The Seventh Stone

by Pamela Hegarty

  “Professor Devlin,” a voice called from behind her. Sister Mary Therese approached, the breeze swirling her white novitiate veil around her wizened face. Like Lucia, she was new to the school, a widow on a fresh path. She had taken Lucia under her wing, and for that Christa was grateful, and she tried to tamp down the spark of suspicion lit by anyone who was both friendly and committed to the church. “It’s amazing how children can hide in plain sight,” she said, as always with the uncanny ability to tune into the needs of people around her. “We’ll find her.” Together, they walked towards the grove of evergreens to the far side of the playground.

  A mom’s hand caught Christa’s shoulder from behind. “Lucia’s gone already.”

  Christa spun to face her. It was Yvonne, Courtney’s mom, dressed to the nines in skinny jeans, fur-trimmed leather coat and Ugg boots. She had met her many times when picking up Lucia and Liam after school every other Wednesday, which she and the kids had proclaimed “Wacky Wednesday with Crazy Aunt Christa.” “Gone?”

  “Her uncle picked her up,” she answered. “Such a nice man. Arrived in a black Rolls Royce Phantom. All the children were very excited. You never told me that Lucia has a rich uncle. That poor girl. I’m glad she has someone with some substance in her life.” Her tone of voice underscored her opinion of parents who’d rather spend money on books than boots.

  Christa’s heart raced. “You let her go with him? What did he look like?”

  Yvonne frowned. “He wore a Gucci suit. Custom-made, not off the rack.” She bent closer and softened her voice. “Gucci doesn’t do short and stout off the rack.”

  “Did the man say anything?” Sister Mary asked Yvonne.

  “He was taking her for ice cream, and shopping for a Christmas gift for her,” said Yvonne. “I suggested the Nordstrom’s at the mall.” Yvonne pouted, picking up on Christa’s distress. “I called the principal’s office,” she said, holding up her smart phone as evidence in her defense. “They told me that Percival had called to say Lucia was being taken home early. And Lucia’s Uncle Peter is on the approved list of people who can pick her up. He is your sister’s husband, isn’t he? He assured me he’d sign her out before leaving school property.”

  “Peter’s been out of town,” Christa said. “Due back today.”

  “Well that explains it, then,” Yvonne said, corralling a wisp of windblown hair. “The Rolls was an airport car service. It’s the holiday travel season, after all. Not beyond them to fill in with their status cars.”

  Sister Mary placed a hand on Christa’s forearm, on her wound. It hurt. She didn’t care. “Christa, do you have Peter’s number?” the nun said in a soft tone that could calm any tantrum.

  Christa jerked the cell phone from her pocket. She wanted to believe it more than anything. She dialed Peter’s cell. A recording answered. This time she was calling the cops. Before she could punch nine, the phone chimed. She pressed it to her ear. “Peter?”

  A laugh answered her. “I do so enjoy optimism, Christa Devlin,” a man’s voice said. A nasal, arrogant voice. The Prophet. “By all means, confirm to your friends that I am Uncle Peter. Lucia’s life depends on it.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Baltasar Contreras was delighted with the little girl, with her mop of curly strawberry blond hair and infectious laugh. She had taken off her pink, faux suede jacket trimmed with fluffy pink fur at the wrists, hem and around the hood and laid it neatly next to her. She hadn’t wanted ice cream to drip on it. She had told Baltasar that it was Barbie’s jacket, and laughed when he asked why Barbie had given it to her. Barbie, he learned, was a doll. Lucia would be his doll, to manipulate to make his dream come true.

  She hated her starched navy and green plaid school uniform, and confided that she didn’t care at all if ice cream got on that. She toyed with the drop-leaf table in the back of the limo, raising it, latching it, lowering it, while his chauffeur, Simon, went inside Jimmies to get the ice cream cones. Baltasar had been tempted to go in, himself. He’d never been in a “family restaurant.” His research into the Hunter family had revealed this quaint spot as a favorite of the little girl. She had ordered one scoop of cookie dough, and one scoop of chocolate, on a sugar, not a cake, cone, with rainbow sprinkles. She knew what she wanted. So did he.

  She licked her cone on one side then the next, sprinkles dropping on the napkins that Baltasar had spread over her lap, despite his own distaste for the plaid uniform. Even he had ordered a cone, pistachio, amazed that he found joy in such a pedestrian act. He hadn’t had an ice cream cone since he was a child and that was a vanilla gelato in Cairo. He wanted a second cone. His mother, ever indulgent in her love, went back into the shop to get it for him. That’s when the bomb blew the shop and his mother to bits.

  “Now, Professor Devlin,” he spoke into his cell phone, “I will wait while you assure that nun and the woman wearing the peculiar sheepskin boots that I am Lucia’s uncle and I’ve picked up little Lucia from the school. You’re quick enough to deduce that I do have someone watching you. If you do not do as I say, you will not hear from me nor Lucia again.”

  She hesitated. Baltasar expected that, but then heard her forced laugh and stumbled reassurances that Lucia was fine. He listened. He could hear footsteps on pavement, her quick, short breaths and a car door opening and shutting.

  After his mother died, his father equated ice cream with poison and indulgent love with punishment. He turned to Lucia. “If I had children,” he said, “I’d make it a rule to have ice cream in my house year round. I’d hire a nanny just to play with you and a tutor to make sure you rose above your peers.” If only he could have had his own children, then it might not have fallen on him to fulfill his family’s destiny. It would not be him who would cause all those deaths, who must take the crown upon his head. He dabbed a drip of chocolate from Lucia’s dimpled chin. It was a tragedy that she might be one of the first to die.

  “Where’s Lucia?” Christa Devlin asked finally, her voice surprisingly strong.

  “She is right here with me, naturellement. We’re having ice cream. Aren’t we Lucia?”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  “Quite understandable. I will put you on speaker.”

  “Lucia, honey? It’s Aunt Christa. Where are you?”

  “Aunt Christa!” Lucia smiled widely. “I’m in a Rolls Royce Phantom!”

  “Yes, I know, in a Rolls Royce Phantom. Heading home?”

  Baltasar smiled. Christa Devlin was smart, thinking on her feet, hoping to eke out information. More importantly, she was struggling to remain calm so as not to scare the little girl. She didn’t want her to suffer. Baltasar was pleased he was able to take full advantage of the fluctuating circumstances. Like a chess master, he could visualize every possible move, counterattack and response, all while keeping fixed on the final goal, to topple a king. He licked his pistachio.

  “Mr. Profit bought me ice cream. He got me two scoops! Aunt Helen never lets me get two scoops. And rainbow sprinkles!”

  “Mr. Profit?”

  “He’s Mommy’s funny friend.” Lucia laughed. “I had to tell him who Barbie was. He said he’d get me Princess Holiday Barbie for Christmas.”

  “Where did you go?” The strong voice weakened, began to tremble. “Jimmies?”

  Baltasar pressed the speaker off and brought the phone to his ear. “Jimmies is simply charming,” he said. “Of course, we’re not there now.” He chewed a pistachio from the ice cream. Delightful.

  “It won’t take the cops long to find a Rolls Royce Phantom.”

  “In which case, Lucia would not have long to live.”

  “Don’t hurt her.” The voice leaped back. A hesitation. “She’s just a little girl.”

  “That’s entirely up to you, Professor Devlin.”

  “I know who you are, Contreras.”

  She was a quick study. “You don’t know who I am,” he said, “but you will.”

  “What do you want?”

  He had her h
ooked. There was no need to prolong her suffering. It was time to reel her in. “It’s not what I want from you. It’s what you can get from me. Despite your impudence in the desert, I still offer you a wonderful opportunity, Professor Devlin. You could be instrumental in changing the world, in making sure that little girls like Lucia no longer have to suffer.”

  “Percival will give you whatever you want to get Lucia back.”

  “The question is, Professor Devlin, will you? Beginning, of course, with the Yikaisidahi Turquoise and the Tear of the Moon Emerald.”

  “I don’t have the Turquoise. And as far as I know, that Emerald is at the bottom of the Atlantic. But you know that, too, I’m sure.”

  “Do not try to deceive me!” He slammed his ice cream cone, scoop first, into the ashtray. “It is my destiny to complete my ancestor’s mission. It is my destiny to bring peace to the world. Hate killed my mother, just as it killed yours!”

  His tirade was answered with silence from Christa’s end of the phone. Lucia looked at him. Her tiny lip trembled, her ice cream forgotten. He forced a smile and a wink, and drew in a deep, calming breath. “Meet me at that charming playground, the one on Whitscomb Street. Lucia loves the swings, but you know that. You have three minutes.”

  He flipped the phone closed and laid his hand gently on Lucia’s knee. An unfamiliar feeling crept through his insides. Compassion. He swallowed it down like bile rising at an awkward moment. “I apologize for shouting,” he said. He couldn’t have the child carrying on. It might draw attention. “Now, how would you like to play on the swings while we wait for Aunt Christa to meet us here? After, you can come to my home for a visit and I’ll have Simon stop and get you the toy store’s most beautiful Barbie on the way.”

  “The one with the sparkly hair?” Lucia asked. She did not wipe the tear from her cheek. “The Princess Holiday Barbie?”

  “The very one,” Baltasar said. “Now finish up that ice cream.”

  Lucia nodded, but let the chocolate ice cream melt over her fingers.

  CHAPTER 20

  Christa’s tires slewed through the fallen leaves as she pulled in behind the black Rolls Royce Phantom in front of the Whitscomb Street playground. There she was! Lucia was on the swing, safe, unharmed, but not singing like usual. Her face looked grim and cold. She was the only child here. The older kids were still in school, the other parents too sensible to take their toddlers out on this blustery day and risk catching a cold before the holidays. These were the dangers they worried about. Not some crazy nut calling himself the Prophet. She had to get Lucia away from him.

  He sat at the picnic table. He wore a tan overcoat that looked like expensive cashmere even from a distance. What the hell was he doing? Setting up chess pieces on a board? One of the thugs from the desert was here, too, dressed in a black suit, arms crossed, oblivious to the chill. He was not the one who invaded Percy’s house this morning.

  She hovered her finger over her cell phone again. Three numbers, 911. It shouldn’t be that hard. But the Prophet had given her three minutes, just enough time to make it to the playground and no more. He had planned this precisely. He knew things about Mom and about Lucia’s school. He’d know if she called the cops.

  She got out of the car.

  “Aunt Christa!” Lucia called. She smiled broadly. “It isn’t it fun to fly up to the sky,” she sang. Christa had taught her that song, like Mom had taught her. Mom, if you’re out there, help me. Help Lucia. It was a prayer of desperation. A nonbeliever’s prayer.

  Christa crossed to the picnic table. The Prophet gestured for her to sit opposite him. She could leap across the table, grab the perfectly fringed ends of his Burberry scarf and choke him, buying a few minutes for Lucia to run away. Too risky. Lucia might run towards her or be too terrified to act at all.

  She sat down, her eyes glued to the black and white squares of the chess board. She couldn’t let him see her fear. His fat, gloved fingers played over the pieces waiting deployment from the molded foam hollows in the box. It was an unusual set. One side was conquistadors, in white Breastplates and gold pointed helmets. Their opposing pieces were Aztecs, with pale blue tunics and bright, feathered headdresses. Macaws served as the Aztec’s knights, with tall stepped pyramids for their rooks. The chess board was bordered in geometric Aztec patterns of orange, red, blue and white.

  “Does this disturb you?” the Prophet asked, without looking up. “My playing a strategy game in which, historically speaking, one culture decimated another?”

  “On the contrary,” Christa said, fighting to keep her voice steady, “this chess game could be the only victory a Mesoamerican culture could win over the Spaniards.” The real Spaniards had allied themselves with Montezuma’s enemies. That’s what brought them victory. She needed an ally. Braydon Fox came to mind. “You’ve got me where you want me. Let Lucia go.”

  He had selected four chess pieces to place on the board, the two “kings,” a white Conquistador pawn, and an Aztec rook. He straightened his ring, a gold band embedded with a pear cut diamond, which he wore over his gloves. The movement was contrived. He wanted her to notice the ring. “Are you familiar with the Saavedra endgame, Professor Devlin?”

  “I don’t like playing games.”

  “But you do,” he said. “You’re an A-level fencer. Fencing and chess, they’re very much alike. You must assess your opponent, create a strategy, and adjust, constantly fine-tune, to win the bout.”

  If only she had a weapon in her hand right now. Maybe a feint would knock him off-balance. “I know who you are, Prophet. You’re Baltasar Contreras, head of NewWorld Pharmaceuticals. Gabriella’s boss. Her husband knows, too. You can’t get away with this.”

  “The Saavedra is a classic problem” he said. “After many moves, white against black, these final pieces remain on the board on these particular squares. Pawns have been sacrificed. Rooks, knights and bishops have attacked with corresponding strategies, all with one purpose in mind, to topple the enemy king. Now it is the endgame, with only one acceptable solution out of dozens of possible moves. At first, it was seen to be no more than a draw. But with cunning, strategy and prudence, white can move and win.”

  So he was Baltasar Contreras. At least he hadn’t denied it. “You kidnapped my niece. Witnesses saw you pick her up from school.” She leaned forward. “End this, before it’s too late.”

  He swiveled his face up to her. His lips, as thin as his jowls were fat, bent into a tight grin. His eyes were sharp and as dark as a rat’s. A whiff of expensive aftershave wafted from the folds of his scarf. “The key to victory in the Saavedra endgame is underpromotion. When a pawn reaches the end of the board, its player would normally trade for a queen, the most powerful piece in chess. Saavedra, he was a priest no less, realized he had to underpromote his white pawn, trading it for a rook, not a queen. Then white would attain checkmate.”

  “Got it. Underpromotion. Now let me take Lucia home.”

  His grin managed to creep into an outright smile. It looked uncomfortable on his face. “You, Christa Devlin, are my rook.”

  “I am not your anything,” she said.

  He pointed his finger like a gun. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said, his eyes no more than a slit. “This isn’t about a little girl. She is merely a pawn. It’s the Breastplate of Aaron I’m after. You’re going to help me restore the Breastplate to its Divine mission. We will write a new ending to this story.”

  She stood, paced away from him and returned, both repulsed and drawn in. Who was this bastard? Her father’s evil twin? How was he in on what had been history’s deepest secret? “The only ending I want is to get Lucia home safe.”

  His gaze dropped to the chess board. He slid the white king one square closer to the black king cowering in the corner. “For that to happen, I need three things from you, beginning with the Turquoise.”

  She felt Lucia’s life being torn from her grasp. “I don’t have it,” she said. “I didn’t find the Turquoise.”
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  He moved the black rook, tracking the white king for check. “You have the Spaniard’s armillary sphere. It must be a clue to its location. You’ll figure it out, retrieve the stone, and bring it to me.”

  How did he know about the sphere? Had he learned about it that night? Maybe his sniper saw it through his scope. “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she said.

  “You’re a historian. Start in the past.” He studied the board, as if still strategizing his next move. “Second, you need to bring me the seventh stone, the Tear of the Moon Emerald.”