“Queen Tiye, wife of Amenhotep the Fourth,” Foucault said.
“Did you acquire it through Van der Berg?”
“Non. It was a gift.”
“A gift? Is it a reproduction?”
“Non.”
“A three-thousand-year-old statue in near-original condition? It must be worth a great deal. Who would give such a gift?”
“An old friend,” Foucault said. The sight of Navarro handling the priceless statuette disgusted him. Other than Foucault, the last person to touch it had been Napoleone di Buonaparte. The renowned French general had presented it to Foucault as tribute for his service during Napoleone’s Egyptian campaign.
“Well, it will be a beautiful addition to my collection. In fact, all of these pieces will look splendid in my gallery,” Navarro said, sweeping his arm the length of the mantel.
Over my dead body, thought Foucault, as Navarro replaced the figurine and sashayed his way around a gold, scroll-backed sofa. When the smarmy Argentinian reached his kneeling prisoners, he briefly hovered over Foucault before taking a seat on an armchair facing the two men. He crossed one leg over the other and brushed lint from his olive Armani slacks. Then, from the pocket of his matching suit jacket, he removed a thin, black-bladed knife. He held it up for Foucault and Hunte to see. “A nasty little devil, this one. It nearly decapitated my poor cousin, Nicolás. Where did you get it? I’ve never seen one like it. Another old friend?”
Foucault glared at him. The fool didn’t know it, but his arrogance only served to strengthen Foucault. Dehydrated and weary from his earlier visit with Mereau, Foucault had been in no position to put up a fight against Navarro’s armed men as they stormed toward him outside the chateau. He offered no resistance as they dragged him inside the house and dropped him next to Christian. Dizzy and confused by the surprise intrusion, Foucault had leaned against Christian and asked for water. Navarro’s men had laughed and mocked him. Foucault had lolled, nearly fainting. But then Navarro had entered the room, and Foucault’s ire began to stir. And the more Navarro gloated, the angrier Foucault grew, melting away his weariness. To see Mereau’s blade in the snake’s hand was too much. Foucault answered Navarro’s question by imploring him to kiss his ass. “Va te faire foutre!”
The outburst caused Navarro to titter with laughter. When he quieted down, he wiped faux tears from his eyes and said, “How rude. But I guess I should expect as much from the man who sent a whore to assassinate me.”
His face strained as he leaned forward and slapped Foucault across the face. “You are a coward, Monsieur.”
Foucault slowly raised a hand and massaged his jaw, while Christian spat on Navarro’s Ferragamo loafers. The gesture earned Christian a blow to the side of the head from one of the bodyguards. Christian slumped onto the floor. Foucault bent down to help his friend up, saying, “Calmer, ami. This nonsense will be over soon.”
“Uh-uh. Not so, Monsieur,” Navarro said, twirling the knife in his hand. “I plan to take my sweet time with the both of you, just like I did with your pathetic whore. Just like poor Van der Berg.”
Foucault sighed. He knew, of course, that Navarro had escaped Margaret Corchran’s assassination attempt. Shortly after leaving Anlon Cully and his party at Indio Maiz, Foucault had called Margaret’s cell phone again. Unlike his previous attempts to reach her while awaiting Henri to arrive by helicopter, this time the phone was answered. Upon hearing the male voice on the other end of the line, Foucault had quickly ended the call, presuming the worst. But there had been no time in the immediate aftermath to sort out what had happened at the Finca 6 museum. Foucault had been more focused on retrieving Christian from Greytown’s clinic-hospital and escaping Nicaragua before either the police or Navarro tracked them down.
After returning to his Pézenas estate, Foucault had learned of the murder and kidnapping at Finca 6 on the day in question. The accounts he read indicated the kidnap victim had been a woman, and that she had killed a man before being abducted by three other men. But Foucault could find no mention of Navarro as the murder victim in any of the articles.
From these reports, Foucault assumed Margaret had been intercepted by Navarro’s security detail before she could strike down the troublesome collector. But he had not known whether Navarro himself had been present at Finca 6, nor whether the Argentinian knew about Foucault’s role in the scheme. With Christian bedridden while he recovered from his gunshot wound, Foucault had limited resources to discreetly ferret out the answers to these questions. From Navarro’s jibe, he now knew the answer to both.
“Of course, I can be persuaded to be merciful,” Navarro said, sliding the knife back into his jacket’s pocket. “Give me the Serpent’s Tooth and your bootlicker here will die swiftly. Deny me the Stone, and watch him suffer alongside the whore before I turn the blade on you.”
“Excusez-moi?”
“Oh, how thoughtless of me. Tomas, bring in what’s left of la puta,” Navarro said. As the bodyguard left the room, Navarro stroked his ponytail and smiled at Foucault. “You are surprised, I see. Good, good. I hoped you might be.”
Tomas returned shortly with a limp figure draped over his shoulder. At Navarro’s command, the bodyguard dumped Margaret onto the floor. She rolled onto her side, facing away from Foucault. He stared at her visible wounds with remorseful eyes. Navarro had used Mereau’s knife to slice off her ear, and Foucault could see her thumbs were also missing. From the burn marks dotting her shaved head and the bruises on her arms, it was evident Navarro’s torture had gone beyond employing the knife.
Navarro kicked at her shoulder, causing her to roll on her back. Foucault winced when he saw Margaret’s disfigured face. She was conscious, but she stared vacantly at the ceiling. “What do you think of her necklace? I think it turned out well.”
Navarro tugged down the collar of Margaret’s T-shirt. Below the jagged scar left by Navarro during his machete attack on Margaret in the Amazon, the bastard had carved a snake into Margaret’s upper chest that extended from shoulder to shoulder. Foucault closed his eyes and cursed Navarro.
“Don’t curse me, it is your own fault. Had you been a man and faced me yourself, none of this would have been necessary,” Navarro said.
“You call yourself a man? Only a monster would do such vile things,” Foucault said, fists clenched.
“Ha! What does that make you?” Navarro spat back. “I don’t know you. We’ve never met. And yet, you try to assassinate me! For what? Did I best you in some mining deal? Was I competing for the same piece? What reason did you have to order my death?”
“I did it for you own good!” Foucault shouted.
Navarro laughed maniacally. “My own good? You are insane!”
“The Tuliskaera in your hands would have been a beacon to Muran,” Foucault said. His voice trailed off, “At least, I thought so at the time…”
“Tool-a-what? Muran?”
Foucault stood. “Tuliskaera, imbecile! Your Serpent’s Tooth. The Flash Stone. Whatever you care to call it! Come, I will show it to you. I will show you what it can do!”
“Back on your knees!” Navarro commanded.
“Non! I have no more time for you. Do you want the Stone or not?”
Navarro grabbed the gun from Tomas. “On your knees or your man is dead.”
Christian jumped up and stepped in front of Foucault. Spreading his arms, he shouted at Navarro, “Do it! Do it!”
Navarro’s other man, Manuel, ran up from behind and grabbed Christian around the neck, holding a pistol to his temple. Christian grabbed Manuel’s hand and the gun went off.
In the small parlor, the sound was deafening. Christian and Manuel fell to the ground, smoke hovering in the air. As the two men struggled for control of the gun, Navarro stood frozen, his gun at his side. Tomas, who had ducked beside Navarro when Manuel’s gun fired, now moved to help subdue Christian.
As Foucault pleaded with Christian to stop fighting, Manuel seized control of the weapon and fired twice.
Christian moaned once and collapsed next to Manuel. Forgotten as nothing more than a catatonic heap on the floor, Margaret reached up and flailed her maimed hands at the gun in Navarro’s hand, knocking it loose. Turning to Foucault, she shouted, “Run!”
The command shocked Foucault into action. He took off through the parlor door and into the hallway while Tomas and Navarro scrambled for the gun Margaret had knocked away. Snarling like an animal, she charged at Navarro and knocked him to the floor, leaving Tomas free to collect the weapon while Manuel took off after Foucault.
Tomas turned to see Margaret straddling Navarro, raining blow after blow on his face and head. He did not hesitate. At point-blank range, he fired three shots into Margaret’s back. Her lifeless body fell onto Navarro.
“Get her off me,” cried Navarro, wiggling underneath the dead woman.
Tomas heaved Margaret’s body to the side to find Navarro covered in blood and shaking. Navarro screamed at him, “Kill him! Find him and kill him!”
Tomas nodded and ran off through the parlor door.
Incline Village, Nevada
Antonio and Anlon sat together on the edge of Anlon’s dock. The cloudy sky gave the water a steely hue, one that masked the lake’s natural deep blue beauty. It had been fifteen minutes since Antonio had dragged Anlon from the house, and his friend had yet to say a word.
He had never seen Anlon so angry, so filled with animus. He was sure Anlon’s behavior on the phone was primarily driven by frustration with the whole situation. It was an emotion that Antonio shared. If he’d only been on time, none of it might have happened. Although, he was smart enough to realize there was an equal chance his presence would have made matters worse. The invader might have taken Malinyah’s Sinethal and then killed them both on the spot.
Antonio reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a cigar. Before lighting it, he put an arm around Anlon. “Hang in there, buddy. We’ll figure this out. We’ll get her back.”
Anlon’s eyes remained focused on their dim reflection on the water’s surface. “I don’t know, Skipper. Think I just cocked up our best chance of getting her back.”
“I’m not so sure. I think she’ll call back,” Antonio said, puffing on the lit cigar. “Think about how bad she must want these Stones. All the trouble she’s gone through the last few days to get them. Do you really think she’d risk losing out when she’s this close to getting what she wants?”
“No, probably not. But I can’t give her what she wants,” Anlon said.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Antonio said.
“What do you mean?”
“I assume you’re going to talk with Malinyah, right? To find out about Omereau and the other thing Muran mentioned, the ‘lick-till.’”
“Yeah. I wanted to cool off first, but, yes, I’m going to visit with her when I go back inside. I think I already know what the lyktyl is. She said Pebbles ‘wore’ it. If I’m not mistaken, she was referring to Malinyah’s medallion. And I know who Mereau is, and who has his Sinethal. What I don’t know is why Muran wants it so bad.”
“Good. Talk with her, find out what you can — especially about the Sinethal,” Antonio said.
“Why?” Anlon asked.
Antonio smiled and chomped down on his cigar. “Dylan and I’ve been working on something I think you’ll find very interesting.”
Footsteps pounded along the dock behind them. Turning, they saw a police officer running toward them. He stopped and called out, “She’s on the phone!”
Antonio turned to Anlon and smiled again. “Told ya.”
“Come,” the officer said, impatiently waving his hands. “It’s Miss McCarver! She’s on the phone.”
Anlon jumped up so fast, he nearly knocked Antonio into the lake.
As Anlon dashed down the deck, Emerson came out from the kitchen door with Anlon’s phone to his ear. He descended the steps and then race-walked toward the dock, curving around the stone firepit on his way. They met midway along the path leading from the patio to the deck. Both men were out of breath. Emerson reached the phone toward Anlon. “Here…we’re trying to track her down.”
Anlon grasped the phone, leaning on a nearby pine. “Pebbles?”
“Anlon? Thank God someone answered your phone!” she said in a whisper.
The sound of her voice, even as a whisper, melted away every ounce of weariness weighing upon Anlon. “I’ve been so worried about you. Are you okay?”
“I’m scared to hell right now, but I’m okay,” she said, her voice fading in and out.
“Where are you?”
“California, I think. Could be Arizona. Somewhere in the desert. Motel called Mojave Palms. Hold on…shit!”
The line went dead.
“Pebbles? Pebbles?” Anlon pulled the phone from his ear and said to Emerson, “Lost the call!”
He cycled through his phone app to find the last call. He pressed the number to reconnect the call. Busy signal. “She said she’s at a motel called Mojave Palms.”
Emerson said, “I know. We’ve got people on it.”
An officer stuck his head out the kitchen door. “It’s in California. CHP is already on the way. She called 911 before she called here.”
Antonio came up beside Anlon and tugged him by the arm. “Come on. Let’s go. I’ll call my pilot on the way down the mountain. You coming, Detective?”
“Uh, yeah. Let’s do it,” Emerson said.
The three men ran around the corner of the house to reach the driveway. Emerson commandeered one of the police cruisers and they piled in the car. Just as they were about to take off, Anlon said, “Hold on. Be right back.”
He sprinted up the steps and through the front door. He stopped in the kitchen to grab the steel case holding Malinyah’s Sinethal, then bounded up the stairs to the second floor. In the master bedroom, he tossed the case on the bed and went to the closet. From the open safe, he grabbed a Breylofte, a pair of Dreylaeks and a Naetir. He also snagged Pebbles’ gun and a loaded clip. After loading the collection in the case, he dashed downstairs, out the front door and into the waiting car. With lights flashing and siren blaring, the cruiser took off down Lakeshore Boulevard.
Pézenas, France
The Dreylaeks were in their normal storage spot in Foucault’s dressing room, stacked between his Patek Philippe timepiece and cuff links. Foucault snagged the Stones and instantly began to scrape them against one another. Three shots echoed from the parlor below as Foucault raced back through the bedroom. Quickening his grinding, Foucault emerged into the hallway above the main staircase.
Below, he saw Manuel charging up the stairs, gun raised and pointed in his direction. Foucault slammed the two Stones together and whipped his arms in a slashing motion. A bolt shot forth and cut Manuel in half, his gun tumbling harmlessly down the steps.
Enraged, Foucault pounded down the stairs, kicking Manuel’s torso out of his way on the descent. Tomas came into view through the parlor entrance. He, too, had his gun ready to fire, but his eyes weren’t on Foucault. They were locked on the two halves of his severed colleague. Foucault fired the Dreylaeks again, slicing off the man’s hand that held the gun. Tomas screamed, but it didn’t last long as another jolt from Foucault ended his life.
By the time Foucault burst into the parlor, Navarro was already gone, having scurried out the patio door. Foucault spied Christian and he fell to his knees beside him. One look at his injuries told Foucault there was nothing he could do for his friend. He glanced at the blood surrounding Margaret and concluded the same. Rising, Foucault shouted Navarro’s name and gave chase, grinding the Stones as he ran toward the patio door.
Emerging onto the terrace, Foucault looked around and screamed for Navarro to show himself. It took but a second to see the oleanders to the left of his garden swaying furiously. Foucault sped down the steps and down the garden’s center aisle. He caught a glimpse of Navarro’s ponytail through the sea of flowers and smashed the Dreylaeks together. The arc of the bolt
severed the oleander bushes providing cover for Navarro. A shriek echoed around the bocage bowl formed by the roots of Foucault’s ceiba trees.
Foucault followed the sound and found Navarro, arm missing, cowering on the ground. Without thought or word, he burrowed a bolt through Navarro’s head. Deed done, Foucault turned and fired the Dreylaeks at the remaining oleanders, turning his precious garden into a hellish bonfire.
Chapter 13 – Roller Coaster
Ludlow, California
September 28
The ringing phone jolted Goodwin awake. Grabbing it from the nightstand, he hopped out of bed, glanced over at his sleeping prisoner and quickly exited the room. The midday sun bounced off the car’s windows, attacking Goodwin’s eyes as soon as he stepped outside. Turning his head away from the glare, he approached the car and answered the call. “Hello?”
“You have the girl?” Aja asked.
Goodwin slid into the driver’s seat. “Yes, I have her.”
“What about Malinyah?”
“No. Her Sinethal wasn’t in the house. The girl said Cully keeps it off-site,” Goodwin said, shutting the car door.
“Where?”
“She said she didn’t know.”
“Pah! The girl wears the lyktyl. She knows about Alynioria. You can’t seriously believe she doesn’t know where Cully stores the Stone.”
“Why does it matter?” Goodwin asked. “We have her. We can trade her for Malinyah.”
“I’m tired of waiting!” Aja said. “Make her tell you where it is. I’ll send Kora to take it.”
Goodwin chafed at Aja’s directive. Did she not realize the seriousness of their situations? Did she not realize that every law enforcement agency on the Eastern Seaboard was searching for her? And that, soon, he would likely face the same on the West Coast? To him, their number one priority at present was to seek refuge beyond the reach of the American police, just as they had planned. “Look, we need to get across the border. It’s too risky to try to do anything else at this point.”
Curse of the Painted Lady (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 3) Page 20