This wasn’t the first time he’d entertained the reality of a past life. Too many things seemed familiar to him to dismiss as simple déjà vu. For one, the inexplicable comfort he’d had in his seat of power. He’d been able to rise to this position against tremendous resistance. And while he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, he’d always believed there was a metaphysical hand that had helped choreograph his rise.

The desert lured many who’d been told precious secrets lay there. Buried for centuries. Telling of powers they could not comprehend, but desired more than life. It brought the most daring and most vain. Few returned.

Bruton had studied the history of archaeological, multinational, and military interests in these lands. He knew Adrien Kurt had been involved in phenomenological events for which the military needed a rational explanation. That’s why he’d called him in when no regular channels were producing results in the wake of Julian and Dominique’s kidnapping. He trusted Kurt when Kurt wanted to bring in Catherine Book.

Bruton had been a soldier. He’d seen the viscera and scars of war. Dying men pleading with God. He was one of them.

He sank into his chair, desperate to revive the courage he’d deserted. The heat that had burned in Bruton’s mind now turned to an icy chill.

He was tossed back to his near-death in the jungles of Vietnam, waiting for life to ebb from him, laying in a pool of blood on the wet jungle ground. He smelled the dampness and death of that day and realized he’d been running from it ever since, running from the unearthly tether that had connected him to the spirits of that jungle rain forest, as he hovered above himself, choosing life. Now, he was faced with another choice—whether or not to be part of whatever message might be deciphered in the tablet.

60

60

Monday, September 28

Morning light squeezed through the blinds as Isabel surveyed her kitchen. She was struck at how neat and clean it looked. She hadn’t noticed in the three days since her sister had arrived that a sense of order had been restored to her apartment, if not her life. Dishes in the sink had been washed and stacked. The fridge had been absolved of food way past their “use by” date and replaced with fresh fruit and greens. The few plants she had were healthier and trimmed. Furniture and cabinets, dusted—Arama’s handiwork to help ingratiate herself and her guests into Isabel’s life after their unexpected, unwanted arrival. It was one of the controlling things Isabel didn’t miss about her sister, clean apartment be damned. She did appreciate she didn’t have to do it, but wouldn’t give Arama the satisfaction of her thanks.