by SL Hulen
Traffic was heavy. There was not a word of conversation during the half-hour drive to the five-story building, which was not as far from downtown as he would have thought. Inside, the men directed him to sit behind a folding table in an interrogation room where they aimed a camera at him and then left the room. They were trying to unnerve him by making him wait; it had been some seventy-five minutes now. Poor Agent Gibson—if he only knew that most of his life had been spent waiting.
At last the door swung open and the pair entered. He leaned forward in the chair, shot them a concerned look, and asked, “Why am I here?”
“Tell me about your relationship with Max Cotts,” Gibson demanded.
“We’re casual business acquaintances,” Mieley answered, unperturbed.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I spoke to him about ten days ago.”
In person?” Until now, the other agent hadn’t said a word. He smelled of coffee and spearmint chewing gum, and Mieley imagined them in the cafeteria, drinking coffee and making jokes about him. They looked like bookends. They were clean— cut government types—any inkling of personality had long ago been extinguished.
“No, we spoke by phone. Why? He’s not in some kind of trouble, is he?”
“Only if you consider being dead, trouble.”
Leaning forward in the chair, Mieley’s eyes opened wide. “Dead? My god! How did he die?”
“That’s what we’re hoping you can help us with. Phone records show you were one of the last people to speak to him.”
“When did this happen?”
“What was your conversation with him about?”
“What are you really asking me, Agent Gibson?”
“Why do you think you’re here, Mr. Mieley? It appears you were out of state recently.” The agent deftly manipulated his words into an accusation.
“Since when is it against the law to travel?”
“It seems you visit El Paso regularly—at least three times so far this year. Why?”
“I have a lady friend there; married, unfortunately, so I hope we can keep this between ourselves. You think my travel schedule has something to do with Max? Really, gentlemen, I find your questioning disjointed, to say the least.”
Agent Gibson’s face had all the charm of a snarling Doberman. “For someone who, by all outward appearances, is unemployed, you seem to live quite well. How do you support yourself?”
“My family owns several large farms.”
“How did you know Max?”
Mieley threw up his arms. “Is it against the law to have recreational pursuits? I’m sure you know that I studied Egyptology. Doesn’t it make sense to you that Max and I would know each other?”
“I suppose it does. What did you talk with him about? You said it was a phone conversation, correct?”
“You’re the one taking notes.” Mieley could not allow his veneer of composure to crack; he sat back and closed his eyes. “Max fostered my love of Egyptology. Occasionally, we got together. I hadn’t seen him much in recent years. From time to time, he’d call.”
“What did he talk to you about?”
“The usual—he had some seventeenth-century china teapots to authenticate.”
“When did you return to the city?”
“This afternoon.”
“You didn’t see Mr. Cotts?”
“For the second time, no.”
“Did he mention to you that he’d contacted Egypt’s Supreme Council of Antiquities?”
What little color Mieley had left his face, but he managed to feign ignorance. “No, he didn’t.”
“Well, it seems Mr. Cotts came across an especially significant piece—one he felt belonged rightfully in Egypt. We know that he spoke with Dr. Shenouda, and e-mailed photographs of the pieces. Apparently, these artifacts can provide critical information about a gap in history. Now that the Egyptian government suspects the bracelets are in this country, they’re going to turn up the publicity.”
Suddenly he felt as though he would vomit. “Do you think Max was killed for them?”
Gibson stared at him intently. “I never said Max was killed; I said he was dead.”
“Is it routine to have this kind of investigation after a natural death?”
“We’re looking for those artifacts—a pair of coronation bracelets. They must be returned to Egypt. Dr. Shenouda has made it his life’s work to find and prosecute anyone he believes has stolen his country’s cultural heritage. You might be able to help us. Who, besides you, might he have spoken to about them?”
“Let me clarify—Max said nothing to me about them. I didn’t know any of his cronies. If I should think of anything—”
“Here’s my card. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Max having a connection to the antiquities black market, would you?”
“That’s ludicrous. Don’t you dare try to discredit him.”
“The evidence indicates it. As we gather more information, we may need to talk to you again.”
“It’s hard to believe that anyone would have a reason to hurt poor old Max.”
“Will you excuse us for a minute?” They pushed their chairs back in unison and departed, leaving Mieley alone again. Another thirty minutes dragged by. With his arms across his chest, he defied them to notice anything suspicious about him. It was a game he found himself rather enjoying and considered it an afternoon well spent. When they returned with more questions, Mieley was composed, even helpful.
It was almost evening when Agent Gibson and his partner politely deposited him at the warehouse. “Why is that sign posted by your front door?”
He shrugged. “It was there when I bought the place. I left it as sort of a conversation piece. It made you think twice, didn’t it?”
“Not at all,” the agent replied without blinking.
Mieley smiled through clenched teeth as they drove away. Worried that they might return, he lingered, drawing hieroglyphs in the dust on the ground floor with the tip of his shoe. His suspicions proved useless however, and a short time later he went upstairs; kicked his shoes off and threw himself onto the rumpled bed. Max, you stupid bastard, look what you’ve done.
“A bump in the road, nothing more” he chanted aloud, over and over, calculating how long it might take to find Celeste Barton Szabo. He would not start tonight; no searches of her must be found on his laptop. He would do them from libraries and hotels. For good measure, he would stop periodically and change rental cars, using different agencies. He rifled through a drawer, pulled out several rolls of $100 bills, threw them into a duffle he pulled from his closet, and grabbed his shaving kit from underneath the bathroom sink.
Chapter Thirty-five Elias
Elias woke to the sounds of softly beeping equipment that whispered, “You are still among the living.” Marta was crying as she pressed his hand to her wet face. “Mi vida,” she crooned. “Gracias a Dios.”
Someone leaned over the bed, blotting out the light, and there was another voice, deeper and unknown, asking, “Mr. Barrón, can you hear me?”
Elias nodded, too thirsty to speak.
“Who did this to you? Was it someone you know?”
He hesitated, and then shook his heavily bandaged head.
“Can’t you see he’s in no condition to speak?” Marta scolded as she put a spoon of chipped ice to his lips. Pain shot through his head, threatening to send him back into darkness.
“Mr. Barrón, do you know the person who attacked you?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head again.
“Was it a burglary?”
Very slowly he uttered, “Yes.”
“Did they take anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you give me a description of the perpetrator?”
Wearily, he touched his hand to his temple. “Can’t remember,” he answered in a voice he barely recognized as his own. His swollen tongue filled his mouth, making the few words he managed to spit out
thick and clumsy.
“Detective, I insist that you let my husband rest,” Elias heard his wife say. A moment later, footsteps heavier than hers left the room.
He tried to recall how he came to be here. His hands ached, and his arms felt useless and sore. Slowly, the pain brought with it another memory—the sound of breaking glass Victoria.
Marta prayed quietly.
The events of the last days were becoming clearer now.
Afraid of the news that waited if he dared open his eyes, Elias pulled in huge gulps of air to keep from suffocating on his guilt.
“It’s all right now,” Marta consoled him, stroking his hands. “Don’t try to stay awake, my love. I’m right here.”
The urge to slip back into unconsciousness swept over him, but a single thought prevented it.
I have turned the devil loose on my own child.
The next morning, Elias pushed away the plastic cup containing pain medication handed to him by a pretty brunette nurse. A brutal pain throbbed from the crack in his skull and stopped in his gut to nauseate him before it surged to the tips of his toes. He felt lightheaded.
“Have you heard from Victoria?” he asked his wife. Marta wore the same dark-blue patterned blouse she had been wearing when she’d left for church the day before.
“I’ve been trying to reach her for days, but nothing. You know how she is when she’s in the middle of a trial. Gracie called the other day to tell us not to worry.”
Elias stared at the wall. “You didn’t talk to her, then?”
“The last time we spoke, she was on her way to see you. I didn’t want to trouble you, but something’s wrong; I feel it. This is not like her, Elias.”
He desperately wanted to tell her, to lay his lies out on the gray linoleum floor and beg forgiveness at her feet. But what if she involved the authorities? Elias struggled to sit, and a tidal wave of nausea threatened to overtake him. He took deep breaths and forced himself not to think of the pain.
“I insist on recuperating at home,” he told the young doctor who came in later, sitting up and offering a weak smile. “You’ve met my wife. Rest assured when I tell you she’ll make sure I take it easy.”
“Señor Barrón, you’ll have to spend at least twenty-four hours under observation. Even though your recovery has been rapid, there could be complications—”
“Run all the tests you like today; I’m leaving tomorrow.”
The next morning, against medical advice, Elias left the hospital with his head wrapped like a Sikh’s.
When they arrived home, he made use of the cane the hospital had insisted he take, waving it gallantly at Marta and saying, “I’m all right, just a bit slower than usual.” He smiled and followed her through the front door. She led him into the living room, where he took his usual place on the sofa and turned on the television.
Marta took the pillows from the couch and stacked them on the coffee table. “Try to relax,” she commanded gently as she removed his loafers and elevated his legs. “I’ll get us a bite to eat.” It was as if nothing had happened.
As soon as she stepped into the kitchen, Elias lowered his feet cautiously and lifted himself, inch by inch, from the couch. Every part of his body ached. His legs were concrete blocks, and his first few steps were unsure and painfully slow. Still, he persisted in making his way to the study, where he locked the door behind him. Glass from the cabinet still lay scattered on the terracotta floor. Some of the pieces caught the fading sunlight and sparkled like topaz, so dazzling that Elias stood transfixed.
A soft knock at the door broke the spell. “Elias? Why have you locked the door? You’re acting strange. Maybe it was too soon for us to have left the hospital.” A long pause followed. “I thought it might be a good idea to ask Father Donato to stop by—”
“Don’t!” he shouted, the exertion bending him over in agony. “Can’t you see I need to be alone?”
“Talk to him,” she pleaded. “Maybe you can tell him what’s eating at your soul.”
“Not now, Marta. Is that such an unreasonable request after what I’ve been through?”
His voice softened. “I know you didn’t sleep for a minute at the hospital. Go have a shower and put on some fresh clothes. We’ll have a nap. I’ll join you soon.” Moments later, the sound of fading footsteps told him she’d given up.
From the drawer of his desk he removed his favorite pen, carved from ironwood, and wrote.
Mi vida, For twenty years now, I have masqueraded as a decent man. At first, my smuggling activities were designed to protect the artifacts of the country of my birth. In the heightened sense of honor that was mine in those days, I felt certain that my role in this world was to serve as their temporary caretaker. It was the only way I knew to protect Mexico’s treasures from ruin, you see. As you can well imagine, I’ve surrounded myself with people who are nothing more than thieves and predators. It’s a wonder something hasn’t gone wrong before now. Through a terrible and unintentional twist of circumstances, my activities have involved Victoria in a way I could not have foreseen. I feel she and Khara may be in danger. My accomplice, a smuggler with the morals of a cockroach, is intent on finding Khara so I must get to the girls first. Say nothing to anyone, least of all the authorities. Their safety depends on your silence. Will you do this for me? I will answer all your questions when I return. I ask your forgiveness and support. Without them, I am nothing and will surely fail.
Forever yours, Elias
He finished with a signature he’d designed in his youth. Sweeping across the paper in stylish scrolls, it reminded him of a time when he had thought enough of himself to design a mark worthy of an ingeniero or abogado, though neither engineering nor law inspired him. He used this signature only on love letters, most of which had been written to the woman on the other side of the door. He folded the letter and left it on the desk.
Elias found it difficult to keep his thoughts from drifting. He remembered the first time he saw Victoria, her panicked look from the other side of the glass, the amazing strength in her tiny arms when she grabbed him. These memories came back with a blinding force that made him wince. He wiped his eyes with a fresh handkerchief and then, slowly, removed the bandages around his head Victoria often reminded him of his brother, Joaquín. How could he not? He was her biological father. Like his brother, she was best when things were at their worst. She gave people hope. But there were times when she was a prideful, stubborn creature—a trait undoubtedly acquired from her uncle.
He opened the door and went to the bedroom to look in on Marta.
“You shouldn’t have taken your bandages off,” she admonished, “at least not for a few more days. Here, let me have a look. ¡Ay caray! It looks like a chupacabra got the best of you. Now come to bed,” she coaxed, smiling and patting the space beside her. “I still haven’t been able to reach Victoria,” she added.
“What good will come of worrying about her tonight? We’ll find her in the morning. I can’t sleep. Maybe the television will help.” He lightly kissed her lips. “Go to sleep now, mi amor.”
On the way to the living room, he passed Victoria’s room and stopped to switch on the light. The branches of the willow tree beat accusingly against the window. Elias sighed and sat down on the bed. He picked up the feathered frame containing a photo of him and Marta taken so many years ago. Where had the time gone? Returning it to its place, he noticed the photo sitting next to it.
Dressed in her academic robes, Victoria’s arms were wrapped around Bea. A lovely girl from a good family, Bea had been the closest thing his poor niece had ever had to a sister. He set the frame down.
When he was certain Marta was asleep, he retrieved the letter from his desk and laid it by her side. Soon after, he was driving across town hoping that a schoolgirl friendship had remained intact.
Chapter Thirty-six Khara
The next morning, Khara did not find Oliver waiting in the barn as he had promised. She looked outside, hoping to see his truck. W
ith every minute her watch measured, her desperation grew. She longed for the innocence that had been hers before Celeste had showed her how to apportion time into hours, into minutes, into seconds. Time had become her heartless enemy.
Almos tried to comfort her. His dark, languid eyes told her not to worry. “You are making us nervous with your pacing. Wait outside,” he suggested, stamping his enormous hoof.
She did as he advised, passing the time astride the corral fence and kicking a nearby post. Any minute now Oliver would appear, dressed in flannel and blue jeans. He would give her a smile she knew was only for her. His hair would still be damp, and he would smell of soap.
When he finally appeared—after twenty-seven minutes—he wore an expression of impending doom.
“What is it?” she asked, her fingers lacing between his.
Oliver looked into her eyes and she instantly felt the stab of his pain. “Let’s go inside,” he suggested as he put his arm around her and pulled her close. His steps were heavy, and Khara recalled that the last time she had witnessed such a thing had been on Nandor’s last day on this earth.
“Please tell me,” she begged, tugging at his sleeve as she dropped down beside him on a bale of hay.
He took her face in his hands. “Last night I spoke to the shaman. I asked him—well, about us.”
Fear spread down her back, as light and delicate as a spider’s web. “Who is he?”
“Ben is the Mescalero’s spiritual advisor—like that Father Donato you’re always speaking about.” He reached for a piece of straw and folded it into angles that formed a star. “A shaman takes revelations from the visionary world and makes sense of them in the outer world,” he finished, with a look that said he expected to be ridiculed.
Khara watched the subtle shift of Oliver’s face and understood. There was the Oliver who drove a truck and studied medicine and whose gentle hands calmed the spirits of wounded animals, but underneath, a primal energy lurked. She caught glimpses of it, especially when he spoke of the Apache.
