Dateline: Atlantis (17 page)

“You are shameless. We are in room 402.” She cuts the connection and puts her purse on the bed. Donny will be busy for a while and she'll have a few minutes to play with the crystal.
Maybe it will shed some light on what they are looking for. Or maybe it will send her upsetting images again. She reaches for it as if leaning over to pet a small kitten. She's tender with the jewel, for it might bite.

Once again, she sits cross-legged on the bed and holds the orb in her hands, feeling a slight touch of static-like energy zap-ping her fingertips. This time, there is music in the back of her mind, a sound of children chanting. She thinks of whether Atlantis is real or if they are just looking for antique junk. The chanting becomes something like lute music, and the walls of her room change color, turning a russet red. She's seeing through a gauze curtain.

She closes her eyes tightly and lets the music take her to a plain overlooking the ocean. She's balanced against a tree and looking down at a harbor made of square blocks. There is a breakwater and then a long mooring area. Tethered there are tall ships, but not of European or American design. They have broad hulls and support several wide sails, parallel in placement and slightly angled to one side. On each sail she sees a cross intersected with three circles. She walks down to the harbor, not feeling the ground, but sensing the pristine quality of the air.

In the distance is a tower, black as obsidian. It's smooth-sided and sits on an island of its own, forbidding and alone. She can't keep her eyes off the tower, which throbs a low, pulsing note, and listens to children running by her. They are red-skinned and dressed in saffron-colored tunics. Oddly, there's nothing old-fashioned about their clothing. She could imagine someone wearing it in Los Angeles today. But the parents who follow behind wear tall headdresses, topped with exotic feathers. Their clothing is elaborate, covered with netting and beads with the luster of pearls.

They speak a language she can't understand, but they point to the tower and she sees a boat filled with people heading for the island. It is a religious ceremony, for the music begins again and she sees the children singing.

Then, overhead, a blimp-shaped object hovers into view. It's so brilliant and the sun is so bright that she can't make out whether it's merely a stray balloon or a vehicle. She averts her eyes from the sky and gazes at a colonnade near the harbor. Its carvings are incised with images of waves, starfish, dolphins. On top is writing that reminds her of the slab in Freya's cabinet.

She finally puts it together. Civilization. This is not a scene of ancient hunter-gatherer tribes. Yet she has no idea where this idyllic location could have been.

Your mother and father were here.

Amaryllis jumps. She hasn't quite gotten the knack of staying calm when the darn thing talks to her. The images fade around her and she brushes stray hair off of her sweating forehead. Rustling sounds outside her hotel door remind her that she's not ready to show this mystical object to Donny. With haste, she wraps the orb like a ceremonial object in the silk scarf and pops it back into her purse.

The lock clicks and Donny appears with bags from a nationwide discount chain.

“Ah, designer wear,” she chirps, trying not to sound as if she's been communing with a parallel universe.

“Only the best for you, babe,” Donny says tossing a few bags in her direction. “I even found you a Cubs t-shirt.”

She smiles. Even after all this time, he remembers her lifelong addiction to the Chicago Cubs. As children, they used to hang out at the ballpark and snag bleacher tickets before Wrigley Field became too pricey.

“You're the best.”

“That's what I keep telling you.”

#

Donny is in the shower and Amaryllis lay in the scratchy motel bed mulling over their last few, absurd nights together. Just
like the night of Freya's dinner, they retired to privacy and began to exchange intimate kisses. They'd murmur things to each other as if they had been lovers for many years. Indeed, they were lovers of a sort—childhood sweethearts who never really got past the platonic stage of their affection. The encounters would become steam-heated, and once Amaryllis found herself nearly naked in the motel bed. But in the end, it was always the same.

He was Donny. She couldn't. And he'd tell her to forget the past and embrace what was in front of her. Amaryllis still would shut down, gather her clothes tightly about her torso and retire, red with shame and confusion to the other double bed that she'd insisted on having when they registered.

The mood was thick with irritation, and she couldn't make sense of her imprisoned libido. Any woman would have done cartwheels to have Donny, she could see that. But she just froze up. He'd asked her if it felt like incest, as if he were her blood brother, but she could only shake her head. She didn't have any siblings, so how could she know? It was more of a sensation that if she got involved with him and fell in love, she'd lose herself. It certainly had been long enough since she had a real boyfriend, but, even in the sultry Florida weather, she couldn't find a way to release her rigid self-control. Perhaps she'd been so busy toughening up during the last few years that she had forgotten that surrendering was not always a sign of weakness. Maybe.

Still, there's a mission she's destined to fulfill—the mission that started in Mexico. This stopover in Florida is too full of death and danger, slow-moving bureaucrats and little discovery. She can't go back to L.A. empty-handed, and she won't return to Chicago, where the oppressive force of family expectations and a nagging sense of peril from unseen enemies lurks.

As Donny is finishing in the shower, her cell phone blasts out its mechanical tones. She jumps out of bed to answer it, half expecting to hear from an impatient Wright. Instead, it's Fiona. Her sweet Irish lilt sounds through the phone like a Celtic melody.

“Thank God, I found you,” Fiona says, sounding slightly out of breath. “Every time I tried before I couldn't get a signal.”

“Well, we're in Florida now, in a small town. We were in Miami before. There probably was too much interference.”

“It's just that this man keeps ringing your home. Whenever I come over to water the plants and take in the post, your answering machine is blinkin' like mad.”

“So, what does he say?”

“I'm here now, so I'll play a message for you. I hope this works.” After a great deal of scratching and swearing, a hissing tape recording begins to play and a heavily accented voice cuts through the static.

“Amaryllis,” he says, each syllable stressed. “I have not gotten word from you since the accident. I called the newspaper, and they said you weren't there—that you took a leave.”

Amaryllis' hand flies to her throat.
Gabriel.
She still hasn't contacted him. At first, there is a rush of guilt, but then reason reminds her that she's been just a bit busy since returning from Mexico.

“I must tell you there is something peculiar going on in the Bahamas. It's related to what we saw. I must go there with you. Please call me at this number…”

It is Gabriel's good fortune that he has just enough message time to leave his full number. Then the machine cuts him off. Fiona is back on the line.

“He says the same thing every time, more or less.”

Amaryllis copies down the number and repeats it to Fiona. “Now, erase those messages,” she tells her friend. “All of them. We don't know who is listening.”

“Amy?”

“Yes?”

“When are you coming back? Barney says you are out indefinitely.”

“I may be longer than I thought, Fiona. Hold down the fort for me, please?”

“Why don't you just give it up? They'll find the pictures. You don't need to be risking your life with Garret's killers hoofing after you.”

Amaryllis scratches her scalp. It sure would be pleasant to just abandon the search and go home. But she knows this is no longer an option for her.

“It's about more than the story, Fiona. It's about the people who murdered my parents.”

“Well, that's a bit different then. Just stay out of trouble.”

“I'm already in trouble,” She stops to steady her voice. “I miss you, Fiona.” She ends the call.

Without waiting a beat, she dials Gabriel's number and gets him on the first ring. It is important that they meet, the Mexican guide says, but he won't say why over the cell phone. He is sure he's being watched, and eavesdroppers are everywhere. Amaryllis jots down the name and phone number of a hotel in the Bahamas. He mentions the Berry Islands.
Hadn't the crystal shown me that?

She senses Donny standing behind her as she rings off. She turns to him and sees he's standing slightly wet and glistening in the morning sunlight, a towel wrapped around his waist. Right then, she knows why she couldn't reach for him, pull the towel off and let him carry her back to bed.
It's Gabriel, that's why.

“Did you get a lead?” Donny asks, unaware of her sudden change of plans. She draws her sweatshirt tightly about her and nods, eyes cast down. As he drowns her with questions, she walks to the nightstand and pulls an object bound in blue silk from her purse. She places it on the bed as if handling an infant.

She paces the area between the bed and the door and finally comes to rest on the other bed. She looks in the nightstand for her return plane ticket. She tucks it into the back pocket of her jeans. Then she returns to stand in front of Donny. She grabs his hands and lowers her head.

“Donny, I have to leave. There's somewhere else I must search. Trust me, this is the hardest thing I've had to do in a long
time.” She watches his face fall and guilt rises in her throat like foul phlegm. “Go back to Chicago, Donny. Tell them the case in Florida didn't work out.” She's coughing now, to keep emotion from destroying her speech. “You've done so much for me: the plane, the lodging, the searching through files. But there's one more thing I have to ask you to do.” She takes the silk-wrapped crystal off the bed and offers it to him. Donny's eyes still are focused on her face, and he doesn't speak a word.

“Take this,” she says, placing the shrouded object in his hands. “It's worth more than my life. It nearly cost me my life to obtain it.”

Danny turns the object over, uncomprehending. Amaryllis continues her speech, hurrying her words.

“Believe me, these people, these killers, they will do anything to get their hands on it.”

Donny's hands cradle the orb as if he's afraid it will drop and dash into a million pieces. He nods.

“If you hold it—by touching the actual quartz—it will explain things to you. It takes a little while to get used to, but you'll soon know why I can't take it with me on my journey.”

“A piece of rock will tell me…”

“I can't make sense of it, either, Donny. Blame it on Atlantis. Or enchanted mermaids. Just trust me and experience it yourself.”

The scar on his smooth face tremors. “Will I see you again?”

Amaryllis turns away before she is pressed to cry. She's never felt so villainous, so selfish, so hard-hearted as right now, and she doesn't like the way it makes her arteries surge with blood. She opens her suitcase and begins shoving clothing inside. After folding a few blouses, she looks up. Donny has not moved, but his eyes have lost the luster they had when he emerged from the shower.

“I'll meet up with you again, that I can promise, but I have no idea where that'll be. I don't want to do this, Donny, but…”

“Something out there is waiting for you,” he interrupts. “And it's for your career. I can understand that. Just tell me it's not for another man.”

“It's not just for my career. I have to find the truth, about my parents, the story, our enemies, everything. The crystal will make it all clear.”

He turns the orb over and over in his hands and lets out a breath that could break her heart a million times over. But once is more than enough.

Pitch nearly spits out a good mouthful of Harrods finest Darjeeling blend tea when he holds up an issue of
the
Times
. There on page thirteen are some peculiar radar images of triangular shapes. “Cuban Ship Sets Sights on Sunken City,” the headline reads.

“My God,” he sputters as the tea splatters on his crisp linen serviette. Then he raises his voice. “Mr. Franklin, please get me my laptop.”

A red-faced man with a gray wreath of hair fringing his ears and back of his head appears and begins to swipe at the soiled fabric in front of Pitch.

“Not the tea, you numb wit. Get me my laptop. Now.”

Franklin hurries off, and Pitch sighs. He's tried so hard with this new butler, but the hapless soul just doesn't see that Pitch is not much interested in that culinary travesty known as the English breakfast. Every morning, Franklin attempts to bring Pitch the old English fry-up: fried eggs, sausage, blood pudding—the works. And every morning, Pitch takes nothing but a fine cup of tea and a French croissant. Now, this request for something as simple as a portable computer has the butler at sixes and sevens.