by SL Hulen
Nothing like the bliss she felt when Oliver’s warm hand took hers, in the way he swept her into his arms and kissed her without warning, had ever belonged to her. Most of all, she loved him for his restraint. After that first day, he seemed to understand she could not give herself to him. Khara marveled at his ability to understand and accept her position, and she loved him more deeply for it.
Often, on her way back from town, Victoria would join them in the paradise of the barn. No matter how much they begged her to stay, something in the kitchen always called her away. A pastry had to be mixed right away so it could rest properly, and Lila was going to show her how to properly feed yeast.
After dinner, she and Victoria walked to the cabin with arms linked, watching the stars. Celeste’s telescope, perched on the balcony of her sitting room for the best view, was beyond anything her imagination could have wished for. When the settings were right, you could almost touch the moon with your hand. She, however, felt the mystery of the night sky diminished by it.
One night, without warning, Victoria proclaimed, “I think it’s safe to return to the apartment.”
“How can you be sure? We still have nineteen days.”
“We’ve surely given Mieley the shake by now. Everything we need—passports, money—is still in El Paso. We can’t stay here forever.” Tell her about the Journey of Death. Do it now. Victoria pinched Khara’s arm. “You don’t seem to be in such a big hurry anymore.”
“Of course I am. It’s just that—”
“I know,” Victoria smiled her knowing smile. “That’s why I stay as far away as I can from relationships. They make everything, and I do mean everything, more difficult.”
Khara resolved to tell her. Tomorrow. Mañana. Oliver used this word often. Afterward, he qualified it by adding that mañana didn’t necessarily mean “tomorrow,” as those so unfortunate to speak only English might think. What it really meant was “not today.”
Just before falling asleep, Khara considered that perhaps she was on her way to becoming an Apache, no matter how much she resisted.
Chapter Thirty-four Mieley
It had been weeks since he’d cornered Victoria at the courthouse. Releasing the seatbelt, he stretched out and made himself comfortable. From the vantage point he’d chosen to observe Elias’s house, the air smelled of overturned earth and reminded him of the farm and the life of drudgery he had escaped.
It wasn’t long before a woman whom Mieley assumed to be Marta Barrón appeared. As she walked briskly to the silver Mercedes parked in the circular driveway, she placed a white mantilla on her head. A rosary dangled from her left hand. In short order, the Mercedes pulled away.
For five more excruciating minutes Mieley waited. His temples began to throb, and what little patience he had left evaporated in the sweat on his brow and upper lip, despite the chilly air blowing in the window. He got out, approached the east side of the house, and checked the windows only to find them protected by wrought-iron grates. Through a partially open sliding glass door in the back, he recognized the smooth— as-butter voice. Silently, he pulled the door open and entered.
The enclosed sunroom was filled with potted plants and groupings of furniture. He lingered just inside the door, inhaling the scent of lilies. This is my partner, he reminded himself, not some collector I don’t know from Adam.
“Max Cotts was one of the leading Egyptologists in this country. Of course I knew of him,” he heard Elias say. This was followed by a couple of minutes of silence broken only by the creak of leather as Elias shifted in his chair and the sound of something being set down on the desk repeatedly—Probably his afternoon brandy, Mieley thought with sudden longing. If things went well, perhaps Elias would offer him one. They would sort out their differences like gentlemen.
“A tragic ending to a brilliant career.” Elias’s voice lacked its usual vigor. “No, I never had the opportunity to meet him.”
The person at the other end spoke at some length. Mieley couldn’t take much more of this. You’ve gone grey from a lifetime of waiting—waiting for absolution, the chance to prove your talents, he thought.
“The authorities think there’s a connection? It’s hard to believe that someone with a reputation like Mr. Cotts’s would trade in the black market—and just when the industry was beginning to emerge from so much scandal. No, I don’t think I’ll be attending this year’s conference. We have two new exhibits for the holiday season, and we’re a small museum; I’ll be quite busy until the end of the year. Saludos to you too, Jonathon. Goodbye.”
Mieley whipped around the corner and stood in front of the Corinthian desk, relishing the astonished look on his partner’s face.
“What the hell are you doing in my home?” Elias demanded.
Ambition fueled a surge of bravado. “You lied to me about how you acquired the bracelets,” Mieley shot back, watching the fury in Elias’s eyes shift to alarm.
“I told you that the acquisition was none of your business. You were supposed to determine a value and find a buyer, as always.”
Mieley found his sanctimony intolerable. “Those bracelets are going to be bigger than King Tut! Think of it, man! Your days of running that shitty little museum are over. The girl your niece is protecting knows where the rest of the treasure is. I know it.”
Elias gave him a murderous look. “Victoria? How did you— you never left town, did you? You’ve been here all along—”
“What I’ve been wondering is how a nice girl like her got mixed up with a smuggler in the first place.”
“You will stay away from my niece. The Egyptian girl, too,” Elias ordered menacingly. “I gave you all there was. It’s a family relic; that’s the end of it. If she’d had any idea where they came from, do you think she’d have accepted the trivial deposit we offered her?”
“Don’t lie to me! I saw it on her arm.”
“You’ve been following them? You’ve lost your mind.”
“Listen. Before he died, Max verified the first two; they’re coronation bracelets. But they don’t tell the entire story—only the dynasty and pharaoh. Without the last one, there’s no hope of discovering the name of that crucial ruler. You didn’t know she’d held the most important piece back, did you? Don’t look so shocked. It’s a common enough trick of the trade.”
Elias sank into his chair, seeming to deflate before Mieley’s eyes. “You knew Max Cotts?”
Mieley waved off the question, which was really an accusation, as though it were a fly. “He promised to keep quiet, but did he? No. He contacted the Egyptian authorities. I couldn’t have that,” Mieley asserted. “Now get your niece on the phone.”
Elias shook his head. “You’re delirious if you think I’d tell a murdering bastard like you where they are.”
His words sent Mieley over the top of the desk. As the two flew backward on the leather chair, he grabbed Elias’s throat and squeezed. They tumbled onto the terracotta floor, legs and arms thrashing. The fall had knocked the breath from Mieley, and his hands came loose. Suddenly, something crashed into the side of his face, and pain exploded in his head. As Elias’s unrelenting fists continued to pummel him, the best he could do was to curl into a ball and try to protect his face.
Just when the purpose of his life had finally revealed itself, it was going to be over. “Stop! I quit!” he howled.
Elias leapt back, panting. His sweater was twisted, and a lock of slick hair covered one eye. “Eres un animal,” he spat as he searched the floor for his glasses. “I regret the day I laid eyes on you. Opening his desk drawer, he withdrew a pistol. Get out,” he commanded quietly. “And if you come near me or my family again, I swear to you, it will be the last thing you do.”
“You can’t see it, can you?” Mieley whined, stepping closer. “Archaeological finds always come at a cost. In this case, it was Max—a small price to discover who ruled during those critical seventy days. Aren’t you curious about who drove Egypt forward and changed the world? That scrawny gi
rl has the key. We owe it to ourselves, to our profession, to get our hands on the last piece of the puzzle!”
Elias watched him intently, judging whether his words were genuine. He put on a pleasant face as he came around the desk. Too late, Mieley realized it was to march him out of his home at gunpoint. He hung his head and stared at his shoes. He had not thought his fantastic dream would end like this, and that compelled him to rush Elias again, this time with everything he had. Mieley crashed sideways into him and sent him into the bookcase. Together they fell to the floor, glass shattering, books raining down on them. Elias struggled desperately to get his feet under him. Mieley grabbed a chunk of turquoise, as large as a grapefruit, from the top shelf and brought it down with an appalling thud.
It was quiet again.
He had intended none of this, but now it was done. Mieley watched blood pour from a mortal gash in Elias’s forehead. His right hand twitched. Turning his attention to the cell phone that had skimmed across the tiles and come to rest under the desk, Mieley grabbed it. Then he picked up the pistol, took one last look at Elias, and made his getaway.
Back in his hotel room, Mieley rinsed the clamminess from his body, and with it any qualms about what Elias had forced him to do. He dried off and opened a can of soda and a soggy sandwich. Taking mindless bites, he considered his options. Nothing had been gained. Worse, unwelcome attention would now be drawn to the situation. What if someone made a connection between Max and Elias?
He stared at the cell phone for a long time. He thought to call Victoria and offer some sort of an exchange—her beloved aunt for the girl with the bracelet, perhaps. Of course that meant he would have to secure custody of Marta and he was not prepared to hang around long enough for that. It might be hours before Marta Barrón returned home and found her husband’s body. Scrolling through the phone’s directory until he came to the letter V, he pushed the button and inhaled deeply.
“Hello.” Mieley knew instantly that the wheezing, matronly voice did not belong to Elias’s niece.
“Good evening. I’m trying to reach my niece.”
“And you are?” Mieley deepened his voice and answered, “Ah, forgive my rudeness; I am her uncle. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“An old friend.”
“One I can only hope she confides in. Her aunt and I are worried. She hasn’t been to her office in over a week. It’s so unlike her.”
“She needs some space.”
“Of course,” he answered cordially. “I appreciate—”
“I can’t hear you very well; the phone seems to be beeping. Don’t you hear it?” the voice asked, aggravated.
“Nothing at this end; perhaps it needs charging. As I was saying, I appreciate your frankness. Clearly my niece and her friend are in good company. Madre mio,” Mieley exclaimed, using one of Elias’s favorite sayings, “you never stop worrying about your children, no matter how old they are.”
“You’ve broken her heart, you know,” the voice said between strained breaths.
“A terrible misunderstanding I intend to clear up. That is why I’m so anxious to see her. Perhaps she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me right now; she’s hurt. But if I could sit down with her for a few minutes, explain my side of the story—”
“I can hardly hear a word you’re saying. I’ll let her know you called. I shouldn’t have answered her phone in the first place. Goodbye, Mr. Barrón.”
“Please don’t hang up; I need your help. You can’t imagine what this has done to my wife. She looks at me with daggers in her eyes. If I don’t resolve this, I’m afraid I’ll lose them both,” Mieley concluded with the slightest hint of a sob.
“They’ve gone to town; you could try back around ten. Victoria wouldn’t appreciate me interfering in family matters.”
“Perhaps not, but you clearly have more experience in these matters. We men are such bunglers. I’d like to thank you properly, miss—”
“Don’t get fresh. It’s Mrs.—Mrs. Celeste Barton-Szabó.”
“Such an unusual name! It has a decidedly Eastern European ring to it. Names are a particular interest of mine. They tell so much, no? I apologize if I’ve troubled you this evening. I’ll call tomorrow and hope my niece is in a forgiving mood. Thank you, Mrs. Szabó. Buenos noches.” Waiting for her goodbye, he realized the phone had already gone dead. Nevertheless, a bolt of satisfaction rushed through him. Celeste Barton-Szabó. He said it out loud several times. A name like that, why it was practically a bullseye.
Unable to fall asleep on the threadbare, dingy motel sheets, Mieley’s mind raced. The combination of air freshener and stale cigarette smoke forced him to open a window. If he was lucky, he could find her in a day or two—three at the most. Mieley calculated how many times in his life he had been lucky against the times fortune had gotten the best of him. Then he looked into the mirror and saw the answer written on the haggard face.
Mieley decided to preserve what luck he might have and leave this dreadful town filled with brown people before anyone started asking questions about Elias Barrón. He could find the Szabó woman just as easily from New York.
By the time he arrived in the city, Mieley’s nerves were in need of a salve. Today it would take something more than his usual blue pill.
The taxi driver slowed and turned around. “Are you sure you want me to leave you here?” he asked, pointing to the sign on the door of the abandoned creamery. A faded orange sign read, “Danger! Notice is Hereby Given that These Premises are Declared UNSAFE or UNFIT for Human Occupancy.” It had been posted by the City of New York.
Mieley did not reply. He stared disdainfully ahead, guessing that the driver with the Punjabi accent had two children in medical school—probably on scholarship, no less. Immigrant. He tossed a few $20 bills into the front seat and got out.
Opening the lock on the formidable door was a job that required both hands, and they were stiff and sore from the fight with Elias. Inside, the odor of sour milk greeted him like an old friend. During a year when the market in antiquities of questionable provenance had been especially good, Mieley found what looked to be nothing more than the fetid shell of a warehouse located near the docks. The price had been good, but not good enough. Tired of the endless negotiations, Mieley had bribed the agent into signing an affidavit stating that the warehouse’s owner had operated a flourishing meth lab before mysteriously disappearing and posted the orange signs a few minutes before meeting the realtor, a woman named Lolita Chin. He watched her jaw drop and her face turn a color that could only be likened to something on ice at the fish market, before paying slightly less than half the asking price.
By design, he left the downstairs in its dilapidated condition. Sour-smelling buckets, hoists snaking along the ceiling, and a couple of 2,500 gallon stainless-steel tanks all stood as they had fifty years ago. Butter did not tolerate much sunlight, so the windows of the first floor were purposely small and situated high in the walls. This suited his purposes.
Rather than suffer the rush of claustrophobia that often accompanied the closing of the elevator’s scissor-gate, Mieley climbed the stairs.
In the expansive space of the second floor loft, he’d left the pitch-pine flooring intact and furnished his sanctuary with the best Manhattan’s estate sales had to offer. Every purchase carried a vision. One day soon, a news personality would ask, “Isn’t this piece American Victorian? It’s quite lovely. How did you acquire it?” Or better yet, “Mr. Mieley, how did you develop such exquisite taste?” With great satisfaction, he would reply that his appreciation of finer things had not come from his farmer parents, who did not want him in their business. “Hah!” he cried out, the loud crack of his voice surprising him.
He soon finished unpacking and eased onto the bed. Almost immediately, an acrid, metallic smell filled his nostrils, and the ghastly vision of Elias sabotaged his need for sleep. He went to the antique chinoiserie cabinet for a bottle of vodka. It wasn’t cold, but he drank until he
had obliterated the sickening smell that had wedged itself inside his brain, and then let go of the bottle. It fell to the floor with a dull thud. It felt good to close his eyes and, though it wasn’t yet dark, he fell into a deep sleep.
Three blasts from the kind of bell used by fire stations startled him awake. Covering his head with pillows, he waited for it to stop tormenting him, but it did not. Scrambling out of bed, he ran to a window where he spotted two men outside. They wore navy suits and flinty expressions, and did not look like the sort to give up and go away.
Barefoot, he hurried downstairs.
“Mr. Mieley?” the one closest to the door said. “I’m Agent Gibson from ICE. We’d like to talk to you.”
“Just a minute.” He blew into his palm to check his breath before cracking open the door. It smelled like a distillery. “What the heck is ICE?”
“US Immigration and Customs Enforcement, sir. We’re here to talk to you about Max Cotts.”
“I need to see some identification.” When a badge was pushed through the opening, Mieley studied it and reluctantly opened the door.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“We’ll explain, but you need to come with us.”
“I hope Max hasn’t gotten himself into trouble.” The sharp-featured agent with perfect salt-and-pepper hair observed the peeling walls and heavy layer of grime impassively.
“I need my shoes and wallet,” Mieley muttered, and disappeared upstairs to splash his face with cold water and put on a clean shirt. In the mirror, the ghost of too much vodka danced behind his eyes. Would they notice? he wondered.
The backseat of the government vehicle made him nervous. To keep from chewing his cuticles, he clenched his hands into fists. More than once, he noticed Gibson observing him. A single mantra kept him calm; Find Celeste Barton-Szabó.
