“Alistair, access modern archaeological findings as they relate to historical notations made in the New Testament.”

“I understand you’re trying to find information on a friend’s relative, Dr. Daniels.”

I sat in the office of the hospital’s chief administrator, Dr. Brock Morris, a short man with a firm handshake and a brusque manner. I had overcome my first potential roadblock: I had obtained an audience with someone other than the hospital director, Dr. Theodore Brandt. Conferring with him in person would be a dead end; he had made that clear in our VR encounter.

“Yes. A friend’s grandfather. I have authorization from her to secure information about his stay here…” I pulled out my electronic pad.

Dr. Morris waved me off. “That’s not necessary, Dr. Daniels. I’ve checked our records. We have never had Raymond Caldwell here as a patient.”

“But we have a visual message from him in which he’s wearing a patient gown from this facility.”

He looked taken aback. “You do? How did you—” He paused and collected his thoughts. “I don’t know how he could have obtained such a garment. From where did you receive this message?”

“It was sent to his granddaughter from—” I thought better of revealing too much information. “Well, you’d have to ask her that question.” I shifted in my seat. “Is it possible Dr. Caldwell may have been here temporarily, perhaps just for an assessment, and then dismissed?”

He shook his head. “No. Our records would indicate that as well. I’m sorry, Dr. Daniels. We don’t have any information on Ms. Caldwell’s grandfather.”

He rose from his desk and nodded toward the door. “I wish we could have been of greater assistance to you.” He followed me out of the office. We took three steps down the hallway, then he stopped. “The exit is straight ahead at the end of the hall. Good day, Dr. Daniels.”

He stuck out his hand. I shook it and turned to walk down the hall. I glanced into an office with an open door and froze. On the back wall was a large, framed Andy Warhol print. The same one I had seen in Ray Caldwell’s message.

“Creighton, what did you find out?”

On the car’s visiscreen, Abby looked better than she had that morning, her hair pulled back into a braid. She was curled on the couch with an old copy of To Kill a Mockingbird we had found at an antiques shop.

“They deny that Ray was ever here.”

Abby’s shoulders slumped. I could feel her disappointment even through the car’s visiscreen.

“They have no record of him as a patient?”

“That’s what the administrator said.”

She sighed heavily.

“But he was here, Abby.”

Her eyes shot back up at me. “He was? How do you know?”

“Because I saw the office from which he sent the message.”

“Are you sure?” She rose from the couch.