Twelfth Sun

by Mae Clair

  Elijah ducked beneath the frame, feeling around for a light inside the door. After a moment, sickly yellow illumination washed down from a bare bulb suspended above. “Okay, just let me wedge the door…” He turned back to the exhibit, confiscating one of the bogus headstones. “The key unlocks it, but doesn’t disengage the tumbler.” He shoved the headstone beneath the knob as a brace, sending Reagan a tired smile. “We’re almost done. It’s a thirty-minute drive back to Sothern’s estate, twenty if I push it. We can pull this off.” He motioned for her to follow and started up the creaking staircase.

  The room at the top was small, windowless and sweltering. A vent at the roof peak was the only avenue for air from the outside. The room felt dead and dry. Sweat started on the back of Reagan’s neck almost immediately, intensifying the feeling of claustrophobia in her chest. Boxes and crates lined the walls, packed with oddities and props used in the museum below. Plastic swords and battle-axes shared space with leather-bound books, small wooden cannons and parasols. Moldy costumes, paste jewelry, and an assortment of men’s and ladies’ hats were piled together in open trunks. There was even a life-size guillotine. Not operational, Reagan hoped.

  “What are we looking for?” She began to pick through the boxes.

  “Memories.”

  Elijah sounded distracted, making Reagan glance over her shoulder. She watched as he inspected an open crate of books. The expression on his face changed from problem-solving intensity to wary surprise as he picked up a slender volume bound in blue leather. He swallowed hard. “I think this is it.”

  “What is?”

  His voice was thick with a disturbing emotion she couldn’t place. Cautiously she walked to his side, watching as he examined the book. His touch was almost reverent as he ran his fingers over the worn edges and faded gold leaf. Reagan craned her neck to see the title: John Feather and the Southern Cross.

  He slipped a finger beneath the cover and opened the book to its title page. Black ink proclaimed ownership in blocky print: E. SOTHERN

  Reagan inhaled sharply. “That’s it, Elijah! It has to be.” She paused, her brows knitting when the pieces wouldn’t fall together. “But I don’t understand the connection to memories. Whose memories?”

  “Mine.” Elijah said grimly. “This is the story Eden used to read to me.” He shook his head, a flash of anger in his eyes. “This is getting too damn coincidental. If Brody is behind this, I can’t figure out why he’s digging into my past. He’s turning into a damn bloodhound. I never told him any of this stuff.”

  “But what does it mean? What’s the connection between your childhood and Rook’s journal? Elijah, why would anyone–” Her words were cut short by a resounding bang.

  Startled, Elijah bolted for the steps.

  Reagan heard the urgent thud of his sneakers against the rickety wood, followed seconds later by a loud rattling. She moved to the top of the staircase and peered down.

  He balled his hand into a fist and pounded it against the door. Gripping the knob, he shook it violently.

  “Fuck!” he snarled. “Someone just locked us in.”

  Chapter 13

  Reagan tried not to think about the time. About each precious second slipping away, inching ever closer to the formidable eight o’clock deadline. For the last ten minutes she had been rooting through the boxes, trying to find something to pry the door. Elijah had already broken two of the fake swords and one battle-axe on the unyielding frame. They’d exhausted their voices calling for help, but the pleas had gone unanswered, and something in the room or building blocked them from getting cell phone reception.

  As Reagan continued her search, she heard Elijah below, mumbling and swearing while he struggled with the door. There was no lock on the inside, and the room was windowless. Whoever had sealed them in had wanted to be damn certain they didn’t reach Sothern’s estate in time for the treasure deadline.

  Brody?

  Reagan shuffled the thought aside, working her way to the back of the room. She couldn’t think about him now. Not about the treasure hunt, Rook’s journal, or even the near-certain failure looming on the horizon. How would she ever face her uncle? Would he understand how hard they had tried? How hard she’d tried on his behalf?

  Her chest tightened. It was sweltering in the room, a veritable oven pressing in on all sides. With each moment, the air grew thicker, making it increasingly hard to breathe. Dust collected in her throat until she thought longingly of a cold glass of water. She wiped the back of one hand across her sticky brow, thankful when a sliver of ocean air filtered through the roof vent. Almost absently, her eyes tracked from the vent to the rear of the room.

  A gaudy feathered hat lay on top of several costumes, its faded blue plume caught in a barely perceptible draft. A draft that could not originate from the vent, she realized with a start. The positioning was wrong.

  A loud clatter interrupted her musing, followed immediately by a furious, pain-filled curse. Elijah’s patience was reaching its end. Concerned, Reagan peeked over the top of the staircase. Below her, he was bent double, teeth gritted, both hands clamped to his leg. She guessed he’d given up trying to pry the door and had decided to apply brute force. Unsuccessfully.

  “Elijah, are you alright?”

  “Yeah.” His voice was tight. He straightened and swiped sweat-soaked hair from his eyes. “Anything up there?”

  “Maybe.” If he’d kicked the door, he’d probably sent a nasty spike of pain up his injured leg. His face was pinched, but he looked angry rather than hurt, ready to rip something–or someone–to shreds. If he ever got his hands on Brody, it wasn’t going to be pleasant. “Come up here,” she said. “I want you to see something.”

  They investigated the rear of the room together after she pointed out the mysterious draft. A flicker of excitement shot through Elijah’s eyes. He dragged the boxes and crates clear of the area. Dropping on his haunches, he felt along the wall from bottom to top.

  “Good one, Reagan. There’s something here.”

  She felt a flush of unexpected pleasure at his praise. A second later he pushed his palm flat against the wall and a recessed panel swung open. Stairs slanted downward at a steep angle, the passage dimly illuminated by strip lighting tacked overhead. Cool, damp air struck them in the face.

  “It’s salty,” Reagan said. “And too cool to be an interior draft. I bet this passage leads straight outside.”

  “I’d say you’re right. Come on.” He took her hand and gave her a quick kiss. “We can still make it if we hurry. Do you have the book?”

  Reagan nodded. She refrained from glancing at her watch, but mentally gauged the time at 7:20. If traffic was bad, if the parking lot was backed up, if they hit every red light between here and Sothern’s coastal home…

  She swallowed hard, determined not to think of all the things that could go wrong. Elijah pulled her down the steps at dizzying speed. When they reached the bottom and flung open the door, they found themselves at the rear of the wax museum, the ocean directly in front of them.

  “Hurry.” Elijah propelled her forward. Rather than thread through the crowds on the boardwalk, he pulled her down onto the beach and raced through the sand. She felt it slide into her open sandals, hampering every step. Elijah ran swiftly, but she knew he was hurting, ignoring a flare of pain each time his foot struck the ground. Chagrined that she couldn’t keep pace, she fell back, nearly stumbling when she hastily kicked off her shoes. Elijah slowed, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Don’t wait for me,” she yelled.

  Scooping up her sandals, she ran after him, easily gaining speed now that the chunky footwear no longer hampered her progress. They reached the Jeep together and clambered inside.

  “What time is it?” Elijah demanded.

  With a sense of dread, Reagan glanced at her watch. “7:33.”

  “We can do this.” He popped the clutch, turning the Jeep into traffic.

  Unconsciously, Reagan held her breath. There wer
e too many cars, too many drivers with no need for urgency. A white mini-van crawled in front of them, a man with blond hair pointing out the fishing pier to his wife and children. Three young faces pressed against the glass, eagerly watching a cabin cruiser cut a swath through the rolling waves. Another time, Reagan would have found the children’s obvious excitement endearing. Now she only wanted the van to move. Wanted the man and his family to take their sightseeing tour somewhere else. “Come on, come on,” she muttered.

  Elijah leaned on the horn. “Damn, Brody, damn him. When I get my hands on that bastard…”

  The minivan turned into a parking stall, the woman in the passenger’s seat sending Elijah an exasperated look when the Jeep streaked past.

  “You don’t know for certain anything that happened today was Brody’s doing,” Reagan countered, but wasn’t convinced. She gripped the dashboard as Elijah maneuvered the boxy Wrangler between vehicles, handling it like a sleek sedan.

  “He wants the journal, Reagan. He knows I’m the stiffest competition. Not only is he setting these damn booby traps, he’s messing with my head. Grape soda, the book, even the earlier clues. Everything points to my past. To Eden leaving. The son-of-a-bitch knows it’s my weak spot.”

  She looked at him sharply. Somehow they’d maneuvered through the congested side streets and were on the main thoroughfare. Elijah picked up speed, streaking through a traffic signal as it turned red. “Your weak spot?” she echoed.

  He floored the gas pedal. “Keep your eyes out for cops. If we get stopped, we’re done.”

  She nodded. The wind felt good on her face, drying the clammy moisture on her brow. She was sweaty and grimy, and knew Elijah had to feel twice as bad. There was dirt on his cheek, streaked with sticky trails of perspiration. She decided he wasn’t being evasive on purpose and tried again.

  “What do you mean your weak spot?”

  He jerked as though wrenched into a conversation that had continued without him. “Huh? Oh…” He scowled. “Some stupid fantasy I’ve had since I was a kid. You know…grown up doctor finds his sister now that he’s a success. Tripe. Garbage. None of it matters.”

  But it did.

  She turned in her seat to study him. Most of the time he was irreverent, his behavior offhand and quirky. This mattered on a deeper level, despite his efforts to shrug it off. In all likelihood she’d hit upon the one thing he couldn’t shove aside.

  “Elijah.” Leaning toward him, she slid a hand onto his thigh. “Eden would be proud of the man you’ve become.”

  He was silent. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. A second later, a smooth grin turned his lips. “How about moving your hand a little higher?”

  She bit her lip. Typical. She’d come to recognize his habit of turning a conversation to sexual innuendo anytime he felt threatened. “You’re very good at that, Doctor.”

  He raised a brow. “At what?”

  “Deflecting conversation. Falling back on innuendo and attitude. You must have done it most of your life to be so skilled.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You try being twelve years old, rubbing elbows with college students. You’d be surprised by the things I got good at.”

  She sat back with a sigh. “I’m just trying to figure you out. For someone with no qualms about sex, you have an awful lot of walls when it comes to intimacy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That relationships are built on trust. Shared trust.”

  He was silent again. The wind whipped through his loose curls as he threaded the Jeep from the left lane to the right and back again, passing slower vehicles as if they were standing still. “Is that what we have?” he asked at last. “A relationship?”

  Something in his voice scared her. The casualness was gone, replaced by a quality that left her bewildered and perplexed. Did he want more than casual sex? Their relationship thus far had been frivolous with touches of deeper longing. Was it possible he desired the same thing she did, more than the pleasure of physical contact? More than sex and a few weeks of fun? Could he care about her the way she already cared about him?

  “I’d like to think it’s what we have. Sometimes I’m not so sure.”

  “Because of me?”

  “You’re hard to read, Elijah. And let’s face it, you’re twenty-five. Odds are against someone your age becoming emotionally attached. When you’re ten years older like me, the pendulum shifts the other way.”

  “I’m glad you’ve had time to analyze this thoroughly. Guess I missed your degree in psychology. Did you pick that up during interior design courses or somewhere between clues two and three?”

  She blinked, uncertain if she should be angry or amused. “I think you just insulted me. That’s my fault for overlooking your annoying predisposition for arrogance.” She said it lightly, spurring him to laughter.

  “Let’s give it a rest. Right now the only thing I’ve got a predisposition to do is wrap my hands around Brody’s neck. Ten-to-one he’s sitting in Sothern’s dining room, sipping wine, certain we’re never going to make it back in time.” He pounded a fist against the steering wheel. “And to think I called that bastard my friend.”

  Reagan was certain if he could have made the Jeep go faster, he would have urged it to light-speed. As it was, he had to be content streaking along at an acceleration that would have netted a hefty fine if a cop spotted them. She stole a glance at her watch and instantly regretted it. 7:54.

  They were never going to make it. All their work and intricate clue solving would mean nothing if they walked through the door at 8:01. She squirmed on her seat, willing Sothern’s estate to come into view. Just a few more miles. Up around the bend, past the jetty that protruded like a bony finger into the gray waters of the Atlantic; past the old bait and tackle shop where local fishermen gathered to tell tales of the one that got away. Past the pull-off for the new marina with its two story restaurant and mock lighthouse; past–

  There it was! She could see the roof line of Sothern’s sprawling home rising like a beacon in the distance. Unconsciously she leaned forward, straining against the seatbelt. 7:58

  “Elijah, hurry!”

  He skidded the Jeep to a halt directly in front of the porch, tires squealing, hot rubber leaving twin streaks of black on the asphalt. Reagan released her seatbelt and was out of the Wrangler before Elijah had killed the engine. She bolted for the door, aware of his presence directly behind her.

  “Run,” he urged.

  She tore through the hallway, heart pounding, the book clutched tightly in her hand. In the back of her mind, the clock ticked down from 7:59, each agonizing second driving a spike into her chest. Elijah reached her side and they burst through the doors of the circular dining room together just as her mental clock struck 8:00.

  “Well.” A group of startled faces turned in their direction, but it was Pellar who spoke. “It looks like you’ve made it, Dr. Cross. Ms. Cassidy. Did you manage to retrieve the item the clue referred to?”

  Reagan couldn’t speak. She shoved the book into Pellar’s hand, her nervous gaze darting over Monica, Tarvick, Alan and Livy. The table had been set for dinner and the clue table was arranged with the retrieved items as usual. Two other copies of the same book were already there. John Feather and the Southern Cross. She swallowed hard, barely able to breathe. Tarvick, Monica and the Franklins were dressed for dinner, each more immaculate than the last. She was gritty and filthy, her hair in wild disarray, most of the strands wormed free of her ponytail. Elijah was worse, his face and jeans streaked with dirt, his hair a mass of long, sweaty curls.

  “We made it,” he growled. “No thanks to Brody. Where is he?”

  Pellar sniffed, looking down his long nose at Elijah. He made no attempt to hide his distaste over the younger man’s unkempt appearance. Withdrawing a handkerchief, he dabbed delicately at his nose.

  “I wouldn’t know, Dr. Cross. Mr. Simpson has failed to solve clue number three. As of now, he’s out of the hunt.”

/>   Chapter 14

  “What do you mean he’s out of the hunt?” Elijah moved toward Pellar, unable to believe his ears. Brody couldn’t be out. He was the one who’d arranged everything, slit the tire on his Jeep, and later locked him and Reagan in the upper room of the wax museum. Brody was behind the clues and their strange inexplicable ties to Elijah’s past. If he wasn’t, and had truly failed to solve the clue, then he was innocent of everything Elijah had accused him of doing. Including trying to harm him by holding him under water.

  Shit.

  Reagan stepped to his side. He felt as if someone had hit him between the eyes. Thoughts tumbled over one another in his head, logic tripping over impossibility, dumping a cold lump in his gut. He glanced to the other copies of the book, already on the clue table, provided by Monica and Tarvick. One looked store-bought, the other from a library. Apparently this time around, everyone had the same item to retrieve.

  Reagan touched his arm, the light sensation struggling to ground him as reality slammed home. If Brody wasn’t involved, that meant someone else was digging into his past, muddying the water and doing a kick-ass job of forcing him through mental cartwheels.

  “Explain this.” He shoved the book under Pellar’s nose.

  The staff manager looked mildly affronted. “You’re delaying dinner, Dr. Cross. Perhaps you and Ms. Cassidy would like to change into something more suitable before joining the others.” He patted his nose with the handkerchief again, fastidiously dabbing each nostril. “I believe the rest of Mr. Sothern’s guests are ready to enjoy the evening meal.”

  “The hell with that. I want to see Sothern.”

  Pellar blinked. He laced his hands beneath his chin. “You really haven’t been paying attention, Doctor. Mr. Sothern was called out of town before the hunt began.”