TheCrystal

by Sandra Cox

  “What?” he asked, turning back to the stove and lifting a slab of pink ham from a cast-iron skillet.

  “It’s just strange,” she said pensively.

  “What is?”

  “We don’t know each other. Heck, I don’t even know who I am and we’ve been chatting like we’re old friends.”

  He laughed. She smiled as she listened. There it was. That deep rich sound again.

  “Is there a Mrs. Adams?” She watched him plunk a couple of pieces of white bread into a plain serviceable toaster, trying not to think of her aches and pains.

  “Used to be.” He poured her a cup of coffee in a white mug and brought it to her.

  “Divorced?” she inquired, burying her nose in the steaming mug and inhaling.

  He walked to the cabinet, opened a door and came back with a bottle of aspirin. John Paul shook a couple into his palm then handed them to her. “You ask more questions than a reporter.”

  She paused, the mug halfway to her lips.

  John Paul shot her a look of dismay. “You aren’t a reporter are you?”

  Her brow wrinkled and she shook her head. “I don’t know.” Then eyed him sharply. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “There you go again.” He handed her a plate and some flatware. She put the coffee on the bolster and balanced the plate on her lap. “How can I know things, like what eggs are and that I may have a dog and not know me?”

  “You got more questions than I got answers.” He walked to the table, sat down and began to eat his now cold breakfast.

  “Why did you bring me here? Why not just call 911?”

  As the aspirin and food kicked in, she was feeling better by the minute.

  John Paul shoved a forkful of cold eggs into his mouth and made a face. He scraped the rest of the plate into the dog’s bowl setting at his feet on a small braided rug. The dog’s long tail waved, a ripple effect that caused his whole hind end to wag.

  John Paul patted the dog. “We are hardly in the middle of a cosmopolitan city. I was a medic in Vietnam. I doubt if a doctor would have done anything more for you than I did. It seemed the right thing to do…at the time. I haven’t lived with a woman in a long time. I forgot what chatterboxes women are, you especially. If I’d known you were so nosy, I would have left you.”

  Gabby wasn’t listening. An alarm had gone off inside her head when John Paul mentioned living with a woman.

  He glanced at her grinning, then caught her expression and his immediately changed. “Oh for God sakes,” he exclaimed. “Save me from virgins and hysterical females.”

  She pokered up. “I can assure you, I’m neither.”

  “And how would you know that?” he demanded with a reluctant grin. Adding, “You are either a reporter or a romance writer with a vivid imagination. Girl, I’m old enough to be your father.”

  “Only if you started very, very young,” she shot back.

  He rolled his eyes again. “That portion of my life is taken care of. Not that it’s any business of yours,” John Paul added. He continued, with a baffled shake of his head. “I have never shared this much information with someone I’ve only known, if you can call it that, for an hour. I used to regret not having any children. But an hour spent in your company has made me realize how truly blessed I am.” The twinkle in his eyes belied the words.

  Her face flamed red. Once again, she had made a flaming jenny-ass of herself. Once again? Suddenly she was tired, so tired.

  Carefully, setting her plate on the end of the table, she lay back down. As her eyes closed, the last thing she remembered was the sound of John Paul’s soft chuckle. And bacon sizzling in the skillet as, for the second time this morning, he fixed his breakfast.

  * * * * *

  Billy paced back and forth in front of the hangar, barely aware of the chill in the predawn air or the tiny mouse that scurried by his booted toe.

  He hadn’t heard from Christopher since he’d left nearly four hours ago. Billy had called him every hour on the hour and not once had Christopher answered his phone.

  Something was wrong. Christopher had given him the bare details. The rest he’d pieced together on his own.

  Billy opened the door to the plane and pulled out Christopher’s Palm, which he’d left on the seat, with the map download of the Black Mountains. Christopher had memorized them before he’d left.

  He had warned Billy to stay put and have the plane ready for a quick getaway. Normally, Billy followed Christopher’s instructions to the letter. But this wasn’t one of those times.

  Billy walked toward a near empty parking lot. He looked quickly at the cars. A gray Rodeo’s passenger door was unlocked. He got in, slid over to the driver’s side and quickly hotwired the engine. The car purred to life. Billy threw it in reverse and headed out of the airport.

  A portly gentleman came running toward him from the main building, waving his arms and panting. “Hey, you, that’s my car!”

  He tugged out his worn leather tri-fold then pulled out a card with his address and phone number on it and a couple of bills.

  He rolled down the window as the middle-aged man drew to a halt in front of his Rodeo, huffing and puffing. “What the hell are you doing with my car?”

  “Sir, I have an emergency. I promise to return your vehicle shortly. This is for the use of your car.”

  He put the card and bills into the man’s hand. Not waiting for an answer he drove away.

  Billy followed the same winding road his boss had driven hours before. He drove as quickly as he dared, his eyes shifting from side to side, looking for any sign of the black SUV. The trees cast dark shadows alongside the road. An owl swooped down just missing his windshield. As he braked to avoid the bird of prey, he saw muted headlights pointing into the forest.

  Billy pulled over to the side and cut the engine. He drew what appeared to be a pen with a clip on it from his pocket. Clicking it, a beam of light pierced the dark, stronger than the size of the flashlight would indicate.

  Stepping out of the car, he shut the door, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness of the forest.

  One more step and the overturned SUV was visible. It lay on its side, its nose between two trees.

  Billy ran to the Expedition. He climbed up on the SUV, opened the passenger door and slid in. Christopher was unconscious behind the wheel, lying against the driver’s door, the seat belt holding him in.

  Billy took a knife out of his pocket and with sharp thrust sliced through the shoulder and lap strap. “Come on, boss,” he muttered. “It would be a lot easier if you would wake up. Hope you don’t have any broken bones.”

  Grunting, he pulled Christopher out of the car, dragged him to the Rodeo and laid him in the backseat.

  Billy took a closer look at Christopher.

  A small trickle of dried blood stood out on Christopher’s forehead and matted his tawny hair. A lump the side of an egg was on the side of his head. “Good thing you got a hard head, boss,” Billy muttered. He continued as if Christopher could hear him. “Your head’s not cracked open, you are going to be okay. Worst case scenario you got a concussion.”

  Besides, hurt or no, Billy knew there were two things he had to do before they went back to New Orleans. He walked back to the Expedition, the flashlight cutting through the darkness like a laser.

  He searched every inch of the SUV and the ground surrounding it. The woods smelled of humus and an occasional rustle bespoke of the nocturnal creatures that claimed the mountain for their home. He took one last look through the car. The globe was gone.

  He walked back to the Rodeo and checked on Christopher but there was no change. At least, his breathing was even and deep. Climbing in the driver’s seat, Billy clicked on the Palm and took one last quick look at the directions then turned it off and stuffed it in his pocket. He started the SUV and pulled back on the road.

  Billy followed the twisting mountain road for fifteen miles, his eyes constantly scanning the sides of the road, as the headlights ca
ught the skeletal outline of the nearby trees.

  He turned a sharp curve and the headlights shone for a brief moment on the landmark he was looking for. Two pines grew together like Siamese twins. To the side of the pines was a narrow dirt road.

  Twisting the steering wheel to the right, he entered the rutted lane and bumped along for a few hundred yards then pulled off the side of the road and killed the engine and lights.

  He glanced around. The sky was lightening. It would soon be dawn. The time the trade was to take place.

  Getting quietly out of the car, Billy proceeded on foot. Without the globe, the only bargaining chip he held was in a holster strap wrapped around his shoulder and fastened securely under his arm. No doubt Lai and her flunkies held the same chip.

  He reached the clearing with the lodge in the middle just as the sun threw its first pink rays into the sky. He studied the lodge from the trees. The chirp of a titmouse broke the eerie stillness. There was no outside activity, no guard and no vehicle.

  With smooth even strides, he began to run through the trees to the back of the house. He broke through the trees and ran bobbing and weaving across the grass where he burst through the back door.

  He stood in the empty room and looked around cursing.

  She was gone and he knew it. Regardless, he walked through each room. After searching the house from top to bottom, he walked back outside. The globe was gone and so was the girl. He was beginning to hope Christopher didn’t wake up for a good long time.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Christopher floated upward toward consciousness. He felt soft cotton sheets against his skin. The pillowcase his head rested on smelled of lavender. The feel and smell were familiar and should have brought comfort, but something terribly wrong tugged at his consciousness. Gabriella. Oh my God, Gabriella. He opened his eyes and sat up only to discover he had the mother of all headaches.

  Gentle hands pushed him back down. He felt as weak as a newborn kitten. Tamara’s face swam into his vision. “Lie back, Christopher dear,” adding in her gentle voice, “I’m glad you’ve decided to join us.”

  Fighting his swimming head he struggled to sit up.

  With a sigh, Tamara plumped the pillows behind him. “That stubborn streak comes directly from your uncle.”

  Christopher smiled. But the smile quickly vanished and he felt his eyes cloud with worry. “Gabriella?”

  He could read the answer in her clear violet eyes.

  With a Herculean effort, Christopher overcame the nausea rising in his throat. “Call Billy,” he said thickly.

  Tamara’s clothes rustled lightly as she leaned over him and placed a hand under his chin. “Christopher.”

  He looked into her eyes.

  “She is all right.”

  He gazed into the violet depths that were clear and bottomless as a pool. “How do you know?” he whispered. “Did Billy tell you?”

  “I just know. Now lie back down and I will tell you what Billy told me then we can decide what is best to be done.”

  Tired, he leaned back against the pillows and listened. When she finished, he looked at her incredulously. “I lost not only Gabriella, but the globe as well?”

  “The globe and Gabriella will find their way home,” she said calmly as she got up and sat in the straight-back chair beside the bed, her long wispy peach skirt falling into place around her. “Though they may require our help to do it,” she added. “I think its time you told me about Lai,” and settled back to listen.

  Christopher gave a long sigh. But the time for subterfuge was over.

  He was brutally honest, sparing neither himself nor Lai. While he talked, Beatrice slipped in and poured hot lemon tea into delicate china cups for both of them.

  Tamara sipped hers daintily never taking her eyes off Christopher.

  His grew cold while he talked. When he’d finished, Christopher leaned his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

  Tamara said musingly, “So you are the famous cat burglar.”

  “At least you said famous instead of infamous.”

  “Lai will have to be dealt with,” Tamara said in a very matter-of-fact voice.

  Christopher’s eyes flew open.

  “Do you think the harsh circumstances of her youth excuse her?”

  “No, but I thought you might,” he replied candidly.

  “I understand and I don’t blame her for you making the wrong choices, neither do I condone what she’s done. Not only do I not condone, I refuse to allow her to threaten my loved ones.”

  He looked at her curiously. “Does that statement include Gabriella?”

  Tamara smiled enigmatically. “What have you done with the money?”

  He avoided her eyes. “I really have the devil of a headache, can we discuss this another time?”

  “No.”

  He sighed heavily. “I was afraid of that,” adding flippantly, “women, fast cars and parties, what else?”

  She continued to watch him, waiting.

  “Oh all right,” he said crossly, “if you must know, I’ve set up an orphan fund in Calcutta.”

  She got up and kissed the top of his head. “Now that’s my Christopher.” Her skirt rustled as she straightened.

  He forced himself to sit up, fighting his swimming head. He reached for the phone, setting by the bed.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “I’ve got to get in touch with Billy. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get dressed. I can’t believe I let you sidetrack me. I’ve got to find Gabriella.”

  “Of course, Christopher darling, just let me get you some fresh tea and a little something to eat. You don’t want to fall flat on your face now do you? I’ll just take that cold cup of tea and pour you some fresh.”

  He blinked trying to focus as she walked into his bathroom with the cold tea. What was it he needed to do? Oh yes, call Billy.

  As he tried to dial Tamara walked back into the bedroom and poured a fresh cup of tea from the pot sitting on the bedside table. His head pounded so badly, the numbers blurred. This must be what a migraine feels like.

  The phone slipped from his fingers. Clumsy.

  Tamara clucked sympathetically. She stuck the cup in his hand and held it with her own. “Here drink this. It will help.”

  Maybe it would clear his head enough so that he could call Billy. He took a swallow then asked, “Do you know what happened to Gabriella?”

  “I know only what Billy told me. Do you want me to tell you what I know or do you want to talk to Billy?”

  “Both,” he said, sipping the fragrant beverage. It had the tart bite of lemon and something bitter but he drank it, hoping the hot beverage rolling down his throat would revive him. “Tell me.”

  “All I know is that Billy went to the rendezvous spot and no one was there.”

  Christopher swallowed the rest of the tea. “And the globe?” his voice sounded hollow, as if it was coming from a tunnel.

  “It was gone.”

  He looked at his aunt blinking. Tamara’s form seemed to grow larger, then shrink. Damn it she’d drugged him, was his last thought before everything went black.

  Tamara eased him back into bed. “I’m sorry, dear, but you are in no shape to get up let alone go after Gabriella.” She picked up the phone and hit the speed dial. “Billy. Get back to North Carolina and see what you can find out.” She paused, listening. “He’s going to be all right, but he’s out cold again. Call me tonight. I don’t care how late.”

  * * * * *

  Gabby sat at the pine table her elbows propped up, her fist under her chin, staring mindlessly into space. She wore John Paul’s red plaid shirt and a pair of his jeans with a piece of rope wrapped around her waist to hold them up and the cuffs rolled up. On her feet was a pair of thick wool socks.

  She had been living in John Paul’s cabin for three days now and other than a swollen ankle, sore feet and ribs and the tiny little detail of a ghastly migraine whenever she focused on
her past, felt fine. The headaches were probably psychosomatic. She could remember if she wanted to. Names and faces were flitting through her subconscious like butterflies. But like Pandora’s box, she had no doubt that when she lifted the lid of her memory, all manner of problems were going to come rushing out. And life in this little cabin was simple and pleasant. Like Scarlett O’Hara she’d deal with it tomorrow.

  A blast of cool air brought her out of her reverie. John Paul came striding through the door, smelling of fresh air and pine and something else she couldn’t identify, the dog named Red prancing beside him. Red ran to her and stuck his wet nose in her hand. She patted his silky warm coat, smiling.

  John Paul sniffed the air hopefully, much like the setter at her feet. Then his face fell. “I suppose it was too much to ask that you would have lunch fixed.”

  She gave him a guilty look. “I’m not sure I know how to cook.”

  He threw his hands in the air and rolled his eyes. “What’s to cook? Do you know how to work a can opener?”

  She nodded.

  “Then how about opening a can of beans or tomato soup and fixing a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches? Can you do that?”

  Standing up, she walked to the pantry and began rummaging through it. She pulled out a loaf of bread and a can of soup then paused, the soup in one hand, the bread in the other. “Why should I make it? Why don’t you? Are you a male chauvinist?”

  He looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. For some reason the look was familiar. “No,” he said patiently, “I am not a chauvinist but I do believe in each man and woman pulling his weight. So far, I can’t see that you’ve done much to earn your keep.”

  She flushed dark red and felt intensely foolish. “You are right of course. I’m sorry.”

  John Paul gave her a quizzical look as he walked into the kitchen. “Whoever you are, I bet you’re a heller.”

  She grinned. “I don’t think I’m going to take that bet. For one thing I couldn’t pay you if I lost and for another, you are probably right.”

  He opened a gleaming white refrigerator and pulled out the cheese slices.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Gabby said as she laid the bread and soup on the counter.