Then, Cortés held out his hand.
Ben contemplated the offer and refused. Using Danny and the nearby bed, he struggled to his feet, only to find his path to Cortés again blocked by Danny.
“You bastard. Because of you, we nearly got killed. What the hell have you done with my cousin?”
Cortés turned towards the fireplace and rubbed his hands against his cheeks. He remembered as a child his mother had told him the story of Jesus and Peter: how the apostle had denied him three times, the last of which occurred while he warmed his hands by a fire. He understood the story was a test of faith, how sometimes in life history would repeat itself.
He saw the American begin to calm himself, his body coming to rest in the armchair. The man was a wreck; the condition of his left leg confirmed he had been shot. There were red stains around his thigh, blood seeping.
He sensed the wound had reopened. “If you’re not careful, it will become infected. Quickly, it needs to be re-sewn.”
Ben had no option but to listen. Danny had already warned him that even minimal pressure on the leg could cause the wound to reopen.
Fortunately, the damage was only minor.
He sat awkwardly in silence as Cortés repaired the damage with a lightly heated needle and thread, holding Ben’s thigh tightly with his free hand.
Ben sensed unnecessarily tightly.
Colts watched from his bed, his position adjusted for a better view. It was evident from the Spaniard’s actions he had done something similar before.
“You consider yourself an expert on bullet wounds, friend?” Colts asked, his eyes on the man’s patchwork. “Either that or you’ve got some fine embroidery skills.”
Cortés completed the latest stitch and glanced over his shoulder. “Growing up in a family such as mine exposes one to a great range of skills. When times were tough, my grandmother would take on work for much of the village. It is a small part of the world; in America you might refer to it as uncivilised. Not the type of place where a seamstress is easily found.”
Colts raised an eyebrow. “I understand you live in the home of your ancestors?”
“I do.”
Colts grinned. “What are you, asset rich and cash poor?”
Cortés delayed giving a response; Ben sensed he was offended. “In places like Medellín, our people often had little choice but to grow up to be self-reliant. If some in the village possessed the skills needed in lesser quantities, they looked to their elders for guidance. Fortunately, these days much has changed.”
The Spaniard licked the tips of his fingers and threaded the needle tightly through the area where the skin was strongest. Though Ben found it painful, it was obvious the man was a greater expert than Danny.
He saw Cortés look at him, cockeyed. “Something on your mind, American?”
Ben had much on his mind, thoughts of Chris most prominent. He recalled his conversation with Colts in the bar of the Gibbous Moon. He spoke of a friend, a colleague, who had been searching in vain for the treasure.
Until the Spaniards came.
“I thought you were dead.”
“You thought wrong.”
Ben bit down hard on his lower lip, trying to ignore the pain. He could tell from the condition of the wound, things were improving. “I saw you die.”
“You saw what you thought was me die.” He looked Ben in the eye; his deep-brown irises carried a unique glint that Ben could only attribute to life experience. The man had been wounded, weakened. There was padding beneath his T-shirt, somewhere within the six-pack.
“What the hell happened?”
“I came prepared – at least better than you. We both had a narrow escape.”
“Mr Cortés was still alive when I found you,” Danny said; since Cortés had taken over repairing Ben’s wound, he had taken to quietly observing. “I took you out through the pub; you were conscious most of the way.”
If he was, Ben didn’t remember it. “Go on.”
“Just as we were approaching the ridge near where the gold was, I heard a groan. Mr Cortés was shot close to his kidneys, but fortunately the wounded area was protected by some kind of padded vest. The bullet only partially entered the skin. The shock of being shot must’ve knocked him unconscious.”
Mixed with the shock of losing the others, Ben thought. “I saw blood coming from your mouth.”
Cortés huffed. “Perhaps you saw the blood of my cousin; the same blood that stains your own garments.”
Ben swallowed, deciding it was plausible. “And the others?”
Cortés exhaled deeply; Danny shook his head.
Ben nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Cortés returned his gaze. “Why? His killer saved your life.”
True enough. Ben remembered Pizarro had been in the process of shooting him. “His killer also tried to kill me. It’s a complicated situation.”
Cortés made a final loop with the needle and tied the ends together. Ben surveyed his handiwork, feeling the thread with his fingers. He glanced at Colts.
“Man wasn’t kidding about his grandmother,” Colts said.
Ben ignored him. “What really happened to my cousin?”
Cortés’s expression soured. “Do you have difficulty in hearing?”
“Hey, I never asked for any of this. I don’t care if that was the great Aztec treasure; I don’t care if that was only a part of it. I came here because my ancestor was murdered.”
“And why did he come?” Cortés leaned in close to him, his fiery eyes ablaze with aggression. “The story of your ancestor is equally worthy of renown; even in Spain there are many who are familiar with his great tale. The spirit of adventure is not something every man can understand. Others, they have a far different problem. It is never an easy process, discovering one’s limits.”
Ben took a deep breath, sought to respond but instead stifled a groan. True enough, he was still to understand everything about his great-great-grandfather; if he had died sticking his nose into the affairs of others, he had paid a steep price.
“What happened to TF happened over a hundred years ago. It’s ancient history now. My cousin did nothing to deserve this.”
“Deserve what?”
“Mr Maloney’s cousin has been missing for three days.” Danny moved alongside him. “His hotel room had clearly been disturbed. I myself had been the first to enter.”
“You saw it alone?” Cortés asked.
“No. He was with me,” Ben returned. He placed his hand to his face; the soft hair of his beard felt much longer than he was used to.
He rose to his feet and ambled slowly towards the far side of the room, stopping in front of a large antique wall mirror. His eyes retained their usual colour, a pale shade of blue that he seemed to have inherited from the female side of his family; they always appeared tired of late.
His face was rougher, but nothing a day of moisturising wouldn’t fix. The beard was starting to become dishevelled, which he hated. Women don’t like it when you’re scruffy, Nana always said. There were cuts to his cheeks and around his right ear, wear and tear from the mine, perhaps a fall. His hair was dirty, but strangely satisfying.
Still handsome, he thought despondently.
“My cousin was staying in the same inn as I was.” He returned to his seat, using a chest of drawers for support. “He’d been struck down with food poisoning the night before.”
“The owner?”
Danny shook his head. “Unlikely.”
“You don’t sound so sure,” Colts said.
Danny shrugged. “I’ve been working for Mr Nicholl for almost seven years. He values reputation above all things. If any word of food poisoning were to get out, it would be bad for business.”
Ben was unconvinced. “Once upon a time, maybe. You saw what was down there. The man was a closet billionaire.”
“Either way, you never spoke to him like I did. Folks in these parts don’t remember fondly the millionaires or the super-rich. Only those who ac
t with integrity. Generosity.”
Ben smiled wryly. Even now the loyal employee defended his master. “Tell me something else, friend.” The word had become entrenched in his vocabulary. “If he didn’t do it, who did? Must’ve been someone with a key to the room.”
“Not necessarily,” Colts interjected. “You said yourself, your cousin was ill. For all you know, he could have dropped a key.”
“No. I checked on him after dinner, chatted with him. He was already back in the room; the key was on the desk. There was only one original.”
“Perhaps a curious person came to visit and knocked on his door whilst he was still awake,” Cortés said, clearly stirring. “The intruder may have entered on invitation.”
“Or at least been granted an opportunity to put a foot inside the door,” Colts added.
Ben bit his lip. As much as he hated to admit it, it was possible. “Then we’re back to square one.” He took a seat in the armchair and rubbed his temples. He felt his eyes beginning to well up. “For all I know, my cousin is already dead.”
Colts watched quietly, worried that thoughts of Chris were bringing out the worst in Ben, clouding his mind.
“Aren’t we forgetting something?” Colts added. “One other candidate.”
Danny knew what Colts was getting at. “You really think she’s capable of that?”
A light bulb began to flicker inside Ben’s mind as he finally caught on. “Valeria? You think she kidnapped my cousin?”
Danny’s expression remained non-committal, Colts less so. “Who else knew where your cousin was staying? Who else was present in the hotel that evening?”
Ben rubbed hard at his temples, trying to recall the events of three nights earlier. After a day out of action, concentrating made him nauseous. Other than himself, there were only three people who knew for certain where Chris was staying: Nicholl, Valeria and Danny. It was possible Colts also knew, but Ben decided he wasn’t a likely candidate.
Ben looked at him.
“What is it?” Colts asked.
“Does she have a track record for that sort of thing?”
“Beats me.” Colts looked at Cortés. “You know your cousin better than anybody.”
The Spaniard laughed ironically. “Nobody in their right mind should trust the descendants of the mad emperor. Their minds are poisoned at an early age, their dreams tainted with tales of gold and lust, to reclaim what they believe to be rightfully theirs.” He turned and looked at Ben. “I assume you searched her lighthouse thoroughly?”
The more Ben thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded. The girl had saved him from inevitable decapitation; had her grandmother had her way, he would have been dispatched with a butcher’s knife. The entire night had been one of little rest; when one stone was discovered, the search for another began. She had been with him, assisted him.
Then he remembered.
He had gone to the lighthouse looking for Chris.
Then the Spaniards came.
He looked at Cortés and stood up. “Okay. I’m going to ask you one more time. If you can look me in the eye and say you didn’t take him, I promise I’ll believe you.”
Cortés took a long pause and replied with firm eye contact, “Myself and my colleagues spent the entire day at the castle of the star. Check with the receptionist if you do not believe me.”
Ben bit his lip, undecided whether he was relieved or disappointed. Chris had disappeared; the food poisoning had surely been deliberate. He remembered that Nicholl had been absent that evening. The only two people present were the chef and the waitress.
Valeria.
Ben was riled. “I need to get back to St Mary’s.”
“Try as you might, I fear you will not get very far,” Cortés said.
Danny agreed. “I keep telling you, Ben. The wound needs time to heal. You need professional help.”
“Your friend is correct. Even though the damage was only a flesh wound, act rashly now and all will be lost.” Cortés walked towards him, stopping so close Ben could smell his cologne. It was the same brand he had worn at the lighthouse; he remembered the attack, being punched, winded, waiting for the moment his life would end. It brought back unpleasant memories, feelings of hate, fear, anger, oppression.
Whether he had taken Chris or not, the man had stolen TF’s diary and left him to rot in the lighthouse.
“The treasure of my ancestor has been found; it remains in the mine, a secret to the wider world,” Cortés said.
“Except for one other person,” Ben added.
“Such vast quantities are too great for any one person; nor do I expect her to return. That which she came for has already been taken. The fate of the treasure is now of the greatest importance.”
Ben was incredulous. “How the hell can you still believe that? You lost your friends, your cousin . . .”
“It is to them I owe this honour; and in honour of them, I must give thanks. You are the descendant of the great Dr Maloney; surely you as well as any must understand.”
“I told you before, I don’t care about any goddamn treasure. I need to return for my cousin.”
“And what if he is dead?” The question was blunt. “I, too, have suffered great loss. Their bodies remain in the mine, rotting away like dead cattle. The fate of every man is unknown. Leave now and you risk more than you can ever dare gain.”
Colts eyed Cortés sceptically from his pillow; though the Spaniard was proving surprisingly talkative, he detected he was keeping something close to his chest.
“Forgive my prior assumption, friend, but your family has never exactly had a reputation for sharing. Less than a day ago, why, I’d guess you were right about ready to do a number on everyone in this room.”
Cortés turned to Colts and slowly approached the bed. “Too much blood has already been shed. In the chronicles of the conquistadors, my ancestor wept under a tree for those lost because of greed.”
“La Noche Triste.” Colts grinned with realisation.
Cortés nodded and looked at Danny. “It is because of this man I am alive, that we all are. The treasure of my ancestors has been lost for many centuries. Now it is found. All in this room have proved themselves worthy. Take what you can and go in peace with it. I ask only that you respect the legacy of its liberator.”
Ben jumped from his seat and went straight for Cortés’s throat. “The legacy of its liberator. Hernán Cortés was a thief. A bloodthirsty mercenary who sold his own friends and country.”
Cortés put up a block and struck Ben away with a single blow. “Never insult the memory of my ancestor in front of me.”
Ben stumbled but remained on his feet. “Cortés saw his men butchered for his own greed. His granddaughter lost her crew for the same thing. History repeats itself. Three of your friends died for this. Do you know nothing of being human?”
Cortés thrust Ben’s hands from his chest, returning a strong stare. “Whatever you think of me, I surely cannot change. I see you have already made up your mind. The quest for my family’s legacy has been my family’s goal for over four centuries; I owe it to them to see its rightful return. Nor shall I have it that my friends and family died in vain.”
He turned again to Colts. “You all must do what is right for yourselves. In the meantime, I must bury my friends.”
10
Valeria kept her boat at a private jetty close to the lighthouse. She had designed the layout herself, inspired by one she had seen twenty years earlier on the Río Almonte near her home. Once upon a time it had served the third incarnation of the Santa Estella, which her grandmother had bought on setting up home on St Mary’s.
She remembered her grandmother had been almost inconsolable the day she’d been scrapped.
She moored the boat in the usual place, securing the ropes to a stout wooden pole located at the end of the boardwalk. She double-checked it before taking the pathway, concerned the developing storm that had seemingly followed her flight from Land’s End was fin
ally again ready to unleash its fury.
Rising waves were starting to crash against the wooden supports, hitting the boat and flooding the pathway. The nearby flagpole swayed from side to side, causing the fabric to straighten and expand as it caught the gale, its halyard echoing ceaselessly as it banged against the metal body. A familiar tuneless whistling noise reverberated as the wind penetrated the gaps in the nearby wooden walls; in her younger days she had associated the sound with the paranormal. A peculiar thought entered her mind: if the spirits of the past were visiting her now, what feelings did they harbour: those of triumph or betrayal? She thought of Cortés, the men of the present and past. Then the emperor of Mexico. If there was such a thing as justice, she had applied it.
He would be pleased, she thought.
The pathway wound from right to left, circling the lighthouse. She loved the way the base was perched on a rocky outcrop, looking out to sea like a child standing on a large box.
The door to the lighthouse was closed as usual; it was always locked unless open for visitors. Adjoining the main structure, the accompanying house was equally quiet. There were no lights shining from the windows; no one wandering the meandering pathway that led to the main door. It felt lonely, another familiar feeling. There were days when she hated it and craved the company of others.
Today she was grateful to be alone.
The front door had been replaced since she left. Though, predictably, her grandmother had wasted no time in employing the local handyman, the wooden frame was still clearly unstable, its white exterior showing clear signs of recent damage.
Had she not witnessed it herself, she would never have guessed Cortés and Pizarro would have been capable of creating such chaos.
The door opened slowly and at an awkward angle. A howling wind swept through the hallway, causing a book to fly open on the nearby table and several papers to become scattered across the floor. The movements brought back painful memories: Ben, the photocopied diary, the conflict that followed, images stalking her like ghosts from the past.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 36