Free 13th Apostle by Richard F. Heller, Rachael F. Heller Page B

off and slam him.
    â€œWorks for me,” he said with a sudden smile. “That’s exactly what forensics depends on. That and some terrific technology. When you get that feeling, when you just know there’s something hidden just beyond where you can see it, you’re almost always right.”
    â€œAnd when you’re wrong?” she asked.
    â€œThen you’ve screwed up. But, more often than not, you’re right.”
    Sabbie didn’t look convinced. Gil knew what she was thinking. A fifty-fifty chance of finding a hidden message in the diary was better than nothing, but not as good as a hundred percent.
    Careful, my sweet. That’s what makes gamblers into addicts.
    â€œOkay, show me what you got,” Gil said.
    She handed him the printouts. They were fuzzy and too light, barely readable. They looked like second-generation copies of scanned pages that had been posted on the Internet or put through a dishwasher.
    â€œI need something better to work from.”
    She reminded him that he already had her translations. Besides, she said, since he didn’t understand Latin anyway, it didn’t seem essential that he work from pristine pages.
    â€œI look for patterns,” he explained. “Even in other languages. So I need the original to look at, too.”
    She was immovable. This was all they had. He would have to depend on her.
    â€œWhy can’t we work directly from the diary?”
    â€œNot possible,” she answered and indicated that the matter for discussion was closed.
    â€œOkay, we’ll do it your way,” he said with a shrug, “but it’s going to take a lot longer. Let’s try doing it by ear instead. Read it to me.”
    At first, the translated sentences made no sense at all. Then, after a few minutes, something seemed to call to him from beyond the words, like a melody he couldn’t quite make out. If he could just…
    Gil placed his hands on either side of his head. The ride was about to start. “Read it again,” he said excitedly. “The same first few sentences. Read them over and over. Keep going.”
    26 th day of January 1097 in the year of our Lord
    1–18 1 4 19 I am here with Elias. A poor simple monk living outside Caston within the great city walls of Halcourt near Weymouth Monastery.
    27 th day of January 1097 in the year of our Lord
    5–8 3 1 79 He knows I put lies in this tale and wrongs to ink.
    25 th day of February 1097 in the year of our Lord
    4–12 3 6 9 He angers for I have no fear that one day all shall come to be lost.
    3rd day of March 1097 in the year of our Lord
    14-2 13 26 7 He rages should I never again fail to try and do so.
    For over an hour she reread the same word salad, until they both knew it by heart, backward and forward. She was starting to lose faith, and it showed.
    â€œThis is getting us nowhere,” she began. “Why don’t you try decoding it?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œYou know, substitute letters or whatever you do. Come on, I shouldn’t have to tell you !”
    â€œI told you I don’t do codes,” he said simply. “I look for patterns. Or changes in patterns. Look, if you’re married, a change in patterns tells you that your spouse has been cheating on you. If you’re a bank president, it clues you to the fact that your employee has been embezzling money. If you’re a cybersleuth, it alerts you to a predator trying to lure a child into an abusive relationship. Even terrorists are easy to spot if you know what patterns to look for.”
    This diary held a hidden pattern. He could hear it. Loud and clear. It was something he couldn’t explain. He wanted to tell her that you don’t find it by telling your brain where to go, you let it take you. That was the thrill of it. You just went along for the ride and you never knew where you were going to end up. And the pattern was here, calling him