And God, how many wars?!
Angela remained silent with her head still down, gently smiling at the soft feel of her grandfather’s old blanket. She was suddenly overcome by an almost sickening feeling of guilt for not trying harder. For not realizing sooner. Loss was painful, but regret was forever.
“Angela?”
She looked up at Lillian.
“You know he loved you.”
She frowned. “I know.”
“And he knew you loved him.”
Angela blinked and suddenly began to tear up as she stared back.
Lillian smiled. “He knew without a doubt that you loved him.”
She bit her lip. “Are you sure?”
The older woman nodded. “He did. And told me. Many times.” Tears formed in the corners of Lillian’s eyes. “He never stopped loving you. You were his daughter,” she said. “Just like your mother was. He always called you his daughter. Always. Even when you weren’t speaking to him.”
They were the last words Angela heard before tears poured from her eyes, running down her cheeks. And she wept.
In front of her, Joe Rickards remained quiet. Lillian lowered herself down and wrapped an arm around a sobbing Angela. Her pain was obvious to all, as was the look of regret on her tear-streaked face.
But it was only the first stage. Next would come waves of sadness and remorse. Then, if deep enough, depression. And much further beyond that, at the very end of the darkness, was misery, where days were devoid of any real purpose or meaning.
It was a place Rickards knew well.
15
The long, tense moment was eventually interrupted by a loud ding from Rickards’ phone.
With a quick apology, he pulled it out of his pocket and read the message, then glanced at Angela, who looked up at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I need to get back to the office.”
He stepped forward and tried to add a comforting hand to her shoulder.
“Don’t you need a ride?” Angela asked through her tears.
“I’ll get a cab.”
With only a slight hesitation, he turned and left the room, exiting through the narrow door and turning right into a long, beige hallway.
When he reached the front lobby, he continued briskly outside beneath the entrance’s overhang, where at the end, he turned and walked past a lonely pole, prompting him to pause and peer up at the generic Bus Stop sign, and then down at the small stone bench below it. Thinking about what the woman inside had explained to them, he wondered, just for a moment, what kind of patient he would be when the time came.
***
Rickards knew what was coming the moment his boss asked him to meet.
He spotted Wilkinsen immediately after stepping through the restaurant’s oversized wooden doors. His boss still in his suit as he quietly waited in a high-backed booth, watching several patrons as they squeezed, laughingly, through the crowded aisle.
As he approached, Rickards eyed Wilkinsen’s empty bottle on the table, which was promptly replaced by a young server immediately after he sat down.
He watched silently as Wilkinsen raised the second bottle and drank.
“Everything okay?”
The bottle came down with a clunk. “No, Joe, it’s not.”
“What’s the matter?”
He looked at Rickards sarcastically. “Health and Human Services. That’s what’s the matter.”
“This about my sessions with Dr. Merritt?”
“It’s about everything,” Wilkinsen answered, lowering his gaze and staring through the bottle’s colored glass. “It’s going to wreck you. And me. And I think you know it.”
Rickards leaned back. “I’m fine.”
“No. You’re not.”
“Okay, fine. What do you want me to do?”
“Talk to them. Let them help you. Let someone help you. What you—” Wilkinsen shook his head. “Look, I don’t blame you. And I sure as hell don’t like therapy any more than you do. But Jesus, you’ve got to let her help you. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise, what?”
He took a deep breath. “Otherwise, you go on leave. For your own good. And better that I do it before they do. Because that’ll be a whole different kind of problem for your career.”
“What does that mean?”
“Being put on leave for mental health reasons never comes off your record. Assuming you even care about that anymore.”
Rickards didn’t reply, watching as Wilkinsen took another drink.
“What do you want, Joe?”
His gaze dropped. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve got to try, man.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. You do. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
Rickards’ voice abruptly fell, almost to a growl. “What is the point?!”
“To get through this.”
“For what? Get through it for what?”
“To—” Wilkinsen suddenly stopped, realizing he didn’t have a good answer. “To…survive.”
“Survive?” said Rickards. “For what? A better life? Happiness? What will that give me?” He leaned forward. “Tell me exactly what that will give me?!”
Rickards’ words quickly faded between them like a spear through the chest of reality. Wilkinsen stared at him for a long time, finally picking up his bottle and emptying it in one long gulp.
He had nothing to offer. Nothing at all.
16
The knock on the door was loud, jolting Rickards from his thoughts. He blinked and turned his head before standing up from the couch, flipping on a small table lamp on the way to his front door.
His tired expression was replaced by surprise upon opening it, followed immediately by confusion. “What are you doing here?”
Outside, the shadowed face of Angela Reed stared up at him, frowning. “Is that how you greet everyone who comes to your door?”
“No one comes to my door.”
A forming smile halted and she suddenly found herself unsure how to respond. “Uh, I’m sorry to bother you then. I just wanted to tell you something.”
With a squint, Rickards’ gray-blue eyes peered out over her head. “How did you figure out where I lived?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, changing the subject. “I need to talk to you about my grandfather.”
“Why?”
Now Angela looked confused. “Because…it’s your case?”
“It was my case.”
“What does that mean? It’s not your case anymore? Why not?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Angela frowned. “Why? Did you get fired or something?”
“Or something.”
“Oh my God. Did you actually get fired? I’m sorry. I was only joking.”
“I said it doesn’t matter. Just call down to the office in the morning and they’ll tell you who it’s been given to. Whatever it is you think you have you can tell them.” He began to close the door when Angela reached out to stop it.
“Wait! I still want to talk to you.”
“I just told you I’m not the one writing the report anymore.”
“It’s not about that,” she said, then tilted her head. “Well, maybe a little. But I found something out. Something important.”
Rickards looked at her and sighed. “Honestly, lady. I don’t really care right now.”
“You cared this afternoon.”
“No, I was just curious.”
“And now you’re not?”
“Not really.” Rickards frowned. “Look, I’m sorry about your grandfather, but my partner was right. Whatever the reason was for him and his friend last night, it’s not going to change the conclusion. Pilot error. With a hell of a lot of stupidity thrown in.”
“About that,” Angela Reed said, inching closer to the door. “May I…come in?”
If she was put off at Rickards’ delay in answering, she didn’t show it. Instead, she waited patiently until his glo
wering face reluctantly receded and he opened the door wider.
“Fine.”
Angela promptly stepped in from out of the cold, dusting snowflakes from her black coat’s thick lapels as Rickards closed the door behind her.
The entryway was neat and empty. Clean, with nothing hanging on the walls. Just a set of light brown stairs leading up, with an accompanying white railing. To the left was the living room, sparsely decorated with a few well-styled pieces of furniture and a single table lamp struggling to light the entire room.
“Am I disturbing you?”
Rickards shook his head and motioned to the couch while moving to an upholstered chair on the opposite side of the barren coffee table.
Angela grinned wryly. “Were you just sitting here in the dark?”
“No. That would be weird.”
She laughed at his attempt at humor, then removed her coat and folded it, placing it next to her on the couch as she sat down, along with a small purse.
It was clear Rickards’ mood had changed. And not for the better.
“Are you okay?”
He nodded.
“Well, I hope you’re still at least curious because I discovered something strange.”
“How strange?”
“Strange enough to come here.” She reached into her purse and retrieved several folded papers. “Remember the German writing on the papers Lillian gave us?”
“Gave you,” he corrected.
“Gave me. Well, I had them translated.” She handed him a sheet. “Would you like to read it?”
Rickards blinked and reached out, taking it and flipping it open to read the handwritten text, this time in English.
Easy as it was to conquer the Empire of the Incas, this was not so as regards to the region east of the Andes (known commonly by the designation of La Montana) owing to the impenetrable forests which cover its surfaces.
When he finished, Rickards looked back at Angela with a blank expression. “Am I supposed to know what this is?”
“No. I certainly didn’t.”
He handed her the paper and eased back against the chair. “This is what you wanted to tell me?”
“I wanted you to see it.”
“Because…?”
“Because this is the first piece in what I believe may be a bigger puzzle. And frankly, having someone else see it makes me feel a little less crazy.”
“Why is that?”
“Because that text was written by the one and only Percy Fawcett.”
“Who?”
“Colonel Percy H. Fawcett,” she said. “You’ve never heard of him?”
“Should I have?”
“Probably not. Sometimes I forget not everyone was raised by an obsessed history professor. Surely you’ve heard of Indiana Jones.”
“From the movies?”
“Yes, from the movies.” She nodded. “Played by Harrison Ford. The fictional character of Indiana Jones was based on the real character of Colonel Percy Fawcett, a famous British explorer.”
Rickards’ eyebrows finally rose. “No kidding.”
“Colonel Fawcett was a legend around the turn of the century, and arguably one of the greatest explorers of his time. Right up there with Lewis and Clark.”
“Those names I’ve heard of.”
“Fawcett was one of the earliest explorers ever to venture into South America and what we know now as the Amazon.”
“The rainforest.”
She nodded. “Until the turn of the century, very little was known about huge stretches of South America--or the Amazon, where Colonel Fawcett ultimately disappeared in 1925.”
“So how is he connected to your grandfather?”
“This paragraph, copied from Percy Fawcett’s own writing, was in the letter my great-uncle sent to my grandfather. But it was written in German.”
“Okay?”
“I’m wondering if it was some kind of message. To my grandfather.”
Rickards shrugged. “It talks about the Incas.”
“I don’t think that’s it. As far as I can tell, it’s a small fragment from a book Fawcett wrote about some of his exploits. I looked it up. The rest of the page this came from just talks about how dangerous the area was at the time.”
“So, you’re wondering why your uncle would send that quote to his younger brother.”
“Exactly.”
Rickards thought for a moment. “Well, the other piece of paper was telling him to come quickly. Maybe that paragraph was his way of saying ‘be careful.’”
“Maybe,” she mulled. “But Fawcett was talking about Brazil in his book. My uncle’s letter was sent from Peru. They’re on opposite sides of the continent. And if that was true, why would he cite something from Fawcett’s book instead of just saying be careful?”
“Beats me.”
After a long silence, Rickards reluctantly asked, “You still don’t know when the letter was sent?”
“No.”
“Maybe you should find out.”
She studied another of the pages, the copy of the envelope itself. “I don’t know how I would do that.”
“I may know someone who can help.”
“Really?”
“He’s a friend at the post office.”
“Can the post office figure out when it was sent?”
“I don’t know. But this isn’t just anyone,” Rickards replied. “He’s an investigator. A specialist in things like this.”
“Do you think a date might reveal something?”
He tilted his head, his eyes gradually growing less indifferent. “It might. If nothing else, it may shed some light on what could be the more interesting question: Why was this guy Fawcett’s quote, from his own book, transcribed into German?”
17
The casa, or house in English, was small by most standards, even for Puerto Maldonado, Peru. But it was more than enough for a young, single man in his thirties, though this was something Andre Lopez was hoping to rectify soon. He was following loosely in the footsteps of his father by being engaged to a woman living several hundred kilometers away, working her residency in one of Peru’s state-run hospitals.
The casa was not much, but Katia loved it and thought it had charm, her way of saying potential. Meaning something to be improved upon. This didn’t bother Lopez in the slightest. It was his pleasure, his honor, to build Katia a castle. Even from the inside out.
Still outside, Lopez unlocked the door and reached to retrieve the bag he had set down. Pushing the front door open with a foot, he stepped inside into a darkened interior with old tiled flooring. The room instantly provided a cool respite from the early evening heat.
Bumping the door closed behind him, he sauntered down the narrow hallway into the kitchen, where sheets of plastic covered the kitchen floor. Cupboard doors were removed and the frames sported a fresh coat of yellow paint, giving the room a noticeably lighter feel. Next would come the doors, then counter and sink, and eventually the floor.
Lopez experienced a pleasant feeling every time he looked over the disarray of his kitchen. After absently putting away groceries in the small refrigerator, he turned toward his bedroom to change out of his clean clothes.
He stopped abruptly.
In the small room opposite the kitchen sat his office, neatly packed with most of the items from his cupboards. But the room looked different.
It took Lopez a moment to notice what was missing. His computer. His entire computer, from beneath his desk, leaving a web of tangled cables resting on the dusty tile floor.
He blinked, momentarily unsure of what he was seeing until after several seconds, he stepped forward and peered more intently at the floor.
“Qué—” was all he managed, when suddenly, he spotted a person standing to the side and nearly jumped out of his skin. Lopez’s eyes bulged as he instantly stumbled back, looking for a weapon. “Vete! VETE!” he screamed, turning and finding his hammer behind him.
The other man remained as
calm as ice as he watched Lopez stumble around one edge of the doorway, dodging for safety.
“Sal de aquí!”
Still, the man dressed in plain clothes did not move, just stared intensely through cold blue eyes. Finally, as Lopez continued to scream, the man raised his hand and placed a finger over his lips.
Lopez frantically looked back down the hallway. Seeing no one else, he switched to the other side of the doorway, pointing his hammer at the intruder.
“Silencio,” the stranger said, lowering his hand. With the other, he deliberately raised a black gun with an unusually long barrel.
Lopez froze when he heard someone behind him.
18
The dark hood was ripped off in one forceful motion, instantly exposing Lopez to the bright room and glaring lights overhead. A tuft of his hair stuck straight up and a trickle of blood had dried beneath his left nostril.
He looked around fearfully before his gaze settled on the table directly before him.
Long and clean, with a single person sitting at the other end.
The man was old. Very old. Perhaps in his eighties, with little of his white hair remaining. He had a lean face, with tan, taut skin that left little imagination as to what his skeleton would look like.
To Lopez’s right, one of the men he’d seen at his casa emerged and stood to the side as if waiting for instructions.
“Qué está pasando?” Lopez mumbled, almost crying.
The old man showed no expression and spoke slowly.
“I know you speak English,” he replied in an unfamiliar accent.
Lopez’s jaw trembled. “A little.”
“Your name is Andre Lopez?”
“Sí,” he mumbled. “Yes.” He looked pleadingly at the man standing nearby. “What…did I do? I don’t know.”
The old man calmly stared at him, still without expression. “You are not here because of what you did. You are here because of what you know.”
Still frantic, Lopez looked back and forth between them. “I don’t know anything! I swear it!”
The Last Monument Page 5