The Seventh Stone (46 page)

Nothing. “Apparently it’s going to take more than a planetary alignment to show me that I’m on the right path,” she said. Damn, she’d been so sure. And that was always her downfall.

Braydon tugged it from her grasp. “Never give up on yourself,” he said. He double checked the position of the rings. That was annoying. Then he grabbed the pedestal of the sphere in one hand, the marble base in the other, and twisted. It moved, unscrewing like a jar lid. He lifted off the top of the base, sphere and all. Along the inner rim of the base was a finely crafted locking mechanism that had held the lid in place. He handed her the open base. “Or you’ll never know what you can accomplish.”

A secret compartment had been carved out of the interior of the base. She peered in, tilting it towards the bar light to cast away the shadow. “Paper,” she said. “It’s old, centuries old.” She carefully removed the sepia-toned parchment. Paper this old could disintegrate in her fingers. She placed the open marble base on the bar and, carefully, unfolded the parchment. It opened to a ten-inch square. On one side was an ink rendering like she had never seen before. She swallowed, hard. “It’s a map.”

Braydon edged in closer. They all did, hovering around, straining for a better look. “Does it show the location of the Turquoise?” Daniel asked.

She tilted it towards the light. “It’s faded, but I can make it out. The drawing is signed by Tristan de Luna.”

“
Presumably, Luna is the first guardian of the Turquoise,” said Braydon. “The man who brought it to Arizona from Colombia.”

Daniel reached to grab the map. Braydon knocked away his hand. “But the Turquoise,” Daniel said. “Does it show us where to find it?”

“
No,” Christa said. She looked up. “This is a map to the location of the Demon’s Wings, marking the temple at Oculto Canyon. This is a map to the lost Breastplate of Aaron.”

For a moment, the silence was heavy in the room, the gales whistling outside. “That’s no help,” Daniel said. “We already have a copy of Conroy’s map showing the location of Demon’s Wings.”

“
Except,” she said, “both maps are not the same.” She snatched up her daypack with her free hand, unzipped the outer pocket, pulled out Conroy’s map and unfolded it. She placed both maps on the bar, side by side. “A lot changes over five centuries. Empires rise and fall. New lands are discovered. Rivers change course.” She stepped back so the others could get a closer look at the two maps.

“
The bend in the river,” Braydon said, not surprisingly, the first to spot the anomaly. “It’s further south, relative to Demon’s Wings.”

“
I’d judge about ten miles,” said Donohue. “And Conroy’s map has no tributary leading into the Tequendama River.”

Christa had to smile at the irony. “Alvaro Contreras damned the tributary from the Oculto Canyon back in 1586,” she said. “That action eventually changed the course of the Tequendama River. That’s why Baltasar Contreras can’t find Demon’s Wings and the Oculto Canyon.”

Braydon smiled, too. “They’re looking in the wrong place.”

“
Alvaro Contreras, by trying to dominate nature, set up generations of his descendants for failure,” she said.

“
Let’s not get cocky,” Braydon said. “Luna’s map will get us to the canyon, but we still need to find the Turquoise.”

She picked up the marble base of the sphere. Its black interior swallowed the light. She tilted it, heard a metallic clank. She turned it upside down. A key dropped into her open palm. It was wrought iron, spotted with rust, but looked completely intact, despite its obvious age. “It looks like a strongbox key,” she said. “The handle of it, I recognize it, the circle with the equator and meridian, like a cross, inside. It’s the symbol for Earth.”

“
Like on the brass ring of planets on the sphere,” Daniel said. He licked his lips and reached for the key. “That priest friend of Fox’s had something to do with this, positioning that Atlas statue above the only escape to his damnable underground trap.”

“
Only one problem,” Braydon said. “O’Malley came to Saint Patrick’s ten years ago. That Atlas statue is art deco. It was erected in the nineteen-thirties.”

“
And,” said Christa, “O’Malley didn’t even know Joseph was one of the Circle of Seven. He didn’t know about this sphere. Nobody did.” She held up the key, the Earth symbol between her fingers. Divine providence? Maybe. But God wasn’t going to find those gemstones for them. “This is the key to finding the Yikaisidahi Turquoise. And the only way to find where it’s locked away, is to track down the man who hid it five hundred years ago.”

CHAPTER
54

Baltasar Contreras felt like shooting someone, in the face. He had planned for Percival Hunter making a move to rescue his daughter, but for them to make such a mess of things. It felt like a violation. Doors were busted in. Chairs were overturned. His maid claimed she needed the night off to recover. And, in a strange way, he missed little Lucia. She had left behind a void that he hadn’t known before.

As a consequence, Daniel Dubler’s arrival was extraordinarily bad timing. Nonetheless, Contreras allowed him into his library and poured him a brandy. He had to be civil to the man. It was only sporting. He had to find out what the wimp knew.

Dubler swirled his brandy in his snifter, but in an unpracticed, jerky movement. “This armillary sphere, Mister Contreras,” he repeated, drinking his Courvoisier XO too quickly, “that she found in the cliff dwelling in Arizona.” He paced back and forth, his fingers pulling through his disheveled mop of hair in agitation. Perhaps the poison was taking effect. “I’m telling you, the map hidden in its base will give you the exact location of the hidden temple, and that strongbox key Christa found has got to lead to the Turquoise. Christa and Fox are on the next flight out to Phoenix. You wouldn’t have known that, without me.”

Baltasar had to admit, only to himself, the armillary sphere had been a bit of a mystery. He didn’t like mysteries. “You will be justly rewarded, Mister Dubler, for your loyalty to me and your betrayal of your friends.”

Dubler raised a fist at him. It shook. “I am not here to betray Christa,” he shouted. “I came here to save her.” He snatched up the decanter, splashed the brandy into his snifter, swigged it. “Fox is trying to convince her that I would just get in the way in Arizona. You and I, Mister Contreras, we’re the only ones who can restore the Breastplate and find the antidote. Christa will soon see me for what I am.”

“
For both our sakes, I hope she doesn’t.”

Dubler tensed up so tightly that it was a wonder he could breathe. “Not yet,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “I am going to the airport, right after I leave here. I’m going to be on that flight to Arizona. I will get that Turquoise from Fox.”

“
For that, you will have to kill him.”

Fine brandy had a calming effect on Baltasar. Not so with Daniel Dubler. The man’s pasty face flushed with rage. “I will not kill Fox,” he said. “I will show him mercy. I am a man of God. That will be my proof to Christa, when she sees me wearing the restored Breastplate, like my predecessor, Aaron, brother of Moses, before me.”

“
Go to hell,” he said, not expecting Dubler to be sharp enough to catch the subtle warning.

“
You need me, Contreras.” He pointed his trembling finger as if firing off a curse. “You need to bring me with you when you go to restore the Breastplate.”

“
You have served your purpose, Mister Dubler.”

“
I told you about Donohue’s plans,” he said. “He only needs forty-eight hours to organize his strike force for Gabriella Hunter’s rescue attempt. And knowing Percival, that nut is already boarding a plane to Colombia.” Baltasar merely sipped his brandy as the man approached him with clear menace. “I am not going to sit around here doing nothing while the greatest Biblical artifact in history is found, restored and put to the test.”

“
On that,” he said, “we agree.”

It was as if Dubler hadn’t heard him. “I am trained in the priesthood,” he pressed. “The Bible clearly states that the Breastplate is only to be worn by the high priest.”

“
In the beginning, priests were chosen by God through the people,” said Baltasar, “not by a controlling, power-hungry hierarchy. I am The Prophet. The people have chosen me.” He found himself hoping that Dubler would convince him not to kill him, again. Something about the man, his ambition, his faith, intrigued him. “I can see that you will not be eradicated easily, Mister Dubler, like an exotic weed with tendrils deep underground.”

“
You and I,” he said, “we can start your new religion, together.”

Baltasar swirled his brandy. It looked like blood. “Sacrifice,” he said. “It is the lifeblood of any true religion. You always focus on what you want, Dubler, not what you must give. I have sacrificed much.” He gestured around the room, to the shelves bereft of family photos, to the plush trappings which meant nothing to him, to his father’s vacant wheelchair by the window. “That is why you were rejected for the priesthood,” he said. “You do not understand the need for sacrifice. You are not willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.”

Dubler smiled. It was pitiful. “I would die for this cause,” he said. “I know now. It is my destiny.”

Baltasar nodded. He pushed the red button beneath the lip of his desk. His two bodyguards appeared instantly. “Mister Dubler,” he said. “I envy you. You have fulfilled your destiny. Mine, I fear, will be a battle of faith that the world has not seen before.” Dubler sputtered and screamed as the guards dragged him away. Baltasar drew closed the heavy drapes. He did not care to give witness to another’s sacrifice with his own looming ahead.

DAY
3

CHAPTER
55

“
So much for mastering Beethoven’s Pathetique sonata on the piano,” Christa said, hoisting herself up the barely distinguishable toe and finger holds carved out of the cliff face.

“
You’re some kind of historian savant,” said Braydon, huffing with exertion, “can speak fluent Latin and now you’re telling me you can play Beethoven’s Pathetique.”

“
Never tried,” she said. “And I won’t be able to now. My fingertips are so raw I could become a jewel thief and not leave behind a print.”

“
Most just wear gloves.”

Last time she was here, was it less than forty-eight hours earlier, she had followed Joseph up the cliff by moonlight. With the old man’s confidence ahead and everything in shadow below, the ascent was perilous enough. Now, she led the way as the late afternoon desert heat beat upon her and Braydon’s shoulders. The low angle of the December sun targeted them like a laser sight. The promise of cool from the shadow cast by the opposite wall of the canyon crept up below them, but it only made the sun seem more powerful.

Three vultures circled lazily overhead. Braydon had named them, Huey, Dewey and Louie, a trick of his, naming dangerous animals to make them less scary.
Works with sharks, too.
She didn’t ask. Her throat was too parched.

The raptors eyed the two of them, their canteens dangling from their belts, and their daypacks, with bad intent. The surplus canteens were one of the few essentials that Braydon had picked up at the general store, using the last of Neidemeyer’s cash. Rambitskov was sure to find out about their flight to Phoenix, but a credit card trail to the general store in the nearby one-horse town of Dry Gulch would give him exact time and location. Braydon quickly outfitted them with some high energy snacks, sunscreen and an extra army green daypack, a duplicate of the one she had bought here two days ago. Her new “lucky” pack.

She had changed into her khaki hiking clothes and broken-in boots. He wore an old t-shirt from a climb up Kilimanjaro, jeans faded in all the right spots and boots that looked like they had traveled as much as she had. He looked good, really good. Part of her was glad that Daniel had never showed at the airport. Part of her worried. People were getting crazier. Traffic had been backed up for miles. Accidents caused by the winds blowing down branches were coming to blows between drivers.

“
It’s no mystery to me why these cliff dwellings were abandoned,” Braydon called up to her. She had briefed him on the history of the area as they had searched for the hidden entrance to the tunnel leading up to the cliff dwelling that she had used to escape to the valley floor--right into Contreras’s hands, as it had turned out. They found it, but someone had caused an avalanche of rocks and scrub brush to bury the entrance. That left climbing the cliff face the only way from the valley floor to the dwelling, just as in Anasazi times. “I’d take my chances with ferocious enemies and animals over climbing this cliff just to sleep easy at night.”

“
Only because you haven’t come up against the ferocious animals in these parts,” she said. It came out more ornery than she meant, but she was lousy with exhaustion. She had gotten a little, restless sleep on the overnight flight to Phoenix and couldn’t keep her eyes open on the dusty, six-hour drive to get to this spot that was beyond remote in the vastly empty Navajo reservation. The stress of constant danger was taking its toll.

“
My brothers and I fought,” he continued, “a lot.” She wasn’t daft enough not to realize he was keeping up this repartee to make sure she was alert. “My mom use to yell at us to go play outside. All we had to worry about was the train track, not a hundred-foot drop. As an Anasazi, I wouldn’t have made it to puberty. No wonder their villages died out.”