The Seventh Stone (14 page)

“
Percival Hunter is the weak link,” said Contreras. “All you had to do was pilfer his wife’s journal. Then you were to wait to see if Christa Devlin showed up with the Turquoise and take that from her.”

He laid the nutcracker on the glass topped, wrought iron table and extricated a juicy bite of lobster from its crusher claw. As his greasy lips circled the meat, a drip of juice fell from his chin onto his custom-tailored lapel. He didn’t bother dabbing the spot with his linen napkin. The suit was now imperfect, ruined. He gestured to his butler. “Get Mister Lee out here from Manhattan,” he said. “I need to replace this suit.” He squeezed his thumb into the waistline of his slacks to ease the binding tightness. “Tell him he is off in his measurements. I will not tolerate it.” Fool. Didn’t Lee understand that in religion image is everything?

Contreras made sure Torrino understood. He charmed this disenchanted former altar boy with a power that towered above earthly laws. Contreras caught his own reflection in the glass table top. His thinning hairline and soft belly just made him all the more resistible. It showed Torrino that if a man like him could rule others, then he could rule him, and, oh, how Torrino wanted to be ruled.

Like all the men who followed him. Deliberately, Contreras had stayed the course set by his father, and his father before him, hiring only those who would fear him completely. Surely his father would see that he had succeeded in that, at least. “You know, Mister Torrino, what God did to those who failed Him at Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Torrino swallowed. “Destroyed them with fire and brimstone.”

“
That was the work of the true God, the Old Testament God, before mankind in their hubris corrupted the divine power into something more earthly, more human, more,” and he laughed when he thought about it, “loving.” They needed a teacher, these pretenders to the heavenly throne. The time had come to put himself fully into the service of God. “You know why they have named me the Prophet,” he said.

“
Because you will know God’s true command,” said Torrino.

Contreras nodded. “So I have taught you.” He took another sip of his espresso, the aroma almost as strong as the liquid was hot on his tongue. “God wants me to have the sacred stones,” he said. “Percival Hunter risked his life for the journal. Perhaps he knows something after all.”

“
He didn’t know nothing,” Torrino stammered, his eyes darting between the two men on either side of him. Their hands, as if synchronized, eased inside their sport coats to rest on their pistol butts.

Torrino should be shot for his bad grammar alone. But Contreras needed men like him, beefy, ruthless men, the T Rex’s of their business. “So he must know something.”

A perplexed look crossed Torrino’s face. “Listen. He’s in the library, standing by the side window, squinting at some old letter, all weird-like. I’m telling you. It was dark. The guy doesn’t have the sense to turn on the light. As if light’s going to come through that side window. It was like night out there on the side of that house.”

Contreras tented his fingers. Curious. Why was this letter important? “And yet, perhaps, he had seen the light,” he muttered. Others might overlook this detail, shrug it off as a misguided diversion. Others did not have his genius to weave these thousands of details into a master plan. Others were meant to be ruled, not to rule.

“
He didn’t see the light,” said Torrino. “He saw me, and the minute he did, his eyes shoot over to the book on the table next to him. It was old, leather, no title. I figured it had to be that plant lady’s journal you wanted. Hunter would make a lousy quarterback.”

“
Describe the letter.”

“
The letter was old, yellowed, like it had been around awhile,” he said. “That’s when your driver panicked and texted me. I grab my cell from my pocket. ‘Bug out,’ it says. Hunter is looking across the room. The wall safe is open, couple boxes of ammo in it. He’s eyeing the twenty-two pistol on the desk.”

Contreras leaned forward. “Hunter had removed his gun from the safe. He was anticipating an immediate threat.” This could mean nothing, or everything. How much had his wife told him? Had Christa Devlin reached him? His landline was down, Contreras had made sure of that, but the cell phone was not so easily controlled.

“
Then all hell breaks loose.”

“
Not all of it,” said Contreras, “not yet.”

Torrino lunged forward, his fists clenched. “Hunter goes for the gun on the desk. I shove him aside and snatch the journal. I figured that letter could be important, so I grab that, too. I take off, and Hunter starts shooting at me.”

Contreras’s gaze swerved up to meet Torrino’s. The sight of the big man’s eyes widening with fear filled him with a warm satisfaction.

Torrino’s eyes darted away. He hunched his shoulders. The man was hiding something. Torrino chanced a sidelong glance to the body guard to his right. The guard maintained his granite edifice. Contreras had trained him well. “I’m not going to let no crazy man shoot me,” Torrino said.

“
No,” Contreras replied. “That should be left to a sane man.”

Torrino pointed at him, then withdrew the gesture and shoved his hands into his pockets. “It was the girl, from the desert. She was coming up the front walkway.”

“
So Christa Devlin arrived, as I suspected she would,” Contreras said. He wasn’t about to let Braydon Fox’s gambit in the desert delay him. Within minutes of the unfortunate encounter, Contreras had called in a helicopter using his satellite phone. His private jet had been fueled and ready for wheels up. He’d been back in his Princeton estate for hours, analyzing Christa Devlin’s next move. He smiled. As he had hoped, Fox’s annoying charms hadn’t won her over. She had gone racing straight to Gabriella, except her sister wasn’t there. The woman had gone missing, and he hadn’t disappeared her. It was infuriating.

Torrino nodded. “She looked different than in the desert, wore this short skirt, tall boots. In the daylight, I could see those amazing green eyes. Who knew a history professor could be so hot. Man, I wished I’d gone to Princeton.”

Not many statements left Contreras speechless. This one did. He leaned forward. “And Devlin’s pack, the one she had in Arizona?”

“
Yeah, she had it.”

“
And yet you returned here without the journal, nor this mysterious letter, nor Devlin’s pack, Mister Torrino.” He said it more as a threat, than a question.

“
When I crashed into Devlin, the journal fell into the damn bushes. Letter, too.” Torrino dared to point at him, then thought better of it. “Your driver panicked,” he said. “He must have seen Hunter come out, with that gun, because he starts driving off, leaving me there. I figured I’d better clear out. If Hunter didn’t shoot me, then that FBI guy might show up. And you said I shouldn’t let them take me alive.”

“
That’s what the cyanide is for, dear Torrino.”

Torrino jabbed his trigger finger in Contreras’s direction. “Not that I’d talk, Mr. Contreras. I’d never tell them nothing.”

“
Your double negatives are not reassuring.” Contreras smacked the lobster juice from his lips, then dabbed them with his linen napkin.

Contreras signaled for his butler to clear the lunch dishes, but placed his hand over the nutcracker so it would be left on the table. Christa Devlin. In his mind, his fingers picked up her strings, toyed with them a bit. She would be desperately alone, with her father and sister unreachable. And yet she hadn’t given in to Agent Fox. That took courage, and loyalty to her father. Contreras smiled. It was time to twist tight the tragedy of her mother’s murder, to spin her destiny in a new direction, like his destiny had been. He almost hated doing it, but she’d thank him in the end.

The butler placed a generous slice of lemon meringue pie and a chilled dessert fork on the table. Contreras carved out a bite and waved it at Torrino. “You shoot with your right hand, don’t you, Mister Torrino?”

Torrino stepped back. The bodyguard on his right gripped his elbow to hold him in place.

Contreras filled his mouth with the bite of pie. The meringue fairly melted on his tongue and the lemon had just enough punch to invigorate his cheeks. He put down the dessert fork and picked up the nutcracker. “Left hand, then,” he said, beckoning to Torrino.

“
I did everything you told me to,” said Torrino

Contreras pursed his lips impatiently. The bodyguard on Torrino’s left pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster. Torrino hesitated, then leaned forward, stretching his left hand over the glass table towards Contreras. It trembled gratifyingly. Contreras grasped it gently, such strong fingers, rough and calloused, but so very warm. He did not want to hurt this man. He wanted to save him, to save humankind. Why was he forced to always prove his power? He folded Torrino’s hand closed, but tugged out the man’s beefy pinky finger, pulling it straight. He encircled the finger with the nutcracker, pressed, and he twisted until the bone snapped. Torrino’s cry, give him credit, was loud, but brief. Torrino cradled his pinky with his other hand and pulled it close to his chest, grimacing at the sight of the finger, its middle bone bent grotesquely at a right angle, pointing accusingly at his own ring finger.

Contreras tried another bite of pie, moaning in delight at the blend of flavors and textures. “Fenton,” he addressed his butler, “tell Pierre that he has truly outdone himself. The meringue is exquisite.” He leaned back in his chair. “Mister Torrino, what exactly did Percival Hunter say?”

Torrino unclenched his mouth. “Nothing. He didn’t tell me nothing.”

Contreras leaned forward, tenting his fingers, catching Torrino’s reddened eyes in his razor sharp gaze. “Surely, amongst all this gunplay, he must have said something.”

“
Just crazy talk,” Torrino answered.

Contreras reached for the nutcracker. “My patience is limited.”

Torrino cradled his injured hand closer to his chest. “He was chasing me. He thought I was getting away with the goods. He said Devlins never give up.”

Contreras smiled. “Oh they will, dear Torrino, they will.”

CHAPTER
16

Christa keyed in the last tweak to her translation of Salvatierra’s letter. Now she had to figure out how, or if, it would lead her to the seven sacred stones that could restore the Breastplate of Aaron. She drew in a deep breath and pressed print. With a rhythmic whir, the printer churned out a five hundred year old letter that challenged the conventions of New World history, and dug into the very roots of Judeo-Christian beliefs. Not to mention her relationship with her father. A desperate man. Desperate enough to forge a letter that so conveniently proved witness to his story.

Percival entered the room. She hadn’t noticed he left. He had shaved and changed from his pajamas into navy slacks, worn at the hem, and a wrinkled oxford shirt.

“
This letter tells quite a tale,” she said. “It certainly looks and reads authentic, but it can’t be real.” Even if she wanted it to be. Even if she clung onto that last thread of belief.

“
I believe it is,” he said. Percival was not a religious man, not by a long shot. He constantly argued with Helen, their family’s token fanatic, about the Bible passages that were mathematically impossible. And he only tolerated Dad’s obsession with the Breastplate because he loved Gabriella. He crossed to the open Fed Ex box on the table by the window, pawed through the Styrofoam curls, and extracted what looked like a faded blue-bordered scarf tied into a small bundle. “This came in the package with the letter and your father’s journal.” He placed it on her open palm.

The cloth was soft with wear, faded by the sun, the border an intricate geometric weave of blues on white. Whatever it held had heft to it, weight and substance for such a small package. As she untied the ends that knotted the bundle, a familiar scent escaped. It was the earthy hint of the desert, the red sands of Morocco, and the salty tease of a far-away ocean coast.

Percival leaned in closer. “Even with my rudimentary Latin,” he said. “I recognized the word.”

Swallowing her trepidation, she spread open the scarf. “Crucifix,” she said aloud. But not just any crucifix. The gold gleamed even in the dim light of the library. The Christ figure was intricately detailed, His expression one of pained acceptance. Beneath His feet, the unusual skull and crossbones, carved from ivory, grinned at her ominously. She turned over the cross. The bright red, blue and golden enamel, indicating 16
^th
century Iberian roots, was inscribed in gold with two words, Lux et Veritas. Latin for Light and Truth. “Juan Jaramillo de Salvatierra’s crucifix,” she said. He had embarked to the new world with little more than this crucifix and his faith. His crucifix was evidence that the letter was authentic. “All this time, Dad was right.”