Son of the Morning (Page 38)
She left through the back door, stepping out into a littered alley. The wind wound its way even down this narrow little space, freshening the air. She inhaled deeply, thankful for a breath that didn’t bring the scent of garlic with it.
Cautiously she looked both left and right, the computer case clutched tightly in one hand and her other hand on her knife. So far she hadn’t had any trouble, but she was prepared.
She walked two blocks to a bus stop, where the next bus was due in about ten minutes. The late-afternoon sky was a clear, dark blue; the day was fresh and sweet, and there was a jauntiness to everyone’s step even this late in the day. Spring had definitely arrived, sending the temperature into the high seventies. Grace remembered her joy in the spring as she had walked across theMurchisons ‘ backyard-how long ago had it been? Two weeks? Three? Closer to three, she thought. It had been the twenty-seventh of April, the last day she had felt joy in life. She could see the clearness of the day, but it
didn’t touch her heart. Inside, everything was bleak and barren, colorless.
The bus arrived and she got on, paid her fare. The bus driver nodded to her. This was the sixth day in a row she’d She got off at the Newberry Library, one of the world’s foremost historical research libraries. She had waded through text after text of medieval history, in both books and computer files, looking for some mention of Niall of Scotland. So far she had learned a lot about medieval times, but hadn’t turned up one iota of information on the warrior Knight. She wasn’t discouraged, though, because she had barely scratched the surface of the available material.
She went straight to the appropriate aisle and picked up where she had left off the night before, selecting several books and carrying them to an isolated table. Then she put on her glasses and began skimming, page by page, looking for any mention of anyone named Niall who had been connected to the Templars.
She almost missed it. She had been reading for more than two hours and her mind had gone on automatic. The reference didn’t register for a moment, and she continued down the page. Then the similarity between the names caught her attention and she reread the paragraph:
"Chosen as Guardian was a Knightproude andfierse , a Scot of Royalblude ,NielRobertsoune ."
Excitement flared, and her heartbeat kicked into a faster rhythm. It had to be Niall! The names were too similar, and the reference to the Guardian was the clincher.
Had she read anything before about aNiel , and passed over it because she hadn’t connected the names? She knew how erratic spelling had been; she should have paid particular attention to any name that began with anN. And at last she had a surname!Robertsoune , or Robertson. Quickly she began rechecking the references for any variation of Niall, such asNiel , Neil, Neal, and also for anything remotely close to Robertson.
There was nothing. There wereRobertses andRobertsons , even a couple ofNeals , but nothing within the time frame she needed. Her hands trembled as she closed the book, and she had to restrain herself from pounding on the table in frustration. The wildness of her disappointment took her aback. She had been thwarted in her studies before, and taken it in stride. This fierce sense of desperation burned through her protective numbness, frightening her with its intensity. She didn’t want to feel anything except rage and the unquenchable thirst for revenge, because she was afraid she would shatter if she ever began feeling again. The few times grief had managed to leak past the numbness had almost destroyed her.
But shedid feel, she realized, had felt this intense interest in Niall of Scotland from the first moment she’d received the copies of old parchments and glanced through them. All that had happened to her since hadn’t changed that, or even lessened it. If anything, her fascination grew with each day, with every page she read.
She had begun to think Niall of Scotland only a myth, though why his fictional exploits should be included in a history of the Knights Templar was something she couldn’t fathom. This one mention of " NielRobertsoune" being chosen as Guardian was the only confirmation of his existence she’d been able to find, but it was enough. He had existed, had been a real man who lived and breathed and ate and slept as all men did. Perhaps, after the Order had been destroyed, he had escaped persecution and had lived a normal life, had found happiness with a wife, had children, died an old man. The real Niall of Scotland had likely been nothing similar to the black-haired warrior who haunted her dreams, but the fantasy was one she needed emotionally, so she couldn’t regret it. The dreams were proof that her inner self hadn’t completely died; shreds of Grace St. John still existed deep inside her.
And Niall of Scotland had existed. Briskly, with renewed determination, she pushed the heavy reference books aside. She wouldn’t find him there. As one of the notorious Knights, his life would have depended on remaining as anonymous as possible. Anything she discovered about him would be in the pages of documents to be deciphered, the exquisite photographed copies.Copies. Her mind stumbled to a halt for a moment, then began racing. Why did Parrish want this copy of the documents, when he could have the real McCoy? Why was he so desperate to get his hands on this copy that he would kill Ford and Bryant, and try to kill her?
Logically, there were only two explanations, both of them requiring a degree of coincidence that strained her credulity. One was that he didn’t know where the originals were now, but obviously they had been recorded and photographed, and the copies sent to her. Could someone have stolen the originals, for some unfathomable reason-the same reason Parrish wanted them? If so, what about the negatives? Other copies could be made from them. The other explanation was that the originals had somehow been destroyed; accidents happened. Again, what about the film negatives?