That instinct flowed from the Gutenberg itself. Most Gutenberg Bibles were kept in complete secrecy by their owners. The few lucky universities that held the rare book kept them under lock and key, usually unbeknownst to the most respected professors on their staff. The same was true for the handful of libraries that possessed copies. It was too dangerous to alert people to the fact that there was something of such excessive value within close proximity. It invited trouble.

Like the universities and libraries, August had gone to great lengths to dodge trouble. But it snagged him anyway. And now everyone he cared about was suffering the consequences.

He thought about that for a moment, catching a glimpse of his true feelings. Charlie. Now, that was obvious. Charlie was his son. His own flesh and blood. But April. He hadn’t stopped to consider what she might still mean to him. Did she still mean something to him? Plenty of time to think about that later.

He toppled over another tower of bags. Think! This is getting you nowhere! Think! There’s got to be another way . . .

He turned off the penlight.

Closed his eyes.

Yes.

That was it.

August began digging through the bags with his eyes shut. Although the fabric of the bag the Gutenberg was in looked like all the other bags, the truth was that it was unlike any other. Woven into its polyester fibers was a tear-resistant, nearly bulletproof, metal thread. The bag could endure some punishment, something August had to take into account when considering the rough handling it might receive from the baggage crew.

Not it.

Not it.

Not it.

He pushed through the bags, his hands out in all directions, scouring for the right texture, so distinct, like silk and steel at the same time.

Not it.

Not it.

Not . . . wait.

August opened his eyes. Verified with the penlight. He’d found it. He tugged at the handle and pulled it from under a stack of other bags. They’re going to think a monkey broke loose in here, he said to himself, stacking a few suitcases to form a makeshift table.

Placing the Gutenberg bag on top, he unlatched the lid and pried it open. In the narrow beam of light, he gazed at the beautiful book that lay inside. He leaned down close to it and let the ancient perfume of its pages drift into his nose. Musty was the wrong word for it, though the implication of agedness was correct. It wasn’t stale, either, for the book practically breathed. Old. The word he was searching for was simply old. But the kind of old that implied endurance and wisdom, the good things that outlasted the passage of years.