Race for the Flash Stone (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 2)

by K Patrick Donoghue

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” the attorney had said. “Another week, two at the most, and the Americans will fold. Your house arrest will be over and the matter will be closed.”

  During his confinement, Navarro had been consumed by despair. He had lost his chance to acquire the Waterland Map. Without it, there was no hope of finding the Flash Stone. He spent several days mourning the lost opportunity, but then an anonymous text message from a Miami-area phone number reawakened the opportunity to turn his fantasy into reality.

  It had been almost midnight when the blunt text arrived: “dear rat bastard, let’s talk waterland. mwah, warrior princess.”

  When he first viewed the message, Navarro debated whether to respond. In fact, his first inclination was to delete it. It smelled like a trap, a feeble ploy by the Americans to trick him into a compromising exchange. With the extradition case against him crumbling, he suspected the Americans were desperate to fortify their hands.

  However, the language and the attitude conveyed in the message was pure Margaret Corchran. No one besides Margaret dared to call him such names, in texts or otherwise, and he doubted anyone else knew her as “warrior princess.”

  Then he remembered the little bitch had used the same venomous salutation in front of Kyle on more than one occasion. So, Navarro returned to the view that the text was a setup, possibly one involving Kyle masquerading as his sister. The two-faced Corchran had already demonstrated his willingness to roll over on Navarro. What did Kyle have to lose by doubling down and participating in a police sting designed to nab Navarro?

  But, after he had slept on it, the chance to acquire the Flash Stone proved too great a lure. He felt confident he could navigate a benign text exchange to at least discover whether Margaret or someone else hid behind the anonymous message.

  Now, as he stood by the parlor windows caressing his ponytail, Navarro typed his response.

  NAVARRO: I’m listening

  For an hour, he paced the window bank waiting for a reply. With each minute that passed, his thoughts turned increasingly sinister. He imagined a bank of American agents, huddled around a computer, triangulating his cell phone signal. Meanwhile, a group of police officers sat with Kyle, feeding him instructions on how to coax Navarro into a conversation. He imagined a polished government attorney joining the conversation to help craft the response, and then Kyle massaging the response to reflect Margaret’s voice. These suspicions cycled over and over while he waited for the anonymous texter’s reply. When it finally arrived, Navarro’s skepticism was at full alert:

  (305): good. you still want it?

  Navarro refrained from making a compromising statement.

  NAVARRO: Want what?

  Three replies followed in quick succession:

  (305): Ha! we both know what IT is!

  (305): and we both know you want it BAD

  (305): it’ll cost ya, though. BIG TIME

  Navarro paused to consider a response. So far, there was nothing in the conversation to dispel the notion of a setup. Rattling in the back of his mind was the voice of his attorney cautioning him to lay low. Time to see what’s crawling under the rock, thought Navarro.

  NAVARRO: Call me

  (305): seriously?????

  NAVARRO: Yes

  (305): TOO risky

  NAVARRO: Understood. Adios

  When he pressed send, Navarro was fully convinced the anonymous texter was not Margaret Corchran. More frustrated than disappointed, he shoved the phone in his pocket and retrieved the book of Olmec legends. Replacing the volume on the parlor bookshelf, Navarro sighed and turned his thoughts to other matters.

  Less than a minute later, his phone buzzed. He ignored it. Two minutes after that, another buzz. Enough of this foolishness, he thought. Whisking out the phone, he prepared to delete the entire conversation. Then he saw the notification screen. It indicated the two new texts were images.

  Curious, Navarro opened the conversation box and his eyes met two photographs. The first was a picture of Margaret’s weapon of choice, the Sound Stone. It sat at the foot of a chaise lounge. In the background beyond the chaise, the photo showed a beach and a tiny sliver of crashing waves. The photo carried no caption.

  The second photo changed everything. In the selfie, a woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses blew a kiss to the camera. Though her raven hair was now blond and much shorter, there was no mistaking the smirk on her face. The caption read, “Toodles. Hope the feds fry your pansy-ass.”

  NAVARRO: Hold on

  (305): ooh? reconsidering, are we?

  NAVARRO: Where are you? I will come to you

  (305): shhh, it’s a secret!

  NAVARRO: Then come visit me

  (305): haaaa…freakin…haaa!!!

  NAVARRO: What then?

  (305): i talk, you do as you’re told

  NAVARRO: Careful, warrior princess. Remember your place.

  (305): yawn…

  (305): simple rules…

  (305): i give you bank info…

  (305): you send $...

  (305): you get prize…

  (305): everyone goes home happy

  NAVARRO: Call me

  (305): any funny business, prize goes bye-bye

  NAVARRO: Understood

  (305): k, call in a sec

  A moment later, his phone began to ring. He immediately answered.

  “Well, hello there, Klausie. Enjoying house arrest?” Margaret said.

  “Do you really have it?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh. It’s pretty. Lots of colors.”

  “How much?”

  “Half mil.”

  He scoffed. Cheeky little bitch, he thought. She wanted the originally agreed fee…for only a portion of the promised take. And after all the trouble she and her brother caused him?

  “That’s the deal,” she said. “Take it or I’ll find someone else. Who knows, maybe I’ll use it myself.”

  “You’ve already been paid a sizeable deposit, why should I pay more?”

  “That was then, this is now,” Margaret said, yawning. “Besides, life as a fugitive is expensive! You have a pen to write down the wire information?”

  Navarro spat an unflattering stream of expletives.

  “The bank name for the wire is First Bank of Grand Cayman.”

  “Even if I agree to the price, what assurance do I have you’ll deliver?” railed Navarro.

  “The name on the account is Victoria Bradley. That’s Bradley with an ‘ey.’ Did you get that?”

  “Answer me!”

  A sigh echoed from Margaret’s end of the line. “I’ll email it to you as soon as the wire clears. Now, are you ready for the account number?”

  “Email? No, for that price I want the original!”

  “Don’t have the original, sweetie. Anyway, my copy’s better than the original.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “My copy comes along with a special file that will help you read it,” Margaret said. “Now, do we have a deal or not?”

  CHAPTER 3

  OUT OF THE FRYING PAN

  Pézenas, France

  July 15

  With a smile and a wave, Jacques Foucault watched the Daimler Consort depart with the last of his dinner guests. As the classic car rumbled its way down the gravel driveway, Foucault reflected on the pleasant evening.

  It had been a small gathering, just a handful of fellow Société Astronomique de France members whose company Foucault enjoyed. Their conversation had been lively, with debates flowing as generously as the Carignan. Foucault’s cheery mood had been further enhanced by an unexpected text from Christian midway through dinner.

  “Found her!” read the message.

  Foucault could barely contain his excitement. He excused himself from the table, nearly knocking over his wine, and scurried outside to send a quick reply: “Where?”

  “You won’t believe it.”

  “Where, Christian?!”

  “Barbados
.”

  “Mon Dieu! Returned to the scene of the crime, has she?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “Very well. Will call you in one hour.”

  With the Daimler gone from sight, Foucault walked around the side of the chateau and followed a path to the observatory. As he strolled along, he glanced up at the night sky and greeted the familiar stars. They were like old friends by now, keeping watch over his lonely crusade.

  Once inside, Foucault flipped the switch to open the dome doors and settled into a chair aside the telescope. Eyeballing Cassiopeia’s position through the open gap, Foucault trained the telescope on the constellation and peered through the lens. Adjusting the scope, he searched beyond the western tip of the W-shaped constellation until he found tonight’s target, the Bubble Nebula. Fine-tuning the focus on the colorful formation, he smiled and mumbled, “Magnifique.”

  He admired the nebula for several minutes before he dialed Christian. When the call connected, Foucault said, “Allô, Christian?”

  “Good evening, Monsieur Foucault. How was the dinner?”

  “Excellent! Though Laval and Girard droned on about Perseids again. Every July when the date approaches, they act like children at Christmas,” Foucault said with a laugh. “Where are you tonight?”

  “Barbados,” Christian said.

  “Ah, so you are there already. Have you seen her?”

  “Yes, she looks like she hasn’t a care in the world.”

  “How did you find her?”

  “I went to see her brother, Kyle. It took some incentives to get in to see him, but he was very open when we met,” Christian said. “Then I just followed the crumbs he gave me.”

  “He knew where she was?”

  “No, sir. But they shared a private bank account in the Caymans.”

  “He told you this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Surely, he shared the same information with the police?”

  “No, sir. He said he didn’t. He claims the district attorney reneged on part of his plea bargain. Once that happened, he ‘clammed up,’ as he put it.”

  “How did you convince him to talk?”

  “Ahem…I made a small promise.”

  “Money?”

  “No. I’d rather not say over the phone.”

  “Very well, you can tell me later. I congratulate you, mon ami. I am most appreciative,” said Foucault.

  “Thank you, sir. She was careless, that helped. She’s been using a debit card attached to the joint account.”

  Foucault gazed back through the telescope lens and asked, “How long has she been there?”

  “I spoke with the housekeeper assigned to her room. She’s been here nearly a month. Seems to be keeping to herself, but she’s definitely up to something. The housekeeper says she’s taken several day trips off island.”

  “Putain! Dominica?” Foucault asked.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. Foucault stood and paced around the small room. “Christian? Has she gone to Dominica?”

  “Yes. The housekeeper is as nosy as Miss Corchran is careless. Says Margaret’s been tossing her used airline tickets and customs receipts in the bathroom trash. She tears them up, but not well enough,” Christian said.

  “She’s using an alias, of course?” Foucault asked.

  “Yes. Victoria Bradley.”

  “Has she found anything?”

  “Hard to say. Housekeeper says she’s using the room safe, and I noticed she carries a backpack with her at all times.”

  “What about the map? Did the housekeeper see a map?”

  “I didn’t specifically ask about a map. I asked if she’s left any papers lying around; the housekeeper said no.”

  Foucault closed the observatory dome and powered down the telescope. As he descended the silo’s spiral staircase, he pondered Christian’s information. If Margaret was still at the resort, it seemed unlikely she’d found the entrance again. Unless, of course, she was raiding the vault piece by piece.

  “Monsieur,” Christian said, “I should mention that Kyle denied taking the Sulataers. He could be lying. He said he’d seen them, so had Margaret, but said it was their uncle who found them. Matthew Dobson.”

  “Dobson? Ah, so that’s the connection!” remarked Foucault. So, it was possible Margaret was in the dark, he thought. That would explain the repeated trips. That meant there was still time to intervene. He asked, “Do you think she has the map? Did her brother say?”

  “I’m not sure. Kyle did say he gave her an electronic copy, but…”

  “But what?”

  “You’re not going to like it,” Christian said.

  “Christian! We don’t have time for games,” snapped Foucault.

  “Kyle said she was supposed to give it to Klaus Navarro.”

  “Jésus!” Foucault swore. “Hopefully, she has not yet handed it over.”

  “Could be,” Christian said. “If she’s searching Dominica, she may have decided to keep it to herself.”

  Foucault cursed the name Devlin Wilson. The meddlesome archaeologist had shoved his hand in the hive and shaken it until it burst. Now the little bees were everywhere! Anlon Cully, Margaret Corchran, Klaus Navarro. And Navarro was a noisy bee. His indiscretions would surely cause other bees to gather. Sooner or later The Betrayer would sniff the bees and swoop in.

  “You are to watch her every step! If she leaves the resort, you follow her. Do not let her out of your sight, do you understand?” Foucault said.

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “I will be there tomorrow. Make the arrangements.”

  Krystal Waters Resort

  St. James Parish, Barbados

  July 16

  Swirling a cherry-adorned skewer, Victoria Bradley gazed at the hues cast by the fading light and uttered a contented sigh. She raised a nutmeg-spiced concoction to her lips, lowered her eyelids and let its tangy flavor slide over her tongue. In the background, light calypso tones masked the gurgle of low tide.

  Exhaling with satisfaction, “Vickie” burrowed her toes deeper into the cool comfort of the powdery sand and stared out once more at the clouds floating just above the water’s surface.

  “Ah,” she purred, “I was meant for this.”

  Reclining on the cushioned chaise lounge, Vickie curled under a coral-and-white-striped beach towel and listened absently to carefree banter from the poolside bar.

  Behind her, a cool breeze tickled the leaves of a sprawling mahogany tree, obscuring the approaching sound of a resort attendant. After politely clearing his throat to announce his presence, the attendant spoke with a British accent: “Good evening, Miss Bradley.”

  The unexpected salutation caused Vickie to flinch. Instinctively, she uncoiled from beneath the towel and made a quick grab for the backpack by the chaise. Her elbow caught the fluted glass resting on the table beside her and tipped it over. She uttered an expletive and glared at the attendant. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that! What do you want?”

  The slim, ebony-toned man bowed apologetically. Attired in a freshly pressed white camp shirt, rose-colored Bermuda shorts, and equally bright white knee-high socks and sneakers, the attendant said, “Pardon me if I surprised you, miss. A gentleman has requested to dine with you this evening. I was asked to deliver his invitation.”

  Vickie grasped the empty glass and said, “Look what you’ve done! Go bring a fresh rum punch. With extra cherries. Quickly.”

  Hands folded behind his back, the attendant stuttered, “The…the…gentleman was most insistent.”

  “Do I look like I give a f——?” she spat. Waving the glass toward his face, Vickie said, “Rum punch. Now! And tell the gentleman no.”

  “Very well, miss,” he said as he bowed.

  While the attendant traipsed away, Vickie stretched out beneath the towel just as the trailing tip of the sun disappeared beneath the ocean. Closing her eyes again, she listened to the soft calypso melody amid rustling from the overhead
mahogany leaves.

  While she waited for her refill, Vickie pondered the odd dinner request. Over the past month, she’d received more than a dozen dining invitations, but they were all delivered in person. Some were rude solicitations for more than dinner. Others were nothing more than alcohol-influenced dares. But a few had been sincere. It pained her to turn this final lot aside, but at the time it had been more important to maintain a low profile.

  When Christian Hunte returned across the beach with tray in hand, he noticed Vickie was again nestled beneath the towel. Careful to avoid another mishap, he cleared his throat several steps away from the chaise and announced, “Your drink, Miss Bradley.”

  He leaned forward and presented the tray. Vickie propped an arm against the beach chair and raised her head to verify the extra cherries. Satisfied her demand had been honored, she whisked the cocktail to her lips and said, “There better not be a charge for this!”

  Christian resisted the temptation to bludgeon her with the tray. He assured her the drink was on the house and then withdrew a small envelope from his pocket. Placing it on the tray, he bent forward to present the envelope. “The gentleman asked that I give you this. He requested I wait to hear your reply.”

  Vickie slurped the cocktail through the provided straw and peered at the envelope. She cast a dubious eye at Christian and said, “How pushy! I said no. Does the gentleman not understand the word no?”

  Her attention shifted to the patio where two attendants, garbed as voodoo witch doctors, began the nightly ritual of igniting the resort’s tiki lamps. She loved to watch the dots of light turn into blazing torches. From the beach, it looked like hell arising in the darkness. Hoping Christian would take the hint, she ignored his presence and continued to watch the witch doctor ceremony. Absently, she moved her hand to the backpack.