Read The Eighth Day for Free Online Page B

flare to orange.
    Nearby, a birthday card was propped against the salt- and pepper shakers. On the front of its heavy cream stock a teddy bear sat with a birthday cake before him, getting ready to blow out the candles. Opening the card, Danny found a handwritten message that read:
Happy, Hap-py Birthday, Ba-a-by. C.
    Then the kettle began to boil and he poured a stream of water over the coffee grounds, listening patiently to his father’s monologue about Caleigh. (
How did he get from Dublin to Caleigh?
Danny wondered.)
    “She’s a great girl,” his father was saying, “and one of these days she’s going to wake up and realize she’s been living with a cad—”
    “A ‘cad’?! What century are we in, Dad?”
    A grunt from his father. “Hey,” he said, “we got a present for you—but your mother didn’t send it on time.”
    A whimper from Mom. “I was hoping you might come up, even if it’s just for a weekend. Your dad’s thinking of buying a new boat—so he could use your advice.”
    His father whistled. “You’ll like this one, kiddo! Got some zip.”
    “Too much zip, if you ask me!” his mom exclaimed. “Anyway, honey, I’m sure you’ve got things to do. But Happy Birthday!”
    “Thanks.”
    The toaster popped.
    “Love you love you love you.”
    “Love you, too.”

    By ten o’clock, Danny had been sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop, on-line for nearly an hour. The first place he’d gone was to the George Mason University Web site, where he found what looked like all of Terio’s numbers: address and phone, e-mail, and fax. The Philosophy and Religious Studies Department had its own Web page, with biographical notes on each of its faculty members. According to the site, Terio had earned his undergraduate degree at Georgetown in 1978. Twelve years later, he’d received his doctorate from Johns Hopkins University. (
What took him so long?
Danny wondered.) From Johns Hopkins, he’d gone on to teach at Boston University before coming to George Mason. In the last decade, he’d published a dozen articles in peer-reviewed journals, as well as a 1995 book titled
The Radiant Tomb: Hermitage and Ecstasy in Early Christianity
.
    According to Amazon, the book was out of print, so Danny went to Alibris.com, where he found a used edition for twenty-eight dollars and change. After ordering the book and paying for Next Day delivery, he clicked his way to the
Washington Post
’s Web site, where he knew he could download any stories they’d run about Terio and his death. Much to his irritation, the site was down and there was no way to know when it would be up again—probably in a few minutes but maybe not for hours.
    Using paper filters and a plastic cone, he made another cup of coffee, and tried again. Nothing.
    With a sigh, he rocked back in his chair and considered the alternatives. He didn’t know anyone at the
Post
well enough to ask for a favor, but there were lots of people he did know who had access to Nexis—the supernaturally expensive database whose electronic archive stored the full text of thousands of newspapers and magazines. Fellner had a subscription that he could use, but . . . no. Belzer wanted to keep them out of it, and that was fine by Danny. He’d do things the old-fashioned way—at the library.
    Grabbing a notebook, he took the fire stairs down to the lobby, where he checked the mail and, finding none, descended the front steps to the sidewalk. His apartment building was a somewhat down-at-the-heels three-story building on Mintwood Place, about one hundred feet from Columbia Road, itself the site of an ongoing carnival.
    He considered driving but decided against moving the Brown Bomber from its current resting place. Not only did the Olds demand a supersized parking space, but because it still had Virginia tags he couldn’t park for longer than two hours in the many spots restricted to D.C. residents. Besides, the air conditioner didn’t work and the starter was