by SL Hulen
There was no one to call, no one who could help. She debated searching the neighborhood, but decided it was best to stay put. Throwing open the patio doors, she stepped outside. Any minute now, she’ll be back; she can’t have gone far. Another hour. If she hasn’t come back by then, I’ll…I’ll what? It’s going to be all right. Yeah, that’s it. Inhale. Deep, calming breaths. Think of something positive—the way Robert squeezed your hand the other night. Could Khara be right about him? Khara, where are you? Oh god…
Mercifully, the front door opened and Khara wandered in absentmindedly, scarcely acknowledging that anyone else was in the room.
“Where in the hell have you been! You have no idea how worried I’ve been. From now on, when I’m gone, you stay here!”
Turning her hawk’s stare on Victoria, Khara challenged, in a disconcertingly calm voice, “I did not realize that I was your prisoner.”
“You know better than that. Look, I’m doing everything I can, but I need your help. And that means not complicating the situation any further.”
Khara rejected the idea with a toss of her head. “I have been ensuring our safe passage.”
“You don’t say. May I ask how you did that?”
“I consulted with Father Donato at the temple of St. Patrick.”
“You went to church? That’s just great.” Victoria collapsed on the couch, grabbed a pillow and clutched it to her chest. “I hope you didn’t mention me.”
Khara sat as far away as the L-shaped sofa allowed, arms across her chest. “Rest assured, I did not. Among other things, he has promised to show me how the bells work.”
“No!” Victoria sat up, pitching the pillow to the floor. “It’s not a good idea for you to go back there.”
“But I want to learn more about your god of love.”
“You have to believe me when I tell you that every person who knows you’re here lessens our chances of success.”
A bewildered look crossed Khara’s face. “What harm can he bring? I said only that I was a visitor.”
“I suppose you forgot to mention that you’re royalty on a time-traveling mission to regain your crown?”
“I choose to ignore your disdainful tone. I revealed nothing other than that I am Egyptian.” A stubborn silence fell between them, lasting several grueling minutes. In the end, Victoria poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Khara.
“Is this an apology?” Khara asked, turning a serene gaze from the wall.
“Not hardly.” Victoria took a sizeable drink. “This may be difficult for you to understand, but insisting that you have as little contact with others as possible is based on a phenomenon known as the butterfly effect. The premise is that small changes can lead to monumental differences later on. Imagine what might have happened if Cleopatra never met Julius Caesar.”
“Who?”
“Oh, that’s right. You wouldn’t know them because they came later. Much later”
“And the relevance to a butterfly?”
Purely demonstrative. Picture the flapping of a butterfly’s wings on one side of the world causing a huge storm on the other. If the theory bears out, the effect could be greatly multiplied when it comes to time-travel. Think of the harm you could cause.”
When she saw Khara’s expression, Victoria immediately regretted having mentioned it.
“But if, as you propose,” Khara mused, “our actions never stand alone—if they carry the impact you suggest—then perhaps it is already too late. And this phenomenon, as you describe it, could be my largest motivation for returning. What will happen if Egypt is left in Menefra’s hands?”
“I’m simply asking you not to make things worse. The less contact you have with others, the better. At least for now.” Khara nodded but said nothing, and something told Victoria she had been dismissed. “Then I have your promise—you’ll not visit the church again?”
“I hear and understand what you have said.”
“So, we have a deal?”
“What is a deal?”
“A bargain. We’re making a pact. You’re going to give me your word.”
“Will that make you happy?” Khara looked around as though needing reassurance, and Dante jumped into her lap. “You’re the fortunate one,” she cooed, rubbing behind his ears until he was delirious with pleasure. “You can come and go as you please. Yes, I know she means well.”
“Dante said that?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well then, what did he say?”
“That I should be grateful to you for making me feel exactly as though I were at home again.”
“You have quite a flair for sarcasm. Can’t you think of it as nothing more than a precaution? I was worried, that’s all. I would give the same advice to any client I knew was taking unnecessary risks.”
Khara looked at the floor. When she looked up, her expression had changed. “And do your clients always take your advice, even when they have strong feelings to the contrary?”
“Not generally.”
“It must be very unsatisfying, Victoria. May I ask—why do you do it?”
“Someone has to.”
“Don’t you see that taking on everyone’s burden is emptying your soul? Your clients don’t give you a moment’s peace.”
“It’s not as bad as that. I guess it’s hard for you to understand life in the modern world.”
“Modern madness is more like it,” Khara huffed.
Victoria undid the top button of her blouse. “Most of my clients are ‘immigrants’—the ones who leave everything they’ve ever known behind to forge a new life in this country.”
“And you are their protector, as you have so generously been mine. But why?”
“Of all people, you should know what it’s like. When you first come here, everything is so…” a tear stole down her cheek, which she flicked away as she tried to gather herself, “terrifying.”
“You say this from experience?”
Victoria turned away. “It was not supposed to happen. We were so happy in Mexico.”
“What was not supposed to happen?”
“It was my fault,” she said softly, wiping her eyes.
“What?”
When Khara saw that she was incapable of answering, she rushed to her side. “Come.” She led Victoria to the comfort of her favorite overstuffed armchair before returning to the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned with a cup of warmish, weak tea.
Gratefully, Victoria took it. “Wow, you’ve learned to work the microwave.”
Squeezing beside her in the chair, Khara observed her carefully. “A heart’s anguish is lessened when it is shared.”
That was all it took. Victoria held nothing back, revealing details she had never spoken before, not even to Elias or Marta, who knew better than to ask. She sobbed until she was out of breath and exhausted. When Khara spoke, her voice was gentle and much older than her years.
“How old were you when this happened?”
“What difference does it make?”
“It makes all the difference.”
“I was eight.”
“You were a child. The responsibility was never yours.”
“How can you say that?”
“Did you know of their plans?” she asked.
Victoria shook her head. “No. I thought as much. Your parent’s destiny was written long before that day.”
“There were risks, but I’ll bet they never imagined their own daughter would be one of them!” Completely spent, Victoria sat in silence as Khara’s hand gently stroked her back.
“Then it is as your theory suggests; the person you are today was forged by tremendous loss.”
“Leave me alone. Please.”
Her cell phone rang, but she lacked the energy to answer it. An hour later, it rang again. When she saw that it was her uncle calling, she swallowed a couple of times, and answered.
Chapter Seventeen Victoria
This time, there were no playful questions
when they rang at the rear of the museum. Once inside, Elias gave Victoria the obligatory peck on the cheek and said to Khara, “You won’t mind if I speak to my niece alone?” It was not a question. “There are several benches in the lobby where you can make yourself comfortable.”
Khara looked apprehensive. To reach the lobby, she would have to cross the threshold of the staircase—a cruel reminder of that afternoon when her world had turned to ashes.
“As you wish.”
“I won’t be long,” Victoria promised.
Inside his office, Elias straightened his tie before closing the door. “I’ve done as you asked and sold the bracelets.” He shook his head. “You know that I am of the opinion that your selfless nature is being taken advantage of.” He opened a drawer from which he removed two white envelopes that had been rubber— banded together and handed them to her. “Fifty thousand dollars. More than enough to get her safely home, regardless of where that is.”
“That’s more than I expected. A lot more.” She stared at the bulging envelopes before stuffing them in her purse. “You have no idea how much this means to Khara,” she said, wrapping her arms around her uncle.
He stood rigid, his face unusually drawn. “Just promise me that you’ll put her on a plane as quickly as possible and be done with this.”
“I’m working on it. Once we arrive in Egypt, we should be able to figure things out pretty quickly.”
“You’re going with her?” he gasped, stepping back.
“What good is putting her on a plane if she doesn’t know what to do when she gets there?”
“That’s what embassies are for. At that point, it’s out of your hands.”
“The last thing Khara needs is some bureaucrat examining her passport too closely—or worse, asking questions she can’t answer.”
“I thought you said she had no documents.”
Victoria’s face said it all.
“You had her passport forged?” A rush of color flooded his face as his expression changed from shock to disappointment. “This time you’ve gone too far,” he pronounced, shaking his head.
She stared at the floor.
“I take it you have nothing more to say.” The red in Elias’s face slowly faded, and he cleared his throat, removed a crisp white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket, and wiped his brow.
“Uncle,” Victoria implored.
Elias looked at her for a long time. “I know where your courage comes from,” he declared, his voice patient again. “You are not the only one who grieves for them. And none of this will bring them back, will it? It’s time you spent some of this misdirected energy on your own life. Have you given a single moment’s consideration to the damage your reputation will suffer if the INS finds out you’ve been involved in counterfeiting passports? You’ve never been good at knowing when to draw the line, but this—but this could get you disbarred, though I suppose no one is more aware of that than you.” He pushed past her, and then stopped for a moment. “Such desperation is beneath you,” he said sadly. “Now you must excuse me; the museum is closing and I still have things to do.” Without turning to face her, he added, “Your father would be disappointed.”
His footsteps were hollow on the concrete and grew fainter as he disappeared between rows of precisely stacked pine crates.
Khara was not waiting in the lobby; she had been unable to move past the staircase. Even now she watched it suspiciously, her face wan and fearful. One look at the misery written on Victoria’s face, however, was enough to distract her.
“I cannot be the cause of your family’s turmoil any longer.” For a full minute Victoria was silent, but when she spoke, her frustration was palpable. “Do you know what the coyote said when he brought you in? He said, ‘Let her be deported, I don’t care.’ Right now, I’m the only one who cares about what happens to you. Whether you want to admit it or not, you need me.
“Elias is right,” she declared, “but it’s not as much about you as you’d like to think. I want to know that you’ll get home. More than that, I’d like to prove that it’s possible. Who knows— maybe I’ll give it a try myself.” Victoria searched for her keys, pulled the two envelopes from her purse, and waved them in Khara’s face. “Now let’s go.”
Chapter Eighteen Arlan Mieley
Since the unfortunate incident with Max, Arlan Mieley had seized upon a beguiling dream; the ruinous life he’d known would soon be over. “You’ll be the rockstar of the archaeological world,” the bracelets whispered. The pompous bastards responsible for his professional exile would be reduced to pubescent groupies, begging for the chance to discuss his incredible discovery. He imagined himself wearing a grey cashmere suit with tortoise-shell buttons. People would comment that despite his all-American presence, there was definitely something British about him. For once, his skin would be just tan enough to pull it all off.
Several times a day he took the bracelets from the safe, one of six he had installed throughout the converted warehouse. Mieley had been meticulous enough to stage two of the most obviously located ones with fake watches and thin rolls of currency. A thief would take the decoy objects, he assured himself, leaving the real treasures—some of them in plain sight—untouched.
He kept the bracelets in his most clever installation, which was under the kitchen trash bin. Mieley’s restoration skills had come in handy, and he’d pieced the hardwood slats together so seamlessly that no traces were visible. But the devil was always in the details, and he made sure that there was always a bit of something rotting in the trash can above.
Holding the bracelets in his hands only intensified his dreams. Licking his lips, he caressed the gentle curve of metal and thought them too beautiful to have been fashioned by the hand of man. For reasons he did not fully understand, they made him hard. It took everything he had to lock them up for safekeeping before leaving New York.
Six days and two thousand miles later, he was leaning forward in the seat of a rented delivery van, chewing his right index finger. When he had a firm grip on a loosened piece of cuticle, he pulled it without mercy. He found the pain marvelous, even exquisite. As a boy, his mother had sprinkled cayenne pepper on his fingers to discourage this habit; nothing came of her efforts except that Mieley could ingest levels of spice others found positively corrosive.
He was oddly proud of that.
Elias had made the significant mistake of saying the bracelets had practically walked into his office, and Mieley knew him as a man of his word. For five days, he’d been watching the comings and goings of his long-time partner. He noted staff schedules as he kept vigil from a strategic spot across the street. It was only a matter of time…
Scratching the graying stubble on his face, he realized that it was almost evening. Soon Elias would depart for his adoring wife and a home-cooked dinner. Unable to remember if he had eaten anything since the previous night, he decided to call it a day. He laid the binoculars on the passenger seat and considered his options. Tomorrow he would be back with a different van. If he was really ambitious, he would grab a quick dinner and watch Elias’s home tonight. He didn’t sleep worth a shit anyway.
Rather than make a U-turn onto busy Montana Street, Mieley directed the van up the single-lane driveway that emptied into the shipping and receiving area. A truck could just maneuver in and out of the dock with a bit of space leftover for parking cars, and Elias’s Audi was one of them. This reassured him, since his efforts had been concentrated on the front of the building. As Mieley began to turn the van, a silver car approached from the opposite direction, and the driver honked. A woman of about thirty gave him an obligatory, if not self-assured, smile and rolled down her window.
“Mind if we squeeze by?” she inquired. Her tone suggested that she was the sort of person unaccustomed to asking for anything.
He yanked the van into reverse and allowed them to pass. Something about her face was familiar—a memory he could not place, but one that made him pretend to stare at a blank clipb
oard as two women exited the vehicle.
Ordinarily, he was not a watcher of women, but the contrast between these two was worthy of notice. The taller one was all business; her long, steady strides spoke of a mission, and there was an air of impatience about her. Her companion, her back to him, watched the sky, her dark hair almost blue in the sun. When she reached up with a slender hand to shield her eyes from its glare, he saw it.
Mother of god. He was out of the van in an instant, strolling toward them in a pair of worn coveralls leftover from his days of cleaning floors.
“Excuse me, ladies,” he called, knowing his smile was weak at best and cursing it, “do you know who might accept this delivery? It’s for the gift shop. I’ll catch hell if I don’t get a signature—”
The taller woman responded, “Try the front entrance.” She sounded distracted and kept her eyes on the door.
“First day on the job; you know how it is.”
Gradually, the other woman turned her attention on him. “Your hand,” she pointed. “It’s bleeding.”
Mieley looked down, having noted the smokiness of her voice and an accent he could not quite place. His face flushed. “I must have cut it on a box. It’s nothing,” he replied offhandedly, forcing himself to look away from her wrist.
She stared at his hands, and then her gaze moved serenely upward, studying him with an expression Mieley found impossible to decipher. Her quiet inspection paralyzed him. She showed no inclination to turn away, and he immediately despised her for it. She was nothing more than a wisp of a girl. Who the fuck was she to study him?
The sound of the door rolling up roused him from his trance. “Khara, are you coming?” the tall one asked. He’d been right about her being impatient.
Before turning to follow, the smaller one placed her left arm across her chest and lowered her head.
Such an odd gesture; where had he seen it before? Mieley could think of no way to respond. The bracelet had stupefied him, making him swallow hard and blink a few times to be sure his eyes and hungry belly had not deceived him. He resisted the compulsion to walk over and rip the bracelet from her skinny, brown wrist.
