweet, still face. Barrett took off his shoe
and hammered at the ice with all his strength. A crack began to
form. “Thank God!” And then he fell into the cold and the dark.

They recovered Mary Catherine’s body three
days later. Barrett, released from the hospital a day before,
attended her funeral Mass where the priest reminded everyone about
the light she’d brought into the world. Her father followed the
small casket out of the church, his expression hollow, his heart
empty.

The radiator hissed. Barrett woke and wiped
the tears off his face. Outside, the snow began to fall.

CHAPTER TWENTY: DIVING

Will left the apartment early on Thursday
morning. The roads and monuments of Rosehill were clean, already
warmed enough by the sun to melt away winter's first snow. Will had
grown accustomed to these deceivingly sunny days, but was always
unprepared for their bitter flawlessness, finding no comfort in the
beauty, especially so early in the season. He wrapped his scarf
high on his neck, pulled his knit hat low over his ears, and made
his way to the Pearce monument. Their white stone bed rose out of
the snow like a crystal sprung up from bedrock, solid and
immovable.

Will pulled the book out of his backpack and
pinched open the clasp. He turned the blank pages then closed it
and held it to his heart, praying hard in the midst of the
dead.

An hour later, he walked into Geography,
fifteen minutes late and soaked to the knees. Professor Embry
worked down the list of talking points in his slide presentation
and, without missing a beat, said, "Nice of you to join us, Mr.
Emerson. Please, open your textbook and follow along.”

Will dropped his backpack beside his chair
and slunk into the seat. Jordyn showed him the page they were on.
He reached for his backpack, knocking it over into the aisle,
spilling its contents out onto the floor. The book slid under
Jordyn's feet.

She hissed, "Emerson! Is that it? That's it,
isn't it!" She picked it up.

"Shhhh." Will snatched it out of her hand,
pushed it into the bottom of his backpack, and got out his textbook
and some notepaper.

"I can’t believe this. How long have you had
it?” Jordyn whispered.

Will put a finger to his lips.

Jordyn scowled. "When were you planning on
telling me?"

Professor Embry stopped his lecture in
mid-sentence. “Miss Quig, care to share?”

Several students turned toward the back of
the room. “Sorry.” Jordyn shrunk down in her seat.

Will scribbled on the corner of his
notepaper. He tore off the message and handed it to Jordyn.
Courtyard after class
.

She wrote below,
SEE YOU THERE
, then
crumpled the note and pitched it back at Will. She crossed her arms
and re-focused her attention on the front of the room.

After class, Jordyn and Will walked down to
the courtyard without speaking.

Will hugged himself. "It’s freezing out
here."

"It is, isn’t it,” said Jordyn. She crossed
her arms and waited for Will’s explanation.

"I've only had it since yesterday. I found it
after school.”

"Can I see it?"

Will turned his back to the courtyard windows
and moved close to Jordyn. He pulled the book out and handed it to
her. She held it near her face, squinting to see the marks around
the stone. "It looked bigger in the picture. Are you sure this is
it?"

"Everything matches the file, but I can't
tell if it’s real. Not for sure."

"Where did you find it?"

"It was mixed in with my father's mail. I
always sort through it for him."

Jordyn ran her fingertip over the stone. “Do
you think your dad would be able to tell if it’s real?”

“Maybe. But . . .”

“What about Pritchard?" asked Jordyn.

Will's brows furrowed. "I went to see him
yesterday, after I found it.”

“And?”

“I don't think he can help us.”

“Did you show it to him?”

“No. I didn't get a chance. He . . . attacked
me.”

"He did what?"

"He came at me. Knocked me down.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Jordyn.

“He made a mistake with some paperwork and it
cost him everything. I think he would do anything to get his life
back and the book . . .”