The Devil's Paradise

by Aiden James

  Jeremy smiled at Jack and then got up to get another beer from the kitchen.

  “Would you like another cold one, Jackie?”

  “Sure. I’ll bet your absolutely dying for a smoke, too.”

  “No, I haven’t felt a craving for a cigarette since I learned of Deshawn’s death yesterday.”

  He handed his brother another frosty bottle and sat down again.

  “I’ll be honest with you, man. I don’t think I’m ever going to get over his death unless I do go back to Bolivia,” he said. “I’ve got lots of questions for Francisco and Rafael about what you and I are supposed to accomplish some day, and if I don’t get some straight answers I can live with, I’ll wonder for the rest of my life whether or not I did the right thing by involving my best friend in this crazy scene. Know what I mean?”

  “You’re planning to let me come along, aren’t you?” asked Jack after taking a drink from his beer. “I’m not sure it’d be a good idea to bring Grandpa, though.”

  “I fully intend for you to go, as long as we don’t wait a year to do it,” said Jeremy. “Once Uncle Monty joins us in Mexico, he can keep Grandpa company while we’re gone. Just keep it in mind, and we’ll talk about it later.”

  “Sure.”

  The two remained on the plush sectional watching CNN and ESPN until Marshall returned to the cabin around five o’clock that afternoon, announcing they no longer needed to hide inside the yacht. He advised that they had reached ‘safe water’, free of any oily sheen reflecting on the waves, and the Gulf was a deep blue. After setting their fishing poles up on deck, the three shared a pleasurable evening trying to catch their dinner. By seven o’clock that evening they had caught enough red snapper to enjoy a small feast, and soon sat at the dinette enjoying their meal.

  Afterward, the three returned to the flybridge, where they witnessed the most wonderful sunset any of them had ever seen—including the one Jack and Jeremy beheld on the way back to Tuscaloosa from their captivity in Virginia just three days earlier. Once the beautiful evening sky darkened, they spent an hour stargazing, reminding them of how it used to be so many years ago in Carlsdale, Alabama before their lives were irrevocably altered by Genovene. The irony wasn’t lost on any of them.

  When they finally had enough of the Gulf’s tranquility, they returned to the salon, watching a movie on HBO while Jack and Jeremy grilled their grandfather for more information about what Cameril was like. Satisfied by the information he gave them and intrigued about what tomorrow would bring, they retired to the master stateroom, since the larger of the two bedrooms aboard the yacht. Once midnight arrived, Marshall also retired for the night, leaving a small lamp on in the salon and his stateroom door ajar in the event his grandsons needed anything from him before morning.

  ***

  While the brothers and their grandfather slept in peace for the first time that week, Francisco de Luciano and Rafael Diegas moved through an ancient cavern more than two thousand miles away in southern Bolivia, carrying small halogen lamps. The cavern freezing, a cold breeze pummeled the heavily-clothed pair traveling along a narrow path that ran through the cavern’s center.

  Francisco led the way and Rafael followed, holding a burlap sack under his right arm. Unlike most passageways in Las Cavernas Segradas, this one was almost never visited, and only the second journey taken by Francisco to this particular cavern. For Rafael, his very first visit.

  Before long, the path met up with a huge stone staircase rising high into the frigid darkness. After a wary glance from his assistant, Francisco led Rafael up the stairs that culminated at the base of a grand ancient temple. Though long since abandoned, the enormous Aymara structure was still intact, covered in dusty grime and cobwebs from centuries of neglect.

  Much colder up here, the temple received every icy breeze flowing through the cavern. The two Essenes moved quickly inside the temple’s immense hall on their way to an altar that dominated the structure’s inner sanctum. Francisco lit a pair of torches on either side of the long stone table, causing Rafael to immediately gasp in surprise. A pair of enormous golden angels kneeled upon it. Facing each other with a look of ecstasy on their faces, these Aymara statues were nearly identical to the one inside the castle’s archive chamber, though slightly larger. The angels held their arms stretched out before them, as if supporting some unseen object.

  Francisco motioned for Rafael to move with him to the center of the table. “Rafael, hand me the Cristal Del Sol.”

  Rafael removed the crystal sphere from the sack he carried and handed it to Francisco. Immediately, the object began to click and hum like it had for Jack when he first encountered it. Francisco climbed onto a small platform between the angels and raised the Cristal Del Sol above his head. Once the object was high enough to clear the angels’ hands, he let it go. It floated, glowing softly. As its light grew brighter, the crystal sphere started spinning.

  Francisco carefully stepped down from the stone table as he and Rafael watched. The Cristal Del Sol began to spin faster, and soon its brilliant white glow changed into an orange iridescent fireball shooting long streams of ethereal plasma.

  “Oh, my God!” Rafael cried out, worriedly. “What is happening, Francisco??”

  “Be still, my friend!” He took hold of Rafael’s coat to keep him from fleeing the temple. “You must stay with me until this is finished!”

  Rafael looked into the Essene Superior’s eyes for reassurance, while a powerful tremor ran throughout the temple, shaking the immense columns that surrounded them. The tremor grew in force and soon the entire cavern’s floor and walls shook violently, knocking them both to the ground. When it seemed they would be crushed by enormous granite blocks on the verge of tumbling down upon them, the earthquake subsided. The air grew warm and humid, as if a strong tropical breeze had swept up the staircase and now engulfed every inch of the temple.

  The light from the Cristal Del Sol became softer, yet remained bright enough to illuminate the temple’s interior. Energy streams ceased and the object no longer spun rapidly, instead hovering calm in midair above the outstretched hands of the golden angels.

  Yet, the supernatural transformation atop the staircase continued on. The cobwebs, dust and decay that had attacked the surfaces of the floor, walls, and ceiling for centuries melted away. Colorful Aymara symbols and pictograms reappeared from long ago. Intricate gold etchings visible once more upon the temple’s columns, what surprised them most were tapestries and wooden furniture items that now materialized in the area surrounding the altar.

  The temple was coming back to life! And, not only the magnificent stone structure and its delicate furnishings. From within the grand hall, birds called to one another amid the sound of rushing water, as a waterfall and stream now flowed from a cavern wall to the right of the temple. Soon, rows of palm trees that once flourished along the corridor in the center of the grand hall eons ago suddenly appeared as well.

  The overactive nerve endings beneath Rafael’s left eye pulsed, fervent, and he smiled nervously. Francisco grasped him by the shoulder after they stood back up, his own smile compassionate.

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked Rafael. “As you can see, it belongs here. This place was created for it, as the ancient text I showed you earlier said it would be.”

  “But, how did the Aymara know it would end up here someday?” replied Rafael, his tone reflective. “For the crystal was buried in another continent and believed lost for thousands of years.”

  “Probably in the same way we are told most things.”

  “Through the angels?”

  “Of course.”

  Francisco’s smile grew brighter, and he allowed his gaze to move throughout the temple’s main chamber, taking in the exquisite workmanship from the Mayan and Incan ancestors.

  Our predecessors certainly enjoyed a wonderful relationship with their God, do you not agree, Rafael? Just look at this place!”

  “Yes, it is amazing!” he agreed, following Franc
isco’s gaze with his own. He seemed much more at peace, his smile enraptured. “Is this place also tied to the four calendars that conclude this coming December?”

  Francisco turned to face him, a slight sparkle dancing in his eyes.

  “You are getting better at this, my friend,” he confirmed. “It is indeed another prophecy fulfilled.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “We wait.”

  Satisfied, Francisco motioned for Rafael to follow him out of the temple, leaving the Cristal Del Sol to continue its vigilance above the outstretched hands of the angels created long ago to support it. The object’s wonderful glow had spread from the temple to much of the cavern, effectively illuminating their way back down to the path that would return them to the castle.

  Carrying their heavy coats on their arms, since they wouldn’t need them again until they re-emerged into the Andes’ wintry chill, Francisco and Rafael walked together in silence. This sacred place deserved reverence and respect, for it would be their last safe haven.

  The End

  Available now on Barnes and Noble Nook:

  THE FORGOTTEN EDEN

  The Talisman Chronicles #1

  by

  Aiden James

  (read on for a sample)

  PART I

  The Murder of Dr. Mensch

  “So...you’re sure that’s all, then?

  The agent poured himself another round of coffee, carefully stirring in a measure of cream as if this simple act required complete concentration. Jack Kenney studied him from where he sat, absently drumming his fingers on top of a steel table in the middle of the interrogation room. Well-defined muscles tensed beneath the tight confines of his faded black T-shirt, he seemed poised and ready to launch himself out of his chair like a hungry lion. Even his strong brow and chiseled facial features made him look predatory, with hazel eyes aglow from acute agitation.

  Yet, the exhaustion and weariness brought on by the endless stream of questions that began last night made him yearn painfully for sweet silence and the unlikely chance he might recoup some of the sleep he’d lost since his abduction from Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

  “Like I’ve been telling ya’ll,” said Jack, tersely. “There’s nothing more to add to my statement.”

  Agent Frank Reynolds grimaced in irritation. Jack figured the man didn’t take kindly to a smart mouth, definitely not one belonging to a twenty-year old college kid. The agent’s earlier speech about being in this line of work for nearly thirty years repeated tiredly in Jack’s head, along with the threat of what would become of him if he didn’t start cooperating soon. He could also tell the man’s patience and self-described ‘even-tempered nature’ had worn dangerously thin.

  “I guess we’re all just supposed to believe that Dr. Mensch’s beating and subsequent death in the hospital were mere coincidences which, unfortunately, you’ve been linked to,” said Reynolds. “Is that what you expect us to believe, Mr. Kenney?”

  He moved deliberately toward Jack, the cup of coffee in one hand while he motioned to his two companions, Agents Ben Casey and Steve Iverson with the other.

  “You must think the three of us have shit for brains, son, and your arrogant attitude is really starting to piss me off!”

  He stepped up to the table and leaned down into Jack’s face, who remained unfazed by the advancing giant of a man glaring at him. Instead, amused and fascinated by the elder agent’s behavior, Reynolds’ thick southern accent intrigued him, degenerating now into a slur. Even more, his flushed face burned with anger, in such contrast to his pale gray eyes and wavy white hair. Like a clean-cut Santa hittin’ the sauce. The man’s large stature of nearly six and a half feet would’ve intimidated most anyone. But Jack remained unaffected by the man’s invasion into his personal space.

  He grinned wryly, studying the agent’s face to determine the true depth of malice. He then let his eyes wander to the I.D. badge dangling from the right lapel of his dark blue suit coat. A stoic picture from a few years earlier, the identifier ‘AS419’ etched in gold glistened brightly under the glare from the long fluorescent light above the table.

  “What the hell do you find so amusing?” Reynolds hissed.

  “Forgive me…sir,” Jack replied, unapologetic. “I’m just tired...tired enough to find everything a little amusing at this point.”

  “Maybe I can convince you to take Frank’s words a bit more serious.”

  Steve Iverson spoke. Svelte in build, and not near as tall as Reynolds, he grasped Jack’s shoulder and squeezed the tender area just below the collarbone, steadily increasing the pressure until the bone throbbed.

  Jack’s reflexes forced him to look down onto the steel table, where the distorted reflection of his painful grimace greeted him. The tangled mess of his thick auburn hair further obscured his rugged handsomeness, except for his hazel eyes. Narrow slits of anger growing brighter by the second.

  Iverson increased the pressure on Jack’s collarbone, forcing him to clinch his teeth to keep from screaming. The torture continued until Jack fell out of his chair. It landed loudly on its side, and he squirmed on the cement floor with Iverson’s hand still attached to his shoulder’s sensitive pressure point.

  “Had enough, asshole?”

  The agent brought his face down low enough to peer into his victim’s eyes, snickering in contempt. A nervous tic quivered excitedly along his lower lip, and he seemed to draw immense pleasure from Jack’s expression, whose immediate fantasy was to turn over and shove his knee hard into Iverson’s groin. But he couldn’t free himself.

  “You know, right now may be as good a time as any to rearrange this pretty boy’s face. How about it, Frank?”

  The agent suddenly jerked Jack’s head back by the hair. Peering into his face, Iverson’s smirk remained, though slightly broadened by his apparent amusement. But the coldness of his steel-blue eyes glowed even more malleable, revealing the cold-hearted killer within. Jack could tell the man might ‘eliminate’ someone with no more remorse than he’d have for smashing a stink beetle.

  In a way, he reminded Jack of a ‘down home’ country singer his grandfather, Marshall Edwards, liked to listen to. His sandy brown hair brushed back to where he resembled Merl Haggard, for a moment Jack pictured the tune “I’m Just An Old Jukebox Junkie” coming out of Iverson’s mouth. The image struck him as particularly funny and almost made him laugh. A slight snicker escaped from his mouth anyway. It took just an instant for the agent to react.

  “You think this is funny, you sorry sack of shit??” he screamed into Jack’s ear as he yanked him to his feet by the hair. “Suppose I show you something real funny—like your dick sticking out of your ass, you stupid fuck!!”

  Jack winced in pain, and started to take a swing at him. Before he could deliver even a slight blow, Iverson pushed him into the waiting arms of Ben Casey, who shoved his arms high behind his back. The ligaments in his joints stretched to the point of tearing.

  “I’m all for giving this punk a workout.”

  Short and somewhat portly, but the most menacing of the trio, Casey’s husky voice reverberated deep from behind Jack.

  “He’s begging for it.”

  Held fast, Jack warily watched the other two men step up to him.

  Oh shit…

  A nauseating blend of tobacco, sweat, and a mixture of colognes filled his nostrils—one cheap, and the other a strong musk scent. He swallowed hard, for he knew if he vomited on any of these guys, they might not let him live long enough to apologize.

  The door to the room suddenly swung open, the hinges whining loudly from the door’s steel-insulated weight. Another agent stepped into the room carrying a long, black attaché case in one hand, and a small blue duffel bag in the other. Reynolds and Iverson backed away from Jack, while Casey released his arms.

  “Well, good afternoon, Peter,” said Reynolds. “Or, should I say ‘evening’, since it’s nearing the dinner hour.”

  He moved over to him and extend
ed his hand in welcome. The man set the attaché case and duffel bag down on the floor.

  “It’s good to see you, Frank,” he said, responding with a hearty handshake. “‘Sorry I’m late. Traffic was worse than usual tonight. Am I interrupting anything?”

  “No...not really,” he said, shooting a mean glance toward Jack that clearly implied ‘you’ll keep your damn mouth shut if you know what’s good for you’. “He’s all yours, now.”

  The newcomer also turned his attention to Jack, eyeing him as if a rare animal on display. Jack glared in response, forcing this man named Peter to return his attention to Iverson instead.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, extending his hand for Iverson to shake.

  “Pete, this is Steve Iverson, and Ben Casey from the New York office,” said Reynolds.

  “Peter McNamee...I’m pleased to meet you both.” He shook hands with Casey.

  “Pete’s dad and I go way back,” said Reynolds, glancing coolly toward Jack once more. “We used to work together for the bureau down in New Orleans.”

  “Dad still speaks fondly of those times …. We’ll need to catch up some when our work here is through.” Peter McNamee shifted his gaze back to the haggard young man standing nearby. Again, Jack met his gaze head on. An awkward moment, and then Peter resumed his conversation with Reynolds. “I’m sure he’ll be interested to know what you’ve been up to.”

  “Just working, son. Same as always....”

  More awkwardness permeated the air.

  “Well, I guess I’ll get started.” Agent McNamee picked up his attaché case and duffel bag from the floor. He moved over to the table and sat both items on top of it.

  The other agents looked on, and for the moment seemed unsure of what to do next. Jack felt better about his own situation, as it appeared McNamee intimidated them. At least fifteen years younger than the others, Jack could tell he was just slightly older than himself.