Deep Storm

In the silence behind him came the clearing of a throat. Dr. Logan turned to see the abbot, arms behind his back, regarding him. Father Bronwyn gave a kindly smile.

"No luck?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Logan shook his head.

The abbot came forward. "I wish you would let me assist you. I don't know what you seek, but it is clearly something of great importance-at least to you. I may be an inquisitive old fool, but I know how to keep secrets entrusted to me. Let me help you. Tell me what you seek."

Logan hesitated. More than once, his client had emphasized the need for complete discretion. But what good was discretion if one had nothing to be discreet about? He had visited three repositories of critical knowledge, and several others of lesser relevance, while furnished with only the vaguest of assignments. Unsurprisingly, he had found nothing.

He looked carefully at the abbot. "I'm looking for local accounts-eyewitness accounts, preferably-of a certain event."

"I see. And what event is that?"

"I don't know."

The abbot raised his eyebrows. "Indeed? That does make things difficult."

"All I know is that the event would be significant enough, or perhaps unusual enough, to prompt recording in a historical text. Most likely, an ecclesiastical historical text."

Slowly, the abbot moved around the table and sat down once again. As he did so, his eyes never left Dr. Logan's.

"An unusual event. Such as a-miracle?"

"That is quite possible." Logan hesitated. "But it's my understanding the miracle-how can I say it?-might not have its roots in a divine source."

"In other words, the source could be demonic."

Dr. Logan nodded.

"Is that all the information you have?"

"Not quite. I also have a time frame and an approximate location."

"Pray continue."

"The event would have taken place roughly six hundred years ago. And it would have happened there." And he raised his hand and pointed toward the northwest wall of the library.

At this, the abbot started visibly. "Over water?"

"Yes. Something seen by a local fisherman, say, straying far from shore. Or perhaps, if the day was exceptionally clear, something observed on the horizon by a person walking the coastal cliffs."

The abbot began to speak, then paused as if reconsidering. "The other two monastic libraries you visited," he began again quietly. "They, too, were situated on the coast-were they not? Both of them overlooking the North Atlantic. Just as we do."

Logan considered this a moment. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.

For a moment, the abbot did not reply. He looked past Logan and his eyes went distant, as if viewing something far away or, perhaps, long past. At the front of the library, a monk gathered several books under his arm, then slipped out on noiseless feet. The dusty old room fell into an intense silence.

At last, Father Bronwyn stood up. "Please wait," he said. "I'll be back shortly."

Logan did as requested. And within ten minutes the abbot returned, carrying something gingerly between his hands: a bulky rectangular object wrapped in a rough black cloth. The abbot laid the object on the table, then drew the cloth carefully back. Beneath lay a lead box figured in gold and silver leaf. Drawing out a key from around his neck, the abbot unlocked the box.

"You have been candid with me, my son," he said. "So I will be the same with you." He patted the lead box gently. "What is inside this box has remained one of the greatest secrets of Grimwold Castle. Originally it was felt very dangerous to possess a written record of the events herein. Later, as myth and legend grew, the record itself became too valuable and controversial to show to anyone. But I think I can trust you with it, Dr. Logan-if only for a few minutes." And, slowly, the abbot pushed the box across the table. "I hope you don't mind if I remain here while you read it? I can't allow it to leave my sight. That was an oath I swore on being named abbot of Grimwold Castle."

Logan did not open the box immediately. Instead, he simply stared at the gold and silver scrollwork adorning its top. Despite his eagerness, he hesitated.

"Is there something I should know before I begin?" he asked. "Something you would care to tell me?"

"I think it will speak well enough for itself." Then a smile-not grim, exactly, but not entirely pleasant-spread across the abbot's features. "Dr. Logan, surely you are aware of the saying, 'Here there be monsters'?"

"I am."

"It is found in the blank spaces of the oceans on old maps." The abbot paused again. Then, very gently and deliberately, he tapped the box. "Read this carefully, Dr. Logan. I am not a gambling man-except perhaps on the quality of Brother Frederick's wine when each new vintage is laid down-but I would bet this is where that expression first came from."

14

When Crane entered Conference Room A, the smaller of the two in the Medical Suite, he found Michele Bishop there already, entering a notation into her palmtop computer with a metal stylus. The glossy surface of the conference table was conspicuously bare. In his prior experience, medical fact-finding meetings were always accompanied by a blizzard of paperwork: charts, reports, histories. But save for the thin folder beneath Crane's arm, there was no paperwork here today. Hard copy took up valuable space, and so wherever possible, data inside the Deep Storm station was kept scrupulously within the digital realm.

As he took a seat, Bishop looked up, gave him the ghost of a smile, then glanced back at her palmtop and made another entry.

"What's Waite's status?" he asked.

"I'm recommending he be released tomorrow."

"Really?"

"Roger's given him psych clearance, and Asher's agreed to confine him to quarters. No reason to keep him here any longer."

As she spoke, Roger Corbett entered the room, a large latte from the nearby coffee bar in one hand. He smiled broadly at them in turn, then took a seat at the far side of the table, placing the latte and his own palmtop before him.

"Michele was just telling me you've cleared Waite for discharge," Crane said.

Corbett nodded. "I've done a full psych workup. He's got some anxiety issues that didn't show up during the initial approval tests, perhaps some non-specific depression as well. But he's responding well to the meds. We've backed off on the antipsychotics without adverse effects. I think we're looking at a simple mood disorder that should respond well to therapy."

Crane frowned. "It's your call to make, of course. But seventy-two hours ago, this 'simple mood disorder' took a hostage, then jammed a screwdriver into his own throat."

Corbett took a sip of his latte. "Waite clearly has some issues to grapple with, and we have no idea how long he's been internalizing. Sometimes this stuff manifests as a cri de coeur. People here are under a great deal of stress-no matter how well we vet them, we can never predict all possible behavior trees. I plan to follow up with daily sessions in his quarters, keep him under close observation."

"Fine," Crane said. At least it will get Korolis and his goons out of the Medical Suite.

He glanced back at Bishop. "Any new cases?"

She consulted her palmtop. "A technician came in complaining of spastic colon. Another reported palpitations. And there's a maintenance worker with non-specific symptomology: sleeplessness, inability to focus."

"I see. Thank you." Crane looked from one to the other. "Shall we get on with it, then?"

"Get on with what?" Bishop asked. "I'm not exactly sure why you called this meeting."

Crane looked across the table at her, wondering if every step would be a struggle. "I called this meeting, Dr. Bishop, to determine just what we're dealing with here."