Normally, Dahlia would never have been allowed into the basement archives of the New York Public Library. But today, Bob was there to let her in.
"Hello, Dahlia. How have you been?"
"Good," she said, sniffing the air. "Had a great time in Rome. The Pope says hi."
"The Pope! I bet he was fascinated to meet you."
"We came to a reasonable arrangement."
"What? Did you give him your book?"
She looked over at him for the first time since she entered this archival room. "You know a lot, don't you? Maybe you are the Antichrist."
"I know that book won't mean much to the Pope."
Dahlia smiled. It looked like a smile of relief to Bob. "Wrong book," she said, removing a painting of a steamboat from the wall. There was a large wall safe behind it.
"What do you mean? I've seen your book."
"That's not the real one."
"You mean, there is a real one?"
"Yes, I wrote it."
"Where did you find it?"
"Find it? All I had to do was write it and print it out." She began turning the dial.
"What are you doing?" he finally asked.
"It's mine."
"What's yours?"
"You know."
"How did you find it?" he asked.
"Don't you see? The library? Underground? The wheel on the steamboat? I just find the pattern."
"And now you're going to guess some random numbers?"
"There's no randomness. Your mother was 37 when she died." Click. "You were 11." Click. "The year was 1977." Click. "In your pocket were 78 francs."
The safe fell open just as Bob's mouth did.
"Do you know where Sarah is?" asked Dahlia, who was now holding the long, beautiful golden sword of St. Catherine.
"I'm surprised you don't know," he muttered. "You might try Asbury Park. But she's free now."
"No she's not. What do you think this sword is for?"
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