“Colts. You mean he’s still alive?”
*
Danny helped Ben out of bed and offered him a shoulder as he staggered to the doorway. Danny had found two antique walking sticks that he guessed former residents had used to help negotiate the unforgiving local terrain.
However he’d found them, Ben was grateful.
He followed Danny along the carpeted corridor to a doorway almost identical to his own. The door was ajar; Danny knocked and opened it without waiting for an invitation.
The room was impressive, even compared to Ben’s; again it seemed vaguely familiar. The walls were a soft shade of maroon, a fact attributed to the morning sunlight that shone brightly against the closed curtains. Danny opened them slightly, allowing the strong rays of light to reveal a thick pall of dust particles floating above the window ledge. The room’s centrepiece was an impressive four-poster bed covered with a bright red bedspread that matched the surrounding décor. The original oak frame stood on a maroon rug that complemented the curtains whilst the walls were decorated with paintings, save on one side where an original fireplace burned with a warm orange glow that Ben could feel even from across the room. There was a human form below the covers, a head visible on the pillows.
Ben looked on in disbelief.
Colts was lying there awake, smiling at him.
“Well, good morning, cowboy.”
Ben stood at the end of the bed, speechless. “Colts.”
“I know what you must be thinking, Ben.”
“It must be four hundred degrees under that cover.”
Colts grinned. “More like four hundred and one. But even living over here for thirty years, I never did understand the difference between Fahrenheit and Celsius.”
Ben edged his way towards the side of the bed and lowered himself into the accompanying armchair, accepting Danny’s help. Walking was already starting to make his thigh hurt.
Colts was invisible except for his head, the top of which was uncharacteristically hatless.
“Anyone ever tell you, you look like Denzel Washington without your hat?”
“Matter of fact, I heard Morgan Freeman. But that was with the hat.”
Ben grinned, inwardly filled with emotion. Judging by Colts’s facial appearance and voice, he was stable. “I hear you lost your car keys?”
“Oh, that’s fine; I’ve got insurance.”
“And witnesses,” Ben added; he detected an edge to Colts’s voice that he attributed more to urgency than pain. “It might take a bit more talking to explain away the gun.”
“That and Mr Nicholl’s.” He moved away his duvet, revealing most of his body. Pyjama bottoms covered his legs, a white T-shirt his torso. There was strapping close to the stomach region; it was unclear how serious the bleeding had been.
“What happened?”
“I’m guessing the same thing that happened to you.” Colts gestured with his eyes to Ben’s left thigh.
Though the wound had been bandaged, Ben had insisted it remain partially open. “My granddaddy once told me these things heal better when you give them room to breathe.”
“Your granddaddy an expert on guns?”
“Expert on fishing.”
“Tell me, if he was your granddaddy, would that make him TF’s grandson?”
“Actually he was from the other side. The other one married TF’s son’s daughter. She’s actually still alive; still living in the same house TF’s son bought on emigrating.”
“Let me guess? She married another Maloney!”
Ben smiled wryly. “Let’s just say, he wasn’t exactly a keeper. Nana always was fiercely independent. Back in the First World War, her mother had been caught up in the whole suffragette thing.”
“Wow, that sure is some incredible family history there, Ben.”
“Not as fascinating as some.” He glanced briefly at Danny and gritted his teeth. “What really made you lose your gun?”
Colts laughed though Ben sensed he was being unnecessarily casual. “Sometimes in life, Ben, a man needs to take a few chances. When a man’s lying in the gutter, darkness clouding all around like a giant moon passing over the sun, the last thing he can afford to do is hesitate.”
“Interesting analogy; I’m guessing the man with the peacock hat once felt the same way. And cover yourself up, for God’s sake.”
Colts grinned, though he complied. “Miss Flores, whether you choose to believe it or not, was just as concerned down in that mine as you were. She feared for her life just as anyone would. Experiencing something new like that, hell, it’s enough to drive a person crazy.”
Ben was quietly furious. “She shot a man dead. She took the stone and that goddamn peacock wig and left me to die. What type of woman does that?”
“Clearly you’re not the master of women I thought you were, Ben. You never experienced hot and cold?”
“I’ve never had someone I thought was a friend leave me to die.”
Colts grinned; it was the same grin Ben had become used to, if only a little weaker than before. “A woman brought up in the heart of rural Spain, living the last seven years of her life safe in St Mary’s or whiling her time away in the solitude of a big old romantic lighthouse, well, Ben, between you and me, that just ain’t what most girls would ever understand. You throw a life-threatening catastrophe into the mix; it’s at times like this, when a person fears the worst, when the fickleness of humanity is there for all to see.”
Ben took a deep breath. It was true, he knew. Life-and-death situations could cause someone to have a moment of weakness, act out of character. He tried to think about it from her perspective and shook his head.
The bitch shot a man and left me to die.
“Where is she now?”
“Beats me. The little bitch took off in my motor.”
Ben slapped his hands against the armrests, momentarily forgetting about his wound. He grimaced and attempted to gather himself, feelings of rage quickly intensifying.
“Well, she can’t have got that far, surely. I mean, it’s not like she’s gonna be rich on options. She’s just found one of the greatest treasures known to man, we know exactly how she came here, and we know her name, age and address.”
“There’s just one problem,” Colts said, his tone more serious. “Neither of us can walk.”
“Fortunately, mine’s just a flesh wound.” Ben attempted to control himself, any bitter feelings relinquished with his breathing. Colts was right; he knew that. It would take days before he could walk again properly.
They both needed medical care.
“My cousin is still missing. I checked my phone; there’s still no word. No voicemail, no text, not even an email. There’s nothing from Hammitt or any of the other goddamn idiots who claim to be running the law. Leg or no leg, I have no choice, I’m heading back to St Mary’s. The Spaniards are dead; if Chris is alive, I need to hurry.”
“Sit down,” Colts ordered, raising himself up. He reached for a half-finished glass of water on the bedside table; Danny leaned over to assist him.
He drained the glass and said to Ben, “I know this isn’t exactly what you had planned for your little escapade here. You come over here with your cousin, thinking you’d maybe get a little love, have a few drinks, enjoy a little vacation, only to find life does a big old poop in your face. All this while, you’ve been talking about your cousin. Truth is, you’ve still got nothing but speculation.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know exactly what you’re thinking, Ben. Some old black guy from Missouri sits you down in a bar, tells you a story that this thing you’ve been searching for might be the desired bounty of others, only natural you care to investigate. Then, one time, these same men so happen to come down in a helicopter and point a gun at your back; why, it’s inevitable you’re gonna jump to conclusions.”
Ben could feel the anger building within him. “You listen to me, Colts. I told you before. I don’t want anything to do with this goddamned trea
sure or its goddamned curse. One hundred years ago it saw the end of my great-great-granddaddy; God only knows who else. I sure as hell ain’t gonna let some Spaniard do the same to Chris.”
“Despite what you may think, Ben, it was not Juan Cortés who abducted your cousin.”
“What are you talking about?”
Ben saw something out of the corner of his eye.
Someone was standing behind him in the doorway.
8
St Mary’s, 9 a.m.
The small airplane came in to land on the greasy tarmac of the main runway of St Mary’s Airport. Valeria watched from the window, making out the features of nearby Old Town shrouded in gloom while, beyond it, the coast of Hugh Town was alive with its usual colour, its boats decorating the harbour like a miniature Monaco. A light rain was falling and had been for some time. The sky was grey; further rain appeared imminent. According to the forecast, thunder was expected in early evening.
She knew she had chosen the best time to fly.
She waited patiently in her seat until the pilot gave the all-clear for passengers to remove their seat belts. The plane was the usual type: a de Havilland Canada Twin Otter that had propellers on both sides and a total of nineteen available seats, three of which remained vacant. She had caught the flight at Land’s End; in total it lasted less than thirty minutes. She never enjoyed flying, but today doing so in something so small and primitive in wet conditions was unavoidable.
Fortunately, it was now over.
She had driven the van to Penzance and parked in the same place from which Colts had collected it. She had contemplated taking it all the way to Land’s End, but decided against it. Colts was dead; she guessed the others were too.
Any sign of it being hastily parked elsewhere would surely attract later attention.
She spent the night in a B&B near Land’s End; it was either that or sail Colts’s cabin cruiser all the way back. Though the forecast was better than it had been the previous evening, she decided sailing alone was too great a risk. She took a room overlooking the coast and paid with cash; the owners were retired grandparents who thrived on informalities.
The only thing she knew about them was that the B&B had no affiliation with Nicholl.
She left at first light and took a taxi to the airport after purchasing a plane ticket online. As usual, proceedings had been swift.
She carried only hand luggage.
As the main door opened, she headed out on to the runway and gazed at her surroundings. Like the airport at Land’s End, it was basic, served by two runways and overlooked by the coast and fields. A public footpath was located south of the runway. There were warning lights flashing; she remembered from past experience they existed to warn off ignorant ramblers. The terminal was small and reminded her of a service station on a motorway.
Standing on the tarmac, she considered her options: she could walk or get a taxi. She looked at the sky; rain touched her hair and face.
She decided on the taxi.
*
She asked to be dropped off midway between the Gibbous Moon and the harbour; the driver stopped far enough from the inn’s entrance to ensure her arrival wouldn’t be viewed by the staff. She decided to visit her boat first and lock her bags away below deck, knowing that taking them inside the inn would inevitably arouse suspicion.
The lobby was deserted on arrival, which concerned her. She was technically not due to work until the evening, and Danny was meant to have the morning shift covered.
As far as the staff were aware, Nicholl was not due to return from the mainland for over a week.
She saw someone enter the reception area from the dining room; he had dark hair, a white shirt and was smiling inanely.
“Gary?” She recognised the barman she had last run into with Ben in the North Atlantic Inn. Though Nicholl liked to rotate his barmen between the North Atlantic and the Gibbous Moon, this was the first time she had seen him on reception.
“Where is Danny?”
His smile faded. “Beats the hell out of me. Got a call from Mr Nicholl early yesterday morning. Danny left a note, saying it was urgent.”
“You’re here alone?”
“Josh has just finished.”
Another barman she associated primarily with the other pub. His words troubled her. Nicholl gave the message. “Danny’s gone?”
“Left a message on the desk, night before last. Apparently he had to go with Nicholl to the mainland. Some kind of emergency.”
Valeria swallowed, doing her best to keep calm. If Danny had come to England to see Nicholl, he was potentially involved.
Gary gave her a strange look. “Everything okay?”
She faked a smile. “I’m fine, thank you. I’m just feeling a little off colour.”
“You don’t look it.” He winked at her. “What time you starting?”
“That’s actually why I’m here. Abuela, she is very poorly. I must take her to the doctor’s immediately.”
Abuela. Or Grandmother Flores, the man mused. The old girl was over seventy and still beating the men off with a stick, literally. He remembered meeting her; it was the most bizarre sensation ever. She looked like Valeria – the nose, the cheeks – only old.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You gonna be okay?”
Another forced smile. “I’ll be fine, thank you. I will be back tomorrow.”
*
She spent ten minutes checking things over, a sign of the owner’s trust and seniority. The rooms last used by Chris, Ben and Colts were still to be vacated, though the cleaners had seen to Colts’s and Ben’s. Chris’s room was still a pigsty, furniture overturned as though it had been hit by a tornado. She searched Ben’s and Colts’s for left-behind belongings and found nothing of interest.
The important stuff they had taken to Cornwall.
Her boat was moored exactly where she had left it; her usual spot in the harbour. The last time she had used it had been with Ben before they had discovered the rose stone.
It already seemed a distant memory.
The Santa Estella was the fourth boat to have been given that name. Her grandmother had owned the third, a small blue thing that she had bought for less than £6,000 from Kernow. The second had been smaller still, a century-old rowing boat her great-grandmother had used with her own grandmother back in Spain.
Valeria had never seen the first two.
The newest was a cabin cruiser, another bargain buy, this time from Nicholl. Like the vessel Colts had used to take them to Penzance, it had a small galley below deck and could reach twelve knots without breaking a sweat.
She climbed aboard and prepared to cast off. After retrieving her rucksack from the living quarters, she placed it down by the captain’s seat, alongside the second, larger bag she had found by chance in Godolphin. She waited until she was safely away from the mooring before examining the contents. Light shone from within, like diamonds in a cavern of ice. The legends of old had been authenticated, a great step taken.
If the same legend was true, it would lead to even more.
9
Ben felt raw with emotion. The sight before him was simply unimaginable. Since the moment of Chris’s disappearance, it was as if life had taken on a whole new form – that he had entered into some strange new dimension or alternate reality from which he would eventually escape.
Memories of the mine were still hazy. The entrance had been found after following clues in the diary; TF had clearly discovered it and ventured inside. Whether he had seen the treasure or not remained unclear. The route had led them to a subterranean wall that could only be opened with a key – five keys. They had possessed four out of five.
Another had brought the fifth.
The Spaniards’ arrival had given rise to every possible emotion and state of being: hatred, gratitude, relief, fear, anger, excitement, surprise . . . most of all confusion. Ben was still unsure exactly how they had entered; what followed, he remembered even less clearly. The gunfire had b
een meant for them too. All four of them had been shot. All of them had been dead.
All of them.
Ben stared in disbelief at the man by the doorway. He was dressed in pale-blue jeans that complemented a white T-shirt showing evidence of red stains. His face was drawn, the skin around his eyes shadowed by deep shades of purple. His cheeks were scarred, his arms even more so. There was a heaviness about him that he hadn’t experienced before, its reason self-explanatory. The man had suffered great personal loss. But he was standing.
Alive.
“You?”
Juan Cortés folded his arms and shuffled for comfort against the frame of the door. He eyed Ben with a sour expression.
Unlike Ben, he had complete control of his limbs.
Ben had never felt so angry. Without awaiting further explanation, he left his seat and limped in a semblance of a charge towards the doorway.
Danny blocked his path. “Ben, wait.”
Despite the injury to his leg, movement suddenly felt a lot easier. Adrenaline was flowing throughout his body, his eyes centred solely on his target, his hatred absolute. The man had been responsible for everything bad that had happened since his arrival.
“Ben.”
Danny grabbed him around his shoulders, his grip surprisingly strong. Ben felt the extra weight constrict him, but he managed to stay on his feet.
“What the hell have you done to my cousin?”
Cortés watched from a safe distance, a raised eyebrow his only gesture. He looked on with controlled patience as Danny wrestled Ben to the ground.
“I have already told your friends everything that needs to be told. As for your cousin, we have been through this many times; to go through it again would waste what little energy either of us presently possess.”
Ben struggled against Danny’s excess strength, enraged he was losing so easily. He saw Cortés move away from the door and look down on him from directly above. The Spaniard’s eyes were unblinking, impenetrable, as if focused solely on one imperative task. For what felt like minutes, they stared at each other.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 35