Twelfth Sun

by Mae Clair

  He pressed his lips together, looking like someone who’d swallowed a large piece of sour fruit. Then again, he normally looked that way, Reagan thought as she waited her turn to draw for her and Elijah. Except for the night she’d caught him with Brody. He’d been different then. His demeanor, posture, even his voice.

  She took the last clue in the bowl and looked around the deck for Elijah.

  “You’ll find this round a bit different,” Pellar said, flicking imaginary lint from his pristine cuffs. “Although we’ve already eliminated one group of contenders…” He cast a glance at Alan and Livy sulking in the corner. “Mr. Sothern felt the need to increase the skill level. These clues are three-tiered, since they represent the third in the series. A little something to make all of you think harder.” His lips curled as his eyes slid to the side and touched on Elijah. “We wouldn’t want Dr. Cross getting bored and feeling unchallenged.”

  “Excuse me,” Monica interrupted. Even disturbed, she looked like she was posing for a fashion magazine. “What about the rest of us? I find the clues challenging enough as they are. I don’t have a doctorate degree in marine archeology.”

  Pellar looked her up and down with a raking glance. “Perhaps you should get one.”

  Elijah gave a soft snort. “It doesn’t matter. Brody’s going to walk with the journal anyway.”

  “Speak for yourself, Cross,” Tarvick grunted. He pushed past the others and headed for the door. “Stand around and debate if you want. I’ve got a journal to win.”

  Reagan glanced at Elijah. He shot Pellar a dirty look then frowned at Brody. Finally he stepped to Reagan’s side, mumbling so only she could hear. “Come on. We’re not tossing in the towel yet. I told your uncle I’d help you get the journal for him, and I intend to.”

  He led her from the deck, down the long hallway, still limping as he walked. In the foyer he stopped and nodded to the folded paper in her hand. “Go ahead and read it.”

  “Really? I thought you’d want to wait.”

  “Not this time. Now I know Brody and Pellar aren’t playing fair.”

  Reagan unfolded the paper, wondering how something so simple–retrieving Rook’s journal for her uncle–had grown ugly and complex. She read the brief sentence on the folded paper aloud. Your journey begins at the parental hut.

  Elijah exhaled noisily. “Great. I feel like someone just handed us a bad fortune cookie.”

  Reagan wrinkled her nose, laughing. “It could be worse. No.” She shook her head. “I take that back. This is gibberish. A parental hut? Elijah, where do we start?”

  He rubbed his temple as if scrubbing away a headache. “Um…I don’t know. Let’s drive around. Maybe the fresh air will help.”

  “But whatever we need could be here on Sothern’s property.”

  “I don’t think so.” Elijah held the front door for her. “So far everything we’ve had to retrieve has come from town. Let’s assume Sothern is staying with the same pattern.”

  “Why don’t you let me drive?” She suggested as they walked toward the parking area. He was limping slightly, enough to make her realize he wouldn’t be comfortable driving. The cut hadn’t been deep, but had been enough to stiffen his muscles.

  Elijah dug his keys from his pocket. “If you don’t mind driving my Jeep. We can’t take your car off road, and we might need that kind of access.”

  Reagan held out her hand and he dropped the keys into her palm. It had been a while since she’d driven a stick shift, but it came back to her with a little prompting from Elijah. She turned the Jeep toward Serenity Harbor, her mind already tripping over the absurdity of the clue. A parental hut. Where did Sothern come up with this stuff?

  * * * *

  The drive was pleasant, framed by a near-cloudless sky and a fresh, salt breeze from the ocean. Another time she would have been able to forget the pressure of the riddle, content to bask in the peacefulness of the morning. Gulls glided overhead, calling to one another in eerie singsong voices. They were as much a part of the seascape as the ocean. She’d spent many childhood vacations on the eastern seaboard, listening to the piercing language as it mingled with the roll of the surf. In her mind they were inseparable. One as beautiful as the other.

  The birds flanked them on their journey into town. Reagan slowed as she neared the cluster of shops and restaurants, the small boardwalk with its limited number of attractions. Serenity Harbor wasn’t large, unlike some of the better-known beach resorts further south in New York, Maryland, and New Jersey. The boardwalk was limited to a handful of restaurants, some exclusive shops overlooking the ocean pier, and the standard t-shirt, French fries, ice cream and beach accessory vendors. There were a handful of family amusements, including a wax museum, pinball arcade, merry-go-round and assorted kiddie rides. Uncertain where to head, she pulled into the boardwalk parking lot and killed the engine.

  The asphalt only stretched so far before bumping up against sand and ultimately the ocean. Boats bobbed in the distance on a broad expanse of white-capped water. Growing warm, Reagan rolled down her window. The top of the Jeep was still up, and without the engine running, she couldn’t activate the air conditioning. The Wrangler was fun and rugged, but it was a far cry from the plush comfort of her upscale sedan.

  Beside her, Elijah frowned, staring into the distance, absently drumming his fingers on the dash. She knew he was working on the clue.

  “Maybe it relates to some kind of group home,” she said into the silence. Elijah turned his head to look at her. “You know…like a hostelry for kids, or a youth home where there’s parental supervision. Some private schools have house parents and the children live on site while they learn.”

  “There’s only one problem with that. There’s nothing like that around here.”

  “Alright.” It was still early in the day, but the fact this was the first part of a three-part clue, left her anxious. “Then let’s break it down. Parental. That could relate to guidance or supervision. Instruction, even.”

  Elijah dragged a hand through his hair. “Or basic Mom and Dad. A mom and pop grocery?”

  Reagan latched onto the idea. “Could be. There’s a small market at the southeast corner of town. Would a grocery count as a hut?”

  Elijah sighed. “Probably not.” He dropped his head back against the seat. “I’m sorry I’m not more focused. This thing with Brody gets in the way every time I try to concentrate.”

  She reached to take his hand and her fingers brushed his thigh. She felt a raised outline through the faded denim of his pocket and realized it was probably the silver cross his sister had given him, representing the constellation Crux. Did he carry it daily?

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  He exhaled loudly. “I could use a soda.”

  “Let me guess. Grape?”

  “Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

  She leaned forward to turn the key in the ignition. “Somehow grape soda isn’t at the top of my favorite beverage list. You’ll grow out of it, Elijah.” What kind of man drank grape anyway? It seemed oddly out of fashion and antiquated like sarsaparilla or pop.

  He chuckled. The sound mingled with the engine turning over, and something clicked in her mind like a flashpot exploding. “That’s it!” The connection struck. Twisting in her seat, she smiled eagerly. “Grape soda! The Soda Shack!”

  His expression remained blank. “I don’t get it.”

  “Parental…pop as in father. What’s another word for pop?”

  Elijah groaned as the realization struck. “Soda. And hut is shack. Parental hut. Soda Shack. Damn.” He rubbed his temple. “I should have seen that a mile away. Good work, Reagan.” His lips spread in a broad smile. “You really do have an incredible mind.”

  She grinned over at him, steering the Jeep from the parking lot. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. You can’t be brilliant all of the time. Stick with me and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Elijah laughed. “Did I ever tell you h
ow incredibly sexy I find a woman who uses her mind?”

  “No, but I’m sure you will. Before you go off the deep end, just remember even your considerable charm has limits.”

  Elijah plopped his head back against the seat. His grin was magnetic. “So I guess a short detour to show you what a turn-on I find your mind is out of the question?”

  Reagan bit her lip to keep from smiling. She followed a blue Toyota into the flow of traffic. “Unless it’s part of clue number three, you’ll have to tack it onto the end of the week.” She shot him an amused glance, pleased by his flirting. He seemed to be falling back into his usual spirits after the incident with Brody. “I think you need a cold shower. Either that or a really dry textbook.”

  Elijah exhaled loudly. “At this point,” he mumbled with mock severity, “I’ll settle for a grape soda.”

  Chapter 11

  The front parking lot of the Soda Shack was filled when Elijah and Reagan arrived. The little drink shop-slash-eatery was unusually crowded for the middle of the week, forcing them to park next to a Dumpster at the rear of the building. A few feet away, a delivery truck idled near the back door. A man in a dark green uniform gave them a nod as he wheeled an assortment of boxes from the truck on a handcart.

  Elijah nodded back. He took a moment to stretch, limbering the stiff muscles of his injured leg. Walking around the rear of the Jeep, he hooked his arm over Reagan’s shoulder, enjoying the close contact of her body and the sun-washed fragrance of her hair. Side-by-side, they walked toward the front of the building.

  He hadn’t lied when he said her mind was a turn-on. He’d known from that first awkward encounter in his hotel room she was a quick thinker, but he was only beginning to appreciate the subtleties of how her mind worked. She wasn’t simply beautiful. She was damn sharp-witted too. And that pretty much meant he was a goner.

  Crash and burn. Nose dive. Danger, danger, Will Robinson. Was it possible to be this far gone over a woman he’d only recently met?

  “…find here?”

  Elijah blinked, realizing Reagan had been speaking to him. And what does the brilliant young doctor say in response? “Huh?”

  She looked puzzled. “I asked what you think we’ll find here.”

  “Oh.” Another intellectual, Mensa-inspired comeback. He was on a roll. Grimacing, he held the door for her. “Grape soda. I think.”

  Reagan frowned, realizing the flippant reply didn’t match his expression. “Is something wrong? Is it your leg?”

  He forced himself to concentrate. “I’m fine.” The cocoon of thoughts regarding his relationship with Reagan fell away. He placed a gentle hand in the small of her back and guided her to the counter, realizing he had no idea what he expected to find.

  The beverage shop was crowded, most of the tables filled with morning commuters, locals and early-season tourists. The steady hum of conversation was low and muted, a pleasant drone in the background. Two twenty-something girls ahead of him lingered while placing their order. When they moved to the side, the taller one gave him a prolonged glance from the corner of her eye. Only half conscious of the look, Elijah entwined his hand with Reagan’s, leading her to the counter.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” The gum-chewing, red-haired cashier was unimpressed with his smile. She’d obviously served enough sodas, coffees and teas to send her disposition plummeting. She tilted her head tiredly, giving him a bored look. “What’s it gonna be?”

  “Um…” Elijah hesitated. Inwardly he cringed, realizing he had to be setting a record for one-syllable comebacks. He cleared his throat, refocusing on why they were there. “Whatever Mr. Sothern would have.”

  “Who?” The girl sounded annoyed. She cracked her gum once. “Are you gonna order or what?”

  “Who did you say?”

  A man appeared suddenly at her side. Older, with thinning brown hair and a high forehead, he held a clipboard in one hand and wore a short-sleeved white shirt with a black tie. Elijah did a quick assessment: Owner. Maybe manager. Probably just marked in the delivery from the truck outside.

  “Did you say Sothern?” the man asked.

  Elijah nodded.

  “Go ahead with the rest, Courtney,” the man said to the gum-chewing cashier. “I’ll take care of this.” He frowned at her, noticing her disinterested look for the first time. “And try not to be so enthused,” he mumbled irritably.

  Elijah had the feeling he was stuck with her. They had the same nose and the same chin. Courtney was probably a niece or a cousin’s kid, a family member who needed a job.

  “I’m Dennis Billings.” The man offered his hand and Elijah shook. “My wife and I own the Soda Shack. Step down here, if you don’t mind.” He motioned toward the opposite end of the counter, away from the crowd. With a glance at Reagan, Elijah led the way.

  “Do you have an order?” he asked. “Something for Mr. Sothern?”

  Billings chuckled. “That’s not the way it works.” He turned his back for a moment, stepping to the soda fountain and pouring a large drink. When he returned, he pulled a white envelope from beneath the counter and slid it forward with the drink. “I have something from Mr. Sothern.” He grinned, as if enjoying a secret. “On the house.”

  Elijah’s eyes dropped to the white envelope lying on the counter. He looked at the dark liquid inside the paper cup, watching bubbles rush to the surface between small cubes of ice. He knew before he tasted the drink what he would find, but he plopped a straw into the center and took a sip anyway. “Grape.”

  Billings shrugged apologetically. “Not our most popular flavor. With good reason, I’m afraid, but it’s what I was told to give to anyone mentioning Mr. Sothern’s name.”

  “I see.” Elijah forced a smile. He took the envelope and the drink. “Thank you.” His mind was in overdrive as he guided Reagan to the nearest table. Brody was involved somehow, playing tricks with his mind. He had to be. No one else knew his fondness for grape soda. “Damn.” But how did Brody know he would be the one to draw this particular clue? What if Monica or Tarvick had ended up with it instead? Grape soda would have been meaningless to either of them. Unless the clue drawing was rigged too.

  “Elijah.”

  He didn’t realize he had scrunched the envelope in his hand, mangling it in the center.

  Reagan pulled it gently from his grasp. “This is beginning to look more and more like a set-up,” she said with a tight expression.

  He nodded and plopped into a chair. “It doesn’t make sense. What does Brody have to gain? If he wants the journal, why bother with these stupid clues, and why go to the extra effort of planting something like this?” He motioned to the cup of soda in his hand. Annoyed, he shoved it away and nodded toward the envelope. “Let’s get this over with. What’s the next part?”

  Reagan sat across from him. She opened the envelope, easing a folded slip of paper from inside. Hesitating, she slid it across the table. “You read it.”

  “Right.” He unfolded the paper, pausing to slide on his glasses when he saw the small computer type in the middle of the page. He read the words aloud:

  For the answer you seek

  look above your head.

  The key to unlock the door

  is in the hand of the dead.

  Elijah’s eyes traveled immediately to the ceiling. To the advertisements and posters plastered there, each announcing some businesses or attraction in town…the movie theaters on Oyster Cove and Ninth Street, Tim’s Fresh Seafood on Bayview, the jeweler’s shop on Twelfth Street, P and L’s Marina, the merry-go-round and wax museum off the pier, Oceanside Scenic Cruises, Katie’s Greenhouse and Nursery.

  He groaned. “I really am beginning to hate these clues.”

  Reagan chuckled. “Giving up so easily, Doctor?”

  He shot her a dirty look. “Running out of patience. It’s one thing to feel Sothern has me jumping through hoops, but now I’m starting to think Brody does too. And that pisses me off.”

  Reagan took the
paper and smoothed it flat on the table. “Forget what’s on the ceiling and let’s work backwards,” she suggested. “The key to unlock the door is in the hand of the dead. Is the door literal or figurative? A concrete barrier or something abstract?”

  Elijah scowled. Almost reluctantly, he pulled the grape soda back toward him and took a sip. Then another. “It depends on the character of the dead. Is Sothern relating the clue to something generic…as in dead equals deceased? Or to someone specific?” He paused a moment. “Jeremiah Rook?”

  Reagan sat up straighter. “That would make sense.” She fell silent, mulling the possibilities around in her head. “Everyone who is participating in this hunt is looking for answers. The answers in Rook’s journal. The answers to what happened to the Twelfth Sun. Elijah, I think that’s it!”

  He hedged, unconvinced. “I’m not sure. And even if it’s true, how does that help? Assuming Rook holds the answer, what answer is it?”

  “His own journal,” Reagan persisted.

  He shook his head. “There’s nothing concrete, Reagan. Every clue we’ve had has led to a physical item we’ve had to return to Sothern. We can’t return the journal. We don’t have the journal. It’s the basis of the hunt.”

  “But this is only the second stage of the clue.” Reagan pushed her hair away from her shoulders. Caught up in her thoughts, she snatched the soda from Elijah and took a sip. “The third part of the clue will lead us to something we have to–oh, yuck!” She made a face, looking down into the cup as if wondering how it came to be clutched in her hand. “How do you drink this stuff?”

  He laughed. “It’s an acquired taste.”

  She pushed from her seat. “I need a cup of coffee, and I’m going to use the ladies’ room. Be right back.”

  Elijah watched her walk away, taking a moment to appreciate what a perfectly shaped bottom she had. It was enough to make him forget all about doors, journals and dead keys. But she was a thinker too. He suddenly wondered if she would enjoy making love in a library, surrounded by books. The smell of musty pages and printer’s ink had a manner of stimulating him in more ways than one.