by Lynn Sholes
“Answer the question,” the second man said.
“In the bag by the desk,” Tempest said.
“See how easy that was?” He got off her and went to the desk. Yanking a large black camera bag from underneath, he unzipped the top and pulled out the digital camera. A moment later, he had the LCD on the back illuminated and was looking at the pictures. “We got it,” he said to his accomplice.
“What about their laptop?” the second man said, motioning to the computer on the desk. “They could have transferred the pictures.”
“Grab it,” he said before turning off the camera’s display and removing the memory card. Then he tossed the camera onto the floor and turned to Tempest. “Any of this ever gets mentioned in your paper and we’ll be back to finish our little slice-and-dice party.”
Within seconds, both men were out the door.
Tempest and Bennie lay in the darkness, breathing hard.
“Bastards,” she said. She touched her neck where the knife tip had been. “Shit,” Tempest said, reaching to turn on the lamp beside the bed. Her fingertips were slick and shiny red.
Bennie looked at her. “Oh Jesus, Tempest, he cut you.” He sat up and scrambled to her side of the bed. “Let me see,” he said, wiping the blood from her neck with the sheet.
“I think I’m okay,” she said. “Must be just a nick.”
Bennie squinted at the wound. “Let’s get it washed.” He fumbled his way to the other side of the bed and retrieved his glasses from the nightstand. “You think Stone and the Gazette had anything to do with this?” he said, walking Tempest to the bathroom.
“I don’t think they’d go to this extreme to get the pictures. Assault, breaking and entering. Not worth the jail time.” She flipped on the light and examined her throat in the mirror.
Bennie wet a washcloth and gently cleaned the blood away.
“But obviously someone wants them really bad,” Tempest said, flinching as the soap Bennie used stung the wound.
He rinsed her throat and dabbed it dry. “Don’t think it even needs a stitch,” he said.
She slapped his round bare ass. “Thanks, baby.” Tempest wrapped a towel around her before walking back into the bedroom. She made sure the door was locked and slid on the chain guard. “Should have done that in the first place,” she said.
“I didn’t buy into this kind of shit when I took the job,” Bennie said, standing by the bed and straightening the sheets. “Should we call the police?”
“Don’t be such a pussy. Do you know what this means? We’re right in the middle of a huge story. This is front-page stuff.” She looked at the camera bag. “Trouble is, they screwed us by taking the memory card and the laptop.”
“Not quite,” Bennie said.
Tempest stood in front of him. “Meaning?”
Bennie smiled at her before pulling her towel off. “Meaning that while you took your shower earlier, I logged in to the production server at work and uploaded the images.”
She looked at the young man, and a seductive smile took over her face. Tempest stroked his chest and trailed her fingers down his belly, kneeling between his legs. “Then you deserve a big reward.”
Chauncy’s Note
Cotten kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the motel bed while Wyatt sat in the chair opposite her. Beside him, an ice bucket along with two plastic cups and two canned drinks rested on a small table. He had stopped at the ice and vending machine near his room before knocking on Cotten’s door. He watched her while she twisted her tea-colored hair into a cord and then clipped it up. In some ways she reminded him of Leah, he thought. Cotten was petite like Leah, and even when trying to be tough and confident, her innocence shone through.
Leah.
The thought of his fiancée wrenched an audible squeak from his throat. After all the chemo and all the misery that accompanied it, in the end, the lymphoma had won. He wondered if he could ever let go of the memory—the pain.
“What are you thinking about so hard?” Cotten asked.
Wyatt blinked. “You remind me of someone I used to know.”
“Oh? Someone wonderful and beautiful, I hope.”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
Cotten slid the blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. “How can the desert be hot in the daytime and so cold once the sun goes down? I know the scientific explanation, but it just flies in the face of my logic.”
Wyatt scooped ice into one of the cups and popped the top on the Diet Coke.
“Hot tea or something stronger would really hit the spot,” Cotten said.
“Best we can do,” he said, pouring the drink into the cup. He held it out to her. Even her hands reminded him of Leah. Small with long, thin fingers—but minus the engagement ring.
“Thanks,” she said. “But if I’m going to drink something cold, I wish it had a kick.”
“I’m a Stoli man. What’s your poison?” he asked.
“Absolut.”
“And I had you pegged for a white zin girl.”
Cotten laughed. “You’re not the first to misread me.”
Wyatt poured his Red Bull into a cup and sipped. “I’ll drink anything but gin,” he said.
“Too much of it one time and lived to regret it?”
“Actually, I never touched it.”
“Then why the aversion?”
“Long story,” he answered, shutting down any more questions about gin. No sense in going to that dark place. Wyatt lifted his cup. “Cheers.”
“To a totally fucked-up day,” Cotten said, leaning forward and touching her cup to his.
“It wasn’t a complete loss.”
“Easy for you to say. I’ve got no story, no pictures, nothing to take back. And the worst is, I know what’s going to be on the front page of the National Courier. My face looking like an idiot, stunned by Star’s flash. Want to know the headlines? ‘Is Has-Been At It Again?’ Tempest Star will use my name to draw readers to the Courier.”
“It’s just a stupid tabloid, Cotten. Nobody believes what they read in those rags. They’re for entertainment.”
Cotten stood. “But they make it into a lot of shopping carts and onto a lot of nightstands. Not good enough to display on the coffee table, but they’re bought and they’re read. Star is going to take advantage of the situation. She’s got all the pictures—shit, you saw them. She’ll put her spin on it and make it seem that I was there fabricating a new story like the creation fossil. Star is the one with the documentation. So I go to my boss at the Gazette and tell him I have nothing and Star—”
“Look, we’ll be back in Fort Lauderdale tomorrow. You’ve got the whole plane ride to think of something—to put together a story. You’re a professional. Tell it like it is—what we did there, what you saw.”
“We didn’t see anything. We were too late. And I can’t mention Star—she’s the competition. She has it all, and she is going to bastardize the truth because she doesn’t have a clue what she witnessed.” She looked at Wyatt. “Do you?”
“Not exactly. Why don’t you tell me?”
Cotten sat on the bed again. She looked as if she were about to come undone, Wyatt thought. Her shoulders sagged, and there was a slight flush in her face.
“The Hapsburgs found the tablet. Of that, I’m convinced,” she said. “When I was in the round building—the holy place—I sensed their presence, heard their voices. I know they were there.” She took a sip of the Diet Coke. “The pictures you saw showed Richard Hapsburg turning over the crystal tablet to the . . . fireflies.”
“Fireflies?”
“That glowing ball of light in the picture. I first saw them in Peru. Thomas, I think the fireflies are demons. They took the tablet from Edelman’s tent. And tonight they took another tablet from Richard Hapsburg.”
Demons, Wyatt thought. Even with the words of the pope, it was so hard to accept. This devil stuff was created by the Church to keep its members in line. That was all. What he saw in those pictures was just some kind of phenomenon—heat lightning, swamp gas, optical illusion—shit! What the hell had he gotten himself into?
“Thomas, I need to find out what was written on those tablets. Not for the news story, but because I need to know what it says. You told me the pope said that the second cleansing would come in my time and that is why there is the rush to find the tablet. I know that the message has something to do with me, because of who I am. And that I’m supposed to be the one leading the second cleansing—Armageddon. How can I do that if I never find out the entire message on the tablets?”
Cotten leaned forward, burying her face in her hands. “God, I hate this. Why does everything have to be so cryptic?” Cotten looked up at the ceiling. “If God wants me to do something, why doesn’t He just tell me? I mean, would it kill Him to just get to the point?”
Wyatt looked at her with sympathy, knowing she was in pain. How could he make it easier?
“I’m sorry,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll just never understand why I was picked. Furmiel or no Furmiel, it seems to me that God had better choices than me. Maybe I think if I complain enough or fail to understand, God will realize that He chose the wrong person and He’ll forget about me.” She stared at the floor and rubbed her forehead. “I just don’t get it.”
Wyatt put his drink down and leaned forward, taking one of her hands in his. “Together we’ll make sense out of all this. After all, you were chosen because of your legacy, and I was chosen because of mine.”
Cotten’s head shot up.
“Mine isn’t of quite the same caliber as yours, Cotten, but my ancestor, actually my great-great-great-grandfather, was directly linked to one of the crystal tablets—the one they consider to be the last. His name was Chauncey Wyatt, and he was a member of an ancient, secret organization called the Ombres des Fantômes—it’s French for ‘Shadows of Ghosts.’ ”
“That’s just great. Another ancient secret organization. Seems like every time I turn around, I’m running into one.”
“Stay with me on this. The Shadows’ job was to protect religious relics and documents, including the last crystal tablet. Did you know that at one time the Vatican had a tablet in its possession?”
“No,” Cotten said. Her face perked. “Then they know what the message says, right?”
“The tablet was stolen.”
“But they have records, and someone would have copied it down. Let’s call John. He can find out what it said.”
Wyatt gently squeezed her hand. “They deciphered the first part of the message on the tablet, the one predicting the Great Flood and the warning of the second cleansing. But the text of the last portion of the message was nonsensical.”
“But the Vatican has a handwritten copy, don’t they?”
“All the documents, drawings, and references were taken with the tablet.”
Cotten shook her head. “So what are you telling me? And what does that have to do with you and your grandfather?”
“Chauncey was a zealot, not just a member of the Shadows. The Ombres des Fantômes were the seed from which the Venatori grew. Chauncey had a falling out with the Shadows but still took to heart his oath to protect the sacred religious relics with his life. He didn’t believe that the crystal tablet should belong to the Church, or any religion for that matter. He was convinced that what it revealed was meant for all mankind. And so he stole it.”
“That makes no sense. He took the tablet for a noble reason, because it belongs to mankind, but he hid it from the world. The damn thing would have been better off gathering dust in the Vatican archives. At least then we could find it and figure out what it says about me.”
“Chauncey left a note in the tablet’s place. We think it’s a clue to where he hid it.”
“What did it say?” Cotten asked.
Wyatt let go of her hand. The words from his grandfather’s note were emblazoned in his mind. He’d repeated them at least once every day since his meeting with the pope. Taking a deep breath, he said, “My grandfather’s note read, ‘The secret does not belong to the Church but to the whole world. To enter the Kingdom of Heaven, you must thread the needle.’ ”
ICU
The sleek Gulfstream G450 streaked across the pristine blue sky high over western Pennsylvania on its way to New Haven Regional Airport. The setting sun cast an orange glow across the farmland below. Mariah Hapsburg watched what she thought was Pittsburgh passing near the horizon. She glanced at Richard sleeping in the seat across the aisle.
What an amazing forty-eight hours she had just experienced. First, watching the excitement Eli expressed upon the news of the earthquake and the uncovering of the ancient ruins. Then the magnificent way in which her husband had found the artifact and taken command of the moment—even his posture was imposing as he offered up the tablet. And the breathtaking sight of the fireflies.
Richard had told her that the first time she encountered them would be astounding. Still, she was not prepared. No one could be prepared for the overwhelming sensation of experiencing the supernatural. The memory made her skin tingle, just as it had in the desert under the full moon.
There was the smell—strong, pungent, intoxicating. And the sound of the swarm. It vibrated through her whole body.
The sheer power that surrounded her—dangerous, forbidden, deadly—was exhilarating. The sight of the demons whirling around her—pulsing, touching.
All of it so incredibly sensual.
And back in the hotel, it was evident the experience had brought on the same kind of arousal in her husband. Richard’s lovemaking was fierce and explosive, exactly as she had wanted. Sensing his driving desire for her only heightened her need for him.
Mariah had known the feeling of being desired and coveted all her life. Up until the accident. Everything in her life was divided by the accident. BA and AA—before the accident, and after.
BA was the beautiful life, drenched with money, sex, men wanting her, and women envying her. Then that tragic night. The car spinning, exploding, burning, pain beyond all pain.
She lay in the intensive care unit for weeks, hanging on by the slimmest of threads. When she was finally conscious and lucid, she begged for a mirror. She had touched her face, and she wanted to see it. When the nurses and her visitors wouldn’t produce a mirror and encouraged her to wait, that confirmed her fears.
Early one morning, just after the nurse on duty had checked her vitals, Mariah maneuvered out of the bed, trailing her IV line behind her. The bedside table had been deliberately kept out of her reach because of the vanity mirror attached to it. Mariah stretched the arm that was tethered to the IV behind her, but still she couldn’t reach the table with her other hand. She extended her leg, and her toes touched the cold metal frame of the table. Careful not to accidentally push it out of her reach, she slowly edged the table toward her, first only with her toes, then finally her foot. It rolled quietly up to her. Mariah took several steps back to relieve the tension on the IV line, pulling the table with her. With both hands, she lifted the hinged section of the table, bringing up the mirror. It only took a quick glance for her to reel and collapse.
She came to on the tile floor, the IV pole across her back. Instantly, she recalled the image in the mirror. Scarred, maimed, disfigured, repulsive.
A flurry of nurses were suddenly at her side, lifting her onto the bed.
“Leave me alone,” she cried. “I want to die.”
For days, she refused to eat or cooperate with therapists, repeatedly clawing at her face and reopening the wounds. She lay in the hospital bed, praying for God to take her.
With her lack of will, Mariah’s recovery took a dive, and her condition became critical again—but she didn’t die.
Finally giving up on God’s help, she offered her pleas elsewhere.
That night, she awoke to find someone holding her hand. Through the bandages and life-support tubes, she stared from a drug-induced haze into the face of an old, gray-haired gentleman—his voice comforting, his manner grandfatherly. In a soft, soothing voice he whispered that if she truly wanted it, he could make her whole again, take away her pain, and give her back her life.
“You can be even more beautiful than before,” he promised.
Mariah wept, sobbing as he stroked her hair until she finally fell asleep.
The next morning, she thought it all a dream until she was transported to a private hospital and a team of plastic surgeons arrived at her bedside. They discussed with Mariah how they would reconstruct her face—her body.
“Who is paying for all this?” she asked.
That’s when Eli Luddington came into the room. “Your visitor last night is a close friend of mine,” he said. “He brought you to my attention. You do want your life back, don’t you?”
“But why would you do this?” Mariah asked.
“Because you were in need,” he said. “You cried out for help. He answered you, and brought you to me.” Eli came to stand close to her bed. “Put your trust in me,” he said.
Mariah nodded, and tears of gratefulness welled in her eyes. Eli Luddington was her savior.
Through a series of state-of-the-art procedures performed by the team of surgeons Eli had gathered from around the world, she regained her beauty, strength, and drive. Eli gave her life. And all he asked in return was for her to become a part of Richard’s life. Richard was lost, and she was to help him find his way again. Mariah could lead him back into the fold and steady him so he could do his life’s work. She would be his strength and his inspiration.
And now, here she was five years later, flying high over the earth, being a part of a miraculous adventure, possessing a beauty few women had, and helping her husband reshape the world. She owed everything to Eli. And she was more than willing to pay.
