by mike Evans
So far I haven’t found proof of the direct link and I haven’t discovered the reason God is having me do this. I know only that it’s your job now to continue the work. In this trunk you’ll find all I’ve discovered so far. I’m trusting you to take care of it. The other four trunks are all family photos and documents—baptismal certificates, marriage licenses, your baby teeth, and locks of Ben’s hair, that kind of thing. Maria is the keeper of the keys on those items. She’ll need a bigger apartment for them, I’m sure, but as well as she’s doing, I have no doubt she can afford it. Be proud of her, Johnny. She is a wonderful combination of you and Anne.
I can be content here in heaven knowing you’ll pick up where I left off. Again, I don’t know why it’s important. I know only that it is, and that you are the man to do it. You won’t be alone. I am always with you.
Love,
Mom
Winters read it twice more before he returned it to the envelope and stared at the open trunk. She’d never shown any signs of dementia and the letter was certainly lucid—except for the parts about God talking to her. That had never been his experience. But the rest . . . the rest of it stirred him. He almost felt as if she were sitting beside him waiting to see if he’d do this thing for her.
He couldn’t see himself poring over genealogical documents for hours on end. If he wasn’t already nuts a little bit of that would put him there soon. She had probably hit a dead end or there would have been no need for the letter.
Still, looking at what she’d found was the least he could do and then he could pack the stuff away in good conscience.
But he sure wasn’t going to look at it up here. The air in the attic was starting to feel heavy. Whether that was his imagination or not, he was taking the books downstairs.
Half an hour later Winters had it all transferred to the bedroom—the only room in the house that was still furnished. He stacked the books on the dresser and propped up on the bed to peruse the first of what turned out to be memory albums with pages full of his mother’s writing glued into them, along with documents and letters written by long-gone relatives. It actually made for interesting reading.
Port of entry documents from the Washington Avenue Immigration Station in Philadelphia. A quarantine order. A quarantine release, for three people listed as Esteban, Magdalena, and Antonio de Torme. Esteban and Magdalena were adults. Antonio was a minor. Apparently someone thought they had smallpox.
So Antonio became Winters’ grandfather, his mother’s father. That made Esteban and Magdelena his great-grandparents. If they truly had contracted smallpox, Winters probably wouldn’t be here.
He flipped through a few pages of receipts for items they bought as they settled in the States, and a picture not attached to a page popped out. It was a photograph of a young boy and a man, both looking every bit the pitiful refugees. Winters looked on the back, where the words “Alba de Tormes, Spain” were scrawled. “This little boy is Antonio Torme,” his mother had written on the page. “The man standing next to him is Esteban Torme.”
The only thing Winters could think of was Mel Tormé singing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
“Okay,” he said to the empty room. “Just because our ancestors came from Spain doesn’t mean we’re related to Columbus.” Every American with a Spanish last name must claim that. And even if they were, what was the big deal?
Winters got up and went to the window where he’d stood hundreds of times growing up, watching for his dad to come up the driveway from work with a newspaper under his arm; trying to get a glimpse of Heather O’Neal, who lived across the street and whose bedroom directly faced his; waiting for the mail carrier to deliver his acceptance to Georgetown.
The trees were bigger now and even with only a few pale early spring leaves they obliterated his view of Heather O’Neal’s old room. His view of everything was different from what it had been back then. Only now it was blocked by old tragedy and fresh grief, neither of which he knew what to do with.
Maybe this Columbus thing was part of both. Or maybe he was just as unstable as Julia Archer said he was. She’d told him to stop sailing, stop biking, stop pursuing his pilot’s license in case he had an “episode.” But what harm could he come to going through the dusted-off dreams of his overspiritual mother? Maybe he would just die in his sleep too.
He went downstairs to find a box in which to ship it all to San Francisco.
Emilio Tejada fixed his gaze out the narrow window onto the shining waters of the Mediterranean two blocks away. The tiny village of El Masnou, northeast of Barcelona, spilled sleepily away from the coast below. Its residents were unaware that an urgent meeting had been called in the stucco building known to the villagers as la casa del extrano hombre de edad—the house of the strange old man. Abaddon was a mysterious figure to the uneducated people of the village. No one knew where he came from or how long he had been there. The folks made guesses about him when they thought of him at all, and over time they appeared to think of him less and less. Tejada didn’t see how that was possible, and yet it was a good thing.
“Emilio,” a ghostly voice said, “will you join us?”
Tejada turned away from the window and crossed the cool room. He approached the carved teakwood, high-backed chair and bent low, gently kissing the knotted hand of the man who sat in it. The old man’s eyes were closed and a shock of his white hair, still streaked with the black of his youth, fell over his forehead. Tejada could feel the envy of the twelve men seated on Andalusian cushions behind him. They would never admit to coveting Abaddon’s obvious favoritism, but Tejada knew, and he tried not to enjoy it. They were, after all, a brotherhood.
Tejada took his place on the one empty cushion to Abaddon’s right. A spear of sunlight from the narrow window cut directly into his face. He didn’t wince. All faces remained emotionless as Abaddon led them in the ritual.
“With the ancients who came before us,” they followed in unison, “and for the future of our own creation, we pledge our lives and our fortunes to the Master.”
Each of the thirteen, Tejada included, reached toward the small purple pad on the floor in front of him and picked up a ring, which each man slid onto the ring finger of his left hand. The customary silence fell—so quiet that even the warblers beyond the windows seemed to hush themselves until Abaddon spoke.
“We have a singular purpose here,” he said, voice thin. “One that has been unfolding for centuries . . .”
During the dramatic pause, one of many Tejada knew Abaddon would take, Tejada noted how weak his old Master’s speech had become. The words were still strong, the force behind them invincible. But at times the voice itself became breathless, as if he, too, were fading off into the centuries.
“Now,” Abaddon continued as the thirteen leaned in to hear, “the dreams dreamed ages ago and the plans made by past generations will come to fruition. Now!”
He had managed to summon up a sonorous tone and several of the men jerked back in surprise. Tejada remained still. He’d learned to flow with Abaddon’s fluctuations.
“You are privileged not only to see it but to participate in establishing it.” Abaddon’s eyes, dimmed by age and the darkness in which he preferred to dwell, swept the circle. “Count it as the privilege of your lives.” He nodded at Tejada. “You have the orders I have asked you to pass down?”
“I do, Abaddon,” Tejada said.
“Please proceed.” Abaddon closed his eyes.
Tejada guessed speaking those few sentences had exhausted Abaddon. He hated to think that this abrupt move to put the plan into place was linked to Abaddon’s fading energy. The man was of some indeterminable age above ninety and until recently had been as robust as Tejada himself. It was difficult to think of him any other way, or to think of him not there at all.
“Emilio?” Abaddon said, eyes still closed.
“Yes,” Tejada answered and turned to the twelve sitting before him—his brothers of el Grupo de Barcelona. If they rese
nted this delegation of Abaddon’s authority to him, they didn’t show it. He met no resistance as he gave them their individual instructions.
The sun had begun to spread its pinks and oranges over the Mediterranean when the meeting concluded with another chorus of the vow. Each man kissed the hand of the venerated Abaddon and took his leave. Tejada was last, and when he grasped the old man’s fingers in his, Abaddon held on. His frail voice notwithstanding, his grip was still powerful.
“Stay a moment,” he whispered. “Sit here.”
Tejada pulled his cushion closer to Abaddon’s chair and lowered himself onto it. Abaddon leaned forward, so that his face was almost level with Tejada’s. Emilio could barely see it in the gathering darkness.
“You think the meeting went well?”
“Yes, Lord Abaddon,” Tejada said. “I think it went very well.”
“Good. I would hate to know that the others would take the pledge and not follow through.”
Tejada felt his brow lift in surprise. “Why would you think that? Didn’t you sense their agreement? Their unity of purpose?”
The old man nodded and twisted the ring on his left hand, mumbling the Greek letters across the top, “Chi, rho, omicron,” and the inscription beneath them, “Ferrens.” He looked sideways at Tejada. “You remember the day you took the ring?”
Tejada had no idea where this was going. “Yes I do,” he said.
“I installed you myself, and do you know why?”
Tejada shook his head, although at times he’d been sure he did know.
“I gave you all my power.”
Only the society’s principle of maintaining complete aplomb kept Tejada from crying out. He’d known it, yes, but to hear it from Abaddon was another matter entirely.
“I did that for a purpose.” Abaddon’s voice seemed to be gaining strength now that the others were gone. It had its original rough, gravelly texture. “Do you know what that purpose was?”
“I do.”
“Then do not forget it.”
Tejada stirred uneasily on the cushion.
“You’re troubled,” Abaddon said, eyes closed again. “Why?”
“Do you suspect that there is something afoot to thwart us?”
“Not something, Emilio. Someone.” His eyes opened and met Tejada’s. “Be alert, and report any deviation to me immediately.”
Tejada agreed, though he couldn’t fathom anything interfering with Abaddon’s well-laid plan, a plan born from centuries of preparation. Though his voice might falter, he possessed a force seemingly without end. He was aged, but not diminished. Tired, but not overcome. Somewhat unkempt of late but still attractive, in that way that all charismatic people remain—though, Tejada thought, far more than any other.
The plan would proceed as it had been prepared. In Tejada’s experience, no force could compete with the innate and burning energy of Lord Abaddon.
And now he knew he also had that power. He would use it for good.
Maria ignored Bill Snowden’s advice to take a sleeping pill on the flight and she was glad she’d followed her instincts. She slept soundly in the business class cabin and was awake enough when the plane touched down to appreciate her first sight of Barcelona—the diamond-blue Mediterranean, the bright tile roofs, the spires of the Sagrada Família.
A thick-necked driver with a close shave holding a sign with her name on it met her outside customs and swept her, along with her luggage, off to a waiting car. After Maria’s failed attempt to use her college Spanish on him, he scowled at her. When she whipped out her phone to pull up the Spanish/English translation app, he became absolutely sullen. She forgot him when she slid into the backseat of the limo and bumped hips with a young woman about her age with dark, curly hair and a bright smile.
“Elena Soler,” she said, in elegant British English. “I’ll be your assistant while you’re here since I understand yours was unable to come.”
“Unable to come” didn’t quite describe it. Austin would have had his cat at the kennel and his mail stopped within minutes if Snowden had asked him. Their assumption was that Maria was going to be Snowden’s assistant while she was there and wouldn’t need one of her own. She guessed he’d had a change of heart.
“Your first visit to our city?” Elena asked.
“Yes.” Maria nodded, eyes riveted on the passing scenery. “Look at this architecture. Oh, my gosh, is that a Gaudí?”
Elena’s eyes—a silvery gray—widened. “Not many people our age appreciate that.”
“I love buildings. Love. Them.”
“I’ll take you sightseeing if you want,” Elena said.
“Like I’m going to have time.”
Elena had a knowing look. “We don’t drive ourselves the way Americans do. You might just learn how to live while you’re here. Besides”—she gave a dainty shrug—“I plan to take care of all the minor details so you can enjoy your stay.”
Maria didn’t know where Snowden had found this girl. In fact, if he knew she was this accommodating he’d probably take her for himself.
“That’s where we’re going,” Elena said, pointing.
Maria looked in that direction and let an old expression of Abuela’s—“holy cow!”—slip out. Elena put her hand to her mouth, obviously to hide a smile at the untraveled American.
But seriously? The Catalonia Financial complex looked more like a university than the location of the world’s largest investment company. Situated on a lush green campus of manicured lawns, the buildings were all glass and polished steel and graceful lines that spoke more of elegance than business.
“Señor Tejada likes things nice,” Elena explained.
“This is way past ‘nice.’” Actually, try overkill, Maria thought.
The limo pulled up to a gleaming tower, the tallest on the site, and the sulky driver alighted from the front seat to open Maria’s door almost before the engine stopped running.
“Gracias, Louis,” Elena said.
Louis grunted in response as they slipped from the car and made their way past.
“What’s with him?” Maria muttered.
“You mean the Mount Rushmore face? He’s not supposed to flirt with any of the women he drives.”
“Flirt? He looks like he wants to slit my throat.”
Elena once again drew her hand over her mouth.
“It’s okay to laugh,” Maria said. “I’d be offended if you didn’t. This is some of my best stuff.”
“You are funny,” Elena said.
When Maria was nervous she went into her stand-up comedy routine, and that morning she was in rare form. She didn’t want to appear to be anxious, but it couldn’t be helped. This was her first opportunity to prove herself to Snowden. Until now he’d treated her as nothing more than his go-to gal for grunt work, and she had not graduated Harvard Law for that. That wasn’t what her mom would want her doing either. Maria hoped her nerves would settle down while joking with Elena.
An elevator took them to an upper floor and from there Elena led her to a pair of double doors made of intricately carved Spanish cedar.
“More ‘nice’?” Maria whispered.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Elena whispered back.
When they slipped between the heavy doors, Maria saw Snowden rise to greet her, but she still had a minute to take in the room. Men occupied every chair around the massive horseshoe-shaped table. The walls were cream stucco, the floors hand-painted ceramic tile. One whole wall contained tinted windows overlooking Barcelona, while on the others were heavily framed portraits of what must have been Catalonia’s forefathers. One of them even wore a conquistador helmet. Maria had thoroughly researched the history of the company, but she didn’t recall it going back that far.
“Good flight?” Snowden asked at her elbow.
She knew he wouldn’t wait for any answer so she didn’t bother replying.
“They’re about to start,” he continued. “You’ll sit directly behind me, and rememb
er, no recording. I told them you were trustworthy, so they won’t ask for your phone.”
“What about Elena?”
Snowden had a puzzled look.
“My assistant?” Maria added.
“Oh. Yeah . . .” Snowden gestured toward a row of chairs. “She can sit beside you.”
He returned to his chair. Maria presumed the other chairs were occupied by the Catalonia board of directors and the representatives of Belgium Continental. All the men wore Armani-type suits and subdued ties. The air was heavy with the smell of men’s cologne.
Maria and Elena followed Snowden and took their places in chairs along the wall behind him. They were barely settled when the double doors opened and a tall man entered the room—back straight and head held high, as if it were momentarily bereft of its crown. The only thing missing, Maria thought, was a trumpet fanfare to announce his entry.
“Emilio Tejada,” Elena whispered.
Yes. The CEO of Catalonia Financial. Maria had never seen a picture of him. She had imagined him as older, more sedate, less interesting. In reality he was handsome, though not outstandingly so. As he moved through the room, touching shoulders and shaking hands, it was apparent that his attractiveness came largely from his charm. He had the look of someone who remained cool even in the pit of summer when everyone else was bathed in his own sweat. Wavy, dark hair. Deep-set eyes. Maria watched him lean his head in closer to a few of the men around the table and nod solemnly, then break into a reassuring smile. There was nothing aloof about him, and yet it was clear he was a breed apart from everyone in the room.
