by Angela Hunt
I didn’t want to laugh, but when Daniel cracked up, I had to chuckle. Poor Tank.
“I had a big breakfast,” he said, his face drooping in a woeful expression. “Stack of pancakes, scrambled eggs, six sausage links, grits, orange juice, and biscuits with sausage gravy. I thought that would hold me over ’til lunchtime, but I guess flyin’ makes me hungry.”
Brenda looked up from her sketchbook and turned to Daniel. “If you plannin’ to eat like that when you get bigger, I’m gonna need a second job.”
Daniel grinned and looked out the window. While Brenda was distracted, I leaned over the back of my seat to get a peek at what she’d been sketching. The dark figure on her page was vaguely human, with spindly limbs, a knobby skull, jagged teeth, and wings.
I’d seen prettier pictures.
“Had a good look?”
I looked up, my cheeks flushing hot, and met Brenda’s gaze. “I was just, um, wondering what we might be heading into. That—” I pointed at her sketchpad—“doesn’t look friendly.”
“It’s probably nothing.” She shrugged and flipped the lid of her sketchbook. “I dreamed about it last night, but like I said, Daniel’s been into Disney films lately—he’s catching up on all the stuff he missed while he was locked up in that psychiatric hospital. I figure that monster is a mix of Maleficent and a dragon, with a little Tinkerbell thrown in for good measure.”
“I hope you’re right.”
We taxied to a private hanger and woke up Chad, then the pilot gave us the all-clear for grabbing our luggage and heading out. We had packed lightly—most of us brought only one small bag or backpack, and we were wearing jeans, short-sleeved shirts, and sneakers. Daniel was wearing a Walking Dead tee-shirt, much to Brenda’s chagrin.
“I tried to talk him out of buying it,” she had told me earlier. “I said nobody wanted to look at zombies and stuff. But then he said the zombies were nuthin’ compared to things we’d seen, and he had me there. What could I say?” She shrugged. “Anyway, he knows that stuff is make-believe.”
Yet here we were, about to drive into Mexico City to investigate something else that might be make-believe. But considering everything the Watchers had done to prepare us for the trip, something in me doubted that we’d be seeing a fake. Still, we had to keep our eyes, ears, and minds open.
We grabbed our bags and headed into small office, where we had to go show our passports. Getting into Mexico was easy, but we hit a glitch in customs. For some reason, a guy at the customs area opened our bags as we entered the area, then stood behind them with his arms crossed and his face somber.
We waited for Chad, who was moving slower than usual, then motioned for him to join us on a white line painted on the cement floor. The surly customs agent took Chad’s bag when he arrived, then opened it and glared at us. “You are bringing forbidden items into Mexico,” he snapped, looking as though he wanted to send us straight back home. “You will be arrested and spend the night in jail.”
Tank’s mouth spread in a good-ol’-boy smile. “Now, hang on a minute, buddy,” he began, but the man silenced Tank by moving to the big guy’s suitcase. I was afraid he was going to reach in and pull out a bag of crack cocaine or something else he’d planted, but instead he pulled out the box containing Tank’s comms gear.
“What is this?” the customs agent snarled.
Tank looked at Chad, and for the first time since I’d met him, Chad appeared at a loss for words. “That is um, a state-of-the-art wireless communications unit,” he said. “You know—like a walkie-talkie.”
The agent’s frown only deepened. “This is forbidden. This violates international order C-475 regarding wireless communications over unsecured frequencies.”
“That is perfectly legitimate equipment,” Chad argued. “Made by an international company who must certainly sell goods in Mexico.”
The man dropped Tank’s comms unit on the table, then reached into my bag, Brenda’s, Daniel’s, and Chad’s. In each case, he pulled out the comms unit and dropped it on the table. When we had finished, we were looking at a heap of wires, plastic battery packs, and a couple of instruction manuals. “Confiscated,” the man said, his face twisting in an oily smile. He scooped up all the units and left through a swinging door, leaving our bags on the table and us standing behind the white line.
I turned to Chad. “I thought you said those things were good.”
“They’re the best,” he said. “Navy Seals use them.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Tank said. “Maybe it’s top secret technology, and the Mexicans want to get their hands on it.”
“Anyone ever heard of international order C-475?” Brenda asked. “Maybe he made it up. They’re going to learn our secrets by studying our gizmos.”
“Maybe,” Chad said, looking bemused. “Or maybe that guy’s a ghast, and this has all been part of a plot to stop us. I could hit him over the head with a chair to see what happens—”
“Why don’t you just pop into his brain?” Brenda suggested, her tone sharp. “Save us all a lot of trouble.”
Chad blew out a breath. “Reading his thoughts wouldn’t help me. I don’t speak Spanish. Besides, I think those pills have somehow short-circuited things. My brain feels like it’s full of fog.”
Brenda burst out laughing and I tried to regain some level of control over the situation.
“Let’s not hit anyone or play with their brains.” I tapped Chad’s arm. “Let’s just get our stuff and leave as soon as we can.”
A moment later the customs agent returned, empty-handed. He studied our group for a moment, then stepped back and slipped his hands into his pockets. “You are free to go.”
We hurried forward to claim our bags and get out of the airport before he changed his mind.
I had hoped our bosses would have a hired car waiting, but apparently the people who thought of everything hadn’t thought about having a taxi waiting. Instead we hitched a ride on a couple of airport golf carts, went to the main terminal, and hailed a minivan cab at the curb.
I settled my bag under my feet and tried to relax. At least we had made it to Mexico City.
Chapter 3
Our cab driver looked at us and frowned. “No speak-e Ingles.”
All of the others looked at me. “Okay. Um.” I wracked my brain as I fumbled for the letter in my purse. “Queremos ir aquí.” Not having the faintest idea if I’d said the right thing, I handed the paper with Benedicto Prospero’s address to our cab driver. He squinted at it, and for a moment I was afraid he’d tell us he’d never heard of the place.
“Ah.” The man nodded at the paper, then handed it back to me. “OK. We go.”
I leaned back in the seat and looked at Brenda, who sat with Daniel on the bench seat behind me. She shook her head, grinning, and Daniel seemed thrilled by all the hustle and bustle of the airport.
“I don’t know about this one,” Tank said, turning to look at me from the front passenger seat. “I’m gettin’ a bad feelin’.”
“You always got a bad feelin’,” Brenda said, slipping her arm around Daniel’s thin shoulders. “Relax, Cowboy. We’re in the land of siestas and margaritas. Of sombreros and—”
“Chupacabras,” Tank interrupted. He lowered his voice and turned, cupping his hand to whisper. “Meanin’ no disrespect to the country, but haven’t you noticed that an awful lot of superstitious stuff comes out of Mexico? I’ve heard all kinds of things about weepin’ paintings and bleedin’ statues, and that stuff always seems to come from Mexico or South America. Plus, you’ve got them Aztecs and their human sacrifices—”
“The Aztecs are long gone, big guy,” Brenda said. “And you’re probably the last name on any list of possible human sacrifices.”
I leaned forward to pat Tank’s arm. Brenda and Chad teased him all the time, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Probably because I knew he had feelings for me (whatever they were, I tried to keep them at bay) and because I knew he was all heart beneath tha
t brawny exterior.
“We’re going to be fine,” I assured him. “After all, the assignment seems fairly straightforward. After all, no one has tried to kill us yet.”
I meant that last bit as a joke, but Tank took it seriously. “I’m not so sure about that.” He lifted a bushy brow. “That customs guy looked like he was ready to shoot anyone who spoke out of turn.”
“Pfft.” Brenda waved the matter away. “That’s history. We’ll just get some more of those comms thingies and use ‘em on our next trip.”
As Tank and Chad began to argue about whether people from Mexico were more superstitious than Americans, I looked out the window and watch the country slide by. The international airport was fully as modern as anything in the United States, and the freeway into the capital city was crowded with fast-moving cars. Once we reached the city, we drove along streets filled with skyscrapers that made the trees beneath them look like miniature decorations. “The city is really beautiful,” I said to anyone who would listen. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but these buildings are architecturally stunning.”
The driver must have caught the gist of what I was saying, because he began to point out various buildings. I didn’t understand much his description, but as he shifted into the right hand lane, he pointed at one building and said, “La estación de televisión es dentro de este edificio.”
“Television station,” I repeated. “Si. Muchas gracias.”
“We’re here?” Brenda asked.
“I think so.”
The driver pulled into an underground parking lot, then turned into an area that would allow him to drop us off and exit without having to park. “Es un televisión estación?” I asked.
The driver nodded, so I pulled out my wallet, only to discover that I had completely forgotten about the change in currency. “Um . . .” I showed him three U.S. twenties. “Es okay?”
He grinned. “Muy okay.” As everyone else piled out of the minivan, he took the money and gave me a blank receipt and drove off.
Chad, Tank, Brenda, Daniel and I stood in front of the elevator without a clue as to what we should do next. “Well,” Chad said, pushing the elevator button, “every building has a lobby, and every lobby should have a receptionist or a list of tenants. Let’s find Señor Prospero.”
The doors opened and we shuffled inside the elevator car, making room for each other and our luggage.
“Prospero,” Chad mused as the doors slid shut. “Prosperity. Coincidence, do you think?”
I shrugged. “I’ve never met the man.”
“Well, hold onto your hats,” Brenda said as the elevator began to rise. “Because I think we’re about to.”
Benedicto Prospero was not listed among the building tenants, but we did spot five television stations: XEW, XHTV, XEQ, XHOF, XAT, and XEIPN. A couple of the stations were owned by Grupo Televisa and TV Azteca, the other by Grupo Prospero.
“There you go,” I said, pointing to XAT. “Either our guy owns the station or one of his relatives does.”
“Could be coincidence,” Chad said.
“The odds are against it.” I flashed him a brief smile, then led the way back the elevator. “Going up, anyone?”
We exited on the forty-fourth floor, home to XAT and the offices of Grupo Prospero. With a confidence I didn’t exactly feel, I walked through a pair of glass doors and up to an ebony reception desk that stood at the center of a two-story lobby.
“Hola,” I said, hoping the receptionist spoke English. “Me amigos y yo de donde los Estados Unidos. Quiero—we want to see—señor Benedicto Prospero. We believe he’ll want to see us.”
The pretty receptionist lifted a brow. “Was he expecting you today?”
She understood me! I slumped in relief. “I’m not sure. But it’s important that we see him.”
She looked at me, an uncertain smile on her face. “I’m sorry, but if you do not have an appointment, I cannot let you see Señor Prospero. He is a very busy man.”
“But we’ve come all the way from Dallas.”
“Texas,” Tank added. “In the U.S. of A.”
The receptionist smiled. “Señor Prospero is in the studio this afternoon and will not be finished recording until late. If you want to come back tomorrow—”
I broke eye contact with her when Brenda elbowed me. Someone was moving on floor above—a middle-aged man in a dress shirt and tie, with paper towels or something tucked over his collar. The guy had apparently just come out of makeup, which meant he was about to go into the studio—
“Señor Prospero? Benedicto Prospero?” I called.
The gentleman did not look happy to be interrupted. “Como?” he said, glancing down at us.
“Con permiso, señor—my friends and I would like to talk to you about . . . the fairy.” I spoke the last word reluctantly, knowing that I stood in a public place, but we all saw his countenance change at my words. The man who would have brushed us off without hesitation went pale, and the hand he placed on the railing trembled slightly.
“You know . . . about that?”
“Yes. We were sent here to investigate it.”
“By whom?”
“Please, señor—may we speak in private?”
He glanced quickly left and right, then pressed his lips together. After a moment, he seemed to come to a decision. “Conchita, show them the way to the staircase, please. Tell everyone I am not to be interrupted for the next hour.”
We climbed the stairs and met Señor Prospero in a hallway. Keeping his voice low, he led us to a conference room, then indicated that we should drop our luggage against the wall. When we had lightened our load, he crooked a finger and led us into a luxurious office with lots of open space, gorgeous leather guest chairs, and a desk about as wide as a barn door.
I took a moment to introduce everyone. “We work for an organization called the Watchers,” I said. “I can’t say much about them, but—”
“I know who they are,” Señor Prospero said.
While I blinked in amazement, he opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a Bible. Flipping to the center, he ran his finger over the text, then grunted. “Aqui esta. ‘Para esto ha sido decretado por los observadores—”
“We don’t speak Spanish,” Brenda told him.
Prospero nodded. “Ah. Forgive me. ‘For this has been decreed by the watchers, it is commanded by the holy ones, so that everyone may know that the Most High rules over the kingdoms of the world.’ From the book of Daniel, chapter four.”
The man looked up as if his explanation should satisfy us, but I could make no sense of it. I looked at Tank, our official Bible gee whiz kid, and he looked as confused as I felt.
“Thank you,” I said, ready to move past his explanation. “But we came here to talk about the fairy.”
“Yes.” He nodded and set his Bible back in the drawer. “I will show you something,” he said, stepping over to his desk chair, “and then we will go into the conference room to discuss it. My associate will join us, but no one else. No one else at the station knows about this.”
My curiosity was more than piqued. I stepped closer as he sat, then swiveled to the beautiful credenza behind his desk. After taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked a deep drawer in the credenza, then lifted out a glass jar containing clear liquid . . . and a creature that looked identical to the sketch Brenda had drawn on the plane.
I saw her eyes widen, then close tightly. No sense in denying it, I wanted to tell her, when the evidence was right before our eyes.
“Esta aqui.” Senior Prospero slid it across the desktop. “El Hada. The fairy.”
The five of us drew closer. As frightening as Brenda’s sketch had been, the creature in the jar was far more terrifying in its gruesome details. The skull was small, but still covered by enough skin that we could see pointed ears and soft fur around the folds. The empty eye sockets were large, and the gaping mouth revealed rows of jagged teeth that reminded me of a shark’s. The creature had a vis
ible neck, and a chest covered with what appeared to be black, leathery skin. The skin covered the chest area, two arms, and two legs, both of which ended in hands or feet with five jointed digits each. The creature also had two large wings composed of bone (or cartilage?) and covered with skin.
The thing was incredibly human—far more human than animal. And it was large, for a fairy. About the size of one of my old Barbie dolls.
“Yes,” Señor Prospero said, observing our reactions. “It does look like something out of a nightmare. But for the wings, it is humanoid. But you must also see this.”
He turned the jar, enabling us to see the oddest feature yet—a tail, long and curving, that ended in a sharp point, almost like a claw or tooth.
“Incredible,” Chad whispered.
Tank’s response followed: “Jesus, help us.”
Brenda said nothing, but kept her arm firmly wrapped around Daniel’s shoulders and her gaze on that glass jar.
Chad straightened first. “It has to be a fake,” he said, swaying slightly on his feet. “It’s a clever fake, but a fake nonetheless.”
“How can you know that?” Brenda asked.
Chad shook his head. “These things pop up all the time. Last year two guys in England claimed to find a fairy, and it looked pretty fairy-like. But they released the news on April first, and the thing turned out to be a gigantic April Fool’s joke. It was some wire structure with leaves wrapped around it.”
Señor Prospero said nothing, but picked up the jar and carried it into the conference room, where he set it in the center of the table. Then he went to a phone, murmured something into it, and sat in the chair at the head of the table, motioning that we should be seated as well.
We had no sooner finished settling into our chairs when another man entered. He wore a white lab coat and glasses.
