opposite of failure. She struck pay dirt with the third person she spoke to at the College. The librarian gave her the name of a local antiquary who not only collected antiquities, but also restored damaged documents in his home. The man had assisted several libraries and companies in Charleston with restoring documents and books water damaged as a result of Hurricane Hugo in 1989.
Regan took the man's name and number and made an appointment to bring the book for an evaluation and restoration estimate.
One step closer to her goal.
The contents of the book had become her idée fixe. She had to know what was written inside. Her mind thought of dozens of possibilities for a bullet hole to be in the leather-bound book.
She studied the book one last time…touching it through the plastic bags. She used a bright light and magnifying glass to study the water-stained leather cover. The leather-bound book measured roughly 6 inches wide by 8.25 inches tall and was a little over an inch thick. The leather appeared to be cowhide, possibly stained dark, with a pattern tooled on the front.
Two patterns actually, initials tooled near the top and a small emblem or pattern centered an inch from the bottom. The patterns were worn flat. With the discoloration of the leather, the patterns were impossible to decipher through the sealed plastic bags. Moisture had visibly collected on the inside of all three bags so she didn't dare remove the book.
She grabbed a blank sheet of copy paper and a pencil then smoothed the plastic bags as much as possible over the front cover. Placing the blank paper on the cover, she gently rubbed the pencil lead across the book. With each pass of the lead across the paper, the patterns from the leather cover slowly appeared. The initials revealed themselves a small portion at a time until they were clear—W. F. It meant nothing to her. But as the smaller pattern emerged that changed.
A crest.
With a swastika in the center.
Now the book had an approximate age dating back to World War II—Nazi Germany.
A valuable piece to the puzzle.
The region made sense. Technically she'd found the book on German soil. The identity of the man remained a mystery. Perhaps the protector of the book was a German soldier. Could explain the bullet hole, if that's even what it was. She knew the bloodstains, the hole, and the swastika might arouse suspicion and prompt some questions—questions she was preparing herself to answer. She'd already devised a story, now she just had to make some minor alterations and she had her perfect lie.
G PS was a wonderful invention she thought as she parked her car in front of Arthur DeLoach's three-story home in historic Charleston. It amazed her that with a compass and a map she could roam the wilderness and never get lost, but put her in the city and she'd get turned around almost every time. And to make matters worse, she'd grown up in Charleston. Now all she had to do was input the address and the electronic device guided her to his mailbox with voice commands. She grabbed her bag and walked to the doorstep. No doorbell to announce her arrival, only a brass knocker on the oversized wooden door. She reached for the knocker but before she could grab it the door opened. A middle-aged black woman stood in front of her, almost as if she had been waiting for her to arrive. Might have even been sizing her up as she walked to the front door.
"Hello. I'm Ashley Regan."
"Ms Regan, Mr. DeLoach is expecting you. May I take your bag, ma'am?"
"No, thank you. I'll keep it. It's carrying the item I brought for Mr. DeLoach."
The old house had a musty odor with twelve-foot ceilings, large oriental rugs in every room, and a long hallway extending from front to back in the center of the home. A stairway led upstairs in the middle of the main hallway. "How old is this house?" Regan asked.
"Over two hundred years. It was built in 1811." The woman explained. "Out back are the gardens and a carriage house.
Regan took the man's name and number and made an appointment to bring the book for an evaluation and restoration estimate.
One step closer to her goal.
The contents of the book had become her idée fixe. She had to know what was written inside. Her mind thought of dozens of possibilities for a bullet hole to be in the leather-bound book.
She studied the book one last time…touching it through the plastic bags. She used a bright light and magnifying glass to study the water-stained leather cover. The leather-bound book measured roughly 6 inches wide by 8.25 inches tall and was a little over an inch thick. The leather appeared to be cowhide, possibly stained dark, with a pattern tooled on the front.
Two patterns actually, initials tooled near the top and a small emblem or pattern centered an inch from the bottom. The patterns were worn flat. With the discoloration of the leather, the patterns were impossible to decipher through the sealed plastic bags. Moisture had visibly collected on the inside of all three bags so she didn't dare remove the book.
She grabbed a blank sheet of copy paper and a pencil then smoothed the plastic bags as much as possible over the front cover. Placing the blank paper on the cover, she gently rubbed the pencil lead across the book. With each pass of the lead across the paper, the patterns from the leather cover slowly appeared. The initials revealed themselves a small portion at a time until they were clear—W. F. It meant nothing to her. But as the smaller pattern emerged that changed.
A crest.
With a swastika in the center.
Now the book had an approximate age dating back to World War II—Nazi Germany.
A valuable piece to the puzzle.
The region made sense. Technically she'd found the book on German soil. The identity of the man remained a mystery. Perhaps the protector of the book was a German soldier. Could explain the bullet hole, if that's even what it was. She knew the bloodstains, the hole, and the swastika might arouse suspicion and prompt some questions—questions she was preparing herself to answer. She'd already devised a story, now she just had to make some minor alterations and she had her perfect lie.
G PS was a wonderful invention she thought as she parked her car in front of Arthur DeLoach's three-story home in historic Charleston. It amazed her that with a compass and a map she could roam the wilderness and never get lost, but put her in the city and she'd get turned around almost every time. And to make matters worse, she'd grown up in Charleston. Now all she had to do was input the address and the electronic device guided her to his mailbox with voice commands. She grabbed her bag and walked to the doorstep. No doorbell to announce her arrival, only a brass knocker on the oversized wooden door. She reached for the knocker but before she could grab it the door opened. A middle-aged black woman stood in front of her, almost as if she had been waiting for her to arrive. Might have even been sizing her up as she walked to the front door.
"Hello. I'm Ashley Regan."
"Ms Regan, Mr. DeLoach is expecting you. May I take your bag, ma'am?"
"No, thank you. I'll keep it. It's carrying the item I brought for Mr. DeLoach."
The old house had a musty odor with twelve-foot ceilings, large oriental rugs in every room, and a long hallway extending from front to back in the center of the home. A stairway led upstairs in the middle of the main hallway. "How old is this house?" Regan asked.
"Over two hundred years. It was built in 1811." The woman explained. "Out back are the gardens and a carriage house.
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