by Jackson, Pam
She was confused by his actions. He came on like a tiger in heat, stealing wicked stares and gentle touches here and there—but it was just enough to make her crazy, never close to what she really wanted. He was an awful tease. It reminded her of how she’d behaved when she’d wanted to become star employee at Tivoli’s gallery. But that was her past; never again would she hurt another heart.
Karma, baby, you get what you deserve.
# # #
As Andie showered, her senses became renewed. She had showered in an outside stall before, but usually it was during the summer after a lengthy swim in warm, salty water. Although the outside air was cool, her aching muscles were relaxing under the heat of the water. Her skin was red and warm, and she closed her eyes to let her mind wander. Images of a young and frightened Katherine Onderdonk, being held captive in a dark, damp cave, played out in her head. A flash to a handsome eighteenth century man promising everlasting love and devotion to her, the jeweled pen knife sparkling in the candlelight as she held it to her own throat.
The memory was not Andie’s, but it was somehow familiar.
She could smell the stagnant air in the cave and see the outline of Claudius’s face, his dark hair pulled back in a red ribbon, the candlelight casting shadows along his strong jawline. His dark eyes, wide and full of desire.
Come closer. She heard the silky voice whisper in her head. Andie didn’t know whether these were her own thoughts or Katherine’s. It’s you ...
The sharp cry of a red-tailed hawk startled her, and the memory was instantly lost. Over the top of the wooden shower stall, she could see this beautiful bird circling, searching for prey. Its wings outstretched, it glided with ease, riding the current of a cool April breeze. Long wisps of purple and pink clouds streamed against the pale blue sky as the remnants of the sun’s rays sank below the horizon. In the east, darker, heavier clouds hung low in the sky, and with the darkness of night approaching, the soaring hawk’s image evaporated into the haze of dusk.
Andie stepped from the stall, now dressed in the lightweight black turtleneck she’d worn under her warmer clothes. The night air was more humid than the morning had been, and she hoped a warm front was moving in. Her damp hiking pants felt cool against her legs, and she knew the breathable fabric would dry quickly when she returned to the warmth of the cabin. She had lost her backpack on the snowmobile, so she was grateful that she had dressed in layers, since all of her changes of clothing were swept into the gorge and were now drifting down the river toward Manhattan and then out to sea.
As she dried her hair with a towel from the cabin’s tiny linen closet, she noticed a heavy fog rolling in and settling low against the distant tree line. The snow would be melting fast with this warm night air, and it would be much easier for someone to travel the trails on foot. She prayed that Luca Eberstark was dead, but she felt a shiver of anxiety—she was running out of time. When Eberstark didn’t report back, she knew Tivoli would send more mercenaries. It would never end.
They needed to find that cave. She would concentrate on the map and her research and stop entertaining any notion of writhing naked with Clay.
She entered the cabin and noticed that Clay had prepared some MREs for dinner. The smell of food made her stomach grumble louder than before.
“I hope you like beef goulash, or chicken with basil and red sauce. This was all that was left in my emergency bag.” He placed the small, steaming trays on the table and motioned for her to have a seat.
“Wow, MREs. I haven’t had these since I was a teenager. My dad had some around the house, just in case of power outages or God knows what kind of disaster he thought might hit.” She was referring to the military’s prepackaged, freeze-dried food known as Meals, Ready to Eat. “Umm, yeah, definitely the chicken. The goulash always looked weird to me.” She smiled. She was grateful for Clay’s gallant behavior, not just in the kitchen, but from the moment they had met.
She felt guilt in her heart as she remembered how she had treated him at the cliff after he had saved her life and how she had tried to manipulate the map from him and steal his snowmobile. She couldn’t have done this without him. If she hadn’t met him, she surely would be dead.
“Great, I love the goulash,” he said, handing her the tray with chunks of chicken and gravy topped with a white marshmallow-like substance that might have been mashed potatoes.
She noticed his eyes slipping over her form-fitting turtleneck as he took a bite of his dinner. “Maybe one of these modern maps on the wall can help us with the location of the cave,” she said, shifting in her chair and changing her position. It wouldn’t be long before her dirty little mind checked itself into his jeans. “We can compare the location of the grove on your Uncle Owen’s map to one of these hunting trail maps.” She took a bite of the chicken, realizing she should’ve taken the goulash. It would’ve been easier to swallow the food if her palate hadn’t been exposed to the finest restaurants on the planet.
“Sure, help yourself. Luke has a collection of old Indian trail maps, too, over there in that old chest.” He pointed with his booted foot to a leather steamer trunk in the corner, one hand occupied with the fork and the other holding the edge of the MRE container. Probably a habit picked up from years of eating outdoors on military exercises and missions. Tables were not readily available in hot zones around the world.
He stood up from the kitchen table and began to fill one of the empty water bladders with hot water from the cast iron pot. “Well, I’ll be back in a few. Stay inside, Andie. Okay?” He glanced back at her as he walked out the door. “We’ll find it, honey. Don’t worry.”
She eyed the heavy steamer trunk in the corner of the room and pulled her chair up to it. The side of the lid was lined with cheap, rusted tin and creaked with a noisy riot as she opened the lid. “Oh, my God!” she said in amazement. “Look at these precious maps and this beautiful atlas—they’re just tossed in here like newspapers.”
She carefully sorted through the pages, feeling the unique texture of the linen laid paper. Scroll marks, symbols and illegible Native American words decorated the edges of the stiff papers. A treasure trove of early American history was lying haphazardly in a rusty old trunk. She wanted to scream from excitement, but also about the careless, unprotected way these historic documents had been kept.
One piece stood out from the rest.
It was an atlas with vellum binding and laid paper pages. The closely placed, horizontal lines made from the chain wire paper mold were visible on the yellowed sheets, and the ridges were rough to her touch. This pattern placed its origins in the eighteenth century. Laid paper, especially a piece large enough to support a relief map, never mind an entire atlas full of them, was rare in modern times. The atlas was authentic.
She placed the atlas on the table and carefully turned through the pages looking for topography similar to Uncle Owen’s map to use for comparison. She noticed that all of these maps were written in Flemish or German. Andie couldn’t read them without an interpreter.
She grabbed her jacket and retrieved Uncle Owen’s map from inside the breast pocket. She was grateful that she hadn’t ruined it during her unceremonious plunge into the wet snow at the cliff. Opening it carefully, she compared the map and the atlas side by side. She wondered why Uncle Owen’s map, which was only twenty-five to thirty years old, felt as if it might disintegrate under her touch. Yes, it had been kept in a cheap frame above a roaring fireplace for many years, and acid had leached in from the cardboard backing of the frame—all this she knew from her earlier inspection. But it really should have been in better shape than this much older atlas from the eighteenth century. Laid paper from earlier centuries was much better than the modern production line paper, but thirty years versus hundreds was no contest.
Something was wrong.
She held Uncle Owen’s map up toward the antlered overhead light. The paper was wove, no horizontal lines present. This technique became popular after the eighteenth century, and t
here were paper makers today who still used the technique for reproductions of manuscripts. Uncle Owen’s map was intricate with detail, so she could see why he would have used a replica of period paper for artistic and historic integrity.
What the hell?
With the light shining through the thin paper, she noticed the watermark in the lower left hand corner. Two small Corinthian pillars. Her heart pounded in her chest as she held the map close to her nose and inhaled—the faint smell of sweet honeysuckle was still remarkably present, and the texture of the paper felt wrong. Then she remembered noticing this same faint scent and the feel of the map back at the sycamore grove, but she had lost her train of thought as Clay seductively sidled up behind her and spoke gently against her ear. He manipulated me—he distracted me.
Andie knew exactly what she was holding in her hands. Her mind raced as she tried to come up with a logical reason Clay had this rare paper. Jonathan Pillars was an early American papermaker who had experimented with different natural fibers to give his paper a fanciful flair over his competition in the paper manufacturing business. Honeysuckle paper was definitely not his shining moment.
“You son of a bitch!” she cried out. Her breath was ragged as the words worked from her throat.
She stood from her chair and gingerly crept to the door to see if Clay was still in the shower. She could hear the slap of the water hitting the concrete pad in the shower stall, and she knew she’d have only a few minutes to search the cabin. Then she remembered the duffel bag that Paul had left for him in the closet. What are you up to, Clay?
She moved to the sofa bed and pushed it away from the closet door. Opening the door cautiously, she removed the duffel bag and placed it on the table.
Opening the zipper, she saw a laptop computer, a cell phone, water bottles, something that might be a night vision scope attached to a nylon headband, and a very serious fully automatic weapon with extra ammo magazines. She recognized this weapon as an M4 carbine. She didn’t recognize it from her father’s gun collection, but from her trips abroad with Tivoli. His personal bodyguards carried this weapon, especially in hostile areas where unfriendly characters opposed Tivoli’s methods of obtaining artifacts.
She pulled the laptop computer from the bag and placed it on the table, her eyes frantically watching the door for Clay’s return as she flicked the plastic lock switch to open the computer. It hummed to life immediately, and the password was still displayed cryptically with seven black dots on the LCD screen. Andie realized that Clay had recently logged on, probably when she was in the shower. She hit the enter key, hoping that his personal desktop screen would appear. Jackpot.
“That’s why you wanted me out. Enticed me with a hot shower so I would leave the cabin ... told me to take my time. You bastard!” She spoke quietly to herself as her fingers slid over the touch pad to check the unlabeled icons from the desktop screen. All locked, and she needed separate passwords to enter each folder.
Then she noticed one icon that was hidden on the bottom taskbar. It was a JPEG file. She tapped the key with a jittery finger, and the image file opened. Dozens of small images crossed the screen, and she tapped the slideshow icon to enhance the photos.
“Oh, my God ... no!” She covered her mouth to silence her cry as nausea turned her chicken meal violently in her stomach. Her shaking hand pressed hard against her lips as she tried to muffle a terrified shriek.
She scanned through the photos. They were all of her!
Some were her leaving her office, others were her entering the gym in the morning. She clicked through them faster: Andie at home, reading in her comfortable chaise lounge chair, on the phone, making dinner and breakfast—even sleeping. How in the hell did he get these?! All the images seemed to have been taken with a telescopic lens through unshaded windows.
Clicking through the final image, she viewed Tivoli and herself together at dinner the night before she left to retrieve the Atros Fallis. The next image in the sequence showed her sitting alone at the table after Tivoli had excused himself to take a personal call.
She remembered that she hadn’t believed the poor excuse he gave her about the threatening Latino man who had visited her office earlier that day. Later that evening, she would overhear the truth about Tivoli and his diabolical deal—and that’s when she would decide to head out to the Ramapo Mountains and steal the Atros Fallis.
She also remembered the horrible feeling of loneliness that came over her when Tivoli left the table. Her life was spiraling down into an empty pit. For too long, she had isolated friends and family, all for her work, and of course, for Tivoli. He was always there, monopolizing and manipulating her time; she was dumbfounded about why she had stayed and worked with this egotistical and sadistic prick all these years.
Staring at the image of herself, she remembered sitting alone in the crowded restaurant waiting for Tivoli to return, and having a strange feeling of being watched. But it wasn’t creepy—in fact, it gave her a feeling of hope, and that’s when her tears had begun to flow. My guardian angel is watching ... everything will be all right. She blotted her tears with the linen napkin so Tivoli wouldn’t question her demeanor, and she waited for him to return.
She zoomed in on this image, and with a twitching finger, she touched the LCD screen, stroking the tear that ran down her pixelated face.
“Why were you crying at the restaurant, Andie?” Clay asked in a low, grating whisper. His voice was dangerous and craving, his words a demand more than an inquiry. “Did he hurt you? I thought he said something to hurt you.”
She looked up with terror from the computer screen and saw Clay standing barely inside the front door. He was dressed to kill—all in black, with pocketed black fatigues that were tucked into his polished jump boots, and a short-sleeved T-shirt that looked a bit tight for his bulging chest muscles and massive arms. His stance was dripping with dominance; his chiseled arms were folded across his chest, and his legs were spread slightly.
He wasn’t going to let her leave. He was here to kill her! Not a guardian angel, but an angel of death.
He did work for Tivoli, and this was all about getting information, lulling her into trusting him so it would be easier to murder her. Her head was spinning, and she tried to get up from the table, but her knees buckled and she fell to the floor.
Clay moved quickly toward her, but she managed to crawl into a corner. Her tear-filled eyes moved with frenzy as she searched for a weapon. A small tomahawk was cleaved into a thick wood stud just above her head, and she pulled at it fiercely with adrenaline-fed strength.
“Don’t come near me!” she screamed.
“Easy, Andie. It’s not what you think.”
“You’re a fucking liar! You do work for Tivoli. I ... I saw the watermark on your uncle’s map—the two pillars in the corner. That paper was made by Jonathan Pillars. He died in a fire at his paper mill in Rochester, New York, in 1831. His honeysuckle paper all went up in flames with him, too. It would’ve been impossible for your uncle to draw that map only twenty-five years ago. That paper doesn’t exist anymore, it hasn’t existed for almost two centuries!”
Clay took a step closer to her, his hands in the air in a calming gesture. “Yes, I did lie to you, but—”
She cut him off, her voice full of bewilderment. “It all makes sense now. You were watching me. You knew that I would be up here. The cliff, the rescue, the ... oh, God, the way you made me feel.” Her voice cracked, and her face flushed with embarrassment and anger. “Why would you do this? How much is Tivoli paying you? Christ, that’s how you can afford designer sunglasses and Hollywood haircuts. You’re a fucking mercenary!”
The tears came hot and fast, and she pushed herself harder against the clapboard wall, wishing she could push right through the rotting wood and escape the punishment she was about to receive. Her vise-like grip on the tomahawk made her wounded hands ache, and she wondered if she could really use the weapon against Clay.
“Andie, I do not work for
Tivoli.” He took another step forward, speaking in a gentle tone. “I was sent here to protect you. Please, put the tomahawk down so I can explain.”
“NO! STAY BACK!” She swung the tomahawk, swiftly slicing through the empty space between them.
He didn’t move forward again. Instead, he sat on the floor so he could meet her at eye level. He stretched out his left leg and winced slightly from the stiffness of the healing muscle.
“Yeah, sure. Please don’t make a fucking fool of me, not now, not like this. You’re a liar. I bet you’re not even injured.” She swallowed back her tears and regained some composure. “If you’re going to kill me, do it quickly.”
He ran his fingers through his wet hair and looked to the ceiling as he held the back of his head in both palms. His eyes closed and he was silent for a moment. Then, softly, he said, “I was injured, Andie. I didn’t lie to you about that.” He hesitated for a moment, then continued. “I wasn’t injured during a Special Ops mission. It’s so complicated. And God knows, I would sooner die myself than hurt you. Now, please give me the tomahawk. I don’t want to force it from you. I don’t want to hurt your wrists if I wrestle it from your hands.”
“Please stop! Your pathetic attempt to regain my trust is fucking insulting! I can’t trust you. I’m all alone. ... I’ve always been alone.” She released a heavy sob as she finally began her nervous breakdown in front of the one man she had thought she could trust. And she’d thought she could love him, as well. You’re a damn fool, Andie Brown.
She dropped the tomahawk at her side, the slender head making a metallic clank as it hit the wood floor. She brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around her legs. The sobs were uncontrollable, and her body heaved as she cried. She buried her head in her arms to mask her shameful display of cowardice. She should fight back, run for the door, scream for help—but she had no control over her body. She was giving up. Her limbs were heavy and she was so very tired. It felt as though years of pain and anguish were being released. Her sobs deepened with every thought of the malicious and cunning acts she had committed. And for what? Her life was a lie. A shallow, tiny bowl that couldn’t hold an ounce of water.