“What was that all about?” she asked in a whisper.
“I thought I heard something,” he said quietly.
“Something?” Cold sweat trickled down her back. “You mean like a wild animal?”
Dark eyes rested thoughtfully on her. “I thought I heard footsteps.”
“Footsteps?”
“Human footsteps,” Simon spelled out for her.
The man was making her nervous. “You’re giving me goose bumps,” she said candidly.
Simon flashed her a dazzling smile. “That’s what a man always likes to hear.”
“I didn’t mean those kind of goose bumps,” she quickly denied.
“Of course, you did. You’re just too shy to admit it,” he claimed, unsheathing the machete dangling from his belt.
Her eyes opened wide. “That’s some weapon you’ve got there.”
“Yes, it is.”
She stared at him. “It’s big.”
He grunted.
“It’s huge.”
“Thank you,” he said with a wicked grin.
Sunday could feel herself blush right down to her already red roots. She made a self-conscious gesture. “I meant your weapon...your sword...your blade...whatever you call that darn thing in your hand.”
Simon seemed to be biting the corners of his mouth against another grin. “I know what you meant.”
They continued on their way. The forest floor was thick with vegetation. The trees overhead formed a natural canopy. When the underbrush on either side of the historic elephant track encroached too closely, Simon cleared a path in front of them, swinging his machete from side to side.
“I haven’t seen a single wild elephant since I arrived in Thailand,” Sunday observed.
“You probably won’t,” Simon told her. “At one time, there were three hundred species of elephants.”
“Three hundred different species?”
He nodded. “Now there are two—Elephas maximus and Loxodanta africana.“
“The Asian elephant and the African elephant.”
“Less than a century ago two hundred thousand wild Asian elephants were said to roam the country of Thailand and its neighbors. Now, it’s estimated that only a few thousand remain, most of them in captivity.”
“What happened?”
“Ivory poachers. Thieves. Deforestation.”
“That’s tragic,” Sunday said, feeling a genuine sense of loss.
They came to a fork in the road. Simon stopped, went down on his haunches and examined the trail. Then he straightened, raised his hand to shade the sunlight from his eyes and studied the surrounding mountains.
“We’ll take the path on the right,” he stated.
“By any chance, were you a Boy Scout?” Sunday inquired as she trotted alongside him.
He blinked. “As a matter of fact, I was.”
She permitted herself a small sigh. “I’m not surprised.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You seem right at home in the woods. And you seem to know a lot about survival.”
He made a sound of acknowledgment. “The navy.”
Sunday shot a quick sideways glance at him. “What about the navy?”
“That’s where I learned survival.”
“The city,” she countered.
He scowled. “The city? What about the city?”
“That’s where I learned survival.”
Simon put his head back and laughed. Sunday realized that she loved the sound of his laughter. For that matter, she loved the sound of his deep baritone voice, whether he was talking, singing, whispering sweet suggestions in her ear or groaning with pure unmitigated pleasure when they made love.
A woman should like—she should love—the sound of a man’s voice if she was going to spend the rest of her life listening to it, Sunday admonished herself.
Was she going to spend the rest of her life with Simon?
The truth was, they’d never discussed the future. They had only spoken occasionally of the past and usually of the present, the here and now.
Could she imagine a future with Simon in it?
Could she imagine a future without him?
They hiked for another quarter of an hour, before Simon announced, “We’re almost there.”
“Where is there?” she asked.
“The ancient elephant watering hole.”
Sunday managed not to make a face. She could almost picture what an elephant watering hole must look like, its banks trampled and oozing with thick mud, its once crystal-clear waters turned dun brown, vultures perched in a nearby tree waiting patiently for the weak and sick animals to drop to the parched ground.
She couldn’t have been more wrong. They came around a bend in the centuries-old track, and there, before them, was a pristine pond.
She reached for Simon’s hand. “It’s perfect.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Did you know it was here?”
He shook his head.
Terraced layers of rock had been fashioned by the forces of nature. A cascading waterfall dropped some fifty feet from the cliffs above into a series of descending pools. At the bottom was a placid pond, lush, green grass and verdant shade trees. There were songbirds in the branches overhead and small silvery fish in the water at their feet.
“It doesn’t look like anyone, or anything, has been here in a long time,” she observed.
“I would say it’s been a very long time.”
“The water is so clear, I can see the rocks on the bottom of the pond.” Sunday wiped the perspiration from her upper lip with the back of her hand. She suddenly realized how hot and thirsty she was. “Do you think we could go swimming?”
Simon leaned over and dipped his hand in the water. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“The water is too cold.”
She skimmed her fingers along the surface of the pond. “Brrrrr. It’s ice-cold.”
“Probably comes from the mountains,” Simon said, dropping to the grass. “How about a drink of lukewarm water and a piece of fruit that Siri packed for us?”
“That’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” Sunday said, plunking herself down beside him.
* * *
It was some time later, after they’d shared several bananas and some cold rice, and taken turns sipping from Simon’s canteen that Sunday leaned back on her elbows, raised her face to the noonday sun and murmured contentedly, “Now what?”
Simon shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“We don’t go anywhere. This is it.”
She opened her eyes and stared at him. “This is what?“
“The end of the trail. As far as we venture. Our final destination,” he elaborated.
“There isn’t a single Buddha in sight,” she remarked, not in the least bit concerned by it.
“Not a one,” Simon agreed.
Sunday couldn’t quite stifle the yawn that overtook her.
“Tired?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“We could take a few minutes of R and R, if you like,” he suggested, stretching out lazily on the soft carpet of grass beside the tranquil pool.
“There aren’t any nesting cobras around here, are there?” she inquired, half-serious.
“Nope.”
“Are you certain?”
“I’m certain.”
She couldn’t resist teasing him just a little. “I wouldn’t want to be bitten, you know.”
“The only thing around here that’s likely to bite you is me,” Simon warned, pulling her down beside him.
Sunday went into his arms, and it was the most natural place in the world for her to be.
When had she so utterly and completely fallen in love with this man? After all, she’d known Simon for less than two weeks, a fortnight, some three hundred hours.
Was time an illusion when it came to matters of the heart?
Any furt
her speculation came to an abrupt halt as Simon brought his mouth down on hers. He inhaled her breath, drank from her lips, filled his hands with her until Sunday knew that his embrace was truly heaven on earth.
“Heaven,” she murmured.
Simon raised his head. “What?”
“Kissing you is heaven,” she said, not really wanting to talk.
He went still.
She forced her eyes open, and looked at Simon. He had the oddest expression on his face. “What is it?”
He sat up, taking her with him. “You’re brilliant.”
She didn’t understand. “Th-Thank you.”
“You’ve given me an idea.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said dryly.
“I didn’t mean that kind of idea.” Simon draped his arm across her shoulders. “Look around you, Sunday. What do you see?”
She realized he was serious. She looked around her. “I see a pond.”
“Go on,” he urged.
“I see trees and rocks and grass and blue skies.”
“Keep going.”
“The sun and a few white clouds.”
“Lower,” he suggested.
Sunday sank her teeth into her lip and vowed she was not going to glance down at Simon’s lap. She cleared her throat. “There’s a waterfall, of course.”
“And?”
“Water.”
“And?”
“Where the waterfall hits the rocks, there’s a kind of mist...” Sunday allowed her voice to trail off.
“You might even say it was a—”
She saw what he was getting at. “Heavenly mist.”
“Bingo!”
“The Hidden Buddha of the Heavenly Mist,” she recited in its entirety. “Do you think it’s possible?”
Simon gave a sigh. “I’m beginning to think anything is possible.” He got to his feet and held his hand out to her. “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s see if it’s merely myth and legend, or if there’s something to this map of yours.”
They made their way around the pond in the direction of the waterfall. The closer they got, the clearer it became that there was something behind the curtain of water.
“Watch your step. The rocks are slippery,” Simon indicated as they turned their backs to the stone cliffs and inched their way along a narrow ledge.
A fine mist covered both of them by the time they slipped behind the waterfall.
Then, for a moment, for an eternity, the only sound Sunday could hear was the thundering beat of her own heart. “Simon, look!” She pointed.
It was a door, man-made, oversize and expertly hewn from the natural stone. The entrance was encased in thick vines and jungle vegetation that had grown up over the centuries. In the center of the stone portal, covered with moss and ravaged by time, was a sculpture—a bas-relief—of an elephant.
“A sacred white elephant,” Sunday murmured as she brushed away enough of the grime to reveal light-colored stone beneath.
Simon hacked away with his machete. They both put their weight and shoulders to the fulcrum point. Very slowly, the door began to open, and they stepped inside.
It was a large, vaulted, cavernous room. Natural sunlight flooded into the room from above. There was a great gaping hole in what had once been the ceiling, only a portion of which remained intact. The pile of rubble at their feet testified to where the remainder had gone.
“Whatever this place is,” Sunday said, whispering, “it’s definitely hidden.”
“I think I know what it was,” Simon spoke up.
“What?”
“A temple.”
Trees—fig and silk-cotton trees, according to Simon—thrived on top of the temple walls. Their gnarled and twisting roots reached down like huge tentacles to grasp the tumbled-down stones. Sunday studied the intricate carvings on the stones: dancing figures, fierce dragons, great battles, demons and heavenly nymphs, and everywhere depictions of the sacred white elephant.
“An ancient temple?” she said in a hushed, reverent tone.
Simon rubbed his chin. “I’m no expert, of course, but I’d guess twelfth century.”
Sunday found the thought mind-boggling. “That’s almost a thousand years ago.”
“Yup.”
“Where do you think these stone steps lead?”
“Let’s find out.” Simon grasped her hand in his—he expertly balanced his machete in the other hand—and together they climbed the winding, narrow stairway.
It led to another, smaller room. The only object in the room was a pedestal. And there, sitting in the center of the pedestal, was a statue of the Buddha. It, too, was covered with snakelike vines and vegetation and a millenium of neglect.
The statue wasn’t large and it wasn’t small. From top to bottom, Sunday calculated, the seated figure was no more than four feet tall. It appeared to be carved from solid rock.
“White marble?” she speculated.
Simon nodded. “And no doubt weighs hundreds of pounds.”
“That’s odd,” she said.
He came up to stand beside her. “What is?”
“The eyes are red. Isn’t it unusual for the Buddha to be depicted with red eyes?”
“Very unusual.”
Carefully, gingerly, Sunday pulled a vine away from the face of the statue. “There are bits of colored glass draped around the shoulders and the wrists, almost like a necklace and bracelet.”
“It wasn’t uncommon to adorn the Buddha. Some statues are encrusted with stones.”
“Gemstones?”
“Precious and semiprecious gemstones, and sometimes just bits of colored glass,” said Simon as he perused the temple chamber.
Sunday bent over and scooped up a handful of pebbles from the floor around the statue. The stones were all sizes and shapes, and ranged from pale pink to dark purple. Several of the larger ones were a deep, iridescent shade of red.
Sunday gazed at her palm. “Fire.”
“What is?”
“The color of these rocks is like fire.”
Simon peered over her shoulder. “Not fire. Blood.”
Sunday wiped the stones against the pant leg of her jeans. What was it Simon had said to her on the journey from Chiang Mai? The answer came to her. The earlier settlers had built temples to Buddha and filled them with artifacts, religious treasures and rare pigeon’s blood rubies.
Her hand began to shake. “Ohmigod!”
Stunned, she stood there for a moment without moving, without speaking.
Simon must have sensed her agitation. He slipped a supporting arm around her waist. “What is it, sweetheart?”
Sunday stared down at the stones. Could they be? Something told her they were.
“Rubies,” she managed to say in a hoarse whisper.
Simon plucked one of the larger stones from her hand and examined it closely. “Could be,” he allowed. “If they are, you’re holding a fortune in your hand.” He looked up at her with a thoughtful expression on his face. “The man who sold you the map did say it would lead you to happiness and riches.”
She didn’t want riches. Not this kind, anyway, Sunday realized. And she had already found all the happiness she could ever hope for in Simon’s arms.
She took a deep breath and dropped the stones, one by one, into the lap of the Buddha. “They aren’t mine,” she stated unequivocally. “I came to Thailand in search of something. I believe I’ve found it.”
“What about the rubies?”
“I don’t want them,” she said simply.
“Well, I do” came an icy cold voice from directly behind them as the ice-cold barrel of a gun was pressed into Sunday’s back.
Thirteen
“Son of a bitch,” Simon muttered under his breath.
“Turn around slowly,” cautioned a masculine voice directly behind him.
There was something vaguely familiar about that voice, Simon realized, but he couldn’t seem to put a face with it. Of course, identifying the b
astard might well be the least of his problems. He had to buy himself some time—time to think, time to act, maybe time to save Sunday’s neck and his. “What the—?”
“Mind your p’s and q’s, Hazard. My comrade has a gun pointed at Ms. Harrington’s lovely back.”
Simon started to turn around. “So help me God, if I ever get my hands on you!”
“Tut-tut. Speaking of hands, put yours behind your head where I’ll be able to see them at all times.”
Adrenaline was shooting into Simon’s bloodstream. Every one of his senses was on red alert. But he understood the necessity of keeping his wits about him and maintaining a poker face. He knew only too well the price he and Sunday might pay if he didn’t.
Hands behind his head, fingers interlaced, Simon slowly turned to face his adversary. “Nigel Grimwade,” he stated, making certain that his expression and his tone gave nothing away. It was a technique he’d used to great advantage in big business.
Nigel’s handsome features were momentarily marred by a boyish pout. “You don’t seemed surprised, somehow, Hazard.”
“I can’t say that I am.”
“What do you want me to do with the Harrington woman?” inquired Nigel’s companion.
“Bring her over here,” he said.
Simon gave a nod of acknowledgment. “Mrs. Grimwade.”
The young woman laughed. “I’m not his wife.”
The Grimwades’ marital status—or the lack of it—was none of his concern. He was curious about one thing, however, Simon discovered. “What happened to your Australian accents?”
“We’re not Australian,” claimed the young woman.
“What are you, then?” asked Sunday as the two women joined the men.
“Classically trained,” answered Nigel as he brandished his revolver at them.
“The Old Vic,” added the female who had previously called herself his wife.
“Royal Shakespearean,” Nigel chimed in.
Sunday made a disparaging sound. “You’re actors!”
His reply was a sly one. “You might say that.”
The woman was less reticent. “We’re independent contractors. We serve anyone or any country that wants to hire us. And someone has hired us to follow the map.”
The Maddening Model (Hazards, Inc.) Page 11