by Liz D. Marx
Chloe opened her mouth to retort, but he cut her off.
“As your guide, I’m telling you that there’s no way the mythical falls of Mantaka are located in Hot Springs National Park. If they were, they’d have been found a long time ago. My friend is an old leader of the Caddo people. If there’s anything concrete about the legend of the Valley of Vapors, he’ll be able to tell us.”
She still looked appalled, and looked ready to argue, but didn’t. Instead, she just folded the large map back up, turned on her heels and got in the car. Mason couldn’t stop a small smile from lifting his face.
This was going to be fun.
A quick stop at the gas station and at the Pancake Shop―apparently Chloe had a lot to “sort out” in the morning and had skipped breakfast at the hotel―and they finally managed leave Hot Springs.
But after a few hours driving, Mason was ready for a break. Chloe had started off the trip with a big pout, but not long after they got onto the Interstate 40 W she relaxed, took out a bunch of notes from her very sizable purse and had been reading them since. She hadn’t spoken a word to him but hadn’t been exactly silent either. Every few minutes she would mumble something like “But it doesn’t make sense” or “Why did they use this one?” as if she expected the notes to answer her. What an amusing woman she was.
Mason saw a diner on the side of the road and pulled over.
“Why are we stopping?” Chloe asked, lifting her head up for the first time in hours.
“Are you hungry? I’m starving,” he answered, already getting out of the car.
The diner was a simple roadside café with red and white floral decoration, and smelled of greasy pies and fatty hamburgers. Yum.
Mason sat down in one of the fake-leather booths and looked at the menu. Chloe sat on the opposite side of the table, stiff as a rod. She obviously didn’t approve of his choice of establishment.
“This is the only restaurant around here where the cook actually washes his hands,” he declared without lifting his eyes up from the list of options. “So I advise you to find something to eat because we’ll only stop again when we get to Binger.”
Chloe narrowed her eyes and took the menu from his hands. “You know, you are the worst tour guide I’ve ever met.”
“Hi, welcome to Tony’s. What can I get you?” the waitress asked, flashing a smile that matched her rotund features.
Mason ordered a cup of coffee and a Big Tony burger; Chloe decided on the Caesar salad without any croutons or bacon, just well-done boiled eggs and chicken tenders—grilled, not fried.
“What?” Chloe asked after catching him staring. “I have a sensitive stomach. Fried stuff doesn’t agree with me.”
Mason just shook his head. Amusing woman, indeed.
The waiter came back and poured two mugs of black coffee. After a few moments of awkward silence, Chloe broke the ice. “So, Mason, tell me a little bit about yourself,” she requested with sincere curiosity in her eyes.
He shrugged. “What do you wanna know?”
“Err, where you were born, where you live, that sort of thing.”
“I was born here in Arkansas and I live in New York,” Mason replied, then took a sip from his hot drink. But at the you-can-do-better-than-that look Chloe gave him, he decided to entertain her. She was actually quite cute when annoyed.
“I move around a lot, so I don’t feel a deep connection to this place anymore.”
“Where have you been?”
To every single country in the world. “Several places, mostly because of my work.”
“And what do you do for a living? I know you’re not a tour guide,” she said, grinning.
“I have an antiques gallery, and before you ask, yes, I do specialize in Native relics, mostly from North American civilizations, but I have quite a bit from other countries too.”
Her beautiful green eyes glowed at this revelation.
The waitress arrived with their food. “Okay, a Big Tony and a Caesar salad with hardboiled eggs, grilled chicken, no croutons, no bacon and no flavor. Would you like a top up?” she asked Mason, pointing at the mug.
He declined and dug in. After a few large bites of his sandwich, Mason looked across to see Chloe just playing with her food. What was wrong now?
“Do you know much about Native American languages?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
“A little bit,” he lied.
She put her knife and fork down and reached for her bag lying next to her on the seat. Mason’s heart skipped a beat in anticipation. He knew what she was going to do, and in a few seconds he would be able to take a very good look at that magical stone of hers.
But instead of pulling the relic out, she paused. “I don’t think I should show it to you here. Maybe we should wait until we are alone in the car.”
“Okay,” Mason replied with fake nonchalance.
They both finished their meals quickly, and after splitting the bill they were back in the car in no time. Mason pretended to have forgotten about her suggestion, but took his time turning the engine on.
“Maybe you’ll be able to help me,” Chloe said, finally taking the stone out of her bag. She had it carefully wrapped in the same black cloth from the previous night.
Mason killed the engine immediately and reached for the relic. Taking it in his hands, he undid the drape and analyzed the designs, careful to only handle the object through the fabric. Though nothing had happened when he held it last time, if the stone came to life with Chloe’s touch, he could only imagine what would happen at his stroke. Mason noticed the tip had a sharper angle, not in keeping with the other two smoothly round edges of the triangle.
“The top has been broken off,” he concluded.
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that too,” Chloe agreed. “But it’s not uncommon for such an antique to be marred. I believe it’s dated from before some of the Native American languages were developed,” Chloe said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because some of these symbols carry familiar traces but aren’t exactly in languages we know today,” she answered. She had leaned over to also look at the strange relic in Mason’s hands. A pleasant smell of lavender invaded his nostrils. Damn, she smelled good.
Coming even closer, she pointed at a particular icon. “See this one for example, it could have meant ‘long life’ in Cherokee, but the circle is not completely closed, so it can’t be.”
Mason ignored the sudden reaction her nearness was setting off in his body and focused on the symbol she was talking about. It was an almost full circle with a spear crossing it. “It’s destiny.”
“Excuse me?” Chloe looked up, seeming completely oblivious to the fact that their noses were just inches away from each other.
“It means ‘destiny’. It’s not Cherokee, it’s an ancient style of Navaho script.”
“Really?” Chloe reached into her larger-than-life purse, took out a small, worn, red leather notebook and jotted something down. Then she returned her gaze to the stone and pointed at another pictogram depicting three horizontal wavy lines. “What about this one?”
“This one means ‘land’, and it’s Tu— an early version of the Caddo language,” Mason answered, almost giving away his true identity.
Symbol by symbol, they put the puzzle together. Mason was very impressed with Chloe’s own knowledge of the Native American mythology and history. With every new meaning he gave her, she beamed with excitement, sharing her ideas of what the final message could be. And she had been right―the stone told the story of the mythical falls of Mantaka in the form of a poem, but Mason knew it was much more than that.
“Do you think it’s a prophecy?” Chloe asked, nailing it.
“Some tribes were very connected to the spiritual world,” Mason replied, trying to be as vague as possible. “Some chenesis spent days locked up in their huts communicating with the gods.” Mason looked at the clock on the 4X4’s dashboard. Had it been an hour already?
“So if
the message is a prophecy, then it predicts the end of the world,” Chloe concluded. A small frown formed on her forehead.
“Or the end of the world as the Native Americans knew it,” Mason replied, unable to stop the images of his tribe burning to the ground from invading his mind.
He glanced at Chloe. She was watching him.
“How do you know so much about ancient indigenous people?” Her voice carried a hint of suspicion.
“What do you mean? I am Native American,” he replied, trying to sound aghast.
She didn’t push it any further, but her firm gaze made it clear she hadn’t bought his feeble explanation.
Chapter Nine
Foster had never been afraid of flying. He usually looked forward to his trips, but when the old 1970s Cessna Skyhawk angled sideways and Hot Springs appeared in the little windows, he closed his eyes and prayed to a god he had long forgotten.
Miraculously, the pilot managed to land the piece of junk safely and, after handing the man a thick bunch of one hundred dollar bills, Foster left the small airport and headed to Mason’s hotel by cab. The evidence of the thunder storm that hit the town the day before was quite visible. A few trees had been torn down by the wind and the streets were covered in brown autumn leaves.
Foster paid the cabbie and shouldered his duffle bag. As he was about to step out onto the street, he spotted a stunning redhead descending the front steps of the Victorian-looking hotel, and quickly recoiled back into his seat. Even having seen her in just a couple of photos, he recognized their mysterious client’s secretary immediately.
Well, it’s not like Miss Pamela Swan was the kind of babe Foster would easily forget.
Still hiding behind the passenger’s seat, he saw the woman get into a silver Audi TT and drive off.
“Change of plans, buddy,” Foster announced to the driver. “That’s my wife in that car. The bitch is having an affair!”
The cabbie was more than happy to follow the cheating spouse at Foster’s request. As soon as the car started moving, Foster sent a text message to Mason with a short update on the news. His reply came in no time.
“On the way 2 Caddo Village. Stay put on Swan’s tail. Call u soon.”
Foster had to remind the driver to keep his distance a couple of times before Miss Swan stopped in front of a car rental place on Albert Pike Road. He thanked the cabbie, who wished him good luck with a sympathetic pat on the back, gave the man a nice tip and went into the shop. It was a small room with light blue walls and a counter and smelled of microwave dinner. Miss Swan was too busy talking to the receptionist, who looked bored and ready to go home, and didn’t notice Foster coming in. He quietly sat on a small couch, next to a large vase with a fake green plant, and waited. The plant partially blocked him so he could listen to the conversation without looking too suspicious.
“But do you know where he was heading to?” Foster heard Miss Swan ask.
“No, he didn’t mention and he didn’t take any of our maps,” the attendant replied.
That was clearly not the answer Miss Swan had wanted to hear, because she huffed sharply and turned to leave.
How the hell did she know Mason had rented his vehicle at this place?
Foster made a mental note to share this particular piece of information with his friend next time they talked. Their eccentric client probably had a very shrewd network of informants.
He stood up and addressed the receptionist. “Hi there, I wonder if you have seen my friend. His name is Mason Green.”
In the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Swan stopping mid-stride. Good, she took the bait.
“He was supposed to have rented a car for us yesterday,” Foster lied, pulling his best Texan impersonation. “He’s tall, brown hair, brown eyes, Native American-looking...”
Before the receptionist could reply, Foster heard Miss Swan’s husky voice behind him.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you looking for Mason Green?”
Foster turned around to meet the only person Mason’s mysterious client seemed to trust. She was as tall as he’d thought she would be, but her tight jeans, black satin top and knee-high boots didn’t leave any doubts on what her real assets were.
“I am. We were supposed to meet here to look at some art pieces. Are you his associate?”
“Yes, I am,” Miss Swan answered without even blinking. “I apologize for the misunderstanding. Mr. Green had to leave unexpectedly; he phoned me last night to come and meet you, but he didn’t specify the hotel you were staying at.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for, Miss..?”
“Swan, Pamela Swan,” she added.
Foster nodded in acknowledgement. “There’s nothing to apologize for, Miss Swan.”
“Please, call me Pamela,” she said with the most enigmatic smile Foster had ever seen.
“Okay, Pamela,” Foster said, emphasizing her first name. “I got stuck in Alabama and arrived here a day late.”
Foster wondered what her next move would be. He had thrown in a hell of a live bait and she had taken the first bite. Now he needed to be very careful otherwise she would suspect something was up.
“Unfortunately I do have to apologize, sir. I’m new to this job and Mr. Green didn’t have time to brief me.” Her gray acute eyes turned into a fantastic ‘take-me-home’ puppy gaze. “I didn’t even know he had an appointment here in town.”
Smooth, very smooth, Foster thought to himself. She was covering her tracks by playing the inexperienced-assistant card. Very impressive.
“Well, Pamela, there’s nothing to worry about. That does sound awfully like Mason,” Foster said, offering his hand. “I’m Randolph Hussey.”
“Welcome to Hot Springs, Mr. Hussey,” she replied, shaking his hand. “I’m sure I can show you a very interesting time while we wait for Mr. Green to return.”
“I’m sure you can, dear,” Foster said, tapping on the delicate hand holding his. “I’m sure you can.”
Chapter Ten
The Indian Territory Museum was a cute, small shop with a maroon exterior that was just impossible to miss. The sign above the narrow front door implied that tourists and locals would find a museum, a gift shop and a library there, and Chloe was not disappointed.
It was packed to the rafters with fascinating memorabilia, photos, furniture and books—loads of books about the tribes in North America and their history and legends. There was even a special area dedicated to those who came by in search of an ancestor or lost relative. The air was saturated with the dust of old relics and history―just like any reputable place which focused on times of yore.
While Mason inquired about his friend at the front desk, Chloe wandered around. She absolutely loved museums, and this one, despite being simply set up and quite messy, was very interesting. She found a 100-year-old quilt made with scraps from old shirts and an 1800s dentist chair that looked like it was made for torture rather than health service, but one of the most exciting exhibits of the museum was a collection of old photos from the area.
One depicted the first illegal saloon in the Indian Territory; another showed a man swinging on a rudimentary trapeze on the main road of Caddo, with the inscription “Circus in Caddo, Oklahoma, 1923”. There was even a cut out from a Boone & Styron ad promoting new spring dresses from $12.50.
Chloe grinned, but then her eyes landed on a black and white photo of three men in front of a simple barn-looking building, which bore the sign “Dry Goods Inc”.
They stood proud and stoic, the way people do when they buy their first car or house. Judging by their clothes, Chloe calculated the image had been taken in early 1930s. Two of the men were European-looking, with fair skin and hair. The third man was Native American. Chloe cocked her head sideways and took a few steps closer. Square jaw, long nose, thick lips and dark serious eyes. The third man in the photo was the spitting image of Mason.
“Huh, how interesting,” she murmured to herself, as she often did. “But that can’t be rig
ht.”
“What can’t be right?”
Mason’s question caught her by surprise and Chloe let out a small startled cry.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that,” he replied, grinning.
Wow, he was actually grinning. And he looked very handsome when he did it, so she grinned in return.
“Did you have relatives living in this area?” she asked.
“No, why?”
“Look at this photo,” Chloe said, pointing at the image in front of them. “Isn’t this man you all over?”
The light mood vanished instantly and he replied dryly, “I don’t think so. Let’s go.”
Oh, dear, what had she said that made him grumpy again?
She caught up with him halfway to the exit and made him turn around to face her. “What do you mean, ‘let’s go’? Where’s your friend?”
“He’s not here. He took the day off.”
“So where is he?”
“At his home.”
“And where is his home?” Jeez, sometimes talking to Mason felt like pulling teeth!
He exhaled sharply, then answered. “Ouachita National Park.”
It took a while for the message to sink in. The friend, whom they had driven four hours to come visit, was actually located just one and a half hours from Hot Springs.
Great, just great. Mason had dragged her all the way to freakin’ Caddo, Oklahoma, for nothing.
Chloe felt her cheeks burn as anger built up inside her. She needed air and distance from this man otherwise she won’t be held accountable for her actions.
Without another word, she turned on her heels and left the store.
Oh, crap. Mason knew he was in trouble as soon as the clerk told him that his friend was not coming to work today.
“It will take a lot of charm to calm your girlfriend down,” the clerk chuckled from behind the counter.
Mason stood by the narrow door, weighing his options while he watched Chloe pace back and forth in front of the F-150, mumbling something to herself―probably obscenities. He took a deep breath and prepared to go face the petite tornado. But first, there was something he needed to do.