by Liz D. Marx
Chapter Three
New York City
The night was clammy. The clouds hung low in the sky, signaling another rainy evening. Mason zipped up his leather jacket and crossed the street. He usually enjoyed walking back home after a long day’s work―New York City was stunning in autumn with its multicolored trees shifting from bright shades of yellow to red and brown. But none of that could be enjoyed on cloudy nights like this one.
He looked up and a fat raindrop landed on his nose. Quickening his pace, he walked down 65th Street, passing alongside Lincoln Center. The most famous entertainment complex in the country―home to the Metropolitan Opera, the New York City Ballet and the New York Philharmonic to name a few―was buzzing with people. Its three monumental, boxy-looking buildings were almost Olympian with their golden lights that illuminated the whole block. He rushed across the massive water fountain on the main square, dodging several eye-poking umbrellas and blinding camera flashes from tourists. The doors of the Avery Fisher Hall suddenly opened and a crowd full of intellectual-looking faces poured out.
Yep, the Philharmonic struck home this season, Mason thought while trying to get ahead of the hungry looking après-theatre swarm. In a few seconds, the eighteen thousand square foot plaza would feel like a shoe box. He knew it too well.
Mason smiled. He had chosen the Upper West Side to be the home of his antique gallery for exactly that reason. So many people, so many different characters who came and went, so many ways one could move around unnoticed.
“Hey, Mr. Mason! Long day again?” Mr. Ming said from behind the counter of his small Thai restaurant.
Mason just gave him a tired nod in reply.
“What will it be tonight? Chicken fried rice or beef stir fry with noodles?”
“Neither, Mr. Ming. I feel like something spicier. How’s the red curry today?”
“The best in town, as always,” Mr. Ming replied with a wink.
Ten minutes later, Mason was on his way home with another solitary dinner in his hands. He didn’t mind it anymore. Once upon a time he had; he used to dread the nightfall and did everything possible to avoid being alone. But he had long passed that phase now.
His cell phone vibrated in his back pocket. After checking the caller ID, Mason smiled lazily.
“And you say I should get a life?” he asked after pushing the ‘accept’ button.
“I still stand by my beliefs,” Foster’s joked, his voice husky from years of smoking.
Mason had first met the PI a few years ago when his gallery was burgled. The cops hadn’t been of any help and lost weeks chasing ghosts before closing the case with “insufficient evidence”’ stamped on its file. But Mason knew the robbery had to have been an inside job and decided to hire a private investigator to do some low-key digging. Foster was the only one who could meet his urgent deadline, so Mason decided to give the guy a chance. In less than twenty-four hours, his new PI had found not only who the culprit was but enough evidence to link his then-assistant to a local gang that targeted high-profile businesses in Manhattan.
“I’ve got some news about your peculiar client,” Foster said without further ado.
“Shoot.”
“The guy is a ghost―there’s zip about him anywhere,” Foster explained. “No public records, no financial records—no records, period.”
Mason was used to invisible clients. His antique gallery only dealt with prestigious customers―the ones who had to run from paparazzi, who had their birthday parties covered by the national news and some who were so exclusive that they only communicated through agents.
Once, a Sudanese princess decided she wanted the largest collection of feline statues in the world. Yes, statues of cats. Go figure. So, he made sure his artifacts were legit and, as long as his fees were transferred correctly into his three international bank accounts, he didn’t really care who his clients were.
Up until a couple of months ago.
This new nameless client was more eccentric than the usual lot. They only communicated through a personal assistant and were solely interested in Native American relics. Pamela, the personal assistant, had pestered Mason to find an ancient Cherokee totem, to the point where he had almost lost his patience. In the end, however, his hefty invoice was paid in less than two days, so he didn’t give it a second thought. But alarm bells rang when he received the second job inquiry.
Pamela’s boss wanted Mason to find a specific amulet from an ancient tribe called Tula. She told him the amulet depicted the mythical Mantaka Falls, which were said to have been lost with the disappearance of its Native American guardians more than 600 years ago. Finding unique artifacts was Mason’s specialty, so it wouldn’t have been a problem to try and find this one―if such a tribe had ever existed. The Tula people had been only mentioned in diaries of Spanish conquistadors who supposedly encountered the mystical Native Americans when they invaded Arkansas in the 16th century. There was no other evidence of such a tribe anywhere in history. So how the hell could his client be so certain that the amulet could be found?
Very fishy indeed.
“How do you know it’s a him?” Mason asked Foster as he crossed Amsterdam Avenue.
“Pardon?”
“How do you know my client is a man and not a woman?”
“It’s harder for a woman to be as invisible as your eccentric patron,” the ex-cop replied.
Foster was right. Female emancipation was something only mentioned in history books nowadays, but reality was different. High profile, successful businesswomen seldom managed to keep themselves away from the cameras. The media loved a Barbara Corcoran, and the women loved the media in return.
“So,” his PI carried on, “there have been a number of large transactions from the secretary’s account to a local bank here in America. I followed the money to a small branch in Hot Springs.”
“Hot Springs, Arkansas?”
“Yep, the one and only,” Foster replied with a smirk.
That was definitely weirder than his mystery client’s request for the Tula relic. Unless…
“How much?” Mason asked his friend without a second thought.
“How much, what?”
“How much were the transfers? How many figures are we talking here?”
“They add up to around half a million,” his friend replied. “Do you think your client is into something Interpol should know about?”
“No. If he were into terrorism or some serious black market shit, he wouldn’t be wasting his resources trying to find relics from tribes that never existed,” Mason replied.
But the real question was: did he care? Did Mason really care if his client was the next Osama bin Laden or not? Or if his client was building a nuclear bomb in the middle of a smelly pool for geriatric people?
No, Mason concluded, he didn’t give a damn anymore.
His shoulder was suddenly jerked sideways yanking his mind out of his thoughts. The impact made him lose his grip and his dinner splattered onto the concrete floor. He looked up to see a couple staring back at him with glassy eyes.
“Sorry, man,” the drunken boyfriend apologized, while trying to keep his obviously stoned girlfriend from falling on top of the splashed dinner.
While the couple stumbled away, Mason looked down at the small paper box on the floor and sneered. Suddenly, life seemed very much like his dinner. Plastered on the sidewalk like bad take-out. He could have done it differently. He could have made something of his life―been a politician, a high-class banker, or even a doctor in one of those charities that saved kids in a developing country.
But no, he had chosen an easier path, a nondescript one where nobody knew or cared to know his name. He had taken advantage of the only thing that worked in his favor―his accumulated knowledge over the long years of his existence―and translated it into a vast fortune.
That’s it. Not a hero, not a president, not even a long-term relationship where he could fool himself into believing his offspring would make
something of their life or even save the world one day. He didn’t have any of that, and knew exactly why.
“Mason? Are you still there?” his friend asked on the other end of the line. “I lost you there for a sec, buddy. What did you say?”
“Nothing important,” Mason replied, still looking at his curry slowly spreading on the concrete pavement. “Good work, Foster. Just keep me in the loop if you find anything else.”
Mason hung up the phone and, giving up on his dinner entirely, pulled up the lapels of his jacket and started down the wet street again. Turning left on West 82nd, he searched his pockets and found the keys to his three-story brownstone house. He paused in front of the short flight of steps and contemplated the stone work of his home’s façade.
The sound of keys echoed in the empty street. Mason checked his watch. Eleven thirty p.m. Damn, he still needed to send a couple of emails and finish the new shipment inventory before going to bed. Finding the right key, he climbed the steps to his townhouse and reached for his front door. As soon as his hands touched the handle, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and a wave of dread overwhelmed him.
Danger. Danger lurked in the shadows.
Mason turned around and scanned the dark street behind him. He couldn’t hear anything unusual or see anything out of place. Maybe it was just exhaustion; he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. Shoving the weird feeling aside, he turned the key and opened his door.
A crowbar met his stomach with such force that it made him drop to his knees, struggling for breath.
He heard the door slam behind him seconds before another blow hit him hard on the back.
“Ya hav’ been a very naaughty boy, Mr. Maason,” a male voice with a thick southern accent said from above.
“Really? And why is that?” Mason choked out in reply, still trying to recover from the blow.
A fist punched hit him square on the left temple, making Mason lose his balance and sag onto the floor.
From the corner of his eye, he saw two pairs of legs―one by the door, the other by the stairway. His glance glided upwards. The latter was taller and bulkier than the first but, instead of a crowbar, he had a baseball bat in his hands. Both thieves were wearing tight worn-out jeans, dark flannel shirts and old-school cowboy boots. He got a glimpse of a Walther P99 pistol shoved down the second man’s waistband.
His attackers were obviously not common house thieves, otherwise they would’ve fled once they heard him coming to the door. That left him with only one conclusion―they were after something specific, and had travelled a long way to get it.
“I didn’t know the target was a freakin’ Indian, man!” the one by the stairs exclaimed.
“So what?” the other replied. “Are ya scared the Indian will curse ya or somethin’?”
“I’m sure whatever it is you want, we can reach an agreement,” Mason said, trying to buy some time.
The tall assailant gave out a low chuckle. “Tol ’ya he woul’ say tha’.”
“Nah, ya didn’ say he woul’ say tha’! Ya said he’d beg for mercy, an’ I don’t see any beggin’ happenin’ here,” the man by the door retorted.
Hired hands from Texas, maybe Louisiana, Mason concluded after hearing their long drawn-out vowels.
“We’ll see ‘bout that,” the one with the baseball bat replied.
Mason cleared his mind and analyzed his options. To his right, the stumpy thief by the door was waiting to see how much damage his buddy would inflict on Mason. The tall guy was approaching fast, but he had a limp, probably from an old injury on his right knee. In a few strides he closed the gap between him and Mason and raised his right foot, murder in his eyes.
But Mason was far from surrendering.
He rolled on his back and caught the boot with both hands, then twisted it to the left with all the force he could muster. His attacker fell hard to the floor, screaming in pain. The other goon realized what was happening and swung his jimmy straight at Mason’s head. But Mason had anticipated the move and quickly rolled to the right, then grabbed the man’s balls until he felt them almost burst. The thug’s earlier cockiness vanished, replaced by a statuesque paralysis. Yep, the right amount of pain could do that to a person; Mason knew it well.
Before Mason could run for cover, the tall thief stood up, despite the obvious dead leg, and pulled out his gun. The shot echoed through the room and Mason felt a sharp pain in his chest.
Damn it. He hated that feeling.
He looked down and saw dark red blood pouring out of the fresh wound. His legs buckled and he dropped hard on his knees.
“That’s what ya get fer pokin’ ’round, pal.”
Mason barely registered his assailant’s comment as darkness engulfed his mind.
Mason came around sometime later with his head banging on a hard surface. Where the hell was he? It was completely dark, stuffy and he couldn’t stretch himself out. As soon as he tried to sit up, his forehead hit a low ceiling. He cursed, but it came out unusually muffled.
Yep, just as he thought―his attackers had pulled the old gangster move on him. They had shoved his body in a plastic bag, into the trunk of a car, and were probably driving to the river where they would dispose of any evidence of the crime. Too bad they had no idea who Mason was. The sack he was in stunk of putrid flesh, and Mason fought to keep the contents of his stomach where they were.
The car stopped and he heard the two men step out―they were in the middle of a heated argument about who would get to keep Mason’s Maserati. The trunk opened, but since the bag was zipped up, Mason didn’t have to pretend to be dead. He just lay as still as possible while they carried him out of the car and dropped him on the ground. Pain shot up Mason’s wounded chest and he could not prevent a groan from coming out. Luckily, the thieves were now discussing the best way of hiding a hot Maserati from the cops, so they didn’t hear anything.
It took Mason a lot of self-control not to rip the bag open and attack his two murderers with his bare hands, but he reminded himself that patience would get him further than sheer brute force. He was weak, had probably lost a lot of blood—or enough to kill any normal human—and until he took that freaking bullet out of his ribs, it would keep on hurting like hell.
With or without removing the bullet, those robbers were in for a treat, and they wouldn’t even see it coming. Mason smiled despite the pain on his ribs.
Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath and called his noo-hi forth. He felt the familiar warmth of his animal spirit emerge in his core. It intensified as the heat took over his whole body, granting him the power and wisdom of his Native American ancestors. Opening his eyes again, Mason set his noo-hi free.
The shadow bird flew out of his mouth and vanished through the plastic bag.
Cries of surprise echoed in the night.
“What the hell is that?”
“Dunno, just shoot it!”
As soon as the muffled sounds of his attackers’ curses and gun shots reached his ears, Mason ripped the bag open and peeked out. The spectrum of his beautiful black raven was flying above the robbers, not even bothering to dodge the bullets.
Shocked by the apparition, the two goons didn’t hear Mason step out of the bag and pick up an angry-looking combat knife that was in the trunk. He placed himself behind the tallest man and commanded his noo-hi to continue having fun with the stout one. At the same time Mason struck his quarry’s throat, his raven attacked its prey. When in their ethereal form, noo-hi couldn’t physically hurt anyone, but they could sure as hell freak them out.
The fight didn’t last long. Mason ducked out of his attacker’s reach and stabbed him twice on the ribs. When the man dropped to his knees, Mason pulled back the guy’s head using a fistful of his hair and jabbed the knife into his exposed jugular. He then turned on his heels and saw the second man running in circles, trying in vain to deter the raven’s attacks. Mason stepped in, hooked the stumpy man into an arm lock and slit his throat open.
He s
tood above his attackers’ bodies, panting in rage as silence engulfed the night. It had been a long time since he last felt the rush of a kill coursing through his veins; a long time since he had called on his Native spirit. But it felt so good to be connected to his noo-hi again, and he wanted more. He wanted to carry on, to fly free along his shadow raven, but he shook his head and fought to control the rush of adrenaline that clouded his judgment.
He took a deep breath and called his noo-hi back. The phantom bird circled one last time before disappearing into Mason’s open mouth. After taking a few moments to enjoy the joining with his ancestral spirit, he went to work on cleaning up the bloody mess before any silly driver spotted it and called 911.
He looked around and realized he was underneath Washington Bridge, on the Bronx side. He dragged the two bodies down to the river bank out of sight but, before shoving them into the water, he searched for clues as to who the bastards were or why they had gone after him. The tall man had nothing, so Mason only had his worn-out clothes as a hint. The other one had a wallet in his back pocket, but contained no credit cards, no driver’s license, no documents; just a bunch of dollar bills and a receipt of purchase.
Mason unfolded the small invoice and skimmed through its details. It was from an establishment called “French Quarter”. “Central Avenue, Hot Springs, Arkansas,” Mason read the place’s address displayed below their logo. What a coincidence. According to his PI, his mysterious client had just transferred millions of dollars to a bank in that very same city.
His jaw tightened with rage, and then a determined smile lifted his cheeks. He guessed he would have the pleasure of meeting his client after all.
The bastard had just given Mason a very good reason to give a damn.
Chapter Four
Hot Springs, Arkansas
The beautiful skyline of the Ouachita Mountains lay before him. Rolling hills and tall trees stood in their wisdom acquired over millions of years. Fall had just begun and the beautiful dark green tree tops were adorned by several shades of brown, red and yellow. The yearly cycle of life in the mountains was coming to an end. Soon all the leaves would fall and the wildlife would withdraw to their hideaways, waiting for the warmer months to come.