Tag, You're It!

by Penny McCall

  “It takes a person without dust allergies,” Tag muttered, “and with an overdeveloped fondness for books.”

  “A lot of people throw themselves into their work. Maybe you should treat her with respect instead of trying to play her.”

  “You think you can do better?”

  “I know I can,” Alex said. She marched up to the desk and flopped her leather satchel on the counter. “Ms. Newstead?”

  “Yes. Can I help you?”

  “Absolutely. I need access to your research room. Specifically the older maps.” While she was talking she pulled out her driver’s license and her college ID.

  Ms. Newstead didn’t do more than glance at it long enough to note that it was dated four years before. She was on the verge of handing down another refusal until Alex pulled a National Geographic magazine out of her satchel. She made sure she kept the cover turned away from Tag.

  Ms. Newstead looked from the picture to Alex’s face, and when Alex flipped it open to the credits page, the librarian unconsciously straightened in instant respect for anyone represented by the printed word.

  “Dr. Scott,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

  “My… assistant and I are doing some work for an article on the Colorado gold rush, and we need access to your research materials. Of course I’ll include an acknowledgment for you and the library,” she added, squelching the little voice of outrage in her brain—not because she was lying, but because she was using the woman’s own personality quirks against her. It was a tactic Tag would have employed. If he’d come up with it.

  Ms. Newstead bit her lip, glancing over Alex’s shoulder, then leaning in to ask, “So he is with you?” with her eyes still on Tag.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he really an FBI agent?”

  “Did he tell you that? No, sorry, stupid question.” Alex half turned to look at him, shaking her head. “Of course he told you he was with the FBI.”

  Tag had the good sense to keep quiet. He didn’t, however, look apologetic. The rat.

  “Mr. Donovan is a real practical joker,” Alex said, and then realized she needed to explain away her apparent complicity in the lie. “And once in a while I indulge him. I’m sorry if you were offended.”

  “Not at all.” Ms. Newstead pulled out a key card, similar to the ones used by hotels. “The card will give you access to the restricted room, and I assume you know how to handle delicate historical documents?”

  Alex took the card. “There are gloves available in the room?”

  “Of course,” Ms. Newstead said. “Normally a librarian would accompany you, but we’re short-staffed today. And since you’re… well, I’m sure I can trust you, except I’ll have to ask you to leave your bags here. You understand.”

  Alex slipped the magazine back into her satchel, extracted a pad and pen from it, and handed it over.

  The librarian looked expectantly at Tag.

  “Mr. Donovan is carrying our research materials,” Alex explained hastily.

  “That’s not a problem,” Ms. Newstead said, “but I’ll have to see what you’re taking in so I can verify what you’re bringing out.”

  Tag slipped the pack off his shoulder, but he obviously wasn’t keen on sharing its contents.

  “Go on,” Alex said, then to the librarian, “Mr. Donovan is a graphic artist—”

  “And an expert on antiques,” Tag added. As if Alex needed to be convinced he could lie like a trouper. That was the nicest thing she thought about him. This lie was strictly for fun. If it irritated her, too, that was just a bonus.

  “He’s doing the visual aids for the article,” Alex said, her poker face in place, “but he doesn’t like anyone to see his work until it’s finished. No self-confidence whatsoever.”

  Ms. Newstead seemed to warm up to Tag, his neuroses apparently striking a chord with her. “I completely understand,” she said, smiling at Alex but blushing for Tag’s sake, “but I’m afraid he won’t be able to access these particular reference materials unless he follows the rules.”

  Tag joined them at the desk, still not a hundred percent happy about the situation, but coming to the conclusion that he had no choice. He set the backpack down, making sure his Ruger was hidden beneath the clothing inside before he slipped the map out and handed the bag over to the librarian. He laid the map on the counter and carefully unfolded the linen wrapping.

  “Ooooooh.” Ms. Newstead reached out, just touching the corner of the map. “It’s wonderful, so authentic-looking.”

  He slid it away from her fingers. “The secret to a good reproduction is in the materials,” he said, sending Alex a sidelong glance. “The right color ink, old paper—that’s why this is wrapped in cloth.”

  “It’s truly a work of art, Mr. Donovan. However, some of the markings—”

  “The markings are what I need to authenticate,” he said, rewrapping the map. It was one thing to let her see it; he didn’t want her remembering any details.

  He followed Alex down the stairs, leaning against the wall while she worked the door lock to the records room. “You could have a real career as a grifter,” he said.

  “I’ve spent the last few days around an expert, and I’m a fast learner.”

  “Ouch,” he deadpanned. “You should learn to keep your lies simple, though. The more complicated they are, the less believable.”

  “We needed to get into the room. Your way wasn’t working.”

  “Smart women,” he muttered, hearing the bite to his own words and not liking it. “Using your brain too much crowds out the—”

  “Gullibility?” Alex supplied before he could say something insulting. She went to the map section and started reading the labels. “Used to dating stupid women? And I’m using the term ‘dating’ very loosely.”

  “Not stupid, just the ones who know how to let go and have fun. You definitely need more fun in your life.”

  “And you’re going to help me out with that? If the last few days are any indication, I’ll pass.”

  “It’s all in your outlook. If you focus on the negative in every situation, that’s what your life will be about.”

  “Right now my life is about this map, and since I managed to get us in here…”

  Tag slapped the map down on a high, wide table, choosing to ignore her reminder in the interest of his own sanity. “I’d have gotten in here if you gave me half a chance.”

  “So that’s what you’re really cranky about,” she said. “You forced me into this to help you find the treasure, and when I help, you get angry.”

  “I’m not mad. I’m just tired of the scorekeeping. This is about the treasure. Finding it is the only point that counts.”

  “Getting my life back is what matters to me.”

  “I don’t know why, it didn’t seem like it was all that great.”

  “Like you care. All you want is to find the Lost Spaniard.

  Beyond that you don’t know anything about me and you don’t want to.”

  “I asked, and I got two-word sentences and delusions of grandeur. If you’re not willing to share—”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “You can’t have it both ways,” he shot back, getting more and more frustrated, until he remembered she was a woman. Okay, he hadn’t exactly forgotten she was a woman. How could he when his body reminded him on an hourly basis? But she had such a male approach to life, clinical, detached, pragmatic, that when he was dealing with her on an intellectual level it surprised him when he caught a glimpse of emotionally charged illogic in what she said or did. “I don’t care if you want to wallow in the past, just don’t judge me by it.”

  “Maybe I have some things to wallow about. Not everyone can go through life skipping over the unpleasant parts.”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” Tag said, going nose to nose with her over the table. He was already tired, his nerves raw, and she’d struck the wrong chord. “I didn’t grow up rich and pampered. I had to work my
way through college and even after I got the job I always wanted…” It had gone to crap, but he stopped himself from saying that, refused to tell her he’d gotten his partner—his best friend— killed. How he’d almost lost his own life. He didn’t want her pity and he didn’t deserve her sympathy. He was still alive. He was the lucky one.

  “Money doesn’t guarantee happiness,” Alex said. “I’ve been rich, and I’ve been poor. Either way there are more important things.” She stepped back from the table, from him, but the distance she put between them was more than physical. “I imagine you’d like to find that out for yourself, so why don’t we do what we came here to do?”

  She went to the end of the row and started reading map labels. Tag stayed where he was so she could have the space she wanted, but he was still hearing her voice. Not the words, but the tone. Whatever she’d been through had left her hurting and sad, and somehow it had brought her into this treasure hunt long before he’d gotten involved. The question was how? He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer.

  And neither was Alex.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THEY WORKED SILENTLY FOR A WHILE, MULLING over what they’d learned about each other. And what they’d revealed about themselves.

  Tag pulled out map after map, Alex deep-sixed them, one by one. The hand-drawn maps were subject to the personal distortions of whoever had drawn them a century ago. The ones created by the cartographers of the time were too precise to bear a lot of resemblance to Juan Am efforts.

  They finally found one that seemed to fit the bill, with enough physical characteristics in common with Juan’s map to give them hope. Until they realized that the only landmarks the two maps had in common were Denver and Casteel. Not surprising for a time when a person could wander for months without ever seeing another human being, and when they did, the first choice of conversation wasn’t geography. The only topographical features that had well-known names were the big ones: mountains, oceans. Saloons.

  They put Alex’s modern map, Tag’s treasure map, and the single hopeful map from the library side by side. At some point Tag had fetched a Spanish-English dictionary. They’d managed to decipher most of the words, but there was no a-ha moment for either of them. The place names were just names; except for Denver and Casteel—for which Juan had used the original Spanish spelling—they didn’t coincide with any of the towns, cities, or other features listed on the more modern maps. Even the one that should have made sense, Monte Rosalie, didn’t have a contemporary counterpart. There was no Mount Rosalie, or Rosalie Mountain, on the current map.

  “The writing is faded, but Juan didn’t take any pains to make this illegible,” she finally said. “No landmarks are coming to mind, either.”

  “You sure we’re looking at the right area?”

  “It’s the right area, but I don’t see anything here that points to the treasure.”

  “Maybe if we find out where his original claim was, it might help.”

  “We’ll have to go to the National Archives for that.”

  “Does that involve more walking?”

  Alex met his eyes for the first time since their confrontation, her expression back to inscrutable. “It’s about ten miles. If you want to walk some more, we can go to the hotel and get the truck. Otherwise I’d suggest a cab.”

  She started refolding her map and putting away all the things they’d taken off the shelves. Tag watched her, not liking where they’d gone. For four days he’d been trying to get her to open up, and in the space of five minutes he’d managed to take them back to square one. Not only was it counterproductive to his ultimate goal, it was damned boring being stuck with somebody who believed yes and no were complete answers. And mostly what she said to him was no.

  Apparently she didn’t give off that vibe, because the moment they stepped out of the library, she seemed to be attracting a lot of attention, and all of it was male.

  They’d gotten to the library not long after it opened; it was well past lunchtime when they hit the street again, and since there was a concentration of museums and government buildings in the area, the streets were hopping. Alex was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, both of which fit her well, but it wasn’t like she was advertising for companionship.

  “What is it with you and men?” he asked her.

  She didn’t say anything for a second, taking the time to shift her internal focus. And then she looked around, netting herself a suggestive smile whenever she made eye contact. She didn’t smile back, which only seemed to egg them on.

  “You have some sort of secret weapon?”

  “Confidence. I don’t need a man, and I don’t want a man. They know I’m not interested, and men always want what they can’t have.”

  That was probably part of it; Alex definitely came off like she’d be a challenge, and most men liked the chase. But there was something else about her that drew the eye and put the imagination into overdrive. Unfortunately, spending quality time together hadn’t counteracted her effect on him. Or maybe he was a glutton for punishment.

  They caught a taxi, mostly because Tag got tired of watching men fall over their feet when Alex walked by. It didn’t take any time at all at the National Archives to find out that either Juan Amparo had failed to file a claim with the Federal Land Patent Office, or it had been lost. Neither was out of the realm of possibility.

  “The only thing left to do is go back and start looking,” Alex said once they’d stepped out of the cab at their hotel.

  “Can we have dinner first?”

  She sent him a look. “You’re the one in a hurry to find the treasure.”

  Alex headed for the bank of elevators, fighting her way through the lobby, which was packed with women. Tall women, short women, all shapes and sizes, and all impeccably made up. Tag wondered if there was any mascara left in Denver. He wondered if some of them charged by the hour.

  Alex was apparently on the same wavelength. “Are these women here for the Gold Rush?” she wondered out loud.

  “They don’t look like historians,” Tag said.

  “Maybe they’re, you know, here to entertain the conference attendees.”

  “Then they’re in the wrong place,” Tag said. “I don’t see anybody who looks like a conference attendee.”

  Alex stopped and took a better look around. “Y’know, you’re right,” she said, and collared a bellman coming out of the hallway leading to the bank of elevators. “What is the Gold Rush?” she asked him.

  “Transgenders,” the bellman said, looking slightly green, one hand creeping down to hover protectively over his crotch before he took off. He ducked behind the bellstand, relaxing visibly when he had full frontal protection.

  “I was wondering why some of them had Adam’s apples and five o’clock shadows,” Tag said.

  “Trust you to notice.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You were probably looking for cleavage.”

  “Nothing wrong with looking.”

  She grinned. “Nothing wrong at all. In fact, feel free to find yourself a date.”

  “I don’t think it’s me they’re interested in.”

  Alex followed his line of sight and saw three really tall women huddled together, staring at her and whispering. Without another word she headed for the elevator.

  The three women headed off in pursuit, taking advantage of the path Alex was forging through the crowd. Whatever was going on, Tag didn’t intend to miss it. And it was going be good, he decided when the three began shouting “Miss USA!” and begging for autographs.

  They caught up with Alex just as she got to the elevator. Her shoulders slumped, and Tag took pity on her.

  “Sorry ladies, you’re mistaken—”

  One of them elbowed Tag out of the way. They closed ranks and surrounded Alex, all of them clamoring for her autograph and talking a mile a minute. Other Gold Rush attendees, attracted by the commotion, rushed over to see what it was about.

  “
Oh, honey,” one of them said to Alex, “what have you been doing since you gave up your title? Living on a farm in Siberia?”

  Tag couldn’t hear her answer, but he heard the catty comments from the back of the group.

  “Look at her nails,” a tall woman with a manicure by Dracula sniped.

  “And that hair,” her companion said. “It looks like she cut it herself with pruning shears.”

  “Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Tag asked from directly behind the second woman.

  She swung around and glared at him, eye to eye, more than the five o’clock shadow reminding Tag she was really a man, despite the window dressing.

  “Oooo, snap. He’s got a point, sweetie,” the other woman said, adding for Tag’s enlightenment, “Cris is early in the process so the hormones haven’t totally kicked in yet But you’re yummy.” She hip-checked her friend out of the way, running those bloodred nails through the two-day growth of beard on Tag’s cheek.

  “I’m with her,” Tag said, pointing toward the front of the crowd.

  “Miss USA? Lucky boy.”

  “She’s really…”

  “Well, she was. Before the scandal.”

  “Scandal?” Tag said faintly, still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that Alex had told him she was a former Miss USA. And he’d mocked her.

  “Boyfriend, that girl walked away from her title halfway through her reign. Something to do with a man.”

  “Honey,” the other person said, “it’s always about a man.”

  The crowd around Alex began to thin, women peeling off in ones and twos. Tag finally caught sight of Alex. Signing autographs. “Oh. Shit.”

  The elevator pinged, the rest of the crowd backed off, and Alex said, “You coming?”

  “Is that a royal decree?”

  Alex gave him the same wave she’d used in the cabin.

  Tag wasn’t amused. He stepped into the elevator car, watched the numbers on the display count up to three, then stepped off. He didn’t talk, but he was doing a hell of a lot of thinking, and he was taking a lot of sidelong looks at Alex—seeing her in a new light and feeling like a fool.