Hunter's Hope

by M. J. O'Shea

  “I don’t know why you put up with those guys, Alo,” Jenny murmured as soon as he got to the help desk. She’d started hanging out with him there, even when she wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near campus. It was sweet. And a little misguided.

  “Jenny, you can go home. I really can take care of myself.”

  “You can. But you don’t have to.” She elbowed him gently. “Take an offer of friendship, okay, Green?”

  So Alo hadn’t had many friends growing up—or any. So he’d spent most of his time with his parents or his books. He’d never missed it. Honestly. But something inside him fluttered a little when Jenny said that.

  “Yeah. Okay. Some company would be nice.” He sank down into his chair. “I’m such an asshole,” he muttered.

  “Ignore them. I doubt a single one of those guys has an IQ over one fifty.” She giggled under her breath.

  “Well, my one seventy didn’t keep me from making a total ass of myself. Internationally.”

  Jenny shrugged. “So you did it. Big deal.” She turned Alo’s chair around and stared him in the eye. “Do you still think you were right about the letters?”

  “Yeah, actually I do.”

  “Then own it. You found a freaking treasure map, Alo Green. And you solved it. You’re not just a genius, you’re a badass genius.”

  Alo snorted out a laugh. “Right.”

  “Are you going to go after it?” she asked.

  “After what?”

  “The treasure? Duh.” Jenny looked at him like he might have lost his mind.

  “No. I barely had the cash to buy a tux for that fundraiser tomorrow night, let alone fund a trip across Europe. Besides....”

  “Besides what?”

  Goosebumps hit him in the back of the neck, like they always did when he thought of how... weird things had been since his paper was published in that magazine. How, the past few weeks, he’d always felt like there was someone standing behind him, looking over his shoulder.

  “I really just want the whole thing to die down, that’s all.” Alo brushed it off. He was already the nutcase treasure theorist of the history department. Probably wouldn’t help his reputation to start telling people that he thought he was being followed.

  “Why?” So Jenny wasn’t one for letting things drop. Alo should’ve known that. He did know that. Who knew why he thought she’d change her entire personality on that one subject.

  “It’s been a little creepy for the past few weeks, that’s all.”

  “Creepy.” She gave him a long look, then leaned closer. “I’m going to need a bit more detail than that,” she whispered.

  Here we go. “Remember, it started way back before I even saw the letters. When Moneybags Watson called me?”

  “Oh yeah, I’d almost forgotten about that.”

  Because Alo had never brought it up again. The whole thing gave him a weird feeling in his gut. A lot like the one he’d been feeling on the subway, walking home, when he had to cut through campus after dark.

  “Anyway, it’s only gotten weirder since the paper was published. A few dropped calls; I’ve seen people out of the corner of my eye.”

  “Alo, this is Manhattan. There are always people.”

  “Yeah, but... you grew up here too, right?” Jenny nodded. “Then you know the difference between someone walking on the same block as you and someone lurking. We all do.”

  “True.”

  “These people have definitely been lurking. And they’re there... a lot of the time.”

  “Jesus, Alo. I thought your only problem was some douchebags on campus.”

  Alo made a face. “Not even close. Listen, at least so far these people haven’t approached me. They keep their distance. I don’t even know if it’s always the same one—they never get close enough for me to tell.”

  “That’s so creepy.” Jenny looked down and rolled the corner of a sticky note on the desk. Alo wouldn’t have known what to say either. Like he thought a hundred times a day. He should’ve never written that paper.

  “What do you think the people want from you?” Jenny asked.

  “Isn’t that obvious? They want the letters. The letters I was stupid enough to tell the whole world I had. And had solved.”

  “Jesus,” Jenny muttered. “I think I’ll walk you all the way to your house.”

  “You don’t have—“

  “Yes. I do.”

  The last thing Alo needed on a chilly Friday night when it had just started to snow was to get a fancy suit on and make his way back to the university for a party. In the dark. But he’d been given the directive by Perry that doctorate students didn’t miss holiday fundraising mixers. Even if they really, really didn’t want to go.

  Alo was in the middle of squeezing into his suit jacket, vowing to make the rounds and get the hell out of there before any of his fanboys decided to publicly humiliate him, when his mother walked in.

  “You look so handsome, darling. I wish I could see you in action.”

  Alo smiled. “I’ll get you tickets to the next one.” After the scandal blows over and I’m back to being the boring guy in the corner. “I’m sure it’s going to be uneventful.”

  “Yes, fancy outfits, cocktails, millionaires. I’d hate it.”

  His mother would probably be far more at home at the event than he would. “If I could send you in my place, I’d do it in a heartbeat.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Next time.”

  Alo knew what his job was. He was supposed to wow the rich people with his intelligence and make the program look good. The program was good. Shouldn’t be too hard. If he wasn’t a nervous moron with nothing to say, that was.

  An hour later, Alo was out of his house and walking into the benefit that was being held in the library. It had taken him hours to get the place ready with the help of Jenny and a few other students in the program who would actually help him and not roll their eyes and laugh. After they’d finished, a catering company had come in and filled it with tables, tastefully draped in burgundy cloth, lights, and trays of appetizers and wines. Alo barely recognized the place he spent hours in nearly every day.

  You’ll be fine. Deep breath.

  He saw Jenny right away and did in fact breathe a sigh of relief. He made his way over, intent on using her as a safety blanket for at least a few minutes.

  “Hey. You look gorgeous,” Jenny said. “I knew that Hugo Boss was the right way to go.”

  “Not too much?” Alo asked.

  “Not even close. I like it. You’re hot.” She grinned at him. Jenny definitely knew he wasn’t into women—they’d spent far too many hours discussing his lack of a boyfriend—so he knew she didn’t mean much by it. Just a compliment. It felt good.

  “So who’s here? Who are we supposed to kiss up to?” he whispered.

  “That’s Camilla Reyes and Joe Harcourt from The New York Renaissance Society. And there’s Barry Shoenfeld. I don’t know what he does, but he donated fifty grand to the department last year, and I think they’re hoping for a repeat performance. And of course your boyfriend Watson is here—I just about croaked when he walked in the door. You can practically smell the cash. I think he uses it as cologne.” Jenny fanned herself. “I’m sure Perry will be asking you to talk to him. That guy seems to love you. I already heard him asking about you earlier.”

  “Fantastic.”

  Alo looked to where Jenny was pointing. Jonathan Harrington Watson. Yes, that was him. Somewhat on the small side, probably only five foot seven and quite slight, but still he had so much presence. He had sandy hair, a noticeable gold watch, and a suit that probably cost more than Alo’s degree. Definitely him.

  “What am I supposed to say to him?” Alo muttered

  “I have no idea. But Perry was about to come in his pants when he figured out how much Watson was interested in your work. So I guess just, like, talk about that.”

  Watson wasn’t interested in his work, and Jenny and Alo both knew that. At least not the work he wa
s doing for the Columbia History Department. Alo knew exactly what Watson was interested in. What he didn’t know was what Watson thought he’d get from it. The guy didn’t need any more damn money. He could throw it away like trash if he wanted. But he was rich enough to have the right to a few weird obsessions. Alo just wished he wasn’t one of them.

  Alo noticed it the second Watson and Perry glanced his way. Shit. The nerves he’d managed to push down exploded into reality in a short moment. He supposed he’d find out very quickly what it was, exactly, that Mr. Watson wanted from him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  “Alo,” Dr. Perry said. “I’m glad you’ve made it. Let me introduce one of our most esteemed benefactors. This is Mr. Jonathan Harrington Watson.”

  Watson reached out to shake Alo’s hand. Alo found himself a bit surprised when it felt like a normal hand, a normal handshake. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. “Please call me Jonathan,” he said.

  Alo guessed from Dr. Perry’s face that nobody else had gotten a “please call me Jonathan” from him before. Ever.

  He wasn’t sure he’d like to be familiar with Watson, or on a first name basis. The guy had this look about him, something hard to pin down. As Alo had already noticed, he was expensive. That didn’t take a genius to see. Nobody in the city looked more expensive than him. But there was something else. Something under that shiny refined veneer that was more than simply gross amounts of money and status. The man was a predator. And Alo was his prey.

  “Thank you for showing such a keen interest in my projects,” Alo said. He knew damn well which project Watson was still dying to see come to fruition, but he still didn’t know why. He figured he’d play dumb for a few moments. “I didn’t know you were interested in medieval courtship rituals.”

  Dr. Perry chuckled uncomfortably. “Actually, Alo, Mr. Watson has something else he’d like to discuss with you.”

  Alo had been hoping to put off the inevitable. The moment when he’d have to tell both of them that he really wanted to drop the letters and the treasure and everything involved, because the whole thing was starting to scare him.

  Anyway. Something told him—more like shouted at him—that Watson’s motives weren’t good. Alo had never been the best at reading people; he was mostly stuck up in the clouds, thinking rather than observing. He figured if it was that obvious to someone like him, well, then, something was definitely wrong.

  “W-what would you like to discuss?”

  Watson smiled. It was slick and practiced. Clearly fake. “I think you already know that.”

  “My paper about the letters.” The pit in Alo’s gut sank further.

  “Of course. I’m quite excited to discuss it with you. I’ve been waiting a number of weeks to get you in person. Would you accompany me to the bar?”

  Shit. Alo didn’t want to get cornered. Perry would behead him if he pissed the guy off, but he didn’t want to pursue his great-grandfather’s legend. Things were tense enough already for Alo. The last thing he needed was to make it worse. Dr. Perry was staring at him quite pointedly, though, so Alo smiled and nodded.

  “That would be great.” He gestured for Watson to lead, and followed him away with only a small desperate look at Jenny. She grinned back and made her own face. Some version of “well you made your bed.”

  Alo most certainly had.

  “I’ll take a gin and tonic,” Watson said to the barman. “Bombay Sapphire if you have it.”

  The bartender nodded and looked to Alo. Alo figured he’d need a bit of liquid courage if he was going to get through this conversation, so he asked for a gin and tonic as well. He didn’t want to look like he was sucking up, his brain just went blank and he couldn’t think of a single other drink to save his life.

  “So,” Watson started as soon as they both had their cocktails, “tell me about the letters that started this whole paper you wrote.”

  Alo took a huge gulp and nearly gagged. He’d forgotten just how much he didn’t like gin. Who drank pine trees anyway?

  “Forgive me, sir, but I think you already know about the letters. I still haven’t worked out how, but you knew about them before I wrote a single word.”

  Watson chuckled patronizingly. “Yes. I did. I know about them. You’d be surprised just how many people have heard of Ira Greenblatt’s letters. I don’t know what’s in them, though—other than the few details you shared in your paper.”

  “Mostly just my great-grandfather assuring my great-grandmother that he was doing okay, and that he was safe. Nothing really.” Lie. Big lie. Alo didn’t know why he bothered telling it.

  Watson peered at him pityingly. “But you were convinced there was a code in there. And I’ll hazard a guess that you still are.”

  There wasn’t any point in playing coy—like he’d seen the error of his ways. Alo had a pretty good idea just how easily someone like Jonathan Harrington Watson could see though someone like him.

  “Yes. I’m convinced there’s code in the letters.”

  Watson nodded. He seemed to be couching his words, trying to decide how to ask what he was going to ask next. “You published a few lines here and there, to show your examples, but you never published an entire code. Was there a reason for that?”

  For a smart man with a lot of money, Watson had just asked a seriously stupid question. Either that or he thought Alo was an eighth grader with a science project and zero common sense.

  “Again, with respect, I think you can easily guess why I didn’t publish any of the code in its entirety.”

  Watson conceded with a nod. “Tell me more about this Goering and his treasure.”

  Alo shrugged. “You can find pretty much all of the background on him that you need—fact and fiction. He’s infamous. Just the gold that he reportedly dumped in the lake near his hunting lodge is rumored to have been worth hundreds of millions of dollars.”

  “Do you believe that rumor?”

  “I believe that it’s a fact that he had the goods. I also believe that it’s a fact that large portions of treasures he was known to have disappeared. What happened to them? Obviously that’s quite the question, and it probably has more than one answer. I believe my great-grandfather’s letters are one of those answers.”

  “Do you have any ideas about where the rest of it might have gone?”

  Alo did have some ideas. Theories really. He hadn’t come across anything even remotely concrete enough to convince him of anything. “Nothing I’d put my name on. Just some fun thinking about it.”

  “When do you plan to prove your theory about your great- grandfather’s letters correct?”

  And that was where the story got its name. “I don’t. Ever.”

  It obviously wasn’t the answer Watson was looking for. Not a surprise. Alo imagined quite a few people wanted him to look for those treasures. Or let them do it for him. “I didn’t expect to hear that. Do you have any reasoning for making that choice?”

  “I’ve come to believe publishing that paper was a mistake,” Alo said. “It didn’t occur to me how many peoples’ interest it might pique. Things have been very uncomfortable for my family—phone calls, strange cars parked outside our house. I can only see it getting worse if I recovered any part of what might be hidden. I’m also not sure I’m the right person to do the research and get the items back to where they belong. It would be a complicated procedure.”

  Alo knew how many people, how many tireless hours it took to return stolen war art and riches to their rightful owners. Some of it had never made it back to where it belonged.

  “There are so many people who could do that for you. I would’ve thought that you’d like to be vindicated,” Watson said. “There’s been a lot of chatter about the veracity of your claims.”

  “I know. I’d really like the whole thing to die down,” Alo said. “It’ll blow over eventually.” He hoped.

  “Well, I’d like to propose something.”

  “What’s that?” Alo had a sinking feeling.r />
  “I’d like to help you find the missing items. Then you can show your results to the world and get the items restored back to where they belong.”

  “And... I hate to ask, but why do you want to help me?”

  Watson looked like he was considering his words carefully. “There is a certain piece I’ve been researching quite carefully. I believe it to be among the items your great-grandfather hid.”

  Alo tried to hold in his sigh. Of course.

  Alo felt hungover when he woke up the next morning. He hadn’t had much to drink—except for a few rare pity parties with Jenny over his own stupidity, Alo had never been a big drinker. But maybe the surreal quality of the night had the same effect as too much alcohol. His head was fuzzy and tired, his mouth dry, and he felt nauseated.

  Maybe I’m coming down with something.

  Nothing about the night should’ve made him feel so utterly gross. Alo sat up in bed and had to think really hard for a few minutes about whether or not he was going to sprint to the bathroom and lose whatever it was he had eaten the night before.

  He dragged himself out of bed and put on a pair of track pants and a T-shirt. It was cold outside, but his mother liked to keep their drafty house quite warm, much to the chagrin of his father when it came time to pay bills. Alo always teased her that it was because she was getting old. She always poked him in the side and trotted off to one of her many yoga classes.

  He ran his fingers through his hair and brushed his teeth to get rid of the lingering weird stale taste. Alo went to step out to the main hallway and got another wave of dizziness. He nearly went back to bed, but he had things to do. And conversations to try and decipher. The nausea was weird, that was for sure.

  He realized he hadn’t eaten any dinner or any of the appetizers at the party the night before. Might account for some of the way he was feeling. He shook it off and headed down for breakfast.