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He slung everything inside, slammed it shut, and staggered to the driver’s side of the car. Moments later, the engine started. He backed up and spun out as he sped away, unaware someone had seen everything—from his haggard appearance and the fall, to all that had fallen out of his pack.
Dani Owens had a new job! Come August, she would be teaching first grade at the elementary campus in Jubilee, Kentucky. She’d been in town for two days now, looking for a place to rent. There were apartments just outsideof the city, as well as a couple of small housing additions with some houses for rent, and a few more for sale. She was hot, tired, and a little frustrated from filling out rental applications. As far as she was concerned, the first one that accepted her was the one she was taking. She liked all of the ones she’d seen, and any of them would suit. She just wanted this over with so she could get moved and settled in for a couple of months before she had to go to work.
Now that Dani had covered all the available living options, she decided to drive down to the music venue where Reagan Bullard was headlining. She wanted to get a ticket for one of his matinee performances, and after winding through a maze of parking lots, she found a place to park and went inside, only to learn his matinee shows were sold out for the next week.
But her disappointment was short lived. Since she’d be living here now, she opted not to get that far ahead of herself and exited the building, pausing momentarily to see where she’d parked. As she did, she caught movement from the corner of her eye and, as she turned to look, saw a tall, thin man come lurching up over the small rise between the parking lot and the creek below.
From the distance, he appeared to be crying as he staggered against the load of his backpack. She couldn’t tell if he was exhausted or drunk, and when he finally reached his car, he stumbled and fell. The backpack slid over his head as he went down, grinding his head into the concrete and spilling out some of the contents from inside.
She was about to run to his aid when he finally gotto his feet. Blood was running down his forehead as he opened the trunk, then yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and began swiping angrily at the blood running down his face. Cursing loudly, he began picking up what had fallen and throwing it all in the trunk. She thought nothing of the shovel, or water bottles, or what looked like a metal detector that he’d gathered up, but when she saw him pick up a gun, she stepped back into the shadows. He slammed the trunk shut, got in the car, and flew past her without knowing he’d had a witness to his fall.
As she emerged, she looked back at where he’d been and saw something lying on the concrete. She guessed it was something from the backpack and that it likely slid under his car when he fell. It might not be anything important, but on the off chance that it was, she walked across the parking lot to get it.
It was something wrapped in an old piece of rawhide, and she could tell the moment she picked it up that it was likely a book. But when she unfolded the leather for a closer look, she realized it was a very old personal journal, belonging to someone named Brendan Pope.
The name was written in an old-fashioned script and dated 1833, and the first thing she thought was that anything this old had to be something of value. The only thing she could think to do was turn it in at the police station, so she wrapped the journal back up in the rawhide and headed for her car.
After a quick Google check, she found directions to the police station and drove there. As she was gettingout of her car, the sharp scream of a siren pierced the air. She flinched, expecting police cars to start speeding away, but when no police cars left the area, she decided it must have been an ambulance and went inside.
The first thing she saw was the backside of a very tall man in uniform, with a loud and rowdy teenager in tow. Unwilling to get in the middle of that, she sat down in one of the empty chairs with the journal clutched against her breasts, and waited.
Aaron Pope was standing at the front desk beside a teenage boy he’d just arrested for shoplifting. Ordinarily he would have taken the boy through the back entrance into the jail area to get fingerprinted and booked, but he’d gotten a call on his way in that an exterminator was on the premises delousing the cells. Someone had booked a transient into jail two days ago, and when he was released this morning, the jailer realized he’d left head lice behind. Just the thought had everyone in the station itching, and business as usual was rerouted through the front door until the area had been fumigated.
The shop owner had caught the teen red-handed, and security footage from inside the store backed up the owner’s claim as Aaron arrived to pick him up. But Jason Reece, the teen who’d gotten caught, was loud, demanding, and belligerent. Even after Aaron got him to the station, he was still arguing.
“My father has more money than you jerks will see in a lifetime. He will make you sorry you ever saw my face,” he shouted.
“Empty your pockets,” Aaron said.
“I don’t have to—”
Aaron’s voice shifted from an authoritative order to threatening whisper. “Empty your pockets, Mr. Reece, or I’ll do it for you.”
The teen took one look at Aaron, paled, and began pulling everything out of his pockets and laid it on the counter. The desk sergeant bagged it all in an envelope and called an officer up from booking, who took the kid into an interrogation room, locked him up, and left him sitting until the jail area was cleared for use.
Aaron held up an evidence bag with a black fanny pack in it. “This needs to be logged into evidence. Over two thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry lifted from the Cherokee Trading Post, and Mr. Reece just turned nineteen. No more Get-Out-of Jail-Free cards for him.”
“Did you call his parents?” Walter asked.
Aaron shook his head. “No. He’s not a kid. He can use his one phone call to let them know.”
Walter nodded, then looked past Aaron’s shoulder and saw a young woman waiting to approach.
“I’ll be right with you,” he said, and left to take the stolen property to the evidence room.
Aaron hadn’t realized there was anyone behind him until Walter spoke. He turned, eyeing the youngdark-haired woman, and then the book she was clutching against her chest.
“I’m Officer Pope. Can I help you?”
Shock rolled through Dani so fast goose bumps rose on her arms. “Oh my God,” she mumbled. “What are the odds?”
Aaron frowned. “I’m sorry?”
Then she realized how rude that must have sounded. “No, I’m sorry. It’s just that your last name…it took me by surprise.” Then she held up the package. “This is probably nothing, but I was coming out of the ticket office down by the music venues when I saw a man come running up from the creek. He was acting strange, like maybe drunk or sick, and then just as he got to his car, he fell and his big backpack slid over his head. A bunch of stuff fell out, including a handgun and what looked like pieces of a metal detector. He threw it all in his trunk and drove away. Afterward, I saw something lying beneath where he’d parked. I think it slid under his car when he fell. I unwrapped the rawhide to see what was in it, and then after I saw what it was and how old it is, I thought it might be valuable. This is the only place I could think to bring it.”
“What is it?” Aaron asked.
“A personal journal. It’s dated 1833, and it belonged to a man named Brendan Pope.”
