

### THE FIFTH STONE

By

Baxter Mallory

Published by Baxter Mallory at Smashwords.

Copyright 2014 Baxter Mallory

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

# CHAPTER ONE

Danny could see his breath in the crisp, fall morning. He rubbed his hands together and watched the young man sweeping his sidewalk. His name was Michael—and that's pretty much all he knew. The guy had appeared from out of nowhere two years earlier, looking for odd jobs; he had been helping Danny ever since. Danny muttered under his breath, "Damn, I don't even know the guy's last name." Regardless of how little he knew about the man, Danny trusted him implicitly, even with his daughter, Sara, who was bound to a wheelchair. Danny was especially protective of her.

It was late September; Danny's eyes drifted toward his weathered marquee. He ran a typical mom and pop market in Brooklyn. He offered a little bit of everything—eclectic, for sure. He admired the surrounding landscape. The persimmon-colored leaves lit up the streets, their stubborn green veins resisting their inevitable demise. In a nearby schoolyard, the children's voices seemed to have a sharp echo in the crisp air. He took solace in the familiarities of the day.

Danny called out, "Hey, Michael, this job is beneath you. For Christ's sake, get out into the real world and make a decent buck." The young man looked up at him, rolled his eyes, and kept sweeping. Danny scratched his head. He thought this young man must've come from good people, people who gave a good goddamn. Funny, the less you know about a guy, the more curious you get. There were two questions he couldn't figure out: where Michael came from and where he went at night. None of his business, he figured; he just wanted to know the kid was safe, warm, and cared for. He was not sure Michael had those luxuries. There were the sisters at St. John's Convent; Michael helped them out every week. He supposed they gave him some mothering, maybe even some of Sister Bernadette's home cooking. He crossed his fingers and hoped for the best. This kid should have a better job; in the short time he'd been helping out at the market, he was steadfast—not one slip up. It just didn't make sense.

Danny tried again. "For God's sake, Michael, where are you sleeping? It's getting colder now."

"With some buddies," Michael mumbled.

Danny knew the conversation was over. He raised his arms skyward. "Get him—he doesn't want to talk about it!" Whenever Michael exhibited a certain body language, it was obvious the subject was getting too personal. Michael would look down at the ground and clam up.

On the other hand, Danny liked to put it across—legs spread apart with his hands clenched in a loose fist. Hey, what was the point of being Italian if you didn't shout it out a little—give the bullies something to think about? Sure, he wasn't the tallest tree on the block, but he could act the part. As he walked away, a smug smile emerged on his face. Danny prided himself on his ability to shelter his emotions; his beloved wife and son had been killed in a car accident. Nobody would catch him cryin'.

It was the same accident that had put his little Sara in a wheelchair, although, she really was not so little anymore. She was a young woman. Sweet Sara, Danny thought. She never complained. He was grateful that Michael, in addition to helping him out in the store, was willing to take her 'round the neighborhood every so often, getting a cone or going shopping. Hell, when the weather was good, Michael even took her into Manhattan some Sundays. What a blessing that was! Danny's store was open sixteen hours a day, and he wasn't able to do those things for her.

"When you're finished, get some lunch," grunted Danny. He watched Michael stand back and admire his work, like it was some big deal. It was probably a diversion; maybe he was obsessive-compulsive or whatever they called it. There was a new rule in New York City; storeowners were responsible for sweeping the sidewalk outside their store. New York City collected a lot of cigarette butts, chicken bones, dead mice, and other questionable items. Less garbage meant fewer rats. Fortunately, it also meant a few extra bucks for this mysterious man.

Danny turned, walked back into the warmth of the store, and drew in the familiar aroma of cinnamon buns and freshly brewed coffee mingled with a faint whiff of tobacco. The dim overhead lighting disguised the original wooden floor that creaked under his shoes as he headed behind the counter. His eyes landed on the sliding top of the soft drink cooler that was cracked just an inch; he made a mental note to get it fixed. The original copper-embossed ceiling underscored the age of the store. As far as a security system went, there was a handgun beneath the register and a fake overhead camera. It was a pleasure to enter his corner of the world, where time had stood still.

"Hey, Danny, I put the broom and stuff in the back." Michael walked over to the self-serve counter, popped the top on a can of soup, and put it in the tired little microwave.

"Great," grunted Danny. With a ding, the cash register drawer opened; he pulled out a few bills and handed them to Michael.

"Thanks, Danny." Michael removed his soup and pocketed a sandwich. "See ya tomorrow. Say hi to Sara for me." He slowed his pace. "Does she need anything? I haven't gone up to see her in a couple of days."

Danny heaved a sigh. "She's doin' ok, it's her 30th birthday next week—I'm thinkin' of a little celebration. Want to join us?"

"Sure, Danny. Need any help with planning?"

"Yah, I'll keep you posted. It'll be cake and ice cream." He gave Michael a wink. "And a surprise for my little girl. Probably 'round two in the afternoon—before the kids get out of school. By the way, would you mention it to Father Murphy and the sisters? And tell Mrs. De too!"

"Count on it, Danny." There was a familiar tinkling of the aging overhead bell as Michael left the store.

Danny heaved a sigh of relief; he had never planned a party before. Michael and the gang would certainly help him brighten the occasion. Hell, he didn't even know how to pour coffee right, let alone set a pretty table. He was excited about his surprise for her. He had saved up big time for this one!

*******

Michael hunched his shoulders against the wind. As he walked, he thought about Danny. He was a neighborhood character for sure. The locals were fond of calling the storeowner "DeVito Number Two." He had the same walk and physique as Danny De Vito, right down to his manner of speaking. He portrayed a tough exterior; however, he was a softie at heart. His gruff mask slipped now and then; close friends were aware of his gentle side. Michael found Danny's softer demeanor most evident when he spoke of his daughter Sara.

Michael continued walking down the familiar sidewalks. He felt at home in this neighborhood. He knew all the shop owners and most of the residents. He felt he had become a necessary addition to this modest community. He filled his seven-day workweek to the brim. To him, the sense of belonging was just as important as the money. This city was expensive beyond belief. Although the seasoned panhandlers made more money, it was about his self-respect. He couldn't take handouts with no more effort than clutching a cup in his hand.

Not that he didn't have his moments of despair; he had been to the "bottom of the barrel," but things were getting better. He averaged about six hundred a week, and he kept his expenses low. If he were forced to apply for Medicaid or food stamps, it would be the last straw. His nightly routine included the gym, stopping in at Mel's Bar for dinner and a drink, and then his last stop of the day was the hostel, just before their curfew. No doubt, the "Sally Anne"—the Salvation Army—was a Godsend in his current situation. Someday, he hoped to be able to donate to their cause.

Most of his earnings were eaten up in a nanosecond. He needed a nest egg, a fallback, just in case. Even so, other than the constant financial struggle, things were good. He reminded himself of his good health and his extended family: Sara and Danny, Mrs. De, and the sisters at the convent were at the top of the list. Also, Adam, the bartender at Mel's, could always be counted on for some intellectual sparring each evening.

As he rounded the corner, he saw the familiar face of an older woman. Her arms were crossed in front of her slim body; her graying hair was pulled back in a loose braid. The old-fashioned print dress and black oxford shoes mirrored a time gone by. He admired her firm, proud stance as she stood in the doorway to her store. The sign above her read, "DeMarco's Meats, Serving You Since 1958." She and Vinnie, her late husband, opened the store together years ago.

"Hey, Mrs. De!" He gingerly hugged her slender frame, planting a kiss on her cheek.

She reached up on her tiptoes, kissing his cheek in return. "I'm finally ready to sell the place, Michael. An old woman like me will have to hire a realtor." An animated rebelliousness came over her face. "Scalpers! Six percent, for what?" She shook her head in defiance. "What if it sells fast—why the same charge?"

Michael smiled. He enjoyed her feisty spirit.

"Come up for cookies and hot chocolate, Michael. I have a proposition for you."

"Thanks, Mrs. De." Michael was curious. He loved to sit in her living room; it was like an inner sanctum—no traffic noise, no TV, no phones ringing. Although he could not identify the scent in her apartment, it reminded him of his Gramma's home. As he climbed the stairs behind her, he noticed her pace was slower.

Mrs. De chortled, somehow knowing what he was thinking. "Mind the cat, she's getting old, too!"

Missy the cat. He had never considered himself a "cat person," but apparently Missy did since she ended up in his lap each time he dropped in for a visit. He wondered where the cat would go when the old lady left. He entered the cozy living room filled with family photos and took a seat on the over-stuffed sofa. A silver tea service shone brightly on the sideboard. As the grandfather clock softly ticked away the minutes, he glanced over at an old cookie tin on the kitchen counter that provided an unending supply of oatmeal or sugar cookies made with real butter.

Remembering these moments was like a warm blanket on a cold night. Missy sniffed around his legs; she stretched, catapulted up, and made a bed on his lap. It was funny about cats—ignore them, and they sought you out.

The lengthy conversation revolved around her move to Florida. After some discussion, Michael agreed to sit in on the interviews with potential realtors. He would help her with packing and keep her son Pauley (who had already moved to Florida) informed of the progress. Pauley wanted his mom with him by Christmas. Michael was astonished at her ability to cope with the move; she was almost eighty years old.

He got up to leave. "Oh, by the way, there is a birthday party for Sara next week. Let Danny know if you can drop over."

Mrs. De looked concerned. "How is Sara doing? That accident—so terrible. She was in the hospital for such a long time, and then to come home to such emptiness! She must be lonely with Danny down at the store all day."

"It's a tough life for sure, Mrs. De. I'm not sure how I would react if I were cooped up like that. It just goes to show; even people who have had a tough break don't need to turn sour."

"Is there any chance she will walk again?"

"I don't know. I want to ask her—or Danny—although, I'm afraid of the answer. She goes to physical therapy to keep her leg muscles from withering," he paused, "but that's all I know." Michael silently scolded himself. Withering—what a dreadful word.

"Tell Danny I'll bring her favorite cake. By the way, Father Murphy said the sisters have been asking for you."

"They need some gutter cleaning, Mrs. De. I'll stop by tomorrow." Michael slowly shut the door, waiting for Missy to remove her tail. A typical cat, she always had the last say.

Michael headed home, reviewing their conversation. Mrs. De always had time to listen. These days, it was not always a person's family who played the parental roles. Relatives were spread far and wide. He would miss the long conversations they shared. How well he knew, nothing is forever.

His thoughts jumped to the sisters; he would go over first thing tomorrow morning. He zipped up his jacket; walking in the twilight, he could see the Sally Anne Hostel looming in the distance. It was a dimly lit building with bare windows; however, the golden glow of the naked light bulbs remained a welcome sight for the homeless. Unfortunately, he could be counted as a homeless person.

# CHAPTER TWO

The next morning came, and Michael headed out early. He hopped on the subway and made his way to St. John's Convent. Subways were a great place for his incurable habit of people watching. Few adults ever made eye contact; only the little kids would give him a tentative smile. Most folks read books or listened to their iPods. Older men and women read newspapers from foreign countries.

At his stop, he stepped off the subway and hurried through the bustling crowd; the throng's momentum ruled his pace. In the world of New York subways, the phrase "seething mass of humanity" was nothing short of literal. Music coming from the underground street musicians wafted down through the tunnels, adding melody to the beat of the marching feet. Moving up the steps into the sunlight, he felt an enthusiasm he couldn't explain. He was really looking forward to seeing the sisters of St. John's today. Somehow, he just knew it would be a good, important day, and it would start with seeing what he could do to help out the sisters.

A diminutive nun with lively eyes opened the door of the convent. A wide smile spread across his face. "Morning, Sister Bernadette. Sorry I've taken so long."

"Go on with ya lad! It's good to see you! Bless your heart. Come and sit yourself down—would ya be wantin' some breakfast?" The petite nun gathered up her voluminous ink-black skirts and led Michael down the long hallway. "We have a wee bit of leakin' in one of the dormitory rooms. A backup of leaves in the gutters, I suppose."

Michael smiled as he followed her down the hallway, amused at how she gathered her skirts in one hand, and waved the other hand toward the heavens. She was forever in a hurry. Her head appeared to be about six inches in front of her body; her veil literally flowed in the breeze as she flew down the passage.

The little nun continued, "Glorious as leaves can be, they can be troublesome. The good Lord doesn't give us anything for free."

Her voice rose to a higher pitch on the words "glorious" and "Lord." Michael tried to keep his face straight. "If the ceiling is damp, we'll need to check for mold or mildew."

"We are so blessed to have you, Michael. The contractors in our parish take a pound of flesh when it comes to repairs." She shook her head and continued toward the kitchen.

The old nun's Irish brogue tickled Michael. He hoped one day to travel to Ireland; it would be a kick. His Irish mother had the same sense of humor and occasional remnants of a similar accent.

"Sister, did you know Mrs. De is selling her home and moving in with Pauley?"

"Aye lad, we heard—Father thinks 'tis best. 'Twill be mighty hard to see her leave. She'll be missed at our quilting sessions. The younger members are busy holding down two jobs to keep the family afloat. Perhaps a slight exaggeration to be sure, but times are a-changin'." She paused to catch her breath. "Many of our Italian convents are now offering board and room for travelers. Men, women, and children—can you imagine! She lowered her voice as if to tell a secret. "It keeps the convents out of the red. I never thought I would see the day. Pope Pius will be a turnin' in his grave!" She appeared to be muttering to herself, rather than to Michael.

They finally arrived at the fifty-year-old kitchen, which remained unchanged. Remodeling would destroy the charm in here! Michael took a seat at the sturdy wooden table. He looked out over the sparkling white enamel counter. The utensils were kept in an old milk pitcher. An oversized stainless steel sink held an assortment of rinsed carrots and beans. There was no dishwasher or garbage disposal in this kitchen. The white cotton curtains trimmed in blue bric-a-brac softened the room. A fresh bouquet of pussy willows and dried orange jack-o-lantern flowers adorned the window.

"Here, Michael. Warm tea, eggs, and toast—and Sister Olivia's homemade jam."

The joy in her voice was palpable. She sat down beside him with a cup of tea.

"And how are ya doin', lad?" There was something about the old nun; every time she asked him a question, it seemed like she looked straight into his soul. It was not a piercing stare; nevertheless, it was powerful.

He felt obliged to respond with depth and clarity. "You know, Sister, I must figure out a way to stand on my own two feet. I need to get a room of my own somewhere, even if it means leaving the city.

"Now, my boy, we will pray for you. You'll soon be on your way to a better place in life. But we're sure hopin' you won't be leaving our borough."

The little nun spoke with such authority, it raised his spirits. "I'll keep trying. I do believe in a higher power."

Sister Bernadette nodded and winked; "The good Lord has a plan. You'll see."

Michael wolfed down the breakfast. "Thanks, Sister, for your good thoughts. I hope I didn't eat too fast."

"Nonsense, lad—not at all!"

Michael loved that she called him "lad." She was a matriarchal figure in his life. "I'm off for the ladder, Sister."

*******

A little while later, Michael returned to the kitchen. "Sister, are you there?"

Sister Bernadette leaned around the corner and asked, "How did the gutters look? Did ya find anything?"

"I cleared out a lot of wet leaves; they are some of your problem. Let's look at the room you mentioned."

They headed down the hall, the little nun wiping her hands on her apron as they went. She explained the room had belonged to Sister Abreanne, who passed away some time ago. It was no longer occupied. "Here we are." She stopped by a door and gestured for him to enter. "You can see the ceiling looks damp. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."

Michael nodded and entered the empty room; he felt compelled to sit for a moment. There was a spiritual aura present, although, the room was quite austere. Perhaps it was the profound silence and the knowledge that its last occupant was no longer on this earth. A simple wooden cross adorned the wall over the bed. The ivory-colored chenille bedspread camouflaged the lumpy mattress; a small bathroom mirror over the medicine cabinet reflected the unassuming scene. He gazed over to the little bathroom; glossy, white tiles stretched from floor to ceiling.

He brought himself back to the moment, crossed himself almost unconsciously, and pulled the chair to rest under the designated wet spot on the ceiling. Climbing up and pulling the trowel out of his pocket, he began removing the damp area on the ceiling. He mindlessly chipped away, thinking about Sara's upcoming birthday. He really needed to find her a gift.

Suddenly, the ceiling began crumbling and caving in. He was startled as a huge chunk fell to the floor. Damn! He reached in, pulling out chunks of damp wallboard. There was mold, and not just a little. Double damn! He pulled away all the damaged drywall and part of the adjoining wall. The ceiling's vent cover hung by a thread. As he scraped the last bits away, his trowel bumped the vent, and a rattling sound of metal came from within—perhaps a carpenter forgot some tools; it wouldn't be the first time.

He peered down the duct and paused; a rush of curiosity came over him. A red metal tin was sitting in the vent, just within reach. The room had not been used for some time; the last occupant had been the terminally ill Sister Andrea or Adriana, or some name like that. As he pulled the tin out, he tried to remember what Sister Bernadette had said about the nun.

It was an old three-layer English tea biscuit tin. He puzzled as he held it—this didn't belong to anyone living here now—or did it? Maybe somebody thought it would be a good hiding place. What to do? It certainly had not been placed recently; the layer of dust on the lid was thick. He should give it to Sister Bernadette—but wait a minute, maybe it was something personal.

He gave the box a gentle shake; there was something in there. Whatever it was, it was not heavy enough—or loud enough—to be coins. He was tempted to take a peek, but thought better of it for the time being. He placed the tin back in the vent, careful not to disturb the dusty surface of the lid. There it sat, like forbidden fruit. He would mention the damage to the ceiling, walls, and ductwork at lunch; he hoped all the sisters would be present. If it belonged to a current resident, surely the owner would retrieve it. If it was still there when he came back to complete the work, then he'd figure out what to do. Curiosity had reared its mischievous head.

Just then, Sister called from the hallway. "Let's have lunch, Michael; Father Murphy will be joining us today."

Michael made his way to the dining room. On the table, there were two plates of sandwiches and a soup tureen from which emanated an enticing aroma. Father Murphy flew in like an unexpected burst of wind. Michael wondered if Father Murphy could really be that busy or if it was it his way of keeping some distance from the group. Father's husky Irish brogue highlighted his dry sense of humor. If Michael never received a dime for his work at the convent, the ambiance was well worth his time.

"Ah, my dear sisters, and what would we be servin' today? 'Tis sure to be a favorite of mine."

Sister bustled in. "Oh, Father, always the charmer!"

Michael joined the nuns as they chuckled at Father's countless quips. In Father's presence, Michael noticed that Sister Bernadette's brogue became thicker. On occasion, the two would break into full-on Gaelic. Michael didn't have a clue what they were saying.

All sisters were present except Sister Clara. Michael waited for an opportune moment and cleared his throat. "Sister, I have run into more work in one room—the one nearest the door facing the garden? There is mold, and it has affected one of the studs. I'll need to rework the loose ducting in the ceiling. I've opened up the wall and the vent." _There_ , Michael thought, _now we'll see if anyone takes the bait!_

"Do whatever is necessary, lad."

Michael took advantage of the lull to press for more information. "Excuse me, Sister, for asking, but who did you say lived in that room?"

"That was Sister Abreanne's room, poor dear. Her life was a wee bit short. Forty-nine years she was, too soon—way too soon. She was a caring person, but very private, she was. She left us four years ago."

An older nun chimed in. "Her funeral was a solemn occasion; we could find no relatives. She came to us from a convent in Dublin, and before that, an orphanage."

Sister Bernadette stopped clearing the dishes and went through her ritual of straightening her apron. "Aye, she was shy, but with inner resolve. She had no problem adjusting to our life at the convent. I believe there were some distant relatives in Ireland, but they had already passed at the time of her death."

Michael interrupted, "What part of Ireland?"

"She was from an area just north of Dublin, County Meath it was. A great deal of poverty hit Ireland when Abbey was a child. Parents gave their children to orphanages, just to make sure they had a roof over their head and soup in their tummies. Some of those orphanages only closed their doors a mere ten years ago. There was some scandal about the conditions within their institutions."

Father Murphy lowered his head in an open display of sadness. "Hard to believe things could be so bad, giving up your children—awful, awful. "

Sister Bernadette continued, "Aye, lad—these are all conclusions on our part; Abbey seldom spoke of her beginnings. I tried to piece her story together. Something happened to put her in an orphanage, and some things are better left unsaid. The orphanage stated they had no information about her parents."

Sister Bernadette finished serving dessert and plopped down on a chair. "As I said, she came to us from one of our convents in Dublin. The nuns in that diocese supervised a small grade school called St. Chad's. Abreanne transferred from the orphanage to St. Chad's. She stayed with the nuns and passed her grades handily. Perhaps they didn't have a Children's Protective Service, or it was agreed the child would be in better hands at St. Chad's. Who knows what the government could offer in such terrible times?"

Another sister chimed in, "Remember, there was an older woman who visited her one time?"

A third sister added, "Yes, I remember thinking that woman was not far from the grave, she looked so ill and thin. Sister Abbey said the woman died a few months after her visit here."

With a deep sigh, Michael said, "That is quite a story. Did any other sisters come to the States with her?"

Sister Bernadette offered, "Sister Kathryn attended a St. Francis of Assisi Celebration in Dublin and brought Abreanne back with her. Abbey was our only novice. She took her final vows here. Oh, wait a minute; a curious thing did happen about a month after her death. A man came looking for her, saying he was a 'friend of a friend,' so to speak."

Michael interrupted, "Was he from Ireland?"

The nun continued, "Most likely; he had an Irish brogue for certain. When I told him she had passed, he asked if she had any belongings that should be returned to Ireland. She had nothing, and I told him so. I found it odd; he didn't seem to know much about her. He didn't even ask to see her grave. I don't much remember his face, but he limped and used a cane. He didn't stay long, not even for tea. We never saw him again."

Michael chimed in, "That does seem odd."

A younger nun spoke up, "She may have had poor nutrition as a child. That may be the reason she passed so early in her life. We miss her terribly."

Michael persisted, "Did she ever go outside the convent—perhaps to visit friends?"

Sister Bernadette deliberated, "Well, let me think. She would do our shopping and banking. She took some of the girls to the zoo. But no, she was content here; she never mentioned any friends outside our convent."

The younger sister continued, "The children loved her because she asked their opinion on everything. They felt Abbey respected them."

Father Murphy, who had been silent to this point, spoke up, "Too bad parents don't understand that philosophy. Ah well, we seem to think children are dyin' to hear only our opinions."

Sister Martha, who rarely said anything, dabbed her lips with a napkin and chimed in, "They are more likely to listen when the conversation is directed towards another child. I soaked up admonishments only when they were directed toward my sister." The group nodded in affirmation.

Everyone then focused on gathering plates and cleaning up. As Michael stood and replaced his chair, Sister Bernadette spoke again. "Sister Abbey was closest to Sister Clara. Perhaps she could tell you something about Abreanne—nothing personal, of course, but perhaps something about the part of Ireland where Abreanne was raised."

"As you know, Sister, I do plan to visit Ireland. That would add a personal touch to my trip." He almost choked on his words. It was true he wanted to visit Ireland, however that statement was a stretch.

He was now immensely curious about the mysterious cookie tin. Who else could it belong to other than Sister Abbey? Sister Bernadette spoke up, "Sister Clara will return tomorrow. Perhaps she will join us for lunch. It might be a good time for her to tell you a little about Abreanne's wee corner of Ireland."

Michael nodded. "I'd like that very much!" Walking back to Sister Abbey's room, he could not help thinking he was intruding into the sister's private life. Nevertheless he felt invigorated; it was exciting. If the tin did belong to the deceased nun, whoever opened it would be invading her privacy. It was obvious she had hidden it for a reason. On the other hand, perhaps another nun had used the tin to hide something after Abbey's death.

He finished up for the day, still mulling over the dilemma. Had Abreanne forgotten it, or had she decided to leave it up to fate? Curiosity killed the cat. The right thing would be to pass the unopened box to the appropriate person. The problem was, who was that person? He did not want his own desires (and boring life) to affect his decision.

He needed someone to help him figure out this quandary. Adam or Sara? Most likely Sara. In a sense, she also lived a cloistered life. He did have some reservations about handing the box to Father Murphy. What if the contents would disgrace the deceased nun? How about Sister Bernadette? She was his first pick. Or Sister Clara, Abbey's closest friend. He would meet Clara tomorrow.

Of course, this would all be a moot point if the tin was not there in the morning. Perhaps his comments today alerted the real hider that her treasure was about to be discovered.

For Sister Clara's benefit, he would mention the location of his work again tomorrow. She was the only person missing from the table today. Then, he would allow a few more days for someone to remove it. He pushed the dilemma aside for now and found Sister Bernadette. "Goodbye, Sister. I'm off early to shop for Sara's birthday gift."

"Aye, and what will you be gettin' her?"

"Well, we go to Manhattan on Sundays, and it's getting chilly. I'm thinking of a blanket or matching gloves and hat."

Sister put down her potato peeler and dug into her petty cash, hidden in a soup tureen.

"Here's the money for the supplies and for your work today. This is some extra to put towards Sara's present. We'll give her the blanket, and you can give her the gloves and hat; a washable blanket in a dark color would be best."

Michael marveled at her way of remaining charming and still calling the shots. "Wow, Sister, this is great! Will you make it to her party?"

"I hope so. Father will be there," she paused. "He baptized her, y'know. I plan to come along if Father will spring for a cab." She made a point of rolling her eyes and grinning. "Perhaps he will break down and use the parish car. Dear Lord—he isn't the best driver!"

Sister disappeared into a pantry closet and returned with a pretty card. "Enclose this with the blanket, and here's a few more dollars—get that fancy store giftwrap." The old nun took his hands in hers. "Watch over her, Michael. Sara is such a blessing, and you are a kind man."

# CHAPTER THREE

Despite the jostling crowds at Bloomingdales, he enjoyed shopping for Sara's birthday. He found the perfect gifts, but picking the correct card was a dilemma; most were too personal. He finally decided on one with sparkles and a bouquet of flowers; fortunately, the verse wasn't too mushy.

*******

After shopping, Michael headed to his gym. There weren't many people around. He relished the thought of lingering in the sauna and shower. He was thankful he could access a gym, in light of his current circumstances. As he opened the door, the warm air and familiar sounds welcomed him. The thwack of metal clanking, coupled with occasional Tarzan-like grunts completed the scene. The body odor of fresh sweat was tolerable, not musty like the hostel on a summer night.

It was uplifting to be among folks who weren't aware of his situation. He was proud of his physique and assured walk. After the workout, he nodded to a few familiar faces in the sauna. A diverse group hung out at this hour; a couple of guys looked a little high. Lingering in the warm shower, he reveled in the feel of the water caressing his skin. Showering was a form of meditation for him. He put on clean clothes and headed for Mel's, which was only a few blocks from the hostel.

*******

Michael opened the door of Mel's Bar and Grill and stepped in; he glanced around as he made his way towards the massive bar. Red imitation leather dominated the room. The glass-like patina on the bar countertop, the familiar pool tables, and the typical overhead fixtures completed the atmosphere. The bar had the usual Budweiser beer ads; the clock advertising Gordon's Gin had stopped working long ago (as if to validate that the whole place was frozen in time). Pictures of movie stars hung throughout the room. The back wall consisted of caricatures of the first owner who had been an avid golfer. A gallery of liquor selections under the bar's multicolored lighting was gaudy; however, the greens, reds, and gold evoked a festive setting.

Due to the No Smoking Law, the atmosphere was altered somewhat; no more hazy particles hovered under the saloon light. The booths were always full at dinnertime, which was pretty much the only time women were present at Mel's. After the dinner hour, it turned into the quintessential man cave. It was still dinnertime; folks still lingered in the comfort of the cushioned seats. He waved to a few of them. This was his home turf.

Michael claimed his usual barstool. From behind the bar, Adam nodded to him in acknowledgement. Adam was the chief bartender, and Michael knew him well. He had worked the evening shift for years; proactive listening was his specialty. On occasion, he offered an opinion, but more often he would ask an open-ended question in order to keep the conversation going. The two men had become pals, comfortable agreeing to disagree on certain subjects. Adam had an incredible vocabulary for a bartender, and Michael suspected he was a closet academic. He was a nice guy.

Michael picked up his ice-cold beer. "What's on TV?"

"Iraq stuff," Adam mumbled.

Michael sipped his drink and said, "When these folks sign up for the Armed Forces, they're signing up to defend our country. In the case of Iraq, the lingering question remains—should we have invaded the country in the first place?"

Another regular at the bar chimed in, "Why not spend all that money securing our own shores? There's a shitload of loopholes in our homeland defense. It's the kind of war we don't know how to fight; our forces are too sophisticated. The Iraqis are like goddamn ants!"

Michael raised his glass. "A toast to peace!"

"Hear, hear!" several others joined in with enthusiasm.

Michael nursed his beer and listened to the rest of the conversation in amusement. It was obvious the debate had been going on for quite a while, and he had been coming to this bar long enough to know things could get out of control in a flash. He ordered a sandwich, ate quickly, and headed out.

"Later, guys."

"See ya, Mike!"

He made his way to the hostel, shuffling through the crisp fallen leaves that littered the sidewalk. He kept his head lowered, avoiding eye contact with the odd drunk. No hands in his pockets on this street! He was ready to react at a moment's notice. He kept a controlled pace, claiming his right to occupy a strip of the sidewalk. He imitated Denzel Washington's walk; wow, that guy had the perfect stride. Denzel made a solid statement—confident, but not conceited. Michael felt sure he could clean up on anybody who dared to bother him.

As he entered the hostel, Boots, the night watchman, sat in his familiar, sprawled pose with his feet up on the shabby desk. Boots was a lanky guy in his mid-forties and was rarely clean-shaven. He held his own when residents became unruly. He read decent books, which seemed curious to Michael. His commanding voice, heavy tortoise-rimmed glasses, and laissez-faire attitude convinced Michael he had to be an interesting story. Life seemed more genuine in these quarters—perhaps a bit too genuine.

He climbed the stairs to his room and retrieved his pen. He struggled with what to write on Sara's card. "Let's do dinner at your favorite restaurant and a movie. XO, Michael." How benign! He pulled the covers up; the cadence of his roommates' snoring soon lulled him to sleep.

# CHAPTER FOUR

In order to avoid too much interaction with his roommates, Michael's mornings began early. They were nice guys with hard luck stories, but their dissimilar pasts made strange bedfellows. He felt that most of these men never had much of a chance. In Michael's case, he had had everything he needed as a kid; now fate had brought him here. Life sure pulled some hard punches. As he shuffled down the hall, he could hear the usual muffled sounds of men rising to meet the day.

Michael began his morning by helping Mrs. De. They managed to put a dent in the sorting and packing of all but her necessary items. He barely heard her chattering; his mind was on the mystery at the convent. After lunch with Mrs. De, he made his way over to St. John's convent.

"Afternoon, Sister Bernadette...wow, something smells good!"

"Ah, Michael dear...good old Irish stew with turnips. Sister Clara will be coming down from prayers any minute. I mentioned that you were wondering about our dear Abbey. She would be happy to share a few things with you; a few general questions might make a trip to Ireland more personal."

"It's going to be a while, Sister, but I do intend to make the journey one day."

"Come...sit down for some tea. Oh, here she is now!"

In exchanging greetings, he had an immediate fondness for the sister. He pulled out her chair and shook her gentle hand. All three gathered at the kitchen table.

"Michael was repairing the ceiling in Sister Abbey's room. I had told him a little about her beginnings with us. You might be having somethin' to tell him about County Meath; he may visit there one day.

He could see why a shy novitiate would feel secure with Clara; her manner was gentle and relaxed. His conversation with Clara drifted from Ireland in general, to County Meath, and proceeded on to Sister Abreanne.

Michael mentioned, "There's some mold behind the walls in Sister Abbey's room. I've been doing some work by the ceiling vent. There is some sort of aura in her room; I can't quite put my feeling into words."

"Yes, she was a dear. It's too bad no relatives were here to take her ashes home to Ireland."

Sister Bernadette interjected, "Clara, do you remember that fellow who came by after her death? He said he was a friend of the family, but not much else, I'm afraid."

"Yes, I wondered who he was. Sister Abbey never mentioned him."

Michael noted the sad look that came over Clara as they spoke.

"I really don't know much about her early life. She never spoke of her childhood; she seemed much more open with the children. We noticed how happy she was, playing with them; it was as though she was attempting to regain the childhood she never had.

"There was an older woman who visited her once. Abreanne said the woman was visiting from Ireland; they went for a long walk in our garden; it was comforting to know she had some link to her past. The woman gave her a tin of Irish butter biscuits...such a treat! Abbey said she was an acquaintance from her childhood. When Abbey passed away, we were going to locate her, but then we remembered Abbey had mentioned the woman had cancer and had come to say goodbye."

"I'm sure Sister Bernadette has already shared most of what I've recounted. As far as County Meath, it was the seat of the High Kings prior to Christianity and has many historical sites. It's well worth visiting. The Newgrange Tombs should not be missed. They date back before the Egyptian pyramids and Stonehenge."

Sister Bernadette offered, "Sister is buried in our little cemetery. She loved daffodils. I planted some bulbs around her grave. I feel close to her when I sit in her room for a wee spell. The room has not been touched since she passed—there was no need."

Michael finished his tea and thanked the sisters for the chat. Now there was no doubt where the tin had come from. After lunch, he finished up in Abbey's room. The tin was still there; he would give it another day or two for Sister Clara, or perhaps someone else, to claim it. If the tin was still there in a couple of days, he would remove it. At that point, he would need to decide what to do with it. He would ask Sara for her opinion.

# CHAPTER FIVE

On the morning of Sara's party, Michael stopped by the convent. "Hey, Sister Bernadette, I'm going to check to see whether the patch job is dry in Sister Abreanne's room."

As he rounded the corner to Abbey's room, his heart thumped in anticipation. He closed the door behind him and sat in the modest wooden chair, allowing the calm of the room to embrace him. His eyes stopped at the vent. He rose from the chair, and with conflicted emotions, he positioned the ladder and climbed up to the vent and removed the cover. He groped for the tin. Was it still there? His arm extended the whole way...yes! His fingertips touched the mysterious container. He almost wished it were gone—well, almost. He shook it. It appeared to weigh the same as before. With one swift move, he stuffed it into the bottom of his backpack. In haste, he left the room with the secret cargo. For some inexplicable reason, he was no longer apprehensive; the deed was done.

"Hey, Sister, I'm finished. I'm happy to report it looks great. By the way, I got Sara a great blue plaid throw for her wheelchair."

"Wonderful! Father said he'd be here soon; we'll be takin' the parish car." Sister winked. "This will be fun."

Just then, Father Murphy came in.

"Hi, Father."

"Ah, Michael, I'll grab a wee bite here, and we'll be on our way."

Father huffed and puffed as he sat down. Sister Bernadette placed a bowl of soup and a sandwich in front of him and excused herself to get ready for the party. Much to Michael's surprise, Father reached out and put his hand on Michael's shoulder. "Sit closer, lad, it is good to see you." He perched his glasses on the top of his balding head and looked Michael in the eye. "So, my boy...what've you been up to these days?"

"Not much has changed, Father. I'm living in a hostel and getting a little nervous; if they get overcrowded, they may kick me out. The Sally Anne has been my home for quite a while."

Father looked surprised, "Can they do that, son?"

Michael continued, "Winter brings a bigger demand. You know, Father...I can't believe these words are coming out of my mouth, but—I may join the Army." He could not believe what he was saying! He had never mentioned to anyone that he was living at the hostel, let alone that he was considering joining the Army. What had made him confide in Father? His mind was whirling; however, he kept on talking. It was as though he was not in control of his tongue; he was going down a slippery slope...unable to stop.

Father gasped, "The Army! Go on with you! I don't believe it."

"Neither can I, Father; they're offering a bonus. God willing, when I get out I will have enough to start some sort of business, and a first and last for an apartment. I just can't see any other way."

Father persisted, "Who knows about this?"

Michael blurted out, "Just you, sir. I had no idea I was going to say anything today. I guess I have been in a form of denial until this moment. Funny, how things just surface, I didn't mean to burden you with my dilemma."

Father laughed aloud. "For the love of Pete, what a strange thing to say to a priest! When would you enlist?"

"The sooner, the better. I want to help Mrs. De with the realtors and her packing. If I enlist, it'll be after her place has sold. I want to be here for her; besides, it'll give me more time to process this. Thanks for your interest, Father."

"To be sure, son. I'll be happy to help in any way. Let's get going; our little Sara is waiting for us."

Michael changed his mind about Father's accessibility. Perhaps Father had a sixth sense about when to approach someone; his timing was faultless.

*******

The ride to Sara's birthday party had its moments of hilarity. Father and the New York cabbies were like oil and water. Father was a cautious driver; he braked way too soon and way too often. He didn't get the concept of using turn signals, and his top speed of twenty miles per hour was not in the realm of a New York driver's comprehension. And of all things, the old car had a stick shift. Michael could hardly keep his face straight. He wanted to slither down in his seat. Some cabbies would honk and shake their fist, but upon seeing Father's white collar and Sister in her nun's habit, their closed fist quickly opened and became a wave. Father was none the wiser and would give a cheerful wave back.

They stopped to pick up Mrs. De on the way. She got in, and the car choked and hiccupped its way down the street. The 1980 Toyota was now transporting a priest and a nun in the front with Michael and Mrs. De in the back. Michael held on to the cake for dear life as Father released the tired clutch; with a pathetic groan, the gears acquiesced and the car lurched forward.

With luck, they arrived intact; Father had found the ideal parking spot: a loading zone! Michael was aware that the local foot patrol knew Father's car. He never received a ticket.

Danny stood at the entrance of his store, dressed in his Sunday best. "Father, you brought the gang! Thanks for coming, you guys."

Michael could see Danny's pleasure was lacking all subtlety; he was tickled pink.

Father blew his nose and bellowed, "It's a pleasure, Danny. I've never missed any of Sara's birthdays. I'm surely not startin' now." Father had one of the most unique sounds when he blew his nose. It was downright scary, like a goose honking. If he blew his nose during his service, the parishioners would do their best not to crack up. In an odd way, the levity provided spiritual nourishment.

"Let's go up and see the birthday girl. I wanted this to be a surprise, but I knew she'd want to dress up a bit." Danny winked. "Manny is taking care of the store." He paused for a moment; it was out of character for Danny to babble on like this. He saw a little moisture in Danny's eyes. "This means a lot to Sara and me," Danny said and quickly turned his head away. Michael knew he was uncomfortable showing emotion; today was an exception.

The group moved up the stairs, bantering back and forth. Michael followed Mrs. De with the cake, and Sister brought up the rear with her sandwich plate.

As Danny opened the door, he saw Sara sitting in her wheelchair by the window. The sun burnished her auburn hair. Her usual French braids had been replaced with a style more becoming. He could see she had applied makeup, which enhanced her hazel eyes. Danny glowed with pride as the group entered the room. "Baby doll...we're here!"

"Sara, you look gorgeous!" exclaimed Mrs. De.

Sara blushed. "Thanks, Mrs. De...always the flatterer!"

Danny's voice cracked with emotion. "Happy birthday, baby!"

"Mrs. De...you brought my favorite cake!"

Sara uttered, "Mama and Emilio are up there smiling."

Michael was aware that Sara was referring to her mom and brother; this was the first time he had heard Sara call her brother by name.

Danny moved over to the elaborately set table and removed the foil on the bottle of champagne. "Sit down, everyone...champagne for all!" The Czech crystal emitted rainbow colors as the afternoon sun shone through the window. It was magical; Sara's expression said it all. He blurted out, "To the prettiest girl in Brooklyn!"

Michael watched as everyone raised their glasses. Mrs. De placed the cake beside the gleaming silver tea service.

Danny kicked off the Happy Birthday song as his daughter blew out the candles. "Thank you so much, everyone; you've gone to so much trouble."

They sat around, consumed with small talk. Father was a lifesaver in this situation. He filled up any void in the tête-à-tête with a quip or two. Time flew by.

Danny called out, "Time to open your presents!" He handed her the first gift—the one Michael had brought.

Michael smiled, "Hope you like it, Sara."

She donned the hat and provided a big smile while Danny took a picture.

She moved to the gift from Father Murphy. It was a rosary comprised of pink colored crystals on a gold chain.

"I've been saving it for a few years. It is from the Vatican Gift Shop; I knew I would find the right home for it."

"It is truly beautiful; I promise it will not lay idle."

Sister Bernadette gave Sara the big box wrapped in pink satin paper.

"This blanket is so soft, Sister!"

Mrs. De brought out a small gift from her purse. "When I was packing, I found this locket. Please tuck it away somewhere—a little memento." The antique locket was hand painted with flowers.

"This will be a special reminder of you, Mrs. De."

Danny announced, "I have one more gift, sweet girl!" He brought out two boxes from his bedroom.

"Wow, Dad! A laptop and a wireless connection! I can't believe it. I just can't believe it!"

As daylight gave way, the little group bade each other goodbye. Michael stayed behind after the others left, and the threesome set out for McGinty's. After an enjoyable dinner, Michael accompanied them home.

"See you later, guys," said Danny. "I'm going down to the store."

Michael seated Sara comfortably in her chair, tucked her in with her new blanket, and sat down beside her. He rubbed his palms together, attempting to calm his nerves. "Sara, I would like to tell you a story—actually, it's more of a predicament. I need your honest opinion; please don't be swayed by my perspective."

"Sure. What's up?"

"I have a dilemma I would like to share with you. I have stumbled on something I need to handle in an appropriate manner. I know your opinion will be valuable." He proceeded to tell her some of the details of his discovery, omitting where he had found the tin and who the owner might be. He mentioned the owner of the tin was deceased.

"Are you asking me if it is right to open it?"

"Well, first, I'm asking if you are comfortable hearing the more personal details of the story. It does involve people you know."

"How mysterious! After hearing the details, may I change my mind about giving an opinion?"

"I wouldn't want you to feel obligated either way. Only that you keep our conversation confidential."

"This is fascinating to say the least, Michael. Where is the tin now?"

"It's in my backpack." His eyes moved to his bag by the chair.

"Are you carrying it around with you?"

"I feel obligated to keep the tin with me until I know its contents."

"Well, tell me more! Who on earth could resist such intrigue? Its way too tempting, I may need some time to think about my response."

"Sure...there's no deadline."

Michael proceeded to explain the unabridged version of his discovery.

"I would like to think about this overnight Michael."

"Sure, I guess the primary issue is whether to open it or leave it unopened and hand it over to Father Murphy or Sister Bernadette. The weight of the tin and the sound when I shake it—I think it's her diary, or other papers. If it's a diary, it's all about not embarrassing the deceased sister."

Sara appeared pensive, "I think your point about Sister Abbey being secretive is valid. There must have been some reason to keep it hidden. Did she have any living relatives?"

Michael shared the details on Sister Abbey's childhood and the old woman who gave her the tin. He mentioned the man who showed up after Sister's death.

Sara interrupted, "If she didn't want to share this with the convent, I wonder what her plan was. Maybe she was leaving it up to chance, like a higher power or something."

"That thought has crossed my mind. Of course, this is probably nothing, and the intrigue will melt away as soon as the tin is opened."

Sara replied, "Still, it's fun to consider all the possibilities."

Michael dug into his backpack and produced the nondescript metal tin. He placed it on the coffee table. He sensed they both were reluctant to open it, but at the same time, dying to know what was inside. There was also the possibility of feeling guilty having pried, uninvited, into this nun's personal life. The "what ifs" were daunting.

She sighed, "I can only imagine all the feelings you've experienced since you first discovered this dreary-looking thing."

He nodded, staring at the box. "Do you want time to think about this?"

"Good idea. If you wish, I could keep it here until you make a decision."

"Sounds good, thanks."

"How about tomorrow afternoon, Michael? To be honest, I doubt I'll suggest anything other than opening it."

"I agree. See you tomorrow."

# CHAPTER SIX

Michael stopped at Mel's and played a game of pool with Joey. The mentally challenged young man was pretty much a fixture at the bar. He was a good player, and his demeanor was cheerful and polite. Everyone liked him; he helped with the dishes and the cook gave him dinner most nights. Afterwards, he would have one beer and hang out at the pool table, waiting for someone to join him in a game. Michael let him win the majority of their games, as did other regulars.

"Joey! You're a damn good pool player!"

"Yah? Really? Think so, Michael?"

"Damn good. I would love to know how you sink those balls when they are at a ninety-degree angle to the pocket."

"I'll show ya!"

Michael would try the technique, attempting to sink a few. It was an unspoken rule that no one would tease or take advantage of Joey. There was always someone in the regular crowd watching over him.

When the game was over, Michael walked over to the bar and watched football. Joey sat with him for a few minutes before wandering off. It was tough to figure out if Joey really comprehended the game. He never cheered or commented on the players.

On the other hand, he was like a savant when it came to horse racing. He remembered each race, including the odds and the order in which they finished. It was not uncommon for him to cite a race from a couple of years ago, quarter pole by quarter pole. Needless to say, it astounded the regulars.

Michael and Adam were watching the football game in companionable silence. Suddenly, without preface, Michael uttered, "I am about to lay a bomb on you, Adam. I'm thinking of joining the military."

The bartender froze for a moment, and then continued polishing his glass; he remained silent.

Michael joked, "Hello...are you hearing me?"

Adam stumbled on his words, "Uh huh, but I don't know what to say."

"I know it's a shocker, especially coming from me, a supposed pacifist."

"I'm stunned. We have sat here many a night criticizing the war, the decision to invade—the whole scene."

"I know; what a twist! My back is against the wall. I can't spend another winter in my situation, with no home and no profession. It's all about money."

"Have you signed up yet?"

"Not yet; I need to get Mrs. De to Florida."

"Are you able to get some education out of the deal?"

"Doubtful, but I don't need more education. I have a degree, and I am a licensed EMT, so I may escape using a gun. It's all about not having a place to call my own, a nest egg to fall back on."

Adam cocked an eyebrow in curiosity. "EMT, eh?"

Michael looked up, staring at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "I have a degree in science too."

The bartender looked over his eyeglasses. "I'll be curious to see what the military offers you. The EMT thing may work in your favor."

"I'll keep you posted."

Michael finished his drink and headed out. He thought about the prospect of being in the military. It wasn't the best idea, although right now, it was the only plausible solution.

He reached the door to the hostel and opened it, letting himself in with a cold blast of air. "Hey, Boots, what's up? Still reading?"

Boots grunted a response as Michael climbed the stairs. The other men in his room were snoring away. There was a faint odor of liquor intermingled with stale cigarette smoke. He climbed into bed, and before long, sleep stole him from his thoughts.

# CHAPTER SEVEN

When morning came, he was up and out onto the street in quick time. He mulled over his plan for the day. It was a rare Indian summer day—the last kiss of summer. Where should he go first? It was too early to visit Sara. He decided to head over to Mrs. De's.

As he walked, he pondered the upcoming discussion with Sara. He knew too well that diaries could be very personal. When the sister became ill, why didn't she make a decision? He was pretty sure she knew she was dying. So why did she leave it there? All theories were up for debate, and in just a few more hours, there would be some idea of what to do.

He caught the bus to Mrs. De's place. The bus was the polar opposite of the subway; people were much more talkative, and there were often friendly conversations between strangers. His stop came, and he wove his way through the side streets.

So far, Mrs. De's moving process had been coming along well. The preliminary packing had been done, and the place looked a lot more spacious and show-able. It was time to plan some meetings with the realtors.

Michael met her out in front of the store where she was sweeping the sidewalk. "Hey, Mrs. De, Danny said you had the names of the realtors you wanted to interview."

Michael watched as she pulled a folded piece of paper out of her pocket. She produced a list with five realtors' names, phone numbers, and appointment times. He was amazed by her organizational skills. Michael offered to attend all the meetings, and they chatted for a while.

Michael's next stop would be to see Sara. His curiosity was growing by the minute. "Okay, Mrs. De, I'm going over to see Sara."

"Give her my love, will you?"

"Of course. Bye for now."

Mrs. De waved and went back to her sweeping.

*******

Danny was busy wiping down the coffee station as Michael entered.

"Hey, Danny! I want to pick Sara's brain about something."

"Sure, Michael, go ahead. She is up there, reading."

Michael leapt up the stairs two at a time. This was the moment!

He knocked on the door. "Come on in!" He opened the door and saw the tin box sitting on the table in front of her; he sat down on a chair close by. She continued, "I'm excited. I have thought about this issue, and I think we should go ahead. It seems to me that opening the tin is a minor issue. It's more about the decision once we know what is in there. We'll know soon enough. If there is anything in there we need to tend to, I want to be logical and respectful."

Michael smiled, "Shall we get to it?"

Sara lowered her eyes. "Michael, may we say a little prayer for guidance?"

"Sure."

She bowed her head. "Dear God, please help us respect Sister Abbey's privacy. If there is something we need to take care of, our wish is to honor her. Please guide us. Amen."

Michael took a deep breath and rubbed his palms on his jeans. He picked up the tin and pried off the stubborn lid. He wondered if the difficulty in opening it was an omen. The lid finally gave way with a final screech, and out fell a letter and a package; he unfolded the pages. The package was wrapped in a thin, waxy, brown paper encased in a zip-lock bag. A musty odor emanated from the folded documents. In the middle of the letter, four additional smaller pieces of paper fell out. They appeared much older, and each piece disclosed a section with a simple, hand-drawn map. It was a great temptation to unwrap the package first; instead, he followed proper protocol—the written words came first. He began with the handwritten letter, moving his chair close to Sara. They read it together:

To The Person Who Finds This Letter,

I have put my trust in God to determine who will find this letter. My rationale will become evident as you read my story.

My name is Abreanne O'Noonan, and I was born and raised in Ireland. I have not spoken to anyone regarding the following events. This will serve two purposes: the location of the Book of Kells cover and my life story.

Most recollections of my early years are somewhat clouded. Perhaps a few of my memories are pure fantasy; however, these are my unexaggerated recollections. I have a story to tell, which may involve a significant finding. After extensive research, I am convinced the enclosed map may lead to unearthing an ancient artifact of great value.

I recall early memories of my parents and my nanny Annalise. As my caregiver, she and I were extremely close. I recall snippets of my early days. My parents took many long trips. Our home was large; the rooms were filled with overstuffed furniture. My play yard was a large area filled with trees and flowers.

Life went on in a pleasant manner until that dreadful day when uniformed men arrived at our door. Mother and Daddy went away with them in a shiny black car. I never saw them again. I remember my parents were calm; they reassured me they would return soon. Annalise appeared quite shaken; she said they were 'on an important mission.' She never wavered from this response no matter how many times I enquired. However, she did avoid looking me in the eye when she spoke of them.

A short time later, Annalise advised me that it was necessary for me to attend a boarding school 'for a wee while.' I shall never forget the day of my departure.

It was cold and rainy as Annalise and I rode by a horse-drawn carriage to a foreboding, gray building near the outskirts of Dublin. She escorted me inside, and after speaking to a matron, she made an abrupt exit without saying goodbye. As I climbed the stairs with the matron, I remember watching Anna through a drizzly, wet window. I recall the water that had splashed on Anna's skirts. Her shoes were covered in mud as she climbed back into the carriage. She held a handkerchief to her face and appeared to be crying. Needless to say, I was devastated. I felt abandoned and cried for weeks. I hid under my cold sheets and stiff wool blankets; I was miserable. From this point forward, I slept in a room with eleven other girls. Soon enough, I realized this was not a school; it was a home for abandoned children. Most children knew why they were there. I assumed I was there because Anna could no longer care for me financially. Where were my mother and father? I was not angry with Annalise, I knew she loved me; this horrendous change must have been necessary.

The years passed; I felt as if I were in a vacuum. Everything about the Home was regimented, bleak, and loveless.

I befriended a few of the girls, and we stuck together, protecting ourselves from the usual menacing of older teens. One day, the matron at the orphanage announced that I had a visitor. I was sure one of my parents had come to get me. I followed her down the long, hollow corridor with great anticipation. The walls of the hallway seemed to be closing in on me. This perception remains as vivid as though it were yesterday. A million or more thoughts raced through my mind as we marched along. I can still hear the echo of our footsteps as we made our way toward the mysterious visitor. The entrance to the foyer revealed the silhouette of a woman who looked vaguely familiar. It was Annalise. My heart danced! She would know where my parents were! Was she taking me home?

We went for a walk around the grounds of the orphanage. She explained that the county had taken our home due to unpaid taxes. She had no idea where my parents were at that moment. She had received a letter from them a while ago; they were in Switzerland. Their letter came just before our home was seized. In the letter, my parents instructed Annalise to look behind the large painting hanging over their bed. A jeweled cover would be hidden between the canvas and the paper backing. This cover was considered to be of great value and part of an ancient book containing the four gospels. She was to remove it and keep it hidden. She was not to divulge this matter to anyone other than me. The whereabouts of the cover should be passed on to me (at a later date) if they did not return.

_The cover belonged to a manuscript called the_ Book of Columcille _or_ Kells _. It was known by both names. The book, with its cover intact, contained the four New Testament books, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. It had been stolen in the year 1077 and was discovered soon after in a ditch under some peat, but the cover and the last few chapters of John were missing. This theft is well-documented by many historians. She claimed the cover was highly valued and sought after by nefarious persons. Annalise was convinced one of them lived near her town. There was a man with an obvious limp who seemed out of character from the usual inhabitants of her village. The neighbors claimed that he was very nosy regarding Annalise and her background. She explained that it was imperative for the cover to remain hidden until I was old enough to decide what to do with it. I have since read many accounts of this theft. As Annalise had said, historians confirmed that a few months later, the four books were recovered from a ditch near Kells. At this point, the jeweled cover and the last few chapters of the Book of John were not recovered and are still missing. Annalise had the cover in her possession, but she knew nothing of the missing chapters. As far as she knew, the remaining chapters of St. John were never found. She was concerned that whenever the cover became public knowledge, there would be much scrutiny and suspicion due to the missing chapters not being part of the discovery._

She hid the cover and my parents' letter. I have remembered, verbatim, the information she shared with me.

Annalise explained that the precious cover was wrapped in oilcloth and hidden on the property of her small home in County Meath. Whenever I chose to retrieve it, I should question whether it was time to pass it on to the proper authorities, or continue to keep it concealed. There could be relentless scrutiny due to the fact missing chapters were not with the cover. The cover was my sole item of inheritance. It was obvious she felt I should reap some monetary benefit. She spoke to me about the blood, sweat, and tears the family had experienced in order to keep this cover safe. She emphasized the subsequent hardship for me in an orphanage. The depth of the information stunned me. The whole meeting took place during one brief visit.

Annalise did not want to wait any longer to inform me of the hiding place, just in case something happened to her. She had included me on the title of the cottage she owned. Somehow, she paid the taxes several years in advance, thus giving me plenty of time to retrieve the cover. She explained that her property included the ruins of a stone barn. The barn is pretty much decimated; only three sidewalls and a chimney are still standing, and there is no roof. This type of old barn remains a common sight in the Irish countryside. The cover is buried in an exact place on the inside perimeter of the dilapidated barn's stone wall.

She handed me a map, along with my parents' letter. There were no names on the map; it would mean nothing unless the person knew the starting location. She asked me to memorize the name of the town, which is Duleek, and also the exact starting location, which is the Abbey Tower. The cottage is one mile west of the tower, then five miles north on the right hand side of the road. There is a little bridge just before the cottage entrance. The map reveals the precise location. It is underneath the fifth stone on the bottom right side (as you enter the barn).

We hugged goodbye, and once more, I watched her walk out of my life. Her familiar hug is forever attached to my heart. At times, I am able to conjure up Annalise's warmth and strength. Her ensuing departure was my worst nightmare.

While I waited for the opportune time to retrieve the cover, I split the map into four pieces and kept one section hidden in each of the four chapters of the Disciples. I meant to seek out the cover, but the time never came. Although the thought was secretive and exciting, my priorities at the time were directed to my immediate situation. The more important thing to me was my physical freedom, not the cover.

At last, I received an offer to become a novitiate at a convent in Dublin. I jumped at the opportunity. As a nun, my plan would be to help youngsters who had also experienced trauma in their lives.

As fate would have it, with a mere two days' notice, I was offered an immediate transfer to St. John's Convent in New York City. I was whisked away by a visiting American nun. Life in New York has been satisfying, as I have been able to work with children. I have no regrets regarding my decision to leave Ireland.

_Due to my cloistered life in Ireland, I had no idea of the historical and monetary value of the cover until my arrival in New York. I researched the history of the_ Book of Kells _, the missing cover, and the last chapters. As I write this, there is no news indicating either the cover or chapters have been discovered. Sadly, at a later date, I did find an on-line article in a Swiss paper—my parents had been murdered. The authorities were seeking a fringe group of IRA. The Swiss stated the murder involved stolen artifacts belonging to Ireland, but they did not elaborate further. There were no follow-up articles regarding their murders._

_Annalise felt the majority of people continued to believe the last chapters of John would be found with the cover. There could be great scrutiny if the cover turned up without the chapters. Adding to my concern, there was an occult sect who believed the last chapters of John were stolen because they were contradictory to the current version of the_ Holy Bible _. This might initiate an uproar in the Christian Church. I want you to know what challenges lie ahead._

Please understand, as a deceased Catholic nun, I do not want my name tangled up in a gigantic fiasco. If you must divulge my identity, you have my permission, but I prefer to remain anonymous. I have no living heirs; this was confirmed during Anna's last visit here at my convent.

During her last and only visit here, she had end-stage cancer. She was not aware my parents had been murdered, and although she appeared sad about the news, she acknowledged she felt something terrible had happened to them. She remained steadfast in her claim to have known nothing about the cover until she read the letter of instruction from my parents.

She handed me a tin of cookies; beneath two layers, a false bottom revealed a large amount of Euro currency. She did not want insufficient funds to deter me from recovering the treasure.

It is not my wish to direct you from my grave. However, I feel Ireland is the rightful owner of the cover. There is some debate as to the origin of the manuscript; England and Scotland have been mentioned, a fact that might also have made it difficult for me to deal with the various claims of ownership. It was in Ireland's possession at the time of the theft. This search will involve a trip to County Meath in Ireland. I have enclosed the money to pay for the trip and expenses. Anna reiterated how ashamed she was of leaving me at the orphanage. She hoped the money from the sale of the cover would come to good use. Please use the money included in this package to search for the cover. Of course, you are entitled to any monetary gains from the sale of the cover. The proceeds are under your control; but it is likely to be a large sum of money. My wish is that a charitable organization will benefit from any fortune you acquire. If this should become a legal issue, I give you permission to produce these letters for clarification. The four sections of the map are enclosed, along with the letter to Annalise from my parents.

May you proceed with God's blessing, under conditions that keep you out of harm's way.

God speed,

Sr. Abreanne O'Noonan

Michael looked up at Sara; she appeared spellbound. He could hear the clock ticking by the endless moments of silence. Michael put the papers and the unopened package on the coffee table and sank back in his chair. After some time, he expressed his amazement. "This was way more than I bargained for."

Sara let out a huge sigh, "It's a lot to digest. I suppose the first thing would be to research this _Book of Kells_."

Michael was embarrassed. "My computer skills leave a lot to be desired."

"I'd be glad to help, Michael. It would be a welcome diversion—this is so mysterious!"

"Be my guest. What is the right thing to do in a case like this?" He stared at the package and examined the wrapping. "I'd like to decide whether I'm committed to making the trip before I open the parcel containing the money. If I opened it now, and find a good sum of money, I may be tempted to jump right in without weighing the magnitude of this venture. This is so intriguing. Nevertheless, I want to be committed to the physical and mental part of this before I get into the financial end of it."

"I don't blame you; we should research and see if her story appears valid."

"Before we open the parcel, perhaps we should create a list of what this would entail. I would be preparing to travel out of the country, to Ireland, for starters. I want to have a clear head about the approximate cost. Time is not an issue. If the money covers the expense of this search, it would be tempting to proceed. If, by any chance, the cover is found, there would be a question of storage until I decide the next step. If the package doesn't provide enough money, we'll research other options.

Sara was pensive. "You may have enough money to continue on your own; who knows?"

"That would be great; I'd rather complete the project with no third-party meddling. "It'll take a meaningful effort—if I am up for this task." He laughed half-heartedly. "I can't help thinking this just might be for real."

"Would you think it might be a fantasy, Michael?"

"It's pretty hard to wrap my head around whether Sister's letter is accurate, let alone if the cover is still locatable. Who knows, someone may have leveled the old barn."

"True, Michael, loads of unknowns."

Michael heard Danny's footsteps on the creaky stairs. He replaced the tin and its contents into his backpack; a wave of guilt passed over him. Why should he conceal the tin? On the other hand, it was too soon to share this kind of news; nothing had been verified...it was just too soon.

"Hey, Danny." Michael stood up. "Anything I can do for you?"

"Nah...just going to the john. Don't let me interrupt."

As the bathroom door shut, Michael retrieved the package and the letters, handing them to Sara. "These would be much safer with you. I hope you're ok with this."

Sara gave an enthusiastic response. "Sure, I'll do some research on the _Book of Kells_ and County Meath tomorrow."

"You're a blessing!" Michael told her. "See you Sunday."

*******

As he headed toward the subway, he couldn't help but reflect how things could change in the blink of an eye. At least this revelation was exciting and positive. He wondered if he would ever share with Sara the devastating event that had completely and unequivocally changed his life forever. This will be a positive venture...even if the cover were not found; it would be a definite distraction from his lackluster life.

# CHAPTER EIGHT

The rest of the week was filled with odd jobs and realtor interviews. Mrs. De ended up choosing a company that had listed similar properties in the Brooklyn area. Michael had a good feeling about the whole thing. He had one concern; the trip to Ireland needed to be in the summer, as he would need to dig in soft soil. If her place hadn't sold by then, it could be a problem to leave the country.

# CHAPTER NINE

Several days later, Michael woke from a vivid dream and dragged himself back to reality. He would have preferred to linger in the dream for a few more moments. He was in a distant country looking for something. The subject of his search had no shape or name. Sara was with him, and she was walking! Some of the time they were running to catch a train. He remembered holding her hand and having a tender feeling toward her. He was reluctant to toss the feeling aside.

Out on the street, Michael headed for the first of his daily jobs. The morning ritual was so predictable. Life became of value once he took in his first breath of fresh air. Winter was inches away. His steamy breath was visible as he headed toward the subway. Thank goodness for the holidays; in spite of the cold weather, Thanksgiving and Christmas made up for the dreary climate. The stores and churches were decked out in their ceremonial attire. He wished nothing to dampen his spirits.

Michael remained preoccupied with the suspense of Sister Abbey's letter. He looked forward to sharing time with Sara as they planned the details of the quest. He marveled at the collection of thoughts dancing in his head. Could it be true that his life could take such an unbelievable turn? The whole thing was more like fiction than a real life story.

His usual routine was a mere means to an end. Joining the Armed Forces plan took a back seat. He hoped Mrs. De's place would sell soon. Two brothers were interested in her place, and they were coming for a second look. This was the third time it had been shown. Mrs. De was getting excited.

He kept up his normal tasks as he mindlessly went through his day—yes, sir; thank you, sir; have a good day, sir. In retrospect, it was a happy blur. Life was good. He was enjoying his connection with Sara as she educated him on Ireland and the _Book of Kells_. He dropped in to Mrs. De's on the way home.

"There is a hitch in the offer." Mrs. De grumbled. "They changed the closing date from thirty to ninety days."

Michael could see the little lady was quite distressed. He called Pauley to get his input, and the conversation boiled down to the fact that he wanted his mother in Florida before Christmas. If Mrs. De wished, she could go at this time. Pauley proposed that Michael move into her place until a buyer was found. If the current offer fell through, Michael could do some painting and replacing old fixtures in lieu of rent. When Michael hung up the phone, he discussed the situation with Mrs. De; she opted to leave as soon as possible. She wanted the family together—plus, her arthritis was kicking up.

"It would warm my heart to know you're taking care of my place, Michael. It would also give you time to think over this idea of joining the military."

"Thanks, Mrs. De. I would welcome the change. I'm not anxious to put on a uniform, anyway." It was a plus for both of them, he thought. Life was moving fast; it was all good news—really good news. He was surprised at how much Mrs. De's offer improved his self-esteem. "Life sure is full of surprises, Mrs. De."

"I know I'll be happy in Florida. Did you know, Sara said she would be happy to take my cat?"

Michael smiled, "It's all falling into place! I'm happy for you—even though I'll miss you."

Mrs. De patted his hand. "I know, dear. If this offer falls through, perhaps it's better to have the place spruced up. You'll do a great job."

Michael flew down the stairs. What a break for both Mrs. De and him!

# CHAPTER TEN

Michael entered the store. "Hi Danny, I'm taking Sara shopping. See you later."

Danny gave Michael a nod and went back to stocking the shelves.

Michael peeked in; Sara was sitting at the special desk Danny had built for her. An excited smile broke over her face.

"Michael! I'm convinced Sister's story is accurate. The book was stolen and recovered, and there are some pages missing along with a jeweled cover."

"Are you serious? Where is this book?"

"It's kept at the Trinity College Library in Dublin. Prior to that, it was at the Priory in the town of Kells, in County Meath. There are only a few pages on display each day. Apparently, the book is in pretty good shape in view of the fact it was started in the late eight hundreds and hidden in a ditch for a few months."

"So it was hidden in a ditch. How does a book survive after lying in a ditch for months? Has it always been in Ireland?"

Sara was talking a mile a minute, her eyes glued on the computer screen. "There is some debate, but most accounts claim that the scribing started in a monastery on the Island of Iona...off the coast of Scotland. It's absolutely intriguing. I can hardly contain myself from sharing this with Dad."

They looked at each other in silence; their expressions said it all—not yet.

Michael had an intense look on his face. "Ok, start again from the beginning."

"The _Book of Kells_ was most likely started in about 800 A.D. on the Scottish island of Iona, just off the coast of Scotland. There are several similar theories of its actual beginning. I'm quoting the most popular version. It was first called the _Book of Columba_ or _Columcille_ after Saint Columba—he built the abbey at Iona. Saint Columba died in 597 A.D. The current name, the _Book of Kells_ was adopted after the book was moved to Kells in County Meath, Ireland. Kells is thirty-five miles northwest of Dublin.

"There is some controversy over whether the monk named St. Columba actually did some of the scribing. It is doubtful, since the calligraphy style is more linked to the 800s. It's considered Ireland's finest national treasure and touted as one of the most beautiful manuscripts in the world."

Michael was puzzled. "If it was scribed in Iona, why is it Ireland's finest treasure?"

"The Vikings attacked Iona several times in the late 700s and early 800s. In 806, sixty-eight monks were killed at Iona. The following year, the remaining monks of Iona transported the book to a small enclave of monks in Kells, Ireland.

"Please go on."

"There is quite a bit of research on the Internet and most versions are fairly similar. There was one account that entertained another spin. It was controversial, suggesting there was another controversial ending to the Gospel of Saint John. This confirms Sister Abbey's concerns about. It may also stem from the question of which country owns the book, and of course, the missing cover plus the fact that the missing pages are not with the cover."

"The Book of John?" Michael asked. "Wait a minute; let's go back a few steps. Why were the monks writing these books again?"

Sara replied, "The _Book of Kells_ is a copy of the Four Gospels in the New Testament. It was a documentation of the books Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, copied during the European Dark Ages. During this era, the story goes that many historic works, including the Bible, were almost lost. The Dark Ages began with the overthrow of the last Roman Emperor in 476 A.D. and ended about 1000 A.D. There were about 500 years of turmoil and confusion. The original Book of John was most likely written between 90 and 100 A.D."

Michael admitted, "Five hundred years of turmoil; that's a long time."

Sara spoke in an excited voice, "Exactly. It is a significant amount of time for a large part of Europe to be in chaos. The Irish monks were attempting to keep Christian history alive. There were a few other manuscripts scribed around the same period depicting the Bible, however the _Book of Kells_ is by far the most vivid in its illustrations. The pages are beyond elaborate; it's claimed to be one of the world's greatest depictions of that style of penmanship. To see the actual intricacies of the lettering, one needs a magnifying glass. They used expensive ground-up dyes to color the lettering. The dyes were from far off lands."

"This is fascinating, Sara."

"There are pictures on the Internet of certain pages of the manuscript. It makes present day calligraphy look like child's play. They think it was written over a period of one hundred years.

"There are at least four different writing styles; certainly there were at least four different scribes. The pictures on the Internet are beautiful and very detailed. It was scribed on vellum, which is a form of treated calfskin. No wonder it is so carefully guarded."

"May I see some pictures of the book?"

"Sure, they're on my computer. The actual book is stored under a type of low light to protect the pages. It is almost inconceivable to think this manuscript survived raids at Iona, a move to Ireland, and was then stolen and hidden under some peat in a ditch."

"Tell me more about its discovery in a ditch."

"It was stolen from the sacristy of the Church in Kells in 1007 A.D. It was found in a ditch about a month later. When it was retrieved, the cover and the last few chapters of the Gospel of John were missing. There was some damage to the vellum, including wormholes; but overall, it survived the ordeal quite well."

"I think it's curious that the last chapters are missing," Michael mused. "If the cover had jewels, that would explain its value, but why the last chapters?"

"As I said, there was one theory that the missing chapters contained a conflicting interpretation of the Holy Bible as it is today. This premise was seriously controversial; no one can be sure why those chapters are missing."

Michael wondered out loud, "Could it be that this robbery was staged in order to prevent the possible controversy and not so much about the value of the cover?"

"If one really wanted to let their mind meander, I suppose it's a possibility."

"Did it describe the cover in particular?"

"Just that it was thought to be jewel-encrusted and is described in some references as a 'golden cover'."

"Probably true," Michael added. "Such a revered book is bound to have an elaborate cover."

"Perhaps the pages were just inadvertently torn off while removing the cover."

Michael interjected, "Remember, Sister did say that she was concerned about possible accusations that the chapters were hidden with the cover. Maybe she was concerned about endless scrutiny this could bring. As a nun, I wouldn't blame her apprehension."

Sara looked up at Michael, "It's pretty hard not to get excited about all this. I try to keep myself in check; I couldn't wait to tell you the news."

"In what language did the sister say the manuscript was written?"

"She claimed, and it is confirmed on the Internet, most of it was written in Vulgate Latin. That style was used in the fourth century or earlier."

"Tell me more."

"Apparently, the gospels were similar to earlier versions. Some authors indicate most of these four books were copied word for word from earlier manuscripts."

"It looks like this is worth investigating. So much of what Sister wrote is right on."

"I have been surfing the Internet for flights to Dublin and accommodations both in Dublin and County Meath near the town of Slane. This could take some time."

"You're right, Sara. It may involve many weeks or months."

"If you find the cover, perhaps the next step is Switzerland. The big issue is keeping it concealed at any border crossings if you chose to temporarily take it out of Ireland. Bottom line, the final figure is about twenty five hundred a month for your expenses and airfare."

Michael quickly calculated in his head. "Three months should be ample time to find it—if it's there."

"That would be about ten thousand dollars; that's a lot of money."

"Yes, or it may be less. But if I find the cover and run out of funds, there is a possibility I could get financial backing."

"No doubt about that."

Michael continued, "It would be nice to have the name of an international lawyer ahead of time—someone who deals with this sort of thing."

"Michael, I swear—this might be for real."

"You're right. There is also a nefarious side to this. Who was the guy who came looking for her after she died? Remember, he asked if she had any belongings that should be returned to Ireland."

"I know; and we have no idea why her parents were involved."

Michael mused, "Maybe someone does know or may have retrieved it already. Although I would think the find would have been publicized if that were so. On the other hand, her parents' abduction could have been for an unrelated reason."

"There would be many interested parties if any part of the missing chapters or the cover was found—including the Catholic Church, Trinity College, and perhaps Scotland. If you look at the monetary side alone, many other countries could be interested."

"I'm so happy to have you on board, Sara, to knock these ideas around—and keep me centered. Regarding the expenses, the big unknown is the amount of time involved. It's fortunate this situation has come at a time when I'm not committed." He felt himself rambling. "I had planned to join one of the armed forces—for the wrong reasons, I might add, however, I haven't signed any papers yet."

Sara's eyes betrayed her. She looked both surprised and dismayed. Her pain was obvious, and she checked herself immediately. "Oh, Michael, I didn't know."

"It was a tough decision; I needed to make sure before I told you."

She nodded slowly. "It would have been a shock."

Michael kept on, oblivious to her comment. "Anyway, as fate would have it, I'm available. So, other than finances and getting Mrs. De's place sold..." his voice trailed off.

Sara ran her hands through her hair. "As it stands, if there are sufficient funds, you would go to Dublin in early summer. Just to be prepared, we should have the names of some appropriate lawyers, both stateside and possibly in good old, neutral Switzerland—and also some art or manuscript appraisers. I'll look into it; experience in old manuscripts and a good reputation will be paramount."

"Sounds good. I don't see any reason to wait longer. Let's go ahead and open the package." Michael surprised himself. He felt no hesitation; the time was right.

Sara opened the drawer and handed the plain bundle to him.

Michael found himself hoping there was enough money to get him to Slane. His mind was racing. He unfolded a plain piece of waxed butcher paper that had been encased in a Ziploc bag. Out tumbled numerous one hundred dollar bills. He looked up at Sara; her eyes widened as she saw the number of bills.

"Oh my God, Michael!"

"Wow!" He tried not to appear avaricious as he counted the bills. He reminded himself of Sister's wishes; she had hoped a higher power would guide the finder. He would proceed with dignity and respect. All bills were in one hundred dollar denominations; there were one hundred of them. Sara remained silent.

"There's ten thousand dollars here! This will give me enough money to look for the cover. I'm in shock; it's like a dream! It's hard to believe I'll be setting out on such a sensational mission!"

"We need to firm up some of our ideas," Sara exclaimed. "Why don't you convert some of the cash into traveler's checks? I know there is a limit to the amount of money a person can take overseas; I think it is around ten thousand or so."

"Good idea."

Michael could tell Sara's mind was reeling with possibilities. "Perhaps we could pay some cash towards a debit card for use in Europe."

They talked for hours, posing many scenarios. Finally, Michael rose to leave. As he gave her his ritual hug, his cheek brushed against hers; her skin was as soft as silk. It had been a long time since he had touched a woman's face; a thrill ran to his very core. Was it his imagination? He thought she lingered in the embrace. He gently pulled back, brushing his thoughts aside. "I'll be back the day after tomorrow. We'll figure out a way to get this money ready for travel. It sounds like you're enjoying the research."

"It's by far the most fun thing I've done in a long time."

He paused, "In a situation like this, what are the finder's legal rights? Could it be now considered that the sister had an estate? What if some unknown relative appears out of the woodwork, like the man who came snooping around after she died? My intuition tells me if I am successful, it would be better if this whole thing, including my name, remained anonymous forever.

"I agree."

He fiddled with his jacket zipper. "I'd rather get it into Ireland's hands—let them worry about it. If this became public before the final placement, it could take decades to finalize things. At the minimum, I'll need a safe place to keep anything I find until lawyers and authenticators weigh in on this. I'd like a tentative and reasonable plan for all possible scenarios, in case I am successful."

"I wonder if Sister was an American or a legal immigrant. You never know... she came straight over from Dublin into a convent and never needed a social security card or an income."

"Never thought of that one. It shows how complicated this could be. Should destiny be on my side, the quandary of who to contact will be the next hurdle." Michael spoke with a newfound certainty. "This discovery would be monumental."

"True."

"I think I'll take a walk to think this through." Michael waved goodbye and headed out. The rest of his day was foggy. That evening, he had trouble focusing on his conversation with Adam. The day ended with restless sleep; there were too many unanswered questions. He was a proponent of firm plans—no surprises. He would need several scenarios in place due to the heap of unknowns. On the bright side, this was a significant challenge.

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

The day started with a message from Mrs. De. The offer had fallen through. Everything was happening in rapid fire. He would now move into Mrs. De's apartment. The next few days were filled with lawyers, power of attorney papers, and conversations with Mrs. De and her son. The little lady looked tired; however, she put on a game smile. Although it was bad news for Mrs. De, the good news was that Michael was no longer homeless. He assuaged his feelings of elation; her place had a better chance of a sale with a facelift.

"I would like to go over some details with you, Michael. Please come for tea."

The apartment appeared much less crowded. It did lack personality at this point, but space was more important. The cat seemed extra anxious; she sensed the modifications were part of a greater scheme.

"I know this move is best at my age."

"You never know; perhaps I will visit you one day."

They shared an affectionate smile, knowing there was little chance they would ever meet again.

"Sara will make your train reservation. You'll have a sleeping compartment."

"I'm so glad you'll be staying here, Michael. I don't want the place to be vacant."

"I'm looking forward to sprucing the place up." Michael looked at his watch; he needed some time alone. "Well, I'll be off now. I'll stay in touch every day. What will you do with the clock, Mrs. De? I can ship it; it's a beautiful piece."

"I will leave it with you, Michael. Do as you wish."

"I hope I will be able to keep it; it will remind me of our visits together."

*******

The gym was a welcome respite. He couldn't help but notice a renewed energy in his exercise routine. It was all due to his new digs and planning the quest for the cover. He had regained a purpose in life.

His next stop was indulging in meatloaf with all the trimmings at Mel's. He ate at the bar while he and Adam discussed Mrs. De's plans. He left earlier than usual; he was unsettled and wanted the day to be over. Patience was not his virtue.

# CHAPTER TWELVE

"Hey, Boots. I'll be moving out soon."

Boots looked up from his latest read. "I'd keep that under your hat 'til you're sure."

"It'll be in about two weeks."

"I wish you well. You are the best resident this joint has ever had."

Boots showed no emotion or eye contact. He announced the end of the discussion by burying his head back in his book. Michael smiled inwardly. This guy was something else.

*******

Michael brought Sara up to date on Mrs. De's plans. He knew Sara had offered to take Mrs. De's cat. A mature cat would be a perfect companion for her.

It was obvious she was bursting to discuss the upcoming venture; however, Michael was content to keep the subject on the back burner. Mrs. De's departure was in two weeks, and for the time being, that was first on his list.

*******

Before Mrs. De left, she was given a farewell tea at the convent that everyone enjoyed. She appeared content as the time drew near. Michael, Father, Sister Bernadette, Danny, and Sara took her to the train. There were no tears, although many lingering hugs occupied the next few minutes. Michael and Danny escorted her to her en-suite compartment and made sure she was oriented to the dining room. Pauley had cautioned Michael and Father not to tell her how much the train ticket cost—she would have a fit!

The farewell waves from the station were lengthy; the train pulled out at 10 p.m. sharp. The darkness obscured the overdue tears shed by the farewell party. Michael recalled a Japanese farewell tradition: when waving goodbye, even for just a day, one stands visibly waving until the person is gone from their sight, and the departing person looks back and waves in return. In this situation, it conveyed a certain finality. On the other hand, it was a new beginning for both Michael and Mrs. De.

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Michael kept his routine. The subject of enlisting was put on the back burner. Thanksgiving came; Michael and Sara cooked a turkey with all the trimmings. They shared many laughs, including a near-mishap with the mashed potatoes. Danny splurged for the occasion and bought a special bottle of Pommard wine; it went down like velvet. Michael helped with the dishes, said his goodbyes, and walked back to his new home. Life was good.

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Christmas was looming on the horizon, and the usual sentimental thoughts became more palpable, even at Mel's. Michael took Joey to visit a few local jewelry stores and helped him find a necklace for his sister. It contained a miniscule diamond embedded in a golden-colored heart. Joey was hung up on the idea of a diamond. He was proud Michael had accompanied him. The necklace was gift wrapped in silver paper. Since Joey had been one of the first customers of the day, the store had included a little stuffed bear to hold the gift. Michael noticed a spring to Joey's step as they left the store.

"Gee, Michael, do you think Adam could keep the necklace 'til Christmas?"

"I'll keep it for you, Joey."

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Over the next few weeks, Michael refused to start the "what if" mindset. If the cover was in place now, it would still be there in a couple of months. After all, what were the chances? He and Sara continued to discuss the upcoming trip and enjoy each other's company.

*******

"Hey, Adam."

"Michael! How goes it? Getting pretty chilly out there, huh? G and T or beer?"

"How about some Christmas cheer? A rum and eggnog, kind sir!" Michael played a couple of games of pool with Joey and ended with a nightcap of brandy. In New York City, there was no concern about drinking and driving since most people walked or took public transportation.

"Going anywhere for Christmas, Adam?"

"Nah. Bar business is too good, except Christmas Day; Joey's sister invited me for dinner. What are your plans?"

"I'll be serving dinner at the Mission on Christmas Day and a classic Italian dinner on Christmas Eve with Sara and Danny. You know... that seven-course meal with fish, fish, and more fish. Father may drop over after Mass." Michael finished his drink and set the glass on the bar. "Hey, Joey, let's meet for lunch on the twenty-fourth. I'll bring the gift for your sister." Joey confirmed with an enthusiastic nod, he was engrossed in another game of pool. "I think I'll head home." Michael gave a half-salute. "Later, guys."

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Michael and Sara made their way to Manhattan to shop for Danny's gift. They purchased an impressive wallet. In some circles, a wallet was a symbol of a man's status. There was no doubt that Danny needed an upgrade. They purchased a Bosca Italian wallet, which was a definite step up the ladder for Danny. After an afternoon of shopping, they returned to Sara's and discussed the upgrades for Mrs. De's apartment.

"By the way, Sara, if it doesn't sell, Pauley wants it off the market in a couple of months."

"That fits into your plans for Ireland."

"It seems to be falling in place, doesn't it? I'll check back with you tomorrow." As he got up, he adjusted the blanket by her feet, and accidentally brushed the side of her cheek before giving her an affectionate hug. He felt that faint flicker again, which surprised him, as well as Sara. He tried to make light of it, concluding it was his gratitude for her efforts. He walked home in the chilly evening and re-played their hug over again in his mind. Once more, he brushed his emotion aside.

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The following day, Michael headed over to Sara's. "Hey, what's new?"

Without looking up from her computer, Sara muttered, "Nothing much, just researching. Let's get some fresh air."

Michael gave her a reassuring smile; he sensed frustration in Sara's demeanor. "Do you need to do some shopping?"

"Yes, the drugstore for some embarrassing odds and ends and wrapping paper for Dad's gift."

They had been through this before. Her demeanor would change; it was obvious she would rather do this type of shopping alone. Having everything delivered to her door gave up too much of her fragile independence. Sara did not want her dad doing her personal shopping. Michael knew he was the best choice. He took her to Duane Reade's and sought out the familiar female salesperson. He read magazines from a distance. She enjoyed the shopping experience and lingered during her errands. Christmastime brought a new dimension to the store. She had told him the store decorations brought back memories of her childhood. She made a great effort to focus on the positive memories of her mom and brother. Each passing year had become a little easier. Christmas was also a tough time for Michael, although, he was beginning to cope with his situation as well.

"I'll take you to lay your wreath on Tuesday."

"Sure, Michael. Thanks for remembering." She took a wreath to her mom and brother's gravesite every Christmas.

Danny chose to visit the graves alone. Michael thought it was probably his pride—not wanting to go all "mamby pamby," or being seen as he talked to his deceased wife and son.

They headed back to the apartment, both wrapped in their thoughts. In Michael's case, he wanted to handle his upcoming quest through to the end. The hurdle—if he found the cover—would be finding that honest someone with experience in this type of discovery. When all was said and done, many folks put their own interests above the primary goal. This "find" could be a big deal. He felt an enormous obligation to act on behalf of the late sister. There had to be someone who would be professional and trustworthy, but who? And how would he find that person? He needed to get away from this somber day. "Hey, Sara, I'll be going now. See you soon."

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The days crawled by. Michael was able to change the first thousand dollars into traveler's checks with no difficulty. He stored the checks, letters, and map in a safety deposit box; and he visited Sara the following evening.

"Michael! I have more information." Once more, her eyes were glued to her computer.

"County Meath claims the title of Ireland's Heritage Capital. The history dates back almost to prehistoric times. These relics and structures are within the county you will visit."

Michael looked over at Sara; he enjoyed watching her excitement and energy. "Yes, one of the sisters mentioned County Meath as being the seat of the High Kings."

Sara continued, "There are megalithic tombs—"

"Yup, she mentioned that too."

Michael was mesmerized by Sara's zeal. She was describing County Meath, knowing she would not be part of the trip. How selfless! A fleeting thought crossed his mind—if this ended up being a colossal find, and if she was up to it, he would figure out a way to take her there—and Danny too.

She continued, "There are moderately priced B&Bs near Slane." She looked up and added, "You might want to rent a bicycle first...to scope out the area. Of course, a car would be necessary in the rain and once you have found the cover. Anyway, I have some really astounding information for you."

"Go on."

"There was a similar manuscript of the four Gospels called the Quedlinburg Manuscript. It also had a jeweled cover. A soldier smuggled it out of Germany during World War II and hid it in Texas. The details of the sale of the manuscript may be a big help."

Michael straightened up in his chair. "Are you serious? A similar manuscript?"

"The Swiss were involved in the transaction, including their art dealers, lawyers, and such. It pretty much lays out a blueprint on how the case was handled."

"Was the German manuscript intact?"

"Yes, this one had all four chapters and the cover. It looks like Zurich is the place to go with this type of thing. I'm researching for the top authenticators of religious manuscripts; also for lawyers who handle such cases, both here and in Zurich."

"It's incredible to find a documentation of this. It makes sense that the neutral Swiss would be in the picture."

"It would be great to have the names of the authenticators and lawyers."

"The article in the Texas paper does mention the names of some of the professionals. I suppose they are all deceased now. Perhaps a foreign paper will describe the whole thing in more detail."

They stared at each other, deep in thought. Sara broke the silence, "This might be a big help, assuming we find it."

"I like the Buddhist philosophy, Sara. It is more about the journey than the completion of the task. I think that viewpoint will help maintain me." He hesitated for a few moments. "You are also looking for lawyers in the States?"

"Yes, tax consultants and international lawyers with experience in this area."

"Although I had heard of the _Book of Kells_ , as far as the monks saving the Bible during the Dark Ages, that's news to me."

Sara turned to Michael, "I think we forget how much history there was before Columbus sailed the ocean blue."

"By the way, would you mind keeping the second key for the safety deposit box? It would be good to have you as backup. Maybe tomorrow we could make a trip to the bank. I'm off now, see you tomorrow."

"Sure, Michael. See you then."

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Hey, Danny. I'll take Sara out for a bit. I need to go to the bank."

"Sure, here's a little extra...treat yourselves to some goodies." Danny had noticed a difference in Sara's body language lately. She had become more energetic and particular about her personal appearance. Her hair was braided in a new way that was very pretty, and Michael seemed to visit more often. He hoped she was just teaching him how to use the damn computer. He hated those contraptions; something was always going wrong. He'd stick with his old-fashioned cash register and regular mail.

His mind returned to Sara and Michael; he tried to stay positive about the whole thing, but he had concerns. He didn't want Sara to have a big letdown in the future. He'd overheard Michael talking to Father at Sara's birthday, saying somethin' about joining the military. He wondered if Sara knew...probably not, he figured. She would have said something. Danny forced himself to acknowledge that her handicap might affect any budding relationship she might develop.

He watched Sara and Michael head out to the bank. His eyes moistened up as their silhouettes disappeared around the corner. It was a big damn deal just for her to go out on a simple neighborhood errand. How unfair! It was tough to see his little girl's life change forever in one horrifying moment. For that matter, his life continued to be shadowed in grief. He had chosen to keep his emotions tucked away, never letting them visibly surface. He was sure he would collapse if he ever did let his guard down. Coping with Sara's situation and the store was all he could handle. Sometimes he had chest pains, just skimming the surface of that fateful day. It was better to just block the whole thing.

*******

The bank was gracious and gave Sara a warm welcome. She hated those prolonged sympathetic glances. She gave her signature for the box, and Michael put half of the remaining cash in the vault. The quest seemed more real every day!

"I'll keep transferring the money to traveler's checks and get a debit card."

They gave each other a tentative hug that revealed emotional confusion for both of them. For Michael, the timing was confusing. He had no idea how Sara felt. It just seemed different.

*******

"Hey, Adam!"

"How goes it, Michael?"

"Great! I'm enjoying my stay at Mrs. De's. The holiday season is the icing on the cake."

Adam peered up from his work, "Signed up yet?"

"I came close, but selling Mrs. De's place is first." Michael fidgeted with his glass. "There may be another hitch; I may need to leave town for a while."

"Life has its twists and turns, Michael."

"Luckily, I've nothing to prevent me from keeping the wind at my back."

"You bet!"

Michael could tell that Adam was dying of curiosity, but the bartender was a good enough friend not to pry further.

The conversation was interrupted as Joey challenged Michael to a game of pool. When they finished, Joey grinned from ear to ear. He had beaten Michael three games in a row! Dear Joey—he was a joy, in an uncomplicated way.

# CHAPTER TWENTY

When Michael arrived, Sara was busy on the computer. He voiced his latest concern: "Do we have any idea how to get a bank account in Switzerland?"

"It entails giving proper ID and a social security number. All deposited funds are reported to the States. An American is able open up a Swiss bank account and safety deposit box online. Hard to believe! There are companies that will assist you. You can also wait until you're over there. It shouldn't take more than three hours. I think if this all happens, you would have a Zurich lawyer assisting you with the bank set-up. Also, there is no limit to the amount you can deposit."

"Perhaps I'll wait to see if it's necessary."

"It's curious—Switzerland is not part of the EU. They continue to remain neutral, just as they did in both wars."

"No wonder—they're landlocked and depend on all neighboring countries. A clever move on their part. They have been able to stash valuables and deposits from both sides of the fence. I would love to have been a fly on the wall during some of the vault deposits throughout the World War II. The story goes that the Nazis stored priceless paintings and gold in Zurich. In fact, aren't they still discovering artifacts?"

"Yes, but they're not as secretive as they were back then. By the way, I have a few more details on the Quedlinburg Manuscript. There was a finder's fee in that case."

"A finder's fee?"

"During the war, the Germans hid the manuscript in a cave; it was the property of a German church. The information I found in that article makes our project even more believable. I think we would be forced to be more public about this if we weren't in the Internet age, where so much information is available from your living room"

"Tell me more."

"In that case, the finder remained anonymous. As I said, it was an American soldier who discovered the manuscript. He smuggled it into the States, and the only way this guy would part with it was to receive millions. To get around the fact it was stolen, Germany negotiated a finder's fee in order to settle the deal."

"If I do find this cover, I wouldn't consider myself as having stolen it. It was so long ago, and I have the letters to tell this story."

Sara continued, "Having the cover on Swiss soil has its advantages. There would be more anonymity, and, perhaps, it is the best country to bargain with Ireland."

"I agree. The negotiations will not be much of a chess game since I have already decided on its final destination.

"I imagine someone will benefit financially; it might as well be you, Michael."

"It sounds greedy, but I hear you. This world is all about money, and there are tons of unscrupulous people out there. My wish is to distribute the money with integrity. I do feel I am as good a bet as anyone. Let's make a pact to keep each other on the straight and narrow."

"Of course, Michael!" Sarah smiled. "I'll continue to research names of international lawyers and art appraisers. This German manuscript story is fascinating. Apparently, if there hadn't been an adequate finder's fee offered, the manuscript would have been sold to Japan. Can you imagine? I have printed out this Quedlinburg article along with an abbreviated description of the beginnings of Christianity in Scotland and Ireland. I thought it would give you a general idea of the period in which the book was written."

There was a protracted silence as Sara continued her search. Michael used the interlude to scan the articles. "I can't believe the parallels to our situation; the German manuscript was scribed around the same time as the _Book of Kells_. I guess the quality of the German copy is not in the same league as the Irish manuscript." Michael continued, "The Irish monks began their great labor of copying all of Western literature."

Sara interjected, "I love St. Patrick's history. First off, there are no snakes in Ireland. The folklore depicted the pagans as snakes. I wonder how many know that St. Patrick was born into a Roman family. He converted to Christianity after being kidnapped. When he described the Holy Trinity to the pagans, he used the three-leafed clover as a symbol."

Michael quipped, "Good old St. Patrick won them over. Snakes sound more exciting than pagans. It is interesting that Rome never canonized Patrick as a Saint. It was before formal canonization began. March seventeenth was the day he died."

Sara added, "This is where the _Book of Kells_ comes into play. Patrick's successor was St. Columba, and he may have been the one who started the four Gospels in Iona, although, the scribing appears to be the type used after his death.

"Interesting."

"There is a main thread of similarity with a few twists involving the last missing chapters. Anyway, St. Patrick did set up monasteries in Ireland. The book was kept in the church priory in Kells, Ireland, for years. When it was stolen, after that brief spell in a ditch, the book finally made its way to Dublin's Trinity College for safe keeping."

"Did you say the book is on display?"

"Yes, a few pages each day, with at least one page illustrating the famous calligraphy."

"Well, Sara, it looks like Sister Abbey's account was valid."

"Oh, yes. I also have additional research on the best way to travel from Ireland to Switzerland. There is an overnight ferry to France, and then you can use trains to get to Zurich. This way, you can avoid the airport scrutiny. It's somewhat under the radar.

"You will need proper clothing and a backpack or suitcase to conceal the cover. We need to consider the largest possible dimensions of the cover."

"Is there a reference to the size of the book?"

"The largest measurements would be about thirteen by nine and a half inches; I'd estimate about two inches larger for the cover. I'm thinking a messenger bag would be great.

"I had no idea Switzerland wasn't a member of the EU. Also, Ireland uses the Euro, so you'll need two different currencies." Sara continued, "It appears that Swiss banks do not charge income tax on a person's account unless they invest in a Swiss-based company."

"Hmm, I wonder how that will work out in this case."

"There will always be hiccups; it seems funny to be planning as if this caper were a _fait accompli_." Sara leaned towards the computer screen and started typing again. "I think I'd like to find a surveyor's map of the Slane area."

Michael got up, "Ok. You continue with that." He heaved a sigh, "I guess the only other thing we need is the name of a possible contact. I'm going down to help Danny with some stuff." He found himself looking forward to their farewell hug. They embraced as usual, yet he sensed Sara was preoccupied with the research on the cover. "See ya later."

Sara was staring intently at the screen. "Good bye, Michael. I'll let you know what I find out."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The days grew colder; Michael continued his daytime routine. He did a few minor repairs for the sisters and continued to experience some degree of guilt about keeping the discovery a secret. He reassured himself as he re-read Sister Abreanne's request. He knew that if he did find the cover, the convent would receive a substantial anonymous gift.

It was decided that he would purchase a suitcase with a hard shell. It was all about finding luggage that would conceal the cover. Clothing for Ireland would be mostly "tweedy" things and waterproof boots. If Switzerland was included, he wanted to have an "English gentleman" appearance—understated, but good quality. His appearance and presentation would be meaningful during negotiations. They priced out his clothing for the initial leg of the journey. Five to six hundred dollars would do it.

*******

One Sunday morning, they decided to make an adventure researching Michael's wardrobe in case he continued on to Switzerland. They cruised the shops on Fifth Avenue. Michael felt a little out of place; nonetheless, the experience was fun. He was now confident about his clothing style.

He had converted six thousand dollars into traveler's checks and had decided to prepay the last four thousand on two separate credit cards. Things were coming together.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

As Christmas drew near, Michael and Sara enjoyed their annual carriage ride in Central Park. They discussed Mrs. De's prospective sale. Two couples had expressed some interest, but neither appeared promising.

This Christmas would be Michael's best since his arrival in New York. He felt at home in his neighborhood. He enjoyed helping the sisters decorate the church. His special connection with Sara and Danny was the highlight, and his pals at the bar helped to round out the festive season.

He surprised Sara with an extra trip to Manhattan. They took in the Christmas storefronts and the Rockefeller Tree. He made reservations at the Blue Water Restaurant in Union Square. It was a picture-book perfect evening, enhanced by a rare soft snowfall. The flakes were lazy and big. They could detect the intricate pattern of each flake as it moseyed downward. A few fell on Sara's face, and she giggled as she brushed them away. He would cherish this evening. It was all about fresh memories to replenish his solitary heart.

On Christmas Eve, Michael delivered Joey's necklace to him and treated him to lunch at a local deli. Joey mentioned he had a couple of new pals. This was news to Michael, and it concerned him. Why were they not joining him at Mel's? He would ask Adam if he knew anything about these guys. The hairs on the back of his neck signaled something wasn't right.

Later that evening, Sara, Danny, and Michael headed out for a traditional Christmas Eve dinner. To say it was a feast for a king was an understatement.

Afterwards, they went to Christmas Mass. The glow from the candles and a faint, sweet smell of incense filled the church with reverence. It was snowing when they left. They laughed as they each tried to catch a snowflake on their tongues. As Michael exhaled the crisp air, he felt it symbolized a moment of liberation. Tomorrow was not a new chapter; it was book number two in the life of Michael Evans.

As they reached Danny and Sara's building, Sara said, "Do come up for a minute, Michael. I have a little something for you."

Danny took the hint. "I'll be up in a minute. I need to check the shop."

The cat met Michael at the door. "I see she feels at home now," he observed.

Sarah laughed, "Yes, she's our official greeter." She retrieved a little package wrapped in bright red with holly trim and a card. "It's just a little something for your trip."

He could feel himself seizing up inside. He opened up the card, apprehensive about what would the card say, or not say, for that matter. It was an old- fashioned card, a horse and buggy scene. On the inside she had written "My dear Michael, I wish you the best in the coming year." It was signed, "Thanks for sharing your journey! Sara."

He was touched and relieved; he was very much in conflict about his emotions regarding Sara. It was not that he did not desire attachment; it was all about the past and his fear of getting close and then ... possible loss. He proceeded to open the gift. It was a brushed silver Celtic cross on a black leather necklace.

"Sara, this is perfect!" It was a simple and elegant piece. He smiled and moved closer, giving her a hug. He detected the familiar scent of her powder; it stirred his senses, and he found himself lingering in their embrace. For the first time in years, he felt a twinge of arousal. Again, he was torn between desire and apprehension, rolled into one. He moved away, retrieving a little gift and card from his backpack. He handed her the card. "Merry Christmas to my best friend."

She opened it. "This is such a pretty card." Then she opened the package, appearing to savor the moment. A silver charm bracelet with several Irish charms gleamed in the black velvet box. "The Celtic Cross, the clover, and an Irish knot—I shall wear it for good luck."

"I plan to bring back a few more, right from the source." He sat back down. The cat suddenly appeared and jumped on his lap. _This is as good as it gets_ , he thought. However, he felt a little anxious; he supposed it stemmed from the feelings he had for Sara, feelings he was not prepared to process. Releasing control over his emotions was like diving into deep, uncharted waters—heart pounding, but exhilarating.

"Sara, I want you to know this is the best Christmas I've had in a long time."

Sara laughed, "I feel the same Michael."

Michael smiled and thought to himself how pretty she was when she laughed. It was, indeed, a good Christmas.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Not too long after Christmas, Adam related some upsetting news about Joey. Apparently, his newfound pals were thugs; they had exploited his naïveté and involved him in a drugstore holdup. He was the stooge for the heist. Somehow the thugs convinced Joey to carry on a conversation with the only other clerk in the store. He was supposed to ask about the best razor to buy. They had made a bet with him that he could not keep her in conversation for more than ten minutes. He had no idea what his "pals" were up to at the rear of the store. However, the pharmacist had been prepared for such an event, and pointed a sawed-off shotgun at their heads until the police arrived. Joey's sister was mortified.

Joey was out on bail. The judge could see he was mentally challenged and had been used as a subterfuge in their scheme. It was obvious to everyone he was a naïve, sweet kid. Michael, Joey's sister, Father Murphy, and the sisters showed up for the hearing. The judge would hand down Joey's sentence in a separate hearing. Luckily, Joey would be tried separately. The lawyer was pro bono, and all things considered, Joey's case looked promising. The final decision would be in a couple of months or more. Joey just sat there looking at the floor. He was aware he had been betrayed. He did not make eye contact with his sister or any of his supporters. The church put up the bail for him, and Adam and the guys at the bar tried to lift his spirits.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

January and February dragged on. Winter was dressed in many shades of dreary with an occasional sunny surprise. Michael finished his work in Mrs. De's apartment; it looked much more up to date. He was pleased with the outcome.

The cold, monotonous days passed, and final preparations were being made. Late spring would be departure time. His clothes were purchased, and the credit cards were in order. The ticket would not be purchased until a firm date was decided. Michael continued his routine in neighborhood.

They decided on two hiding places for the cover. The suitcase was purchased, and they dismantled the inside cloth lining. It had crisscross straps that kept the clothing in place, and these were moved underneath the lining. This would stabilize the cover. The lining would cover the top and be fastened with Velcro. The second hiding place would be one he could wear. His new leather jacket had a zip-in lining. The cover would be concealed under the lining. This was definitely "plan B," as the cover might be heavy. It could pull the coat out of shape. If this method needed to be used, he would carry a backpack to conceal any bulkiness.

*******

Michael tapped on the door and entered. "Hi, Sara! Bad news—another offer on Mrs. De's place has fallen through."

"What a disappointment for her, Michael."

"The realtor spoke with Mrs. De and Pauley. The decision is to take it off the market for about three months. There is no mortgage on the place; therefore, the financial burden is minimal. It's odd, a part of me is sorry for Mrs. De, but my more selfish part is happy; things are now solid for my trip."

Sara interrupted, "Should I?"

Michael grinned, "Yes! Go ahead with the reservation. I've told everyone I'm going to visit my sick uncle." He sat there in a bit of a daze, petting the cat. "I feel like hell, lying to Mrs. De about where I'm going. I plan to do all painting and fixtures before I leave. Manny will check on the place weekly."

"There's just no choice but to tell a few white lies. On the flip side, this has been a total kick, Michael. There's a part of me that will be sorry to see it end, no matter what the outcome."

"If I do succeed, we will have loads more fun days ahead. My biggest apprehension is transporting the cover to Switzerland, assuming I find it. Where are we with possible contacts in Zurich?"

"The lawyer for the German manuscript deal died quite a while ago. His practice has been taken over by two other lawyers who specialize in the same area. I believe one of them may be his son."

Michael spoke in a business-like tone. "That's a start. I hope we are able to contact them. I wonder if we should rattle any cages at this point. I would rather we collect all potential leads and wait to contact them—if I'm successful. The story about the German manuscript leads me to think the art and antique world is a close-knit group, and gossip will travel fast. There is a certain fascination with art treasures, and the possibility of mysterious findings will add fuel to the fire. What about appraisers?"

"I will continue to research after you leave; we can communicate if you need to proceed to Zurich. I will be able to figure out who has the most experience. There is one appraiser in California who is world-renowned and another in London."

"I would like to leave as soon as possible; I will finish the work at Mrs. De's next week. I think this will become more real once I am on Irish soil."

"I have a check list for B&Bs."

"Thanks! I found a detailed map of County Meath at the travel store. I bought a large water-tight zip lock plastic bag for the cover. My email knowledge is proficient enough—thanks to you. It'll probably be a better option than phoning due to time changes and your dad possibly being within hearing range."

"I would take the smallest Mac with you, Michael. As you can see, Hotmail and Yahoo are your sites. Sometimes one site will go down," Sara said.

"I'll buy a phone card once I'm there. I had my cell changed to an international plan." Michael flopped down in the chair. "When do I leave?"

"Pretty soon. I have two possibilities, either next Saturday or the following Tuesday."

Michael felt as if he were in a daze. "Then, Tuesday it is. I'm looking at this journey as an adventure."

"Que sera! You'll do fine."

"I'm on my way over to the realtor's to authorize removing the property from the market." He paused at the door, turning with a quirky smile. "Your dad is beginning to look at me with a jaundiced eye. I have been around a lot recently; has he said anything to you?"

"In a roundabout way. I told him I am teaching you some computer skills and helping you with reservations to visit your uncle."

"If the discovery comes to fruition, I don't plan on keeping much of the proceeds. That will prevent some of the curiosity. I have no plans to change my lifestyle, other than, perhaps, buying Mrs. De's place."

"Wow, Michael! That would be great!"

"It would be a dream come true. See you later."

It was mid-March, and spring was elbowing her way into the picture. He heaved a huge sigh; it was finally going to happen!

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Michael made his way to Mel's. "Adam, how goes it?"

"Same old stuff."

"I'm going out of town next Tuesday. My uncle is pretty sick."

"I hope it isn't serious."

"He's old and has heart issues. Mrs. De's place will be off the market for a few months, so I'll be able to visit him without compromising her sale."

"I'm glad she is with her son and family and not stuck here."

The small talk progressed in a banal fashion. Finally, Michael stood up. "I'll be on my way. Where is Joey?"

"His sister and her husband are taking him to a movie. They're trying to spend more time with him. They've tried pretty damn hard to help Joey, but they can't control his every move." Adam appeared thoughtful. "People are ready to accept the responsibility for bad stuff—you know, so they can fix the problem. It's an interesting concept.

"Hmm; never thought of it that way," Michael agreed. "Wish I could be around to help."

"It's ok, Michael. Other than the bar, I have plenty of time to help. I'll keep a close eye on the situation."

"I hope you can lean on the lawyer to get him off."

"I'll do what I can. Maybe you will be back by then. Father Murphy also has some clout."

"The old priest has a way with people, Adam. See you later."

He wondered what he would come home to; he hoped Joey would not be in jail. If his mission was fruitful, he could get Joey some training, so he could get a job. Then he wouldn't have too much free time to get suckered in with questionable people.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Early the following morning, Michael visited Father Murphy with a specific appeal.

"I have a request, Father; it's about Joey, Ruby's brother."

The priest nodded as he looked up through his ancient, wire-rimmed glasses. "Of course! Poor lad, a little slow off the mark, he is. It was obvious at the court hearing; he was tricked by people a lot smarter than Joey."

"Do you visit his family?"

"Nay, lad, but if you wish—"

"Would you keep an eye on things? I'm going out of town for a while to help out a relative. Joey hangs out playing pool at Mel's Bar on Eighth and Columbus. There's a bartender there named Adam."

Father interrupted, "Aye, I met Adam once."

Michael responded, "Adam is a nice guy. He'll keep you informed. He's in touch with Joey's sister, Ruby, and Joey helps him most nights at the bar."

"I'll keep an eye on him, I promise. He's a nice boy; no one should take advantage of him. If there's a hearing, Sister Bernadette and I will attend, to be sure."

"Take care, Father." They gave each other a brief hug, and Michael excused himself.

As Father continued tending to the altar, he called out, "Bless you, Michael; I think it will be good to get away for a while. We'll miss you."

Michael turned around one last time; Father was kneeling at the altar. It was a serene moment he would hold in his heart until his return.

He continued with his farewells to the sisters.

"Don't worry, Michael. The Good Lord will be watching o'er us, and may He keep you safe as well." Sister Bernadette reached into her pocket and brought out a St. Christopher medal. "Here, my boy, keep this with you."

Michael took the medal and clasped her hands in his. He winked, "I'll be back for some of your biscuits and jam." He still cringed about his omissions regarding his plans, even though he knew he would make it up to them in the future. His conscience nipped at him like a cold winter wind. He and Sara would figure out some way to help the convent if he was successful. He and Sara... hmm; he certainly was depending on her. A role reversal, for sure.

*******

The next few days were a blur. The process of packing had begun!

"You have a flight with Aer Lingus. It was a last minute deal. This is great; it's non-stop. I had to give them a return date; there is only a one hundred dollar penalty for changing it. The rest of your trip will be by ferry and train." As she rambled on with suggestions, she shook her head, "Please forgive me."

Michael actually thought the opposite. It was great to have someone watching out for him. He gave her a reassuring grin. They had been over this so many times. He sensed she was nervous. "I hear you; the backpack will have my overnight stuff and maps."

Sara continued, "You will be leaving from JFK at 5:40 in the evening and arriving at 5:15 the following morning on a transcontinental flight. I reserved an aisle seat on the side," said Sara, barely looking up. "There I go again; I am so excited!"

"Wow, you've thought of everything! I wonder what I'll do at five fifteen in the morning."

"Baggage and customs will take an hour or more. You could have breakfast in town instead of on the flight. If any rooms are vacant the night before, the innkeeper, Mrs. Ryan, is ok with you settling in the room right away."

"You did all this on the computer?"

"Yes, everything."

"I can always sightsee for a while, maybe go over and view the _Book of Kells_ at Trinity College."

"Good plan. Can you think of anything else?"

"I haven't thought of half the things you have already figured out, Sara."

Sara looked down at her notes with a smile and a slight blush to her cheeks. "It's been fun, Michael, truly fun—you know—doing all this."

Michael mused, "I'm not sure I feel comfortable driving on the left side of the road."

Sara agreed, "Their roads are very narrow and winding. I see by the blogs it is not always a positive experience, but I'm sure you'll do fine. You'll be able to get a car rental in Slane."

Michael shook his head in wonder. Overall, nothing could be this simple, nothing this important and so far away. He didn't want to be negative; however, he wanted to be prepared for the unexpected. Even a simple nosy neighbor could be an issue. "If I do find it, the next step is the Irish Ferry at Rosslare."

"Yes, Rosslare is south of Dublin. You can take a train or bus to the Rosslare Europort."

"My God! You have made a complete outline!"

She looked up with a sheepish grin and proceeded. "After the night in Paris, take the TGV to Lyon. This is close to the Swiss border."

"What did you say the initials TGV stood for?" asked Michael.

"The Grande Vitesse, or High Speed in English. Remember, transportation is on military time," warned Sara. "The TGV travels up to 185 miles an hour, so you will arrive in quick time. In Paris, you'll have to change to a different train station. It's all written out for you. Paris has seven stations, so be sure you are at the right one."

"I guess the sticky parts will be the border crossings."

"I am afraid so, Michael. The crossing on the ferry will be the first obstacle. After that, I think you should go first class on the train. Once you are in possession of the cover, you'll be well dressed and, I hope, looking less suspicious.

"I anticipate our Zurich connection will guide me through the last hurdle."

"With something of this value, I imagine that your liaison will come running to your rescue. Some blogs say various smaller border towns have no customs station. Also, there is the option of staying at a French resort on the border and doing a day hike to Switzerland; just take your backpack with you and stay long enough to stash the cover in a safety deposit box. I think this last section of your trip will be decided when you're actually at the border. Take your time and scope out your options."

Michael took a deep sigh, "If there has to be a hitch, I guess it will be borders and customs—and keeping my eye out for anyone following me. I think the chance of the latter is remote. The only hint was that guy who came to the convent asking if Abbey had any belongings that should return to Ireland. That comment has lingered in my mind. I hope he doesn't live in Slane and notice me as a curious addition to the community."

"Well, it's better to be aware of all issues. I think the Swiss will be salivating to be part of this discovery. I am quite confident I'll be ready with the list of the proper folks in Zurich. I'm sure they will have some suggestions for a successful trip."

"The big if, if I find the cover."

Sara ignored the comment. "By then, I'll have the names and phone numbers of the best possible contacts. I believe I've already found the best people."

Michael found it disconcerting that he might get into trouble so far from home. "Have you included the addresses and phone numbers of the Embassies?"

"That's a good thought."

"The best scenario would be calling the Zurich lawyer, as it would be an attorney-client privilege conversation. It seems funny to spend so much time on a Zurich plan when the odds are far from one hundred per cent."

"I agree, Michael, but if you do find it, I can't imagine starting the whole process at that point. Besides—it's fun to fantasize."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

In the middle of a dream, Michael bolted upright in bed; he was under some sort of attack. The details were not clear; there were no other people in the dream—just a foreboding feeling with hazy blue-black colors. He was being taken into custody. The border issue had been glossed over in their earlier discussions; he guessed the nightmare was related to his concerns. Oh well, it was too late to reconsider the whole venture.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Michael's trip to the airport and security check was unremarkable. His departure was ninety minutes late. However, as the flight was only half-full, he was able to stretch out in the center seats.

Arrival in Dublin was now a more reasonable hour. The airport was bustling; it took over an hour to get through airport customs and buy some Euros. He took the commuter to downtown Dublin and continued on a local bus to the bed and breakfast. Mrs. Ryan gave him a hearty welcome. One room had not been used the night before, so she was fine with him settling in straight away.

He was aware of the change in culture. Although there was no actual language barrier, the accents, coupled with the regional adages, were confusing and humorous. Some of them had a heavy brogue, especially the older folks.

The aroma emanating from the B&B dining room was enticing. It reminded him of Sister Bernadette's kitchen in New York—a divine smell of coffee, bacon, eggs, and toast. Since he wasn't tired, he headed for the downtown area and Trinity College.

As he left the B&B, he noticed Dublin Bay across the street. The bus ride to town reminded him of the obvious differences in this country. The passengers had a lilt in their voices and portrayed cheerfulness; he felt less like a stranger. There was a certain vibrancy and freshness in the young people's faces.

Upon arriving in the downtown area, Dublin appeared to be as fast-paced as Manhattan. There weren't a vast amount of redheads, as one might have expected, but many had exceptionally blue eyes. He found a store that suited his needs and made his first purchase: a black leather messenger bag.

*******

Trinity College could only be described as a group of imposing, monolithic-sized buildings. The college was located in the heart of the city. He walked around the campus to center himself before the viewing of the _Book of Kells_. Trinity's location in the bustling city made the vibrant green playing fields a luscious surprise.

The west end of the campus was laid out in five quadrangles, displaying distinguished buildings from the 18th century. The Old Library was the largest research library in Ireland, an invaluable resource for scholars. Trinity claimed to have a copy of every book published in Ireland and the United Kingdom. The buildings were medium gray stone and presented an overwhelming presence. He listened to a mini-lecture given by an enthusiastic college freshman. The student highlighted the pecking order of the scholars and teachers.

The Old Library was beyond Michael's dreams. It reeked of regal stuffiness and reminded him of the library in the Harry Potter movie. Michael had never imagined such an impressive interior. The towering ceilings were extraordinary. The books were arranged according to size; the largest and heaviest were on the bottom shelves. The initial architect had been concerned about the sheer weight of the tomes.

It was near impossible for a student to access a specific book due to the complexity of finding the actual volume; there was no Dewey decimal system. If a student was fortunate enough to receive notice his book was available, it was necessary to read the book in the Trinity Library under the supervision of the librarian. Many of the books were written in old Latin. Adding to the mystique, there was a scent of aging paper—not musty, just old. The whole scene brought chills to Michael's spine. He felt miniscule; his brain was playing catch-up as he slowly made his way through the great hall.

The library room was two hundred and ten feet long with a two- story, barrel-shaped ceiling. There were throngs of people filing through. The crowds made it somewhat claustrophobic. The _Book of Kells_ was the main attraction. After passing through a few rooms housing old documents, he advanced to the area where the book was on display. Michael overheard a viewer exclaim that they should call it the _Page of Kells_. He stopped and took a deep breath, bracing himself for his first view of the direct link to his quest.

Two volumes were on display, although each book exhibited only one elaborately decorated page and two pages of script. The books were housed in a room with low lighting in order to preserve the page quality. The vibrancy of the drawings and lettering was incredible. As Sara had mentioned, the edges were uneven since they had been cut down during one of the later re-bindings. Viewing the actual pages was spellbinding. He lingered, trying to absorb the details. It was mindboggling to think that he and Sister Abbey would possibly contribute to this collection.

His energy was renewed after viewing the celebrated manuscript. There had been a fantasy element to all this while he was in New York. It seemed very much more real now. Still mesmerized, he found his way to the outside area. Standing by the impressive Campanile, he wanted to get going to Slane, but that would not happen until tomorrow. He left the college and moved on down the busy street.

The smaller shops had more local flavor than their American counterparts, and they weren't as flashy. He ended up in the Temple Bar area near the River Liffey. The area was located in central Dublin where narrow cobblestone streets revealed a mixture of old buildings and odd architecture. There was a distinct character to this area. Everyday musicians and folks wanting camaraderie and a pint of ale intermingled with vacationers. Visitors did not feel alone in this little enclave. The spirit of the Irish culture circulated through the clamoring alleyways and narrow streets. No wonder most folks prided themselves in having "a wee bit of Irish" running through their veins.

Still attempting to digest it all, he found a small fish and chip shop. He relished the crispy, beer-battered, light crust. The Atlantic Cod was fluffy in texture, and the take-away orders were wrapped in newspaper. Dark vinegar was offered in lieu of ketchup, the latter not being readily available. A couple at a nearby table invited him to join in their conversation. They were curious about the States, particularly New York City.

He headed back to the B&B; as he got off the bus, it started to cloud over. He strolled back, oblivious to the heavy mist. The dew twinkled on the leaves and grass. He stopped a distinguished-looking older man to inquire what time the sun would set and ended up in a lengthy conversation discussing everything from soup to nuts including the old man's dedicated service in WWII. The gentleman wore a tweed cap and carried an umbrella; his faithful Cairn terrier sat patiently while the two conversed. Michael guessed the man was close to ninety years old, but he was a consummate storyteller with a mind as sharp as a tack.

Michael was pleased with his decision to stay on the outskirts of Dublin; it enabled him to connect with the locals on their turf. He was experiencing an authentic Irish welcome. Having never been outside the States, the whole experience was an eye opener. The center of the universe was not the USA—it was everywhere.

He arrived back at the inn just before nightfall. He crossed the street to the promenade adjacent to Dublin Bay. The bay bordered the city on three sides. He meandered along, admiring the vibrant sunset. The River Liffey came off the bay and flowed directly through Dublin City. James Joyce had used the bay for much of the action in his book _Ulysses_.

Upon arriving at the guesthouse, he peeked into a little sitting room for guests. It contained an old fashioned fireplace burning peat. Mrs. Ryan explained peat was a precursor to coal and was easily dug up from the bogs outside the towns. There was an older "telly" in the corner. He joined a couple watching a soccer match. There was no doubt travelling alone encouraged him to reach out to others. He joined the little group in having a small glass of sherry, and then made his way to his room. He would start out on the final leg of his quest tomorrow. After all these months of planning, he was finally within hours of Slane. It was hard to believe! As he drifted off, he was thinking about the thousands of hours the monks spent scribing and grinding pigments as they created their masterpiece. He had a new appreciation for the adage "work of a lifetime." The journey—it's all about the journey.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Michael awakened to the subdued sounds of guests conversing. B&Bs were a new experience for him; it was a like a home away from home.

He noticed the lace tablecloths that were covered with clear plastic. The huge breakfast was a social gathering; couples shared experiences with fellow travelers. And there was tea—lots of tea. He sat with the couple he had met the night before.

He quizzed Mrs. Ryan about Trinity College. There was an air of pride in her voice as she spoke. "Did you view the _Book of Kells,_ Mr. Evans?"

"I visited Trinity yesterday. The book is a laborious work of art; do you know the details on the manuscript's early years?"

"Not really. I know it was written by some monks hundreds of years ago, and I think some pages are missing. The detailed artwork and colors are its claim to fame."

Michael nodded and agreed. How little she knew, he mused. At this point he felt he could give a lecture on the book. In actuality, he had barely scratched the surface of the book's history. It was hard to concentrate on anything other than arriving in Slane and beginning the search. Could it still be there, if it ever had been?

The bus headed for Slane left at two in the afternoon. Slane, at last!

# CHAPTER THIRTY

The ride to Slane was a kick in itself; there was always a friendly soul to share a story. The trip was quick, and the B&B was within walking distance of the bus stop. This guesthouse was a little different, as he had his own bathroom. Mrs. O'Hagan was a jolly widow and ran the place with her son.

Michael explained he was on vacation, wishing to take pictures of farm sites and dilapidated stone barns. "I'm not sure how long I will stay, Mrs. O Hagan. I would like to take pictures in different weather conditions."

"Oh, dearie, that'll be fine with us. The single room is not often booked; it's vacant for at least the coming month."

"I promise to give you a day or two notice."

"We can work it out, to be sure."

"This is a beautiful part of the country with loads of old farmhouses. I'll do some sightseeing for the rest of today. I also want to do some hiking, perhaps rent a car for a day or so. Do they have bicycles for rent?"

Mrs. O'Hagan was quick to respond. "Go on with ya! You can use Danny's bike. He hasn't used it since he bought his scooter."

"That's great. I've noticed many stone walls marking the properties. Do the land owners mind if I hike in the fields? By the way, why did they use stones for their fences and barns? That seems like a lot of work."

"This area was originally full of stones. T'was impossible to till the land. When they removed the stones, it made good sense to use them for their homes and fencing. It helps keep the sheep from awanderin'."

"It's amazing how these fences have stood the test of time."

"Aye, there's no cement to keep them upright, just excellent stonemasonry."

"I see a lot of black and white herding dogs."

"'Tis the Border Collie; they are the best for our needs. They are a true working dog, the best sheepherders in the world. Our Molly has been with us for years. She's part of our family. She would probably love to join you on a hike, if you don't mind her nippin' at your heels; she'll think you're one of her sheep."

"That would be great fun for me." He thought the bike and dog would render him less of an outsider.

The small talk seemed endless, but necessary. He needed to find out any and all tidbits about this vicinity. His stomach was churning, as he was anxious to see the area. Maybe the dog would be a good idea. If someone surprised him while he was digging, perhaps he could blame the dog.

At last, he was set free from the rambling conversation. He strolled out, camera and backpack in hand. His mission was to become familiar with the lay of the land. He wanted the locals to think of him as a familiar sight, wandering around with his camera and a dog.

He walked along the street, making obvious use of his elaborate secondhand camera, which had been purchased in Dublin.

It was a grey afternoon, and a faint drizzle was spritzing his cheeks. The crisp air was cleansing, and he felt relaxed. The countryside was literally overrun with sheep. The farmers used the roads to transport them from one grazing area to another. Most of the homes were modest and mundane in appearance.

He had dinner at a local hotel. The mussels from the cold Atlantic waters were the best he'd ever tasted, and a little white wine helped reduce his recurring jitters. He wiped his mind clear of his mission and indulged in a pleasant conversation with a professor from Scotland. The conversation was light; neither man wished to share anything other than the weather and the news of the day.

The evening ended early; Michael had no firm plans for the following day. He wanted to continue familiarizing himself with the area. In such a small town, he imagined he would stick out like a sore thumb for a few days. If he did retrieve the cover, would he bolt? Yes, he would probably head out pretty fast. The more he watched the locals driving on the left side of the road, the more he realized he would be a fish out of water. He had nearly been hit just crossing the street as he looked to the wrong side when stepping off the curb.

His sleep was fitful, but morning offered up another delightful breakfast. He unwound somewhat due to the lively conversation of the other visitors at his table. As long as he had some intellectual encounter during the day, he enjoyed the intermittent solitary time to collect his thoughts.

One more day of sightseeing would be good. He joined a local bus tour of the area. The driver was well-informed, and the trip gave him an overall view of the Boyne Valley. He was able to ride in the front single seat across from the driver, which provided a bird's eye view of the surrounding farms. The relics of older farms dotted the landscape.

They stopped at the tombs of Newgrange. He was shocked to learn the carbon-dated age of the dome-like structure. It was about thirty-two hundred years before Christ, four hundred years before the Pyramids, and one hundred years older than Stonehenge! Sara had mentioned these comparisons. He was puzzled that he had not heard of this area, as Stonehenge was well-publicized.

The passage into the tomb branched off in three directions. It appeared to be a crematorium for both humans and animals. On the initial day of winter solstice, a beam of light shone down into the heart of the chamber for a few minutes. Were people capable of building such a sophisticated structure in the era prior to the Egyptian pyramids? Well, the answer was yes.

They viewed the site of the Battle of the Boyne. It looked so peaceful; now a mere open grassy green area. It was hard to imagine the blood that was shed in this pastoral meadow. The land had survived, but not two thousand of King James' warriors.

Monasterboice was next. It was founded in the late four hundreds and was an important center of religion in this era. The crosses were enormous.

_One more day,_ he thought. Perhaps he would rent a car tomorrow, so he would have control over where he stopped. He knew a bicycle would be better, but rain was predicted. He would bite the bullet and rent a car; at this point, he was more familiar with the road. He would prefer a car if he found the treasure. At breakfast, an American had suggested that Michael wear his watch on his right wrist and make sure that same wrist was closest to the center of the road. He hoped it would be enough to keep him from getting into an accident.

After dinner, he emailed Sara, stating he was in Slane and enjoying the history. He ended with "More later." He wondered what that "more" would be—with any luck, it would be good news. He turned in early.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Michael lingered over breakfast, hoping the weather would improve, but to no avail. He decided he would rent a car for the day, and he was hoping he could get an automatic because the stick shift was to the left of the driver. There were no real highways in this area. No one drove fast, and it was not uncommon to have to stop while fifty to one hundred sheep crossed the road.

After breakfast, Michael walked over to the car rental place. "Good morning, sir. I would like a car for the day."

"Aye, and a good morning to you. I've two vehicles left for today—or is it two days?"

"I'm not sure; are either of them available for an extra day if needed?"

"Aye, the Vauxhall is available, but it's not an automatic."

Michael smiled and joked with the man about his concerns. The man assured him that he would get used to the whole idea "quick as a wink." Although he had his doubts, two days might be necessary to locate the exact area. Hell, he'd be lucky if it was only two days! They settled their arrangement, and he was on his way. He spent the morning wandering from one little town to the next, stopping at a local pub for lunch.

He found himself on the wrong side of the road twice. It was such a bizarre feeling, also, reaching down for the gearshift and instead, hitting the armrest of the door! At last he was ready to scout around for the exact location of the farmhouse. At lunch he found a secluded alcove and compared the current map with the photocopy of Sister Abreanne's map. Things didn't quite jibe with the maps. He hoped it would become clearer once he was driving.

After lunch, he hopped back in the car and headed for Duleek. The Abbey Tower was the starting point on Sister Abbey's map. He found the tower, which was hidden by trees; it was in the heart of town. So far, so good. His next step was to head one mile west, then head north out of town for five miles, until he came to a small bridge. Soon after the bridge, there would be a small stone farmhouse on the right and a rundown barn with no roof and a crumbling east wall. There was supposed to be half of a chimney still standing. He was prepared for more deterioration at this point in time.

He had imagined high stone walls; instead, these structures were only about two or three feet high. The directions indicated there would be no gate, just a wide section of open wall. The next few miles passed as if he were wading through knee-high mud. His adrenaline was on high octane. What would he do if he found the place? Would he stop now, or just drive by? He decided on the latter. He wanted to scope out the area before diving into the anticipated task.

The car droned on. He tried to remain calm; after all, it could take weeks just to find the place. He passed over a bridge. Was this the bridge on the map? He drove over a small hillock, and his vision suddenly became blurred. He sensed he was about to see the actual farmhouse! This episode had happened to him before; it was not that he couldn't see, but very little of the scene registered in his brain. It was as if he were in a heavy fog. Somehow, the humming of the car engine became his main focus. He wanted to pull over, but would he attract attention? In any case, the roads were narrow, so pulling over was not a great option. He was not ready for whatever he would see next. He needed to slow things down—take a deep breath.

As fate would have it, a tour bus in front of him slowed down for some reason. He was relieved; he could crawl along behind the bus as he collected his wits. He followed about one hundred feet behind the bus. This enabled him to see if anything came up on the right. All of a sudden, he saw pretty much exactly what the sister had described. There was a small cottage in disrepair with overgrown ivy and a disheveled yard. The ruins of the original barn were in shambles, but there was part of the stone perimeter and a dilapidated chimney still standing. Was this it? This was the correct mileage from the tower. Maybe he had found the place. It couldn't be that easy! Surely, there were many similar homes. He had passed the bridge and the distance was correct. As he passed, he could not believe his eyes—there was a "For Sale" sign with a phone number.

He collected himself just as the tour bus came to a stop. Apparently there was an overturned tractor blocking the entire road. He stopped behind the bus, relieved to be at a standstill. He walked up to the bus. He could see the upset farmer with some other men, trying to upright the tractor.

"There'll be a wee bit of a hold up," grumbled the bus driver.

"Is there another road we can take?"

"Nay lad, there is no way down this road until we get that tractor righted up."

Michael couldn't believe his good fortune. He returned to the car and backed up a little. Was this divine intervention? Although he knew his assumption was extreme, for some reason, this thought gave him courage; he felt Sister Abbey was guiding him. Silly or not, the thought invigorated him. His plan was to turn around close to the sign and write down the phone number. Then he would drive back to town and devise a plan. As he neared the weathered sign, it was obvious the place had been for sale for a while. It was easy to remember Sean Flannery. He wrote the number on the back of his hand as he drove along. Why was it for sale? He understood that the nanny had set up some way to pay the taxes years in advance. Maybe it was way beyond that time frame.

Here was a new twist, but perhaps it would work in his favor. He reminded himself how he depended on Sara as a sounding board. He would email her tonight. Murphy's Law—expect the unexpected. The past thirty minutes was proof of that.

He headed back to town, driving past the realtor's address. The realtor had no competition that Michael could see. The office did have the customary exceptional entryway. He had noticed Ireland was full of doors painted in bright colors with elaborate hardware. This door was a bright, glossy yellow with attractive brass hardware. The proprietor was also an insurance agent and a notary public. It appeared that Flannery was (more or less) a jack-of-all-trades. Michael figured it would be pretty tough to make a living in such a small town.

He decided to call Sara instead of sending an email; he would wait until ten a.m. in New York. That would be around four p.m. in Slane.

The hours passed in slow motion. He found himself filled with excitement. He sat in the car for privacy and placed the call.

"Sara?"

"Michael! How good to hear your voice! Where are you?"

"I'm in Slane, doing some photography. I have found one property with a relic of a barn. It is very much like the picture we saw in your sister's album."

"Really!"

"I'll return tomorrow to take some photos. The property is for sale. I guess it will be okay to poke around."

"For sale?"

"Uh huh. I haven't walked around it yet. It looks interesting. "

"Do keep me posted." There was a long pause, "How is everything?"

"Great. The people are beyond friendly, but I do miss all of you."

"Dad and I miss you too."

"Everyone else okay?"

"Yes, Joey is doing fine. Father is working hard to have his case heard by a sympathetic judge rather than a jury. It'll probably be heard in a few months. He is out on bail."

"And your Dad?"

"Working hard as usual; Manny is filling your role."

"Good. Well, I'll be in touch soon. Say hello to everyone for me."

"I will. Bye for now."

Michael hung up the phone, trying to keep his excitement in check. The next couple of days would be endless. This was the crux of the whole mission—the bottom line!

He spent the rest of the evening planning his next move. He concluded there was nothing wrong with going back tomorrow and sniffing around. He would take his camera and maybe the dog. The weather report was good, but the car might be a better idea. The rain often arrived unannounced. He had dinner in a local pub. After a couple of drinks and some conversation, he headed back to his room and turned in.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Breakfast was served—yet another gargantuan meal. He ate at a leisurely pace, and then headed out with his poncho in his backpack. The weather was so-so, with some threat of rain. At the last minute, he decided to load the bike in the trunk. A Dublin waitress had commented with humor that he might experience four seasons in twenty-four hours. He came to the conclusion she was not joking.

He stopped at a hardware store in a nearby town and bought a trowel and a hunting knife. He was calm today, even though he was stepping closer to the possibility of an incredible find. Confidence and familiarity were paramount, as he was not searching in his own backyard. He wanted to be able to make spur-of-the-moment decisions with ease.

As he got close to the area, he pulled over and left the car, deciding to continue on with the bike. He was sure he would appear less threatening to any casual observer if he were riding a bike. He had decided against the dog—the camera would establish his intent.

He made it to the little property in short time. It was now misting; he put on his poncho over the top of the backpack. He felt like a tiger tracking its prey. He circled, faking interest in his photos, but in reality, his only concern was the bottom fifth stone from the northeast corner.

He continued to set the stage. The odds of someone watching him were slim; the nearest farm was a distance away. In a casual fashion, he walked over to the stone remnants of the original barn. If the pit of his stomach was the gauge for his anxiety, it was registering fifteen on a scale of one to ten. He had waded through the foot-tall, damp grass. Entering the dilapidated stone structure, his stomach turned to a knotted mass. Counting off the stones that made up the partially visible bottom row, he held his breath. One, two, three, four, five; he did not bend over, but tapped the fifth stone.

Suddenly he heard a scraping noise—no, it was the wind disturbing a bush nearby. Was this an omen, warning him to leave the area? The sky was ominous; maybe he should leave now—right now. He could try to move the dirt with his foot; maybe the stone would be loose. How tempting! He came to his senses, realizing this may not be the actual property. He had not ventured further down the road. What a joke if there was a similar piece of land close by! He would check further to rule out similar properties. Messing around with the stone would leave indentations in the damp soil. There was mossy grass along this wall, and he didn't need to leave any evidence of the soil being disturbed in a specific area. He would walk away. It was time to check for other possible properties.

He rode his bike back to the car, making it just before the rain picked up. Perhaps the property being for sale was the better option; there would be fewer questions about his interest. He drove along for miles until he was in another town. There were no places on the right hand side of the road that remotely resembled Sister's description. He became convinced he had the right property. It was time to speak with the realtor.

He drove back to town and rapped on Sean Flannery's lion's head knocker.

"Hello there; come in," a voice called.

Michael opened the door and stepped inside. "Good afternoon," he said in a timid voice. He felt very much out of his element, unsure how to handle the conversation.

An older lady was sitting at the desk. Her hair and dress were old-fashioned. His eyes focused on her cluttered desk. She brushed her hair back and stood up, straightening her dress.

"I would like to enquire about a little property outside of town."

"Aye, and which one would that be?"

"It is not far out of Duleek, going north on the right hand side of the road. There is a small older cottage and the stone perimeter of an original barn. It has very little land; your sign is in the front yard."

"To be sure, that property is an estate sale. And would ya be an American?"

"Yes ma'am. My name is Michael Evans. I'm here on holiday—taking pictures of your fantastic countryside."

"Aileen O'Reilly." She reached over the desk and gave Michael a hearty handshake. "Sean is not here this week—his mother passed on, ya know." She bustled through several papers, continuing to brush errant wisps of hair from her eyes. "But I can give you some information."

"I'm interested in having a little piece of land in Ireland. My ancestors are Irish on my mother's side. Do you know how much they are asking for the property?"

She continued to rummage through the reams of paper on her desk. "Here are some details—it will be on the market for the next two months. If it is not sold by then, I believe it'll be up for auction. This is a case of a woman who died, leaving her property to a nun living in the States. We found record of the nun's death, and she had no heirs. The taxes are now overdue. It has been for sale for quite a while. Of course, more details of the property would be up to Mr. Flannery."

"Please, explain the auction process."

"Let me see. There will be a minimum price declared, and you would contact a lawyer to search the title on the property. You would provide a bank guarantee, stating you were in possession of adequate funds to enter the auction process. If you won the bid, you would put down a deposit and pay the rest within a short period of time."

Michael's mind was racing at this point. He was trying to stay ahead of the conversation, still remaining casual. "Would I be able to have the property surveyed and check to see if the stone remains are of any use?"

"Aye, but most folks just leave the remains where they be. We call these structures relics of a time gone by. The surveyin' has been done due to the pending auction."

"Is it possible to have someone representing me at the auction?"

"I think so. There is a solicitor over in the next town who..."

"Wait a minute—did you say there is a price on it now?"

"Aye lad. One hundred thousand Euros is what they're askin'. 'Tis a fair price, I might add."

"Would it be all right if I walked around the property?"

"Of course, just let me know when."

"Is tomorrow morning convenient? I may leave town soon."

"Fine, then. Just give me your passport and the license number of your car. Then no one will be botherin' you."

"What would the usual deposit be if I chose to make an offer?"

"Two thousand Euros should hold it until the final papers. It would probably take sixty days to close."

Michael's brain was working at breakneck speed. What else should he ask her?

"Have there been any other offers?"

"Nay. There was one older gentleman a couple of weeks ago, inquiring, but he never came back. Strange, he seemed more curious about the former owner than purchasing the land. It's a small place—no room for crops or livestock. That's why it's not more expensive. Most you could do is renovate the little farmhouse and grow a vegetable garden."

Michael froze. Was this the same man who came to the convent? It was farfetched, but possible. "Is that gentleman still in town?"

"I haven't seen him; I don't think he was from these parts—maybe Dublin."

Michael interrupted, "Did he have a cane?"

"Aye, well, he did have a cane. Do ya know him?"

"No, not personally; I did see a man out that way the other day. He was limping and used a cane. Anyway, what are the loose ends when buying this land from an estate sale?"

"We had one last year. The fellow died with no living heirs—they even included his car in the auction. There were no problems. We have had other Americans buy in this area with no complications. In this case, everything has been searched and the county is satisfied there are no living heirs."

Michael's thought was to tie this up with a little of Sister's cash. That is—if he found the cover. He walked back to the car and sat mulling over the conversation. If he found the cover, would he want the property? He was getting ahead of himself; for him the big thing was his next foray.

His main goal now was access without witnesses. The ground was very damp, a definite plus. He could be spotted if he carried a shovel onto the property. Maybe the trowel would do; he could conceal that. At least he knew why the home was for sale, and more important, he now knew he had the correct cottage. Perhaps Abreanne never needed citizenship or paperwork. She was in a private convent. He wanted to seek out the cover before Sean Flannery returned. He would call Sara to review his next move.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Michael was very excited to relay the new information he had discovered. "Hey Sara, it's me again."

"Hey, Michael! What's up?"

"Well, I am very interested in this property I mentioned the other day, and it's for sale."

"How long has it been on the market?"

"For a while. It'll be auctioned off if it's not sold within a couple of months. The realtor's secretary said that it was left to a nun in the States, but she passed away. The county took it over when the taxes were overdue."

"Are you thinking of purchasing it?"

"I think I could afford the down payment to keep it on hold. There is one other thing—there was an older guy asking about it a few weeks ago. The secretary said she didn't get the impression he was all that interested in the property, just the former owners, and she hasn't seen him since. She said he limped and walked with a cane." There was a long silence on the other end; Michael knew what Sara was thinking.

"Perhaps you should act fast. Have you been able to walk around and check it out yet?"

"The realtor is away for the rest of the week. The secretary gave me permission to explore in more detail tomorrow morning. Yes, I did a little walk around, but not in depth."

"Go for it—you've got nothing to lose. By the way, I have found a friend for you to visit if you travel to Switzerland."

"Really?"

"Yes, you two have common interests. Please let me know if I should contact him."

"Good to know. If I travel to the continent, I'll let you know. Any other news?"

"Same old stuff. I'm really enjoying the kitty. Father Murphy dropped over the other day—he asked about you."

The long distance static became too loud. "We don't have a great connection; say hello to all. I'll be in touch soon."

"God speed, Michael."

Michael hung up with reluctance. The whole conversation was too businesslike. He wanted her to share the excitement, but it seemed to get lost over the miles. Perhaps it was due to the ambiguity of his information. He really didn't think he needed to be secretive, but he wanted to take all precautions. He wondered—who was the guy asking about the former owner of the property? It sure sounded like it was the same man who came to the convent. Then again, lots of older people had limps and canes.

Allowing his feelings to surface momentarily, he realized how much he missed Sara and the whole gang. Going it alone far from home had its consequences, and missing Sara was one of them. His courage factor was less than optimal. This feeling was unusual for him; he needed to stay cool and intellectualize the whole thing. He would take Sara's advice and get his ducks in a row on the nanny's property.

*******

He started out the following morning, feeling secure he had located the property on Sister's map. He had renewed hope of finding the treasure; inch by inch, the odds were improving. There was a gentle rain, just enough to be annoying. He drove onto the property and walked around, looking at the stone fencing and the cottage. After an appropriate amount of time, he made his way over to the northeast corner of the stone perimeter. He stood trancelike, staring at the fifth stone and contemplating his next move.

Suddenly, a voice came from behind him.

"Mornin' to ya."

Michael froze in his tracks, his mind racing. He chose to take a deep breath before he turned around. He wanted to give himself time to develop some sort of casual manner. He turned gradually as he collected himself, "Good morning to you, sir." He surprised himself with his calm response. It was in complete contrast from his inner turmoil, which was in four-alarm mode.

The two men stared at each other for what seemed like an extraordinary amount of time. Michael feigned his best smile and waited for the stranger to speak. The pause gave him a sense of control over the unexpected encounter.

Finally, the farmer spoke. "Can I help ya, lad?"

Michael stepped forward; a large, weathered, gnarly hand grasped Michael's and shook it in a friendly manner. The man's face, worn with years of inclement weather revealed deep blue eyes that appeared to be looking right through Michael. He wore a heavy Harris tweed jacket and tweed cap.

"I'm Michael Evans, visiting from the States. I am curious about this property; I have always wanted to have a little piece of land in Ireland."

"Aye, well, this is indeed a 'wee' plot of land. No room for crofting or farming—maybe a truck garden."

"I spoke with Mr. Flannery's secretary. She gave me permission to look around. How long has it been for sale?"

"Not long."

Michael was dealing with a man of few words. His experience interacting with this type of person was usually good. He found them to be truthful and succinct, with very little rhetoric. His role was to be straightforward and concise in return. Although he had found Irish people to be generally chattier, he thought he could feel his way through this conversation.

"Did you know the lady who owned the property?"

"No. That's a pretty big camera you have there."

"It's a hobby for me—taking landscape pictures. I'm fond of farmland."

The farmer had lost interest in the conversation. "Well, I'll be leaving you, lad. I'm looking for my dog. If she comes by, give me a holler. Good luck to ya."

"I will look around a while and take some pictures. I'll keep an eye out for your dog."

Without a word, the lanky man strolled away. He seemed in no hurry to get out of the wetness.

He reviewed his conversation with the farmer. Damn, it would have been nice to get a little more information. It was fortunate he wasn't digging around when he arrived.

Just to be safe, he walked around for a while longer, taking some pictures and checking to see if anyone else was in sight. He noticed a light on in the farmer's house and a black and white speck running around in the yard. Feeling more secure, he proceeded back to his area of interest. He could take his penknife and pick around the top and sides of the stone. He did not want to disturb the moss, although, he could carve the moss out like a piece of sod and tamp it back down later. His main purpose was to make the ground appear undisturbed.

It seemed to take forever. He removed dirt from the two sides and the top of the fifth stone. He could see tiny specks of light through to the other side. The stone seemed a little loose, although it wouldn't budge. He walked to the other side of the stone wall. After scanning the horizon, he kicked the stone with his steel-toed boot. After a few minutes, the stone wiggled a bit. With more prodding, it was still in place, but loose enough to move a little.

Sauntering back to the other side of the wall, he assumed the stance of a prospective buyer. He fingered different stones, appearing inquisitive about the whole structure. He could not describe the anxiety and anticipation he was experiencing. It was an ominous feeling to think someone could be watching him, but there was no one in sight. Once inside, he kicked the stone to a perpendicular position, allowing it to wedge sideways but remain a support for the stones above. If the stone were completely removed, perhaps the whole wall would shift, or even worse, collapse. He had no engineering knowledge; making any structural decision would be juvenile at best.

He scraped the dirt directly below the stone, he felt comfortable with his approach. If the farmer returned, he could explain that he wanted to know how much wall support came from below ground level. It was not clear to Michael if there was a subterranean row of stones. He decided to insert his knife straight down and see what happened. The earth was relatively workable as he inserted the knife. He embraced a flicker of optimism; his actions were robotic, almost mind-numbing. He was having trouble focusing. His blade hit something; perhaps it was a subterranean stone. The knife sounded like it was hitting an object softer than stone. His heart leapt into his throat—what to do? Keep on, or cover it up? He stood up; he could see the farmer's shadow in the window of his home. It was a tossup. He fought his impulsive side and lost.

He sunk the knife in several more areas under the stone, hitting something hard, like wood. He plunged his knife in again in order to feel if there were perimeters to the wooden-like obstruction. He sat back in a hunched position. What were his options? Surely the first choice was to twist the stone back, walk away, and plot his next move. The main concern was not to raise suspicion. He was wearing the right clothing to conceal anything he found. If this article was placed upright, he could probably get it out without disrupting too much soil. Most likely it was lengthwise; if so, he would have to move the stone aside and disrupt surrounding stones. He was too close to an answer; he couldn't walk away.

The stone was shoved to the outside, leaving just about two inches still supporting the area. He was perspiring to the point of wiping his brow. The hardened area was wood; he could see it. He scraped away the thin layer of damp dirt. It was either a piece of timber—or maybe a wooden box! He was dripping sweat onto the ground; his hands shook uncontrollably.

After thirty arduous minutes, he had the box! Michael quickly put it in his backpack. He didn't care what was in it—he just wanted it out of sight. He scrambled to reconstruct the area. He tamped the sod down and breathed a gigantic sigh of relief. The area looked pretty good. As he glanced around, he saw there were some stones that had fallen away from the structure in another area of the wall. He moved a couple of smaller stones over to the disturbed area, making the area look more or less untouched. He put on his poncho over the backpack and strode back to the car. As a finishing touch on his ruse, he took a couple of flash pictures in the dusky light. His final shot captured the brilliant oranges and fuchsias of the sunset against the aubergine-tinted clouds. It was good to have pictures of this momentous occasion.

If this was the cover, he would purchase the property. Perhaps he could update the cottage with the thought of returning now and then. His fantasies were running wild. This drive required extra caution, and he forced himself to focus on his driving and not the contents of the box. _Focus, Michael, focus! Remember, when you turn to the left, stay on the left side of the road._ It was as if he was driving in slow motion. Interminable! At one intersection, he stalled the car, and his anxiety grew. He could not be stopped by the police or get in an accident—not now. At last, he saw the outline of his B&B.

Michael was exhausted. He strained to make light conversation with Mrs. O'Hagan while using his poncho to conceal the backpack. He excused himself, claiming he wanted to get out of his wet clothes. As he closed the door to his room, he experienced a feeling of true elation; at last he was safe in the privacy of his room!

He put the backpack on the seat of the toilet and got into the steaming shower. He needed to calm down. The gentle flow of water helped him settle. He ended his shower with cooler water to shock himself back into reality. The backpack was sitting on the toilet seat, taunting him. He could not imagine having it out of his sight for one millisecond. He took his time toweling off as he continued to stare at the bag. This quest had started months ago, and there was a part of him that was content for this mission to be endless. He was having trouble wrapping himself around the fact that the biggest part of the project was near completion. Was there really a valuable cover inside the box? Maybe it was empty. The next step would be monumental. He wished Sara were there.

He dressed in slow motion, sat on the chair, and perched the box on his lap. He passed his fingers over the rough-hewn lid. The box was a little more than a foot long and about ten inches wide. The wood was in relatively good shape, and there was a latch but no lock. It was sealed with a beeswax substance around the opening. He circled the waxed area with his knife and cleared the top for opening. He sat for a moment, harkening back to the prayer Sara voiced before they had opened the cookie tin. He prayed for guidance and slowly inched the top off. There was a waft of metallic odor but no dampness or mustiness. His heart was beating so fast his throat throbbed. As he lifted the lid, he found an object wrapped in a waxy canvas. He could hardly make his fingers work. This had to be the cover! He slowly removed the oilcloth-type covering, and there it was! The cover was revealing itself, inch by inch.

The opposing ends of the cover were rolled in, scroll-like fashion, toward the center, leaving about a six-inch area in the middle, which was flat.

The cover appeared to be dull silver intertwined with gold or copper. It looked like a diminutive woven mesh similar to chain maille. He had recently seen a similar type of work in fashionable soft bracelets and rings. The center of the mesh revealed a simple cross of what looked like fine hammered gold. Each end of the cross was fashioned in a circle and each end had an inset of a large jewel. They looked like rubies or emeralds, perhaps sapphires. It was impossible to know; they were clouded with a soot-like residue. At the intersection of the cross, there was a circlet of pearls and smaller indistinct stones. The cross was quite thin and light in weight. However simple, it was an outstanding design. He kept the cover flat and placed it in his oversized zip-lock plastic bag. After the fact, he realized he should have worn latex gloves while handling it. He didn't want to look at it again until he had security and witnesses. Reality was sinking in; this was no longer a pipe dream—he had just unearthed a world treasure! The months of assumptions were now pure fact. He wanted the cover in professional hands, the sooner the better. The responsibility was intimidating.

All of a sudden, all those "pie in the sky" plans were center stage. Thank God they had tentative plans for this occasion. The box was too cumbersome for the next leg of his journey. It was sure to be of major interest to the prospective owners. He would find a bank in Dublin with a large safety deposit box.

He walked to the car and sat there for a few minutes. It was late afternoon in New York. He was nervous; his fingers hit the wrong keys on the phone three times.

"Hey, it's me."

"Michael, you sound out of breath."

"I've found the perfect gift for you. It is exactly what we had discussed."

"Oh my God!" cried Sara.

"It's incredible, Sara!"

"Michael, that's amazing!"

"I'd like you to email me the name of your friend in Switzerland. I'm heading that way. I want to make sure he is available for dinner. I'm getting a little bored here. I have loads of pictures of the countryside, and I want to move on."

"I'll get on it today and call or email his phone number and address."

The conversation was over in a matter of minutes, as neither knew what to say. Neither Michael nor Sara was comfortable discussing the minute details over the phone. He would email snippets of information in separate emails. It was better to be cautious due to the phantom guy with the cane. The original agreement was to keep all discussions vague until the cover was in Trinity's possession. Now that he had the treasure, he would be on his guard twenty-four/seven. He would adopt the mentality of a security guard yet try to portray a casual tourist. This would be a time when he would be thankful to have a bodyguard; however, it was not an option for many reasons—trust being the first, and being in a foreign country was also a concern.

He drove to a hotel restaurant and ordered dinner. The cover was in the messenger bag by this side. He sat in frozen silence, realizing, after all this planning, how unprepared he was for such a discovery. He ate and made his way back to the B&B. He would return the car to the rental agency the following day. Now that he was in possession of the cover, he wasn't willing to risk attracting attention with any erratic driving. He was certain his demeanor portrayed anxiety. If he was stopped for anything, he might attract more than casual attention from the local police.

"Hello, Mrs. O'Hagan. Whenever it's convenient for you, I would like to use the Internet connection. I promise to take less than five minutes."

"Nonsense! Take your time. We're fixin' to go out for a wee bit."

"By the way—something has come up, and I'll be heading back to Dublin on some business matters. "

"And would ya be leavin' real soon?"

Michael mustered up a casual tone. "In a day or two, at the most. Maybe tomorrow."

"Aye, it was a pleasure to have you with us."

He sat at the computer, wiping his moist hands. After a few deep breaths, he collected his thoughts.

He would use all three email addresses Sara had given him and jumble up the information; she would get the big picture. He typed the first email.

Hey Sara,

Hope this finds you and your dad well. Not much new here. I saw some jewelry you might like—a cross you would love; it was made of hammered gold and decorated with rubies, emeralds, and pearls. Things are fine here. The weather is a bit overcast for photography. More later. Best, M.

He switched to the second email.

Dear Sara,

Hope this finds you well. I saw a bracelet today that was made of a fine maille. It seemed to be made of silver intertwined with gold and quite pliable. I know you would like it. I have some great photos of this area. Say hello to your dad. Please contact your friend and let him know I will be visiting soon. Do you have his phone number yet? M.

Now, email number three.

Hey Sara,

I plan to phone you at about two p.m. your time tomorrow or the day after. I will be at the ferry by then. All is well here, and I will proceed on to Europe. I'm looking forward to getting in contact with your friend. Cheers! Michael.

Michael realized he needed to re-boot and settle down. A lot would hinge on Sara speaking to the Zurich lawyer. It was now dusk and he was anxious for the night to pass. After a quick meal, he showered and watched local TV for a while before heading to bed. He was both mentally and physically exhausted.

He spent the following morning taking pictures in the town in an effort to solidify his image. He had certainly convinced Mrs. O'Hagan and the secretary at the real estate office.

Once again he drove over and spoke with Mrs. O'Reilly. He gave her a cheque for two thousand dollars and agreed to pay the full asking price. All legal papers were signed. He brought Mrs. O'Reilly a bouquet of flowers, with which she seemed very pleased.

He left a notarized copy of his signature for her file and gave her his New York cell phone number. She advised him it would take some time for the county to finalize the sale. It was clear to Michael that, barring a disaster, he would have the money to purchase the home. He was convinced it was important to own the property since it was possible his purchase would stop any legal issue about ownership of the cover. He opened the door to leave the real estate office, turning at the last moment. "Please let me know if anyone else asks about the property." He was relieved to see Aileen give him a wink. His next stop was to return his rental car. Per their instructions, he took it back to a little parking area and left the key under the mat.

*******

"Hey, Mrs. O'Hagan, I'll be leaving tomorrow. I'm looking at a little piece of land here; I may return and purchase it."

"It would be grand to be havin' you as a neighbor. And which property is it?"

Michael described the home and land in a vague fashion and was startled to hear Mrs. O'Hagan's reply.

"There was a man asking my son about that same property."

"Really?" Michael took a breath, trying not to appear too anxious. "Was he Irish?"

"Aye, I believe he was, he said he had lived in these parts years ago."

"I may have met him in the bar..."

"I doubt it lad; it was a few weeks ago. Did the man you are speaking of have a black hair with a beard, and carryin' a cane?"

Michael mustered up his most casual tone of voice. "No, I guess it was someone else." Great Jesus! Michael thought. He now had an inkling of what this guy looked like. This was way beyond coincidence. What a break! On the other hand, another monkey wrench in his plans, unless the guy had given up—fat chance of that!

"Well, off with ya'—do stay with us on your return."

Michael handed her a separate envelope. "I've included payment for a few extra nights, since you were so kind to leave this room open for me."

Mrs. O'Hagan thanked him for his thoughtfulness; her dignity prevented her from opening the envelope in front of him, but she was gracious and wished him a safe trip.

*******

Michael rode the bus back to Dublin and boarded the train for Rosslare. He had rented a one-year deposit box in a large Dublin bank and stored the wooden box, wrapped in plastic. He relaxed, as there were few people on the train, but he kept a wary eye out for this mysterious man with the cane.

Upon arriving, he checked out the Rosslare Seaport. He confirmed departure times and berth availability. The ferry left each day around four p.m. He hoped he would be able to leave soon, at least tomorrow or the day after. He would wait for Sara to send him the information regarding his contact. He mulled over whether to inform Sara about the man with the cane. In retrospect, he wished the nuns in New York had described the mysterious guy who enquired about Sister Abbey in more physical detail. Although, what good would it do to put Sara in alert mode? He gave this question more thought. Perhaps she could provide information if things went awry. Other than his predictable pessimism, he could see no reason to tell her.

He chose a phone booth that was in full sight of his surroundings.

"Hey, Sara,"

"I read your emails."

"Everything is going well. I'm in Rosslare. I'd like to do some photography here and maybe head towards France soon."

Sara enquired, "Are there private berths available on the ferry?"

"Yes, for the next three days at least. It's an overnight trip. I'll arrive in France the following day, then on to meet your friend"

"You've had such a great trip, Michael."

"Couldn't be better; I believe I have an angel on my shoulder."

"I agree."

"Is your pal in Zurich available?"

"Yes, Michael, I've made contact with him. He may meet you either in Ireland or France. He has some time on his hands; he thought it might be fun to show you around. He's emailing me his phone numbers for his office and cell—along with a possible meeting location for you. I'll call your cell with his information, or you can try calling me tomorrow morning."

"Great, did you say he might come to Ireland?"

"Yes, and he has a good knowledge of France and speaks French and German fluently. He mentioned renting a car and touring France; then proceeding on to Switzerland."

"Wow. So pleased you could contact him."

"Yes. He's an international lawyer and happened to be in his office when I called. He's in between cases and hasn't had a week off in the last two years."

"What's his name?"

"Sven Mueller. If you're interested, you could look him up on Google. His background is interesting; you two will have loads to talk about."

"Thanks for the update. Tell me about your corner of the world."

"There's absolutely nothing new since we last spoke. Things are fine, and we miss you."

"Me too—till then. I can't wait to tell you all about the details."

He hung up, wondering what the next step would be. He had a pretty good idea. Michael was aching for more details; nevertheless, he was sure Sara had done her homework.

He knew it was far better to enter Switzerland with a Swiss lawyer. Due to his precious cargo, it was difficult for Michael to trust this man. He would look him up. Regardless of what he found on the Internet, he would ask Sven for references.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Michael's cell phone rang the following morning. "Hey, Sara, good morning! Everything ok?"

"Hi, Michael, everything is fine."

"Did you hear from your friend?"

"Yes. Sven has decided to meet you in Rosslare. He's flying to Dublin and will be there tomorrow evening; he will be quite late. He thought you two could meet and spend a day getting acquainted. The plan is to travel the following day."

"Super."

"Where are you staying? He'll book a room close by, or perhaps at the same hotel."

"I'm at the Dansmore Hotel, close to the ferry harbor. Perhaps it's best to meet him at breakfast. I'll be wearing a striped shirt with a green V-neck sweater. I'll go down at precisely nine a.m."

"Fine, he'll contact you on arrival. If he can't get a room there, I'll ask him to call you around eight a.m., and you can meet for coffee. He inherited his dad's law firm, which has represented many interesting cases dealing with antiques."

"Super."

"It's a very old, prestigious firm in Zurich, and he has been with them since he graduated. He has an impressive dossier and, oh, hi Dad—listen, Michael, Dad just popped in. I hope your uncle feels better soon. I need to give Dad a message; email me tomorrow."

"Bye for now."

Michael felt a little better having heard Sven was a partner in an established firm. Was it too much to expect he might be member of the law firm that represented the Quedlinburg case? Probably.

Michael did a little sightseeing and window-shopping. He had slit the cloth lining of his messenger bag, and the cover was cradled in the sides and bottom. Sara had had the foresight to give him a small sewing kit with heavy black thread and curved needles. Because the lining was loose, the stitching was not visible. He would have the cover on his person at all times. The big question remained—was Sven legitimate? He was sure that there was a damn good reason why he was being escorted from Rosslare; he supposed it had to do with border security issues. Although Michael didn't like being in the dark about the plans, the intrigue was exciting. If this guy was legit, it would be great to have someone to guide him through the anticipated maze. He was experiencing the excitement of a lifetime; however, he remained conflicted about meeting this man in a location other than in his Zurich office. A dichotomy of emotions prevailed.

As he lay in bed, he felt more at ease; the cover was by his side, and he was on the last leg of his mission. Emotional exhaustion took over; he fell into a deep sleep.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Room service delivered tea to Michael; his phone never rang. He looked at his watch. It was time to go down for breakfast. He seated himself at a strategic table and looked over the menu.

"Good morning, sir. Would you be Michael Evans?"

The distinguished gentleman had a slight foreign accent suggestive of Germanic origin, but with a nuance of a formal British accent. Most likely he had been educated in England.

"Indeed I am, and you are Sven?" Michael put his napkin down and raised himself off his chair as a gesture of respect.

"Yes, Sven Mueller here."

"Pleased to meet you, Sven."

"Are you vacationing in Ireland?"

"Yes, "Michael replied. "I'm in Rosslare for today. I plan on leaving for France tomorrow; our mutual friend suggested we might travel together for a few days."

"Yes, it would be a pleasure to show you some of France and, perhaps, Switzerland if you have time."

The conversation rambled on in a superficial fashion. "Do you have friends here, Sven?"

"No, this trip was very much a spur of the moment plan. I have a few days off between cases. I wish to see some of the local sites today."

As they finished breakfast, they agreed to see the sites together. Sven had a small car available. They agreed to meet in the lounge in thirty minutes.

They met in the courtyard and set out for the day. Once they were out of the driveway, Sven opened up.

"Your contact in New York advised us that you may have the missing cover of the _Book of Kells_."

"I believe I do," Michael responded. He decided to approach this man with a similar approach to the farmer in Duleek—straight and to the point.

Sven was quick to respond. "I think it is vital that we get acquainted—including proof of who I am and also verifying my legal firm. We will do this before discussing the cover."

"I agree. I was not expecting to make contact with anyone until I reached Zurich. Due to the enormity of my discovery, I'll feel more comfortable after confirming the specifics on your background."

"Excellent. I will show you my dossier and my firm's history. I have brought certain printed articles and pictures corroborating my identity and experience in this specialty."

Michael responded in a matter-of-fact way, "Let's visit a few sites first."

"Good idea."

"I'm pleased we have this day to get acquainted," said Michael. "I'd like to start with some shopping, if that's okay with you. Comparatively speaking, I feel a bit underdressed."

"You flatter me. However, I understand. First, let's go down to the ferry office and secure our reservations. Adjacent private cabins would be most convenient. Then we are off to the clothiers."

They made their reservations for the following evening. It was decided that they would turn the car in before they boarded the ferry. They could rent another car in France and head to their final destination in Zurich. Sven did not wish to travel by train. He wanted the ability to change course on a moment's notice. The reason for his arrival in Ireland was to assist Michael through the Irish and French customs inspections. There would be random checks of backpacks and suitcases both in Rosslare and in Roscoff, France. It appeared that Sven had connections in both ports. Michael was to move directly behind Sven in any customs queues. It was unlikely there would be any problem; however, Michael's cache made every precaution necessary.

Michael felt over the top with suspicion at this point. His first concern was the guy with the cane. It was becoming worrisome; he had turned up in too many places. Was this the man Annalise had referred to as a nosy neighbor? Also, however slight, Michael still a modicum of uncertainty about Sven. Michael knew, in the present situation, he was way out of his league. He required an extraordinary amount of trust when it came to sharing the details of his find. Sven could be an imposter; how the hell could he be sure? Here he was, following Sven like a lost child, trusting his judgment. Maybe Sven was in cahoots with the Irish and their customs agent would nab him in order to keep the cover in Ireland. Maybe, but not likely. When would he tell Sven about the man with the cane? Maybe they were on the same team. He had to get control of his paranoia. He was far away from his home turf and perhaps not totally rational.

Time and again, he observed Sven looking in his rear view mirror. Michael asked him if he had a particular concern.

"No one knows the specific details of our common interest. However, I have a significant reputation in these particular types of acquisitions. My sudden trip to a foreign shore is enough to arouse questions in certain quarters. It's better to be safe. I have noticed nothing so far; however, I will remain vigilant. You might keep an eye open for any recurring faces. I have never had a problem in my twenty years doing this sort of thing, if that is any consolation."

"I'll keep an eye out."

Sven spoke in a reassuring tone. "There is always the unexpected. I have crossed these borders many times, but not with a discovery of this magnitude. I am using my usual connections at our border crossings. As luck would have it, we are not transporting anything bulky or large that commands extra scrutiny."

"Sven, I must tell you of three situations that may or may not involve the reappearance of a certain gentleman." Michael saw that Sven's body language had assumed a new demeanor. "After I see your credentials, I will share the details."

They stopped at a local museum. They browsed around for a little while, and upon returning to the car, Sven got out a map. He spread it out on the seat between them. Using the map as a ruse, he brought out documents and placed them on top of the map. He continued to point down as though he was referring to the map.

"Here is my current Swiss Attorney License and my diploma from the University of Genève. Also, my degree in advanced business law from the University of Freiburg; I graduated in 1974. I attended Eton for my primary education. I have brochures and the official recognition of both universities.

Sven continued, "These are articles depicting various people I have represented in the past." He produced newspaper clippings with photos of himself with various clients. "These are some of the references from former and current clients." The pictures depicted Sven with several curators and art appraisers. "I have made photocopies of my original driver's license and passport." He produced his original passport and international driver's license for comparison.

The items assuaged Michael's initial reservations, though there remained some doubt in his mind. The letters and pictures could be forged—easy to do in this day and age.

Sven continued, "There are phone numbers on the brochures. Or, if you wish, you are welcome to obtain the telephone numbers from an independent source. You will be able to verify my attendance at these colleges. We will return to the hotel in time for you to check these references. These are copies of honors I received while attending Freiburg University."

Michael noted the awards were for excellence in international law.

"Let's drive on to a small town for lunch. I'll answer any questions you might have."

"Good enough, Sven."

"My goodness, you are monosyllabic."

Michael just smiled and nodded. Sven's comment made him feel more in charge. He wanted to remain in the driver's seat as long as possible. Once they were on their way, he realized, Sven's judgment and decision-making would prevail.

They lunched at an outdoor café. Sven continued to enlighten Michael. "I have never handled anything of this magnitude. Frankly, I don't know anyone who has. There was an American soldier in WWII who returned to Texas with a similar ninth-century illustrated manuscript. He found it in a mineshaft, where the Germans had hidden it during the war. The manuscript made its way back to Switzerland for auction. This sale did not get the publicity this cover will command."

"I'm somewhat familiar with the Quedlinburg case, Sven. It's the reason we chose Switzerland as our liaison."

Sven added, "My father was the lawyer who handled that case."

Sven's statement confirmed Michael's theory. He hoped his body language appeared calm; on the inside, he was jubilant. He took a couple of lengthy, subtle breaths and proceeded. "Really? What a coincidence." He had hoped against hope he would be dealing with the same family of lawyers. What good fortune! If this were true, he would be more than relieved—he would be ecstatic!

They returned to the car, and Sven produced a yellowed newspaper clipping. It was a picture of his father, followed by an article regarding the German manuscript. Michael recalled that if the Swiss lawyers had not come to an agreement with the Germans, it would have been transferred to Japan for auction. It had ended up in Germany where it belonged, in the hands of the church in Quedlinburg.

He needed to verify Sven's claims. He would look up the particular article on the Internet, hoping the same picture would be there. It would have been difficult to forge a clipping that looked so old—or would it? He shuddered at his lack of knowledge in matters of forgery.

"Of note, Michael, I would prefer to bring you to Zurich before I take a look at the cover. I think that you would feel more comfortable presenting it in a secure, formal setting, with master appraisers present. I have learned enough from your New York associate to warrant my trip here. My mission is to escort you and the cover to Zurich. We must avoid an inadvertent discovery on our trip. God forbid some disreputable person is tracking you; my accompanying you could be of some deterrence against aggression.

"I appreciate your concern, Sven."

"If you are in agreement, we will drive through France. I have Embassy contacts both here and in Roscoff, and I anticipate they will be of assistance at the border. We will stop in Pontarlier; it is the home of the infamous absinthe. Are you familiar with this infamous aperitif?"

"I remember hearing that it was quite deadly, and—isn't it green?"

"Yes, although it may also be colorless. I doubt many Americans get the chance to see the actual production of absinthe. I will take you through their distillery."

"Sounds like fun."

"This will be one of our planned stops. Although, I must say, our plans could change on a dime. At that point, I will contact my office in Zurich; they will advise us regarding our crossing into Switzerland."

"Changing the subject, I do have a question. Are you representing me, or are you an intermediary?"

"At this juncture, I will be representing you exclusively. If you choose our firm I will continue to represent only you for both the evaluation of the cover and proceeding on to the sale and final disposition. Your New York associate stated that you would be directing me with specific requests."

"Yes, it is my hope and intention that the cover must end up reunited with its book at Trinity College in Ireland."

"I think it would be best if we kept that wish confidential—if you wish to fetch top dollar."

"I see what you mean. I must say, my present funds are limited. How are you reimbursed in this type of situation?"

"My services are free of charge until the cover is appraised. At that juncture, you will need to make a decision whether you wish to retain my firm. If you choose us, we will formalize that I am your sole representative. Ten percent will come off the top to my firm. It is similar to how a real estate agent works. I will receive one and a half percent of that, and the firm will collect the remaining eight and a half percent. Our firm will cover all expenses for the promotion and storage of the cover, as well as employment of security personnel. You will incur no expenses until the item is sold and out of our hands. If you choose to not use our services, you will be billed for my services already incurred."

"Sven, assuming this cover is authentic, and I have every reason to believe it is, have you any idea what it might fetch if it went to auction?"

"Marketing and publicity have a good deal to do with the participation of interested parties. I would think, at minimum, between sixty and seventy million American dollars. As you are aware, auctions are a strange entity; one can only estimate what the selling price would be. One hundred million is not out of the question. Although, if I understand you, an auction would not work, as Ireland is the intended recipient?"

"Yes, I was just curious. This information will be valuable in deciding my asking price. "

"It is very exciting to find an ancient treasure that has been missing for one thousand years."

Michael agreed, "Yes, it is. I do not want to gouge Ireland, but I want whatever is reasonable. First things first, though—the appraisals."

Sven offered, "Because we already know Ireland will be the recipient, there is one scenario which may be the best answer."

"Oh?"

"A private treaty offering. In that case, the commission for the sale would be five percent, as the expenses would be minimal."

"I'll digest this information as we travel along. We can discuss this in more detail in Zurich. I'm a little distracted, as I have never passed through a border check in a foreign country."

Michael proceeded to tell Sven about the stranger who had appeared at the convent, the man inquiring about the property where the cover was hidden, and Annalise's suspicion of the nosy neighbor. He described the tidbits regarding the physical appearance of each man in question: the cane, the limp, black hair, and the beard. He reminded Sven that the description of the hair and beard only pertained to the man in Slane. He explained that he was not comfortable questioning the sisters for any details of the man; he didn't wish to raise any curiosity at the convent. Michael mentioned his intent to purchase the property as soon as he had confirmation of the cover's authenticity.

After a few purchases at a high-end men's store, they strolled down the street. Sven reassured Michael, "Border guards and security are interested in narcotics, illegal immigrants, and fringe groups of the IRA. Our body language, dress, and luggage are paramount, and we have that covered. As I said before, I have a connection at each end on this ferry line."

Michael realized he would have some degree of angst for the duration of the trip; this was to be expected. The Franco-Swiss border seemed like a safer border situation. He didn't want to share more details about the cover or the sister's letter at this time. He needed time to think about the upcoming journey and a possible fallback plan. He had never been involved in an act that bordered on illegal. It became apparent he could not have made this trip alone. Thanks to Sara, he had an escort who was educated, multi-lingual, and connected. The proverbial "angel on his shoulder" continued to resonate in his head.

The day slipped by with banal conversation. He had purchased a classic trench coat and tweed cap along with a complete ensemble. He would place the cover in the suitcase for the ferry crossing, and the messenger bag would be perfect once they landed in France. Sara had already confirmed Sven's legitimacy as far as education. He surfed the web and found identical pictures on the Quedlinburg site. The odds were good that Sven was exactly who he claimed to be.

Michael found a picture of Sven's father. He noticed their surname was different. He sat for a while, sipping a sherry, and concluded the evening with a shower.

The following morning, the two men sat together at breakfast. Sven elaborated on the immediate issue—the customs officers at the Rosslare Ferry port. Contraband cigarettes and cannabis discoveries were mainly due to a Springer Spaniel named Max. The dog had become invaluable for his uncanny ability to sniff out hidden cannabis and the like. Risk profiling often led to searches of suspicious persons. The men remained relaxed; Michael noticed Sven discretely scanning the room at frequent intervals.

Michael did not want to know the details of Sven's contacts. He suspected there was some sort of deal, perhaps with the government's knowledge. On the other hand, there could be some cash changing hands. They split up for the rest of the day to avoid speculation, in case someone was following them. Michael was reluctant to wander very far. He sat on the verandah of the hotel and read about the French countryside and their intended travel route. He ate at the hotel.

He met Sven at the ferry dock just before eight forty-five p.m. There were many passengers present; the duo spoke briefly in an impersonal manner.

"We will board the ferry at twenty-one hundred hours. That is about fifteen minutes from now. You will board directly behind me; after customs, head for your cabin. Do not leave the cabin or answer the door. I am next door in cabin twelve."

Michael put on his new raincoat and adjusted his bag; he held his suitcase in his right hand. For this leg of the trip, the cover was in the false back of his suitcase.

"I will call you in the morning just before we land. This evening we will dine separately but within eye contact. Make sure these cells are charged." Sven handed Michael two small cell phones. "Put one in your shoulder bag and the other in your inside pocket. I have programmed my phone number under the name George. There are other numbers under the name Sally and Judy. The female names will connect you to my office. If you need to contact the office, they are alerted to your name and will contact me right away, day or night. Feel free to enter your American contact's number. These phones will work worldwide. There is a charger and an emergency battery attachment for extra minutes. The phones are prepaid. The second throw-away phone is for backup. Keep it on your person at all times. I do not expect us to be apart, however, I want to plan for all situations." Sven's tone had become more clipped and methodical—if that were possible.

The passenger queue for the ferry was modest and moved along without a hitch. As they entered the customs area, Michael observed passengers filing past the officer. Most folks were asked a few questions. Sven was just ahead of Michael; he watched Sven open his passport. The officer went to the front page and then to back page and nodded. That was it. Michael was next; he opened his shoulder bag and presented his passport. It was scanned, but the officer did not speak with him or make eye contact. After observing the inspector's scrutiny of the passengers in line ahead, he was prepared to answer some questions. The officer's indifference to Michael made him think he and Sven were somehow protected from any serious scrutiny.

They were travelling on an upscale ferry named the _Oscar Wilde_. The suites were spacious and elegant; the dining areas were luxurious. Both Sven and Michael personified distinguished business travelers. Things had started on a good foot, organized and positive. He enjoyed portraying a "man of means." He proceeded to his cabin and settled in. He sat for a few minutes getting his bearings. Sven's cabin was to his left. There was no cabin to the right; it was a stairwell. He had heard the Irish Sea was one of the most treacherous in the world. It was notorious for bringing on seasickness. Sven had given him a motion sickness patch. The fortuitous side effect of the patch was Michael's sound sleep.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Morning arrived with the unfamiliar sounds of a large seagoing vessel. There was a remote clanking and groaning of metal against metal and the distant sounds of people in the corridor. He dressed and waited for Sven's call. The phone rang, and Michael responded to Sven's signal rap on the door. They made their way to the deck. It was a beautiful day; the sea was calm, and the air was invigorating. As they leaned over the railing, Sven informed Michael that he had seen nothing suspicious. Sitting at different tables for breakfast, Michael was optimistic, at least for the time being. They met at Michael's cabin and played gin rummy for a few hours. After enjoying a leisurely lunch, Michael strolled around the deck. Sven remained aloof, yet close by. The ship arrived in France on time. Again, all went well during the customs check upon disembarking. The men checked in separately at the same B&B, paying cash in advance for one night. It was in the downtown area of Roscoff.

Roscoff was a lively town; the Isle of de Batz protected its shores from the harsh sea. The architecture was predominately sixteenth century, and the main artery was named the Rue Gambetta.

Plans for the next day were discussed in Michael's room. The desk clerk had been talkative; without hesitation, he had told Sven there were no other new travelers arriving today and none were booked for the following day.

Michael was to keep his eyes open and stay on the busy streets. He found an Internet café and emailed Sara.

Dinner was exceptional; Michael took Sven's advice and ordered seafood. There was something about the French sauces that tempted him to lick the plate. Sven suggested that France's superb dairy products were part of the equation. They ambled back along Rue Gambetta and turned in for the night.

The next day began with melt-in-the-mouth croissants, homemade jam, and coffee. Michael decided he was in no hurry to leave this country. It was culinary heaven.

Sven possessed good taste and indulged in the finest of everything. He rented a luxurious grey Mercedes sedan, and their journey began later that morning. They avoided Paris and lunched in LeMans.

On the second night, they moved on to Beaune. After a short stroll, Sven mentioned, "I am taking this journey at a slow pace; I want to be sure no one is following us. It will be a relief to have your possession in a Swiss vault."

They walked around the town until dusk and turned in for the night. The next day they lunched in the town of Dole. Sven changed their route at the last minute; they would no longer visit nearby Pontarlier. They would instead end their day in the Franco-Swiss border town of Montbeliard. He chose not to explain the reason, and Michael decided not question his decision.

As they drove, Michael remained fascinated with the European architecture: the massive churches built hundreds of years ago, the little villages that remained frozen in time. It was one thing to see pictures of Europe, quite another to view the scene firsthand. He relished his temporary change in social status. This trip would be fun; he pledged to enjoy every moment.

The two men drove the last leg towards Montbeliard. It was an industrial town, home of Peugeot and other car manufacturers. Sven knew the town and made a reservation at the Chateau De Villersexel. There were only five rooms in the hotel; the remaining area of the chateau was available for tours. It was an exquisite chateau with a colored past, including the ghost of a woman who drowned in the nearby river.

They settled in their rooms, and after a leisurely dinner, they retired. They were unable to reserve adjoining rooms; however, Sven was a mere three doors away. Michael wound down by watching the local Sky News station. As he disrobed for bed, he noticed, with some alarm, his doorknob was turning, slowly, noiselessly. There was no knock and no rattling of the knob. Was it his imagination? He stared at the knob and saw it turn again. His first thought was to call Sven, but at that moment, he didn't want to make a sound. The door was bolted; he knew if someone tried to break in, the noise would attract too much attention. He picked up a nearby chair, just in case.

Just then, he heard a disturbance in the hallway. Two men were talking in loud, foreign voices. He strained to listen the conversation, which sounded confrontational. There was a thump and then the echo of heavy footsteps fading away. Michael was cognizant of the perspiration exuding from every part of his body; his hands were trembling. What should he do? He was one step away from panic, and he considered the possibilities; was Sven dealing with an intruder? Perhaps the guy with the limp was here. Or, maybe it was just some drunk trying to find his room. Calling Sven made no sense. If there was a scuffle, it was most likely still going on downstairs, outside the chateau. Sven had made it clear—Michael was not to leave his room. He decided to wait until morning to find out what had occurred.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

After a restless night, Michael met Sven for breakfast. He cleared his throat, "Sven, did you hear a scuffle outside your room last night?"

"No, around what time?"

"About one a.m."

"Hmm, no, nothing I can remember, but I may have been in the shower."

Michael decided not to bring up the doorknob issue. He thought Sven might think he was paranoid. If Sven didn't know anything about the altercation, perhaps it had nothing to do with them. It was probably someone trying the wrong door. This incident had been a diversion from the upcoming challenge—their final border crossing. Upon returning from a light lunch in town, there was a cluster of gendarmes outside their hotel. Sven offered no comment, and Michael decided to take the same tack, although, he did find it peculiar. Why had Sven changed the route at the last moment? This was a small town, and there were at least a half a dozen police cars and an ambulance. "Sven, that's a lot of police for this town."

"I was thinking the same thing. Perhaps we can inquire inside the hotel."

Michael refrained from commenting further. He took note of Sven's demeanor; he appeared matter-of-fact about the whole thing. Did Sven know something he was not willing to share?

*******

Sven enquired at the hotel desk. "I say, young chap, why all the police and ambulance? The clerk responded without making eye contact. "There was an unfortunate occurrence last night. I am unable to supply any details at this time."

Michael observed Sven; he appeared concerned and apprehensive, but offered nothing regarding the incident.

"Let us meet later for our evening meal, about eight, Michael?"

"See you then, Sven."

The afternoon passed in slow motion; at last it was eight o'clock.

The waiter cleared away the remnants of another fine dinner. Michael and Sven sat back, satiated, although guarded, from the earlier events. From out of nowhere, Sven made a surprise announcement.

"I was able to get some more information about the incident at our hotel last night. A man was murdered, and apparently, the bellhop said he had used his cane to defend himself as it was broken in two. However, it does concern me. I am not in complete surprise this situation has arisen. I have been working on a foil for the last few hours.

Michael was shocked. "Could it have been our man with the cane?"

Sven ignored the comment and continued, "I don't want to inform you of any future details as I need your reaction to be genuine, but please expect a sudden change in our plans. You'll need to keep your wits about you. You will receive a surprise call from the front desk. I would like your reaction to be genuine. This change of plans is to ensure our secrecy and safety over the Swiss border and on to Zurich. Please remain packed and ready to leave in a hurry any time after the next hour, but most likely it will be early in the morning. I will tell you this much, our last leg will be airborne."

Michael was incredulous. Why could he not know more ahead of time? What was he to do, and what were his choices? So far, Sven appeared trustworthy, but what the hell? He remained calm; however, he decided to challenge Sven. "Is there nothing more you can tell me?"

"The rest of our departure will be very much out of the norm. Please trust me." The look on Sven's face was a first. Sven's eyes softened and his eyebrows lifted in an imploring manner. "I need you to portray an element of surprise. Believe me, it is near impossible to feign astonishment, and it is imperative that you appear flustered and shocked. If, indeed, someone is following us, we will leave him in the dust."

"I'll stay packed, but I'm not happy about this," Michael stated in a firm tone. All the while, he felt he was in box; he had no option. He would notify Sara as soon as possible.

"Trust me. Within minutes of our arrival in Switzerland, you will be comfortable and realize this was our best option. We've come this far with no upsets. I cannot be sure about this man, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Although I have contacts at the border, this man may also have connections, and possibly his connections are superior—it is anybody's guess."

At Sven's request, the rest of the evening was spent inside the chateau. A game of chess helped pass the time. The men concluded their day with an aperitif. Because of the impending unknown, plus the murder, their conversation had become strained.

"I am somewhat concerned about the Swiss border crossing," said Sven.

"Why?"

"Let's say the man with the cane is somehow connected with the Irish government. He may have thought the smartest approach would be to confront us at the border security and may have alerted them before his demise. They could demand to open our luggage. It would be a speedy way to get the cover back to Ireland."

"Shit! Excuse me, Sven. I'm losing my cool."

Sven spoke in a whisper. "I understand; it is a definite turn of events. I believe I have a rock solid 'checkmate' if it was your man. Perhaps there is more than one interested party in this cover; who knows why he was eliminated?"

The duo said goodnight and Michael made his way to his room. Things had been going like clockwork. Now, he was knocked off guard in just one millisecond. Here he was, not exactly at Sven's mercy, but damn near. If this was a private plane, he would have no options. The pilot and Sven would be in control. He was far from home and did not speak a foreign language. He had a precious cargo that he assumed would be in safe hands within hours. Could this plane be taking him somewhere other than Zurich?

He would call Sara. She should know where he was and the next plan, which, at best, would be vague. His personal cell phone would be best. His gut feeling remained positive; however, he felt he should cover his tracks. He was doubtful Sven's history was trumped up. He had the cover sewn in the messenger bag. Of course, once he was on a plane, anyone could access the cover, no matter where it was hidden. His understanding at this juncture was that a plane would take them over the border. The more Michael thought about it, his sensibility became more fragile. There were no commercial airports here. Was this a clever maneuver?

When he called Sara, he would remind her that his personal cell could be tracked by satellite, possibly giving his location if he didn't get back to her in a day or two. Sven was not aware Michael had his own cell. He supposed he could walk away tonight; it was another thing to be in a non-commercial plane with no escape and no witnesses. The cover would be found within minutes if he were taken hostage. Damn! What to do?

His call to Sara was cryptic but informative. He told her he would call the minute they arrived in Switzerland. He slept off and on, anxious for morning to arrive. He had his bags packed and could leave in less than five minutes. He had shaved before bed.

Morning finally came. At precisely seven a.m., the phone rang. He was surprised by how flustered he was, considering the call was anticipated.

"Monsieur! Your companion has fallen ill. Please come to the desk as soon as possible."

"I'll be right down." He grabbed his messenger bag with the cover in it and headed down to the foyer. He left his luggage in the room.

"Michael, I'm afraid I have run into a bit of bad luck."

"Sven, what happened?"

"I am having some severe stomach pain. I think it is a return of diverticulitis; I am experiencing unexpected bleeding."

"My God, have you called a doctor?"

"I am pretty sure I know what this is; I would prefer to see my personal doctor. I am quite close to home. The bleeding is what is concerns me. I have an unusual blood type and wish to have my doctors in Zurich address my condition."

"How far are we from Zurich?"

"Not far. I spoke with my doctor; he has ordered an air ambulance, and it will arrive in thirty minutes."

"What can I do?"

"I would like you to accompany me—if you don't mind. Zurich is your destination, is it not?"

"Yes, it's my next stop. I'll put my things together without delay. Are we near an airport?"

"Yes, there is a regional airport for small planes on the outskirts of town. We will use either a helicopter or a single engine plane."

"I'll be down right away."

Michael took the stairs two at a time. In minutes, he returned with his luggage and saw an ambulance at the front door. They were wheeling Sven on a stretcher into the back of the vehicle. Michael jumped in.

The ruse went well; no doubt the innkeepers were convinced. The drive to the small airport was short, and a Swiss ambulance helicopter was on the runway. They were transferred to the aircraft within minutes. The rotors started, and they were on their way. Michael was astonished by the precision of the whole thing. How slick was this? On the other hand, were they really going to Zurich? His comfort rested in the fact the ambulance plane appeared authentic. His intuition told him Sven was on the level.

The views from the chopper were dramatic, revealing snow-capped mountains and lakes. He could see small white fluffs of sheep roaming the grassy knolls below. The lake bordering France and Switzerland was like a dark sapphire glimmering in the sunshine. They maneuvered in and out through the valleys that were framed by enormous craggy mountains.

Michael was not sure if the pilot was in on Sven's scheme. He had just played along, looking down at the awesome view. He marveled at Sven's influence and last-minute ingenuity involving this tricky situation.

All of a sudden, the engine had a different drone. Sven appeared startled, and Michael knew something had gone awry.

With a calmness that was reassuring, the pilot said something in French. All of a sudden his voice changed to alarm mode, confirming Michael's worst nightmare. He didn't need anyone to tell him, the helicopter was going down! Michael looked down at the terrain; he saw nothing but snow.

Sven uttered the words, "Hold on, Michael; this isn't good."

Michael watched in dismay as they hurtled toward the ground. He knew they had not hit a cable or wire; something was wrong with the engine. It seemed like eternity in slow motion as they tumbled and lurched downward. His last thought before they hit the ground was to wonder if the chopper had been sabotaged. It was obvious the pilot was not instigating this crash!

****

Michael did not know how long he had been unconscious. He lifted his head, surveying the chaos. Sven was lying in the snow about ten feet away. Michael and the pilot were still in their seats. The pilot appeared lifeless; there was blood oozing out of his ear and he was slumped in a way that confirmed his neck was broken; he was not breathing. The splintered rotors lay in disarray in the snow. Michael's door was lying about twenty feet away; the fuselage of the helicopter was pretty much intact, although, part of the roof was missing, and there was a gaping hole at the rear.

His first thought, after a brief prayer, was a moment of panic, wondering if he had lost the cover. Glancing around, he spotted his suitcase and shoulder bag in the snow. They both seemed to still be intact and closed, so he moved on to more immediate concerns, namely assessing his injuries. Both legs were ok; his left shoulder hurt, but didn't appear fractured; however, there was no doubt his right wrist was broken.

He could hear Sven moaning. He rummaged around the plane looking for something to splint his wrist. He wound an instruction manual and around it, and after much fumbling, he managed to secure the splint with his belt. He called out to Sven, but there was no response. Michael saw him moving and hoped he was regaining consciousness. A million questions reeled in Michael's head. Sabotage was the most likely answer for this crash. Of course, it could have been purely accidental, a mechanical problem perhaps. How bad off was Sven, and how far were they from civilization? Was there an emergency pack somewhere in the wreckage? Priority wise, Sven was first, then locating the emergency pack. There had to be one. Once more, he called out to Sven. "Hey Sven, can you hear me?"

"Michael!"

Michael watched Sven slowly lift his head. "Listen to me, Sven; I have EMT training; please do as I say. I will ask you questions and wait for your answers. Are you bleeding anywhere?"

"Not sure."

"Do you have pain anywhere?"

"Nothing major."

"Try not to move your head in case you have a spinal injury. Wipe your face with your hands and see if there is any blood, then slowly move each leg and arm—do you have any chest or stomach pain when you take a deep breath?"

Sven responded favorably to Michael's questions, which was a great relief to Michael.

Michael assessed the weather and scanned the horizon for any sign of trains or smoke from a chimney or smokestack—or even a church spire—but to no avail. He was hopeful they were close to civilization, as the pilot had mentioned they were getting close to their destination just before they had gone down. Sven had said they would land on a hospital roof in Zurich.

"Sven, are your legs and arms ok?"

"Yes, although, my vision seems blurry. My neck and spine do not hurt."

"Are you getting cold?"

"Yes—very."

Michael assumed he had a slight concussion, and he was concerned that hypothermia might become a problem if he didn't get Sven warm. He rummaged around the cockpit for an emergency box. Yes, there it was, under the dead pilot's seat. He reached for it with agonizing, slow movements. There was a transmitter, medical supplies, and a thermal blanket.

"I found a blanket and supplies; I'll slide you toward the cockpit on this blanket."

As Michael inched toward Sven, he wondered how deep the snow was. He finally reached Sven and slowly pulled Sven back with his good arm. The snow was crusty and held their weight. It appeared very deep, as a tree nearby had no visible trunk.

"We made it! How is your vision?"

"Clearing, thank God, although I am nauseated."

"The pilot is dead. I'll move him onto the snow. The cockpit will provide us some shelter while we figure this out. I can only use one arm right now, so this will take some time."

After moving the pilot, Michael covered his companion with the thermal blanket. "There is an emergency transmitter here. I wonder, was this sabotage or engine failure?"

"I think this would have ended differently if the pilot was involved. Although, this trip was last minute so it is doubtful someone tampered with the plane. I think we should see if any of our phones are working. The Kells cover! Is it still here? Have you located it?"

"I think I see my suitcase and shoulder bag out in the snow. I will try your office on my cell. The emergency transmitter may give away our location, if anyone is still following us. Let's try our phones first."

"Good thinking, Michael."

Michael's cold fingers were slow in attempting to initiate the call. The phone could not get a signal. Neither of the phones Sven had given him could get a signal. He brought out his iPhone. There was one bar, indicating a modicum of reception. _Please God, let one call go through!_ Whom should he call? Sara or Sven's office? What time was it? Yes, Sven's office would still be open. "Sven, I will try my personal cell; who should I call at your office?"

"Sally—call Sally the receptionist; tell her it is an emergency, and request to speak to one of the associates. Does the GPS on your phone give you coordinates?"

"Yes, I'll call Sally; in case I lose the reception, I'll text our coordinates first, as an SOS." Michael could hear the phone ringing; a woman answered after a few rings. "Sally, we have an emergency; Sven needs an associate on the line right away. Our connection is poor and may die out."

"Right away, sir."

After a brief wait, Michael heard another voice on the line. "Hello, this is Marc Thomann. To whom am I speaking?"

"Listen carefully; this is Michael Evans. Sven and I have been in a helicopter crash. Sven is doing ok, but the pilot is dead. Hold on, I will try to give you our coordinates. If I lose you, I have texted them as well. I think we are near Zurich; we crashed in a snowy, mountainous area." The phone went dead as Marc was responding. Michael's anxiety level was nine on the Richter Scale. What awful luck! He tried to call back. "Damn, Sven, I lost the signal. I believe they received the text with our coordinates. The phone indicates the text was delivered; let's hope it's true!"

"We will wait. I know we are close to Zurich. Marc will move on it right away."

"I hope so. You are cold, and you may have a mild concussion." Michael could see that Sven was pale, and he had been retching as though he were attempting to vomit.

"It is paramount we are rescued before nightfall. I have faith it will happen, Michael."

"So do I, Sven—so do I."

# CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The two survivors huddled like lovers, with no feelings of embarrassment. Each man had a unspoken nagging fear they would remain snow-bound through the night. Hours went by; the sun sank low on the horizon, and Michael knew that soon, they would lose the little warmth it provided. Sven went in and out of a light slumber. Michael encouraged him to wiggle his toes and fingers to avoid frostbite.

Michael heard a droning sound overhead. Was it friend or enemy? He could only hope it was good news, although, at this point, he would welcome an enemy, rather than wait 'til daylight—he was freezing! Sven was hanging on, but any rescue sounded good.

Within a few minutes, he could see the swirling of the snow close by. Yes, a helicopter was landing! Who was it? A man jumped out of the passenger side; he was wearing snowshoes and was dressed in what appeared to be a commando-type camouflage uniform for snow. The man leaned down into the wreckage and spoke with a foreign accent.

"Are you able to get in the bird unassisted?"

Michael's jaws were stiff and partially locked, "Yes, but my partner is suffering from a concussion. No pain on movement, though. Who are you?"

"My name is Yossi. I work for Sven and Marc Thomann. Put on these snowshoes and get in the chopper, fast. I will assist Mr. Mueller."

Michael was reassured; any saboteur would not know Marc's name.

The helicopter had two sets of rotors and looked like the Jolly Green Giant model used in the Viet Nam era. This one was painted in a white and grey camouflage pattern. It was warm inside the chopper with two makeshift sleeping bags prepared for Sven's and Michael's comfort. The warmth was welcome beyond description. They were safe! They would survive this ordeal!

After getting the two men situated and comfortable, their rescuer disappeared back out into the snow. He returned shortly with their bags. "I have two suitcases and a messenger bag. Is there anything else out there I should look for?"

Michael looked at what he had. It seemed like everything was there. "No, that's it. Would you please hand me the messenger bag? I would like it by my side."

"Here, I hope the contents are not susceptible to the bitter cold."

"No, it'll be fine, thanks."

"Your pilot is in the back of our plane. We will report the accident once you are settled."

Once they were in the air, Michael looked down to see their helicopter explode in flames, he wondered if Yossi had deliberately set it on fire.

"We are landing now. It'll be a rooftop arrival."

They were whisked into the building and down to the emergency room. The doctors tended to Sven while Michael remained in a wheelchair. A nurse assessed him from head to toe. They splinted his arm. She assured him he was fine; the fracture was a simple greenstick type, and there was no visible frostbite. His wrist would be set in a day or two.

A young doctor came in and told him, "Your companion is going to be just fine. He has requested a double room for you two. Mr. Mueller will see his own doctor tomorrow."

Michael was still in a state of shock; anyone who had experienced this day would be unraveled! He had made it to Zurich—definitely, an out-of-the-ordinary arrival. Nothing like what he and Sara had imagined! He was anxious to fill her in.

*******

Sven and Michael settled down in a spacious hospital apartment suite. Michael suspected that this was the room saved for dignitaries. He checked his messenger bag; the cover was secure. Although he could not see the guard, he heard him talking in German to the nurse, conversing outside the door.

"I can see why you wanted me in a true surprise mode. It would have been difficult to fake the initial scene at the hotel." Sven mustered up a slight grin, "We both had the surprise of our lives after we were in flight—no faking required for that incident."

Michael sighed, "It was difficult to trust the sudden change."

"I am delighted you trusted me, Michael. Had I been in your shoes, the hotel scene would also have also tested my trust. I am going to get some sleep; I hope you do the same. We will discuss the plane incident tomorrow when my thoughts are clear."

"Sleep tight, Sven."

# CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

When breakfast was served the next morning, Sven was able to keep down liquids. Within the hour, two well-dressed gentlemen entered the hospital room. Their conversation with Sven was conducted in German. Michael knew many Europeans could converse in more than one language. This skill had great value. Sven translated sentence by sentence as the conversation progressed. These men would take them to a private bank as soon as Sven was discharged.

They were both released later that afternoon. An appointment was made to set Michael's arm in a few days. A limo rolled up to the hospital emergency entrance, and they were whisked away. Michael noticed a man sitting in the front seat with the driver. He was reading a newspaper, his face barely visible. In a vague sense, he looked familiar. When Michael brought this to Sven's attention, he was advised this man would be Michael's bodyguard for the remainder of his visit to Zurich. His name was Yossi, and yes, he was the commando who had rescued them from the crash site. Michael felt more secure. He was with a protective entourage in a world-famous neutral country.

As they rode through the streets, Sven shared the upcoming plan. A private banker would open an account for Michael. He would be supplied with a deposit box. Michael was given the choice of keeping the cover with him or using the bank vault. It was an easy decision—he would use the vault.

Michael heaved a big sigh. Very little conversation took place during the ride, and they arrived at the bank within thirty minutes. The name of the bank was Hyposwiss. It was a well-established private bank on Bahnhofstrasse.

Michael had the leather messenger bag over his shoulder and carried his suitcase and trench coat. The bank was very low key but scrupulous in their operation. It was almost surreal; he was now portraying a man of means. He was trying to take it all in while attempting to appear nonchalant. Sven handed him a check from his law firm; it was to be deposited in Michael's new account. An approximate conversion of the Swiss Francs was estimated at around ten thousand American dollars.

Sven spoke, "This will initiate your account here."

Michael gave an acknowledging smile.

Sven spoke to the manager in French, apparently asking him to speak English. Michael gave his address as Sven's office address and produced his American passport. All went as smooth as silk. Michael was escorted to another area, which housed the safety deposit boxes. He had filled out the paperwork and completed a retinal scan. They entered a large vault that looked like something out of a James Bond movie. He was led to an aisle with rows of safety deposit boxes. The banker excused himself after pointing to a desk at the end of the row.

"If you please, sir, let me know when you are ready to return the box to the vault."

Due to the size of the box, he was able to lay the cover flat. Yes, he would leave it here; it was certainly safer there than in his possession. After summoning the assistant, they locked the box. Michael put one key in his sock, and the duplicate was placed in his money belt. He returned to Sven in the waiting area. He felt naked without the cover. It would be the first time it was not on his person. It was an odd sensation. He was pulled in two directions. He continued to have a nagging feeling that he might be the victim of an elaborate scheme—no, not possible. The plane crash nixed the idea that Sven was in on any shady dealings, but there was still the question of the beating near their hotel. Did it involve the man with the limp?

"Time to get you checked into a hotel of your selection. I think you would feel more secure with this type of arrangement."

"Thank you. I appreciate the autonomy, Sven."

"Perhaps something close to the bank and our office?"

"Perfect."

"I have made a list of appropriate choices. Zurich is beautiful; it has the good fortune of having the Alps as borrowed scenery." Michael could see the pride on Sven's face. "It is one of the wealthiest cities in Europe and very expensive! On the plus side—it is one of the healthiest cities in which to reside."

"How far are we from your office?"

"About five to ten minutes."

"You know, Sven, I think I could use some fresh air. I'll set out on foot and find a hotel in this area. I'll have a shower and call you within a few hours."

Sven gave Michael a slight bow. "As you wish."

Once out on the sidewalk, Michael felt more in control of his destiny—what a enjoyable feeling! After viewing a few hotel rooms on Sven's list, he chose a small boutique hotel. Although it was expensive, it appeared secure, with a twenty-four-hour desk clerk in place. He could see small security cameras discreetly placed around the entrance and lobby.

He viewed a couple of rooms and chose one with the window away from the street. The room was fitted with a small, mahogany writing desk, plus a comfortable leather chair and footstool. The oriental carpet was in muted tones of maroon and forest green. There was a small, mahogany veneered fridge stocked with splits of champagne and wines and Perrier. A crystal decanter exhibited an ample supply of amber whisky. Crystal glasses were on display for brandy and wine. He sunk into the soft leather chair, a glass of brandy in his good hand. A grin of satisfaction emanated from his face. The room was drenched in understated luxury.

The bed was nestled in a small adjoining room of forest green, complimented by the burgundy velvet bedspread. It reminded him of the room displays at the Ralph Lauren flagship store in Manhattan—true elegance!

The cover was safe, and there were no more borders to cross. To top it off, he was indulging in the lap of luxury. If these folks only knew what he had called home a couple of months ago? He would savor these few days.

He remained a little edgy and was looking forward to handing the cover over to Ireland. With each passing day, Michael was becoming more settled and optimistic. Life was good. He had a wireless connection in his room and used his laptop to research the private bank ratings for Zurich. He was pleased to see that Hyposwiss Bank was touted as one of the premier private banks in Switzerland. He called Sven and arranged dinner plans. After lingering in the marble-lined tub, he dressed for dinner.

He emailed Sara a short note: _Hey Sara, I am staying at a hotel in Zurich. Sven and I are having dinner this evening. Much more later. I'll call you tomorrow. All is well. Miss you, Michael._ In another email, he gave the name and address of his hotel.

Michael met Sven for dinner. They ate at a small restaurant just off the beaten path. About halfway through the meal, the small talk changed to a more serious tenor.

"Sven, what do you think about our experience the other night?"

"Since the pilot was killed, I'm not sure we will ever know. I am inclined to think he was not involved. The plane most likely experienced a legitimate mechanical failure. Nor do I think it was sabotage; my reason is clear—if an outside person were involved, the perpetrator would have picked us up soon after the accident. From this point forward—or rather, until the item is placed in the new owner's hands—you and I will have personal bodyguards. Yossi will be with you. He will know your whereabouts at all times and stay close by. He has the room next to you in your hotel. He booked the room right after your arrival."

"Thank you. That does make me feel safer. I agree. The crash and the hours of freezing in those conditions made me feel vulnerable. I was afraid for us."

"It was a harrowing experience."

"Where do we go from here?"

"Safety-wise, we have taken appropriate action; these guards have years of experience. My vote is to proceed with getting the appraisal of the cover. I have two manuscript appraisers in mind."

"Tell me more."

"Of the two, the more important appraiser lives in the Los Angeles area. He has an impressive dossier. I have his C.V. for you to peruse. The other man is from London. My thought is to have the fellow from London view the cover first, primarily to authenticate. I am relying on the American chap to give us a more accurate estimate of its worth."

"Sounds good. Will the Englishman honor our privacy request?"

"Most certainly. His career depends on his loyalty to his customers. I will have them each sign a confidentiality agreement. Each appraiser will be given a vague description of what you have in your possession. I will mention the manuscript, as circa 1200 A.D. That should be enough to whet their curiosity."

"Sounds good."

Sven spoke in a low tone, "I understand you have a letter from the nun who described the cover's whereabouts."

"Yes. I put it in the safe with the cover. I also have a letter of instruction from the nun's parents, a map giving the location, and a detailed history from the nun."

"Two letters and a map?" Sven appeared surprised.

"Yes. One letter is from the nun's parents and contains instructions for locating the cover in its original hiding spot. They requested that the nanny move the cover to a safer location. The parents had been taken away in a mysterious fashion and never seen again. In fact, it appears they were murdered. The nanny cared for the nun after the parents' disappearance. The parents' house, where it was originally stored, was about to be repossessed by the bank. The other letter was written by the nun, explaining the history of the whole thing and containing a map that described the exact whereabouts of the cover."

Sven appeared pleased. "Excellent! These letters are of significant value, just in case someone comes out of the closet claiming ownership. With any luck, the British appraiser will verify the cover's authenticity. If all goes well with him, the next step will be the American."

"Sounds good."

"I have made contact with the American. He is available with twenty-four hours' notice. I might add he is chomping at the bit. He is ready to 'cross the pond' upon our request. He is sworn to secrecy and willing to sign a privacy agreement. I will not introduce you under your real name, as you have requested anonymity."

"Are there any other tentative plans in place?"

"There is not much doubt Christie's will be considered as a representative for a private treaty negotiation."

"Speaking of which, the private treaty option—now that I am more relaxed, please run that by me again."

"The sale of property by private treaty is the common method utilized by estate sale agents. It involves preparing descriptive details of the property, including a tentative asking price. Potential buyers then view the details. If there is serious interest, viewing of the item can be arranged. In our case, we would not include the written appraisals until the buyers are here in Zurich. Of course, we need to look at all options, but because of the sister's request, it does appear to be the better choice."

Michael asked, "Can there be offers above the asking price?"

"Yes, if there is more than one group making bids or the potential purchaser wishes to cement the deal as soon as possible. In this case, you have specified Ireland, so there will be no competitors."

Michael looked up at Sven. "We can offer the cover to Trinity and the Irish government first; tell them that for the next month, they have the first right to make an offer. If Ireland thinks some other country is getting in the mix, it may force them into a quick offer. I'd like to get the ball rolling as soon as possible."

"I gather this nun states in writing that she wishes the cover to remain in Ireland."

"Yes. She is quite clear on that point."

Sven took a deep breath. He appeared pensive. "Private treaty looks like the way to go. Our next step will be deciding who the intermediary will be."

"What are the options?"

"Your choices would be Christie's, Sotheby's, a private lawyer, or a broker who has had experience in this type of contract."

"I'd like your feedback on this. Let's discuss it after the Englishman's appraisal." Michael glanced at his watch. "I have an appointment to have my wrist set at ten tomorrow morning."

"Good. You should relax afterward and browse around Zurich in the afternoon. We can meet for dinner tomorrow evening."

"Sounds good, Sven; see you later."

The two men parted. Michael's wrist was set the following morning. He decided not to tell Sara, as it was a mere blip on the screen of this saga. He was deep in thought about the next leg of the journey as he rode back to the hotel in the taxi.

# CHAPTER FORTY

Michael had some time to kill while waiting for the appraiser. He headed out for a tour of the city.

Fraumuenster Church was a highlight for Michael. There were five extraordinary stained glass windows designed by Chagall.

He crossed the river and browsed the city's high-end stores and restaurants. He found cafés serving incredible food and flower markets bustling with shoppers.

The day was perfect in every way. After meeting Sven for dinner, he returned to his hotel room. He turned on the small electric fireplace and toasted the day with a brandy.

# CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The next morning, Michael woke to the familiar ring of his phone.

"Michael, Sven here."

Michael cleared his throat, attempting to sound alert. "Good morning, Sven. What's up?"

"Sorry to wake you; my acquaintance from London is arriving in an hour or two."

"Great, should I head over?"

"I will call you when we leave the airport. If you would meet us at the bank, we will be in Mr. Arnholdt's office. In that you wish anonymity, I will introduce you as Alexei Kolenko. I will tell Alistair that I will give you a rundown later. He was told you do not speak English, so you should not let on that you understand the conversation. We will do the same with the American appraiser."

"Sounds perfect," Michael smiled. He had a little surprise for Sven.

*******

Michael entered the bank. He wore tinted glasses, which were dark enough to conceal the color and shape of his eyes. He also sported the beginning of a moustache and beard and wore a Russian-style cap.

"Surprise, Sven! Do I look the part?"

Sven cracked a smile. "I like it!"

He followed Sven into a private meeting room where the appraiser was waiting. "Alexei Kolenko, I would like you to meet Alistair Spreadborough."

Alistair was graying at the temples; he wore vintage wire-rimmed glasses and sported a typical English tweed jacket, which was powerless in its effort to conceal his portly girth. His hands were exceptionally soft, and his handshake was weak. The man extended his hand, but allowed Michael to secure only his moist, chubby fingers. Michael found it distasteful and interpreted the greeting as a demonstration of arrogance; or perhaps the guy was a germaphobe.

"I will give Alexei a rundown of our conversation later. I have an employee who speaks Russian."

The rotund little man produced a phony snort and said, "Very well then, as Russian is not my 'cup of tea.'"

Michael proceeded to the vault and retrieved the metal box. He grinned when he thought of the _nom de plume_ Sven had bestowed on him; it portrayed mystery. He joined Sven and Spreadborough in a windowless private room. He scanned the entire area; there was a Las Vegas-style security dome in the center of the ceiling. What did it matter? He was in the most secure, secretive place possible.

This would be the second time he would unveil the cover. Alistair dug into his weathered briefcase and gave Michael a pair of latex gloves. Michael unrolled the treasure; his chest was pounding. He slowed down the unfolding process in order to gain control of his emotions. At last, the cover was exposed. He sat back in a relaxed pose, hand on chin, and observed the two men. They both conveyed a sense of wonderment, neither trying to contain their curiosity. It gave Michael a sense of satisfaction to see their naked enthusiasm.

The cover was in serious need of cleaning; a metallic odor lingered in the air. Michael reconfirmed his interpretation of the cover. It was comprised of a very fine silver and gold chain maille. As he had recalled, there were gems at each circular end of the hammered golden cross. There would be a huge amount of cleaning to be done in the future. Alistair removed a small leather case from his vest pocket and pulled out a diminutive instrument resembling a dental pick. With great care, he poked around a few areas and devoted considerable attention to the cross. For some reason, Michael found the scene to be somewhat humorous. Alistair resembled a carnivorous bird with its spiny talons picking over the choice pieces of his fresh kill. He handled the cover as if it were made of eggshells, his eyes portraying a look of wonderment.

After a considerable time, he looked up and removed his jeweler's eyeglass in slow motion. "By Jove, I think it is the real thing! Jolly good, eh?" He appeared elated to the point of having trouble containing his British snootiness. "It has the definite the mark of extreme age, and the calligraphy style of the inscription _INRI_ has cinched my conclusion. The jewels are a much older style of cut that was used back in the Dark Ages. Cleaning the cover will be a challenge; perhaps the cleaning should be left to the new owner." Alistair resembled a little child discovering a secret garden.

Sven, although intense with interest, was less emotional in his response.

"Where would you go from here, Alistair?"

"Carbon dating is possible as the gold would have been melted to a high enough degree, but it is too destructive. Again, I would not advise cleaning until it is permanently placed. You did say you had one other appraiser in mind. Is it the chap in Los Angeles? I would recommend him; he is the 'oracle' for this type of discovery."

"As a matter of fact, Julian Borody is our next contact. We wanted your opinion prior to Borody's arrival."

"My assumption—you possess the real thing. There are other reasons I believe this cover is authentic, but let's wait and see what Borody thinks; I don't want to plant my conclusions in his head."

Alistair continued to examine the article. It seemed to Michael an endless amount of time; he was anxious to call Sara.

"This appears to be gold intertwined with silver... the complexity is astounding. I cannot comprehend the length of time involved in creating the woven maille. It must have taken these monks years to create such an intricate weave. I would think they used a magnifying glass to execute this intricate work. As I said, the stones are cut in an old fashioned style, and, although it is pure conjecture, they appear to be rubies, sapphires, pearls, and maybe—maybe emeralds. Of course, after a thorough cleaning, an expert jeweler can determine the stones. They are almost flat black due to the soot-like deposit." His voice was almost inaudible. "No doubt they would have used the finest gems available at that time."

"Alexei and I will discuss your conclusion and wait for Borody," Sven spoke in an authoritative manner. "I highly doubt we will attempt to clean it, unless it is necessary for the sale to be finalized. I suppose the new owners will take care of the cleaning."

Michael was dying to ask questions; it was difficult to remain silent.

Sven directed his most intense stare towards Alistair, "We have your commitment to confidentiality, of course."

"You have my word. My only request is to be listed as one of the appraisers. If you go ahead with the cleaning, I would appreciate the opportunity to view it again."

"You have my word; are you leaving for London today?"

"Yes. If need be, I will return for further discussion with Julian."

Sven spoke with a gracious tone. "Good bye then; I do thank you for your time." In a discreet manner, Sven handed Alistair an envelope containing payment for his services. "Please sign the confidentiality paper; I have it here. Our driver will take you to the airport."

*******

Michael returned the cover to the vault. Each man headed in a different direction as they exited the building. He was still somewhat uneasy. In actuality, Michael did remain at some risk; he had the only keys to the safety deposit box. He didn't want to store them in Sven's office, and Sven had not offered. It was comforting to know Yossi was lurking close by.

Later, Sven and Michael met at Sven's office and shared a martini. Sven was in a hurry to contact Borody. He placed a conference call. Michael was pleased to hear that the appraiser would leave for Zurich the following afternoon. It was already midnight in L.A.

He walked over to a FedEx facility and emailed Sara from an Internet café:

Hi Sara,

Had a great day sightseeing. Met with Sven's pal from London this morning. He is a nice guy, and I came away with a positive feeling. He is knowledgeable, and we had a great conversation. Things are moving along in great fashion. M.

He wandered around the neighborhood, drawing in the flavor of the city. His cell rang. It was Sven. "Borody will arrive tomorrow evening. I will be in touch with more details after his arrival."

"Great, Sven, we'll talk soon."

# CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Michael spoke with the Swiss Tourism Bureau, arranging an all-day tour to Engleburg. He relaxed and cleared his mind of the many decisions that lay ahead. He ended the day with dinner at a little bistro and a stroll. He solidified the events of the past few days. The cover was authentic, he had no doubt, although, it was reassuring to hear Alistair's comments.

Michael sank into his leather chair and indulged in a sherry. Sven had notified him of Julian's arrival. He would wait for a call to let him know their meeting time at the bank. Sleep was filled with odd dreams. There were sheep being herded down the street where Mrs. De's market was! He didn't remember much other than it was he who rounded them up and somehow returned them to Switzerland. Dreams were so odd.

Michael awoke to Sven's call. "Good morning!"

"Michael, I just wanted to let you know that we will meet at the bank at one p.m. today."

*******

Michael ate breakfast outside the hotel. He was anxious; Julian Borody could make or break this streak of good fortune. Having physically unearthed the cover, it was difficult to think there could be any question at this juncture. Reality knocked on his door; folks can disagree on almost any subject.

He spent the morning walking around and contemplating the different scenarios lying ahead of him. Sven called to confirm their appointment and described his lunch with Borody.

"Julian questioned who had knowledge of the cover's existence. He knew of Alistair's reputation and wanted to know if Alistair would join us today. I informed him that Spreadborough wanted Julian's conclusion before giving any feedback. I want each appraiser to include an approximate value with no collaboration. Then, we will state the final asking price. I requested Borody not carry copies of his assessment on his person and told him no photographs will be taken."

"Sounds like you covered the ground rules."

"I informed him that he and Alistair will have separate safety deposit boxes for all documents they sign in Zurich. They can pick them up later. I reassured him that he and Spreadborough would be listed as the official appraisers." Sven stopped abruptly. "I have a call coming in from Borody; I will call you back if our discussion is of interest."

"See you at one o'clock, Sven."

# CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

At precisely one o'clock the next afternoon, Sven and Borody joined Michael, who was already waiting at the bank. Michael was again introduced as Alexei. He was escorted to the vault and returned with the cover.

The cover was unwrapped and Borody took over. He brought out a small, well-worn satchel of tools. He was silent as he poked and prodded. He took ample time examining the waxen overwrap. He wore special glasses and also had an unusual type of penlight that emitted a bluish light. The examination took well over an hour.

"It's an authentic seventh century cover, I'm sure. It's not possible to identify the particular jewels; they need to be cleaned. The engraving style is definitely from the seventh century. Do you also have the book?"

"I was reluctant to give out accurate information over the phone. We are aware of the cover's approximate age. This is the missing cover to the _Book of Kells_."

"You are kidding! That thing has been missing forever!"

Time dragged on. At last, Michael heard the words he had been hoping for: "Sven, this is the real thing!"

Although Michael was ecstatic, he reminded himself he was a Russian who didn't understand English. He just sat there watching the other two men; his chest was about to burst with jubilation. No one spoke for what seemed like an eternity. Sven broke the silence.

"Although expected, this is very good news!" Sven turned to Michael and gave him a thumb up gesture. Michael contained himself and gave a knowing smile, bowing his head toward Borody.

"My God, I would say so!" boomed Borody.

Michael was glad he had sat there with his hand on his chin. It helped him harness his euphoria. Remaining composed, he shook hands with the men.

Sven continued, "Borody, if you would, please give us a written confirmation to that effect. As I mentioned, there are separate papers regarding your commitment to secrecy until this article is permanently placed. The details of where, when, and who found this item will never be released."

"Understood and agreed."

Borody collected his assortment of detective items and signed the appropriate papers. The meeting culminated in a hearty handshake. He also suggested that the stones were most likely emeralds, rubies, pearls, and perhaps some sapphires. The American was obviously thrilled to be part of this discovery.

*******

Michael almost ran to the Internet café to inform Sara; he was ecstatic. No—he would call. He filled her in with the details, and they shared their delight. Their conversation was not lengthy; they were both lost in their own thoughts. They would talk about future plans tomorrow.

The following morning found Michael energetic to the point of restlessness. He went for a walk in the high-end section of town. He noticed a ladies Movado watch in a fancy jewelry store; it had a pink face and small diamonds embedded in the clasp. Somehow Movado had managed to keep the museum-style watch up-to-the-minute in fashion. He had seen similar watches; however, they did not capture the quality of the Movado. Sara loved pink; it was a perfect celebratory gift. He missed her and reveled in the pleasure of bringing her a beautiful gift.

# CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Michael and Sven met for dinner.

"Well, Michael, we are on our way. It's fabulous news. Cleaning the stones is no longer an option. Who knows, perhaps the soot could be used for carbon dating." Sven spoke with enthusiasm. "I am not sure why we would fiddle with the stones in any way." His steel blue eyes looked up at Michael. "The cover is genuine; that is all that matters. Let the new owner decide how to handle the gems." Sven remained silent; he buttered his bread with a particular determination and took a sip of wine. Somehow his pause punctuated his statement.

"You're right, Sven. I got caught up in the value of the stones."

"There is not much doubt they are real jewels, in light of the era in which the cover was created. I would like to take it to the buyers _as is_."

There was another lengthy silence.

"Why not, Sven—let's wait it out. The next step is how we wish to conduct the sale?"

"It is up to you and your partner in New York."

"Although the decision is mine, I will run it past Sara; I respect her judgment. Who would you think would be best to represent the cover?"

"There are two auction houses in the running: Christie's and Sotheby's. Both will do a fine job. Christie's will put a reserve price if you choose a private treaty sale. With this approach, a certain price will be set on the cover; it is offered with that price being the floor. There is possibly another benefit." Sven appeared cautious. "I am not sure; however, I think if you sell an outstanding work of art by private treaty to a national heritage group—you may be able to avoid a capital gains tax. This would be a coup; it would save you a large sum of money. I will do more research regarding that option. Taxes may be an issue for you, but not for Trinity College; they will be exempt. On your side of the deal, we need flawless wording in all documents regarding the purchase of the cover. I am thinking about a finder's fee, or perhaps you could be considered the person who inherited the cover. If we find taxes to be unavoidable, we will be sure to create the trust in the most desirable country. We need to decide on a price that is fair."

"What is your best estimate?"

"Millions."

Michael was surprised. "Millions? How many millions?"

"As I said, sixty to one hundred—maybe more."

Michael was stunned. "Are you sure?"

"This is one of art history's greatest finds. Both Alistair and Julian feel it is in the seventy million range, possibly higher."

Michael sat frozen in silence. He could not think fast enough to converse in a seamless fashion. "Regarding the private treaty—do I understand that we put a price on the cover and then offer it to a prospective buyer?"

"Correct; if they decline, they will assume it will go to auction with a reserve price. In that case, they will assume the cover will be available to the highest bidder."

"Although, I doubt Ireland would allow the cover to reside elsewhere."

"I do admire your determination to do the right thing, Michael. Your allegiance to the sister, in spite of—perhaps a loss of millions—is remarkable."

"Most of this money will go to charities. Although, the more money the better. I don't think she would want Ireland to be forced to pay an unrealistic amount. After all, the Iona monks chose to move it to Ireland. It was completed and stored in Ireland in the Abbey at Kells. I digress; back to the sister's request, it will be Ireland, with any luck—Trinity College.

"There is one other avenue, Michael; my idea would save you a significant amount of money. We could avoid the auction houses and contact Ireland directly. This would avoid a premature leak of information. We would appoint an intermediary, offer the cover for seventy million, and see what happens."

Michael responded, "If they decline the offer, do we inform Ireland the cover will go to auction?"

"Yes, if they ask, and they most likely will."

Michael was pensive. "I do have some time to think about this. Let's revisit the idea tomorrow. Your idea sounds tempting."

Sven replied, "This type of approach requires some thought. You would need to seek out the right representative to approach Ireland. He will be your middleman."

"Let's arrange to meet for dinner tomorrow. I will make my decision by then."

"Fine, it is a big decision. Have a pleasant evening, Michael."

They shook hands, and Michael walked to his hotel. He rode up to his room in the antiquated lift. It was constructed of decorative wrought iron. It was a delight to be in a country that valued their antiquated architecture. The gate clanked open, and he strode to his room. He would call Sara in the morning. At this moment, he needed to clear his mind.

*******

"Michael! How are you?"

"Hey Sara, things remain very positive here. There are a couple of ways to present the find, either through private treaty or direct contact through an intermediary. I will email some numbers that are being considered. I've conveyed our Sister's wishes to Sven. As we know, the predetermined destination throws a monkey wrench into the mix. Perhaps you could research these alternatives."

"I have already looked at the private treaty option."

"Yes, what's your initial thought?"

"Due to her wishes, either direct contact or private treaty through an auction house sounds good."

"I'm glad we agree on that. The numbers are huge. Also, I found a gift for you today."

"I can't wait! Thanks for thinking of me."

"My pleasure. You're never far from my thoughts. You have been such a help."

"It's certainly brightened up my mundane life."

Michael was very much aware of Sara's assistance with research and feedback, but it was more than that. He couldn't put his finger on it; no doubt she had been his rock through the whole thing. Sure, he would have stumbled along, but she had always been by his side, even in a spiritual way. He felt her presence when he was digging up the ground in Slane. "I am glad you've been there for me, Sara."

There was an extended silence on the other end, and then a giggle. "The cat says hello."

"How is the Queen of Sheba?"

"Like most cats, arrogant under all circumstances."

They shared a few laughs and, with reluctance, wound the conversation down. After ending the call, he realized how much he missed home. Home! "Now there's a word," as Emily Dickenson would say. Under his circumstances, it was an odd word—due to the fact he didn't have four walls to call his own. Nevertheless, Brooklyn was his home. Sara, Danny, Joey, Sister, and Adam... home is where the heart is.

As Michael climbed into bed, he envisioned what he would do with the money. What charities would Sister Abreanne support? Other than her wishes regarding placement of the cover, the only other clue was her love for children. He felt she would have compassion for those who experienced a meager existence similar to her childhood. He would make sure children's charities in Ireland were in the plan. It gave him pleasure to think of the benevolent work that lay ahead.

Michael revisited his recurring question. If Sara was able to seek the best care in the world, could she learn to walk? Mrs. De had heard a rumor that Sara's injuries did not involve true paralysis. She did have feeling in her legs. He had seen her scratch her ankles, and there was obvious muscle tone in her legs. Would she be offended if he offered to help her get the top doctors for her condition? If this cover was worth millions, his ability to help her was limitless. Performing a number crunch was next, but sleep stole him away from his future plans.

The following morning, he called Sven. "Sven, I would like to review my options."

"Is there anyone else you would like present at the meeting?"

"I want to review where the home base of the charitable trust should be. Also, do the accountants and lawyers need to draw up any papers before we speak to Ireland?"

"Did you have an accountant in mind?"

"I trust your judgment, Sven."

"We can meet today at one p.m. I will present a list of possible candidates. See you then, Michael."

*******

"Welcome, Michael. I see you made a list." Sven leaned back in his chair in a relaxed fashion. "I am at your behest."

Michael stated, "I would very much like your firm to stay on the case."

Sven gave a nod and slight smile. "Thank you. We will do our utmost to keep you informed. Our clients must feel secure. The art world is foreign to most people and may create an uneasy feeling for a novitiate."

"I'm sure I fit into the uneasy category."

"I would think a private intermediary would be best, Michael. There would be less chance the news would get out before the sale is completed. Neither of the appraisers wishes to have their reputation tarnished. Albeit, a private representative will reduce the chance of a leak to a minimum."

"You are guessing the cover will command around seventy million?"

Sven nodded, "At least."

Michael spoke in a pensive tone. "I do think it will be a private middleman—if we can get the right person."

There was no reaction to Michael's statement. Sven was hard to read. "I do want to meet with the accountant tomorrow, if possible."

"Good idea; they will be able to give us valuable information on your tax liability and the best way to set up the charitable organization. There is a possibility you could save several million dollars in taxes if you set up the foundation in Zürich. Your charities would benefit from this."

"I'm ok with Zürich being home base."

"I think we should set up a charitable foundation account ahead of the sale."

Michael interjected, "Do you have a middleman in mind?"

"We have contracted with a few intermediaries in the past. In your situation, I would want your representative to be highly educated and familiar with the _Book of Kells_. He should be shrewd in a sophisticated way. This person would need to be committed to your wishes and aware of the fact there will be no other offers. Either way, we would have another person, or company, in on the details."

"No doubt the middleman will find this situation curious."

"If the Irish got wind of the fact they were predestined to own the cover, it would be a game-changer."

"Yes, one thing to keep in mind—an auction house will charge as high as twelve percent for a private treaty negotiation. A private representative will be much less expensive."

"By the way, Sven, off the subject, I was wondering why you don't have the same surname as your father."

"Our name is Mueller-DuMoulin. Father chose to use only DuMoulin. I chose Mueller in order to make my own mark in this field."

Michael smiled, "I have not told you the details of how this discovery came to be."

"I would advise that you to continue to keep that information confidential; at least until the cover has been placed. If there is a legal question, then come forward with the details.

"The more I give thought to this; Trinity might get nervous about losing the private offer if they become too inquisitive about the history."

"This cover has been missing for ages. I doubt that you will encounter much fuss over how it was discovered. It was not stolen in modern times. The theft was centuries ago by unknown persons."

"I hope to tell you my story one day." Michael smiled and continued, "I'd like to go with a private representative; reason being, I suspect that involving a huge institution like Christie's or Sotheby's could set up a flurry of questions and possible leaks."

"I couldn't agree more, Michael. It will be a challenge to find the right person—it could take some time. Ireland will assume if they decline or don't counter our asking price, it will go to auction. They will assume they could end up paying a lot more in the end, or losing it all together. On our part, we are assuming they really want it. It is a game of unknowns."

"True."

"If the price is not to their liking, it will be interesting to see how they will handle the dilemma. There has been absolutely no hint of this cover being discovered. I expect they will react somewhere in the range of 'shock and awe' when they hear the news."

"The last time that phrase was used, it backfired," retorted Michael.

"To change the subject, we have connections with a firm in California that handled the impressive Gustav Klimpt sale. I advise you to consider them for all legal matters in the States. They have handled many other international art sales. The Adele Bloch-Bauer painting sold for one hundred and thirty-five million. I am sure they will have the name of the best accountant for advice on taxes and other related matters."

"I believe I've seen that painting, it's at the Neue Gallery in New York."

"Have you seen it?"

"Yes, it is a stunning work of art. I remember a little about that case. The art was in an Austrian Gallery; it was proven the true owners or heirs to the collection were in the States. The Germans illegally confiscated it during World War II. I believe the litigation was all about ownership through inheritance." Michael stated emphatically, "I do have papers declaring ownership."

"All quite relevant. I am curious about the contents of that letter," said Sven. "When all is said and done, we _will_ share some of the details of this discovery over a glass of Dom Perignon."

"Am I correct in assuming this find is along the same lines or more important than the sale of the Klimpt painting?"

"Your discovery is of much more importance due to the religious aspect. However, we are not going to auction."

The subject went no further. Sven tapped his pen on the desk in a pensive manner. "Are both auction houses out of the running?"

"I have the feeling we are setting ourselves up for a leak. I think at this time, I would like you to speak with the California firm first. Find out what they have to say—no specifics of course. Any tidbits could influence my decision. It's all about retaining confidentiality. Tell them it is an icon from Russia or something along that line."

"Regardless, we must retain a qualified representative."

"Sven, although I am enjoying my stay here, I would like to get going on this."

"The lawyer who has had contact with Los Angeles in the past is in the office now. Should I call him in?"

"Sure."

Sven left the room, leaving Michael with an avalanche of thoughts. He was not overwhelmed; he knew he had to keep his wits about him. Rushing to get this resolved was not an option. He took a deep breath.

A man of small stature entered the room with Sven. He was middle aged and seemed to have a minor tick in his left eye. His drab-grey pinstripe suit was accessorized with an equally dreary tie. His shoes were highly polished and every hair on his head was perfectly combed and placed. As he sat down, Michael could see he had leg garters holding up his calf-length silk socks. This guy was fastidious! Under the circumstances, he found this fellow's deportment a definite plus. Michael's personality precluded this type of fastidiousness; maybe there would be a good balance between the two of them. He had a tendency to self-destruct when forced to deal with minute details.

"Michael, I would like you to meet my associate, Karl Linner."

The two men shook hands. Michael found Karl's handshake firm and deliberate. Linner's eyes were cold and penetrating. There was no hint of a smile; however, he came across as sincere and focused. In spite of Linner's deportment, Michael liked him.

"Karl agreed to join us, although he has no orientation to this case. Would you like to fill him in?"

"Sure; Karl, thanks for joining us on such short notice."

Michael watched the man nod his head and remain silent. Jesus! What a pompous piece of work! Michael took Linner's approach as a get-on-with-it-my-time-is-precious kind of attitude.

Michael began, "I have unearthed an extremely important manuscript, circa tenth or eleventh century. This discovery occurred due to letters of instruction from a deceased person who has no living relatives. According to the directions, I located the hidden article in Ireland, and Sven and I have transported it to Zürich. In the letter of instruction, the previous owner intended this article be returned to Ireland. All monetary gains are up to my discretion. It was the wish of the previous owner that a portion of the proceeds of the sale be given to charities. The letter stated I am to receive all remuneration for my efforts. There are no specifics regarding what percentage should go to charity. In that there is a huge sum of money involved, I will claim a small percentage for my personal use. I intend to oversee a charitable trust with most of the monetary gain from the sale. I will request an independent audit of the trust each year."

Karl pulled his chair closer to the table and assumed a more intense posture. He uttered one simple word: "Proceed."

Michael continued, "I am interested in a private treaty offer presented to Trinity College or the Government of Ireland. I prefer the latter. I wish this offer to be reasonable.

Karl responded in a clipped voice, "Do you have the letters of intent?"

"I do. I will be initiating a few charitable organizations; my intention is to keep management costs at a bare minimum. I wish to donate to well-respected organizations with low overhead, such as Doctors Without Borders. I do not wish to reinvent the wheel. There may be a couple of exceptions where I will create pilot programs to assist the underprivileged in Ireland and New York."

"Ah yes—I am impressed with Doctors Without Borders; a very well-run model," claimed Linner.

"I will honor the deceased owner's wishes; in that I am a United States citizen, work will need to be done on both continents. You are free to approach my future contacts in Los Angeles."

"I would be honored to coordinate this segment of your project." Linner asked, "Do you wish their involvement to be tax-related as well as opinions on international law?"

"Yes."

"Considering the taxes, I think your charity will be better off operating out of Zurich. I would like to retain the Los Angeles group for advice regarding the best way to set up your personal reimbursement, due to the fact you are an American."

Michael offered, "As you can imagine, I am reluctant to give the American firm specific details until they are under contract with a confidentiality agreement. Two of the world-renowned appraisers have given us notarized letters with written estimates of the manuscript's worth. The larger concern regards the details becoming public before the final placement. I wish to remain anonymous on a permanent basis."

Linner tapped his pen on the desk, "We will draw up confidentiality papers. I can imagine the battle if outside interests try to get in on the action."

"It would be a problem."

Linner claimed, "It sounds pretty straightforward. I am not sure about the timing with the Los Angeles team. I know they are the premier group for accounting and legal issues on your shores."

Linner's eyes looked like steel pinholes immersed in an olive green kaleidoscope. Michael had never experienced such intensity. If eyes were the windows into one's soul, this guy had a granite repository at his core. He was perfect for this task.

"I will call Los Angeles tomorrow and check their availability. I expect this project will not be complicated due to their prior dealings in the art world. Let me spend today getting the plan in order. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow afternoon."

*******

Michael's mind was occupied with the options that were being considered. Sara was next on the agenda, and it was a good time to call. "I want to run this by you, Sara. There are a few ways to go with the placement."

"Go ahead."

"I would like to go with the private middleman—assuming Sven can find the right person for the job."

Sara claimed without hesitation, "I agree."

"I will be thinking this over tonight. Sven's partner has a tie with that firm in Los Angeles; I think you also mentioned them."

"I'm pretty sure I have read about them. Did they handle the Klimpt deal?"

"You got it."

"Just a thought, Michael, have you considered Sven being the middleman?"

"I have, yes—interesting that you mention this. He has the perfect personality. As a plus, he is already part of our inner circle and familiar with the scenario. I will ask him tomorrow.

"Has he seen Sister's letters?"

"No, if he ends up being the intermediary, I'll present them before his trip to Ireland. Although he doesn't need the information, I think he'll be more motivated."

"Michael, this firm in Los Angeles, it's no contest...they're the best."

"I hope this will be a done deal soon. I can't wait to return home."

"Hopefully, Abbey is guiding you."

"I agree."

"Till then, Michael."

"Miss you. Bye for now."

As he headed down the street, he reviewed his call to Sara. He had not uttered the words "miss you" in such a personal way since he had left Chicago.

He remained uncomfortable with his calls to Sara; they were cryptic at best, unlike their lengthy conversations in New York. He acknowledged to himself that more than once he had blurted out the fact that he missed her and her dad. Well, so what? Although, he did miss her in a different way.

He walked around the park and made his way back to his hotel. After a cold beer, he ate at a small dinner house and turned in early. As he drifted off to sleep, he realized he could be content to reside in Zürich for extended periods of time.

# CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The following afternoon, Michael made his way over to Sven's office for the meeting.

"Good afternoon, Michael. I thought it would be best if Karl and I did not share our ideas until the three of us met today. We will sign any necessary papers after this meeting."

A short rap on the door announced the fastidious little man. Michael felt Linner was as close to an automaton as any human could be; even his walk was mechanical.

The three men sat down at the small conference table. Sven spoke first. "What are your thoughts, Karl?"

"I believe it would be best to employ an independent representative; perhaps someone from our firm. My reasons are twofold: expenses and our need to keep your information close to the vest. I have excluded myself from being considered; my strong points do not include personality or warmth. This could come into play. This is indeed a unique circumstance."

Michael stifled his amusement at Karl's quip concerning his sub-zero personality. At least the guy was aware of his antiseptic presence.

Linner continued, "The Los Angeles firm Cohen and Bradford will be contacted for advice on American laws and tax structure. At this point, they would not need to be privy to the exact details."

"We have worked with them before," stated Sven.

Michael commented, "I assumed you were referring to that group. They do have an impressive dossier."

Karl was pensive. "I think we should have a plan "B" in place before we start this venture."

Michael spoke up, "Of course." All three men nodded their heads in agreement.

At the last minute, they concluded the letters would be held back; they would be presented if necessary.

Sven said, "Well then, who should approach Ireland? Would you like time to think about this?"

A prolonged silence filled the room; Michael spoke up. "Sven, I don't know if this will come as a surprise, but I would like you to consider presenting this offer. I have confidence in your sincerity and knowledge in this particular case. You are quite involved in this saga. Your law firm has an excellent reputation; I believe this will convince them we are on the level." He paused for a moment. "Do either of you think Ireland might wonder why this was not put up for auction?"

"Good question. My initial thought is to level with them, telling them the owner would prefer Ireland, ergo they have first right of refusal. We will not confirm or deny it could end up on the auction block".

"Perfect," said Michael.

Linner spoke, "As for the next quandary, I have spoken to an accountant; for the time being, it would be best to set up a parent charitable trust in Switzerland. He is not sure; it could save taxes and legal sticking points. In the long run, if domicile of the trust is not an issue, it would be transferred to the State of New York. I think it would be a good idea to set this up as a limited liability corporation soon. It should be in place before Sven, or whoever accepts the position, makes the trip to Ireland."

Michael looked at Sven. "Are you interested in representing me?"

"I am honored that you would consider me. I would like to consider this matter overnight. I will propose a feasible plan. If it meets with your approval, we will proceed. There is a benefit as far as confidentiality; however, I need to do some soul searching regarding my confidence in presenting an offer of such magnitude."

The men dispersed with the usual formalities, agreeing to meet the following day.

# CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

As Michael entered the room at the appointed time, there was an aura of expectation; it was all about Sven. Would he take on the task? Sven cleared his throat and looked up. "Gentlemen, good afternoon. We know why we are here today; therefore, I shall not beat around the bush, as the Americans would say. I will be honored to represent Michael in this undertaking."

Approval was unanimous. "Sven, I'm confident you are the right person."

Linner spoke, "One of our lawyers will start the trust papers today. It will be a boiler-plate format. What will be the name of this trust?"

Michael responded without hesitation, "The Abbey Foundation."

"Perfect. Will there be a co-signer, Michael?"

"Yes, Sara DiNapoli. I will name a lawyer and accountant after the dust settles. If we need names now, please name Sven and Karl—with a clause that, at my sole discretion, these names may be changed at any time.

"Any other immediate issues?" Sven asked.

"Yes," claimed Linner. "We have not addressed who we should contact in Ireland."

Michael stated, "If it is Trinity, there is an organization called Friends of the Library. This group is involved in acquisitions for the library. I believe they are in contact with patrons who have substantial means. Perhaps we should try them first, and then approach the government if necessary."

Linner appeared to be in deep contemplation. "One possibility is to invite the appropriate representative from the government, the Provost of Trinity College, and the head of the Friends of the Library, and have all three meet Sven at Trinity."

Sven quickly responded, "All three in the same room?"

"This approach would ensure there are no bruised egos. We will not have skipped any rungs on the ladder."

There was an extended silence; at last, Sven and Michael nodded in unison.

"Excellent," said Sven. "It is always best in the end. However, it will spill the beans."

Linner interjected, "True, the secret will be out, although, if they spread the story, they might think the cover's price could soar on the open market."

Michael spoke, "Is there any way to button them up using a legal contract.

"I have no objection to confidentiality papers being signed before the details are shared," Sven answered.

Linner straightened up as if to leave. "Gentlemen, my understanding at this point; we will create a shell charitable trust, draw up confidentiality papers pertaining to the privacy of the offer. Sven, if you agree to take on the middleman role, we will arrange a meeting with the heads of Trinity, the Friends, and the Irish government."

Michael asked, "How long will it take to get that type of meeting together?"

Sven spoke in an explicit tone, "It will be one week until they receive the letter; however, getting all three together is quite another question. It would involve clearing their calendars for at least two days."

Michael chimed in, "Let's not give any specific details until we meet face to face; just enough to whet their appetite."

Sven was quick to respond, "I don't think they will dally on this one."

Linner gathered up his notes and stood up. "When would you like to sign the trust papers, Michael?"

"As soon it is ready."

Sven spoke up, "We will have lunch tomorrow, here at the office."

The meeting concluded on a positive note.

# CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Michael took in an evening concert at a local church. The architecture, statues, and art were stunning. He lingered in the church after the concert, wishing Sara had been there. Having been away from her, he acknowledged she was not only his best friend, but she had also, bit by bit, crept into his heart. He wondered if these feelings were mutual.

# CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The following morning, he perused some of the high-end stores. Now that he was dressed appropriately, he felt more assured in the presence of the arrogant clerks. He strolled over to Sven's office at twelve forty-five.

The secretary led Michael to a small boardroom. The room boasted a small fireplace and small marble sculptures. The table was set for lunch. Sven and Linner were gathered in light conversation with another man.

Sven greeted him, "Hello, Michael. I would like you to meet Marc Thomann; he will meet with us and familiarize you with the charitable organization documents. Please, let us have a seat."

Michael recognized the man's name as the one he had spoken with when the helicopter crashed. He hesitated to thank him now—maybe later when they were alone.

Linner spoke to him. "I hope our meeting will be short Michael; you will have some time this afternoon to explore some of our beautiful city. Are you also thinking of side trip while we wait for a response from Ireland?"

"Yes, as we are not sure of the time frame, I will travel to one of the neighboring countries."

"I am sure you will have time for overnight trips. Have you seen Venice or Rome?"

"No, this is my first trip abroad. I would like your opinion on which cities would be the most diversified."

"Prague, Vienna, Rome, Venice, and Brussels would be a good cross section. Start with Rome and Venice."

"If need be, would I be able to fly back to Zurich in a few hours?"

"Sven will be going to Dublin to present the offer. We will have proper notice of their arrival."

"Well then, let us have lunch."

Their conversation elaborated on the cities Michael might explore. The cover was never mentioned.

After lunch, as if on cue, Marc and Linner excused themselves. Sven outlined his approach for the offer. He would simultaneously FedEx letters to all three parties, requesting proof-of-delivery signatures. The letter would ask for a meeting with all interested parties present. Sven spoke, "Decisions and dates would be completed upon receiving their response. There will be at least a week, possibly up to a month before I will meet with them. They will be checking our credentials; probably trying to find out more about what we have in our possession."

"What will you tell them?"

"I will provide no specifics, only that the item is of extreme value, it is not stolen, and our discovery is related to the _Book of Kells_. I will need a response within thirty days. On the upside, they will be wondering if this could be the missing chapters, or the cover, or both. I may go to Trinity, or they may reply and request to proceed with the offer and come to Zürich for a viewing. Once they are here, they will view both the cover and the appraisers' documentations. The burning question is whether they should be privy to the letters from the sister and the nanny. We have time to decide whether we will comply. Your name will remain anonymous. You will be the silent partner of the Abbey Foundation. Perhaps we will create another _nom de plume_ for you. I am tempted to wait and see if the Irish request any proof of ownership. If so, a firm offer will be requested with, perhaps, a sizable down payment. Under duress, we will provide all letters."

Michael gathered his papers. "I guess that wraps up the current issues. In that case, I will take a train to Italy. My trips will be close enough for a one-day return."

Michael shook hands with Sven and left for the train station. He purchased a ticket to Rome via Milan. He would arrive tomorrow in time for dinner. Rome for dinner—unreal! He would have at least seven days for travel. He would go on to Assisi and Venice, if time permitted. His first stop would be the Vatican, then perhaps some of the lesser-known art galleries in Rome. He would stay in one of the many convents that took in travelers.

The Sisters of St. Brigid ran a convent that was very close to public transportation and the major sites. The commentary on the Internet described the place as "a little piece of paradise, particularly clean and serene."

He called the convent; a room was available, and he could easily hop a local bus from the train station to reach them.

# CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

When Michael called that evening, Sara answered the phone. "Where are you?"

"I'm still here, but I am on my way to Rome tomorrow. A charitable foundation has been set up. I named it The Abbey Foundation."

"Perfect. Rome—how great is that?"

"I know; it's hard to believe. I do wish you were here to share this with me, but perhaps one day. If things go well, we can take your dad and visit some of the places I've seen."

"That would be wonderful. I doubt Dad would ever leave the market for that long, but you never know. He has never visited Italy. His parents left Terni when he was very young. Terni is close to Rome."

"Better go, Sara; best to all."

"Bye-bye, Michael; keep in touch."

# CHAPTER FIFTY

After few days in Rome, Michael boarded the train on his way to Assisi. His cell rang. "Michael, Sven here. I have good news! I had a lengthy telephone conference with our three contacts. They will be coming to Zurich in one week. I will not travel to Ireland; they felt it was not necessary. I have convinced them the article must stay in Zurich until it is moved to its final destination. An independent appraiser will be accompanying them; they wish to see proof that the article is legally owned. Confidentiality agreements will be signed before the viewing."

"Are you familiar with their appraiser?"

"Vaguely; he is from London. He does not have the same status as our two; however, our appraisers will be available for a video conference during the meeting."

"I want to withhold the letter until we have their serious commitment. Do you think I should head back to Zurich?"

"I agree, Michael; the letters will be last thing we produce. No use hurrying back, you have ample time to visit Venice for a day and a few small towns nearby."

"This is great news Sven."

*******

Michael informed Sara of the latest news. Sara was on her way to a physical therapy class; they arranged to talk soon.

# CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Over the next week, Michael spent his time admiring the monastery in Assisi where St. Francis had lived and worked. Next on his agenda was Venice, and he took in the sights around the magnificent city built on pylons in the water.

Finally, it was time to head back for the big meeting. The overnight bullet train to Zurich slithered into the station in the early morning mist. Michael unpacked and called Sven to confirm dinner that evening. The day passed in a blink.

Sven greeted him as he approached the table. "You look rested, Michael. Italy is grand, is it not?"

"It is incredible!"

"Let us have a relaxed dinner and then get down to details." As the meal wound down, Sven dabbed his mouth and replaced his napkin. "Our four guests will be arriving from Ireland early tomorrow. I will take them to lunch, then to the bank. Are you still wishing to remain anonymous?"

"It is tempting to bask in the fame, but the long-term ramifications concern me."

"The meeting will be at the bank in the same room. You will retrieve the cover prior to our arrival, and I will enter the room alone. At that point, you can leave the area. I will call you after the conclusion of the meeting. Yossi will be at the door. The bank has provided two plain clothes guards and one in uniform. I will be with the cover at all times. All guards will be armed, some with visible weapons. You are familiar with Yossi's background?"

"Fill me in."

"He is ex-Mossad. Their fearsome reputation is worldwide. I have arranged for you to have coffee with Yossi early tomorrow morning at the bistro adjacent to your hotel. I want you to be confident in his ability to protect you and the cover. In that you have already experienced his expertise, I am assuming you will feel secure with him at the helm."

"Thanks. I'm a little squeamish about not being in the room during the inspection of the cover. Tell me more about Yossi."

"His full name is Yossi Shamus. He will bring his credentials and references with him. Keep an eye out; he is never late. He is licensed to carry a concealed weapon. I will let you in on a little secret; he has been with us longer that you might think, in fact—since we left Ireland. I thought it was best."

"I wondered when he had come on board. He is beyond invisible!"

Sven grinned. "As it should be."

"We've had Yossi, and the guy with the limp with us for our whole journey—incredible! I can't tell you how happy I will be the day this mission is _fait accompli_."

"I appreciate your concern. I feel I must tell you of a serious incident, regarding the man with the limp. He tried to kill Yossi the night before we left France. When Yossi saw him outside your room, he confronted him, and the fellow attacked him with a knife. Yossi had no choice but to make sure he was incapacitated for a long time. This is confirmation he was after your cover. "

Michael was dumbstruck, so much so that he decided to dodge the subject. He had no idea how to respond. "Wow, Sven, I am dumbfounded; may we discuss this later?

"There isn't much to say, Michael. He's gone, and Yossi had no choice in the matter.

"To change the topic, Sven, as far as the Irish know, the floor on the supposed bidding is seventy million. They will either accept, counter, or up the ante. I'll leave it to a higher power."

"You have put a price somewhat above rock bottom. They may attempt to negotiate. Although, due to the importance of this item, they may be concerned that another country will come in higher. They may even offer higher at once, you never know. Please call me after your meeting with Yossi; I want you to be comfortable with his role.

"By the way, Michael, it is no one's business where the cover came from, unless it can be proven that you stole it. If it becomes a legal issue, the letters will be produced."

"You're right."

"The directions to the cover's location, were they part of the letter?"

"No, the specific instructions for the cover's location are in the form of a map that was separated into four pieces and included with the letter."

"Was the letter written on letterhead that would identify the convent?"

"No."

Sven nodded thoughtfully in response, and Michael remembered something else he had been meaning to ask.

"Sven, I made an offer on a property near Slane, in Ireland. It is important that I own this piece of land. Aileen O'Reilly is the name of the realtor's secretary. I did make a deposit on it. Would your firm reassure them the full payment will arrive soon?"

"That can be arranged. Any particular name you would like to use?"

"No, please make it as anonymous as possible, perhaps a Gaelic inference."

"Done. Come by tomorrow morning around eleven. I will contact Aileen O'Reilly."

# CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

In the morning, Michael headed out for his appointment with Yossi. He situated himself at the rear of the bistro, and within minutes, he heard his name. "Michael?"

"Yossi?" Michael made a mental note: Yossi's handshake was the firmest hand he had ever clasped.

The Israeli stood about five foot eleven; his stature was compact and muscular. He had not one visible inch of fat on his body. His jet-black, curly hair was in sharp contrast to his light complexion. His pupils were barely discernible from his ebony-brown eyes. Yossi's voice was monotone. He scanned the room on a continual basis. His clothing was nondescript; he had aviator sunglasses perched on his head and replaced them as soon as they exchanged formalities.

Michael said, "I wanted to thank you for your assistance at the crash site."

Yossi gave no response to Michael's gratitude. He stared at his coffee and stated, "I understand you would like me to attend the meeting at the bank on the twenty-first. I will stand at the entrance to the only door to the room where Mr. Mueller is situated. I will remain within visual contact of the door until the foreigners have left the bank. I understand no one is to enter or leave the room without a security search."

"I've made arrangements with Sven for your remuneration. I would like to thank you for your diligence."

Again, Yossi gave no response. Michael noticed the man spoke with no accent during their meeting. On the other hand, he spoke German to the waiter. His parlance was impeccable. His words flowed as though German was his native tongue.

"Any further questions, Mr. Evans?"

"It may be a lengthy meeting. I will arrive before the foreigners, and I will probably take a walk during the meeting. Please stay at the door until I have returned the item to the vault, and the visitors have left the premises."

With two gulps, Yossi downed his double espresso, and then surveyed the room and the exit door.

"If you leave the bank, it is your choice, but you will have no protection."

"I will take that into consideration."

"Good day, Mr. Evans."

Michael sat there, dumbfounded. Their conversation had lasted less than four minutes. He felt as if he were speaking to a robot; in point of fact, in the name of courtesy, a robot would have some superfluous dialogue programmed into its vocabulary. By the time Michael regained his composure; the man had left a small gratuity, replaced his chair, and departed without a word.

"Thank you for coming," Michael muttered to Yossi's vacant chair. Despite the brief encounter, Michael knew this was the right guy for the upcoming task.

He glanced out to the street; like quicksilver, Yossi had blended into the crowd and disappeared. He had noticed Yossi wore a Rolex watch; times were not tough for this ex-Mossad.

# CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Michael finished his coffee and arrived at Sven's office soon afterwards.

"Good morning, Michael. Here are the papers for the property purchase. I have named the LLC The Aislinn Corporation. The translation is 'vision' in Gaelic. There have been no other interested buyers to date. Her superior called me back, and you are in a binding contract as of today. We have a ninety-day window in which to come up with the remainder of the money."

"Great, that's a load off my mind."

Sven continued, "This property was owned by a woman who died a while ago, it was seized due to back taxes."

"I know."

Sven appeared puzzled by Michael's demeanor. "This transaction is vital, is it not?"

"It could be."

"If the property closure date is before our settlement with Trinity, my firm will cover the final payment. I told Mrs. O'Reilly I am your attorney and I will handle the purchase."

"Sven, regarding the letters—if we must, let them see the sister's letter and tell them the map is not available out of consideration for privacy. We will not mention the letter from Sister Abbey's parents. If they insist on more clarification, we will deal with it at that time."

"My guess is that Trinity will not push for added proof once they are assured the cover is authentic. This cover has been missing for so long; theft would be hard to pin down in a court of law. How was your meeting with Yossi?

"I am impressed with his brevity and intense focus on the task at hand."

Sven chuckled, "He does lack the art for small talk."

"I will wait either at the bank or go across the street. If you have any questions that cannot wait, call me."

"Fine."

Michael continued, "There will be no discussion about money at that time; just the viewing with their appraiser. No photos will be taken while the cover is in our possession."

"They will be told that we will hold back on offering the cover to other interested parties for a period of time. I will diplomatically inform them if they discuss this matter with anyone, it will be put up for auction the following day. My final question will address how much time they will need to make a decision. I hope to get a concrete date." Sven leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his neck. "Well then, Michael, we are getting close to a final chapter in this saga."

"By the way, Sven, could we return to the bank? It's time to show you the letters. I think it will solidify your commitment to our proposal."

They strolled back to the bank, and Michael produced the map and letters. Michael watched Sven as he sat in silence, reading the letters. "Although I did not require more assurance, I appreciate your sharing these with me. They are conclusive." He folded the letters up in a slow, deliberate fashion. "I think that will do it for today. I will see you tomorrow as planned."

Michael felt drained and somewhat apprehensive. He walked to a children's park, sat for a while, and headed for his hotel. He remained reclusive for the rest of the day.

# CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Michael woke up with a jolt. He checked the time—this was the day that could change his life. He chose to walk until it was time for the meeting.

At last, it was time to enter the bank. He saw Yossi out of the corner of his eye, standing and reading a newspaper. This time, he was dressed head to toe in black, preferring to look the part of a private guard; dark sunglasses obliterated his ever-shifting eyes. There was an aura of tension. He felt bereft of self-assurance; his brain was paralyzed with anticipation. After all, this could be the heist of all time—a thriller, filled with deception. Michael had lost touch with reality. He removed the cover from the vault and placed it in Sven's hands. His mouth felt like he had swallowed a cotton ball. He had to get out of there!

There was a grassy area across the street, offering a few benches. Michael's feet felt as if they were slogging through cement. He decided to sit. He had an unobstructed view of the bank entrance. He saw the Irish group arrive in a limousine. He was sure these were the men from Trinity. For some reason, he felt better after seeing a glimpse of them. He donned his sunglasses and picked up the remnants of an abandoned newspaper to conceal his face. He had no idea how he would react until this moment, and he was disappointed with his frailty. Time crawled by, and his eyes never left the bank entrance. He vowed to himself this was the last time he would let the cover out of his sight. His apprehension was as elevated as when he dug the damn thing up!

Just as his mind began to wander, he was jolted back into reality when the revolving bank door moved, and the four men left the building. They stood outside for a few moments; one man used his cell for a short call. A town car rolled up and whisked them away.

Michael leapt to his feet and walked across the street. He regained his composure as he entered the bank. Sven was nowhere to be seen; Yossi was still by the door. As he came closer, Yossi nodded and stepped aside.

"Sven is inside, Mr. Evans."

Michael entered the room with his eyes glued on Sven. "Well, how did it go?"

"Let us get this treasure back in the safe, and we will take a walk."

The cover was replaced, and they walked out to the street.

"Well?"

"They said precious little, Michael. The appraiser was thorough. He did read the letters of appraisal from our sources. They poured over the cover with a magnifying glass. They used dental tools as our fellows did. There was one spokesperson; it was the gentleman from Trinity's fund raising group. It was very hard to read them. They certainly took their time. They wanted to know exactly how long they had to respond before the offer was open to other interested parties. I gave them three weeks to consider our offer. They did express gratitude for having the head start."

Michael muttered, "Little do they know."

"I expect them to get back to us before the deadline. They did say a curious thing. They wanted to know if we would be fully committed if we accepted their bid. I told them if the price was agreeable, accompanied by a reasonable deposit, we would be committed. I implied we would respond to their offer within twenty-four hours. I also indicated the greater the offer, the more likely the deal would be consummated immediately."

Michael was pensive. "I need some time to collect my thoughts. Thank Yossi for me. I'll see you later, Sven. Thanks again." He walked away; his brain was foggy—too much excitement.

# CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Michael called Sara with the latest information. He let her know he would call her the minute he received news from Ireland.

"When I get back, we'll paint the town."

"I'll look forward to it, Michael; do take care."

"We'll talk soon, Sara."

# CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Michael needed to get away for a while. He called Sven to let him know his plans. "Good morning, Sven. I have decided to visit Prague and Krakow; perhaps Vienna, if time permits."

"Excellent choices; their history goes back thousands of years."

Michael boarded the train to Krakow; the city was touted as a tourist Mecca, dating back to 1038—the era in which the cover was stolen.

He settled into a modest hotel and planned his visit. He was reluctant, but felt that he really couldn't leave before visiting Auschwitz; he scheduled the tour for the next day.

Auschwitz was bone-numbing. The symbols of the horror were so unbearable; he distanced himself from the guide's descriptive narrative. The enormity of what had taken place wrenched his soul.

As Krakow was such a beautiful city, he didn't want to leave on such a dismal note. He checked out the exhibits and galleries and left the following morning for Prague. There appeared to be plenty of attractions to keep him occupied; it was considered the Paris of Eastern Europe. He attended a violin concert that evening in the renowned St. Vitus Church.

Day two began with a call from Sven. "Hey, Sven!"

"I have news. Our proposal was accepted with no caveats."

Michael was dumbstruck. After a protracted silence, he found his voice. "You mean it's done—we're done?"

"We are in the home stretch."

"Unbelievable!"

"Due to your unique situation, this is most excellent. I would suggest you return tomorrow. Take the train back in the morning; we will have significant paperwork at this juncture."

"This is going to take a minute to sink in, Sven. I can't find the words to express my feelings."

"Understandable. Please call when you arrive at your hotel."

*******

Michael called New York. "Sara? Are you alone?"

"Yes..."

"Things are happening; I'm heading back to Zurich. There is no debate on any part of the proposal."

"This is beyond belief; I anticipated some sort of hang-up."

"You speak for both of us. I'll call you as soon as I have more details."

"This is such wonderful news, Michael! Goodbye for now."

As he ended the call, a tear rolled down his cheek. Brushing it aside, he wondered what had moved him at this point. Was it the deal being accepted? The relief of the final placement being in Ireland? Or, was it the pure essence of Sara and her unending enthusiasm and support? It was probably a combination of all three.

The trip back to Zurich was a blur. He was filled with fantasies of what he would do with such a huge sum of money. He wanted to buy a little apartment—Mrs. D's place would be perfect.

Nothing needed to be decided immediately, perhaps not for quite a while. He certainly needed time to sort out the different scenarios that would confront him in the next year. He arrived in Zurich, headed to his hotel, and placed a call.

"Sven, I'm back. Everything still on track?"

"We are poised and on track. Lunch tomorrow?"

"Same place; one p.m."

# CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Michael made his way to the café a few minutes early. It was a quiet setting; as the two men enjoyed an appetizer, Sven produced the papers from his briefcase.

Michael read the document: one hundred million! There were no amendments requested. He was stunned; his eyes froze on Sven's face. "My God, Sven, I thought it would be seventy million!"

"You never know, Michael."

Michael slowly shook his head; several moments went by in silence. "This is incomprehensible to me."

"My guess is that Trinity was afraid of losing out."

"No wonder you didn't give me the details over the phone."

"To tell you the truth, I wanted to observe your reaction firsthand."

Michael chuckled, "I don't blame you—this is incredible! Absolutely incredible! If you knew my recent situation, you would be stunned."

"Actually, Michael, through this whole thing, I have been amazed at how down-to-earth you have been. I must say, the fact that your first concern is setting up a charitable organization is commendable."

"When all is said and done, I may feel like sharing some of the particular details of my life with you. We've gone through much of this process together. By the way, where are we with the Irish cottage?"

"The property is yours. I have the final paperwork for you to sign."

Michael looked over the paperwork. "I see it is owned by my Aislinn Foundation. I'm happy about this purchase. This is perfect—I hope that no one can follow the trail to me."

"We can go back to my office after lunch and go over all the papers and Trinity's offer. I wanted you to see their signatures."

"This is the perfect place to raise our glass."

The duo toasted to the occasion with a split of champagne. Michael saw another side to Sven during lunch. The hard, stern lines had left his face, and his eyes lit up with enthusiasm.

*******

They headed back to Sven's office on foot. Michael felt the need to understand every line of the various contracts and papers. The entire meeting was recorded; he wanted Sara to hear the recording of the meeting, not his interpretation.

The adventure had started out so unhurried; now it seemed as if things were going a mile a minute. Mistakes could be costly.

When he returned to the States, he would need to meet the Los Angeles firm in person.

Sven interrupted Michael's thoughts. "You appear pensive, Michael."

"Just mulling the whole thing over in my mind. At what point do we hand over the cover?"

"The exchange will take place at the bank. Trinity will arrange for their security detail to be present."

"Do we have a date of transfer?"

"One week from today."

"How can that be?"

Sven replied, "Perhaps the government is covering the funds. I think they are anxious to get this deal completed and have the cover back on Irish soil."

"I'll be ecstatic to have it out of my hands."

Sven ruminated in a low voice, "I wonder what price it would have brought on the open market."

"I don't even want to think about it. The correct decision was made."

"After reading the letters, I realize what an exceptional tale this is."

"That it is—it borders on unbelievable. By the way, did Trinity give us a deposit?"

"Yes, they wired three million; it has been deposited into the foundation's account. The papers you sign today have you named as the official CFO and CEO."

"We will give Sara DiNapoli power of attorney in the event you are unable to continue for any reason. A backup is paramount."

"I also want to buy an apartment in New York. Is it possible to make the same financial arrangement?"

Sven gave Michael a knowing nod. "Consider it done, my friend!"

Michael continued, "I know of a little apartment in Brooklyn that's for sale. I would like to purchase it for my home and New York office. I have an emotional attachment to the place; a dear friend lived there."

"I believe we are able to buy it through the foundation and deed it to you. If not, we can grant you use for you and any marital partner for a lifetime."

Michael gave Sven a thumbnail description of the property in Ireland.

"I am assuming this is the property that housed the cover for many years?"

"Yes, it is. Who is able to view the papers and contracts we're setting up?"

"This is a privately held company; therefore, no outsiders—as long as the taxes are paid. We will do everything we can to keep your name anonymous. Also, the only address on these records will be our office address. Your New York address will not be in the picture."

The two men agreed to meet in a few days before the exchange of the cover in order to resolve any lingering questions.

# CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Michael took advantage of the next few days to visit Edinburgh.

He returned to Zurich the day before the final meeting to prepare himself for the exchange. He dined at a familiar restaurant; he would enjoy spending some time in Zurich each year. It was a beautiful city. His thoughts returned to Sara. He hoped she could cope with travelling. He had no idea how incapacitated she was for personal matters. There was no problem when they went to Manhattan. She seemed quite enthusiastic when he suggested a trip; it would mean a lot to re-live his journey with her.

The day the Trinity representatives arrived, he initiated his technique of distancing himself from the situation. He would observe his motions from outside his body. He was not sure he could describe this tactic, but it worked for him. He had perfected the technique when his former life fell apart. He supposed military men did the same thing.

He wondered if he would ever tell Sara about his past. As far as his other friendships, it worked in his favor to keep his past to himself. It would be easy to say he was helping an aging uncle who had passed and left him an inheritance. He supposed, due to his near-homeless situation, no one would question his explanation.

He dialed Sara from his hotel phone. "Hey, Sara, it's me."

"Hi, Michael, I'm on my way to physical therapy."

"I won't keep you. I am on my way to the big moment. If all goes well, I'll be back in a couple of weeks, or even sooner."

"It will be great to see you, Michael."

"I'm thinking of buying Mrs. De's place. I could keep one room in the back for a small office and rent the front. I'll touch base later."

"All the best, Michael."

A certain peace fell over him as he ended the call.

# CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Michael walked to the bank in slow motion. He opened the door and surveyed the foyer; he could see Yossi close by, and Sven was approaching.

"Sven, is..."

Sven interrupted, "All is in place, and I will be in the meeting room."

Michael observed Sven. He did not display any outward angst. His voice was calm; it was more about his body language. He moved his head in a clipped fashion, sort of birdlike; his eyes darted between Yossi and the door. Yossi was his usual icy self, guarded and beady-eyed.

Sven disappeared into the private office. Michael retrieved the cover and left it in Sven's hands. As he left the room, he uttered, "This is it, Sven."

He passed Yossi and hesitated; Yossi was calling Sven, announcing the imminent arrival of the three men representing Trinity. They and their guards were about a block away. Michael scurried out and across the street. Within minutes, three limos arrived; the passenger windows were tinted black. All three men exited, carrying identical hard-shelled briefcases chained to their wrists. Three more guards appeared from inside the bank; he guessed they used an elevator from the basement. These guards joined the rest of the Irish assemblage. Michael had never experienced anything like it, although, it did make sense.

Sven called Michael and spoke in a low voice, "Yossi informs me there are three more identical limos plus an armored car in the bank's rear underground area. It is the same armored group we use. The truck and limos are visible on our security videos. You will not see them leave, only the decoys leaving at the front of the bank."

Yossi escorted the men into the assigned room where Sven was waiting.

*******

Inside the room, Sven shook hands and answered a few questions. "Well, gentlemen, there is a little paperwork today. It addresses the fact you are accepting responsibility for the cover once it is in your hands." The papers were signed, and all was in order.

The cover was once more revealed and observed in detail by the purchasers. A cashier's check for the remaining amount was handed to Sven.

"Gentlemen, as you might expect, the manager will need to verify this. He will return in a moment."

After a thumbs-up from the manager, Sven inquired about the plan for the cover's return to Ireland. The scheme was a good one. The cover would be taken to the underground armored car by three of the Irish security guards with Yossi as further backup. Yossi would then return to Sven. The armored car in the basement was identical to the bank's armored vehicle. From the basement, it would then drive to a private airport with its precious cargo. The cover would be transported to Dublin in a corporate jet with an ambiguous logo. All three Trinity men who came in the front door would exit through the same door with their briefcases still chained to their wrists. Each man would enter a separate limo and proceed by three different routes to the Zurich airport.

Yossi opened the bank door and motioned for Michael to return.

After entering the bank, Michael felt like he was in a sudden vacuum. It was over—he was free as the wind. He didn't know what to do at this moment; he had not prepared himself. What should he do next, just walk out the door? Invite Sven for a cocktail? He stood immobile for what seemed to be an eternity.

Sven sensed Michael was at a loss. In an enthusiastic gesture, Sven shook his hand. "Michael, it is hard to believe—the deed is done. I suggest we decompress at the Savoy. It is time to celebrate."

"You know, Sven, I'm numb."

They headed out via elevator into the underground area. A private car was waiting. It was done; the whole thing was _fait accompli_. Thank God!

*******

The restaurant was elegant; Sven knew the maître d'. They were escorted to a secluded table, and a celebratory bottle of Dom Perignon was brought to their table. Their conversation was light, and once again, Michael observed the variation in Sven's demeanor. He became more animated and somewhat lighthearted. Well, lighthearted for Sven. Michael enjoyed himself as he slowly but surely crossed over the threshold into reality. He would meet Sven once more before his departure. He wanted to give him more details regarding his incredible journey. His ticket home was out of Dublin. He would leave Zurich the following day.

A new chapter was unfolding, one of monumental and pleasurable responsibility. Thank God things had turned out so well. He had a future with a purpose, a future that promised personal fulfillment.

He called Sara. "It's as if I've walked through a tunnel, and the sudden climax snuck up on me."

"What is your next step, Michael?"

"After I'm in New York for a few days, I'll visit the LA firm handling the stateside issues of this transaction.

Sara spoke in a confident tone. "This one firm encompasses every issue that you need to address."

"I was wondering if you could contact Mrs. De's realtors and see what's going on. I'll return there and work on purchasing her property."

"Sure."

"I believe her place is still off the market. I'll let you know when I'm due to arrive in New York. See you soon."

# CHAPTER SIXTY

Michael had his final meeting with Sven. A list of questions for the Los Angeles meeting was formalized. Money was made available for the purchase of an apartment in New York. Michael was ready to share more details of his past few years with Sven.

He spoke about being homeless at the time he discovered the tin. He described his discovery in detail. He underscored the fact that there was nothing underhanded about the surrounding circumstances. Sven was intent during Michael's tale and shook his head in amazement.

"This is an incredible story, Michael. For some reason, fate has chosen you to become a philanthropist. Quite a transformation, I must say. If there is anything I can do on a personal or business level, please know I am here for you."

Michael chose not to share any details of his life prior to arriving in New York. There were times he felt he could get through the saga without breaking down; this was not one of those moments.

It was time to say goodbye. The two men shared a hearty handshake combined with an impulsive, awkward embrace.

Michael walked down the street to prepare for his departure. So much had happened in the last year. He could not put in words how he felt.

He was rejuvenated; his self-respect had resurfaced, and he was confident he could keep his ego in check. It would be a kick to recount this story to his pals; however, it would be inadvisable. He flew back to Dublin and boarded the plane to New York. Home sweet home!

# CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

The flight back was a dream; Michael slept most of the way. He arrived in the morning and headed to Mrs. De's to freshen up. The next stop was to see Sara and Danny.

******

Danny looked up from behind the counter. "Michael, is that you?"

"Hi Danny!"

"Good to see you—sorry to hear about your uncle. Does Sara know you're back?"

"Not yet; I will head up to see her now; then I'm going over to the realtor's office to speak with them about Mrs. De's property.

"Yah, I heard it's still off the market. Go on up, she'll be surprised!"

Michael climbed the familiar stairs. He was brimming with anticipation. He had gifts for Sara and couldn't wait to enjoy the moment. A feeling of calm came over him; he was back with the people he had grown to love. Love, that four-letter word, had not been in his vocabulary for quite a while.

"Peek-a-boo!"

"Michael! My gosh, you're really here!"

He entered the room in a more timid fashion than usual. He wasn't sure why. He walked over and gave her a hug and kiss on the cheek. He caught the familiar scent of her powder. The moment was frozen in his mind. He sat down and smiled. With a cautious demeanor, the cat sniffed around him for a second then jumped on his lap as though no time had elapsed since his last visit.

From the moment he saw Danny and Sara, it was all he could do to appear composed. He felt warmth on his cheek, then embarrassing tears. He tried to disguise them as he blew his nose and cleared his throat. If Sara saw his tears, he knew she would make no mention of it. When he looked up, he saw his tears mirrored on her cheeks. It was obvious to Michael her ego was intact; she brushed them away, unashamed.

"My lady, I come bearing gifts," he chuckled. He reached in his bag and brought out the gift-wrapped watch. As she opened it, her eyes danced.

"It's beyond gorgeous, Michael! It is so beautiful!"

"It's more than a pleasure; I think it was the pink color that grabbed my attention."

"I don't know what to say!"

"Say nothing, my friend. I have a few more trinkets. He reached into his bag. The second gift was in a smaller box wrapped in the classic European tissue-like paper.

"A cameo!"

"A souvenir from Venice."

"The peach color is exquisite!"

"We might want to make a trip back to get the matching earrings." He scolded himself; better to give the idea of a trip overseas a rest. He had to admit he wanted to read the look on her face.

She had an embarrassed, but bashful smile; without looking up, she murmured, "That would be very nice."

He was relieved—a future trip was still on her radar.

"I thought you might like this for our trips to Manhattan." He brought out a cashmere scarf in a powder blue, burgundy, and white plaid. "This plaid is commemorating Princess Diana."

"It's so feminine and soft."

"And here are a couple of Irish charms for your bracelet."

"Michael, you are so thoughtful. I do appreciate it."

"You've been a beacon of light during this venture. I can't imagine how the whole thing would have come down if I had tried to do it on my own."

Her face revealed her embarrassment, and she quickly changed the subject. "I have news, Michael; the realtor said Mrs. De's property would be back on the market soon, and at a reduced price."

"The original price was fair; what was their motive for the reduction?"

"I think they just want the matter settled. I'm really not sure. You mentioned you had an interest in buying it?"

"Yes. I'll have my office in the back and research potential charities here. It will probably involve a trip to Zurich now and then. As you know, I wish to lie low about all this. I will need some private office space."

"Is Los Angeles your next trip?"

"Sven is calling them; he'll do a conference call with his accountant and lawyer to fill them in. Once I hear from Sven, I'll make the trip to L.A."

They passed some time looking at his photos of the nanny's cottages and the countryside. He left Sara and headed for the realtor's office. The realtor revealed that Mrs. De did want the place sold as soon as possible.

"I have decided to buy it myself. It will be an all cash offer at the original asking price."

The realtor sat forward with a curious look; her face highlighted her surprise. "Really?"

"The original price was fair. I have come into an inheritance; I won't need a mortgage, and the funds are available now.

"This is wonderful, Mr. Evans. Congratulations! I'll overnight the papers to Mrs. De Marco."

Michael digested his change of lifestyle; once more, he had a home of his own!

# CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Things were continuing to move along, including Michael's trip to Los Angeles.

He would leave in a couple of days.

*******

The sisters were overjoyed to see him. He kept the conversation superficial regarding his absence. As usual, they did not press the issue. He kept his eyes open for any way he could be of help. From this point forward, his assistance would be gratis. He would indicate that inherited money had changed his lifestyle. He left money in the "poor box," knowing they would suspect he was the benefactor.

"Sister Bernadette, I'm going out of town for a few days; make a wish list for my return."

"Aye, Michael, and we'll have your favorite breakfast a waitin' for you."

"I will never forget your kindness during my difficult times."

"Go on with ya, Michael; we're in this world together."

He continued to experience predictable twinges of guilt when he visited them. He would make sure they were well cared for.

*******

Michael and Sara had dinner on the eve of his departure for LA. It was as if the last few months had never taken place. However, there were two huge differences: he now owned a home, and he was about to embark on the most wonderful mission he could wish for. The big plus was that he would share it with Sara.

"I'll call you after the meeting in Los Angeles."

She waved goodbye from her window. As he made his way home, he reveled in complete contentment.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

The flight to L.A. was a breeze; the firm had a town car waiting for him. He was sporting a short, cropped, three-day beard, a crew cut, and the same sunglasses he used in Zurich. He stayed in a boutique hotel close to the firm's office. He chose a linen suit to wear for the meeting and continued on to the firm of Cohen and Bradford.

The Century City office was tastefully decorated with Japanese décor. They planned to meet again the following morning, which would include a conference call with Sven. They began at six a.m., which would be afternoon in Zurich.

All in all, Michael was pleased with the group. It turned out that other than the initial set up, little would be done stateside. It was their hope American taxes could be avoided for the foundation, as the money originated in Zurich and would be distributed from there. This would be Michael's only visit to Los Angeles. Although the weather was enviable in Southern California, he preferred the New York lifestyle.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Michael's return trip to JFK was tedious; he was anxious to get started on his new life. He would ask Sara to help him decorate his apartment. He wanted to preserve Mrs. De's essence; the chiming clock and cookie tin would be permanent fixtures. After what seemed like the longest flight ever, the plane landed, and he made his way home.

*******

Michael visited Sara the following morning. Danny grunted, "Haven't seen you in a couple of days."

"I needed to tie up a few loose ends."

Danny looked a little uneasy, "Looks like your life has taken a big change. I hear you're taking over Mrs. De's place."

"Yup, I'm about to become a homeowner, but I'll still be able to continue helping you, Danny—if you like."

"Great, was my concern that obvious?" Danny appeared embarrassed.

"I'll be back on the job in about a week. I need to get settled in at Mrs. De's." Michael wondered—would he always refer to his new home as Mrs. De's? Maybe.

He knocked on Sara's door and entered. Michael had sensed a different body language in Sara since his return. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. He felt that most folks knew inherently if another person was attracted to them. He would take it slow, but he did wish to further their relationship—if she gave him any signals.

They discussed the L.A. trip in detail, and their day ended with a walk and dinner. As usual, Michael carried Sara upstairs. They had been sharing this moment like brother and sister for years. In the past, it was like carrying a child, but this time it was different. The electricity of being close to her was in full force.

He sensed that she felt something different too; she seemed embarrassed. He felt clumsy as he sat her in the wheelchair; he felt awkward and a little flustered. He tried to regain his composure by fixing her blanket.

"Sorry, just a little clumsy today," he was aware his face was flushed.

He bent over and kissed her cheek, paused a moment, and gave her a hesitant hug.

Michael knew they both lingered in the moment; without saying a word, he was sure they both acknowledged a flicker of a new type of emotion. Michael hid his trembling hands in his pocket.

His affection for Sara was undeniable, yet he wasn't sure how to handle it. They had been friends for a long time. He didn't know how to deal with his new feelings. How does one bridge the gap from being close friends to an intimate relationship? A sudden flash of memory took him by surprise—images from the distant past that he worked so hard to keep at bay. His attraction to Jenny had started the same way.

His departure was a blur. He noted a little confusion in her face. He felt they were both awkward, but in an affectionate way. It was clear that an emotional escalation was at hand.

He wondered if he should tell her of his past—she deserved to know. It would be difficult; he had never spoken about that night; the pain was too deep. He wanted to escape the whole subject—forever.

He walked over to Mel's, hoping Adam would still be at the bar. He needed to spend some downtime with his pal. He opened the door; it was like no time had passed. Adam was at his usual place, and Joey was in the back, playing pool. The rest of the evening was devoid of serious talk. Michael realized how much he had missed the camaraderie at Mel's.

Adam filled Michael in on Joey's situation. He was on probation, and things were going well. He would be starting a training program for the handicapped in the coming months.

Michael returned to his apartment and turned on the TV; his eyes were staring at Letterman, but he was mulling over how to tell Sara about his past. He felt some urgency about it; he was not sure why. He acknowledged that his feelings for Sara had been brewing for months. In retrospect, he often buried difficult issues beneath the surface, and then suddenly, the issue would pop up for immediate consideration. He was ready to take it on very soon.

Michael's final decision bordered on somewhat of a cop-out. He planned to give her a letter at his next visit. There had been no reason to re-live that moment, now there was. Sometime in the future he would seek counseling; right now it was still too raw. Repression had worked for him. Still, it would be wrong to start an intimate relationship with Sara without telling her of his past.

Over the next few days, he stayed busy helping around the neighborhood. All the while, he was mulling over his letter to Sara. It wasn't going to be easy, this much he knew.

That night, Michael sat at the kitchen table reviewing the final draft of his letter.

Dear Sara,

I have wanted to tell you my story for a long time. Some of it is very painful, too painful to tell you in person.

I was born in Chicago thirty- five years ago. My childhood was good; we lived in an upper middle-class neighborhood and had no real problems. My mom had a degree in nutrition but chose to be a homemaker; she gave Dad and me a wonderful home life. She was a loving mom but a little weak on discipline. She spoke of going back to work when I grew up, but the time never came. Money was not that much of an issue. My parents did not get involved with outside commitments; they spent most of their leisure time with me. My childhood was filled with memories of playing in the park, milk and cookies after school, and dinner with Mom and Dad most every night. They helped me with homework, and my friends were welcome in our home.

Mom developed breast cancer and died when I was twenty. Needless to say, I miss her a lot. Dad was diagnosed with heart disease, which eventually took his life ten years ago.

I had a few close friends throughout my school years. We got into some mischief, but nothing worth mentioning. High school was good; I played basketball and football and had a couple of girlfriends. I remained a virgin until twelfth grade; I was afraid of appearing foolish and inexperienced. This mindset has followed me through my life. I felt I needed to be an expert from day one, no matter what the challenge. I am likely to remain in the background longer than most other adults.

Dad was a typical father of that era; he worked hard for long hours. His role was the breadwinner and chief disciplinarian. I always felt loved. Mom and Dad rarely argued. Things were discussed at an intellectual level; mutual respect was a big word in our family.

Anyway, my childhood was great, and I am content when I recall those days. My parents set good examples, and I intend to honor their moral code.

I wasn't sure what I wanted to do when I graduated from high school. I went to a city college and graduated with an associate's degree in science. I went on and received my Bachelor's degree. By this time, I had a steady girlfriend. She received her degree and credentials and taught first grade. Her name was Jenny, and we had a close friendship long before we fell in love. She was interested in politics, and we spent many hours debating ecology and foreign policies. We were married in a garden in the presence of our parents and a few close friends. A friend offered the use of his home, and our guests brought casseroles and appetizers. We supplied the wine, cake, and flowers. It was a beautiful day I will cherish forever. We had two children in the next three years, and I decided to join the Chicago Fire Department, having been trained as an EMT. Life was good, despite the usual tight money difficulties at the beginning of a marriage.

Jenny was gentle and soft-spoken and knew how to approach me when we had disagreements. I knew we were blessed. I was away for days at a time; Jenny managed the kids alone with ease.

On one of my four-day stints before Christmas, we had a call at four a.m. A man reported that he could see flames down his street. Judging by the caller's address, I knew the fire was near my home. The roads were icy, and our response was delayed. Before we reached the corner, we could see the glow in the sky. Up until that moment, I had no idea it was my home that was on fire. I cannot describe my feelings or actions from that point forward.

_My sweet Jenny, Doug, and Ronnie were buried on December 29_ th _. The ignition point of the fire was our Christmas tree. I had failed to refill the tree stand with water, and the tree was likely tinder-dry. The guilt will be with me until the day I die. My childhood memories have helped me through these difficult years, although, there were times in the past when I did not want to continue on._

So, my dear friend, this is my story. Within weeks, I left my hometown and friends, having no home to sell. Nothing was left but ashes and a brick fireplace. We had borrowed money from Jenny's parents to buy our home, so I repaid them with the insurance money and left for New York. I needed to escape the constant reminders of my little family. These are apocalyptic memories. My intention was to disappear into the abyss of a large city. Distance has helped me, and I prefer to move on, rather than relive, re-tell, or try to reconcile that part of my life. I do want you to know my story. Maybe someday I will be able to talk about it, but not yet.

I know this letter rambles, but it is the first time I have put that horrible day on paper.

My life has taken a one hundred and eighty-degree turn. I am on a different path, finding myself with a chance to enrich the lives of others and a further opportunity to heal; helping others is good medicine for my soul. Perhaps Jenny orchestrated this new challenge for me. I look forward to it.

Living in a homeless shelter was an eye-opener for me; it was difficult to carry on and start a new life. My path to recovery has been enhanced with meaningful new friendships—yours above all, Sara. Discovering Sister's letter was a huge blessing. Now I've been given a chance to help others. I admit it has also made my lifestyle more comfortable. I hope Sister Abbey is looking down on me; I want to make her proud.

You may be the only person with whom I will share this story. Please tuck it away in the furthest corner of your heart and keep it safe. Perhaps one day, we will talk about it.

With Deep Affection,

Michael

Michael noticed his hands were moist, not to mention the tears streaming down his face. He re-read his letter; he knew that he probably could have worded it better. Instead, he chose to fold it up and once more close the door on that horrible night. He would hand her the letter tomorrow—just as he was leaving. He wanted Sara to read it alone. He hoped she would "let sleeping dogs lie," an expression his mom often quoted.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

The next day arrived all too soon; he walked over to Sara's. "Hey, want to go out for dinner?"

"Love to! It is good to see you, Michael. Have you been busy?"

"You bet; I'm trying to get settled; lots of paperwork." His statement was a stretch. In truth, he'd been preoccupied with composing his letter. A little white lie would have to suffice. "I'm ready to pick out some furniture for the apartment. Would you like to help me?"

"Of course! It'll be fun."

They would begin the search the day after tomorrow. Throughout dinner, Sara appeared animated. Michael supposed this would be her first outing for furnishings. It would be fun for both of them.

When they arrived back at Sara's apartment, he carried her up the stairs as usual; her body seemed more relaxed as he cradled her. He dared to confirm this was a message of affection. He was a little nervous about leaving the letter; nonetheless, he was determined. He sat for a while, barely aware of their conversation. He had the letter in his outer pocket. He had rehearsed this moment for days.

"Well, I'll be off; I'll pick you up around one on Friday." He moved over to her and gave her his routine hug and kiss.

"I'm leaving a letter for you—it tells a little of my past. It isn't something I want to talk about, but I'd like you to know a little more about me."

He saw Sara was puzzled. She took the letter in her hand and looked up, giving him a soft smile.

"See you soon, Michael."

Michael heaved a sigh of relief as he escaped into the night air. At last, he was sharing his past with a special person in his life. He reflected on how he had separated his former life from the present. He knew it was time to make her aware of a vulnerable corner in his heart. He needed to own up to the fact he was preparing himself for a new relationship. Giving her the letter was the first step.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Two days later, they were ready for their first furniture-shopping expedition. Michael arrived on time. "Is my personal interior decorator ready?"

"Without a doubt! I'm so excited!"

Michael was happy to see the "animated Sara" in full force. She was forever cheerful, but in these moments, she was vibrant. They spent the day browsing in several stores and agreed on most everything.

They made one big purchase. Neither of them was in a rush—it was too much fun. They ended the day in Manhattan, took in a movie, and ate at a little diner. She used the restroom as usual. Michael was thankful she was not tethered to her apartment arrangement for personal needs. She had never discussed the extent of her injuries or limitations. He knew she went to physical therapy every week; anything beyond that was a mystery.

They returned to her apartment and shared a cup of tea. Michael headed out; relieved she made no mention of his letter. It was what he had hoped for. After all, she had been through the untimely deaths of her mom and brother and had never spoken one word of her tragedy. The difference in the two situations fell on the one fact: he felt responsible for the deaths of his wife and children. He doubted Sara was grappling with that issue. He had heard that survivors of such a tragedy wonder why they were left to carry on. He continued down the well-trodden path of guilt, the well-worn word "why." Imagine a fireman on duty, losing his family to a fire in his own home—a fire that was the direct result of his negligence. They had discussed an artificial tree and he had been lukewarm about the purchase. He wondered if he would ever stop persecuting himself for their deaths—he doubted it. He felt like he had lost a part of his very being. One goes on; however, it is never the same. He caught himself ruminating in his grief and focused on the microscopic details of some flowers outside the store. This approach had worked for him; he would focus on something beautiful. It was like a meditation that freed his mind.

He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps and a box being dropped on the floor. He looked up to see Danny nudging the box over with his foot and rubbing his back.

"Hey, Danny. Isn't it late for you to be down here? Let me help you."

"Thanks, Michael. I enjoy it. I'll go up now. Did you kids see a movie?"

"Yes, we had a full day; we also looked at furnishings for my apartment."

Danny wiped his eyes, and took off his apron. Michael thought he looked more tired lately. The man had to be close to seventy-five.

"Take it easy, Danny. You've got to keep your health up."

Danny didn't answer, but he gave Michael a melancholy smile and a salute as he turned for the stairs. "Ciao, Michael."

"Ciao, Danny."

# CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

The days passed, and Michael returned to his old routine. The sisters tried to pay him for his help, but to no avail. "Your wonderful meals are payment in full. Please, Sister, my situation has changed, and I'm happy to help you." They took the hint and stopped offering remuneration. Sister Bernadette continued to spoil him with special meals. It was a perfect situation. He continued to help Danny, accepting his lunch as payment. He knew it was important for Danny to repay him in some way.

He managed to do a convincing job of losing pool games to Joey. He and Sara spent most Saturdays looking for furniture. They relished in the fun of it—all the while becoming closer. On one occasion, they were laughing so hard at a movie, that the inevitable moment presented itself. He leaned over, touching his forehead to hers. As the laugh ebbed, he found his lips on hers. However trivial the kiss, this was a breakthrough moment in their relationship. He knew it was a modest kiss, but it was stirring to the point of embarrassment for Michael. Neither knew quite how to react. Michael doubted he, or Sara, would forget the moment. There was no turning back now; their body language changed in that instant.

A few evenings later, Sara pressed a letter into his hands. He said nothing, smiled and put it in his pocket. When he returned home, he sat on the sofa and took out the letter.

Sweet Michael,

I have read your letter several times; thank you for sharing this with me. I am touched by your situation. I am motivated to also share some details of my past. Some of my situation is obvious, and no doubt you have heard snippets of the details surrounding the accident. I lost my mom and brother in an auto accident a few years ago. I am not paralyzed; I do have feeling in my legs. With aggressive therapy, someday I might walk with crutches and braces. But, there is a part of me that is stuck. I wonder why I was left behind. Why not my brother or mom? Were they not more worthy to remain here with Dad? My brother was an accomplished violinist; I have no outstanding talents. Dad and Mom were so good together. It is so hard to understand. My motivation is more crippled than my legs. It is a challenge for me to describe what is holding me back. I'm sure there is a medical term for it.

I do not feel sorry for myself. I am trying to draw myself out of the shock of it all. In a strange way, I have been immobilized. I remained conscious at the accident scene, watching helplessly, as my brother and mother took their last breath. Many forthcoming chapters of my life were lost that day.

_Keeping my leg muscles active until my psyche catches up has been my thread of hope. I'm working with a psychologist to get past the recurring vision that haunts me. He is convinced my inability to walk is more psychological than physical._ _I did sustain several breaks in my legs, and they are healed. It will not be an easy road, but I'm beginning to come out of my shell. During the first few years, I didn't have the motivation to seek more aggressive therapy. The effort and pain required just didn't seem worth it. Perhaps I have been in a deep depression, and it manifested itself in this way; I don't know._

I'm thinking of starting a more aggressive physical therapy program. There is still money left from the accident settlement.

Why am I telling you all this? A grueling exercise regime may change my temperament. Perhaps I will become tired, moody, weepy, or short-tempered. I must embark on this journey, not knowing my final destination. I think I am ready. In a vicarious way, sharing the excitement in your venture has delivered me to the 'here and now'. I want to travel and experience the outside world as you have. In a roundabout way, Sister Abbey has also given me a push in the right direction.

I led a sheltered life prior to the accident; this frame of mind may have been another obstacle preventing me from forging ahead. Anyway, to make this long story longer, I want you to know about my predicament. I hope we will stay friends, but I may become somewhat "fragile." Wish me luck, my best friend. I hope our friendship will remain solid, no matter the outcome of our individual journeys.

Much love, Sara

P.S. Dad doesn't know about my new therapy; I think I'll wait for some positive results before I tell him.

Michael sat back and took a deep breath. Her letter explained many questions that had been in the back of his mind. He had wondered if Sara might walk again, but this was the first definitive news. He could understand why she told him; she would need his silent support. It was easy to understand her potential frailty. Any changes in her disposition would be short-lived in the scheme of her life. He was determined to take her anywhere in the world to get the best treatment. It sounded like she was not bound to American doctors; she was using insurance money. How could he let her know he was willing to take her anywhere for a second opinion? He mumbled, "Michael, here you are, already plotting to orchestrate her care. She is a smart little gal, capable of making appropriate decisions." Just as he had requested in his letter, he would not discuss its contents unless Sara initiated the conversation. He put the letter on his bedside table and crawled beneath the covers. Sleep arrived before he finished processing the letter.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

The days sailed by; the Abbey Foundation was up and running. Michael's apartment was furnished, and the plan for the downstairs was created. The old meat locker area would become his windowless office. There would be space for a small window-front shop sometime in the future. He would bring in office equipment little by little. He didn't want to stir up curiosity. He sat back and tried to process the past year. Through his smile, he felt a single, salty tear as it journeyed down his cheek.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Michael had not mentioned Sara's more frequent sessions. She became more fatigued, often falling asleep while they were watching TV. He would leave early tonight, knowing Danny would be there if she needed assistance. He looked at her—so peaceful in her sleep. He crept out and onto the street.

They had talked about the foundation and were in the process of compiling lists of possible recipients. They both had a firm interest in helping those who wanted to help themselves. The subject of micro-businesses came up often; with small donations, many small trades were flourishing in third world countries. The accountants and a Swiss banker had arranged some sound investments to keep the foundation self-sufficient. He ran the Swiss proposals past two independent financial advisors. They agreed the plan was secure. There would never be a reason to take risks.

Sara was included in all aspects of the foundation; she could take over, if need be. He bought a life insurance policy with Sara as owner. He felt a keen obligation to take care of her—and Danny.

# CHAPTER SEVENTY

"Hey, Sara, Manhattan on Sunday?" She hadn't mentioned her new therapy; maybe on Sunday she would say something.

On Sunday morning, they went to church together. The service was meaningful. The lecture addressed finding God within one's self and in the marvels of nature. Afterwards, they lunched at a little café.

As they were finishing their meal, Sara looked up. "I would like to give you a report on my therapy."

The faint smile on her face told Michael it was good news. "By all means."

"It's been going well. I have taken a few clumsy steps with braces and rails supporting me. I may need some surgery on my hips, the doctors aren't sure."

He remained silent, hoping she would continue, but it appeared this was the extent of her news.

"That's great news! If you ever want to get an opinion from international specialists, you know I'm here for you, physically and financially."

She looked down and put her hand in his but remained silent.

Michael smiled, "I know, I won't bring the subject up again; just know I'm here, wherever this path leads you."

As they left the restaurant, Michael's mind was whirling. He took her home, and they topped off the evening by watching a movie on Netflix.

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

Michael made his way to Sara's after lunch. His thoughts wandered. He knew in his heart, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He was fairly sure she felt the same. However, he felt they both had enough on their plate at the moment. It was not the time to propose marriage. He thought he might give her a ring at Christmas. Concluding her therapy before there were other changes in her life seemed the right way to go. He reminded himself, if she could walk, she might want some personal freedom—to make up for lost time. It was obvious she valued her independence. He took her to see the sisters once a month. He knew they sensed their budding romance. When the time came, he looked forward to sharing the news of their engagement with Sister Bernadette. "Hey, Sara, may I join you?

"Of course, come in."

Their conversation was relaxed, almost lazy. Michael felt it was a good time to ask Sara about a few things. "Sara, were you baptized Catholic?"

"Yes, though Daddy and I drifted away from the Church after the accident."

"I was baptized Catholic, but my parents didn't attend church—except Easter and Christmas."

"I didn't know that, Michael."

"I admit to being a spiritual interloper." Michael was relieved to know, in essence, they were both Catholic; both partners must be Catholic to be married in a Catholic church—Danny might insist. Whew, that hurdle was easy.

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

The months passed. Sara did spend time at Michael's home, but they stayed at Danny's place most of the time. Sara was not ready for complete intimacy, but nevertheless, they were like two lovebirds, cuddling and loving each moment.

They decided, for the first year, they would request a six-month review of their chosen charities with yearly reviews to follow. The Girls' Club was number one on the list. Their long-range dream was to help children in Ireland and the States who had difficult circumstances at home.

Sara was resolute in creating a home for pregnant mothers, offering a solution other than abortion. She envisioned a choice for expectant moms, childcare education or adoption alternatives, and a GED program. The women would leave the home prepared for their future. She felt the program could become self-sustainable if prospective adoptive parents donated a specified amount to the facility. Perhaps the Catholic Church would assist them.

Another project for the first year was one of Michael's priorities. He would start a training program for the residents of the New York shelters. In order to participate, the residents would need to be clean and sober. He wanted computers and a teacher on site. Upon completion at each level, there would be incentive money set aside in a trust account. After graduation, they would receive a weekly pension for three months while they searched for a permanent job.

A donation to the Heifer Program was a no-brainer—people bettering their own circumstances by raising animals for their own livelihood. Last on their list were donations to homes for battered women in Chicago, Los Angeles, Detroit, and New York. Of course, contributing to cancer research was a must since cancer had taken Sister Abbey's life. It would be an exciting year.

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

During the next few months, Michael noticed Danny walking slower, and he appeared short of breath. It was obvious he was losing weight.

Sara sighed, "I'll try to get him to go to the doctor. He's not been in years; I doubt he will go."

She was right—he flat-out refused.

As the season changed, so did Danny. One evening he fell on the stairs; he had been working all day. Michael was upstairs when he heard the thud. He found Danny lying at the bottom of the stairs, ashen and unaware of his surroundings. The ambulance arrived within ten minutes. Michael repeated the well-worn words to those whose lives were in peril: "Hang on, Danny, hang on—we'll follow you to the hospital."

After hours of waiting, they were told it was a heart attack. The physician had started a clot-busting medication; fortunately, Danny had reached the hospital within the "golden hour." The doctor also expressed concern about the lack of breath sounds in one of Danny's lungs. They would investigate this once he was stable.

Sara and Michael took shifts at his bedside. To their relief, Danny rallied after two days.

The bad news came a few days later. Danny had advanced lung cancer.

He returned home the following day. His demeanor was unchanged; he was the same old Danny. The question remained whether he would subscribe to the devastating chemo and radiation. Michael and Sara did not speculate about the situation. They waited for Danny to tell them his plans.

A few days later, Danny came upstairs and announced, "Hey you guys, let's go to Sara's favorite place for dinner; it's on me."

The dinner was filled with light conversation, albeit Michael and Sara had sensed an impending serious discussion. As they finished up, Danny suggested they meet back at the apartment for a "little talk." In silence, Michael thanked God the "talk" would not be in a restaurant. Once they were settled, Danny launched into the justification for his decision.

"Well kids, I have given this whole cancer thing a lot of thought—" he gave a half chuckle under his breath, "I even talked with Father Murphy."

"I have had two meetings with the doctor in charge of my case. My chances of success with the chemo are next to nothing. It's already in my bones. My quality of life would be less than pleasant. Lingering on in misery is not my wish. I'm still in pretty good shape." He stopped and cleared his throat. "I would like to take you both on a trip to Italy. Do you think we could do it? Manny has offered to take care of the store."

Michael and Sara gave a fleeting look at each other and nodded cautiously.

"Sure, Dad, we'd love to spend this time with you. What a treat! Were you thinking a couple of weeks?"

"Yeah, I can make it that long. I would like to visit the area where my parents were born and buried. My cousins received their remains and buried them in our family plot."

"Sure, Danny, I would be happy to join you and Sara."

"Hey, get that gloomy look off your faces. We'll go first class all the way. I want this to be a happy time." He mustered up a hearty laugh and rose to leave. "So it's a go?"

"It'll be great, Danny. Sara and I will be honored to be your guests."

Danny looked at Sara; she could see his eyes were moist. "Sara, may I leave the arrangements to you?"

"For sure, Dad—we'll make it special."

After Danny left the room, they just sat there, looking at each other; finally Sara spoke, "You know, Michael, I can't blame him for his decision. Although I've not had to make that choice, I might be inclined to do the same."

"I agree."

"I've had a great relationship with Dad, and I don't need to see him miserable in order to have one or two more months with him." She paused for a moment looking out the window. "I agree with Dad; let's make it a happy time."

Michael interjected, "I do think we should go non-stop, first class. It's a long trip, and it would be better for him to be able to stretch out. I'll pick up the tab for the upgrade, he won't know."

"Thanks so much, Michael."

Michael knew it would also be beneficial for Sara. "We'll choose the airline with the beds; he can sleep on the plane."

"I wasn't prepared for this news. I thought Dad was going to tell us there would be no chemo, but a trip—it's a wonderful idea. He will be doing something meaningful during these remaining days. It'll leave us with a special memory too." Sara started to choke up with the last few words; she quickly regained her composure.

Michael saw her momentary slip. He knew Sara would appreciate some time alone. "You know, I am really exhausted. Do you mind if I cut the evening short?"

"Sure, Michael, it's a lot to digest."

"I think I'll drop in and see Adam—just to wind down a bit. Will you be all right?"

"I'm fine. Let's go over the details tomorrow. I'll start looking for accommodations."

"Call me tomorrow." Although Michael gave her a hug and kiss, he sensed they were both somewhere else; they were void of displaying affection at this moment.

"I'm off."

Sara winked, "By the way, thanks for realizing I need a little time on my own."

"Yeah, sure, I understand."

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

Michael kept the conversation light at Mel's and left after an hour. There was a definite chill in the air that seemed to echo his emotions. The thought of losing Danny and all that would mean—it would take time to process the ramifications.

He was relieved he had the comfort of his new home. He fell asleep pondering Danny's decision and how he could help make it a memorable trip.

Michael couldn't imagine Danny not being present at their wedding. Poor Danny—he was facing the prospect of not knowing who would care for Sara. Maybe he should speed things up a bit. It was a serious issue, and he had not discussed any future plans with Sara. He had always thought Danny would see his little girl, possibly even standing on her own, exchanging her vows with Michael. Many nights he had dared to imagine their wedding without Sara being confined to a wheelchair. Danny should be by her side. Once again, a higher power was stepping in. He would look for an engagement ring. The first priority was Sara's wellbeing, followed by managing the charities. The rest would fall into place. He decided to wait and see what Danny might suggest regarding the store.

The next two weeks passed in a blink. Sara had finalized the plans for their trip. They were flying first class. A few nights before they left, Michael took Sara and Danny out for dinner. It was a small, intimate place close to home. They ordered dessert; Sara's arrived covered in a shiny dome. Danny and Michael commented that it must be something "extra special." With a quizzical look, she removed the lid and discovered a blue velvet box. She had a momentary flash of puzzlement, and then looked at Danny with a knowing smile. She opened the box, all the while, looking at Danny. The look on her face said it all. Her eyes widened and an audible gasp followed. A sparkling diamond and sapphire engagement ring took her breath away. She was speechless—tears began to flow. She appeared to be momentarily confused until Michael took her hand and uttered the words.

"My sweet Sara—will you marry me?"

Danny was smiling from ear to ear. The two men had shared the plan ahead of time. At this point, all eyes were glistening, including the wait staff.

"Oh, Michael, I am in shock—I—yes—yes and yes!

The wait staff remained well in the background. At this point they started clapping and cheering; soon the other patrons chimed in. It was a joyous moment. All three were unabashed as they wiped their glistening eyes. It was one of those times in life when tears of joy are meant to be shared with both friends and strangers alike.

Sara slipped the ring on; it shimmered in the light. At this point, she was still trying to catch her breath. Michael knew he had made the right decision. Now, all three would feel more secure. He knew Danny's journey in life was drawing to a close. This might give him peace, knowing Sara would be cared for. The night was a complete joy for all.

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Their departure day came, and they were pre-boarded. It was a nine-hour evening flight, arriving in Rome at eleven-thirty in the morning. Michael had never flown first class. The seats flattened out like a bed. Michael enjoyed every minute of the luxurious flight.

They watched a movie, had a late dinner, and bedded down. Although necessary for this trip, the price was exorbitant. It was money well-spent for a hardworking man and his gracious daughter. Michael had one more surprise up his sleeve, and Danny was in on it.

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

The three travelers arrived in Rome without incident. They planned to remain in the ancient city for the first few days, and the next leg would be on to the town where Danny's parents had lived. They had slept well on the plane. After settling in at a small hotel, they headed out to see a few of the famous sites. The Vatican was first on the list; the famous Michelangelo fresco was the hit of the day. The splendor of the Sistine Chapel and St Peter's Basilica took their breath away. It was not a crowded day, and they were able to maneuver easily.

They stopped for lunch in a small rustic café that featured typical Italian fare. It was obvious the restaurant catered to local patrons. Michael could see Danny was in his element. He had never seen him so relaxed and peaceful. It was as though he had left his gruff facade in his suitcase. They moved on to a little gelato shop and indulged in a cone. This was a repeat for Sara as she had visited Rome with her mom. On the other hand, it was a dream fulfilled for Michael and Danny. They were captivated by the size and intricacy of the sculptures behind the fountain. Sara threw a coin over her shoulder and closed her eyes. Danny and Michael joined in the ritual. It might have been a bittersweet gesture in light of Danny's condition, but the look on his face told a different story. Michael wondered if any of the onlookers imagined what he, Danny, and Sara were wishing. On second thought, everyone had a story, all poignant and equally significant.

The Spanish Steps were next. Many shoppers lazed on the vast, ascending, one hundred and thirty-eight steps.

Everyone appeared to enjoy the moment of respite.

After dinner, they strolled for a while and retired early.

The following morning, they visited the Pantheon and the Coliseum. They were walking where Nero had ruled, gladiators had fought, and Christ was sentenced to death. The Biblical stories came to life.

Danny had been keeping up until this moment. He stopped, and took a few deep breaths. "Let's take a break, guys."

After lunch, they moseyed around smaller, more intimate, private galleries. After a rest, they hailed a taxi and dined just outside the city. They planned to leave by train for Terni in the morning. Danny's strength was holding up; he was cheerful and appeared at peace with the world.

Michael was looking forward to Terni. They would be guests of Danny and Sara's cousins, who met them at the station. The trip to their home was a short jaunt. It was a typical stone farmhouse. The walls were partially concealed with dense green ivy. A small olive orchard and several grape vines complemented the field adjacent to the front yard. It reminded Michael of the movie _Under the Tuscan Sun_. That evening, friends, relatives, and neighbors arrived for an outdoor dinner. Danny, the honored guest, was seated at the head of the table. His disposition changed before their eyes. Michael could tell Sara was thrilled to see her father so free and outgoing, and—very talkative. The meal was comprised of more dishes than they had ever seen on one table. The children played nearby with goats, dogs, and cats; American toys were noticeably absent.

As Michael looked down the table, despite the fact they were newly acquainted, he felt a genuine closeness to these folks. The balmy weather, paired with the delicious fare, made Michael euphoric; the wine accentuated his mood.

The sound of children laughing in the background was musical. It was almost implausible how this incredible dinner had come together with what appeared to be very little effort. Everyone brought food and helped in a discreet manner. The evening centered on an endless string of conversation and laughter. A neighbor played the guitar, and some folks joined in singing familiar songs.

Finally, the precious day ended, and they retired around ten to their modest bedrooms.

The following morning, they enjoyed breakfast in the garden. The day had been planned, including a visit to some nearby waterfalls. Lunch was packed, and the day was unhurried. Sara's cousin Antonio peeked at his watch a few times; Michael knew why, although, Sara didn't appear to notice the furtive glances between the two men.

"We must head back now. Father will be hosting a christening of our friend's first-born at our home."

Danny appeared tranquil as he watched the countryside drift by. His eyes seemed to be scanning a place beyond anyone else's vision. One could only imagine his thoughts. As they arrived at the house, there were quite a few cars parked nearby. Sara raised her eyebrows, "Looks like the guests have already arrived." Michael and Danny shared a swift glance and smiled.

Sara continued, "How old is the baby?"

Michael responded, "I don't know, honey—looks like fun!"

Dario spoke to the priest in Italian as they moved toward the house. Dario's wife, Maria, was at the front door; she wheeled Sara into the house.

Maria took Sara's hand for a moment. "Sara, may I speak with you for a moment?"

"Of course. I see the priest is here for the christening."

Maria wheeled Sara down the hallway. "We have a special time planned this evening."

Michael caught up with the two. "Sara, I'd like to suggest something." Sara noticed his face had a special gentleness as he spoke. "I can't think of a better place for us to get married. Your dad is in such good spirits. I know it is a bolt out of the blue, but, will you marry me, here—tonight?"

Sara was momentarily stunned. Maria had left the room.

"Oh—oh...." She clasped her hands to her cheeks. "Oh Michael it would be so perfect—with Dad here! Could there be any better place—or time? I'm babbling! What would I wear? Does Dad know? A bouquet? I wanted you to have a ring, Michael."

"I wanted to leave this suggestion open in case this idea wasn't right for you. The priest was more than happy to share a meal—if we chose not to go ahead with the plan. There is no christening."

Sara had tears in her eyes, but was laughing at the same time. "It is so right—beyond my wildest dreams, it is so right."

"Perfect."

"I don't want to waste this moment over a ring for you—perhaps Dad will give me his for our ceremony."

"I'll leave it up to you."

"What will I wear?'

"We thought of that. Maria has kept her wedding dress. It has been in the family for generations. There is a lovely bouquet waiting in the pantry. It is white lilies and greenery with some heather."

"May I see it?"

Maria appeared with the stunning bouquet; white and pale green ribbons flowed from the stems.

"I could not have picked a more beautiful bouquet. Would I wear a veil?"

"We made a garland of flowers for you; they are from the meadow," said Maria.

Sara sat there, her eyes glistening. "I cannot believe this is real. I can't believe it!"

Michael smiled, "Trust me, this is real!"

"This will be the most magical day of my life."

"I thought, for your dad...I knew you would want him present. I think it would mean the world to him."

"Say no more. Did he know about this?"

"Yes, he is in on the plan. Maria has a family prayer book, if you choose to carry it."

"This will be our day. Our wonderful, spur-of-the-moment day." They shared a laugh and blended it with joyous tears.

"Then, by all means, let's proceed!"

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

An hour later, Sara appeared, radiant and unruffled. Maria had an ivory lace throw hiding the wheelchair. Danny wheeled her to an area under an old olive tree. Michael transferred her to one of the two Italian carved chairs. The ceremony began after a brief conversation with the priest. The words were spoken in Italian, followed with a fairly accurate English translation by Dario. Danny gave Sara his ring for Michael. It was the first time it had left his finger.

"Here, baby. This is for you and Michael—for always. Your mom and I would be honored."

Michael said a few words, which were translated into Italian. "Sara, my dear friend—I have loved you much longer than I have realized. You are my shining star and my rock. I will be at your side until my last breath." He slipped the wedding ring on her finger and gave her a gentle kiss.

"Michael, dear Michael, I've not had time to prepare. You are my best friend; no one could ask for a kinder man. I intend to walk by your side in the coming years. You have brought me back to the land of the living. I know we will have a productive life. I envision us as two complete circles twirling within the same space, independent, but forever entwined. Thank you for your support. And I too have a little surprise. Please take my hand, and I'll stand for our blessing. I love you with all my being."

Michael gently lifted her to a standing position. It was unimaginable to see her so radiant and standing on her own. Michael put his arm around her waist as the priest gave his blessing. Michael was unashamed as he wiped away his tears. He continued to support Sara as the priest repeated the final declaration of marriage in Italian and English. Michael took her in his arms, gently kissed both cheeks, and ended with a tender hug. There was not a dry eye in the crowd, with the exception of the playful children who distracted each other with frequent pinching, tickling, and giggling.

The wedding feast was sumptuous. The newlyweds knew almost no one by name; however, they felt very much a part of the group. Michael had planned the event for weeks. A professional photographer arrived and took a few formal pictures and many impromptu shots. There were two guitarists whose inviting tunes prompted dancing. The wine and champagne flowed freely. The evening was a complete success. At sunset, the small crowd dispersed; the immediate family and Father joined in a glass of fine brandy. The chatter of birds slowly drifted away as the leaves rustled in the wind. The sunset announced the end to the fairytale day.

The bride and groom were ushered to a guest bedroom. It was prepared with flowers in several vases and rose petals on the crisp white matelassé coverlet. Sara wheeled herself into the adjoining bathroom. She returned in a simple sleeveless white nightgown, a gift from Maria. The neckline was embroidered in flowers. She appeared angelic. Maria had placed several candles around, giving the room a rosy glow.

Michael uttered, "Mrs. Evans, you look radiant."

Sara did not appear embarrassed; however, she seemed somewhat apprehensive.

"I don't know what to say or do, Michael. We have never been intimate."

"When you are ready, I'll carry you to bed. We have a lifetime ahead of us. Nothing needs to happen at this moment."

"Thank you...I..."

"This wonderful day was very sudden, and now, we have nothing but time. We'll know when we're ready. This has been one of the happiest moments of my life, Sara. Let's just cuddle and talk about our beautiful day."

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

Michael, Sara, and Danny said goodbye to Danny's extended family. They expressed enduring gratitude for their generosity and hospitality. Dario took them to the family's graveyard to pay their respects. It was a solemn moment, filled with much hugging and hand-holding.

The trip ended after a day in Venice. Michael knew it was an appropriate ending. Venice should be shared with loved ones. The gondola ride was the highlight of the day. As the gondolier sang, Sara could hear Danny humming along as they glided down the canals. Sunset fell as they dined al fresco; their table looked out over a canal that was framed by a small bridge. They lingered for a while, knowing this was their last evening.

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

The three weary travelers boarded the plane and settled in. Each revealed a spontaneous smile that lingered as they drifted off to sleep. The flight back was smooth, arriving on time. Once in the taxi, Danny took a deep breath, "Hey you guys, I want to say this now while I am still in the Italian frame of mind. Who knows when our time on earth will come to a close? Please take a small urn of my ashes to Terni. The rest of my ashes will stay with Mama and Emilio.

"I understand, Dad. I promise."

"Count on it, Danny."

The remainder of the ride was spent in reflective silence.

# CHAPTER EIGHTY

Home at last! The newlyweds moved Sara's belongings to Michael's apartment. The community organized a celebration for them. The sisters and Father gave toasts to the happy couple. As the weeks passed, Danny's illness became more evident. Sara and Michael had been staying exclusively at Michael's home. They installed a compact electric chairlift for the stairs. Her upper body was becoming stronger by the day. She chose not to discuss her experiences at physical therapy, and Michael waited for any news. He had noticed her legs felt firmer. Their intimacy had progressed at a gentle pace.

The subject of Danny's illness remained a whisper away from discussion. A few weeks later, they had settled in for the evening. Sara was nestled in Michael's arms. "Dad is getting much more frail, Michael. Should we speak with him about the store?"

"I don't know, Sara. He is very private and remains independent. I am concerned if we bring up the subject, he'd lose his resolve. The store is his beacon," Michael was unprepared for her next statement.

"I took a few steps today," Sara said with a hesitant smile.

"You what?"

She turned and looked up into his eyes. "I took a few steps today—with braces, of course."

"My God, Sara! That's wonderful!"

"Keep tuned in for the latest breaking news; signing out for now." She tucked herself back into Michael's arms and shut her eyes.

Michael was speechless, which appeared to be exactly as Sara wanted. It was her battle, and she owned it. He took her face in his hands and whispered in her ear. "Thank you for sharing, Madame."

As he was drifting off, he experienced a fleeting three-dimensional image of Jenny smiling down on him; it seemed more like a hologram. No, it had to be wishful thinking; he did not believe in such things. Perhaps it was a subconscious suggestion, allowing him to go on with an open heart. It was hard to erase the vision from his mind. Nevertheless, it gave him comfort.

# CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

The days had passed with no new crisis until one ominous Tuesday when Michael's cell rang.

"Michael, can you come over? I'm here with Dad. He is not well at all." Sara was calm, but her tone was tense. Michael ran over to the store. Danny was sitting at the back of the store. He was pale and sweaty. His eyes were glazed over.

"Dad—let's call an ambulance."

Danny looked up and implored Sara, "No, honey, take me upstairs...please...take me to my own bed."

Michael and Manny carried Danny upstairs.

Danny uttered, "Look in my bureau...top drawer, there is a letter." Michael handed the letter to Sara.

Dear Kids,

However you get this letter, I wish to stay in my own bed until I join your mom and brother. I have a life insurance policy that will cover home nursing care and my final arrangements. The store and home are yours, Sara. Sam Joseph is my lawyer; he has my living will, stating my wishes, and all necessary papers. I have no wish that you continue my business. It is your decision. My only hope is that you and Michael live a life rich in treasured memories and good health. You have been my angels on earth, and I am so proud of your steadfast love for each other.

The hospice is aware of my wishes, along with Dr. Dennis Baker and Father Murphy. I wish dignity and comfort and have no fear of my journey home. Take care, my dear children. Love, Dad

Sara read the letter in silence. She sat there, neatly folding, and re-folding the letter; she placed it on her lap and took a deep breath, and turned to Danny.

"I've read your letter, Dad. Of course you will stay here in your own home."

He looked up at her, giving a feeble wink and a glimmer of a smile. "Thanks, baby girl."

Manny and Michael undressed Danny and helped him into bed.

Sara called the hospice team. They were set up to assist with Danny's care.

Within eight hours, Danny had round-the-clock male nurses. Michael and Sara moved back into her old bedroom. Father Murphy visited daily. Danny declined Mass until he was near the end. He spoke often about the old days. The sisters visited for a short time, as he was extremely short of breath. The oxygen made him comfortable, and morphine kept his bone pain bearable. He appeared to be more at peace each day. The end came one evening. His breathing became intermittent, and he was no longer conscious. He squeezed Sara's hand just before he passed away. One final sigh and he was gone.

# CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

The local neighborhood turned out _en masse_ for Danny's funeral. Sara's recollection was a blur. Only later did she realize how much the little community's sympathy had helped her through her grief. Michael was at her side, silent and composed.

As Danny had requested, Michael and Sara returned to Italy the following summer. They placed some of Danny's ashes at the family gravesite. It was amazing to see the improvement in Sara's physical health and mobility. She had crutches and braces, though a small high tech wheelchair was close by. Her flowing dress failed to conceal her pregnancy. Their baby was due in four months.

Michael and Sara stayed with Danny's relatives in Terni and enjoyed reviewing the memories of their wedding. They sat at the familiar outdoor table with many return visitors and the same priest from their wedding officiating the internment. Sara was at peace with Danny's passing. They laid flowers at the cemetery each day. After a few days of taking it easy, when Sara regained her energy, they departed for Zurich.

They took some time visiting the places Michael had encountered during his adventure. The next chance to travel unencumbered would be many years into the future. They dined with Sven in Zurich. Sara was pleased to see firsthand what she had experienced vicariously. Their final stop was the culmination of the past few years. They flew to Dublin and viewed the cover, gleaming in its heavily guarded showcase. They filed through with the crowd and held hands as they marveled at the new addition to the _Book of Kells_. As the couple walked away, they felt fulfilled beyond their wildest dreams. It was the first time Sara had seen the cover and Michael had not yet seen it restored to its full luster. As Michael had suspected, the stones encased in the cover were emeralds and rubies. The silver and gold lamé shone like it did a thousand years ago. The eight-hour trip home overflowed with recollections of the amazing turn of events. An abundance of good times intertwined with tearful moments.

Michael closed his eyes, and for the first time, took full account of how far he had come on one thin dime—one incredibly thin dime.

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