Paranormal Mystery Boxset Books 1-3: Legends of Treasure

by Lois D. Brown

  Rod looked at her, his face placid, his eyes tired.

  Maria leaned closer to him. “I can help you. I know all about feeling crazy. Trauma does that. It took me over a year to not wake up in the morning and wish I was dead. I felt so guilty to be alive while the rest of my black ops team had been killed. They were the only true friends I’d ever had.”

  Aaaand, she’d done it. Brought up Tehran. She should have kept her mouth shut.

  Rod scooted back an inch or two in the dirt. His head hung low. “No, I don’t want your help. I don’t want anyone’s help. This is something I need to figure out on my own.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. I went to a psychologist. In fact, maybe you should call him. I bet Dr. Roberts would be happy—”

  Rod held up his hand. “No. I don’t need a shrink. Please believe me when I tell you that I didn’t want things to end like this. I wish …”

  “End?” Maria interrupted Rod. In seconds she’d gone from wanting to help him to wanting to slug him. “You’re ending the relationship? Just like that?”

  “Yeah. I … I think so. I think we’re over.” Rod studied the back of his hands that were grasped together in his lap.

  Maria stole a look at his face. His mouth was set in a frown, lines on his forehead burrowed deeply.

  “Why do you want it to be over? Did I do something wrong?” Maria’s words had the tone of an interrogator.

  “No, not at all. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just don’t think I’m a steady relationship kind of guy.” Rod picked up a few small pebbles and tossed them to the side. They seemed to move in slow motion and then they landed with a thud that echoed in Maria’s chest.

  Maria’s heart and her mind waged a war with one another. Her heart begged her to reach out to Rod, convince him he was wrong and that he wasn’t thinking straight. Her mind, on the other hand, urged her to drop Rod like a hot potato. She opted for something in between. “Rod,” she said slowly, “let’s try tonight over again. I’ll keep my distance. I’ll give you space. There will be no tickling … or anything like it. I think you just need a little time. Arizona was hard. It—”

  Again he held up a hand to stop her from talking. “No. I let my hormones get the better of me earlier, but this isn’t a good thing anymore. That’s what I came up here to tell you.”

  A dam of emotion broke inside Maria.

  It wasn’t a good thing anymore? That was news to her. Until a few seconds ago she would have told anyone who asked her that Rod was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

  Maria physically recoiled from the pain. She had let Rod in. He had broken through her wall she’d spent decades fortifying. He’d even made it past her facade of “toughness” she’d perfected during her time in Tehran.

  And all for what?

  For nothing.

  Rod had rejected her. Anger flooded past her crumbling dam of emotions along with fury and resentment.

  Rod shifted uncomfortably where he was sitting. He didn’t look Maria in the face.

  “Fine. It’s over.” Maria’s mouth was as dry as the desert air. “But just for your information—just so everyone has their facts straight—I wasn’t the one who pursued you in the beginning. You came after me. And I’d like to remind you that in Arizona I could have walked away.” The words blazed off her tongue. “But I didn’t. I stuck it out. And this is the kind of thanks you give me?”

  “Please don’t,” Rod said quietly.

  She couldn’t stop herself. If there was one thing Maria knew, it was that this break up would not be pretty. “After you were arrested for, oh, you know, killing your ex-wife? Where were your ‘best’ friends? Were they the ones out proving you were innocent? Nope. That was me. And for what? So you could take your disappointment in your former marriage out on me? Let me be clear on this one point—I’m not Dakota!”

  “That’s not what this is about.” Rod turned his face away from Maria.

  “You could have fooled me.” The words tumbled off Maria’s tongue. “But if it’s not that, then I guess it’s just me you don’t like. Not a problem. I’m out of your life.” Maria stood up, slapping dirt from her jeans.

  “Maria, please believe me. I do want us to still be friends.”

  Silence.

  Friends? Had he really just used the friend line with her?

  “Well, I don’t.” Deep hurt—that was all Maria wanted Rod to feel. She knew it was immature of her, but she didn’t care. She played her part well, if she was trying to be one of those jilted women on sleazy cable talk shows. Her feelings for Rod had become so deep her devastation seemed to have no bottom.

  Maria pulled her jacket off from around her waist and slipped her arms into it, hoping it would help her shivering. “If you’re done talking, then so am I.”

  “Yeah, it’s getting late. We’d better head back down.” Rod grabbed his Subway sandwich wrapper on the ground and crumpled it in his hand. “It’s going to get dark soon and we have one flashlight.” He pulled it out of his backpack and switched on the light.

  Maria didn’t move toward the beam. “I’m staying up here a while. I’ll find my way down later.”

  “No, please don’t. I’ll worry about you. I’d like to drive you back home to make sure you get there safely.” Rod reached out for her arm.

  Maria snorted. “This wasn’t a date. This was a dumping.” She caught herself and changed her tone. “And I’ve taken care of myself for a lot of years.” A shallow laugh. “I’ve been in worse situations than this. It only takes thirty minutes to jog all the way across Kanab. You don’t need to worry.”

  Rod stared at her, his face anguished. He then nodded. “You’re right. You can take care of yourself. I’m sorry it had to end this way, Maria. I really am.”

  Maria didn’t even force a smile. “Me too.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Toward the end of the 13th century, some cataclysmic event forced the Anasazi to flee those cliff houses. Just what happened has been the greatest puzzle facing archaeologists who study the ancient culture. Today’s Pueblo Indians have oral histories about their peoples’ migration, but the details of these stories remain closely guarded secrets. Within the past decade, however, archaeologists have wrung from the pristine ruins new understandings about why the Anasazi left, and the picture that emerges is dark. It includes violence and warfare—even cannibalism—among the Anasazi themselves.

  “RIDDLES OF THE ANASAZI” BY DAVID ROBERTS, SMITHSONIAN MAGAZINE, JULY 2003.

  Tears dripped from Maria’s cheeks onto the ground as she climbed further up on “K Hill,” which turned more into a mountain. It was pitch black and the stars were brilliant lights on a backdrop of nothingness. In between her sobs, the silence was tangible. There was no trace of human existence except her own miserable one.

  What would the mountain sound like if I stopped breathing? If my heart quit beating?

  Maria violently shook her head. She didn’t let thoughts like that in her mind—not even when she was in solitary confinement. Less than a year later and she’d gone weak. Just because some man dumped her didn’t mean she had nothing to live for.

  She’d been crying for hours. It had been a steady release of the betrayal and disappointment she felt over Rod’s announcement. At last there were no tears left. She was as parched as the desert around her. Perhaps now she could think straight. While her heart still ached, and would for a long time, at least her mind no longer was numb.

  What was she to do with herself? Where should she go?

  It was ludicrous she’d let herself get pulled in this far. Nothing and no one could dictate her emotions. Not starvation. Not a terrorist. And certainly not a man in designer jeans, a t-shirt, and a cowboy hat.

  Life had given her so much. Seven people went to Tehran. Only one came out. She wouldn’t squander that gift. She had to show herself and the world that she was grateful for the second chance.

  She would put Rod behind her and focus on what was import
ant. The thing that really mattered—catching bad guys.

  Maybe it was time to leave the town of Kanab behind her. She was doing so much better. The hallucinations had stopped. Her PTSD seemed well under control. Perhaps the CIA would take her back?

  The thought generated a whirlwind of excitement and fear at the same time. She felt that she would make a better operative now than she had been before. She knew her strengths and her weaknesses. She was better with people—she hoped. And to top it off, she had some “gift” that Sierra Materfamilias had told her about in Arizona. The old woman had called it the “Sight.” Maria had looked it up online and read every conspiracy theory out there, but none of it made any sense. Certainly nothing sounded like it was written by logical, functioning human beings.

  Since Arizona, Maria hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. No dogs with human feet. No men who turned into birds. No 500-year-old Aztec ghosts. And no dead cousins of Rod’s ex-wife. Maybe the Sight wasn’t real. Or maybe she really didn’t have it. Maybe all of that had been a temporary glitch into the spectral world, but it was now over. Someday she’d like to ask Jim about the Sight. Jim was the government consultant on all things Native American and the one who had cured her of the hallucinations with his unconventional “cut-off-your-toe” therapy in the Moquith Mountains.

  Moonlight bounced off the white flowers blossoming on the small cacti scattering the ground. It was late and she was tired, physically and mentally. Her mother had always told her to never make big decisions when she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. Deciding whether she should return to the CIA would have to happen another day.

  The ground was hard, but the surroundings so peaceful. Maria found a level spot of mountain-side and wrapped herself in a metallic emergency blanket she kept in her backpack. She positioned her arm under her to serve as a pillow and closed her eyes.

  Things would be better in the morning.

  Manila file folders holding the profiles of each member of Maria’s black ops team were splayed open on the table directly in front of her. Filthy, bearded men who sported rifles and machetes as carelessly as a child would carry a baseball bat stood at her side. “We know who you are.”

  Maria scanned the documents. The terrorists did know a lot. About all of them. They even knew each of the prisoners’ blood types. Why they wanted to know that was a mystery.

  Regardless, Maria did her best to appear unimpressed. But inside she was drowning in confusion and regret.

  How had things gone so wrong?

  “Read the files!” shouted the man closest to her. Spittle from his mouth landed on the folder closest to her. “I want to hear you read every word out loud!”

  Maria would play their game—for the moment. There was no reason to have them kill her yet. She needed to find out where the others were. How they were. Whether or not they were alive. She articulated every syllable, her own way of mocking them. “Maria L. Branson. Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. Age 31. Blood type O-.”

  “And this one.” Dirty fingers pushed another of the files toward her. “Read his name.”

  Maintaining a steady tone, Maria read the name, hometown, and age of each of her captured comrades.

  “Jerry C. Andres. Boston, Massachusetts. Age 33. Deborah K. Burrows. Stone Mountain, Georgia. Age 30.” Maria took a breath.

  “Continue,” came the thickly accented command.

  “Alex B. Cowan. Tacoma, Washington. Age 40.” Maria’s head hurt and her dry mouth tripped on her own tongue. “Gil A. Blake. Phoenix, Arizona. Age 27. Samantha Jones. Albuquerque, New Mexico. Age 26.”

  She bit her lip and read the last name. “Ryan Anderson. Houston, Texas. Age 33.” Inside Maria’s stomach twisted and convulsed, though on the outside she sported the best poker face of her life.

  Ryan Anderson was like a brother to her. At least he had been for the first few months they knew each other and then, well, even Maria was willing to admit an attraction had developed. Slowly. Nothing hot or heavy, but a mutual desire to be by each other. They had kept their feelings at bay because they worked together. But Maria had often entertained the thought that things might be different if a reassignment was made. When the arms deal had gone south and the sting had turned out to be a trap, it was Ryan who had stepped in front of her, trying to shield her so she might be able to get away.

  It hadn’t worked, but Maria would never forget his quick movements. His desire to protect her. He hadn’t thought twice. It was like that with Ryan.

  Maria clenched her fists. She would survive this ordeal. She would tell Ryan ‘thank you,’ and maybe, if he was still interested, they would take their attraction to a higher level. But for now, she had to not let these horrible men know what Ryan meant to her.

  A snicker came from across the room. “What do you think now? Do you believe us when we tell you we know who you are and why you are here?” The head terrorist stood up. The man obsessively picked at a sore on his face.

  “Actually,” Maria sneered, “you got my middle initial wrong,” she said. “It’s a ‘T’ for Tait, my mother’s maiden name.”

  It was a lie, of course. But she so badly wanted to swipe the smug look off his face.

  One of the men reached over and slapped her across the cheek. It stung, but only where she already had open cuts. The rest of her face was already numb.

  “We want to know where the other members of your team are hiding. Six is too few. There must be more.”

  Actually, six was all there were. Seven, including her, but there was no way Maria would tell them that. If they thought she had backup coming, maybe they’d be willing to bargain.

  “I have nothing to say.” Maria waited for the backlash—a hit, a kick, maybe they’d pound her head on the table again. But nothing came.

  A man in the back grunted and the next thing Maria knew the door to her interrogation cell flew open.

  That was it? Just some slaps? A few whips? Could that really be all these terrorists had in them? Maybe they were just ordinary Iranians pretending to be terrorists. Perhaps they would take her back to her cell now.

  But the men didn’t hoist her out of the chair to which her hands and feet were tied. Instead, a six foot three inch man who was once solid muscle was manhandled into the room. From his frame Maria knew who it was even with the cloth bag tied over his head.

  Alex.

  He’d been one of the first people who volunteered to come to Tehran with Maria. They’d worked together before and he’d said he thought she ran a tight ship. A quick intake of air on Maria’s part was difficult to hide.

  “Any last words to your friend?” The man who had been interrogating Maria sidled up next to her in an inappropriate way and leered into her face. “What is it you Americans like to tell people before death?”

  “Alex?” Maria’s voice wavered slightly.

  The hooded man stayed still. The terrorist who had herded him into the room jabbed him under the ribs. “Tell her your name, pig.”

  The hooded figure bent over in pain, but stood back up, defiant in his posture. “My name is Alex.”

  “Bend over,” his captor commanded.

  Alex did as he was told.

  “I …” Maria stopped.

  These people liked to humiliate and instill fear first. Then negotiate. If needed, Maria could conjure up fake names and identities of other non-existent black ops members. It may keep the monsters busy looking for people who didn’t exist. But above all she had to bide her time. Every action needed to be deliberate. She had to sense their desire. How much they would give. What they would bring to the table. This was early in the interrogation. She had time.

  One of the terrorists who had been swinging his machete back and forth during the questioning took a step forward. He reared his left arm back.

  Why did Maria notice it was his left arm? Such a stupid detail, but she did.

  He brought the weapon forward with a hard swoosh. Moments later, blood was everywhere. On the executioner. On Maria. A
nd on the decapitated body on the floor.

  Maria vomited.

  Again. And again. And again.

  They had not played the game according to the rules Maria expected. They had cheated, and now Alex was dead.

  Behind her people laughed and hollered at the same time. The room grew larger, more angular, and cold. So very, very cold.

  Maria turned, straining to see who was making such a racket. The voices were familiar. American. As she twisted more in her chair and five people came into view. They weren’t really bodies. More like projected images. But she knew each of them.

  Alex.

  Jerry.

  Deborah.

  Gil.

  Samantha.

  And … Ryan.

  They faded in and out of visibility, their translucent bodies mangled. Dead. Murdered. Literally every form of torture had been employed. Shot. Suffocated. Hung. Drowned. Beaten.

  One had no hands.

  Was that even possible?

  Most had lost teeth.

  Maria’s entire body shook. She heard their pleas. Their shrieks of pain. Their moans of defeat.

  She tried to reach out to them to help, but her hands were tethered to her chair.

  The room spun.

  Her friends faded.

  Into the crisp Kanab night air Maria screamed. A sound of desperation full of earth-shattering guilt.

  Awakened from the dream, Maria could tell she’d been crying. Chilly tears streaked her cheeks. She was cold, inside and out. The ground, though hard, was the only stable thing in her life. She wished to lie there forever and never face reality again.

  She remembered the last few thoughts she’d had before drifting off. Something about going back to the CIA.

  Ridiculous. She couldn’t go back there. Her sanity could never take it. Besides, they wouldn’t want her back. It’s not like she had some pristine record. No, her record showed that under her leadership six people were tortured and killed. Six skilled, brilliant, innately good people would never see their families again. Would never walk on American soil. Would never wake up with a bright morning ahead of them.