David only glanced at the folder, having no wish to prolong this any further.
“I’ll need to keep it for a time,” he said. “That okay with you?”
“Of course.” An expression of immense relief swept across Richard’s otherwise haggard features. “Take however long you need. I can’t begin to say how grateful I am that you’ll delve into the matter. Not just for me. For Peter, as well. I’ve been at my wits end, as you can probably see. If anyone can root out the truth, it will be you.”
“Rest assured I’ll do everything possible.”
A film of long-overdue tears now glistened in the old man’s eyes.
“That’s all I can ask for, David.”
The City Of Enid, Trayle County, West Texas.
Two miles outside the city limits, it was coming up on 1:45am when Patch swung his white Lincoln Continental into the familiar gravel lot encircling Angie’s Desert Bar. As was his habit, he parked well away from the few cars still present, giving no opportunity for his prized possession to receive unwanted dents or scratches.
Glancing at his dashboard clock, the big man was mildly annoyed to find he was running a tad late. It was his weekly routine to always arrive a good thirty minutes before closing, giving himself ample time to properly relax with a couple of stiff drinks before the last patrons were cleared out. Not that it mattered, he knew, for it was his much-anticipated encounter afterward in Angie’s back room that kept him coming back on a regular basis.
He checked his round face in the rear-view mirror before extinguishing the lights, assuring himself no evidence remained of the two large donuts he’d hastily consumed on the drive out. It wasn’t out of vanity, to be sure. He basically had none to appease. He simply liked to present a neat appearance when in public.
This done, he got out slowly, again reminded that he really should make an effort to drop some weight before the upcoming fall election. He sighed at this dismal prospect as he locked the door, and then just as quickly dismissed it from his mind. Now wasn’t the time or place to reflect on this looming necessity. After all, he thought as he walked to the entrance, this was his special night—and he most definitely had a far more pressing need to satisfy.
There were six men inside, and he gave a cursory nod of recognition to five of them. They were hunched together around a table, die-hard regulars nursing their final beer of the evening. The sixth man, however, wasn’t someone he recalled having seen before. Short and stocky with blunt features, he sat alone mid-way down the length of the bar, showing no apparent interest as Patch strode past him and took his regular stool at the far end.
The buxom woman behind the bar smiled and tapped her wristwatch.
“You’re late,” she said with an exaggerated wink. “Afraid you might not make it tonight. So, what will it be? Your usual?”
“Make it a double, Angie.”
After pouring his favorite brand of bourbon, she began the slow process of steering everyone out. While she did so, he took the opportunity to take a needed piss in the rest room.
Leaving his drink on the bar proved a fatal mistake.
During his brief absence, the stocky man stood and then walked in the same direction toward the seldom-used side entrance. No one—and certainly not a preoccupied Angie—noticed how his hand passed over the untended glass. As it was designed to do, the small amount of powder dissolved immediately.
Kurtz was gone when the sheriff returned.
Ten minutes later, with lights off and both doors locked, Patch tossed back the last of his drink before following Angie into the back office. His anticipation was building, for he knew her particular talent never failed to satisfy. Their regular encounters spanned close to a decade, both of them content with the arrangement. His part of the bargain included turning a blind eye to the occasional illegal gambling and sundry code violations. What he gained went without saying.
Sitting down in the broad padded chair that had accommodated him so much pleasure over the years, he loosened his belt and unzipped. As he did so, she knelt between his spread legs, her hands soon fondling his member. Leaning forward, she wet her lips, then asked, “Are you ready for me, hon?”
Oddly enough, he wasn’t.
His normal eagerness suddenly dissipated as he felt the first faint jolt to his chest. Not so much a pain as a strange fluttering sensation he’d never experienced before. His momentary confusion gave no preparation for the second—a far more powerful event that shook him to the core.
The last image Patch saw through his rapidly bulging eyes was a shocked expression on Angie’s face. Moments later, the last recognizable sound he heard before death overtook him was her accompanying shriek of alarm.
After that, there was nothing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Pleasant Bay, Cape Cod.
Thirty-six hours after the disturbing revelations coming out of his conversation with Richard, an agitated David rose before the first indication of dawn, earlier than was his habit or intention. Despite his weariness—not to mention the residue of jet lag from their return flight from Europe—he was simply too keyed-up to sleep.
Dressing quietly so as not to waken Elizabeth, he made his way down from their second-floor bedroom and slipped outside through the screened veranda just as daylight began breaking on the horizon. What he felt he needed was a period of quiet reflection without any distractions to organize his thoughts. In this attempt he then spent the better part of an hour walking the solitary stretch of sand fronting her old summer home.
The sunrise over the placid bay was predictably spectacular, generating a faint breeze that riffled the tall grasses fringing the isolated beach. Against the backdrop of the Cape’s south shore—a realm of shallow ponds and wind-carved dunes dressed in bayberry and heath—the isolated property had always provided him with a soothing diversion from life’s cares.
Not so this morning.
Today its latent charm proved ineffective, for the obligation David felt to somehow help his dear friend resolve the mystery of young Peter’s death weighed heavy on his mind. Even more so since he’d taken the opportunity last night to fully read through Richard’s folder in search of clues. What he’d discovered simply made no sense—which only expanded his puzzlement regarding Peter’s last days.
If anything, the mystery was now deeper than previously realized.
Before leaving Cornell he’d told Richard he needed a minimum of one week before beginning an investigation. As he explained, another commitment took precedence. He required time to get their house opened up and Elizabeth properly settled in. Though his old mentor understood, the disappointment on his haggard face was obvious—a look that David couldn’t clear from his mind. The strain of all this on Richard’s health had to be considerable. Thus the growing dilemma. Could he afford to wait? He didn’t believe so.
A solution must be found.
David eventually headed back inland to the old house that meant so much to both him and Elizabeth. Built in the late nineteenth century, it was a traditional ‘salt-box’ with two stories in front and one in the rear. Its sloping roof was angled sharply toward winter’s northeasters, its unpainted wood long since weathered to a dull silver patina by exposure to sun and constant sea air. Not only was it her childhood home, it was also where they’d first met and fallen in love.
He re-entered through the screened deck, marginally surprised to find her seated in her favorite chair and enjoying a cup of coffee. “Wasn’t expecting to see you up yet,” he said, giving her a kiss on the forehead. “Thought you planned to sleep in this morning?”
“A lot on my mind, I guess. Not unlike you, apparently.” She smiled as she took another sip, cradling the cup in both hands. “So, how long have you been pacing out there?”
“Since dawn,” he answered, “—but I’d hardly call it pacing. More like a refreshing stroll.”
“Really? It didn’t appear that way to me. I’ve been watching you for the past half hour.”
H
e changed the subject by looking enviously at her cup.
“I assume that’s not instant coffee . . . ”
“Certainly not. There’s a fresh brewed pot on the stove. Pour yourself some and join me. There’s something we need to discuss.”
Returning, he took the adjoining chair.
She wasted no time, asking, “It’s this business about Peter, isn’t it?”
“That obvious, was I?”
She pointed at the folder on the table. “That wasn’t there when I went to bed. How late did you stay up going through it again?”
“Late enough,” he admitted.
She moved her head in sympathy.
“You’re not getting near enough sleep.”
He couldn’t argue the fact.
“I think your preoccupation with it is eating you up inside—and we both recognize this can’t continue any longer. In my opinion there’s really only one solution—and we both know what it is.”
“I’m listening . . .”
“Even though there’s several more days left on your promise to Richard, you should begin your investigation right away. I see no benefit by delaying.”
He smiled, not the least bit surprised at her ability to accurately read the inner workings of his mind. Twelve years of marriage had given her ample practice—and she was seldom wrong in forming her conclusions.
Yet he wondered how much actual thought she’d given this. There would be consequences affecting her that needed to be addressed.
“If I agree and leave now,” he finally said, “there’s no telling how long I’ll be gone. It might take me weeks to accomplish. I don’t fancy leaving you alone here with so much yet to be done.”
“Such as what?”
“Well, for openers there’s still unpacking to do, crates to be opened, those two rooms you wanted me to repaint before—”
“Nothing I can’t handle by myself,” she interrupted. “And if not, that’s why God created handymen and carpenters, right?”
She apparently had given this some thought.
“Okay,” he conceded, “but there’s still the enrollment of Jake into a good local school in Chatham for this fall. Tomorrow we were going to begin checking them out.”
She dismissed this with a shake of her head. “Like that can’t wait until your return? We’ve all summer to work out those details.”
Apparently now believing her arguments had prevailed over his worries, she shifted to another topic, saying, “With that settled, I’d like you to walk me through the contents of that folder one more time.”
“Didn’t you read it during the flight from Ithaca?”
“I did. But I’m thinking you’ve since picked up on something I missed. And I figure it was probably sometime last night. Why else would you be up before dawn, pacing the shoreline like a caged animal?”
He grinned at her analogy as he retrieved and opened the folder.
“You’re a remarkably perceptively woman, my dear.”
“So I’m right? You did discover something we overlooked?”
“Two things, actually. Both curious, to be sure, and neither of which makes much sense.” He pulled out a single envelope, one of many, and handed it over. “This was the very last mailing Richard received from Peter containing the final petroglyph. Disregard the drawing inside for the moment. Just tell me if you see anything the least bit odd about it.”
She gave the envelope a cursory examination before shaking her head.
Acknowledging her confusion, he said, “Now take a look at this letter from the Trayle County Police Department officially informing Richard as next of kin that his grandson’s body had been found. No need to read it. Just note the date it was typed.”
“April 19. Is this significant?”
“Indeed. Now look again at that last envelope from Peter. Do you see the predicament here?”
It took a long moment before it hit her.
“Why, this can’t be right. According to the post-mark, this was mailed out on April 21.”
“Exactly. At least two days after his murder.”
“Someone else mailed it?”
“Apparently so. Question is, who and why . . .”
Elizabeth took several seconds to ponder this conundrum. Having no ready speculations to offer, she then asked, “You also found something else?”
He nodded.
“Pull out the drawing,” he instructed, “and tell me how you think it compares with all the previous petroglyphs Peter sent. Any thoughts?”
She did as asked.
“No, not really. Only that it appears quite different, doesn’t it?”
“Distinctly. I had my suspicions, but wasn’t sure, so I spent some time on the Internet last night trying to nail it down. What I learned was both enlightening and perplexing.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows narrowed.
“How so?”
“Those others are typically found throughout the length of the Rio Grande valley, all the way from West Texas right up into central New Mexico. Though the various figures and strange images are incredibly diverse, the overall style is always highly recognizable, unique among native petroglyphs in the southwest. Their creation by Paleo-lndian cultures can date back literally thousands of years.”
She focused again at the drawing in question.
“And this one?”
“Well, that’s the problem. By all sound reasoning, what you’re looking at there is a true enigma. It simply shouldn’t be something Peter could’ve found and copied in West Texas.”
“Because—?”
“It’s Aztec.”
Northeastern Mexico. Late Autumn of 1520 C.E.
With no one close by to overhear, young Chimuli breathed a fatigued sigh as he sat down cross-legged on a smooth section of ground, pleased to have this particularly arduous day finally come to an end. Despite the lateness of the season, the temperature remained exceedingly hot. Whether this was a normal pattern in this remote and unexplored territory yet remained to be seen.
He sincerely hoped not.
Taking out his water gourd, he gave the contents a careful swirl before easing his parched throat with a frugal mouthful. More important to him was the question of just how much longer it would be before the rationing imposed by their Eagle Commander, Xaca, could be lifted.
If the gods were truly with them, it would be soon.
The declining sun indicated nightfall was fast approaching. With it he could at least look forward to a few hours of relief from the relentless heat before again resuming their seemingly endless trek at first light. His single, consoling thought was that today he’d only one necessary notation to make in his packet of bark paper before sleep overtook him—and this simply to enter the passage of yet another sun and the distance traveled. Beyond this, there was nothing worthy of recording in this desolate terrain. Certainly no prominent landmarks of any kind, for the flat, semi-arid landscape held little of note to draw his eye.
Had Xaca made a mistake two days before by leading them in this direction?
The youth pondered on this as he ate bits of dried fish and coconut meat from his cloth pouch, well aware that this also might soon be rationed. If necessity demanded, he could go without food for a few days. It was the withholding of water that most worried him.
Yet he knew there was much to commend in Xaca’s leadership.
By Chimuli’s estimation the emperor chose wisely when he placed this seasoned Eagle Warrior in charge of the mission, for this was actually the first real hardship they’d endured under his command since leaving Tenochtitlan. If anything, their passage northward over the past three cycles of the moon had proven surprisingly uneventful—which was doubtless due to Xaca’s training and experience. It was under his cautious direction that armed warrior parties were continuously probing the areas ahead—not just to get a general feel of the land, but also to locate whatever native villages must be avoided. Regarding the latter, in every instance the inhabitants thus spied
upon were never aware of the scouts presence, so stealthy were their operations.
Now they were traversing a barren landscape having few, it any, inhabitants.
Again reminded of their current problem, Chimuli resisted the temptation to take another swig from his gourd. Instead, he stretched his tired limbs and scanned the length of their encampment, feeling much sympathy for the many hundreds of slave-bearers also forced to suffer under this severe water restriction. When he considered the heavy burden each was forced to load onto his back and carry each day, it seemed quite impossible that their endurance could last much longer.
It was then he saw that three forward scouts had returned and were making their report to a clearly pleased Xaca.
The youth hurried to his feet as his commander gestured him over.
“Welcome news,” said the grizzled warrior, flashing one of his rare smiles. “I’ve ordered an additional ration of water for everyone. Tomorrow promises to be an auspicious day, one that you must accurately record and place on your map for the emperor. I tell you this now so you can be prepared.”
“Yes, my lord. Then the scouts must’ve located—”
“Water in abundance, Chimuli! Less that a full day from here there’s a shallow river flowing down from the northwest through a narrow, fertile valley. There we can rest and replenish our supplies. Fish and wildfowl aplenty! It appears the Gods are still with us!”
Satisfied and grateful, the contented youth soon returned to his prepared spot and slept soundly throughout the night. How much longer before their mission would finally end remained undetermined, but he somehow believed this long-awaited time was now close at hand.
CHAPTER SIX
State of Coahuila, Mexico. The Present.
Thirty miles west of the small town of Allende—now the administrative seat for all of Coahuila—lay the core of what was once an incredibly vast estancia given by Spanish decree to Ruiz’s direct ancestor, Alejandro, in 1553.
The Emperor's Treasure Page 4
