Description: BOOK OF SECRETS, by Chris Roberson PROLOGUE My brother and I once met at a bar, and fell to talking about family. Parents, kids, relatives, the whole sick crew. He took issue with the idea about children being some link to the future, our bid at immortality. Parents, he says, are our true link to eternity. In each of us is a little bit of each of our parents, literally and figuratively, and in each of our parents a bit of theirs, and so on and so forth. All the way back to the Garden of Eden or the Primordial Ooze, depending upon your politics. Looking at our parents reminds us of eternity, he went on, because in them we can see everything that came before. Our parents remind us of the steaming piles of history it took to get to the present moment - in our case, the two of us into that bar on that night at that particular moment. Considering we hadn''t looked at our parents since my brother and I were both five years old, watching their caskets being lowered into the ground, shuffling our feet and wishing it would stop raining, it was somewhat surprising. But that''s my brother for you. What that has to do with anything I''m not sure, except to say that it concerns family and eternity, two things which factor greatly into the events of the past week. It began in the bleary-eyed hours of the morning, with a phone in one hand and a telegram in the other, and ended with me watching the setting sun, the secret history of mankind clutched to my chest. CHAPTER ONE: The First Day The phone rang insistently, again and again, and as I struggled out of a restless sleep I stared in its direction, an unfrozen caveman trying unsuccessfully to fathom the purpose of this strange, clanging thing. Finally, inspiration struck and I seized up the receiver, maneuvering it with only a hint of difficulty to my ear. Listening to the faint buzz on the line, satisfied by the sudden cessation of the ringing, I stood dumbly for a long moment, trying to remember what to do next. Finally it came to me. "Hullo?" I managed. "Is this Spencer Finch?" "Um... yeah?" "Spencer Finch, the reporter?" "Yeah." I was slowly beginning to remember what this phone business was all about, and realized that under normal circumstances I usually had some idea who was on the other end of the line before launching into conversation. Then I remembered that the landline seldom ever rang, and that hardly anyone had the number. I''d lost my cellphone the week before somewhere in a bender, and had been reduced to using payphones ever since. "Am I to understand that you are still interested in pursuing your investigation of J. Nathan Pierce?" The voice, now that it occurred to me to notice, sounded cultured and refined, if somewhat breathy. An educated and somewhat fey man, or a slightly masculine woman. "Who is this?" "That is not important at the moment, Mr. Finch." I caught a trace of an accent, and couldn''t place it. "I''ll repeat my question. Are you still pursuing your investigation of J. Nathan Pierce?" "Possibly," I answered, reserved. "What''s it to you, Mystery Caller?" "I have some information that may be of use to you, should you be interested." "Uh huh." "I''d simply like to suggest that you question one David Stiles of Houston. He is a private detective, and his services were recently retained by your Mr. Pierce." I grabbed a yellow slip of paper I''d pulled off the door as I''d stumbled in the night before, and scribbled down the name. "And why would Pierce need to hire a detective?" "I''m afraid I don''t know. I''ve told you all I can. Do with it what you will." The voice paused for a beat, and then added, "My condolences on your loss." "Yeah, well..." I began, and then the line went dead. "What loss?" I muttered, and then absently turned over the yellow paper in my hand. It was a telegram, signed for by my next door neighbor and dated two weeks before. My grandfather was dead. Unable to sleep again after that, I shrugged into my suit coat and drove over to Trudy''s North Star. The restaurant was farther away than I really needed to go, but the drive gave me a chance to wake up, and it''s one of the few places left in Austin where you can still smoke indoors. I found a parking spot near the door, and settled into a booth before the waitress even noticed I was there. She brought over a cup of coffee without question, and went back to a table in the far corner to finish her own cigarette. She knew me on sight. I''d shown up often enough early in the morning and ordered nothing more than a bottomless cup of coffee for her to give me any special attention. Lighting my first cigarette of the day, I dumped half the contents of the jar of sugar into my coffee, and then pulled the telegram from my pocket. After glancing briefly at the name scrawled across the back, I turned it over and read the contents more closely. It mentioned a funeral, and an address and date. In San Antonio, at a church not far from my grandfather''s house, where my brother and I had lived from the age of five on. I''d missed the ceremony, and was disappointed only in that it would have marked the first time that I would have seen the old man in a church. It went on to request my attendance at the reading of the will at an attorney''s office in Houston. I''d missed that as well. There was some mention made of material inheritance, but I didn''t spend too much time on that. I turned the slip of paper back over. I hadn''t seen my grandfather in a decade, and was somewhat surprised he hadn''t died years before. The name I''d written on the reverse, though, was sufficiently curious. I''d been working on the piece about Pierce on and off for a while now, in between paying gigs. Since Wide Open, the left-leaning magazine that had kept me on staff for three years, went under, I''d returned to Austin and started doing freelance work. Wired , Rolling Stone , Spin . Mindless fluff to fill up the spaces between pictures and ads. I''d been getting regular work from Logion, an online magazine based in Austin, and they had commissioned me to do a piece on Texas millionaire and philanthropist J. Nathan Pierce. The money wasn''t much, but I had a thing for the lady publisher, and if done right the story might give me a much needed sense of self-esteem. The was only one problem: There was no story. J. Nathan Pierce, "Nez" to his friends, retired colonel USMC, successful businessman and millionaire benefactor of the University of Texas. This withered old nut was stuck in more pies than he had fingers, but the ones that interested Logion were some shady land deals he''d rigged in South Texas. The backstory of his generous donations to the University was rumored to involve the extortion, harassment, and perhaps outright murder of Mexican farmers, but I had yet to come up with a single bit of verifiable evidence. The Logion piece was intended to coincide with Pierce''s official recognition for his humanitarian efforts by the University and the state of Texas. There was to be a gala ceremony in his honor on his seventieth birthday, and ground broken at a new university library that was to bear his name. If I wanted to cast a long enough shadow to sour the birthday carnival, I''d need something more than rumors and allegations. I needed proof. But after a few months spent digging, both in Austin and around Pierce''s home offices in Houston, I''d come up with exactly nothing. He had covered his tracks well, or at least his friends had, and I was left without a story. Pierce was well connected enough that his people in the Justice Department, the Texas Land Office, and the state and federal governments could simply make any evidence disappear. All of which made the name written on the back of the telegram so curious. If Pierce had hired a private detective - and I stressed the "if," not ready to trust an anonymous call in the middle of the night; that sort of spirit in the machine only came out of the woodwork in mystery novels and bad TV, and I wasn''t hanging any kind of hope on it - if Pierce had hired a detective, the question was why? Any business he needed taken care of, any bit of information he needed or person he wanted found, his friends with the badges and the government pensions could have handled easily. Unless - and this was the big flashing sign - he didn''t want them to know about it. The only reason someone like Pierce would step outside the good old boy club was if he had done something, or found something, that he didn''t want being passed around the clubhouse. And something like that, just maybe, could mean a story. Leaving Magnolia and my bottomless coffee behind, I was home by sunrise, and saw my place in daylight for the first time in a month. I''d been away in Chicago working on a story for Rolling Stone, and hadn''t returned until late the night before. After two too many drinks on the plane and in airport bars, I barely looked at the place as I stumbled up the drive. A little two bedroom house, with sagging wooden floors and wide gaps in the walls, it probably looked a hell of a lot better during World War II than it did now. But it was cheap, and large enough for all my crap, and I could come and go as I liked. Once inside, I fired up my ancient computer and pulled down David Stiles'' home and office number. There was no answer at his home, and I caught a machine at his office, so I sat at my desk, working my way through a pack of cigarettes and thinking

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