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Maybe you should call them.”“Can we get a cell signal out here?”“There is a pretty big highway about three miles east of us, so I’m guessing we can.” I reached into my pocket, and pulled out my own phone and its battery. “I hope it’s still charged up.” I installed the battery and pressed the power button. It took a moment, and then I nodded. “Yep. Two bars for me.”Sharon picked up her purse, found her phone, assembled it, and powered it up. It began to buzz as many messages were downloaded to it. “Holy smokes!”“Wow, you are popular. Who’re they from?”“My family and my friend in New York City. Oh, and the FBI agent we’re trying to contact?” She started scrolling through her text messages. “Well, the FBI is looking for me, and there’s no mention of you, or of the shootout, or the plane.”“Okay, you’d better shut it off.” She complied, and I handed her my phone. “Call your father on my phone.”The conversation went as I expected; Sharon’s father was relieved that she was alive and even. Next to the man lay a notebook. I picked it up and opened it. It contained more diagrams and notes scribbled in pencil. They were in the same handwriting as the previous notes I’d found but these seemed more precise. No doodles, no sketches. Unfortunately, the notes were mostly written in some form of shorthand. I turned back to the body. From this angle I could see that there was another book under the man’s chest. An old book this time. Nervously, I lifted his weight and slid it from under him, half expecting the corpse to return to life or crumble to dust. Understandable when your main reference for this sort of work is the cinema. The man remained whole and dead. The book was thick and leather bound. The age-browned pages were heavy and stiff. More diagrams, runes and paragraphs but in a foreign script this time. I recognised some of the symbols from the notebook and on closer inspection it transpired that the notebook was a translation. I leafed through the pages of both books..
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