CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Character"
They'd kept the land line because it went with the house. Betty predicted the Chicoms were going to explode a huge electromagnetic pulse over the continent and fry all the satellites and wireless systems. That's why she kept vinly LPs as well.
Vaughan took the stairs two at a time and scooped up the antique Bakelite receiver.
"Betty?"
"Hello, Vaughan," Betty said, voice oozing concern. "How are you?"
"I stink but I'm outta jail. When you coming back?"
"I think I made that clear in my letter, Vaughan. Not until you have this under control."
"Ruby says I'll probably just have to pay a fine."
"Vaughan, I don't see any way the university can keep you on after this."
He eyed a block of butcher's knives. "Come on, Betty. You're my wife."
"Vaughan, there are trust issues."
"Come on! You know I haven't looked at another woman since that one incident! How many times do I have to apologize?"
He felt her cover her phone and hunch in a corner of her parent's house as she lowered her voice. "I'm not going to argue with you. This isn't about your affair." With just the smallest emphasis. "It's about character. I thought you'd changed."
"You don't believe I stole that pot, do you?"
The pause was Brobdingnagian.
"Please just settle this as quickly as possible," she said and hung up.
Beadles clutched the receiver with white knuckles and made a low growling sound in the back of his throat. He replaced the receiver and poured himself four fingers of Macallan and added some crushed ice from the fridge. Carrying his drink he went down the hall into the master bedroom.
Bitch couldn't even make the bed. He went into the bathroom, stripped, and stood under a hot shower for ten minutes. He drank two fingers, toweled himself off and put on clean jeans and a Sturgis T-shirt. Thought about ordering out but didn't want some kid gawking at him as he forked over the pizza.
Beadles returned to the kitchen and poked around in the fridge. He found some frozen lasagna and popped it in the microwave. In a wooden chair with his feet up on the kitchen table he finished the Scotch.
That hard drive was going to kill him. Why would a guy with a wife like Betty even dowload all that porn?
Most of his research was on the hard drive. And the laptop, which they had taken as well. It was also up in the Cloud due to his file saving program. He could access it from other computers.
He got up to get more Scotch and nearly fell on his face, barely catching himself on the table.
"Whoah there, pardner," he muttered, knowing he'd poured a shitload of Scotch into an empty stomach. Well he wasn't going anywhere. He was in no condition to pull his Bullitt Mustang out of the garage and add to his woes. He'd probably have to sell it to pay his legal fees.
Carefully Beadles edged along the counter, grabbed the Scotch and returned to his seat while the lasagna pirouetted in the microwave. Time to think about a new career.
"You want fries with that?" he said. Just trying it out. If the university fired him for cause they were still required to pay three months' salary.
If he could prove someone planted that pot, he could sue them. But if it was only Stephanie Byrd there would be nothing to collect. If, on the other hand, it had been Professor Liggett, he could sue the university.
For millions.
Enough to fund an expedition to find the Azuma stronghold, the sweetest vindication of them all.
"This is what I do," he said to the room.
The microwave dinged. He let it sit.
He needed to prove his thesis. It was as simple as that. He'd been carrying it with him since undergrad days, since he first stumbled upon an obscure 16th century Spanish text. The diary had allegedly been discovered by a Benedictine monk in a mountain cave in Arizona in the 19th century. He turned it over to the Vatican which in turn sent it to the library in Seville.
The Diary began with Don Felipe's birth and upbringing in a small town in Catalonia to his volunteering to travel to the New Land.
Beadles learned of Don Felipe Balmora's diary at the New York Public Library which had one of two known print copies, the other in a museum in Seville. In 1894, a volunteer polymath named Edgar Saucier translated Balmora's diary and issued twelve leather-bound copies. Eleven disappeared without a trace. The New York Public Library had the twelfth.
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