by Liz D. Marx
Mason had felt much like that lately―retreating, hibernating until the gods gifted him with warmer years. But today he felt more like the storm that was approaching from the west―gray, heavy and angry.
He regarded the vast backdrop before him—the land that was once his people’s—and thought about how much had changed since he had last been here. White men had arrived on this land, taken over and conquered the wild. Not only did they conquer but they changed the habitat in a way that no other tribe had done before.
The Native American way was to work with the land, nurture it, harvest it and when the gods felt like punishing them, his people embraced the sentence and survived however they could. In stark contrast, the white men flipped the bird at the gods, and when the conditions were not in their favor, they made them so.
The tower Mason was on was a stoic example of that. Standing at 216-feet, it truly was an astonishing accomplishment. According to a popular travel website, Hot Springs Mountain Observation Tower was one of the must-do things when in the city. Packed with tourists from all over the world, the elevator ride to the top of the structure had been so full of loud and obnoxious sightseers looking to experience the “magnificent example of superb engineering” and its “breathtaking panoramic views” that Mason had almost called Foster to rearrange their meeting point.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, indicating an incoming call.
“You’d better be close by,” Mason growled.
“Not even in my dreams,” Foster replied from the other end of the line. “The freaking airline cancelled the flight―something about a storm with strong winds building up near Hot Springs.”
“You’re still in Kansas City?” Mason asked, not even trying to disguise his frustration.
“Yep. If it makes you feel better, this airport is a dump and is packed with smelly teenagers.”
Mason took a deep breath. “When will you be able to get here?”
“I’m renting a charter jet. The guy is dodgy as hell but promised to get me there by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”
“Okay. Tomorrow afternoon then.”
Mason started walking to the elevator, leaving the gray horizon behind. There were people everywhere and crossing the room wasn’t easy. May Dai-mo save his soul, but he would rather face one hundred enemies in battle with bare hands than this.
“I have new info,” his friend’s voice on the handset distracted him, and Mason nearly stepped on a toddler who had decided to explore the floor.
“Sorry,” Mason said to the mother.
She picked up her boy, eyeing Mason as if it was his fault her child went crawling around right on the pathway.
He turned his attention back to Foster, stopping at the end of a very long queue to the only exit out of that hell. “I’m listening.”
“Apparently he’s recently acquired other types of relics.”
“What kind?” Mason asked.
“More of the real estate type.”
“Where?”
“Well, I’m not yet a hundred percent sure it’s the same boss, but the secretary has put forward a proposal to buy the bath houses in Hot Springs.”
“Which ones?”
“All of them.”
“All of them?” Mason asked, failing to keep his voice down. “What does that have to do with artifacts from the Tula tribe?”
“You got me there, buddy,” Foster answered. “I’ll give you the full briefing over a nice, cold beer.”
“Okay, but it’s your shout,” Mason said. It’ll cost him quite a few Buds to make up for Mason having to go all the way up to that tourist-hole for nothing. “Why the hell did you want to meet up at the Mountain Tower anyway?”
“I’ve never been there,” Foster replied. “Thought it would be good. The website says that the views are breathtaking.”
Mason just grunted in response.
After disconnecting the call, he eyed the queue to the elevator in front of him. It had barely moved. Mason rolled his eyes in frustration then resigned himself for the inevitable―he would just have to wait.
His mind diverted to his mission.
What was his client up to?
As soon as he had arrived in Hot Springs the night before, Mason had gone straight to the establishment that had issued his murderer’s receipt. As it turned out, The French Quarter was a strip club. What a surprise. He spent a few hours there, watching out for any other patrons who resembled his assailants’ style. There weren’t any.
He also spoke to some of the dancers and bartenders, but no one seemed to have known the two goons who attacked him. Again, what a surprise; that type of place usually followed the “Vegas code” —what happened in there, probably stayed in there. So it had obviously been a dead end.
Mason then visited a number of the local art and antique galleries to confirm another hunch he had. As soon as he described his client’s secretary, the owners shared their great satisfaction of having met her and having seen her around lately.
“She was very interested in Native American art, but we specialize in European relics,” most of them had explained with clear disappointment in their eyes.
After that, Mason went to the bank that Foster had linked to the secretary, but it had been quite difficult to find any information about her transactions or business there. The manager was not very forthcoming and started to grow suspicious, so Mason had to go easy on the questions. The last thing he wanted was the loyal dog warning his client about Mason’s presence in town.
The elevator doors opened up and Mason barely managed to get in. At the bottom, he passed the swarm of families and got into one of the few cabs that constantly waited at the entrance of the iconic site.
Downtown Hot Springs was quite busy. People of diverse nationalities roamed on the streets, trying to get the most out of the afternoon before the storm came in. The historic townhouses along Central Avenue were an attraction in themselves. Still true to their original colonial style, they were now home to all kinds of shops, cinemas, restaurants and bathhouses.
Looking out of the car window, Mason remembered the first time he had ever set foot in this white man’s village. The main street was barely a dirt path, scattered rudimentary shelters and wooden houses framed the borders of the small community. Horses reigned instead of cars and the Native American people were still referred to as “dirty Indians”.
The cab turned on Court Street and stopped in front of a Victorian-looking hotel. Mason paid the driver and walked up the few steps of the establishment’s entrance.
The hairs on the back of his head stood up and the feeling of being watched stopped him midstride. It wasn’t danger he sensed, but nonetheless he wasn’t going to brush this one off—not after the ordeal in New York.
Turning on his heels, he made his way back down the street, as if he had forgotten to do something. Reaching the corner of Central Avenue, he discreetly shifted his gaze and caught a glimpse of a small figure behind him. The person was in the shadows, so Mason couldn’t really see who it was. After walking a few more minutes, he stopped in front of a jewelry shop, pretending to be admiring the pieces on display, then turned his head discreetly, and finally spotted his stalker.
His brows creased in the middle. It was not whom he had expected.
Chapter Five
Chloe had a pseudo-panic attack when she realized she’d lost the tall man she was following. He had simply vanished after stopping in front of a jewelry shop.
“Damn it!” she cursed softly, scanning the busy avenue. It was full of tourists and busy locals. She would never be able to find him again.
She had first noticed him at the Mountain Tower. After having spent days trying to find clues about the origin of the artifact she had found at The Smithsonian, Chloe decided to take some time off and relax a little. She was supposed to be on vacation, after all.
She had been resting her feet on one of the benches, watching the hordes of visitors crowd the quite narrow observa
tion deck, when a familiar face caught her attention. She snapped her head towards it and froze in place―a beautiful woman with chocolate skin and thick black braids appeared right next to a tall man. Her ankle-length cotton robe had intricate red and yellow drawings on the hem. Her headband carried the small circular symbol. The woman’s large brown eyes locked with Chloe’s, and time stood still. Chloe stopped breathing when she realized the woman was Lady, her long-lost friend.
Lady cocked her head sideways and her lips curled up in a small smile. A wave of warmth washed over Chloe, and her heart filled with love and an immeasurable sense of harmony. Lady narrowed her eyes slightly and turned her attention to the tall, handsome man beside her at the same time a powerful ray of sunshine broke through the thick clouds, casting a corridor of blinding light on the tower. Chloe brought her hand up to block the glare and squinted her eyes. When she glanced back at Lady, her old friend had vanished.
Desperate, Chloe looked around in search for her but to no avail.
Had it really been Lady? It had been so long since they last met.
No, it couldn’t have been her imaginary friend, not after all those years of painful heartache and therapy. She released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and glanced at the stranger who Lady had taken so much interest in.
He was probably six feet two with broad shoulders and was the only Native American person in the observatory. The historian in her was a little saddened by that; after all, Hot Springs had been a sacred place for the native people from this area.
She stood up and casually stopped next to him. Chocolate skin, long lashes, square jaw—the man was very handsome. Maybe it was the way he frowned while he was supposed to be admiring the beautiful views, or maybe it was his imposing presence; Chloe didn’t know, but he looked familiar.
She rummaged her mind in search of a memory, a glimpse of the past where she could have met him―maybe at the museum? Maybe one of her colleagues had introduced them? But nothing concrete came to mind. She thought of approaching him, but what would she have said? “Hi, I have this imaginary friend who kinda hinted you can help me?” She didn’t think that would go down very well.
So when he turned around toward the long queue to the elevator, Chloe didn’t think twice—she just followed suit. She didn’t know exactly why, but she just couldn’t ignore the sense of urgency that had overtaken her. For some reason, her heart was telling her she was running out of time.
And now she had lost him.
“Come on, Lady, show up again! Give me a hand here,” Chloe said under her breath, still searching for him in the crowd that engulfed Central Avenue.
As if answering her prayers, the sun broke through the clouds and illuminated the crossroad between Central Avenue and Fountain Street. Chloe did a little happy-dance when she finally spotted the tall man walking up the long stairway of the Arlington Hotel.
“Thank you, Lady!” she said, rushing to catch up with him but, as soon as she walked through the golden revolving doors of the iconic hotel, she gaped in awe and forgot about the mission altogether.
“Holy moly.”
The hotel lobby was quite grandiose, with salmon-pink walls and marbled floors. The several small tables made of dark wood and green velvet were full of people enjoying their afternoon drinks. Half-moon stained glass windows cast colorful rays of light on the parapets. Chloe felt like she was back in the 1930s and Al Capone would pop in at any second. Her eyes caught the glimpse of something loudly colorful at the far left of the hall. As she took a few steps closer, she went from feeling pleasantly amused to being completely in shock.
“What the—?” she exclaimed, horrified by the massive mural in front of her. Set as the backdrop for the small stage, the painting took up the entire wall and depicted a jungle scene. Or at least it tried. It was cluttered with tropical animals, birds and flowers; strong shades of green, yellow, red and blue came together in a somewhat cartoonish mirage.
“Whoever painted this should be shot,” Chloe joked to herself.
“I take it you don’t like it, then.” A low voice came from behind her.
Startled, Chloe turned around to find the tall Native American right behind her.
Oh, dear.
“I’m sorry, I was talking to myself,” she replied, not knowing what else to say. “Are you the painter?”
His intense brown eyes narrowed, and Chloe got the strong sense that she had seen him do exactly that before. How weird.
“I’m not the painter.”
“Oh, for a moment I thought you were annoyed at me for slandering the ugly mural,” Chloe said, trying to lighten the vibe.
“I was annoyed at you for following me,” the man replied curtly.
She froze at his bluntness and then felt her cheeks burn. He had caught her red handed. “I wasn’t … really,” she tried to deny it but stopped mid-sentence at his ‘don’t-even-try’ expression.
“Why were you following me?” It wasn’t a question, it was a command.
I’m a freak who thinks she’s found a magical artifact from the mythical Mantaka. “I was lost,” she said instead, then almost instantly regretted it.
“Do not try to lie to me, miss,” the tall man said darkly. “I can smell it from miles away.”
Chloe swallowed dry. “Look, I’m sorry for following you. It’s just that, I’m by myself in Hot Springs and I saw you at the Mountain Tower also by yourself, so, I thought that maybe… well, you know, we could go have a coffee or something.”
Great, now she sounded like a prostitute.
The man glowered at her for a moment then, in a sudden change of spirits, tilted his head slightly and scanned her from top to bottom. “Thanks, but I’m not interested.” Then without another word, he turned on his heels and walked away.
Ouch.
Chloe’s words hadn’t meant to be a real pick up but, damn, that had hurt. She just stood there gawking like a fish, and watched his towering figure disappear through the revolving doors.
After giving herself a second to catch her breath and retrieve her pride from the gutter, she picked her proverbial self up and went after him. Chloe could be a lot of things―clumsy, nerdy, a loner, and even a bit cuckoo sometimes―but she definitely wasn’t a quitter.
The storm had finally reached the town. The heavy clouds made the late afternoon look gloomier than usual. The earlier crowd had dissipated into a few scattered souls mainly trying to find shelter from the fat rain drops. Chloe had no difficulty catching sight of the tall―and rather rude―man crossing the street toward the park. She pulled her jacket over her head and ran after him. By the time she managed to get closer, he was already deep into the green. The thick trees gave Chloe the perfect protection from the rain but also made the park darker and with poor visibility. She struggled to keep up with the man’s pace. He was now almost twenty yards ahead of her and gaining distance.
“Damn you, short legs,” she cursed after tripping for the third time. When she looked up, he was nowhere to be found. “Oh, no, not again. Where did he go?”
Keeping her steps as steady as she possibly could, she sped up, but the park was empty—too empty.
Ice settled in the pit of her stomach. In the midst of her obsession with the relic and the man, she had completely neglected her safety. What was she thinking? She was in a dark, deserted park following a strange man she knew nothing about—a man much taller and stronger than her. He could do anything to her and there was no one around to come to her rescue. Way to go, girl.
Coming to her senses, she started to walk back to the safety of the busy main avenue, her boots echoing loudly on the narrow paved path, when strong hands grabbed her by the elbows and slammed her against a thick tree. The air was forced out of her lungs.
“Who do you work for?” the tall man snarled, his large hands pinning her shoulders.
“What?” Chloe replied in a mix of shock and confusion. She was expecting a number of things but not that question.
His arctic gaze sent a chill down her spine. Panic threatened to overtake her mind. “No one, no one sent me.”
“I told you not to lie to me, woman!” the man shouted, shaking her shoulders.
“I promise! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
This is it, Chloe thought. Her life was over. This man was going to kill her and she could do nothing to stop him. So she closed her eyes and begged. “Please don’t hurt me.”
The tight grip on her shoulders went lax and Chloe felt cold air envelop her body again. She opened her eyes and confirmed her suspicions. He had retreated from his Spanish Inquisition mode―well, slightly at least.
He ran his hand through his thick mane then exhaled sharply before pinning her with his dark gaze. “If you weren’t sent by anyone, why the hell are you following me? And don’t even try and tell me you want to have coffee, because I’m not buying it.”
Now was her chance to run for her life, wasn’t it? So, why couldn’t she do it? Her mind was screaming for her to go, but her feet were stuck on the ground, her heart sank with the mere thought of leaving. So she told him the truth. “I need a guide.”
His gaze went from deadly to appalled. “Just typical. You white women see an Indian and automatically assume he’s a tour guide. Disgusting.”
“No! I didn’t assume you were a guide, I just need a guide, and I―”
“You what?” he barked, clearly not wanting to hear her explanation. “You didn’t think of following a white man around, did you?”
Once again, Chloe was lost for words. How could she explain the pull she felt toward him? The feeling of having met him before?
“Look, I heard you talking on the phone at the tower,” Chloe said. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you talking about relics.”