by Freda, Paula
"Thank you, William. I love you so."
He smiled. "I thought you did." Then why, he wondered, had she held back all this time admitting to her feelings for him? Of what was she afraid? He felt her brow. It was cooler. And her words were becoming coherent. The fever was dropping. His name lingered on her lips until she drifted into a quiet sleep. A short time later her fever broke. Lord Hayden sank back on his heels. He had not slept in over 48 hours.
"Señor, your deep love has helped to heal her," the Mestizo guide said.
Lord Hayden nodded, appreciatively. He did indeed care deeply for Grace Quinlan, so much so that the thought of her leaving at the end of their joint venture disturbed him greatly. A large butterfly with wings that rivaled oriental fans in size and color flew over his head and settled on the leaf of a mimosa tree nearby. He pondered its beauty. Almost as lovely as his Grace.
Towards evening, warm breezes stirred the leaves of the mimosa and the papaya trees that abounded in this part of the forest. They tiptoed across Elizabeth’s cheeks, and then swung softly through the tousled strands of her red-gold hair, before leaping once more into the trees. Her eyes fluttered open. Where was she? In her bedroom at home, across from Lord Hayden’s preferred modest home, despite his titles and estates in England. Memories sorted and she tried to sit up, but her arms and legs felt empty and she fell back. She became aware of a sound discordant with those of the jungle. A thick, heavy breathing. She glanced behind her and saw Lord Hayden asleep under a blanket.
"How are you feeling?" the Mestizo guide asked.
She had forgotten about the other man, nor had she heard his approach. She replied, "Very weak, but definitely better."
"Your friend would not let himself sleep until your fever broke."
"How long?"
"Nearly three days," the guide said.
"He must be exhausted."
"Yes, very much so. He must love you very much."
"Does he?" she asked, more of herself than the guide, trembling a little. Her continued deception was an ocean wave swelling under the impending hurricane—the truth and his ensuing contempt. Eventually, the wave must crash against the shore trapping her. Once it hit, the wave would carry her off and leave only a broken heart behind it.
CHAPTER TWO
"I’ve set us back. I’m sorry," Elizabeth said to Lord Hayden the following morning, as he handed her a tin plate of canned beef stew and fresh fruit, her first solid meal since she had fallen ill.
The Mestizo, a quiet man who spoke only when he had something important to say, continued to observe them. He had worked as a guide for many years and observed many couples. These two were a couple but did not seem to know it.
"We’ve only lost a few days. I’m glad you’re feeling better," Lord Hayden said.
"Thank you," Elizabeth acknowledged. No wonder women found him irresistible. She, herself, was no exception, with one difference. She knew better than to hope for a lasting relationship, especially in her case, imagining his scorn if he ever discovered the truth. He must never know. "Do you think Creighton will guess what we’re up to?"
"How could he? We’re merely museum representatives commissioned to lease for exhibition some of his well-publicized artifacts."
"But if he’s hidden the Totem—as well he might have so soon after Stanton’s murder—how will we ask him? How will we explain knowing that he is in possession of the Totem? Won’t he suspect that we know he killed Stanton?"
"All we need to explain is that Harry told us where to find the piece and that he died before he could name his murderer."
"I don’t like it," Elizabeth said, pursing her lips.
"You know, when you do that, your resemblance to Professor Eldridge is remarkable."
"I told you we’re cousins. First cousins," she elaborated, and shrugged helplessly.
"Twins more likely."
Elizabeth laughed. "You do have a sense of humor, William."
Upon arriving at Oscar Creighton’s plantation, they were instantly surrounded by Patrol Guards in army-green uniforms. Hearing their request to see Mr. Creighton regarding a very profitable business transaction, the guard aiming his machine gun at Lord Hayden’s chest ordered them to remain exactly where they stood. He called to another guard on his Walkie-talkie to relay Hayden’s message. Presently they were given the go ahead.
"Señor Hayden, I shall wait here for you," the Mestizo said.
"Two days, no more. I do not trust these people."
Lord Hayden nodded. Elizabeth shared the guide’s sentiment. "No relic is worth our lives," she said. "Perhaps we should turn back." She wanted to find the Totem as much as Lord Hayden, to discover its link to the opal and Psyche, and whether it was truly an alien contribution.
Lord Hayden remarked, "It’s not like you to give up this easily."
"My article is important, but not at the cost of exposing us to certain death."
"Don’t worry. I have enough carte blanche to offer Creighton an amount for the Totem that he’ll find hard to refuse.
"And what if Creighton refuses to sell?"
"Then we will thank him graciously—and find a way of stealing it. He is a murderer, Grace."
"True, but from what I’ve heard about him, he’s no fool."
"Everyone’s a bit of a fool," Lord Hayden said. "We’ll play it by ear."
CHAPTER THREE
Creighton’s home on the vanilla plantation was a restored Peruvian Palace, a massive edifice constructed of huge stone blocks meticulously fitted together, without the use of mortar. In direct contrast, the inside of the palace was styled in the modern vogue of the late 40’s. The living room sported a radio and a television with a screen that measured a full twelve inches. Palms and ferns peeked from every corner, adding luster to the rich, dark furniture. Elizabeth and Lord Hayden studied their surroundings as they followed the guard into Creighton’s study. Priceless art pieces decorated bookshelves lined with rare first editions of the Classics.
Stanton’s murderer sat at his desk, a dark mahogany piece that dated back at least a century. He wore his blonde hair short. His eyes were black as newly mined coal and set deep in a facial structure that denoted unusual height and leanness, a very tall man as he pushed back his chair, rising to greet them. He greeted Elizabeth first, his black eyes luminous and wide with unabashed interest. They hooded considerably on settling upon Lord Hayden. "I must confess," he said, extending his hand to the latter, "to always wanting to meet you. I see that you are, as many describe you, a man of culture." He flourished his hand to encompass Lord Hayden from head to toe. His glance lingered on the crossbar handle of Lord Hayden’s sword visible behind his neck. "Yes," he repeated, "a man of culture. I particularly asked my guards not to disarm you. I did not wish to appear inhospitable."
"Thank you," Lord Hayden acknowledged, accepting Creighton’s handshake. The hand was thin, the fingers long and bony. Hayden involuntarily shuddered. Creighton turned to Elizabeth. "And who is this vision of loveliness?"
"Miss Grace Quinlan," Lord Hayden introduced, "an old friend and a freelance writer. She specializes in covering archaeological finds. Your guard, I believe, informed you of our reason for coming here."
"Yes, a very profitable business transaction?"
"The Board of Directors, and I are interested in a certain Totem that Harry Stanton, with his final breath, mentioned was in your possession." Creighton’s blonde eyebrows narrowed. "What else did Harry Stanton tell you with his final breath?"
"Nothing else. His words were fragmentary. Grace and I found him in the throes of death."
Elizabeth could read a dozen questions in Creighton’s eyes, but he refrained from voicing them, satisfying himself with saying, "His brutal murder was a shock to me as well. Only the day before, over lunch, we had discussed my buying the Totem. He hated parting with it, but I managed to persuade him."
"Might I inquire at what price?" Elizabeth asked.
Creighton observed her expression. I
t appeared unassuming, even innocent. "I’m sorry, but I cannot divulge the price. Harry asked that it be kept quiet. I will allow, however, that it was sizable. Very sizable." He chuckled softly.
"May I quote you on that?" Elizabeth asked.
"If you wish."
"Thank you, Mr. Creighton. I’ll let Lord Hayden do the talking from this point on, while I sit and listen and take notes, if you don’t mind."
Creighton nodded approvingly. "How refreshing. A woman who lets the man do the talking."
"To a point, Mr. Creighton," Elizabeth corrected. "To a point." She accommodated herself in an upholstered chair, and cast Lord Hayden an amused glance. Hayden rubbed his chin thoughtfully, mouth curving into a grin.
"All right," he said. "To start with, could we see the Totem? I’d like to make sure it’s the one I’m looking for, before I make an offer."
"Providing I wish to sell it," Creighton said. "However, since you have come such a long way, you deserve at least a look. If you will follow me."
Elizabeth quickly rose and followed as Creighton led them through a narrow passage and up a stone staircase. Two levels above, they entered an enormous room. Wide niches in the stone blocks held marble figures of nude male satyrs, erotic spirits of the forest. A thick red carpet covered the floor. Antiques as old as man himself graced the tops of fine wood tables scattered throughout the room. At intervals, display cases housed fragile and priceless pieces.
"This place itself would qualify as a museum of antiquities," Lord Hayden commented.
"It is just that, Lord Hayden," Creighton said. "The Creighton Museum of Archaeological Treasures."
Drawn to it as a nail to a magnet, Elizabeth spotted the Totem. At least twenty feet tall, it depicted four faces, vertically aligned. From the top, the first portrayed a three-horned lizard. Below it, the second was that of a grotesque being with a fierce expression. In direct contrast, the third was angelic, its eyes without pupils simply cast, and the mouth fine-lipped and at ease. The fourth was that of a youth with a gaping "O" mouth, the size of a cabin cruiser door, with nostrils set as if flaring, beneath wide, vacant eyes, and the wooden flesh of the cheeks stretched taut around the oral cavity, giving a clear impression of its bearer caught in song.
Lord Hayden inquired, "Where did Stanton find the Totem?"
Creighton answered, "Oddly, in an Egyptian tomb. Neither Stanton, I, or several archaeologists I hired were able to identify its creators. It is one of a kind. And from its carvings and composition, its age has been deduced to be well over five thousand years." Creighton paused, dark gaze straying from Hayden’s face and dwelling on some new thought. Fingering his narrow chin with his long bony fingers, he asked, "Lord Hayden I’m curious, how much were you willing to pay for it?
Hayden said, "One million dollars."
Taken aback, Creighton asked, "Are you serious?"
"Very." He, along with the Board of Directors he represented, suspected the full value of the Totem and that it was not simply an artifact, but a key. The opal, Psyche’s Tomb in Egypt, and the Totem, were somehow connected. Creighton could not know this. Grace, warned by the United States and the Egyptian governments not to do otherwise, had restricted last year’s article to the opal’s monetary and antiquarian value, treating Psyche’s Tomb as simply another tomb. As for the opal, the experts, unable to discern any mystical powers associated with it, tagged it a bauble and had parted with it for a few thousand dollars.
"Why would you pay a million dollars for a wood totem?" Black, thin-lidded eyes fixed on Lord Hayden.
Lord Hayden said. "It’s not the first time I’ve procured similar pieces for museums in the United States and in England."
Creighton did not appear convinced, but he said only, "I would like to think on it. You and your charming friend must remain for dinner."
Not a request by any means, but what other choice did they have. Lord Hayden nodded.
"Splendid." Creighton pulled the sash next to the tiered window behind him. "My servant will escort you to guest rooms, where you may freshen up." A Mestizo in a white tunic entered the room and bowed from the waist. Creighton informed him of his wishes and directed Lord Hayden and Elizabeth to follow him.
The servant showed them to connecting guest rooms that were small, but furnished elegantly and nicely equipped with modern baths. A short time later, bellowing the lyrics to the song, I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major General from the Gilbert & Sullivan’s Pirates of Penzance operetta, Lord Hayden luxuriated in a brass tub filled with warm sudsy water. At length, the dinner hour fast approaching, he reluctantly drained the water and turned on the tap to rinse. He continued singing as he climbed out of the tub and rubbed himself dry with a thick sheet towel, then shrugged into the brown silk robe the servant had brought while he bathed. The same man had laid out Lord Hayden’s clothes, washed and pressed, neatly on the bed. Hayden’s backpack and weapons remained untouched. Obviously, Creighton did not yet consider his guests a threat.
When Elizabeth entered his room, Lord Hayden complimented her. "Lovely!" She had received as hospitable a treatment and was now wrapped in a robe similar to his, though that was where the similarity ended. She had towel-dried her hair and it hung about her shoulders in moist, deep dark red-gold waves. Without the thin layer of makeup to matte her skin, her face and her emerald eyes held a shiny softness about them that pencil and powder tended to harshen. Her lips needed no artificial tints. They were a light ruby, and so inviting. Lord Hayden sat down on the damask couch, a light tiffany green, and patted the seat next to him, invitingly. Elizabeth sat down in the wing chair opposite him. Well, that was that, he thought wistfully. He returned to the subject of the Totem. She listened, much like Professor Eldridge, injecting an occasional remark that had the pleasing effect of making him consider other aspects of the subject, other possible solutions.
"William, I suspect the figures on the Totem are symbolic."
"I’m of the same mind. Let’s have your full theory."
"Well, first," Elizabeth offered, "I venture that the face of the lizard is Eros, the alien. Second, the grotesque face I believe symbolizes fear, a derivative of the first image, what Psyche felt, her revulsion, her reaction to Eros’ true appearance. The third face is Psyche, herself, angelic and pure. And the fourth is Eros, as he disguised himself, and as Psyche’s heart and soul at last discerned him."
"Do you read romances?" Lord Hayden asked, amused.
Elizabeth dropped her gaze, cheeks pinking. "Occasionally," she admitted.
"There’s more," she continued.
"Be my guest," Lord Hayden said.
She went on, "The oval mouth on the fourth face is obviously open in song. Sound waves, William. The oval is large enough to accommodate a human being. I’d give a million just to look inside."
"You think it’s a transporter of some sort, like the one that transported us to the alien surface?"
Elizabeth nodded enthusiastically.
Lord Hayden thought a moment. "I have a strong hunch," he said, "that our host will ask us to stay the night. I don’t credit for a moment that he believed our story. Nor do I believe that he is unaware of the Totem’s true importance."
"So what do you plan to do?"
It was possible that the rooms were bugged. With a man of Creighton’s sleazy reputation and excessive security, it was best not to take chances. "Let’s get dressed," Lord Hayden advised. He stood up, tapped a finger against his lips, motioned around him, and then pointed to his ear. He hoped she understood.
She nodded. Lord Hayden smiled. Their brainwaves tended to travel the same route. This was the perfect opportunity and Lord William Hayden could not resist. Not a gentlemanly thing to do, he thought, moving close to her, clasping her arms, and drawing her up from the wing chair, catching her by surprise with a kiss. He did nothing to ward off the forthcoming slap, except to gaze despondently into angry emerald eyes.
The oldest trick in the book, Elizabeth thought furiously. But it
was working. She raised her other hand, but instead of bringing it into contact with his other cheek, she curved it about his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers. Encouraged, Lord Hayden took her gently into his arms. Their kiss was warm and caressing, Elizabeth’s resistance evaporating even more as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the four-poster where he set her down with infinite tenderness on the satin coverlet.
There it was again, Lord Hayden frowned, in her eyes, on her face, that innocence, that soft blush to her cheeks as she gazed up at him quietly, waiting, the reluctance this time missing, in its place, her weary but welcome resignation to her own desire for him. He could take her at this moment, and she would not fight him very hard, but afterwards… "You’d better get dressed. It’s almost dinnertime."
He escorted her toward the adjoining door to her room and closed the door firmly behind her. A few seconds later, regret, self-denial, bewilderment and recrimination ignited within him and he punched the paneled wall. He swore violently as pain crashed through his knuckles.
* * *
Dinner was a sumptuous affair at a long table. Creighton sat at the head, and Elizabeth and Lord Hayden at his right and left, respectively. The place settings were gold and fine china, and the meal a combo of the most tender meat and lobster. The two archaeologists ate with gusto, putting aside for the time being, the fact that their host was a murderer and that they themselves might be his next victims. Conversation stayed light. Layton Hall, the museum, an adventure or two, all three participants at the table reluctant to spoil a good meal with business that might introduce a harsher mood. After coffee and dessert, and an after-dinner drink, Lord Hayden inquired in a casual tone, "Have you thought over my offer?"
Creighton’s face sobered. "I don’t wish to part with the Totem. If you are willing to pay such a price, then the piece must be of unique archaeological significance."
"I can offer more, if one million is not enough," Lord Hayden said.
"Tell me the truth, Lord Hayden. What is special about this Totem?"
