The Fifth Kingdom (6 page)

“It’s easier to believe that a pissed off Cortez killed him after losing so many men in battle,” Deanna said with a harsh laugh and then continued. “But what if Montezuma only appeared to be dead? What if he was actually in a deep coma from the head wound?”

“Which was discovered by the Aztecs when they took their emperor away?” her father asked.

“If they followed traditional burial routines, they would have taken Montezuma to be prepared for cremation. They would dress him appropriately, prepare a dog to accompany him—”

“And he may have awakened from his coma during the preparations,” her father finished.

“Or even before. If he was alive, they might have tried to safeguard him in the hopes that he would finally lead them in battle. Or he may have eventually succumbed in their care from the head wound. Regardless, he may have lasted long enough for his remains to be entombed with some of his prized possessions.”

She leaned on the edge of the table close to her father, wagging her head back and forth. “Do you think Miranda believed that?”

Her father gave a casual hunch of his shoulders and looked up at her. “I don’t know. We discussed her research, but not in any real detail.”

Frustration finally erupted at her father’s words. “You’ve been in touch with her for the last fourteen years and in all that time you didn’t get any particular information on what she was doing?”

Another nonchalant shrug answered her, but before her temper really got the best of her, Bill walked into the room, cell phone in hand.

“I’ve got an address for the PO box,” he said, holding up the phone and tipping it from side to side.

She wanted distance from her father to not only consider her hypothesis, but also her upset over her father’s apparently ongoing relationship with Miranda.

“We can go if you’d like,” she said.

“I’d like,” he confirmed with a grin and motioned to the door, providing her a needed escape.

The box turned out to be a drawer-sized compartment at the Grand Central Station post office. The compartment held a foot-square box wrapped in brown kraft paper that showed the tears and stains of travel. Rough twine secured the wrap and Deanna’s name was handwritten in black permanent marker above the post office box address. An assortment of canceled U.S. postage stamps and express mail markings denoted that the package had been shipped from the very same location nearly two months before.

Miranda had been in New York City, just blocks away, and had not made contact with her or her father.
Had she solely come to drop off the box?
Deanna wondered.

As she lifted the parcel from the drawer, the lack of physical bulk belied the emotional weight of what might be beneath the simple wrapping. Deanna ran her hand over the surface, wondering what it contained and why her mother had directed it to her rather than to her father. Or why she had mailed it instead of personally delivering it.

“She probably thought you would understand it best,” Bill said from beside her.

She jerked her head up to look at him. “What?”

He shrugged and pointed to the parcel. “You asked ‘Why me?’”

She hadn’t realized and was almost chagrined. She normally had better control over her emotions, but since the day Bill Santana had come to stand outside her classroom, that command had failed her more than once. “My father is the expert on all things Mexican, not me.”

“You’re no slouch in that department. Maybe it’s because this has nothing to do with history or research,” he said. They walked through the lobby of the post office, Bill matching his strides to hers. His jacket was buttoned closed to hide the hole, which only made the bulge beneath his one arm all the more obvious. When they had first entered, the post office security guard had eyeballed them until Bill had discreetly flashed his badge.

Deanna remained silent, worried that he was right about the rationale for the box being addressed to her. After they exited onto busy Lexington Avenue, they turned north toward 45
^th
Street where they had parked. The package was clutched tight to her chest while her mind tapped out dozens of disjointed thoughts about the parcel and her mother’s—no, Miranda’s—intentions.

The ride back to the safe house was quiet, with the parcel sitting on her lap and Bill vigilant to make sure no one was following them. They were near their destination when Bill’s BlackBerry chirped with an incoming call. She listened as he grunted in response to the communication and once he was done, he shot her a quick glance and provided a report.

“We may have caught a break. Prints lifted at your apartment were for the two dead perps. We’ve also checked with the Mexican authorities investigating Los Leones. Our two perps were fairly new to the cartel and low-level members.”

She nodded and patted the box in her lap. “I hope that means that it’s unlikely the cartel would trust them with an important mission.”

Pulling into the parking lot for the safe house, he waited until they were parked to face her. “I agree. It’s more likely that the two were PM members who joined the cartel so they could use the cartel’s resources for various reasons. To get weapons, money to run PM and to more easily cross the border whenever they needed.”

“Good news, I guess,” she said, but then sneaked a glance down at the parcel, feeling like it was a ticking time bomb in her lap.

“I don’t know about you, but it’s late and I’m hungry. I can order in some food if you’re up for it before we tackle that,” he said and gestured to the box.

A reprieve
, she thought, and offered him a weak smile in appreciation for his consideration. “Thanks. That sounds great. I’m a little hungry as well,” she said even though in reality, there was a knot of worry in her stomach that would dim her appetite.

He dipped his head in agreement and they walked to the safe house building, passing by the two agents who were still on duty guarding the perimeter. Inside the apartment her father reclined in the wing chair, an annotated copy of the
Codex Mendoza
resting on his barrel chest. A soft snore rumbled out with each exhalation. She carefully took the book off his chest and laid it on the coffee table along with the parcel from her mother. There was a chenille throw on the arm of the sofa and because of the slight chill in the air-conditioned apartment, she gently covered her father with it.

She turned and Bill was near one cabinet in the kitchen, pulling some papers from a basket. He turned to say something to her, but she placed her index finger on her lips to urge him to be quiet and he took note of her father. With a nod, he walked down the hall and into his room and she followed.

He laid out the papers—menus for various take-out places in the area—on his bed. “Pick anything you and your dad like.”

With her father’s penchant for Italian food, there was only one choice. “Eggplant parm and chicken parm. Linguini on the side,” she said and handed him the menu for the Italian pizzeria.

“My favorite.” He dialed the restaurant, placed her order and then added several more dishes, salads and garlic bread.

“Hungry?” she teased and he grinned, displaying that devilish dimple.

“I’m a big boy.”

Yes, he was, she thought and strangled her reply. Settled on what she hoped would be a safe comment. “I’ll go set the table.”

“Please add two spots. By the time the food comes, the next watch should be here and the guys going off shift may want to grab a bite before they head home.”

She confirmed she would and walked out, leaving him alone in his room. Gathering up the menus, he sat down on the bed, beginning to seriously feel the events of the day. The pain in his side had been nagging him for hours. Battling to ignore it had drained him and for a moment he wished he could do much like Deanna’s father had done. Put up his feet, lay back and rest for just a few moments.

Unfortunately there was still too much left to do today, including tackling whatever was in the box that Miranda Adams had sent to her daughter. He had no doubt there was something personal inside. Something that would have special meaning between the two women and no one else. He only hoped Deanna would be able to handle the message.

Dinner turned out to be a surprising treat,
Bill thought.

Although his men had opted to head home to his family, Deanna’s father possessed an unexpected humorous streak. The seemingly doddering professor had regaled them with stories throughout the meal, which had turned out to be exceptionally good Italian food. Everyone had seemed to enjoy themselves, even Deanna, although her smiles and laughter never quite seemed to drive away the shadows in her eyes.

He understood all too well what she was holding back. He had hidden his emotions while moving from one foster home to the other. It was only when he was in his teens that he was lucky enough to land a spot in the home of a Marine who ran a tight, but caring, ship. He had learned to be a man there and how to keep his emotions safe from others.

Which was why he knew that Deanna would guard her heart from all of them, including her father. He had no doubt that learning that her father had been corresponding with her mother for so many years had created a rift between the two and damaged the trust they had once shared. Only time might allow her to come to understand his motives and forgive him, although it was clear that her love for her father had not been diminished by his actions.

How nice it must be to have such unqualified love.

When the meal was finished Deanna rose, picked up a plate, but Bill reached over and stayed her hand. “I’ll get them. Why don’t you and your dad—”

“Actually, I’ll do the dishes. It’s better if you and Deanna work together,” her father said and reinforced his suggestion by immediately grabbing the plates nearest him and heading to the sink.

Bill removed his hand from hers and met her gaze. “Does that work for you?”

Deanna didn’t know what would work and what wouldn’t. Although the dinner had been relaxed and easygoing, she had spent most of it wondering about the parcel. Bill must have known that because he had gone out of his way to be solicitous, keeping the discussion free of pressure and involving her in the conversation around the table. The distraction had helped to some extent, but now the sword was hanging back over her head.

“I just need a moment,” she said and rose from the table, went to the small bathroom at the end of the hall. She stood before the sink, staring at herself. Wondering how it was that the life she had built for herself had suddenly been turned on its head.

Miranda
, she thought. Her mother.

Much as Miranda had taken away Deanna’s belief in family fourteen years earlier, she was now eroding the foundations of the only family she had left—her father. She had thought she could trust him with anything although he had not trusted her with the truth about his relationship with her mother. It would take time to repair the damage caused by keeping that secret.

Turning on the cold-water tap, she splashed some water on her face to drive away the nauseous feeling that came with imagining what was in the parcel. Deanna had no doubt that the contents would do even more to disrupt her life, but she knew she couldn’t be selfish and think of only herself at that moment.

Much as she might not like it, the parcel probably held the clue to not only saving Miranda’s life, but the lives of countless others if Bill and his people were right about her mother’s abduction and the group responsible for it.

Bill,
she thought with a sigh as she picked up a towel and dried her face.

Bill was turning out to be nothing like what she had expected. She almost preferred that he had stayed the stern-faced and demanding man who had first stepped into her office. That was easier to handle than the understanding man with the boyish grin that caused her insides to somersault.

Wringing the towel between her hands, she warned herself against putting too much trust in him either. As a CIA agent, Bill was a man whose entire life was likewise built around secrets. She’d already had enough surprises with her father’s revelations.

A knock came at the door. “Are you okay?”

Bill. “Just a second,” she called out and with a final pass of the towel across her face, opened the door.

He stood there dressed in a black cashmere sweater that lovingly hugged each and every muscle on his torso much like his jeans were snug against the long powerful lines of his legs. If he had been dangerously attractive before, now it had escalated to deadly in his civilian clothes.

He repeated his inquiry. “Are you okay? Are you up to reviewing whatever is in the box?”

“I guess we should so that we can know what to do next,” she sighed as neutrally as she could because her mind was still a minefield of volatile thoughts and emotions, including ones about Bill.

He stepped aside gallantly to let her down the hall. As she passed the room her father had taken for his own, she realized he had already made himself comfortable there in a recliner. His head was buried in the
Codex Mendoza
once again, his face alight with joy as if rediscovering an old friend.

She smiled indulgently and continued on to the living room and the parcel that sat on the coffee table. She took a spot before it together with Bill. The sofa was on the smallish side, which meant that with each movement their shoulders or arms brushed against one another, creating that unnerving skitter in her insides. She drove it back even as Bill efficiently cut away the twine, removed the kraft paper and then sliced the packing tape around all the edges. He stopped there, clearly expecting that she would continue with the unveiling.

She laid her hands on the flaps of the box. They shook and her palms were wet with sweat. Her heart took up a staccato beat inside her chest that refused to slow down. Would it be like a jack-in-the-box, springing up to scare the shit out of her but doing no real damage? Or would it be more fatal, like a Pandora’s box releasing plague and destruction?

Considering her mother, a mix of the two was highly possible. Despite that, she carefully pulled open the flaps on the box and peered within.