by Robyn Nyx
Sarah tilted her head before accepting the bill. “Thank you, Miss Rayne. That’s very kind of you.” She turned to leave but paused at the door. “There’s nothing else I can do for you?”
“Actually, I’d really appreciate it if you could brew up a fresh pot of Blue Mountain before you left.”
Sarah seemed to light up at the prospect of being some use.
“Absolutely, Miss Rayne,” she said and pulled the door closed behind her quietly.
Rayne uncapped the Gatorade and used two hands to hold the giant bottle. She drank a third of it before she put it down and unwrapped the Snickers bar. The first bite felt like a little piece of heaven exploding in her mouth, and it obliterated the rancid taste of bitter, repeating wine and bed mouth. If God did make womankind, they were her pièce de résistance, but a Snickers would have to be her second-best invention.
She’d just finished it and washed it down with the remaining drink when her phone beeped to indicate a text message.
Hope the usual remedy works. Have a good meeting. Let me know if TGT is for real?
Rayne smiled at Chase’s text. After an initial frostiness, they’d slipped back relatively easily into their old banter. The conversation and wine flowed, though Chase switched to soda water and didn’t partake of the vintage she’d handpicked at all. Rayne couldn’t recall much beyond the fourth course, other than Chase getting a little irritated about the Zenobia article. God, Rayne prayed she hadn’t promised any appeasement in her drunken state. Her lawyer would go caged lion crazy if she had.
Rayne reluctantly peeled herself out of bed and went to the bathroom. She turned on the side shower, not wanting to get her hair wet from the overhead waterfall fixture, slipped out of her dress, and stepped in. Sometimes the soothing rhythm of steady water over her body stimulated her memory, and she wanted last night’s events to return, especially how she’d ended up in her hotel room. Sadly alone, but Chase was a chivalrous sort and would never have done anything sexual with Rayne in her consent-absentia state. Rayne was almost rueful about that, but if and when she ever bedded Chase, she wanted to remember every moment of it. Not that having Chase would be special in any way, other than how long she’d made Rayne wait, obviously. Rayne just liked to commit every outstanding sexual encounter to memory so she could play them over on her occasional solo evenings. And she had no doubt that Chase would be exceptional in bed. She had very little to base her confident assumption upon other than the few tales of a couple of mutual friends/lovers over the years. Maybe it was about the way Chase carried herself, a confidence and self-assuredness held back by a little insecurity and buoyed by the need to be the best. Chase’s ambition was raised from the embers of a fire far different from Rayne’s. Her need to be the first, best, and only was far more pathological than Chase’s. Hers was born from the counter-balancing motivations of willful neglect and over-the-top, constant pushing from her parents. But that upbringing had given her the tools to overcome anything and become the person she was, a successful and respected antiquities hunter. Well, respected in enough places to soften Chase’s lack of respect for her. Rayne poured the beautifully-scented shower gel onto a loofah, and the bergamot began to soothe her aching head.
Pieces of last night’s dinner conversation began to replay in Rayne’s head. Why had she been so open about the Golden Trinity meeting? Why had she shared the memory of beating her father at chess? The feeling of melancholy at the distance between her and Chase had been growing since she’d left Chase to find her own way home from Cyprus. Maybe she needed to go back to her shrink for a few more sessions. It seemed that the experience in Syria had affected her far more deeply than she wanted, and she should address it before she went soft.
And asking Chase to work with her, what was she thinking? Chase had chosen her path and the high ground. It hadn’t gotten her much further than a half decent tenure at Stanford and a reputation for being a bit of a saint. So what? Would Rayne trade her position, at the top of her game, with multimillionaire clients, and adventures all over the world in first-class style? For what? A middle of the road existence and a beat-up truck?
Rayne scrubbed the sudded-up loofah across her chest when the answer she wanted to say didn’t pop up front and center. Would she want to give this up? Jetting across the country for a business lunch and staying in top class hotels when the room service included making her morning coffee from one of the rarest beans in the world? She wouldn’t swap that for a regular job. She’d be crazy to even consider it, especially just for the approval of a woman. Just because that woman was Chase Stinsen, someone Rayne had always admired far beyond mere sexual attraction. Far better for Chase to join her. Together they’d be unstoppable, but Rayne had blown that chance in Florida when she followed Lauren into this life.
Rayne rinsed off, wanting to wash away this nonsensical reflection along with the soap. Last night had been nice. It had proved they could get along while they both orbited their own worlds. Maybe that should be enough. It was certainly an improvement on relations prior to Syria. And they’d have to come up against each other again in the pursuit of another ancient artifact. Being too friendly would make beating Chase to it awkward. Friends but not too friendly then?
She stepped out of the shower and wrapped a heavy cotton towel around her. The Golden Trinity. That’s what she should be focusing on right now. If Stan Turner was for real and his map legitimate, Rayne could be about to embark on the biggest adventure of her career. And she liked working solo. Right?
* * *
“Tonyck wants you to know that she’s extremely unhappy about them being benched for this meeting,” Jenny said.
Rayne lowered her phone and checked the report Jenny had sent over a few minutes ago. Turner did have an illegal logging operation, but he was also trying to go straight. Finding the treasure of the Golden Trinity would probably mean he’d never have to fell another tree. His finances appeared to be in order, and Jenny commented that his accountant must be a particularly talented one. But he was definitely at the Rodeo Grande with the means to pay for his penthouse suite.
She raised the phone back to her ear. “How does Tonyck think I managed before I employed her and her sister?”
“She says you’ve been lucky, and luck runs out,” Jenny repeated after Rayne had already heard Tonyck respond in the background.
“Super. That’s not ominous at all. I’ll be fine. We’re meeting in one of the most exclusive hotels in San Francisco, not down a back alley in the Castro.” Rayne’s driver pulled into the lobby front of the Grande and stopped the car. “Look, I’m here. I’ll check in in a couple of hours with an update.” Rayne tipped her driver after she’d opened the door for her. “Thanks, Adele.”
Adele smiled, nodded, and went back around to the driver’s seat. “I’ll be waiting in the parking lot beneath the hotel, Ms. Marcellus. Give me a call when you’re ready.”
“Will do.” Rayne straightened her skirt and swept her hand through her hair. “If I don’t call, be sure to send the cavalry,” Rayne said to Jenny and hung up before she heard Tonyck’s inevitable cursing. She couldn’t resist teasing her. Her over-protectiveness was sweet but suffocating and a little bit stifling. It might be worth having a serious conversation with them on her return to redraw the boundaries of their roles and responsibilities.
A quick inquiry at the desk led to a hefty security type escorting her up the elevator and to Turner’s penthouse. When they got to the sixtieth floor, Turner was already at the opened door to his suite. Rayne recognized him from a picture in an earlier email Jenny had sent.
He held his arms out wide to great her. “Welcome, Ms. Marcellus. I’m really glad you agreed to meet me.”
In the twenty feet from the elevator to Turner’s door, Rayne took in all she could to supplement Jenny’s profiling. Expensive suit, a subtle gray pinstripe, perfectly tailored and fitted. High quality English brogues in oxblood red. Matching shirt and gray tie. His outfit declared he was a serious
businessman, but he fidgeted in it just enough to indicate a certain discomfort. The tie reminded her of Chase’s tie last night. It had probably cost more than the rest of her outfit, but Rayne loved that Chase had succumbed to the temptation to have at least one top quality garment in her wardrobe. And she’d looked hot enough to make Rayne want to have Chase fuck her fully clothed. She bet she’d look amazing in a custom made three-piece suit.
Rayne refocused on Turner and extended her hand. “When I saw your evidence, Mr. Turner, it was impossible for me to decline.”
Turner smiled widely and revealed a mouthful of shiny new teeth. Business must be good. Rayne registered they weren’t his own and wondered what had happened to his natural set. Accident? Drugs? Beating?
“Please, come in.” Turner stepped back inside and waited for Rayne to enter before he closed the door with her escort remaining in the corridor.
Two other men were present. A bespectacled guy sat on the couch in a cheap suit and white gloves. Some sort of antiquities guy maybe. He looked up and gave her a quick smile. The second guy stood by the window and was dressed much the same as Turner but looked even more uncomfortable. Something about the way he stood, awkward and ready to bolt, indicated he’d probably be far more at home in jeans, boots, and a shirt. Rayne suspected he was one of Turner’s workers or perhaps a good friend who worked with him. She ruled out lover since Jenny’s report included details of Turner’s penchant for female sex workers.
They both looked harmless enough, which reinforced Rayne’s decision to come alone as a solid one. Turning up with G&T would’ve screamed mistrust and been a bad beginning to their business relationship.
Rayne scoped the large oversized armored-looking briefcase on the table in front of specs guy. It wouldn’t have been out of place at an arms deal. Turner was certainly taking this seriously and clearly believed what he had was genuine. She sat beside specs guy and drummed her fingertips on the case. “Is this the map?”
Turner nodded. “Yes. Yes, it is.” He parked himself directly opposite Rayne and placed his hand on the case. “Would you like to see it?”
Rayne held back the sarcasm that leapt to mind. “Most definitely.”
Turner twisted the case around so that it was facing him, and Rayne could only see the edges. He took his time unfastening the clips, apparently wanting to build Rayne’s anticipation.
“Are you ready to have your mind blown?” Turner asked with more than a hint of the dramatic.
Rayne laughed gently. “I hope so.” And she hoped she hadn’t wasted her time coming here. Turner was excitable, which meant he might be gullible too. Could be that some entrepreneurial kid from an indigenous tribe had done a finger painting, dragged it around a few cedar trees, and sold it to Turner for enough money to keep his tribe fed for a year.
As Turner lifted the lid slowly, Rayne could see a glass box within the case. A crowd of butterflies began to stir in her stomach at the slight prospect that she was about to see something people like her had sought for centuries. Turner finally pushed open the case and turned it around for Rayne to inspect.
Fig tree bark. Logosyllabic Proto-Mayan language. Markings and glyphs in white, red, yellow, black, and green, representing the world as Mayans saw it. She touched the glass, traced the drawings with her fingertips, and allowed the possibility to become a reality. A previously undiscovered piece of twelve-hundred-year-old history, so close she could almost taste it…through its hermetically sealed box.
She looked up at Turner, and if it was possible, his smile had grown so wide that the corners of his mouth almost reached his ears. He clearly registered Rayne’s unspoken acknowledgement that what he had was truly genuine.
“Where did it come from?” she asked, her fingers still resting on the glass lest she remove them and the parchment disappear. She dropped her gaze back to it, desperately trying to take it all in and memorize it all.
Turner pointed to the other guy. “Rich came across it when he was inspecting a felling site. The tree had been cut just above some calloused wood, and he could see a corner of something that just didn’t belong there.”
“Calloused wood?” Rayne asked, having never heard of the term.
“Think of it like a tree’s version of scarring. If the bark is breached in any way, the tree compartmentalizes the wounded area to prevent bacteria getting in and further damaging the tree. It’s self-healing which allows the rest of the tree to recover.” Turner paused, as if to ensure Rayne had understood what he’d explained before he moved on. She nodded, so he continued. “The wound was deep into the exposed trunk—impossible to tell the number of years because tropical trees have no discernible growth rings—but Rich could tell it had been there a long, long time.”
Turner glanced over to Rich and smiled, but Rich said nothing. Rayne stopped herself from asking whether he was mute or just rude.
“If you’re wondering why he hasn’t said anything, it’s because he can’t. His tongue was cut out by a drug gang.”
Rayne silently reprimanded herself for being a judgmental ass and at the same time, wondered if Turner was a mind reader. “Jesus, a drug gang. In Brazil?” Rayne knew little of the drug trade in South America, other than a vague idea that it was mainly a Colombian thing.
“Yes. There’s a war going on between Brazilian and Colombian gangs. Rich stumbled across a trading point on the Japura River when he was…hiking. He was lucky to only lose his tongue. The rest of his party lost their lives.”
Something about the way Turner hesitated and said “hiking” indicated Rich was involved in something a little less palatable than walking in the rain forest. Nothing Jenny had pulled up pointed to Turner being involved in drugs. That was something Rayne stayed well away from. She had no desire to lose any extremities, especially not her tongue. What kind of a lesbian would she be without that? She kept her amusement to herself, but the question remained and it needed addressing.
“Hiking?” Rayne asked. “I have no wish to offend you, Mr. Turner, but I have to be sure. Do you have any involvement in what you’ve just described?”
“Drugs are where you draw the line, Ms. Marcellus?”
The accusation in his tone struck hard. Rayne had cultivated a reputation for dealing in the dark and moving in the shadows; she couldn’t argue with that. And yet, the inference that she could do anything for a trade bothered her. She looked again at the ancient scribbles beneath the glass barrier. She wanted this job, but still… This must be how Chase felt when Rayne offered her the chance to study Zenobia behind closed doors. Christ, was this what she’d become? Hesitant and soft? Maybe she should be wearing a WWCD bracelet: What Would Chase Do? “We all have to draw a line somewhere, Mr. Turner. Even someone like me.” The atmosphere had changed in an instant, and Rayne regretted her stubborn decision not to bring G&T.
Turner laughed abruptly and ended the weird, tense silence. “Absolutely, Ms. Marcellus. But no, I have no connection to any drug dealing activities. Rich and his party were scouting for fresh logging areas. I admit to being an illegal logger in the past. I’m sure your background check illuminated that particular section of my history. But I’m no drug dealer.”
Rayne didn’t care for his smug smile, but she was satisfied with his response. She could usually divine a liar pretty easily, and his answer seemed genuine.
“Should I continue, or have I lost you?”
WWCD? “Please, continue.”
“Rich cut out the top section of the trunk to reveal a box sealed with wood sap.” Turner tapped the glass gently. “Luckily, he didn’t open it immediately. He had a feeling it might be something important, and he’s seen enough treasure hunt programs to know the importance of limiting contact with the atmosphere.” Turner sighed and leaned back in his chair. “When we started the company over two decades ago, we spoke of discovering some wildly fantastical treasure, but we never though that it would actually happen.”
Rayne appreciated his enthusiasm, but her assessment
of him had changed direction somewhat. Where she’d originally thought him rather mellow and harmless, a harder edge had pushed through the pretense and caused Rayne to reconsider who he really was and what he might be capable of.
“What made you think this was linked to the Golden Trinity?” Rayne asked, though she’d read the tale that a tall tree held the secret to the greatest treasure of them all. She just didn’t expect an illegal logger to share her interest in fairytales and folklore.
He clenched his jaw. “I’m not an educated man, but I like history and grew up on adventure stories and Indiana Jones. When we ended up working in South America, I read about the treasure hoards and the Spanish conquests. The fall of the Mayan culture intrigued me greatly, and the thought of all their considerable riches—the Golden Trinity—hidden somewhere in the Brazilian rain forest, what’s not to love?”
“Indeed.” Rayne smiled, but her mind was on fast-forward through the possible scenarios. To what lengths were Turner and his mute colleague prepared to go? They needed her expertise, clearly, but had they thought about the dangers of such an expedition? Booby traps and spiked, deep holes weren’t just the folly of fiction. Where did Turner think that inspiration came from? She was certain he’d want to come along for the discovery, but she was also sure he wasn’t the type of guy who liked roughing it in the jungle with rattlesnakes sliding over his bedroll. Or whatever creepy crawlies were native to Brazil. “How do you see this working, Mr. Turner? What exactly do you want from me?”
He smiled widely, and Rayne was once again drawn to the bright newness of his teeth. Maybe he’d been with his buddy, Rich, when they were looking for a new site and the drug gang had knocked all of his teeth out.
“I want you to decode the map and lead us to the treasure.”
He made it sound easy. Rayne looked again at the bark. Mayan mythology had been her PhD thesis. That’s why he’d called her. That, and her reputation for always delivering, except the occasions where Chase beat her to it. But Chase was the expert on logograms, not Rayne. “Us, who? I have my own team.”