counter at the large chart under the acetate cover on the other side. It showed a schematic of the rooms on the floor. The man’s eyes focused on Room 417 and under it the name “Bogardus, S.J.”
Pat sat upright on the edge of the bed, disbelief etched in her face. “What are you talking about?” She shot a quick glance at her partner. “You don’t believe this nonsense? Some loosely wrapped woman from the limousine set up in the wine country shows up in your office with four pieces of paper containing a scrawl that some Shakespearean actor has to decipher, and you two are ready to throw over your careers and start renting backhoes again.”
Sam ignored her. “What do you make of it, Nick?”
“I’ll tell you one thing. If those parchments are the real thing they’re worth a small fortune.
The question is—where’s the rest of the journal? If it still exists and we can find it, we’ll have conclusive evidence of where Drake landed. From that we should be able to figure out the rest.” 5
“Are you sure your translation is accurate?” asked Sam.
“It’s not verbatim. But the message is clear.”
“I don’t believe this,” said Pat in a mocking half-laugh. “Two grown men sitting here engaging in a fantasy. I guess I can understand Sam, he got kicked in the head the other night, but what’s your excuse?” Pat’s words carried the biting tone of ridicule as she looked Nick squarely in the eye.
“Listen, Sam, I don’t need this,” Nick bellowed. “If she can’t deal with the situation maybe she should find something more profitable to do with her time. Maybe she should trot down to the emergency room and find a new client.”
Pat rose from the edge of the bed with fire in her eyes just as a physician in a white smock blew through the door behind them. He was followed closely by a grim-lipped, intense nurse.
“What in the world is going on in here?” said the doctor. “We can hear you people all the way down the hall.” He was young and arrogant. Sam guessed he was no more than an intern on his regular rounds, but he wallowed in authority and quickly took the chair on which Nick had been sitting and returned it to the other side of the room.
“This man has suffered a concussion and you people are making enough noise to raise the dead. You’re going to have to leave.”
Sam ignored the intern and turned to Nick.
“Are the parchments in a safe place?”
“It’s taken care of. Don’t worry,” said Nick. “I have a friend sitting on them for the present, a forensics man who’s checking the handwriting for authenticity. I’ll know in a day or two if they’re real. If so we’d better pool our wits and talk to your client to see if we can find the rest of the journal.”
The intern, taking one look at the curvaceous Paterson, had turned his attention to her first and gingerly ushered her from the room, taking several seconds longer than necessary to talk to her in the hallway outside. He returned for Nick, who winked at Sam over his shoulder as he was led from the room.
“See you tomorrow,” said Sam.
“We’ll see about that,” said the doctor.
Sam could only hope that the intern would be as efficient in barring Angie from the room. 107
But somehow he knew it was not to be.
The young physician pushed Nick out the door, closing it behind him, and then returned to the bed. He began to probe Sam’s bandage with his fingers, lifting the surgical tape that held the gauze to the forehead.
“Ahhh.” The movement renewed the piercing pain in Sam’s head.
“I’m afraid that you’re going to have a scar when this heals, though most of it should be covered by the hairline.” The intern spoke in a distracted monotone, a dialect no doubt copied from one of his professors. “We had to shave a small patch of hair for the stitches. It’ll grow back in a few weeks. You were damn lucky. Whatever they hit you with actually chipped a small sliver of bone out of your skull.
Pat sat upright on the edge of the bed, disbelief etched in her face. “What are you talking about?” She shot a quick glance at her partner. “You don’t believe this nonsense? Some loosely wrapped woman from the limousine set up in the wine country shows up in your office with four pieces of paper containing a scrawl that some Shakespearean actor has to decipher, and you two are ready to throw over your careers and start renting backhoes again.”
Sam ignored her. “What do you make of it, Nick?”
“I’ll tell you one thing. If those parchments are the real thing they’re worth a small fortune.
The question is—where’s the rest of the journal? If it still exists and we can find it, we’ll have conclusive evidence of where Drake landed. From that we should be able to figure out the rest.” 5
“Are you sure your translation is accurate?” asked Sam.
“It’s not verbatim. But the message is clear.”
“I don’t believe this,” said Pat in a mocking half-laugh. “Two grown men sitting here engaging in a fantasy. I guess I can understand Sam, he got kicked in the head the other night, but what’s your excuse?” Pat’s words carried the biting tone of ridicule as she looked Nick squarely in the eye.
“Listen, Sam, I don’t need this,” Nick bellowed. “If she can’t deal with the situation maybe she should find something more profitable to do with her time. Maybe she should trot down to the emergency room and find a new client.”
Pat rose from the edge of the bed with fire in her eyes just as a physician in a white smock blew through the door behind them. He was followed closely by a grim-lipped, intense nurse.
“What in the world is going on in here?” said the doctor. “We can hear you people all the way down the hall.” He was young and arrogant. Sam guessed he was no more than an intern on his regular rounds, but he wallowed in authority and quickly took the chair on which Nick had been sitting and returned it to the other side of the room.
“This man has suffered a concussion and you people are making enough noise to raise the dead. You’re going to have to leave.”
Sam ignored the intern and turned to Nick.
“Are the parchments in a safe place?”
“It’s taken care of. Don’t worry,” said Nick. “I have a friend sitting on them for the present, a forensics man who’s checking the handwriting for authenticity. I’ll know in a day or two if they’re real. If so we’d better pool our wits and talk to your client to see if we can find the rest of the journal.”
The intern, taking one look at the curvaceous Paterson, had turned his attention to her first and gingerly ushered her from the room, taking several seconds longer than necessary to talk to her in the hallway outside. He returned for Nick, who winked at Sam over his shoulder as he was led from the room.
“See you tomorrow,” said Sam.
“We’ll see about that,” said the doctor.
Sam could only hope that the intern would be as efficient in barring Angie from the room. 107
But somehow he knew it was not to be.
The young physician pushed Nick out the door, closing it behind him, and then returned to the bed. He began to probe Sam’s bandage with his fingers, lifting the surgical tape that held the gauze to the forehead.
“Ahhh.” The movement renewed the piercing pain in Sam’s head.
“I’m afraid that you’re going to have a scar when this heals, though most of it should be covered by the hairline.” The intern spoke in a distracted monotone, a dialect no doubt copied from one of his professors. “We had to shave a small patch of hair for the stitches. It’ll grow back in a few weeks. You were damn lucky. Whatever they hit you with actually chipped a small sliver of bone out of your skull.
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