Race for the Flash Stone (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 2)

by K Patrick Donoghue

  With clenched jaw, Christian lifted the envelope and placed it on the side table. He cleared his throat again and prodded, “I believe, Miss Bradley, it would be in your very best interests to read the note.”

  What balls, Vickie thought. The rich don’t like to take no for an answer! She was half-tempted to demand the attendant lead her to the sender. There, she could tear the note in half in front of him and tell him to pound sand. But…such a display would attract undue attention. And it was still too soon for that.

  She stared down at the gilded envelope. The front was embossed with the sender’s initials. The gold “JMF” glittered in the torch light. She flipped it over and lifted the unsealed lip. Inside was a simple folded card:

  Chère Margaret,

  A pleasure to run into you so far away from home. I had the good fortune to meet with your brother, Kyle, recently. He sends his love.

  I am anxious to speak with you about the map, a matter of importance to both of us. Won’t you kindly accept my offer to dine this evening? It would sadden me to miss the opportunity to chat and instead inform the authorities of your presence here.

  Chaleureusement,

  Jacques Foucault

  Mouth agape, Margaret flushed with perspiration. A small gasp escaped as she fought to maintain her composure under Christian’s watchful eyes. Crushing the note in her hand, she stared into the growing darkness and said, “Please tell the gentleman I accept his invitation.”

  Christian bowed and said, “As you wish, Miss Bradley. I will meet you at your suite at eight sharp and escort you to dinner.”

  Still in a daze, Margaret laid a hand atop her backpack and groused, “I don’t need an escort, I know how to find the dining room.”

  “Monsieur Foucault wishes to dine in a more private setting. He expressly requested that I escort you. Eight sharp, Miss Bradley.”

  From the patio lounge, Foucault observed the exchange while enjoying the flavor of a thin cigar. Per usual, Christian had accomplished his task with discretion. There had been a moment when it seemed Margaret might make a spectacle of herself, but Christian’s level-headed responses kept the situation from escalating.

  While Christian tramped once again toward the patio, Foucault could see Margaret peer over the back of the chaise to follow his retreat. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable. Foucault wondered, would she run? If emotion trumped reason, it was a distinct possibility.

  When Christian reached the patio, he moved toward the main lobby as previously instructed. If Margaret did make a run for it, there was one lonely road leading from the resort to the main road through St. James Parish. With Christian posted at the resort’s gated entrance, she would not make it far.

  Once his confederate was out of sight, Foucault watched as Margaret lowered her gaze and quickly lifted the backpack from the sand. From his vantage point, Foucault could not see what she was doing, but it was clear she was rummaging for something. He feared the target of her search might be a cell phone. It would alter his plan if she alerted Navarro before their dinner.

  His attention was distracted by a text from Christian: “In position.”

  “Good,” he answered. “Hold there for now.”

  “Has she moved?” came the reply message.

  Foucault glanced up to see Margaret perched on the seat’s edge, phone to her ear. He cursed and extinguished the cigar. He pounded a terse text to Christian. “She’s making a call. Plan B may be necessary.”

  However, when Foucault looked up again, Margaret was scowling and she yanked the phone from her ear. Muttering to herself, she rapidly tapped the screen and cupped her ear to the phone once again.

  Christian texted, “On my way.”

  “No, stay in place!” Foucault typed in reply. A moment later, he followed with, “Get ready, she’s on the move.”

  Foucault slapped down payment for his drink and rose from the table. He wedged his way through the crowded cocktail hour with one eye glued to Margaret. She stormed across the sand, backpack anchored to her shoulder. The gauzy wrap covering her bikini-clad figure flailed in the ocean breeze. As she neared the patio, she veered sharply to the right, phone clamped to her ear.

  Pausing behind the frame of the tiki-hut bar, Foucault watched Margaret head for a winding path leading to the eastern wing of the resort. He exited the lounge and followed her at a safe distance. Suddenly, she halted on the dimly lit path. Foucault hopped into a nook in the shrub garden lining the path.

  He reached into his trouser pockets and cupped his hands around the stones. Peeking around a shrub, he saw Margaret shove the phone in the backpack and punch her thigh. Then, she briefly fumbled in the backpack for another item before resuming her march.

  Foucault eased his hands from the stones and retrieved his cell phone. He quickly typed a message to Christian: “All is well. Wait another fifteen minutes to be sure. Then prep for dinner.”

  Slamming the door shut, Margaret heaved the backpack onto the sofa with a flurry of expletives and made her way to the bedroom. She tossed off the sheer wrap and collapsed onto the plush ivory duvet. Covering her face with both hands, she struggled to settle her mind. Who the f—— was Jacques Foucault? How did he find her? Had he really talked with Kyle? What did he want? Why didn’t Navarro answer his damn phone?

  “What a mess!” she said.

  Margaret had been convinced her new persona was rock solid. Complete with a new hairstyle and touristy wardrobe, she breezed through security in Miami and then through customs in Barbados. They’d barely looked at her Bermudan passport. Since then, she’d moved about Barbados and the surrounding West Indies islands without a single moment of concern. How, then, did Foucault find her?

  Had Navarro sent him? Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t answer her calls. Navarro had said he would contact her when he needed her help, but he didn’t say how he would establish contact. She could understand why he might want to reach out through a third party, but why go through the dinner invitation theatrics?

  Was it Kyle? Margaret considered the note’s reference to Kyle a strange inclusion. Was it meant to signal something to her, or had Foucault included it solely to unsettle her? It seemed impossible he could have met with her brother. Strangers don’t just walk into prison hospitals and talk with inmates. Besides, Kyle had no clue of her whereabouts. Even if he did, he’d surely tip the cops before anyone else. She was certain he was thirsty for revenge.

  Maybe Foucault was a bounty hunter, Margaret thought. She was keenly aware that both the FBI and Interpol were hunting for her. Had they established a reward for her capture? Or maybe it was Cully. Had he hired a private investigator to track her down? The more she thought of these possibilities, the less feasible they seemed. If Foucault was a bounty hunter, why not take her into custody immediately? Again, why the dinner invitation?

  One thing was certain, the mention of the map implied Foucault knew about the Stones.

  An hour later, the attendant arrived to escort Margaret. After introducing himself as Christian Hunte, Foucault’s private secretary, the two left to meet the French aristocrat. Their path led first through the resort’s main lobby and then out onto the marble rear patio abutting the beach. By now it was fully dark and the patio seemed afire with two dozen tiki torches snaking along its perimeter.

  Reaching the beach, Christian retrieved a large lantern hidden in a pool box at the patio’s edge. He opened the lantern’s glass door and lit the thick candle inside. Then he motioned Margaret to follow him down a wood-plank walkway that cut across the sand and disappeared into a thick stand of palm trees.

  Margaret warily eyed the dark trees as they approached. Was it a trap? She slid a hand into the purse dangling by her hip. When they reached the tree line, she gripped the Sound Stone and closely surveyed the dancing fronds for hidden assailants.

  The wind whipped suddenly, causing the taller palm trees to sway and creak, their fronds raking the air with howling hisses in every direction. Senses heightened and hea
rt racing, Margaret tugged the Sound Stone from her purse and guided it to her chest. Christian never spoke as he led her along the path. He seemed unconcerned by the sounds and darkness and maintained a leisurely pace while the candle inside the lantern furiously fluttered.

  Margaret prepared to raise the Stone to her mouth, fearful of an ambush, when she noticed faint but growing light through the rustling underbrush. With a sigh of relief, she lowered the Stone back to her purse and widened her distance from Christian.

  She was close enough now to see a well-lit beach beyond the stand of trees. Tiki torches surrounded a large, open-air tent featuring a stagelike platform upon which rested a formally arrayed dining table. Pressed white linen, sterling silver flatware and crystal stemware sparkled from the light cast by the torches.

  At the end of the plank walkway, Christian turned and said, “We have arrived, Miss Bradley. There is a small bench beside you where you can remove your sandals to walk across the beach. I will return to escort you after dinner. I hope you enjoy a wonderful meal.”

  Margaret nodded her thanks and sat to slide off her sandals. As she stepped beyond the plank, her toes met the cool cushion of the fine-grain sand. Gripping her slinky black-and-gold cocktail dress by its flared hem to avoid a sudden gust revealing more than she intended, Margaret approached the tent.

  Underneath the tent canopy three tuxedoed attendants stood at attention, but no one was seated at the dining table itself. Scanning the secluded cove, Margaret spied two white Adirondack-style chairs close to the rippling surf. In between the chairs a small table was set with an ice bucket and an open bottle of champagne. On one of the chairs sat a man with cigar in hand staring idly at the Moon’s reflection on the ocean’s surface.

  Margaret could see the man’s thick, silvery hair ruffling in the sea breeze. She stepped cautiously toward him and clutched the purse tightly against her ribs. She briefly considered projecting the troublesome stranger out into the ocean. But that would mean killing the dining porters as well — not exactly the way to maintain a low profile.

  The sound of Margaret’s feet kicking sand caught the man’s attention and he rose to greet her. The erudite Frenchman stood, adorned in traditional evening attire — black tuxedo, white shirt and black satin bow tie — and smiled politely as she reached the chairs. A gold medallion draped around his neck swayed as he bowed slightly. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Corchran. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jacques Foucault.”

  Though the lilt of his voice was cheerful and inviting, the use of her real name pierced like an unexpected stab. A sharp reminder, despite the relaxed ambience, that this meeting would be all business. Unconsciously shifting the purse pressed against her torso, she said, “The name’s Victoria Bradley.”

  Strands of her hair fanned in the wind and blocked her view of the subtle smile upon Foucault’s face. “Mais oui, Mademoiselle Bradley. Will you join me for a glass of Cristal?”

  “No, thank you,” Margaret quickly answered.

  “Quelle déception, mon amie,” Foucault whispered to himself. To Margaret he said, “Please, Mademoiselle, let us sit and talk.”

  Margaret swiped the hair from her eyes and stepped past Foucault to the Adirondack chair on the left. Shifting the book-sized Prada purse to her right hip, she sat and clamped the wispy hem of her dress underneath her crossed legs.

  Foucault retrieved a flute from the table and slowly filled the stemware halfway. Placing it back on the table, he lifted a second glass and did the same. Margaret watched his motions and clenched her jaw when he filled the second flute.

  Reposing in the chair next to her, he raised a glass and said, “À la vôtre.”

  Margaret ignored the toast and stared out at the dark reflection of clouds on the ocean’s surface. Maintaining her vision on the sliding shadows, she brusquely asked, “Can we just get on with this?”

  Foucault savored the light flavor of the champagne’s varietal blend and followed her gaze out to sea. He was disappointed at her gruff, almost childish disposition thus far. She didn’t realize it yet, but there was much he could offer that the unctuous Klaus Navarro could not. Yet Foucault was a patient man, with years of experience cultivating collaborators. This one, he realized after their brief exchange, would involve a greater measure of taming than others.

  Casually brushing grains of sands from his slacks, Foucault asked, “Do you like shrimp, Mademoiselle? One of our courses tonight will be an exquisite curry made with succulent Guyana shrimp.”

  With a roll of her eyes, Margaret thought, I don’t give a f—— what you serve, I’m not touching a speck of it! She turned to Foucault and, ignoring his question, said, “Look, I’ve had a long day. Tell me what you want so I can get out of here.”

  He lifted the glass again for another sip and sighed. A cloud passed in front of the quarter Moon and the beach momentarily descended into darkness. Returning the glass again to the table he softly said, “Se calmer.”

  The remark and the paternal tone of his voice was maddening. Screw this, she thought. This conversation is going nowhere. Reaching into the opening of her purse, Margaret cupped the Sound Stone and snapped, “Calm down? Quit toying with me. Get to the point or I’m out of here.”

  The relaxed Foucault smiled. “Tu fais le bébé. Come now, it is such a beautiful evening. Let us enjoy each other’s company. There will be time after dinner to discuss matters.”

  Her fingers tensed around the Sound Stone and her temper flared. She jumped out of the chair and pulled it from within the purse. Retreating a few steps, Margaret dropped the purse onto the sand and said, “Do you know what this is? If you really did talk to my brother, then you know what I can do with it.”

  Foucault, shaking his head in amusement, raised himself out of the chair, straightened the cuffed sleeves of his shirt, readjusted the medallion hanging between the buttoned dinner jacket’s lapels and stepped back into the wet sand behind him. He extended arms on each side of his body and politely said, “Oui, Mademoiselle. I know what you hold in your hand, though you know only un peu of its powers. By all means, demonstrate your prouesses.”

  Margaret’s face contorted into a mongrel snarl as she raised the Sound Stone to her mouth. A gust of wind pushed against her and she wobbled slightly. Eyes riveted on Foucault, she inhaled deeply, unconcerned that her dress hem ballooned upward and flapped above her waist. Lips crushed against the back of the curved stone, she huffed a fierce tone.

  Expecting Foucault to soar through the night sky and into the water, Margaret was confounded by the smiling Foucault’s unwavering stance — and by the fact that the Sound Stone quivered in her hand. She squatted lower to align with Foucault’s center of gravity and hummed harshly on the bowl-shaped rock again.

  While his jacket rippled from the sound waves emanating from the stone, and a pile of sand plopped over his dress shoes, Foucault remained anchored where he stood. This time, the vibration of the stone nearly caused it to slip from her grip.

  The Moon reappeared from behind the masking cloud and bathed Foucault in bright white light. “You may try one hundred times, madame, and the result will be the same.”

  He watched with pleasure as the expression on Margaret’s face shifted from hate to fear. Lowering his extended arms back to his side, he nodded toward the chair and requested she sit.

  Margaret backed away, darting a panicked look at the chairs, while the lower half of her dress was still pasted against her midsection. Acting quickly, she trained the Stone on one of the chairs and hummed urgently. The chair violently jerked out of the sand and spun rapidly in the air toward Foucault. With his hands cupped in the direction of the spinning chair, he swiftly clapped his inner wrists together. The chair exploded with an ear-splitting snap into hundreds of jagged strips.

  Margaret momentarily gaped with unbelieving eyes before she turned to flee. On her third, stumbling stride, Foucault aimed his cupped hands at her retreating figure and slapped his wrists together again.

 
The colliding blow felt like a baseball bat pounding against the flesh between her shoulders. She staggered forward and splayed face-first onto the beach, her dress shredded by the rending blast of air. Gasping for breath, her nostrils caked with sand, Margaret curled onto her side and coughed to expel the gritty mixture of sand and saliva.

  Foucault motioned to the porters still positioned on the dining platform to leave. Without a word, the porters turned and headed for the plank walkway bisecting the palms. Adjusting his shirt cuffs, he quietly stepped toward Margaret’s sprawled and retching body.

  He knelt next to Margaret and gallantly covered her torn dress with his dinner jacket. Her eyelids fluttered uncontrollably in a futile effort to clear sand from her vision. Gently patting her shoulder, Foucault whispered reassuringly, “There, there, mon enfant. Lie still and I will get a wet cloth for your eyes. Now that you understand the limitations of your Breylofte, we will start our conversation over.”

  Beneath the dining canopy, Foucault poured Margaret a glass of Cristal. Still wiping her red, stinging eyes with a damp linen napkin, she struggled to regain command of her senses. Beside her place at the dinner table rested the Breylofte and her purse. Across the table, Foucault lazily inhaled on a thin cigar and watched her furtive efforts to compose herself. Her cell phone and room key sat on his plate.

  Unable to persuade herself to look at him, Margaret stared down at her lap and pulled his jacket tightly across her chest. The inescapable coarse, sticky feel of sand and salt air layered her arms, legs, neck and hair.

  Tenderly he said, “There is no need to be ashamed. Each of the Lifintyls have countervailing powers. Unless you studied them as long as I have, you would not know this about the Breylofte.”