Read Online Area 51: The Grail-5 by Robert Doherty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Doherty
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, adventure, Espionage, Political, High Tech, Space ships, Area 51 (Nev.), Extraterrestrial beings, Grail
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spreading pool of her own blood. "They take him to The Mission, don't they?"
She didn 't seem to notice him. "It is time for me to pass on," she whispered.
"I met you before in another form," Richard said.
Still she ignored him. And then, of all things, she reached up with her right hand and jabbed her fingers into the wound, ripping it further open, increasing the flow of blood. She died seconds later, revealing nothing.
One of the men reentered the house, bounding up the stairs two at a time.
He knelt over the woman's body, confirmed she was dead, then reached inside her clothes and pulled out a small amulet, a figure of two arms raised in prayer, with nobody between them, the same as Aspasia's Shadow had around its neck. The man whispered some words very quickly, much like a priest at an early mass in a hurry to get to his breakfast.
He pulled something from inside his cloak, scattering it on the body. It was like black sand. I gasped as the skin began to disappear, the sand eating through the flesh, the muscle, the bone. Richard tried to step closer to see what was happening, but I held him back.
The body was gone in less than a minute; only the
62
clothes remained. The man gathered the clothes, tucked them under his arms, then looked at Richard and me.
"You have been foolish. We should have let him kill you, then taken him back."
"Why didn 't you ? " Richard asked.
"You will be dead soon anyway. And you are famous. Your murder would cause more like you to search. I would recommend you tell no one what you saw tonight. Let your secret die with you, Burton. If you do not, you will only bring grief—" here he looked at me "—to those you leave it with."
We watched as he went out the door.
I had never seen such a thing and hope never again to see it.
I must rest.
No, I must finish this. The words must be written even as Richard's body slowly cools.
You, the reader, must know of the terror of those who seek the truth. And the danger of this manuscript.
To finish the tale of this past evening, I took Richard back to his bed. He never rose again. He died three hours ago in my arms, consumed by his disease and exhausted by all that had happened. In a way, he was as happy as I had ever seen him, the visit of the foul creature just another confirmation of all he had learned over the years.
I waited until the servants arrived in the morning. Knowing they would see me, I took the copy I had made of Richard's manuscript. I stood in the garden and burned it. The servants thought me quite mad. I was still covered in blood. My arm was bound where the blade had cut me. My eyes were wild—Richard, my love, my life, was dead. I burned the cursed
63
words. Inflames went the clues, the tales, the secrets Richard had sought for so many years. I knew the servants would spread the tale and that would be my only protection from others who would come as had been threatened.
But I kept the original. I owed Richard that. I could not burn his life's passion. And I knew that someday, someone good who would fight evil would need this story. To know about the Legends and the Truth. To know what Richard had learned, what Richard had guessed about. What he had given his life to.
But it had to be hidden. And for that I knew where to turn. The Watchers would hide it for me. I will give him who Richard promised the translation of the scrolls this copy. And you who read this, wherever you are, remember Richard and me.
Turcotte's finger was pressed down on the scroll button, but the screen didn't move. He wasn't even aware he was still pressing it until the keyboard beeped several times. Slowly he removed his finger. He turned to Yakov.
The Russian stood. "I need a drink."
Major Quinn had a bottle of vodka ready. He slid it across the table to Yakov along with several glasses. The Russian filled each one to the brim and gave one each to Turcotte, Kincaid, Quinn, Che Lu, and Mualama.
Yakov raised his glass. "To Sir Richard Francis
She didn 't seem to notice him. "It is time for me to pass on," she whispered.
"I met you before in another form," Richard said.
Still she ignored him. And then, of all things, she reached up with her right hand and jabbed her fingers into the wound, ripping it further open, increasing the flow of blood. She died seconds later, revealing nothing.
One of the men reentered the house, bounding up the stairs two at a time.
He knelt over the woman's body, confirmed she was dead, then reached inside her clothes and pulled out a small amulet, a figure of two arms raised in prayer, with nobody between them, the same as Aspasia's Shadow had around its neck. The man whispered some words very quickly, much like a priest at an early mass in a hurry to get to his breakfast.
He pulled something from inside his cloak, scattering it on the body. It was like black sand. I gasped as the skin began to disappear, the sand eating through the flesh, the muscle, the bone. Richard tried to step closer to see what was happening, but I held him back.
The body was gone in less than a minute; only the
62
clothes remained. The man gathered the clothes, tucked them under his arms, then looked at Richard and me.
"You have been foolish. We should have let him kill you, then taken him back."
"Why didn 't you ? " Richard asked.
"You will be dead soon anyway. And you are famous. Your murder would cause more like you to search. I would recommend you tell no one what you saw tonight. Let your secret die with you, Burton. If you do not, you will only bring grief—" here he looked at me "—to those you leave it with."
We watched as he went out the door.
I had never seen such a thing and hope never again to see it.
I must rest.
No, I must finish this. The words must be written even as Richard's body slowly cools.
You, the reader, must know of the terror of those who seek the truth. And the danger of this manuscript.
To finish the tale of this past evening, I took Richard back to his bed. He never rose again. He died three hours ago in my arms, consumed by his disease and exhausted by all that had happened. In a way, he was as happy as I had ever seen him, the visit of the foul creature just another confirmation of all he had learned over the years.
I waited until the servants arrived in the morning. Knowing they would see me, I took the copy I had made of Richard's manuscript. I stood in the garden and burned it. The servants thought me quite mad. I was still covered in blood. My arm was bound where the blade had cut me. My eyes were wild—Richard, my love, my life, was dead. I burned the cursed
63
words. Inflames went the clues, the tales, the secrets Richard had sought for so many years. I knew the servants would spread the tale and that would be my only protection from others who would come as had been threatened.
But I kept the original. I owed Richard that. I could not burn his life's passion. And I knew that someday, someone good who would fight evil would need this story. To know about the Legends and the Truth. To know what Richard had learned, what Richard had guessed about. What he had given his life to.
But it had to be hidden. And for that I knew where to turn. The Watchers would hide it for me. I will give him who Richard promised the translation of the scrolls this copy. And you who read this, wherever you are, remember Richard and me.
Turcotte's finger was pressed down on the scroll button, but the screen didn't move. He wasn't even aware he was still pressing it until the keyboard beeped several times. Slowly he removed his finger. He turned to Yakov.
The Russian stood. "I need a drink."
Major Quinn had a bottle of vodka ready. He slid it across the table to Yakov along with several glasses. The Russian filled each one to the brim and gave one each to Turcotte, Kincaid, Quinn, Che Lu, and Mualama.
Yakov raised his glass. "To Sir Richard Francis
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