by Merry Jones
‘Rivers no?’ Or Rivers know?
Know? Oh right; she’d wanted to talk to Salih. ‘I’ll let her know he’s back.’
Hank yanked the electric cord of the leaf blower, began winding it around his arm. ‘With you go.’
‘No, Hank. Stay here. Do what you’re doing.’ Her stubbornness rose, resisting him. Insisting that, if he could do things alone, she could, too. ‘I’m seeing Leslie in an hour. I’ll just stop by the Embassy Inn on the way.’ She started for the house.
‘Hoppa. Letter for you. Sad. Burke. Came,’ Hank called.
‘A letter?’ Sad? Burke?
Hank had started the leaf blower again, couldn’t hear her. So Harper went inside, where she saw it in the foyer. She picked it up, looked at the envelope, sighed. The name on the return address was Burke Everett. It had been sent Friday, right before Burke died.
She tore it open. Looked for a note, an explanation. Found none. Only a list of serial numbers, crate numbers, shipment numbers. Receipts dated the final day of their assignment with Colonel Baxter, all with his signature. Itemized accountings of parcels, crates and containers – the shipment her detail had nearly died to protect, the one that they had loaded on to a helicopter in Iraq.
The one Baxter had insisted was full of supplies.
And that Burke had insisted was full of cash.
Harper stared at the papers, picturing Burke in his last hours, desperate, unable to reach her, increasingly certain that he wouldn’t survive. Managing to mail these papers to her, hoping that she’d act on them, since neither he nor Pete could. She recalled his jittery hands, his darting eyes. Burke had been unbalanced, paranoid. Might have invented the theft in his mind. Might have sent her a list of serial numbers of standard supplies. Did she really believe that this envelope contained proof of a major multimillion-dollar heist? And, even if she did, did she really want to create a scandal, embarrassing the Colonel – potentially ruining his political career by asking the army to confirm the contents of his shipment?
Harper rubbed her forehead, fighting a headache. The relaxation of her massage had evaporated; her legs felt heavy and her shoulders ached. She stared at the papers, uncertain about what to do. The possibility was undeniable that they might incriminate the Colonel in a huge theft, might even implicate him and Rick in Burke’s and Peter’s deaths.
Then again, they might not.
She walked in a circle, gazed out the window at Hank, pushed her fingers through her hair, looked again at the papers, the signatures. Finally, she came to a realization: she wasn’t in charge of investigating either theft or homicide. And it wasn’t her place to approach the army, not her job to launch an inquiry that could ruin a man’s life.
Harper folded the paper, replaced it in its envelope, set the envelope back on the foyer table. She’d give it to Detective Rivers and let her follow up. Rivers could contact the army as part of her official investigation into Burke’s death. The army would confirm the contents of the shipments, would determine whether a theft had actually occurred.
Relieved, Harper took her phone out of her bag and made the call, left a voicemail for Rivers. Told her that she’d received mail from Burke, asked her to call. Added that Salih was back, registered as ‘Smith’ at the Embassy Inn on Dryden Road.
Then at three o’clock, Harper grabbed her bag, went outside and climbed back on to her Ninja. When she shouted goodbye to Hank, the leaf blower was making a lot of noise. He didn’t hear her, but he looked up and waved as she drove off.
The Embassy Inn was on the other side of campus. Harper got there about three fifteen, plenty of time to see Salih and make her appointment with Leslie. She asked at the desk for Mr Smith; the clerk made a call. In moments, Salih came into the lobby, still dressed in his pinstriped business suit, his red tie. He greeted Harper with a grin, a warm hug.
‘Thank you for coming all this way.’
‘No problem.’ She reached into her bag, feeling for the bracelet. ‘Let me give you—’
‘No, no. Not so fast. First, you have to join me for a drink. I have a selection set up in my suite.’
Was he asking her to his room? ‘Really – I have to get to an appointment.’
‘So you don’t have to stay long. And I promise not to make a pass.’ He winked playfully, took her hand, tugged on it. ‘Come, my drinking buddy. Just one drink. We’ll catch up.’
Harper shook her head. ‘I can’t.’
Salih kept it up. ‘When’s your appointment? I’ll have you on your way in plenty of time.’
Fine. What was the harm in one drink?
His suite contained a sitting room stocked with liquor. Stoli, Johnny Walker Black, Chablis. The fridge was full of beer. Salih had set up his own bar.
He poured her a Scotch, himself a vodka. Raised his glass in a toast. ‘To friendship.’
They clinked glasses, sipped. Sat. She on an easy chair, he on the love seat. Cartons wrapped in brown paper were stacked along the far wall, as if ready for shipping.
‘Tell me, Harper,’ he eyed the cut on her forehead. ‘What happened to you? Were you in an accident?’
‘No, it’s nothing serious.’ She took a sip of Scotch. ‘I fell at the Langston house.’ It wasn’t a lie.
‘And how is it, working there?’
Really? He was asking how she liked his dead sister’s job? ‘Well, I don’t like how I got the position.’
‘Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply that. I meant only what I asked. How is the work going?’
Harper thought of the missing pieces, the traffickers. Rick’s body, the crates he’d dropped into the passageway. ‘It’s been complicated.’
Salih raised his eyebrows, tilted his head. ‘Complicated?’
She didn’t want to talk about it, couldn’t bear to. So she changed the subject. ‘How did your business meeting go?’
He crossed his legs. The cuffs of his slacks revealed unmatched socks. Both black, but of different fabric. Odd, for a man so meticulous. ‘It’s a difficult time. Did I mention it last time? What we do? We deal in fine art, sculpture and some antiques. But our passion is artifacts. That’s how Zina first came to archeology. As a child, she tagged along with our father to auctions and such. But the problem today is that many countries are determined to repossess their relics. Even decades or centuries after they’ve been traded. Just recently, the Chinese filed a suit against us to prevent us from auctioning several exquisite pieces.’ He uncrossed his legs, took a drink. ‘But you don’t want to hear about my troubles. Let’s talk about you. The Pre-Columbian collection.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Harper swallowed Scotch. Checked her watch. She had to leave in a few minutes. But the Scotch had warmed her and it wasn’t often that someone was really interested in talking about artifacts.
‘Tell me about the collection itself.’
Harper shook her head. ‘It’s beyond description. It’s vast. The collection includes pieces from South America through the south-west US. Some pieces are more than three thousand years old – and many are pristine.’ Well, maybe not the ones smashed to smithereens. ‘The other day, I held a three-thousand-year-old jaguar—’
She stopped at the sound of a key turning. ‘Hey, Joe? I found that replacement.’ The door swung open and Angus Langston walked in, carrying a small package. His mouth opened when he saw Harper, then he turned to Salih. ‘Shit, Joe. How was I supposed to know you had company?’
Joe? Why was Angus calling Salih ‘Joe’?
How did Angus even know Salih?
And why were they both staring at her?
Instantly, Harper flashed back to the tunnel, the traffickers, their voices. The argument about a relic worth $55,000; Joe scolding someone for breaking it. Threatening to make him pay for it out of his own pocket. Oh God. No question: Joe was Salih – and Angus was one of the traffickers.
‘No need to look so confused, Harper.’ Salih forced a smile. ‘I go by ‘Joe Smith’ when doing business. I’ve
found it easier to get along in this country if I use an American-sounding name.’
Harper nodded, feigning indifference. Told herself to be cool. After all, neither Salih nor Angus were aware that she’d heard them from the passageway. Or that she knew they were stealing relics. Or that they’d been involved in Rick’s death.
‘Hello, Angus.’ She smiled, put her glass down and stood, trying to sound casual. Forgot about returning Zina’s bracelet, the reason she’d come. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to your business.’
‘What are you up to, Joe?’ Angus snapped. ‘What’s she doing here?’ He squinted, suspicious. ‘Is she trying to undercut us? Are you two making a separate deal?’
‘Good God, Angus. We’re having a drink,’ Salih finished his and set the empty glass beside Harper’s. ‘Not that it’s your business.’ The men glared at each other.
Harper cleared her throat, excused herself. ‘Well. Thanks for the drink, Salih.’ She started for the door.
Angus stood in her way, wouldn’t step aside.
‘Excuse me, Angus.’ Harper looked up at him. He was a foot taller than she was, maybe ninety pounds heavier. She counted her options, ways to take him down as she stepped sideways, trying to get around him.
‘This bitch is the reason half our stuff is broken.’ He blocked her, moving with her to the side. A pas de deux. ‘She cost us a fortune!’
‘Wait just a moment, please, Harper.’ Salih put up a hand. He addressed Angus. ‘What are you talking about? Broken? What’s broken?’
‘You’ve been gone, Joe. Out of touch. You don’t even know what happened. This broad and the guy Digger offed? Somehow, they dumped about twenty crates of relics into the—’
‘I had nothing to do with—’ Harper stopped. Replaying. That guy Digger offed.
Angus went on, telling Salih about the damaged and destroyed treasures they’d found in the passageway. But Harper wasn’t listening. She was putting pieces together. Unbelievably, Salih must be – had to be – Joe. That he’d been there when someone named Digger killed Rick. That he was the leader of the traffickers.
Salih sighed, rubbed his eyes, reacting to the bad news. When he looked up, his gaze moved from Angus to Harper, back to Angus. ‘This is disturbing.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. She’s even worse than your sister. This bitch cost us a fortune.’
Salih blinked at him. ‘You really are an ass, Angus.’ He turned back to Harper. ‘My apologies, my friend. Professor Langston was a long-time client of my family. Until his death, we dealt with him with some regularity. But now, we seem to have inherited his sons.’
‘What kind of bullshit is that?’ Angus interrupted. ‘You came to us!’
‘Look,’ Harper feigned indifference, frowned as if confused. ‘I’m going to be late. I’ll go and leave you two to discuss whatever it is you—’
‘Don’t think so, darling.’ Angus stepped forward. ‘You’re what they call a liability.’
Salih sat back against the love-seat cushions, sighing. ‘Angus. You aren’t just an ass. You’re a complete moron.’
‘Well, what do you suggest we do, Joe? Let her walk out of here? She’s competition!’
‘She has no role in this business whatsoever.’
‘Yeah? Then ask her what she and that dead guy were doing in the passageway.’
Salih’s eyes darkened and he turned to Harper. ‘Actually, it’s a good question. However, at this point, after all that’s been said, the answer is irrelevant.’
Harper assessed the situation, eyeing Angus. She’d do a one-two move, knocking the wind out of him by slamming his solar plexus, then, as he sank, she’d chop his neck. And dash for the door. She drew a breath, ready, set—
And Salih called her name in a menacing tone.
Harper looked over her shoulder, saw the gun in Salih’s hand. Damn. Would he really shoot her? She doubted it. She met Salih’s eyes, debating whether or not he would. Whether she should test him and take Angus down. Suddenly, though, her debate ended unresolved as she went blank, dropping to the floor even before she could feel the blow.
The smell was sickening. Musky and sweet, moldy and smoky. She could actually taste it. Harper grimaced and turned her head, initiating a sudden sharp pain in her neck. She groaned, waiting for the pain to subside. Tried to sit up, couldn’t move. Couldn’t move an arm or a leg. Nothing. Oh God.
Slowly, warily, she opened an eye. Saw a small flame inches from her face. A candle? Then she inhaled the noxious scent. Recognized it, though it was stronger now; she was closer to it. Some kind of incense was burning. Or scented oils.
OK, she was stuck in a dream, a nightmare. One of those where she thought she was paralysed but it was just a phase of sleep. So she started over. Closed her eyes, tried again to sit. Couldn’t move. And she felt restraints around her wrists, her ankles.
It wasn’t a dream. Damn – where was she?
Harper lay still, squinting to focus and see beyond the flame. Gradually, in the dim light, she looked to her left. Saw a wall of stone and clay, like a cave. And pictures painted on it. A deer. An owl. A dog . . . Oh God. She was at Langston’s. In that room at the end of the passageway, the one where she’d seen Rick—
Images surfaced. The hotel room. Salih. And Angus. Salih holding a gun. Lord. What had happened? Had Salih shot her? Harper closed her eyes again, carefully took an inventory of her body, searching for the pain of a bullet wound. The scent of fresh blood. Found none. So she hadn’t been shot, but somehow, they’d knocked her out. She’d been unconscious. But for how long? Never mind – that was irrelevant. She needed to figure out how to untie herself. How to escape.
Something moved near her – softly, like footsteps, coming closer. Harper kept her eyes closed, playing possum. The steps stopped. She felt subtle swirls of air, and a man’s voice chanting syllables she didn’t understand.
Carefully, she opened her right eye a crack. Just enough to reveal a sliver of vision. At first, she saw shadows darting directly above her. Then something glimmering, reflecting the flame. She closed her eye, listening, trying to calm herself. But she sensed someone close to her, peeked again. And saw a man leaning over her. He was talking to himself, and suddenly, he pressed something – a rag? – over her mouth and nose. Harper smelled chemicals, wriggled and resisted, struggling to breathe. Fading, she realized that, no – it wasn’t a man. It had a man’s body, but it was covered with feathers like an owl. And it had a jaguar’s head.
The Nahual was hungry. Not the kind of hunger known to men. This was the hunger of the jaguar, the hunger of mountains and of the moon. It was the hunger, also, of the hunt. And of the dead.
He’d finished with the man, taking his power in, engulfing his spirit. Had offered the remains, as was his calling, to the wolves, the ravens, the foxes and dogs. He could feel his strength even now, raging in his blood like the screams of a warrior. The man was completely unlike the trader’s sister. She’d been meek; despite her superior intellect. Her spirit had been marred, defeated by the betrayal of her dying.
Having fasted and cleansed himself, he slipped into his owl form, becoming himself an omen of death. Again, he observed the woman on his altar. She was small but muscular, almost as firm as the man. She wore a wedding ring, and so was clearly not a virgin, but never mind. He’d incorporated purity decades ago. Now, his goal was to enhance his spirit, increase his potency. At times during rituals, soaring above earth, he felt godlike.
He took the form of the jaguar, preparing himself. Stepped beside her, beginning his incantations. Presenting her with the sedating drug, releasing her limbs to free her spirit.
Yes, this one would make an excellent addition. For one thing, she was still alive. If he acted quickly, when he began to take it in, her heart would still be beating.
That now familiar, sickening scent of pungent and sweet smoke was her first sensation. And second was nausea, not quite bad enough to make her retch. But bad. Harper didn’t wan
t to open her eyes. She was afraid to see that creature again. It must have been a dream. But how had it been a dream? It had been so vivid – she could have sworn that she’d actually seen a creature of many shapes. Maybe a Nahual. So she kept her eyes closed, not looking yet. She reached out for Hank, felt empty air. Where was he? What time was it? What was that smell? Her back ached, and she was chilly. She reached for the blanket. Found none. No Hank. No blanket. Oh God. Harper opened her eyes. Saw the vessels of burning oil. The paintings of animals on the wall. Remembered Salih and Angus. And waking up here with that creature . . .
Harper sat up, was overtaken by nausea. And pain in the back of her skull. She stayed still, waiting for the waves to pass. Damn. What had they done to her? She touched the back of her head, felt a mushy, golf-ball-sized lump. Her last memory was back in Salih’s room. Trying to leave. One of them . . . Angus must have knocked her out. Maybe she’d been delirious from the blow to her head, imagining that strange bird-cat-man. Maybe she’d never even been tied up. Never mind. It didn’t matter. She needed to get out of there, and her arms and legs were unbound now. She could move.
Slowly, she turned her head, looking around the dim cave-like room, seeing no one. She was alone. Fabric tickled her belly. Harper glanced down, saw that her shirt had been ripped open, her bra removed. Her chest exposed. Reflexively, without thinking, she gathered the torn fabric, covering herself. Pictured Rick lying dead in that same room, his exposed chest sliced open. She took a breath, recalled the creature she’d seen before she’d passed out, something – a knife? – glittering in his hand.
Oh God. She thought of the conversation she’d heard when she was lost in the passageway. A man claiming he’d learned the rites and rituals of the ancients. Bragging that he’d sacrificed Carla Prentiss. And the other guy mocking him, calling him The High Priest of Owl Feathers? Telling him he looked like a feather duster.
Harper closed her eyes, saw the feather-covered creature with a man’s shape and a jaguar head. It hadn’t been a dream, was not a trauma-induced hallucination. It had been a guy dressed in ritual costume. Wearing the head of a jaguar, the most revered of all beasts, the embodiment of power. And the feathers of owls, the messengers between the living and the dead.
