Guardian of the Fountain (3 page)

Chrissie
lost sight of María in the crowd. The music slowed to two guitars playing a
simple ballad. The beautiful flourishes of the notes pulled Chrissie into a
trance.

The
singers began to sing.
“Adoro la calle en que nos vimos, la noche cuando nos conocimos…”

Chrissie
translated the lyrics in her head easily because the words were sung slower
than they would have been spoken.
I adore
the street in which we saw each other, and the night when we met…
“How
beautiful.”

“No,
you are.” A British voice whispered in her ear. “May I have this dance?”

Chrissie
spun around to stare her Romeo in the eye—and he was not at all what
Marla predicted.

Chapter
3

Seven months and two
weeks later…

His
heart would never be the same. It was oozing and bleeding with daily reminders
of her. The loneliness in his life was like painful salt being rubbed in
constantly. Of course, he was the one who let her go back to the states.

      
It was for
her own safety.

      
To be
around him was too dangerous, especially now with the cartel breathing down his
neck—they’d already shot him once. He wasn’t too fond of that.
 
They were killers, without any mercy
left in their beings—especially Franco.

      
The red
numbers on his alarm clock taunted him. Four a.m. and still not asleep?
You’ll never catch any shut-eye at this rate
.

 
His cell phone nearly vibrated off the
nightstand. He slid his finger across the touch screen and answered. “Hello?”

      
“She
doesn’t have much time left. She’s nearly dead.” Arturo’s Spanish/ancient
Indian dialect impatiently raced through the other side of the phone. “I think one
of Franco’s men may be watching her too.”

      
“How do you
know?”

      
“I’ve sat
on her roof for the last two nights watching the house—it’s being cased.
I think the guy is Hispanic. They’ve found her.”

      
“Bring her
back. I’ll send the jet.”

      
“How do you
want it done, Señor?”

      
“I don’t
care. Go through her window and kidnap her if you have to. Just bring her
back.” Brant ran his hand through his hair.

      
He was
definitely not going back to sleep now.

When María
awoke, he would have her prepare a room for the woman he loved. She would
probably want the small room at the end of the west wing. Even though he would
prefer to have her right next to him in his bed, his room was too big and fancy
for her tastes.

Brant
dialed his pilot.

 
“Fire up the jet. You’re flying to Dallas
ASAP.”

“Yes,
sir.”

“You’ll
wait there for Arturo and another passenger. I’ll be sending Dr. Wilson with
you. Your discretion will be of the utmost importance.”

“Yes,
sir.” The pilot’s voice sounded more clear and alert now. “Sir? Anything else?”

“No.
Just don’t waste any time. Thank you.” Brant ended the call and headed down to
the kitchen.

María
sat at the table, stirring a tiny silver spoon in a white teacup. “Buenos días.
Can I get you a cup of té?”

“How
did you know?” Brant paced the kitchen.

“You’re
awake at four.” María got a cup down from the cabinet.

“Well,
you’re awake too,” Brant countered.

“I
know.” María waved his observation aside. “I had a dream. Mija came home.”

“She
is coming home. Arturo is bringing her today. She should be back late tonight,
if all goes well.”

“Eso es
bueno, but something was very troubling about my dream that I can’t figure
out.” María shook her head.

Brant
knew that María tried to be a strict Catholic, but her Indian roots ran deep.
She had gifts that tapped into her Warao Indian heritage. “Oh?”

“She
was holding the Delphne Star, clutching it to her chest. She was soaking wet
and running from death. She was trying to save something, but I don’t think it
was the flower.” María placed a cup of tea in front of Brant.

“She’s
not well. Arturo thinks things are a bit dodgy in the States. The cartel might
have found her.” Brant began sipping his tea. A tear escaped the corner of his
eye. He hated to show weakness, but when it came to her, he was just too darn
weak. “Everything is completely knackered.”

“Oh, mijo.”
María pulled him into a motherly embrace. “You’ll see. I will get her fixed up
in no time. The cartel doesn’t know where we are, either. She will be in the
best place in the whole world here.”

“I
know.” He smiled. “But I can’t figure out how to convince her parents to let
her come. I should’ve just manned up and told them from the beginning. I’m a
bloody fool.”

“Sí,
but that would have put them in danger too, and how do you expect to tell them
about being the Guardian? You did what you thought was best at the moment.”

“María,
I’m so glad to have you here with me. I know you’ll make everything better.”

“That’s
what mamacitas are for.” She patted his hand, and her face brightened. “I have
so much to do!” She clapped her hands gleefully. “Mija is coming home.”

Chapter
4

This night will be different
,
Chrissie told herself as she slipped her thin frame between the cool sheets on
her bed. She began dreaming almost immediately. A blurred face handed her a
beautiful rose made of crystal. The rose slipped through her fingers like
water. Her heart sank with the feeling that something vital had been ripped
from her being. She sobbed uncontrollably, not waking until her pillow was damp.
The actual nightmare wasn’t all that scary, so why would it bother her so much?

Chrissie
had grown up in her parents’ cozy Texas home until she had gone away to
college, and living in the same room with her ballerina wall paper she’d had as
a child made her feel adolescent. She wasn’t well enough to return to her own
apartment, even though it was only ten minutes away. The doctor said she had to
gain back fifteen pounds and not have a headache for two days straight before
he would release her to live on her own again.

She
had lost twenty-five pounds since becoming seriously ill with a mysterious
illness in Venezuela.

She
couldn’t remember a large chunk of time from her year-long humanitarian trip to
Venezuela. In fact, she could only remember the first six months of the
experience and the carnival in the streets of San Cristobal, and then waking up
in a Dallas hospital.

Getting
out of bed, she stood to close the bedroom window. The white curtains billowed
out from the breeze. The cool air chilled her through her sweat-soaked
nightgown.
 

Ah,
man. Another fever?

Being
ninety-five pounds didn’t afford her much insulation against the cool night
air. The beads of perspiration made her blonde hair stick to her face. While
she closed the window, she saw a shadow scurry out of the moonlight on the
roofline, causing her to take a second look. It looked like a gargoyle perched
on her roof. Nobody was there, from what she could see. The creepy feeling of
being watched sent chills up her spine.

She
brushed off her trepidation and turned to get back into bed.

Chrissie
heard a tapping sound. She slowly turned toward the sound to find Arturo
standing at her window. Her head began to spin.

He
should be at the mercado in Venezuela, at the base of the mountain selling his
produce.
My dear friend—why is he
here?

 
Chrissie tried to open the window, but
she was too weak to lift it. The old man helped her lift it the rest of the way
and clambered in.

“Are
you okay?” His thick Spanish accent sang the words. “Come home. You will be
better there.”

“I
am
home.” She felt utterly confused, to
say the least. “How did you get here?” It seemed like an eternity since the
last time she’d seen him.

“He
sent me to check on you. I see you sick. I bring you home. You get better
there.” Arturo led her toward the window.

“No, Arturo.
We have a front door.” Chrissie pulled her hand back. Her head started to pound,
and the room spun. She sat down on the edge of her bed and rested her head in
her hands. “I can’t come with you.”

“Come,
por favor. You will die if you stay here,” Arturo pled.

“Chrissie?
Are you okay?” Chrissie’s mother called from down the hall as the sound her
footsteps drew closer.

“Yes,
Mom. Will you come here please?” Chrissie tried to keep her voice calm to
prevent panic from filling her words.

There
was nothing Chrissie would love more than to go back, but she physically couldn’t,
and she shouldn’t be leaving out the window. This moment was so strange. She couldn’t
seem to make it right in her head.

Arturo
immediately backed into a corner, removing his straw hat, bowing his head.
Dianne entered the room.

“Arturo!”
Chrissie’s mom exclaimed. “When did you get here? I’m so happy to see you!”

“Sí,
Señora. Good to see you.” Arturo kept his eyes to the floor.

“I’ve
told you before, you should call me Dianne. We’re old friends now.” Dianne
pulled Arturo into a hug.

“Mom,
how do you know Arturo?” Chrissie asked. Her mom had to be completely insane to
be okay with Arturo being in her room. Maybe it was because he was older and
completely non-threatening.

“He
was at the hospital in Caracas when we came for you. He was the one who brought
you to the hospital in the first place. He never left your side.”

“Sí,
Señorita. She speaks the truth.” Arturo lifted his eyes and searched
Chrissie’s.

Chrissie
sifted through, her memory for Arturo at her side in the hospital but nothing
was there in the dark, empty hole that consumed her. As much as she loved Arturo,
seeing him in her room in the middle of the night made her feel out of sorts.
Not to mention the fact that he had been watching her from her rooftop.

“Arturo,
she doesn’t remember half of her stay in Venezuela.” Dianne patted Arturo’s
hand.

Arturo
sucked in air as he said, “Muerte.”

“She
does look like death. We hope she gets better real soon.”

“No,
Señora. She will die if I don’t bring her back. This is muy grave.” Arturo
pulled out a cell phone, a stark contrast to his humble farming attire. His
Spanish flew into the phone in a hushed tone. “Un momento, por favor.” He
thrust the phone at Dianne.

Dianne
took the phone. “Why should I believe you? Uh-huh. I understand. I’ll start
packing now.” She nodded while she spoke. She closed the phone and handed it
back to Arturo. Her face, no longer bright and cheery, was now puckered with worry.

A
heavy blanket of fear fell upon the room.

What was said on the phone that changed
Mom’s mood?

“Wait
right here.” Dianne left the room in a hurry and came back with a wad of cash.
She pressed the bills in Arturo’s hand. “Take her back and heal her. I trust
you, Arturo. This should be enough for a plane ticket for the both of you back
to Venezuela.”

“Mom!
What are you doing? That’s …” Chrissie’s voice trailed off, as she was too weak
to argue.

“Shush!
You’ll wake your father, and then you will never be able to leave,” Dianne
scolded.

“She
won’t need any dinero, Señora. All expenses have been paid. Keep the money.
When she is better, you can come down and see her.”

Dianne
gave the money to Chrissie anyway. “Just in case, sweetheart.” She patted
Chrissie’s hand full of dollars.

Maybe I should yell for my dad. He would
be the logical person here
.

She
took Chrissie’s face into her warm hands. “Western medicine isn’t making you
better. I can’t just sit back and watch you die. If Arturo believes he can heal
you, I have to believe him. We have no other options here. You know it as well
as I do.”

It
was true—a sea of orange medicine bottles had taken residence on
Chrissie’s nightstand. “Mom, I can’t travel. I don’t think I’ll be able to make
it.” She began to cry.

The
trip would last for many hours in a plane, with at least one layover. She
hadn’t been out in public yet, and the thought of making a long trip filled the
pit of her stomach with anxiety. She could hear her pulse pound in her ears.

Dianne
pulled a suitcase out from under Chrissie’s bed and began packing clothes.
Chrissie lay back on the bed, too weak to move and too confused to put the
pieces together.

Why is my mother so trusting in Arturo?
Why is she letting me travel back to where I got sick?

“Un auto
has been sent and will take us to the avión.” Arturo nervously glanced out the
window.

“Mom!
What are you doing?”
She can’t be sending
me away! It doesn’t even matter that I’m ill. Is she that tired of taking care
of me?

“Saving
your life.” Dianne pulled Chrissie into a warm, motherly embrace.

“The
auto will be here in five minutes.” Arturo picked up Chrissie’s suitcase from
the bed and headed noiselessly out of the house to wait for the car.

“I
can’t do this. As much as I loved being in Venezuela—what parts I
remember—I feel like this is too much for me to handle.” Chrissie’s tears
picked up pace and slid down her face unchecked.

“Something
happened down there.” Dianne held two fingers in front of Chrissie’s face. “You
need to find two very important things while you’re there—your missing
six months, and your health. After that phone call, I know it’s imperative that
you go back and be healed. You’ll be in good hands. A medical team has assembled
to aid your recovery.”

“Who
was on the phone, Mom?”

“All
he said was he was a friend with a possible cure. My gut is telling me to trust
him. If he is a friend of Arturo’s then he is a friend of mine.” Diane helped
Chrissie dress in some comfortable yoga pants, a hooded sweatshirt, and tennis
shoes. Chrissie drowned in her normal clothes.

“I
hope that the next time I see you, you’ll be a much healthier version of
yourself with some meat on those bones.” Dianne smiled reassuringly and guided
Chrissie to the front door, supporting her elbow, just as car lights turned
into the driveway.

This is happening too fast. I thought I
was going to sleep, and now I’m flying back to Venezuela.

“Mom?”
Chrissie glanced back, panicked.

“Arturo
never left your side for two weeks. Your father and I got to know him very well
before we were able to fly you out. His wife is María—she loves you like
a daughter. I got a stack of letters from her asking how you were doing. You’ve
told me how much you love them too. Go with it, honey. I don’t have any other
ideas. They’re the only ones who have a plan, other than you wasting away.” Dianne
rubbed Chrissie’s back. “Everything will be okay. We all need to put faith in
this process.”

The black
Cadillac with tinted windows idled as the driver loaded the suitcases. He
returned to escort Chrissie to the car while Arturo climbed in on the other
side of the backseat. The driver’s tuxedo and the smell of a new car made
sitting next to humble Arturo seem out of place. She glanced out the window to
her twelve-year-old Toyota Corolla.

Am I stuck in some sort of twisted
nightmare? Leaving any type of normalcy for the small glimmer of a cure to only
die along the way?

The
car backed out of the driveway as her mom waved tearfully from the porch.
Chrissie laid her head back and closed her eyes. The bass drummer in her head
began to pound. “Arturo, who is the ‘he’ you referred to?”

“No
puedo decir, mija.”

“I
know you can speak better English than that, Arturo.”

“I’m
under instructions not to say. Lo siento.”

Chrissie
sighed unhappily as she watched the landscape outside her window whiz by. She
should really be watching the road straight ahead to avoid any motion sickness.
“My time in Venezuela seems so long ago, but it has been only a month since I
got back to the States. How is María?”

María
made the best tortillas on her hot black griddle. One day when she had her appetite
back she would like to relish María’s cooking.
It will be good to see María, if I make it there alive.

“Ella
está bien. She misses you. María is very happy you come back. You stay with us
so she can get you better pronto.”

“I
can’t do that. I would be too much trouble.”

“It
would break María’s heart if you didn’t stay with us. She misses you so much.”
He paused and pursed his lips as he thought. “I didn’t mean to scare you
earlier. I was sent to make sure you were okay, and I didn’t want to wake your
parents.” The cell phone buzzed in Arturo’s pocket, and he pulled it out to
answer.

Chrissie
tried to eavesdrop to distract her from the brick sitting in her stomach. It
was a male voice—deep and authoritative. His Spanish was mixed with the
ancient Indian dialect from the mountains. They were saying something about a
flower and something being very bad, but at this moment the brick moving up to
her throat seemed like a more pressing matter.

The
movement of the car wreaked havoc on Chrissie’s stomach. “I’m going to puke.”
Since the impeccable car had nothing for her to be sick in, she reached up to
the front seat and grabbed the driver’s hat off his head before vomiting in it.

The
driver kept his eyes on the road and gave no indication that he noticed his hat
had been used as a sick bag.

“Adiós
Señor.” Arturo ended the phone call just as Chrissie laid her head back and
closed her eyes. The black car pulled up on the tarmac of the local airport,
where a private jet was waiting, already fired up and ready to go.

“A
private jet?” Her breath was ragged, like she had run a mile. It took so much
effort just to breathe.

“Ah
sí, Señor didn’t want for you to be
tired out by crowds.”

“I’m
guessing he’s rich? Rich enough to hire a jet? Whatever… I don’t care anymore.
The whole dang thing is weird.”