The Seventh Stone (16 page)

CHAPTER
18

Christa slowed as she passed the statue of the Virgin Mary whose open hands and perpetual calm welcomed all comers to Rose Hawthorne Catholic School.
Just let me get Lucia home safely. And I will believe. Really
. After all, Mary was the miracle maker, not the least of which was that Gabby sent Lucia and Liam here. Ever since she returned from Colombia last summer, Gabby had grown more spiritual, more afraid that she wasn’t raising her children with some kind of religious foundation.
If I don’t, they might never meet Mom, after, you know
, she admitted late one night.

Christa knew, all right. That’s what this was all about. What her life was all about. The letter was the evidence she’d searched for. The letter answered so many questions, and raised so many more. It named several of the seven sacred stones that Salvatierra removed from the Breastplate. The Urim and Thummim were pivotal in ancient Judaism, and were used to translate the Book of Mormon. Babur’s Diamond, now known as the Kohinoor, and Edward’s Sapphire, were two of most famous gems in world history. Real enough. She’d seen them in the British Crown Jewels. Was it possible that they went missing for a gap of time, in the mid-1500s, secretly placed in their original mounts on the Breastplate?

The letter told of Luna, the astronomer and Salvatierra’s friend. He had to be the one who left behind the armillary sphere as a clue to the location of the Turquoise. It even recounted what Salvatierra had done with the Breastplate. He’d buried it beneath the heads of those who tried to claim its power, whatever that meant, in the New World jungle. Most significantly, Salvatierra named the conquistador who had possessed the Breastplate, Alvaro Contreras.

The kids were out for recess. She parked in the nearest spot to the playground, its primary reds, blues and yellows inviting and happy. The children ran, swung and slid. They didn’t care about the storm clouds darkening the sky. They shouldn’t have to. Maybe she was being paranoid. She shouldn’t drag Lucia away from this innocence. She might scare her, for nothing. She had no proof that the Prophet was Baltasar Contreras. Sharing a last name with a long dead conquistador and a propensity to give educational toys shouldn’t condemn him. Like Percival said, the man was a scion of the community, a well-known, if little seen, philanthropist. None of that alleviated the vise tightening around her heart.

She got out of her car, hugging her arms across her chest to fend off the biting chill and hide the hole the bullet had sliced through the sleeve of her leather jacket. The blood, thankfully, hadn’t seeped through. She scanned the swings first, Lucia’s favorite activity. Not there. She looked to the monkey bars, the slides. She tried to fix on each child’s face as they raced in every direction, in their plaid uniforms, screaming with delight. Nothing. A growing panic gripped her. “Lucia!” she called, stooping to peer in the “hut” beneath the slide.

“
Professor Devlin,” a voice called from behind her. Sister Mary Therese approached, the breeze swirling her white novitiate veil around her wizened face. Like Lucia, she was new to the school, a widow on a fresh path. She had taken Lucia under her wing, and for that Christa was grateful, and she tried to tamp down the spark of suspicion lit by anyone who was both friendly and committed to the church. “It’s amazing how children can hide in plain sight,” she said, as always with the uncanny ability to tune into the needs of people around her. “We’ll find her.” Together, they walked towards the grove of evergreens to the far side of the playground.

A mom’s hand caught Christa’s shoulder from behind. “Lucia’s gone already.”

Christa spun to face her. It was Yvonne, Courtney’s mom, dressed to the nines in skinny jeans, fur-trimmed leather coat and Ugg boots. She had met her many times when picking up Lucia and Liam after school every other Wednesday, which she and the kids had proclaimed “Wacky Wednesday with Crazy Aunt Christa.” “Gone?”

“
Her uncle picked her up,” she answered. “Such a nice man. Arrived in a black Rolls Royce Phantom. All the children were very excited. You never told me that Lucia has a rich uncle. That poor girl. I’m glad she has someone with some substance in her life.” Her tone of voice underscored her opinion of parents who’d rather spend money on books than boots.

Christa’s heart raced. “You let her go with him? What did he look like?”

Yvonne frowned. “He wore a Gucci suit. Custom-made, not off the rack.” She bent closer and softened her voice. “Gucci doesn’t do short and stout off the rack.”

“
Did the man say anything?” Sister Mary asked Yvonne.

“
He was taking her for ice cream, and shopping for a Christmas gift for her,” said Yvonne. “I suggested the Nordstrom’s at the mall.” Yvonne pouted, picking up on Christa’s distress. “I called the principal’s office,” she said, holding up her smart phone as evidence in her defense. “They told me that Percival had called to say Lucia was being taken home early. And Lucia’s Uncle Peter is on the approved list of people who can pick her up. He is your sister’s husband, isn’t he? He assured me he’d sign her out before leaving school property.”

“
Peter’s been out of town,” Christa said. “Due back today.”

“
Well that explains it, then,” Yvonne said, corralling a wisp of windblown hair. “The Rolls was an airport car service. It’s the holiday travel season, after all. Not beyond them to fill in with their status cars.”

Sister Mary placed a hand on Christa’s forearm, on her wound. It hurt. She didn’t care. “Christa, do you have Peter’s number?” the nun said in a soft tone that could calm any tantrum.

Christa jerked the cell phone from her pocket. She wanted to believe it more than anything. She dialed Peter’s cell. A recording answered. This time she was calling the cops. Before she could punch nine, the phone chimed. She pressed it to her ear. “Peter?”

A laugh answered her. “I do so enjoy optimism, Christa Devlin,” a man’s voice said. A nasal, arrogant voice. The Prophet. “By all means, confirm to your friends that I am Uncle Peter. Lucia’s life depends on it.”

CHAPTER
19

Baltasar Contreras was delighted with the little girl, with her mop of curly strawberry blond hair and infectious laugh. She had taken off her pink, faux suede jacket trimmed with fluffy pink fur at the wrists, hem and around the hood and laid it neatly next to her. She hadn’t wanted ice cream to drip on it. She had told Baltasar that it was Barbie’s jacket, and laughed when he asked why Barbie had given it to her. Barbie, he learned, was a doll. Lucia would be his doll, to manipulate to make his dream come true.

She hated her starched navy and green plaid school uniform, and confided that she didn’t care at all if ice cream got on that. She toyed with the drop-leaf table in the back of the limo, raising it, latching it, lowering it, while his chauffeur, Simon, went inside Jimmies to get the ice cream cones. Baltasar had been tempted to go in, himself. He’d never been in a “family restaurant.” His research into the Hunter family had revealed this quaint spot as a favorite of the little girl. She had ordered one scoop of cookie dough, and one scoop of chocolate, on a sugar, not a cake, cone, with rainbow sprinkles. She knew what she wanted. So did he.

She licked her cone on one side then the next, sprinkles dropping on the napkins that Baltasar had spread over her lap, despite his own distaste for the plaid uniform. Even he had ordered a cone, pistachio, amazed that he found joy in such a pedestrian act. He hadn’t had an ice cream cone since he was a child and that was a vanilla gelato in Cairo. He wanted a second cone. His mother, ever indulgent in her love, went back into the shop to get it for him. That’s when the bomb blew the shop and his mother to bits.

“
Now, Professor Devlin,” he spoke into his cell phone, “I will wait while you assure that nun and the woman wearing the peculiar sheepskin boots that I am Lucia’s uncle and I’ve picked up little Lucia from the school. You’re quick enough to deduce that I do have someone watching you. If you do not do as I say, you will not hear from me nor Lucia again.”

She hesitated. Baltasar expected that, but then heard her forced laugh and stumbled reassurances that Lucia was fine. He listened. He could hear footsteps on pavement, her quick, short breaths and a car door opening and shutting.

After his mother died, his father equated ice cream with poison and indulgent love with punishment. He turned to Lucia. “If I had children,” he said, “I’d make it a rule to have ice cream in my house year round. I’d hire a nanny just to play with you and a tutor to make sure you rose above your peers.” If only he could have had his own children, then it might not have fallen on him to fulfill his family’s destiny. It would not be him who would cause all those deaths, who must take the crown upon his head. He dabbed a drip of chocolate from Lucia’s dimpled chin. It was a tragedy that she might be one of the first to die.

“
Where’s Lucia?” Christa Devlin asked finally, her voice surprisingly strong.

“
She is right here with me, naturellement. We’re having ice cream. Aren’t we Lucia?”

“
I want to talk to her.”

“
Quite understandable. I will put you on speaker.”

“
Lucia, honey? It’s Aunt Christa. Where are you?”

“
Aunt Christa!” Lucia smiled widely. “I’m in a Rolls Royce Phantom!”

“
Yes, I know, in a Rolls Royce Phantom. Heading home?”

Baltasar smiled. Christa Devlin was smart, thinking on her feet, hoping to eke out information. More importantly, she was struggling to remain calm so as not to scare the little girl. She didn’t want her to suffer. Baltasar was pleased he was able to take full advantage of the fluctuating circumstances. Like a chess master, he could visualize every possible move, counterattack and response, all while keeping fixed on the final goal, to topple a king. He licked his pistachio.

“
Mr. Profit bought me ice cream. He got me two scoops! Aunt Helen never lets me get two scoops. And rainbow sprinkles!”

“
Mr. Profit?”

“
He’s Mommy’s funny friend.” Lucia laughed. “I had to tell him who Barbie was. He said he’d get me Princess Holiday Barbie for Christmas.”

“
Where did you go?” The strong voice weakened, began to tremble. “Jimmies?”

Baltasar pressed the speaker off and brought the phone to his ear. “Jimmies is simply charming,” he said. “Of course, we’re not there now.” He chewed a pistachio from the ice cream. Delightful.

“
It won’t take the cops long to find a Rolls Royce Phantom.”

“
In which case, Lucia would not have long to live.”

“
Don’t hurt her.” The voice leaped back. A hesitation. “She’s just a little girl.”

“
That’s entirely up to you, Professor Devlin.”

“
I know who you are, Contreras.”

She was a quick study. “You don’t know who I am,” he said, “but you will.”

“
What do you want?”

He had her hooked. There was no need to prolong her suffering. It was time to reel her in. “It’s not what I want from you. It’s what you can get from me. Despite your impudence in the desert, I still offer you a wonderful opportunity, Professor Devlin. You could be instrumental in changing the world, in making sure that little girls like Lucia no longer have to suffer.”

“
Percival will give you whatever you want to get Lucia back.”

“
The question is, Professor Devlin, will you? Beginning, of course, with the Yikaisidahi Turquoise and the Tear of the Moon Emerald.”

“
I don’t have the Turquoise. And as far as I know, that Emerald is at the bottom of the Atlantic. But you know that, too, I’m sure.”

“
Do not try to deceive me!” He slammed his ice cream cone, scoop first, into the ashtray. “It is my destiny to complete my ancestor’s mission. It is my destiny to bring peace to the world. Hate killed my mother, just as it killed yours!”

His tirade was answered with silence from Christa’s end of the phone. Lucia looked at him. Her tiny lip trembled, her ice cream forgotten. He forced a smile and a wink, and drew in a deep, calming breath. “Meet me at that charming playground, the one on Whitscomb Street. Lucia loves the swings, but you know that. You have three minutes.”

He flipped the phone closed and laid his hand gently on Lucia’s knee. An unfamiliar feeling crept through his insides. Compassion. He swallowed it down like bile rising at an awkward moment. “I apologize for shouting,” he said. He couldn’t have the child carrying on. It might draw attention. “Now, how would you like to play on the swings while we wait for Aunt Christa to meet us here? After, you can come to my home for a visit and I’ll have Simon stop and get you the toy store’s most beautiful Barbie on the way.”