The Future Scrolls Read online

  Also by Fern Michaels . . .

  ABOUT FACE

  KENTUCKY RICH

  KENTUCKY HEAT

  KENTUCKY SUNRISE

  PLAIN JANE

  CHARMING LILY

  WHAT YOU WISH FOR

  THE GUEST LIST

  LISTEN TO YOUR HEART

  CELEBRATION

  YESTERDAY

  FINDERS KEEPERS

  ANNIE’S RAINBOW

  SARA’S SONG

  VEGAS SUNRISE

  VEGAS HEAT

  VEGAS RICH

  WHITEFIRE

  WISH LIST

  DEAR EMILY

  FERN MICHAELS

  THE FUTURE SCROLLS

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Fern Michaels . . .

  Title Page

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  A.D. 1200

  I write in this journal for the benefit of Alexander Mendeneres—my friend, confidant and physician. I believe this will ease my soul and free my mind. I have great confidence in my learned physician’s opinions, but I fear I shall not live much longer once this journal has been finished. The mark of death is upon me. I pray that God will give my hands the strength to finish these last passages.

  It was while I was kneeling for evening devotions that the miracle—for I am convinced it was a miracle—happened.

  As I prayed, I became aware of a disturbance in the calmness of my room. The very air seemed to buzz with energy. The buzzing became louder, causing the air about me to stir and creating a gentle breeze. As it became stronger, I experienced the winds of a hurricane flinging my bedclothes around the room and forcing my prayer book to fly to the other side of the chamber.

  Frightened, I closed my eyes tightly, willing whatever it was to leave me in peace. But, through the thin skin of my eyelids, I sensed a light so bright that when I tried to open my eyes I was nearly blinded with its brilliance. Now I became truly frightened, for it was late evening and I realized that no candle could ever have accounted for the intensity of light that I was witnessing.

  I cautiously looked about me, and there, standing by my bedstead I saw a figure of a man, but I knew no earthly creature could ever be as beautiful, as beatific as he was. He was tall, with skin pale as the wings of a moth and the blush of peach. Golden hair tumbled about his perfectly formed head, and he was beardless. His profile and features were refined, reminding me of a painting of an ethereal being. A smile of empathy radiated from his face. He was well proportioned and muscular, which the large, loose-cut neck of his white robe, with trimmings in blue, enabled me to see. He wore no sandals and his feet were long and slim.

  But most remarkable of all was the light which emanated from him. It encircled him like a halo, throwing its beams into the far corners of my chamber.

  I drew back in fear and astonishment as I heard my name called, yet I heard not a voice. Incredulous as I was, I knew this man was a messenger from God. He told me to be not afraid, that he had not come to harm me but to enlist my aid. Owing to the beauty of his personage, I knew beyond doubt that I had nothing to fear. He put me at my ease and spoke of heavenly things and everyday happenings. Things I knew of and things which were obscure to me. He told me, at last, the true nature of his business, yet cautioned me to tell no one until the nature of his business was completed. This I obeyed.

  Throughout the time he spent with me, I became to him a scribe and diligently wrote down all he had to say. His messages were predictions of things to come. I found myself listening to his words as I wrote.

  Among the predictions foretold—which I do not hesitate to put down here, for my brethren, the Prefects of the Church, have already made them known publicly at my trial—he spoke of the coming of a king who would separate Church and State; the discovery of a new land far across the seas; the downfall of a great nation of people in this new land; the mention of great and devastating wars which have yet to be fought; and much more, which to this day I do not understand. Nor do I understand why I was chosen to write of these prophecies, nor do I recognize what use these prophecies will be to man. I only know that a heavenly messenger was sent down to earth and he chose me to be his scribe.

  When he left, leaving me a blessing, he said something that I thought very strange at the time. He said I had helped him of my own free will, otherwise he would not have stayed with me. He told me he had exerted no influence on me and my decision to be his scribe had been my own. I had but to have objected or to have shown a display of non-faith in him and he would have left me as he had found me. His face saddened as he looked upon me, and he said simply, “You have much to bear, for you are an honest man. The grace of God will be with you, but it will not change the events of things to come. Be brave and strong of heart, and reflect on the sufferings on Calvary.” Then he was gone.

  I had rolled the last scroll and placed it on the table. I then fell onto my bedstead in exhaustion. When I awoke the next day, I thought I had imagined the whole incident. But when I rushed to the table, I saw the rolled scrolls there. Carefully, I opened one of the parchments. What I saw there left me amazed, as well as convinced that my experience had not been an illusory one. There set before me, in my own hand, were the words I had set down at the angel’s direction. The passages were involved, requiring study and reflection, though what most impressed me were the illuminated drawings with which each scroll began. The color was vibrant, more so than any ink or paint I had hitherto known of, and my touch with the brush was delicate and commanding. I knew the work to be mine and yet it far surpassed anything I had ever done before or, for that matter, any work I could ever hope to do. There were seven scrolls in all, each bearing the mark of the illuminated letter—or cross—at the top. I sat down on the stool near the table and tried to decide what was best to do. It was clear that I could not keep these happenings to myself. But now, as I lie in this cold dungeon to which I have been committed as a raving lunatic, I wonder if perhaps it would have been better if I had kept the scrolls a secret.

  Now there is naught to do but to entrust the scrolls to Doctore Alexander Mendeneres and pray to God that he will safeguard them till the time comes for them to be revealed.

  One

  The public address system was announcing the arrival of National’s flight 344 from Los Angeles at gate West 22.

  Dani Arnold sat in the plush terminal restaurant sipping a cup of Starbucks coffee as she concentrated on the view that the wide panoramic window afforded her of the runway.

  To any observer, Dani Arnold would have appeared to be a young, attractive woman in her mid-twenties, well groomed and intelligentlooking, confident and poised, like so many other thousands of Manhattan career girls.

  Her facade of tranquility belied the hidden turmoil boiling within her, contradicted the well of tears which threatened to spring to the surface.

  She was tired, more so than she could remember having felt for a long time. The strain of the past two hours was taking its toll and the caffeine in the coffee wasn’t helping her to keep her emotions under control.

  Wasn’t it just like Jack to be callous enough to
ask her to see him off to the airport, so he could wing his way to the “girl back home” and his impending marriage? And wasn’t it just like her to agree! Dani, old girl, she thought wryly, you weren’t dealt a full deck. The minute you heard Jack’s voice on the phone last night, you should have slammed down the receiver so hard that his brain would still be jingling now from the reverberation.

  A jetliner began its slow progression down the runway in preparation for takeoff, but her thoughts were still focused on Jack.

  A feeling of defeat rivered through her as she thought about how she had built her hopes around him, trusted him with her most tender emotions and allowed him to see her vulnerability. Jerk that he was, and to use that trite phrase, he had wined and dined her into a deep, prolonged assurance that she would one day be Mrs. Jack Cecil. No, that was all wrong—she was the jerk.

  Then, one stormy, rainy night, when they were nestled cozily before her electric fireplace, he looked deeply into her eyes and said he knew that she would understand. He had decided to return to the “girl he had left behind” in his hometown, and couldn’t Dani and he consider themselves “good friends”?

  The girl, Dani had come to find out, was an heiress and Jack had found that life as a poor, struggling lawyer in the big city was not as attractive as being a poor, struggling lawyer in a small town with a rich wife. This revelation had taken place two months ago and she had not heard from Jack until the night before.

  When she heard his voice on the phone, her traitorous heart had leaped and threatened to strangle her to the point where she had to choke out her words. But all Jack had wanted was for his “good friend” to take him to the airport because he’d sold his car and it would be good to see Dani again.

  Before she realized what she was saying, they had ended their conversation and Dani had agreed to borrow Stash’s car and take Jack to the great, silver bird that would wing him all the way to his wedding.

  Now with Jack gone from her life, although he assured her his business would bring him to New York and he would look her up (he had punctuated this with a wry wink), Dani felt hollow, emotionally depleted. Yet, priding herself on her logical New England thinking (discarding the fact that she had only spent a brief vacation at Cape Cod), she knew she would weather out this trauma and life would again hold new promise. The only cloud that darkened her sky was that she had no idea just how long this storm would last. She had not gotten over him before last night, so maybe it was going to take forever? That’s because I was still hoping, she derided herself. Now I know that anything I’d hope for would be after the fact and, besides, she grimaced, Jack is a dick! She dotted the expletive with a hard, sharp click of her cup against the saucer.

  The waiter, hearing the clink of china against china, stepped over to her table and refilled her cup from the Pyrex pot that was always at hand.

  Dani, not wanting a third coffee, smiled up at him, thanked him and resigned herself to another cup, not wanting to slight his well-intentioned attendance by refusing it. What was one more cup of coffee in the scheme of things?

  The waiter, ever on the alert to the needs of his patrons, took his coffeepot to a table on the far side of the restaurant in order to refill the cup of a distinguished-looking gentleman in his late thirties.

  The man was well dressed in meticulously tailored gray sharkskin, which offset the wisps of gray hair at his temples and contrasted handsomely with his coal black eyes. As he poured the coffee, the waiter was startled when he noticed that the man’s hands were tightly clenched, contradicting their owner’s nonchalant pose. So startled was he by the fierce grip that one of the man’s sun-browned, square, neatly manicured hands had of the other that he almost poured the cup to overflowing.

  The gentleman shook his head in thanks and gazed across the half-empty restaurant to the windows looking out onto the runway, his gaze passing quickly over Dani’s neat, shining dark brown head.

  How can I sit here drinking what these Americans pass off as coffee? I should be out there somewhere searching for her, calling her name. His breath caught in his throat as he mentally called upon the heavens to bring his child to him. Maria, he silently moaned, Maria. What happened to you? Where are you?

  His anger was red hot as his mind roll-called the events of the past few hours. Spare me from the inefficiency of airline personnel, he thought, grasping his hands together into a tighter clench; how can a ten-year-old child traveling alone all the way from Argentina go unnoticed?

  If only I could see her now, rushing through the heavy glass doors of the airport restaurant shouting out “Papa” in her sweet melodious voice. Maria, Maria, where are you?

  He had gone the rounds of the airline officials and now it was past noon and there was still no word of her, no news from anyone who might have seen her. He was still waiting for personnel to check with staff whose shift had changed at seven in the morning. This was the only explanation they could offer him: Maria had somehow come to the United States on an earlier plane and this is why he couldn’t find her. But why would Madre change the plans and send Maria on an entirely different flight from that which had been confirmed? It didn’t make sense.

  He had thought of calling his mother in Argentina and questioning her, but the señora was advanced in years and suffering with crippling arthritis. To worry her with Maria’s disappearance would be the height of cruelty. No, he resolved, I will only call Madre as a last resort.

  Was it possible that Maria had run away, guessing at his intentions? He would do what he had to do: use his child as bait in this deadly game that his wife had initiated. When his quarry reached out, as she would, he would withdraw her and hold her close. He, Alexander Renaldo Mendeneres, would never be the loser in this hateful cloak-and-dagger game.

  Abruptly, the man pushed his chair away from the table, stood and flung a crisp bill onto the pristine, white tablecloth then left the restaurant with long, angry strides.

  His movements distracted Dani from her thoughts and reminded her that there was much else she could do with a rare day off from the office besides sitting and watching planes bouncing along a runway.

  Hastily, she gathered her gloves and handbag, withdrew a crumpled bill from her coat pocket and left the restaurant.

  Once outside, she seemed to lose her determination to leave, and she stepped up the few steps onto the observation deck which on one side gave a glassy view of the runway and, on the other, a bird’s-eye view of the reception room reserved for VIPs. Without knowing why, her attention was drawn to a dark-haired woman wearing a tan cashmere coat with an enormous fox collar. The woman was engaged in conversation with a rather tall, thin man who had sandy-colored hair and a gold hoop piercing his right earlobe. Both seemed tense and the man’s eyes kept darting from the entrance of the room to its corners, as though looking for an escape route. The glamorous woman he was with also noticed his actions and put a comforting hand on his arm. Her soft, musical voice wafted up the bare walls, reaching Dani, who was standing quietly, straining to hear the faint words. Even with the distance between them, she could hear every word they spoke, the woman now becoming angry.

  “Eugene, try to control yourself,” she hissed. “You’re acting so suspiciously, you’ll do something foolish, I know it!” She directed a further glance toward the doorway. “You never could keep your head when it mattered most. I’ve passed through customs without a hitch—what are you worried about now?”

  The man, resenting the woman’s ridicule, took her arm in a viselike grip and said hoarsely, “Who could keep their head with a scatterbrained bitch like you to rely on? You may have cleared customs, sweet, but what about your airfreight?”

  The venomous look on the woman’s face would have chilled anyone else to the bone, but the man seemed impervious to her open hostility. She pulled her arm out of his vicious grip and laughed, a little tinkling laugh. “Who’s scatterbrained? Not I, Eugene. And I resent the bitch part, too. Don’t ever say that to me again. For your information, the
y’re not in the airfreight. They’re right here, in my tote bag.”

  The man’s expression was incredulous; then, slowly, his upper lip curled into an evil smile. Dani watched his face change, as if in slow motion, from one of churlishness to one of mirth. His mouth spread into a wide grin and suddenly he exploded into laughter. His cackle, more than his boorishness, upset Dani. There was something abnormal in the way he completely surrendered himself to his jocularity. When he abruptly stopped laughing, it was as though he’d never moved his lips at all, his features remaining cold and chiseled.

  “Stop that insane laughter. Let’s get out of here. I’m exhausted,” the woman complained in a whining voice. “I never should have told Alex I’d meet him in New York. I never should have listened to you. Los Angeles is the place we should have designated. It’s too cold here!”

  “Shut up, will you? It has to be New York. I don’t have the kind of contacts on the coast I have here. Now just shut up!”

  The woman tossed him a disgusted look. Somehow Dani knew their argument would not stop here. It would probably be ongoing. It didn’t sound to her like the two ever stopped arguing. It was none of her business, though. Why was she even listening?

  “Lou and I were on the case all morning, and do you know what we were chasing? That brat of yours.”

  “Maria?” The word exploded from the woman’s mouth like a gunshot.

  “Even you know she’s a brat, Val. For five dollars I intercepted a cable addressed to Alex. It was from your mother-in-law. And what do you think was in the cable? It was the flight number and arrival time of the plane that kid of yours was on. It seems there was a little change in plans.”

  Valerie turned to face him, a questioning look in her eyes. A smirk raised a corner of the man’s mouth as he grabbed his companion’s elbow and led her out of the VIP lounge.

  Dani flushed. Suddenly she felt like a sneak for listening to the couple’s conversation.

  As the room emptied out, Dani was reminded of her determination to accomplish something worthwhile this day. “Like take my library books back to the library,” she muttered.