The Tavernier Stones

Chapter 28

The next day, taking a walk in Lancaster Cemetery, John stood over the graves of the Winterbottoms, wishing they were still among the living. Wishing they—someone—could tell him how to travel two divergent paths at once. Or whether it was even possible.

But Ramsey and Rosalie were silent, as always. That was the problem with having dead friends. They didn't share a lot of advice.

As uncomfortable as it was to think about, he knew he would be joining them before too long. In the context of history, in the grand scheme of the universe, the time remaining to him was painfully short. And then, when his life was over, and it was his turn to go into the ground, what legacy would he leave by having hunted for treasure?

Searching for the Lost Tavernier Stones was not the most noble of undertakings. Making maps was noble. Working with his hands was noble.

Farming was noble.

On his way home, an idea occurred to him. He rejected it instantly on the grounds it was impractical and unnecessary. But it kept creeping back into his consciousness, demanding fair consideration.

Burn the maps. Burn the notes. Burn everything.

He laughed out loud. It would solve most of his problems. Although he felt he was close to finding the Lost Tavernier Stones, possibly even closer than anyone else, he was sure he would not be happier with them in his pocket than he'd been before he was aware of their existence. In fact, searching for them had made him unhappier than ever before.

When he arrived home he found a counseling letter from Harry Tokuhisa. The man hadn't wasted any time. It wasn't enough to merely give a verbal warning; Harry had to cover his ass in writing. The letter warned John that if his performance didn't improve he would be subjected to disciplinary action. It further noted that his appearance had become disheveled and that he sometimes mumbled incoherently when addressed. Perhaps, it suggested, he should seek professional help.

No wonder Harry had put his comments in writing. Their friendship was too strong for him to say such things to John's face.

He went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Disheveled? Maybe a little. How could Harry say anything about him, when several of the English working in the building were—how could one put it politely—unkempt? But then, their appearances hadn't been changing. And they weren't going anywhere in the organization, either.

He found a book of matches in the kitchen. He wished he had a fireplace, but a metal trash can would have to do. He filled it with his notes, his work on the cipher, his sketches of the stones, everything.

He was about to shove all the Cellarius maps in as well, but changed his mind at the last second and condemned only the Palatinate map. The rest he held back for his collection. He carried the trash can to the patio behind the house.

Making maps was noble. Working with his hands was noble. Farming was noble.

He lit a match.

The phone rang.

He hesitated. If he ignited the contents of the trash can and left to answer the phone, a fire would rage unattended on his patio. He blew out the match and went back inside.

"Hello, John." It was Annette. "I just wanted you to know we're all thinking about you."

"That's a comfort."

"Seriously. Some of us feel Harry's treating you a little harshly under the circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"You know. Your ... condition."

"Oh, yeah, My condition."

"And we hope you can make good use of this vacation."