Indiana, Invincible; Chapter 5, Part 2

by Maryam in A Land Of Desert And Sun

(Indiana's POV)

I slip into the door of my house, my brow furrowed, my thoughts preoccupied - a voice meets me as I go in.
'Indiana, you're here?'
It's my mother's, and she sounds relieved. I say back, 'Yes, Mom!' and head directly into the kitchen.
'Finally,' Mom says, as she looks up from a tray, some dough, and a rolling pin. She's wearing an apron that has flour all down its front, her hands are positively caked with them, and she gestures wryly with her shoulders as I head up to her and kiss her on the cheek.
'Hey, Mom. What're you doing with that?' 'Apple pie.' 'Oh, here, let me do it! You know I do it better than you do! Here,' I smoothly get on an apron and take the rolling pin. My mother nods gratefully, then goes over to the sink and takes off her apron. As she's washing her hands, she tells me, 'Your father's very busy, Indiana, in the study. It;s better if you don't disturb him, he has some very heavy research going on.'
'He's STILL looking up characteristics of the Western dragon as compared with Eastern ones?' I ask incredulously. She nods, again wryly.
Both my mother and father are writers - my dad, however, is the fantasy elven-dragon-sword-dagger etc. etc person in our family - my mom is more of a mystery one. I'm a bit in between, but I must say I prefer my mom's side of the equation.
My mom leaves the kitchen with a smile, and I'm still there rolling out the dough.
Let me tell you one thing - it's a bit boring, making an apple pie, which is why my mind wanders after the first few seconds. I'm made it so many times, anyway, it's easy stuff and I can afford to do it.
Almost immediately, my mind alights on the one thing that's been troubling it since I went out of that library - the subject.
The Subject. With a capital T and S.
What on earth would Rheston be so touchy about? I mean, come on, it's only a book...
That, and why would he be looking at it anyway?
I know, I know. Curiosity can be either a vice or a virtue. In this case, it is most probably a vice, and I know it.
But I'm curious.
Artistic Robberies of the Twenty-First Century....
I wonder.

Twenty Minutes Later

I pop the pie into the oven, checking my watch and setting the timer. Licking a smidgen of filing that got onto my thumb (cinnamon-sugary apple - yummm), I emerge from the kitchen and wipe my hands on my shirt. A guilty feeling goes over me at this, and I head hastily to the sink and wash my hands.
The sounds of keys tapping come from both the study and from the living room - my mom and dad. I smile to myself, and quickly head up the stairs to my room and hurl myself onto my bed, relishing the trampoline-y feeling of it. Then, I sit up, frowning against my pillow.
Now, back to what I'm thinking about...

After just siting there for a moment, I turn to my bedside table and get out a lawyer's pad and a thick, black felt pen - my favorite - and write, in bold and capital letters, the folowing -

THE RHESTON PROBLEM.