Into the Wild. Beth Ciotta

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СКАЧАТЬ bridge, but her efforts had failed, driving a bigger wedge between father and daughter. River had many regrets, but mostly she was bitter. If her parents had loved her more, if they’d been less weird, she wouldn’t have developed the eccentricities that had driven David away.

      Suddenly, the tears she’d been holding at bay for two long weeks threatened to flow. River steeled her body, her mind. She would not, could not, lose control. Gulping fresh air, she plopped on the front stoop and opened the package.

      Nerves jangling, she clutched the contents, seeing but not believing.

      Not a book. A journal. Embossed brown leather, bulging and bound by a green elastic band. River smoothed her fingers over the worn cover. She had few memories of Henry, but she remembered him scribbling in a small, fat book that he carried in his pocket. No, not a book. A journal. This journal. Or at least a predecessor.

      Her heart raced as the past stared her in the face. She’d wondered back then what he was writing, but when she’d asked, he’d blown her off. “Data,” he’d said, as if that explained it all. Later, her mom had described data as documented observations and revelations about his studies. She’d likened his journal to a diary. “For his eyes only,” she’d said.

      Never in a million years had River dreamed she’d get a peek inside Henry’s journal, let alone an invitation to peruse at will. Was this his way of reaching out, of reconnecting? Was she supposed to feel honored? Relieved? Giddy with anticipation?

      The soft leather didn’t comfort her as she slid off the band, carefully, as though the journal might be ticking.

      She found yellowed, stained and smudged pages. Scribbles and tiny crammed handwriting in margins—handwriting she had seen so few times—and diagrams that held no immediate meaning.

      But she also found photographs. Ones she’d never seen. Photos of her. Of her mom. Of them as a family. She’d never figured Henry as sentimental. She was trying to process the notion when a trifold paper slid free and fell to the ground. Hands trembling, she unfolded the weighty stationery and found an object wrapped in tissue. It was small, but heavy. An amulet? It resembled a cross, except it had several corners and a hole in the middle. All she could tell for sure was that it was gold. And old.

      Setting it aside, she read the handwriting on the stationery—the same tight, cramped writing as in the journal.

      Dear River,

      To prove my love—which I know you doubt—I am trusting you with a monumental secret.

      I have discovered something men would kill to possess. If you receive this package, it means I am sacrificing my life to protect a precious treasure. I’m gifting you with my journal and sweat of the sun so that you’ll understand the choices I’ve made. Share it with no one except Professor Bovedine and beware of the hunters.

      I love you,

       Daddy

      What the…?

      Anger burned away her nerves.

      Was he kidding? I love you? “I’m sacrificing my life”? What did that mean?

      Frustrated, River read the note again…and again. Even when he told her he loved her he couldn’t get it right. The tender declaration was overshadowed by his cryptic dramatics.

      I am sacrificing my life.

      Beware of the hunters.

      Was he in mortal danger, already dead or just nuts? How like Henry to talk in riddles. He was a brilliant but odd bird who’d grown more eccentric with age. An archaeologist who’d found it increasingly difficult to secure grants to fund his expeditions due to his bullheaded, hot-dog nature. He’d refused to curb his obsession with discovering legendary treasures even when it would have meant security for his family.

      She palmed the gold amulet.

      Was this a portion of what he’d found in an excavation? Or, like the photos, a sentimental souvenir? It didn’t surprise River that he’d choose some treasure over her, but over life? Surely, he hadn’t meant that literally. Not that she cared.

      Except, to her surprise and dismay, she did. Just a little. Just enough to phone Professor Bovedine, her father’s oldest friend and perhaps the sole professional associate who hadn’t believed Henry Kane was an inept kook. If anyone could make heads or tails out of this cryptic letter, it was Paul Bovedine. Luckily, unlike her father, Bovedine had made it a point to check in with River throughout the years, hence his number was programmed into her cell.

      She gripped the phone in one hand, the journal in the other. She held her breath until someone answered.

      “Professor…” sniffle, “Bovedine’s residence. How may I…” gulp, “help?”

      “Mrs. Robbins?”

      “River?” Professor Bovedine’s housekeeper burst into a sob. “River. Professor Bovedine is dead.”

      “Dead?” River felt the world shift away, just a little farther. “How? When?”

      “Yesterday. Someone broke into the house. Professor Bovedine returned early from the university and…the police said it was a bungled burglary.”

      River couldn’t believe her ears. Yes, Bovedine collected antiquities, but he donated or sold them to museums. He was a lifelong bachelor who traveled frequently and cared little for material possessions. From what she remembered of his rambling old house, there was little of value.

      Beware of the hunters.

      River stared at the letter.

      I have discovered something men would kill to possess.

      No. It was too bizarre. Henry’s discovery and Professor Bovedine’s death could not be connected.

      Share it with no one except Professor Bovedine.

      She hadn’t shared the journal. She hadn’t shared any news at all. She hadn’t had the chance.

      “We haven’t heard from you in several months, River. How odd that you called today. The timing…” She hiccupped over a sob. “A package from your dad yesterday. A phone call from you today. And the professor, he…he missed them both.”

      River nearly dropped her phone. “A package? What was in it?” She regretted the insensitive question as soon as it popped out. She should’ve asked about Bovedine’s funeral arrangements.

      If Mrs. Robbins thought the inquiry rude, she didn’t pause. “I don’t know, dear. The mail came early yesterday. I put the package on the professor’s desk and left to do my weekly shopping. I’m sure it’s around here…somewhere. The burglars ransacked the house and I’m not allowed to clean until the investigation is…over. It’s just so…awful.”

      River tried to console the sobbing woman, but her efforts were lame. Though heartsick over Professor Bovedine’s senseless death, fury snaked though her system. What if Henry’s mysterious package had somehow contributed to Bovedine’s death? Just as his selfish behavior had contributed to her mom’s?

      Her mind exploded with a verbal rant. Her body trembled with suppressed emotions. She physically СКАЧАТЬ