.

Book II, Chapter 12

Aftermath

America

Across the nation, reports of Captain America's fall in battle dominated all conversation. The news passed over the phones, through cyberspace and from neighbor to neighbor. In the big cities and in the small towns it swept like a cold, unexpected rain, with a chill that stabbed at the heart. Everywhere, crowds of people gathered, following the latest reports. For several long minutes of dread and uncertainty, America came together, a family, waiting to learn if one of their own had died this night. Many people refused to believe it. In Philadelphia, Mike Gilligan, owner of Mike's Tavern spoke to his patrons, angry and dismissive.

"Aw, it's a bunch of bull, I'm telling you. That's Captain America they're talking about. No way he's dead."

"I don't know, Mike. You saw the pictures. It didn't look so good."

"Yeah, I saw the pictures, Kenny—what'd it show? It showed Falcon catching him before he hit the ground. Cap's come through worse than this, that's for damn sure."

"You heard that reporter, Cap wasn't breathing."

"Aw, reporters, what the hell do they know? Right now everything's rumors and guess work. Remember last year, when Doc Doom took over the UN? Who kicked his tin-plated ass? Cap, that's who. I mean, he beat the Nazi's for Christ sake. He'll beat this, wait and see."

Mike Gilligan threw his bar towel over his shoulder and turned to watch the TV, cutting short the argument. He turned up the volume and stood behind his bar, trying to look more certain than he actually felt.

"He's gonna make it," he said quietly.

. . .

In Racine, Wisconsin, the Wyckoff family watched the reports on the television.

"Oh my God," Elaine Wyckoff said, putting down her magazine. "Did I hear that right? Did he just say Captain America is dead?"

"They don't know yet," her husband, Ben, answered. "They're rushing him to the hospital, but they say he wasn't breathing. Some lunatic just threw him off that building. He might have been shot."

While Elaine, Ben and their teenage son watched the coverage, Ben's ninety-year-old father, Samuel, quietly stood and walked to the bureau in the hallway. He opened the top drawer and took out his prayer shall, draping it over his frail shoulders. He walked back to the living room and spoke.

"He saved my life."

The family turned. Samuel was rubbing his thin forearm, touching the tattoo scrawled there, faded, yet indelible, its ink marking more than just his wrinkled skin. "At Treblinka, nearly seventy years ago," he continued. "He saved my life…and the lives of nearly a thousand others. They say a million people entered those gates. In the end, less than a thousand were left. And he saved us."

Ben looked at his aged father, stunned. Growing up, he never heard his father speak more than a few words about Poland…about the camp. 'I have no words' was the most he usually managed. Tonight, Samuel Wyckoff's words came.

"There was talk the Germans were losing the war, that the Allies were coming to liberate us. But who could believe such talk? To believe was to hope, and who could hope in such a place? In such a time as that? But that morning, the Nazi's were in a panic, officers fleeing their posts, troops leaving by truck and on foot. Finally, we dared to hope. That was when Zubovich came. The Hammer, we called him. It was said Zubovich had been a blacksmith before the war, his arms big as a man's leg, his legs like the trunks of trees, his hands…his hands were death. He could crush a man's skull with those hands. I had seen it with my own eyes.

"He was not an officer, not even the head guard. But nothing happened in the camp that did not pass through Zubovich, the black wheel upon which everything turned. He rushed us from our huts, into that muddy pit…and I knew. Zubovich meant to leave no survivors in his wake. I saw the machine gun in his hand, and I knew. That was when he appeared…the Captain of America.

"I had heard the stories, of the American hero no Nazi could withstand, who even Hitler feared. The avenger sent by God to punish the wicked and save the just. But until that day, I did not believe. He crashed the gates like straw. There were others with him, other soldiers, but it was only the Captain I saw. He was everywhere, smashing the feeble Nazi resistance, so strong the day before, invincible. Now they fell. And then the Captain saw us, and charged forward. Zubovich fired his gun, but the few bullets that found the Captain fell harmlessly from his armor. And he was there.

"I watched Zubovich, the Hammer, the black giant of death, become a child, blubbering in fear. The Captain thrashed him, and drove him into the muddy ground like a tent peg, no longer the Hammer, but the nail, bent and broken. I prayed he would kill him, but he did not. He left Zubovich alive, but unconscious, to be hauled off with the other Nazi's. Then this man, who had been little more than a myth the day before, turned his attention to us, directing aid to the survivors and comfort to the dying. He saw to food and medicine and shelter. Then, as the sun set, he was gone. How it was that such an important man came to be there that day, I do not know, or how he could spare time tending we wretched few in that dark corner of the world."

Samuel turned to his son. "Not even to your mother did I tell these things. Treblinka took my family, all that I had in this world…but it did not take me. Because of the Captain, I survived…and with me, you. So I pray now, for the man who delivered our family."

Samuel Wyckoff bowed his head and lifted his hands, and began to sing from the Book of Psalms. 'The Lord is my strength and my shield….'

Quietly, Samuel's family joined hands with him, and prayed.

. . .

Such scenes played out across the nation, but in some places there was no time for thoughtful reflection. In New York, the Daily Bugle was a vortex of bustling chaos. Reporters and editors were working the phones, shouting messages and furiously writing up new reports as the information changed by the minute. Reporters flew up and down the aisles, relaying copy to the various department heads. By the south wall, Ben Urich and a group of other staffers were gathered by the television monitors, watching the live news updates. Robbie Robertson, the Bugles managing editor, walked over. He had a phone to his ear, holding for one of his key reporters working the story from the scene.

"Damn," Robbie said in grim amazement. "This is like Kennedy. I was only eight when JFK was assassinated, but I remember it. Never thought I'd see anything bigger. But this…"

"I know," Urich answered. They watched in silence as the ambulance bearing Cap roared off to the hospital, the reporter from CNN repeating what little was known, none of it good. He was attempting to speak with the Falcon, who was standing by a crumpled news van. Falcon brushed him off, angrily shouting 'no comment', as he stepped into a waiting police van, which followed the ambulance.

"As you can see," the reporter said, "the Falcon, known to be Sam Wilson, city councilman from Harlem's ninth district, was either unwilling or perhaps unable to speak about tonight's tragic events. Here's what we know: earlier this evening, Captain America was seen battling agents from the terror organization Hydra. At nine-seventeen pm eastern-standard time, Captain America, hero to generations of Americans, fell from the roof of the Hart office building, just across the street from where I now stand. At the last instant, Cap appeared to have been saved as the Falcon swooped down and caught him before hitting the ground. But as you saw live, just moments ago, paramedics were unable to revive Cap. He has been rushed to Mercy General Hospital. Let's go now to Hanna Layne, standing by at Mercy General."

Robertson and Urich did not get to hear from Hanna: the voice of Jonah Jameson interrupted, bellowed out as he burst through the office doors.

"Robbie! What the hell's going on here? Where do we stand with this story? Who do you have on it?" Not pausing to breathe, Jonah barreled his way through the traffic. He was dressed elegantly, in a black Armani tux, having come from a charity gala at the Met. He walked up to Robbie, continuing with his verbal barrage.

"Have you heard from Leeds? We need him at that hospital when the police make an official statement. And I want Brant working the phones. We have to keep in touch with all our people. After you do that, I want to see the mockups for tomorrow's headlines. And what the hell is Urich doing just standing around? Dammit Robbie, talk to me!"

Robertson's mocha complexion went purple, and he cupped the receiver of his phone.

"Goddamn it Jonah, stop barking in my ear! You own the paper, I run the City Room! If you don't like that arrangement, fire me! Until then, keep out of my way, or I'll boot your ass out of here!"

All activity in the office stopped, everyone watching to see what came next. No one at the Bugle but James "Robbie" Robertson could stand up to Jonah and get away with it, but this outburst was unprecedented, even for him. All eyes were on Jameson, who stood there, flummoxed.

"…Well, I'm sorry Robbie. It's your show, of course it is. Just get me up to speed is all I ask. When you have a minute, I mean."

"Look, Jonah, we're all on edge, but believe me, everybody is doing their jobs. Betty is working the phones, and Leeds is at the hospital…I'm holding for him right now. We're on it, trust me."

"Of course I trust you, who said I didn't?" Jonah barked, finding his footing again. He looked around the room, glowering. "What the hell are you people doing standing around? Didn't you hear Robbie? Get to work!" The office returned to its previous frenzy. Jonah turned to Urich. "And you?"

"Just waiting to see Robbie boot your ass."

Jameson's nostrils flared, and he started to speak, but Urich threw his hands up, capitulating. "I'm going, I'm going…"

Back at his seat, Urich opened his computer, the screen lighting up with the obituary for Captain America. Like all major newspapers, the Bugle kept obituaries on file for major world figures, in the event they died suddenly. Morbid, but prudent. The obituary was generic, no heart or prose, just a basic telling of Cap's history. There was nothing on the man behind the mask; the government kept his identity secret even during the years he was thought lost. Robbie asked Ben to update the obituary to include tonight's events, in case the worst came to pass.

He sat at his computer, trying to craft the words that would tell of the death of Captain America. After a minute, he closed the file.

I can't do it. If it happens…then I'll do it. But not before. I'll pull it together and get it in under the wire. That I can do. What I can't do is write those words. Not yet.

He leaned back in his chair, his throat hot and thick with the sudden feeling of tears. He swallowed against their weight, reminding himself he needed to be professional. There was a story to cover. It wasn't as if he knew the man—he'd seen Cap in the flesh exactly three times, all in passing, never having been closer than a hundred yards of him. And yet…

And yet this was Captain America. Of course I know him, we all do, Ben thought. He belongs to us, a birthright. Cap is as permanent as the Rocky Mountains, the Mississippi River, or the graves at Gettysburg. Imagining the country without him was like trying to picture the penny without Lincoln.

Ben looked down at his desktop, seeing the words scrawled in black magic marker:

Get that interview!

How odd that message seemed now, like an artifact from a time capsule. It was only three days ago that he had written it, but in the news business, three days is an eternity. Putting aside any thought of working on that obituary, Ben got up for a cup of coffee...not noticing the small envelope on the corner of his desk, half covered by memos and paper. It arrived earlier in the day, express mail, along with his other correspondence. He started to open it when the hostage situation erupted, and then set it off to the side. Tomorrow morning, when he would finally open it, the contents of that envelope would set Ben Urich on a course that would change his life.

. . .

Over by the TV monitors, Robbie got off the phone and turned to Jonah.

"Ned's in position. Anything happens, he'll know it first. Got him on two-way connect," Robbie said, holding up his phone.

"Now look, Robbie, don't bite my head off…but who did you send for pictures? We need something strong for the front page."

"I sent everyone—Young, Caruthers, Gibson. Pulled Willie from the Mets game. I tried to call in Eddie, but no one's heard from him for weeks. Brock's disappeared from the face of the earth, it seems."

"That's all well and good, but what about...?"

"Parker?" Robertson said with a smile. "He was the first call I made."

"Good," Jonah said. "We need an ace, and Parker's the best." Jonah looked at Robertson seriously. "Tell him I said that, and I really will fire you."

Jonah and Robbie turned to watch the coverage, spectators for the moment. "It's a hell of a night," Jonah said, softly. "Let's hope Parker can snag us some good pics."

. . .

On a rooftop across from the Hart building, a slender figure hung suspended upside-down from the bottom of a water tank. When spotlights from the passing police helicopters swept the roof, the figure pulled back, safely out of sight. There were many superheroes in this city whose assistance the police gladly welcomed, and there were others whose help, grudgingly, they accepted. Spider-Man fit neither category, so as usual he stayed out of sight. Had he arrived earlier he would have jumped to Cap's aid, but he arrived only to see the awful aftermath.

The helicopter passed and Spider-Man poked out from the shadows, snapping photos of Falcon and the cops, and of the anxious onlookers packing the streets. He'd taken several shots of Cap being loaded into the ambulance—feeling awful for taking them, ghoulish really, but what else could he do? It shook him seeing Cap through the telephoto lens, so deathly still. If something like this could happen to Captain America…

A buzzing crawled along the inside of his skull, what he called his spider sense, a paranormal early-warning he developed years ago, along with his other amazing powers, thanks to the accidental bite of a genetically enhanced spider. The tingling was at its lowest level, meaning the warning wasn't of imminent danger. He turned his head...

"Jesus!" Spider-Man shouted, dropping from the bottom of the tank. Nimbly flipping in midair, he landed lightly, crouching like his namesake.

"Sorry," said Daredevil, stepping out of the shadows.

"Tell that to my underwear. How many times do I have to ask you not to do that, DD? You're the only guy I know who can sneak up on me. Don't suppose you want to tell how you do it?"

"Trade secret," the scarlet clad vigilante answered. "So, what's with the camera?"

"The what?"

"Camera. The one in your hand," Daredevil said, pointing.

"Oh, you mean this camera? I, uh, use it for…taking pictures. You know, for my crime files. What, you don't have crime files?"

"No," Daredevil said, walking to the ledge and looking down on the confusion below. "Not sure I'd want to keep files on this night, in any event."

Spider-Man quietly slipped the slim camera into a pouch on his belt. "You think it was as bad as it looked? Couldn't be, could it? I mean he's Captain America."

"It was bad. His heart stopped. The paramedics couldn't find a pulse."

"You could hear them from up here?"

"I could hear. Let's hope the doctors can help him."

Spider-Man ran a gloved hand across his face mask, stunned. "Should we go to the hospital? The Avengers are sure to be there. Maybe we could help."

"Maybe," Daredevil said, looking towards Manhattan. "But the Avengers operate in a whole different weight class. You and I work better at street level. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Sons of Wotan?"

"Norwegian black metal band? Opened for Slayer last year?"

Daredevil's expression was stone.

"Sorry," Spider-Man said, sheepishly. "I use humor as a defense mechanism."

"Hadn't noticed. No, the Sons are a skinhead gang, neo-Nazis operating out of Hell's Kitchen. They've been getting bold lately. Last year one of their members made it to the big time, and they think that makes them big time, too. He made it to Hydra."

"Hydra?" Spider-Man said, his voice low with anger. "The creeps Cap was fighting."

Daredevil nodded, and pulled a red baton from the holster at his hip, twirling it lightly. The criminals of New York had grown to fear this billy club, which he wielded with deadly skill and nearly supernatural accuracy.

"I imagine the Sons are feeling mighty proud, maybe even throwing themselves a little party," Daredevil said, stopping the spinning billy club in a flash. "Want to go crash it?"

Spider-Man leapt to the far ledge, flipping in midair as he cleared a distance of sixty feet. Though barely five foot eight inches tall, and less than a hundred and sixty pounds, he had enough power in his lithe frame to light up a small building. It made Daredevil smile. He joined the young hero, readying his grappling hook.

"Ready, Web-head?"

"Ready, Horn-head," Spider-Man answered. "Hey…Horn-head and Web-head vs. the Skinheads! My favorite horror movie." He shot a web line to the building across the way. "Let's get 'em, DD!"

The two heroes swung out across the New York City skyline.

. . .

At Mercy General Hospital, Falcon stood a lonely vigil in the corridor outside of operating room five. The third nurse in as many minutes came asking if he wanted a coffee, which he declined. He looked at the phone in his hand. Akiela surely saw the fight on the television, and must be worried sick. He slipped the phone back into his belt compartment; the call had to wait until he got word on Steve. How long was he on that street, no heartbeat, no pulse? How much time elapsed before they got him to the hospital? Eight minutes? Longer? Could any man—even Captain America—survive so long, with no heartbeat, no blood-flow to the brain?

Falcon slumped into a chair, careful to keep the doors to the surgery in view. The sinking realization came that he had failed the best man he knew—the best friend he knew. Sam went into battle off his game, but it was Steve who paid the price. Two years away from the action made him soft around the edges. Not physically, but mentally. The mind was where the edge resided. Without his edge, a man was nothing but a liability in combat. Steve's words from earlier this evening came to him:

'I thought you'd retired Sam. Maybe it's not such a good idea.'

That was the understatement of the year. Sam balled his fists so tight his knuckles cracked. That piece of filth Crossbones made him look like an amateur tonight, worse, a has-been. Crossbones beat him with ease, giving him the drop on Cap. Standing, Falcon looked at his reflection in the window of the empty nurse's station. He spoke aloud.

"'I know you're out there, Bones…feeling pleased at what you've done. Enjoy it while you can, 'cause I'll be ready come round two. You hear me? Falcon is coming for you."

"Sam?"

It was Janet Van Dyne, suited up in her Wasp outfit. Behind her, at the far end of the hall, a sea of clamoring reporters were being held back by a line of police officers.

"How's Cap?" Jan asked as the door swung closed.

"No word yet. He wasn't breathing. I tried CPR, but I couldn't get a pulse. It…was my fault, Jan. I'm to blame."

"Don't say that. There's something you don't know, something about Cap."

"I know about his illness. He told me today, before we headed to Queens. I just didn't hold up my end tonight. If I'd been sharp, in shape, maybe none of this would have happened. I'm to blame."

"Sam, Captain America is the best judge of talent and character I know, and he trusts you. Completely. That's good enough for me."

Sam smiled, accepting the comfort Jan offered, despite his heart saying otherwise. She was a good person. Some of the Avengers were a bit aloof; distant, unapproachable—gods and titans, many of them. But Jan was very human. The Park Avenue daughter of privilege, she could not have had a more different background from Sam Wilson, son of a poor but proud minister from Harlem. But Sam always remembered what Steve once told him in the early days of their partnership. 'She's a good one to have on your side, Sam. Cool when the heat is on, very dependable. I trust her.' That was good enough for Sam.

A surgical nurse rushed through the doors, pulling down her mask. "He's regained consciousness. He's breathing on his own." Just as quickly, he disappeared back through the double swinging doors.

"Thank God," Sam said. The other door opened again, two more Avengers having arrived; Jan's husband Hank, wearing civilian clothing, and next to him the man called Hawkeye, in full uniform, his massive long bow slung across his chest. Hank went straight to the surgical prep room, wanting to get to Cap's side as soon as possible. Hawkeye joined Falcon and Wasp, who quickly gave him the good news. As with so many other heroes—within the Avengers and without—Captain America had been a mentor to Hawkeye early in his career. Sometimes a taskmaster, but always a friend. Hawkeye's face was dark with anger.

"Who was it, Sammy? Who did this to Cap?"

"It was Hydra's top hatchet man, Crossbones."

"Never went up against him before, but I've heard Cap talk about him…the Red Skull's butcher-boy. So the Skull is back?"

"Hawk," Jan said, "you've read the same intel I have. The Skull was reported dead two years ago."

"You really believe that?" She shook her head. "What about you Falc?"

"No way. Cap and I have fought that twisted freak five times over the years. I saw him 'die' on three separate occasions, only to come back every time. Hydra sticking their head out of the sewer, Crossbones showing his face? I'd bet even money the Skull is about to make another play."

"Yeah? Well, I got something for him," Hawkeye said, ripping a gleaming titanium arrow from the sheath on his back. "Gonna give Herr Skull a third eye. Come on, Janine, you're chairman. Call in the team, let's roll."

"Let's take this one step at a time," Jan said, trying to cool the archer's legendary hot temper. "First, I need to check on Cap. Then I have to address the media. After that, we'll sit down and think this thing through, not go running off half-cocked. We're not out of the woods yet. There's still the matter of Cap's illness to deal with."

"I read your text about that. But it can't be a coincidence, can it? Cap getting sick, just as the Skull shows up?"

"Hmm," Jan said, thoughtfully. "You might be onto something."

"No," said a voice from behind. The three heroes turned, seeing a woman step from the shadows of the far doorway, "Close, but no cigar."

Jan snapped into action, pointing her fist at the woman, activating the weapon built into her wristband—her wasp's sting. "Who are you, and how did you get past the police barricade?"

"Wasp, it's okay," Falcon said, lowering her arm. "She's a friend." He turned to the blond woman. "He's all right, Sharon."

"I heard. How are you, Sam?" she asked, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

"Been better." Falcon turned to the two Avengers, seeing the question on their faces. "This is Sharon. She and Cap are…old friends."

"Wait," Jan said. "You're Sharon Carter? From SHIELD?"

"After tonight? Probably not. You were right, Hawkeye," Sharon said, turning to the archer. "Cap's illness is no accident, but the Red Skull's not to blame. The government did this to him."

Hawkeye snorted angrily. "Lady, are you saying the United States government wants to kill Captain America?"

"No, they want to make more Captain America's. That means getting him into their labs. To do that, they made him sick, in a way only they can cure."

"Look, sweetheart, I'm not naïve, but I'm not a nut, either. Some massive conspiracy by the government, aimed at the biggest hero the country's ever had? Sound X-Files if you ask me."

"If you've seen the things I have, Avenger…done the things I have…you'd find the X-Files tame. The real conspiracies are never massive. The whole government isn't behind this, just a piece of it, one little cell. A very well-funded, powerfully connected cell."

Sharon took a small device, slightly larger than an iPhone from her pocket, and tossed it to Jan. "I think your husband could use this. The complete files to Project Super Soldier. The original data."

"I have to get this to Hank, right away," Jan said. She headed to the doors, but stopped and turned. "Thank you, Sharon. Steve's lucky to have a friend like you."

"He can't know I did this, Jan, please. I wasn't here."

Jan paused, a curious look on her face. She nodded and went into the prep room. Sharon turned to the others.

"Is there some place we can talk? I can't be seen leaving, too many cameras out there," she said, pointing to where the reporters were waiting.

"Got it covered," said Hawkeye, punching in commands on his Avengers com-link. "I came on my sky-cycle. It'll be waiting for us on the roof. Can you make it on your own power, Falc?"

"Yeah," Sam said, patting his patched-up wing unit. "Did a little repair job earlier. It'll get me uptown. The mansion?"

"Yep. All the privacy we need. Unless blondie here thinks they got us bugged."

"Do you really think they haven't tried?"

"Ha! I see why Cap likes you, lady. Sure they've tried. But honey, nobody beats Tony Stark's technology. Nobody. Hell, he makes their spy gear…but he saves all the best stuff for us. Let's go."

"You two go on ahead, I'll catch up," Sam said. They left, and Sam made his call home, keeping it brief. He hung up, feeling Akiela's fear and dismay. There was nothing he could do about it now. He headed out, but as he passed the double doors of the surgical room, he stopped, putting his hand up to the dark glass panel.

"You hang in there brother, hear me? The cavalry's coming."

. . .

Inside surgery room five, the doctors and nurses were in a state of panic, attempting to keep Captain America on the table. He brushed their hands away, gently, but definitively.

"Doc, I've already agreed to stay until morning. But no way am I just going to lie here on this table. I feel fine now."

"Captain, I understand you feel well right now, but not even ten minutes ago you were lying here with no pulse, all but dead. Now please, lie back down."

"Not to worry, doc. I've been dead once before. Got over it then, should be fine this time," Cap said. He reached up to his face, smiling. "You left my mask on. Not really necessary, but very thoughtful of you."

Steve reached up, removing the mask. He ran a hand through his short blonde hair and stood, removing the monitor leads from his body. Exasperated, his doctor turned to Hank Pym.

"Dr. Pym, isn't there anything you can say to get him to cooperate? We're trying to save his life here."

"Dr. Jennings, I learned a long time ago that when Captain America makes up his mind to do something, the best course of action is to accept that it's going to happen. That's what I do."

Jennings looked over at Cap, who had walked over to inspect his shield and tunic, which were sitting in the corner of the room, then looked back to Pym, irritated. "A real doctor would control his patient."

"Yeah," Pym replied, "a real big doctor. Look, I've been monitoring his condition for several months. There's always a remission after an episode like this one. I'll take full responsibility."

Jan came into the room, rushing to Hank's side. She whispered in his ear, slipping something into his hand. Hank looked at it in wonder.

"Jan, I could kiss you. What am I saying? I will kiss you!"

Hank laid a quick but joyous smack on Jan's lips, and then turned to Steve.

"I've just gotten…some new data, something important. It could be the break we're looking for. Try and be a good patient, will you? Remember; you agreed to stay for observation."

"I agreed to stay till six am," Cap said, looking over to Jennings. "At six-o-one, I'm gone. I've got to get on the trail of that Hydra team, before it gets cold. Now, if I can get a private room, I promise to lie down and rest. But no more tests, and no more examinations. Agreed?"

Jennings agreed, and Hank hurried out. Jan walked over to Steve and embraced him. After returning her hug, Steve tilted her head up.

"That device you handed Hank looked an awful lot like a SHIELD issue PDD. Mind telling me where you got it?"

Jan sighed. "Steve, an awful lot of people, who care an awful lot about you, are working awfully hard to save you. Please don't make it harder than it already is."

"Okay, question rescinded."

"Good. I have to go address the media, tell them you're okay. Half the city is in that lobby."

"Don't over-sell," Steve said. "I want to hold a press conference tomorrow, at the mansion. I'm going to announce my illness. Make it for eleven o'clock. And one last thing, Jan. I need you to find a book. It's obscure, probably hard to find, but I need it as soon as you can find a copy. It's very important."

"Of course, Steve. What book?"

"Temple of the Moon…by Sir Richard Falsworth."