Free Soul Intent by Dennis Batchelder

right—you are luckier than him.”
    Good point. I tried to picture Ned Callaghan, opal miner, his wife and child recently dead, reaching out to Soul Identity in the hopes of leaving a trace of his life for the future. How dare I be disappointed?
    I’d have to find out more about Ned, so I could honor his memory. I turned the paper over and saw more writing on the back. “Hold on,” I said, “there’s more.”
     
    Surviveing a mine cavein
     
    Last year at full moon I et me tucker and headed back to me claim, as the opal bug was biting me hard. I clumb down the hole with pick and shovel, and found a ratter named Raddy scratchin my walls trying to pinch my opals. Fair dinkum.
     
    I was sore, so I swung me pick at him. He swung back, then one of us fell into the main prop and caused a cavein. Next thing I know, all but me boots were berried in potch and stone.
     
    That ratter pulled me out of the rubbell, but the tunnel was blocked and we were diggin for eight days in the dark with nothin but our own piss to drink and memories to eat.
     
    The tunnel kept collapseing, so me and Raddy dug out to Old Man Cleats hole fifteen chain away. We were knackered and almost dead, but still manged to scare the piss out of him when we showd up in his claim.
     
    We staid alive by not quittin. One dug wile the other slept until we got out. The lads say thats how we kept from going batty.
     
    Now Raddy the ratter and me are mates. He spun a good tale about Soul Identity, and sed this story would do for a memory. Hope it helps.
     
    I looked up and grinned. “Now that’s a story.” I laid the paper and the hammer in the cart and closed the door.
    Val smiled.
    As I was returning the wooden proof box to the top of the cart, I noticed that it had been sitting on top of a small stack of papers with a Post-it note attached. I pulled off the note and read it out loud.
     “Scott—a copy of the journal I showed you this morning, in case I am prevented from giving you the original—Archie.”
    Son of a gun. I let out a laugh. “We must have been born lucky.”
    “That was pretty clever of Mr. Morgan,” Val said.
    “And it explains why the receptionist said she was expecting me.” I flipped through the stack. Each sheet held a copy of two pages of the now-destroyed journal.
    I put the wooden box away, but I rolled up the copied journal and stuffed it in my pocket. “Score this round for Archie,” I said.

seventeen
    Present Day
    Sterling, Massachusetts
     
    We checked into the guesthouse that evening. George and Sue led Val and me to a large, palatial suite on the top floor of the brand-new three story building.
    This guesthouse had been built on the same site as the one Feret’s henchmen had blown up last year.
    “We reopened last month, and we’ve saved this room for you two to break in.” George smiled. “Before you ask, I want you to know I personally verified that the hot water functions properly.”
    “Did you include a gadget room?” I asked.
    He winked. “With an even better couch than before.”
    “Georgie, let’s leave these two alone,” Sue said. She handed us each a key. “We’ll see you at breakfast.”
    We parked ourselves at the dining table. I handed Val the copied journal and fired up my laptop. “Let’s see if we can figure this out,” I said.
    She flipped through the sheets. “Do you think it’s a cipher?”
    “It depends on the audience.”
    She frowned. “Explain.”
    “If it’s a targeted message to somebody else, then it’s encrypted, and it will be a bear for us to break. But if it’s a diary the author wants to re-read someday, it’s either just an alphabet and language we don’t recognize, or it’s encoded with a simple substitution scheme.”
    “Which do you think it is?”
    I took the journal and flipped through the pages. “It’s Madame Flora’s diary. See this word on the first page?”

    She nodded.
    “It’s also one of the first words on every few pages. It’s