The Tavernier Stones (46 page)

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Authors: Stephen Parrish

BOOK: The Tavernier Stones
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The mound of rocks and hand-cut bricks that blocked the aqueduct was exactly what John’s flashlight had forecast from 100 meters away: the pipe had collapsed sometime in the past and the route was impassable. John nevertheless kicked a few bricks aside and tried to dislodge a boulder. The effort was pointless: there was no telling how deep the collapse extended; they would have to look for a way out in the other direction.
And going in the other direction meant passing the chambers, chambers now filled with angry townspeople.
“Why don’t we just go back the way we came?” David asked. “Into the bedroom, up the corridor, and out through the church? Just walk out like we have every right to do so? What have we got to lose?”
“We’re not residents of this town,” John answered, “and we don’t know how the residents will react when they see us climbing back through that hole. We have no business being down here. I’m not willing to take the chance.”
Sarah tapped the amphora cradled in her arm. “And we still have everything to lose.”
John turned and began trudging back down the pipe. He wondered how much power was left in his flashlight batteries. He wondered how they were going to get past the hole through which they had entered the aqueduct, a hole they had not bothered to cover after climbing through.
He wondered how, of all places on earth and all times in history, he’d ended up here and now.
 
It was all so
undignified
, Blumenfeld thought. She woke to find herself lying on a gritty floor, her skirt hoisted above her knees, part of it inexplicably ripped off, her nylons full of runs. A massive pain throbbing in her head.
Wide-eyed peasants encircling her.
“Help me up,” she said.
But the peasants just stood there, watching. Some wore pajamas. Some held candles they had removed from the monoliths. Most were armed with sticks and bats.
All of them
stared
. With that hollow gape, that primeval ogle, that dim countenance, the result of three centuries of inbreeding and superstition.
“
Help me up
.” She raised her arms.
A small, round-shouldered man pointed a shaky finger at the amethyst pendant hanging from her neck. “What the devil is that?”
Others inched closer. “Oh my God,” one said, “Erika was wearing one just like it.”
Blumenfeld groped around on the floor for her pistol but couldn’t find it. Strong arms grabbed her roughly and lifted her to a standing position. She swayed with dizziness. A thin young man forced his way to the front of the mob and stared at her chest in anguished horror. “
That’s my daughter’s pendant!”
One of the townsmen tore the pendant from Blumenfeld’s neck and pushed her. Her feet made little hops and shuffles as she struggled to regain her balance. Someone behind her shoved her, and she fell against the altar.
She thought about trying to outrun them, and would have made an attempt if she weren’t wearing heels. And if she were in decent shape. And if there were some place, any place, to run.
The gun. Where’s the damn gun?
The townsmen clamped onto her arms and legs. She resisted by kicking, jerking, scratching at everyone within reach. But they were too powerful for her. They pushed her through the chamber entrance, then dragged her up the long corridor. Her knees scraped against the rock floor as she labored, and mostly failed, to stay on her feet. Blood trickled into her stockings, now hanging in tatters from her calves.
When one of the vigilantes asked where they were going, another reminded him there was a lamppost above the statue of the miner boy in the Marktplatz.
Another recalled that the lamppost was in the shape of a scaffold, with a sturdy pole jutting out like a branch from the main trunk.
Yet another was sure he had a coil of rope in his garage.
It was not so much the pain, or even her impending death, that Blumenfeld found herself regretting most. It was the utterly
undignified
way it was all going to happen.
THIRTY-SIX
 
JOHN COULDN’T HELP MARVELING at the workmanship of the aqueduct, even as his mind raced to find a way out of it. The individual stones had been hand-cut to fit each adjacent one; the project must have employed many craftsmen and required years of effort. He swung his flashlight beam in broad arcs, admiring the symmetry and structural elegance.
David, he noticed, was more concerned with the symmetry and structural elegance of the pot Sarah was holding.
“Do you want me to carry that for you?” David asked.
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
“It must be getting heavy.”
“When one arm gets tired, I shift it to the other.”
“But the other was grazed with a bullet.”
“Trust me, David, I’m fine.”
“Well, just let me know.”
“Thanks, I will.”
John held up his hand to hush them; they were approaching the hole in the bedroom wall. He aimed his flashlight down the aqueduct and abruptly came to a halt.
His flashlight revealed the figure of a man.
The man was short and stout, with a gut that spilled over his belt and a bulbous nose streaked with veins. John recognized him from mass; he had sat one pew back and had watched people rather than sunbeams. The man held a flashlight in one hand, but it was turned off. In the other hand was a snub-nose .38 revolver. It was aimed at John’s face.
Not knowing what else to say, John said, “
Guten Abend
.”
The man nodded. “
Guten Abend
.” Under different circumstances, the two might have shaken hands.
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw David’s right hand move toward his belt, where he had tucked the .45. But Sarah grabbed his arm and stopped him.
The man put his flashlight away and reached into his shirt pocket, removing something metallic. John shined his light on the object. It was a badge.
“Lower your flashlight,” the man said to John in German.
John did. “Sir, we’ll leave peacefully. We don’t want to cause any trouble.”
“Tell your girlfriend to put the pot on the ground.”
“It’s just a pot. We’ll reimburse the church its value. We have no issues with you.”
“
Put the pot on the ground
.”
“Sarah, he’s a cop, and he wants the pot. Set it on the ground next to your feet.”
“No!” David cried out. He stepped in front of Sarah.
The cop cocked his revolver. “Tell your friend to get out of the way.”
“He means business, David.”
“So do I. After all we’ve been through, I’m not just going to hand the stones over to some fat man in a tunnel.”
The fat man in the tunnel pointed his revolver slightly to the left of David’s head and fired. The sharp
crack
startled the three; John and David crouched and covered their heads with their arms.
Sarah remained standing upright. She calmly stepped around David and handed the pot to the cop.
“No!” David tried to stop her, but John grabbed and held him.
The cop accepted the pot with his free hand. He pointed down the aqueduct and said to John, “Keep going the way you were going. Don’t look back.” Then, still aiming his revolver at them, he climbed back through the hole into the bedroom chamber.
David tried to follow him, but John continued to hold him.
“How could you just give the thing up?” David yelled at Sarah. “Have you learned nothing at all in our time together?”
“David, he was going to shoot us. Or at least arrest us. It’s better to be alive and not have the stones than dead and not have the stones.”
“You gave them up too easily! What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I value my life more than the stones.”
“Well, I value the stones more than
your
life, so I’m going after them.” He tried to break free from John’s grasp, but now Sarah held onto him as well.
“David, we’re not going to retrieve the stones by getting into a gunfight with a police officer,” John said. “Let’s move on and find another way out—before others get the idea to investigate this pipe.”
He and Sarah held David between them and pulled him down the aqueduct.
“But the stones!” David screamed. “The
stones
!”
 
Pfeffer couldn’t believe his luck. Taking the lost Tavernier stones from the young Americans had been like mugging a trio of quadriplegics. His tactic had been sound from the beginning: wait until someone found the treasure, then simply affect a transfer of ownership.
As he was leaving the bedroom chamber, several townsmen came running up, claiming they’d heard a gunshot. Pfeffer pointed at the hole in the wall. “More witches,” he said.
He hurried up the corridor, ready to show either his badge or his gun, whichever would seem appropriate to the occasion. No one challenged him. He knew he should put off opening the pot until he returned to his pension, but he didn’t want to wait that long. When he had climbed back up to the nave, he assessed the scene. Townspeople, including children, were milling around the church, acting as though the night’s events were part of a circus or carnival. He looked up at the balcony and saw that it was empty. So that’s where he went, choosing an out-of-the-way seat near the wishing well.
The lost Tavernier stones!
Cradling the amphora in his lap, he looked around to make sure no one was watching. It occurred to him once more that if he kept the stones, he was just as guilty as everyone else trying to steal them. The thought occurred to him, then it finished occurring to him. He lifted the clay lid.
The powerful aroma of red wine greeted him.
That’s natural, he thought. Wine had filled the amphora for three centuries before rocks took their place. He delicately inserted his hand and was surprised when his fingertips touched liquid.
They’d left the wine in the pot when they put the stones in? But why?
He sank his hand deeper until his fingers touched bottom. No stones.
He closed his eyes.
He reached for his revolver and stood up to return to the aqueduct, then paused and laughed. He sat back down. He shook his head and laughed again. He laughed at the irony of seeking one thing, finding another, and discovering that the second was the prize after all.
He laughed and laughed.

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