Chapter Three
Dean Havelock was not, as it turned out, the biggest of John Reid’s worries. The old man cursed and sputtered but within an hour he had relented, warning Reid that if he wasn’t back in two weeks his job was as good as gone. Reid didn’t consider that likely, because he was tenured, but he would certainly try to get this over with as soon as possible in any case. It helped, of course, that he had neglected to mention that he was traveling to a country in the middle of a civil war. He felt guilty about that lie of omission but time was short.
No, his biggest worry was Eliana.
“I’m going with you,” she said two seconds after he had visited her on the reservation and delivered the news.
“The heck you are,” he said.
“I know Spanish as well as you do, probably better. And I have traditional Hopi warrior training. Come on, you can’t go alone.”
“I have to. I can’t ask anyone else to go into a war zone to look for a kidnapping victim!”
“You’re not asking me. I’m volunteering.”
“Look,” he said, “it’s very much appreciated, but you’re a woman.”
She scoffed and locked her fists locked in place on her matronly hips. “Brilliant discovery, Dr. Reid,” she said. “Nothing escapes your attention, though in this case, I was beginning to wonder!”
“Knock it off,” he snapped back. “You know what I mean. It doesn’t matter how capable you are; if I brought you along I’d be a miserable excuse for a man. It’s not that I don’t want to, per se, so much as that I don’t have the right. Call it old-fashioned, but –”
“You're not bringing me along. I am not your child. I am perfectly capable of –”
“Stay here, gosh dang it!”
For a moment she stared at him, and he had a first-time glimpse of understanding into that Shakespeare quote about hell and the fury of a woman scorned. She uncurled one hand and raised it as if to slap him across the face, and knowing her strength he tensed for a broken jaw. But then it fell limply to her side, and the other arm followed suit, and the fire left her eyes.
“Keep in touch,” she said softly.
“I’ll try,” he said, feeling more awkward than ever before in his life. “It might not always be possible, but I’ll try.” He looked away and saw that at least half the Hopi tribe was staring at them, mouths agape. He greeted them with a sheepish smile. They returned to their work and tried to act like nothing had happened.
That last conversation ran through his mind, now, as he stared idly out the window of the Douglas DC-3 carrying him over the Atlantic Ocean towards Lisbon, Portugal. True to his word he had sent her a letter upon reaching New York City, although nothing but travel had transpired thus far. But the conversation refused to leave the forefront of his mind. He had left her in a less than chipper mood, and he wondered why this was such a big deal to her. It shouldn’t take too long. Unless, of course, he died while he was over there.
Why am I doing this? he realized. Not two days had passed since learning of Manuel Garcia Hernandez da Rosa, and here he was heading into hostile territory to look for the guy, with no strategy beyond pretending to be a soldier. Without the whole civil war thing going on it would have been dangerous enough. Who was to say he wouldn’t die while he was over there?
He tried to distract himself by reviewing the facts of the Spanish Civil War, which he had brushed up on before leaving. Current events didn't interest him much, but they were tomorrow's history, after all, so it didn't hurt to be familiar with them even if one wasn't going to be in the middle of them, and even if they weren't potentially deadly.
“Howdy,” said the passenger next to him.
Reid had paid no attention to the passenger, but now he turned to see a young kid who couldn’t have been long out of high school. He had tousled sandy blonde hair, blue eyes and a liberal spattering of freckles with just a touch of acne thrown in.
“Hello there,” Reid said, but his heart wasn't in it, and the kid could tell.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to take you out of your thoughts like that,” he said. “I'm just bored, is all.”
Reid shrugged. “It's fine. I’m just not a people person,” he said. “And I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“You’re telling me,” the kid said. “I’m terrified. I have no idea what to expect. I mean, my uncle told me all about fighting in the Great War, and he says that wasn’t fun at all. But this will be different – no trenches, no gas, no corrupt politicians playing God with troops. This is the way wars are supposed to be; a straightforward clean fight between good and evil.” He'd said it all in one breath. He had Reid's attention now.
“Wait, back up there,” Reid said. “What – ?”
“The name’s Daniel Parker,” said the kid, extending his hand, which Reid shook impatiently. “Call me Dan; it's what I'm used to.”
“Professor Jonathan Reid. Call me Dr. Reid; it’s what I’m used to.”
“Professor, huh? What of?”
“Archaeology.”
“Nice.”
“Yes, I think so. Now what is this about war?”
“The Spanish Civil War, of course,” Dan said proudly. “I'm going to fight in it.”
What a fascinating coincidence, Reid marveled. Of all the people on this plane – He eyed the boy curiously. “How old are you?” he wondered.
“Seventeen. I dropped out of school. No offense, but I don’t think learning about history and stuff is nearly as important as deciding the present. I mean, I know about that whole thing with history repeating itself and stuff, but I don't need a textbook to tell me that Franco is a creep and needs to die. There’s a cause out there, an important cause, and it's got my name on it.”
They stared at the ocean together for a few moments of slightly awkward silence. The sun was lowering in the sky, and it appeared that the small fireball was soon to be extinguished by an endless expanse of water.
Reid nodded slowly. “I suppose, if you feel that strongly about it... how did your parents react?”
“I don't know,” Dan said. “I haven't gotten a letter back from them yet.”
There was another silence, this one more awkward than the first. Reid found this boy's situation tragic, and yet the mention of sending letters only brought Eliana more fully into the focus of his mind. He felt guilty for not being more concerned with the path young Dan was on, but what could he do? The kid was obviously dead set in his ways. Maybe soon to be simply dead. If not, the future still didn't look too bright for him. These thoughts went through Reid's head unnoticed for the most part, as he went over his last conversation with Eliana for the sixtieth time, and wondered what she was doing right now.
“You're thinking about a woman,” Dan said. It wasn't a question.
Since it wasn't a question, Reid didn't offer an answer.
“I'm sorry, it's none of my business,” Dan said. “I just –”
“No, it's not like that. She's just a friend. But she was really upset that I wouldn't let her come with me, and it's bothering me because I have no idea why.”
“You should've brought her, and she could get in on the action with me. You know, professor, women kicked some serious ass in the Mexican Revolution. And Mexico, Spain – revolution, civil war – same things. Close enough.”
“Perhaps. That would be her choice, but I couldn't let her help me with what I'm doing. It's too personal, and too dangerous.”
“Ah,” Dan said. “A secret agent. That will get her attention.”
“I told you, we're just friends,” Reid said, a bit more testily than he had intended.
“Sure you are,” Dan said. “Look, I may not have had much experience with this sort of thing, but I've seen the look in your eyes often enough. She means something to you.”
“Of course. She's very intelligent and an invaluable resource in learning about her people and their culture. And she's looking into my religion, so I have some interest in her soul as well. But that's as far as it goes.”
“Religion, eh? What sort?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I'm a Mormon.”
“Well day-um,” Dan said, “you lucky S.O.B.! How many more broads have you got lined up back in Utah?”
“None,” snapped Reid, again more testily than he had intended, “and I don't live in Utah.”
Dan had been sincere, but he saw that he had somehow hit a nerve. “Hey, sorry man,” he said. “You look pissed. How about a drink?”
“No thanks.”
“Then, wanna play chess or something? It relieves stress.”
Reid just wanted to stare out the window and be left alone, but he acquiesced. He knew that like all Latter-day Saints it was his duty to teach others about his religion and this could provide the opportunity for just that. Besides, maybe it would do him some good to get away from his dreary thoughts for a while.
The rest of the flight improved somewhat, or rather his mood did. He felt rather awkward hanging out with a teenager the whole time, but Dan was unusually sophisticated for his age. Reid gathered that he had led a lonely life and learned much about self-sufficiency, and that his strained relationship with his parents was only a symptom of something big. He seemed interested in learning about the Church and Reid hoped that something would come of it. Something that would change his life for the better. If it didn't end when they got to Spain.
“I don't know what to think about God,” Dan said as he pondered his next move. “I mean, I don't think all this” he gestured past Reid at the sky and ocean “came from nowhere, but I haven't felt like God cares about me, or anyone for that matter. Look what's happened at home, and look what we're going to.”
Reid nodded. He'd pondered the same thing as a teenager during the Great War, during the long months without his father. “Trials come and go, or sometimes they stay,” he said, “but they all make us stronger. Look at the Depression. It's been hard, but look what caused it – runaway spending and instant gratification. Now we have an opportunity to realize what can come of selfishness, and to reevaluate what's really important. Reduced to the bare essentials, and sometimes less than that, we have to be grateful for every little bit we have. You have to realize most Americans are still the wealthiest people in the world.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Dan said. He didn't sound convinced.
“And God helps us through our trials,” Reid said. “In my church we just implemented a welfare program a few months ago that we believe to be divinely inspired. I've already seen it bless the lives of many of my acquaintances. It teaches us self-reliance and Christian charity at the same time.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Dan repeated, still not sounding convinced.
Reid thought for a moment and decided a J. Golden Kimball story might be just the ticket to get the point across to this teenage boy. The General Authority never minced words and always got across to the people in no uncertain terms. “We have a leader in my church,” Reid began, “and he's, well, he's rather unorthodox, but I think you'd like him. Most of us do. Anyway, his take on the matter was, 'This depression is going to pass. But this selfishness that you're showing is going to stay with you. Here is an opportunity to be more giving and sharing.'”
“That's unorthodox? It's pretty much what you already said.”
“Wait, I'm not finished. He told a story to illustrate the point. An elderly sister – a woman of the church – has nothing to speak of aside from a few chickens. So she gathered up all the eggs she could get and carefully carried them down to the store in her apron. Well, the grocer offered her a penny apiece for them. I don't know how the story ends, only J. Golden Kimball's reaction when he told it. He said, 'Can you believe that, brothers and sisters? Just a penny apiece? Brothers and sisters, that hardly pays for wear and tear on the chicken's ass!'”
Dan nearly fell out of his seat and knocked over the chessboard laughing.
“Yes, and that's another thing God's given us to cope with hard times,” Reid mused. “Senses of humor, and companions to share them with.”
“Tell me more about this Golden guy,” Dan said, still chuckling. “Your church just got a lot more interesting. Checkmate, by the way.”
***
Upon their arrival in Lisbon there was a telegram waiting for each of them. Dan took one look at his and said, “It's from my dad.” He skimmed its contents. “Wow. He spared no expense on those words.”
Reid's was from Eliana. It said simply, “ALL WELL HERE STOP. HOPE SAME FOR YOU STOP. COME BACK SAFELY STOP. LOVE ELIANA FULL STOP.”
“Don't feel bad,” Dan said, reading over his shoulder. “Mine's even shorter, when you take out the unnecessary words. Basically 'come back before you get killed, so we can kill you'. I'm feeling the love.”
“They do love you,” Reid said. “That's why they're mad that you're gone and risking your life. Look, it's not too late to go back. Things should even be better now, now that they've seen how much they truly value you.”
“Nah. Tempting, but I'm committed to the cause.” He nodded at the letter in Reid's hand. “You gonna write her back?”
“What is there to say? I wrote her before I left and nothing's happened yet.”
“Did you notice, right there, that second to last word –”
“Full?”
“No, second to last of what she wrote.”
“Love? Jeez, Dan, will you ease up? Friends love each other. This is an appropriate situation for expressing that.”
“Whatever. You'll come crawling to me for help when you find out I'm right.”
“Don't hold your breath.” Reid sighed and headed for the telegraph office door, destination unsure. “Dan,” he said, pausing and looking back, “you are one outgoing and nosy kid. You need to be talking to people, not blowing their heads off. When this is over, if you're still alive, you should join my church and be a missionary. It's a great experience.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Dan said, as they opened the door and stepped onto the street, “but don't hold your breath. I'm still not thrilled with God's hands-off approach to things.”
“I thought we resolved that,” Reid said. “Look, you believe there's a God, so why not –”
“Later, professor, later,” Dan said. “I need to get going. You're going to – Lugo, you said?”
“Yes.”
“That's as good as any starting point for me. I'll ask around, read the local papers and figure out where to go next. So we can go together and you can finish lecturing me.”
“Right.” Reid had nothing to gain by waiting either. He stepped up to the curb and hollered “Taxi!” He was thinking of the Spanish word, which was not only quite similar to the English word but fortunately enough so also to the Portuguese word (táxi) that the natives had no trouble understanding him.
In a few moments a taxi driver had pulled up to them. Here came the challenging part. Reid hoped the Spanish-Portuguese similarities ran deep enough for him to convey himself. For now, though, he pulled a map from his pocket and pointed to the town of Lugo which he had circled, in northwestern Spain.
The driver's eyes bugged. “Está indo custar muito dinheiro,” he said.
Reid ran through the cognates in his head. Costar mucho dinero... cost a lot of money. Well, no kidding, he thought. I wasn't expecting a three-dollar joyride. He nodded to show that he understood, and pulled his wallet out to show that it was stuffed with cash.
The driver shrugged, grunted and motioned them to get into the car. They did so gladly.
***
“Look there,” Reid said as they approached the town, “The only completely intact Roman wall still in existence. Third century AD. It was worth the trip just to see that.”
Dan raised his eyes to look out the window from his splayed position. He had been nodding off for the last three hours of their eight-hour drive. The wall surrounded the entire town and stretched ten to fifteen meters high, with towers at distant intervals. “Awesome,” he said without enthusiasm.
“Você quer parar e olhar para ele?” the driver asked, wondering if Reid wanted to stop and look at it. He had kept himself going this whole time with a half-dozen mugs of instant Brazilian coffee.
The only word Reid was sure of was “parar”, to stop. He hesitated. A few minutes of delay couldn't hurt after this long trip, but he might lose track of time. Before he went home, perhaps. “Não, obrigado,” he said, using one of the few phrases he had picked up while skimming through a traveler's dictionary at one of their rest stops, and gestured for the driver to keep going.
The town itself was equally fascinating, its architecture hearkening back to a simpler time, a time when wars didn't span continents and only killed thousands at worst, a time when people had respect for God and for each other. It wasn't perfect, to be sure, thought Reid, but he was reasonably certain the passage of centuries hadn't improved things a bit. He thought of how much it had cost to get here and thought what the heck, might as well go the whole way. He handed the driver a small piece of paper with the address he had gotten from Henderson. “Here, now,” he said.
The driver took it and grunted his understanding.
“This town,” Reid told Dan, “was probably founded by Celts and named for a god called Lugos, the deity of light, oaths, and arts. In 13 BC it was conquered by the Romans under Paulus Fabius Maximus as they took the Iberian Peninsula and renamed Lucus Augusti as it became the position of a military camp. In spite of its size, and possibly because it was located in an active gold mining region, it became one of three conventus seats in Galicia, and later one of two capitals. By the late fifth century it had become a bishopric and an administrative center for Suebi and Visigoths, but by the middle of the eighth century bishop Odoario found it completely abandoned and attempted to build it back up. The going was slow through the tenth and eleventh centuries, and it wasn't until the High Middle Ages –”
Dan moaned pathetically. “Professor,” he said, “if all this is gonna be on the test, you can flunk me right now. I dropped out, remember?”
Reid chuckled. He was paying more attention to the town himself, now, anyway, to the houses they passed. They were small, modest dwellings, more modern than the town's main sights but not horribly out of place. The one they came to a stop in front of was white with black shingles, like most of them, with a very small but well-kept lawn and a fancy brass door knocker.
“Aqui,” said the driver and, even if it hadn't been identical sans accent to the Spanish word for “here”, Reid would have known they had reached their destination.
“Obrigado,” he said. “Quanto?”
The driver took out a pen and wrote how much on the scrap of paper Reid had given him, to ensure there would be no misunderstandings. Reid looked at it and gulped, but he hadn't expected this to be cheap, and in this economy you took what you could get. He nodded, took out his wallet and began counting.
“Guess I'm getting off here too,” Dan said, pushing himself up. “Hey, look, I've got some money. I'll pitch in.”
“Don't worry about it,” said Reid. “You need all the money, all the luck, everything you can get. Unless you go back home and forget this crazy –”
“Not a chance. I'm gonna make Franco cry like a baby. I won't give that up.”
“Fine,” Reid said, giving the money to the driver, who grunted his appreciation. “That's not my choice to make, I suppose. All right, I'm going to this house here, and it's best I go alone. So this is goodbye, then. Take care of yourself.”
“Of course. No one else will.” Dan shook his hand. “Don't you worry, I'll probably be back home and in school by Christmas. And hey, if I die, at least it was for an important cause. That's more than most people can say. Well, none of them can say it, 'cause they're dead, but –”
The driver grunted and motioned for the two foreigners to get the heck out of his taxicab.
“All right,” Reid said, holding out a placating hand. He shook Dan's once more. “Goodbye, kid. I'll keep you in my prayers. Remember everything I told you.”
“Of course. Wouldn't want to fail the test now, would I? Goodbye.”
They exited opposite sides of the car, which roared away almost before they could close the doors. Then with a last friendly nod to each other, they parted ways. Dan headed for parts unknown, preferably a bar where he could catch the news and gossip. Reid walked straight up to the house. There was no porch, no front steps, just the door with the knocker which he could now see was carved in the shape of a rather unattractive gargoyle.
He took it in hand and rapped gently on the door. A dog instantly began barking and after a moment, beneath the frantic scattering of paws, steadier footsteps could be heard approaching. They stopped, there was a pause as someone tried to hush the dog, and then the door opened a crack and a pair of brown Spaniard eyes peeked out, several feet above a snarling furry gray muzzle.
Reid got to the point. “Mrs. Carmen Mercedes Hernandez da Rosa?” he inquired.
“Yes, that's me,” she said in a wearied, sultry tone, not opening the door any wider.
“I heard about your husband, Manuel, and I'm sorry,” he said in Spanish. “I'm John Reid, and I'm sort of a private investigator. But I work for free. I guess that makes me more of a vigilante. Anyway, I'd like to hear your story and, with your permission of course, look around your house for clues.”
She opened the door and he could see that she was a housewife in her mid-forties. She was rather pretty, but her hair was put up in a simple bun and her face was beginning to show the lines of age. This was worsened, Reid assumed, by the sleepless nights she must have spent since her husband's disappearance, which had also left telltale bags beneath her eyes. She wore a necklace with a cross and he pegged her as a Catholic, like most of Spain. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Please come in. I hope you are more successful than the police. They haven't found a thing.”
“Thank you,” he said, stepping in, “and yes, I hope so too. Now, let's not waste any time. Where were you both when this happened?” He allowed the dog, a lanky greyhound, to sniff his hands, legs and other parts. He liked dogs and besides, resistance could have consequences.
“We were in bed, asleep,” she said. “It was about two in the morning. I awoke when they were right on top of us. They chloroformed Manuel and pulled him out of bed, pointing guns at me so I wouldn't follow. When they were gone and I went to check on Fernando I saw that he had been chloroformed, too.”
“Or maybe his food was drugged,” Reid said, “if he didn't get a chance to bark before they got him.”
“The police thought of that. I don't see how they could have done it and besides, he got all confused when we tried to make him track Manuel down, as if his nose was still full of something. But what does it matter? He's safe. My husband is gone,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes.
“There, there,” Reid said. “I'm sure he's fine, wherever he is. Once we establish a motive it will be a lot easier to figure out what's happening. There have been no ransom notes or anything?”
“None. I would have said if there was.”
“Are you certain? Perhaps they sent a note and warned you not to tell, for fear of your husband's life. If they did, you must tell me. I'm not the police and they won't be expecting it.”
“Mr. Reid,” she burst out bawling, “you must believe me. I haven't heard a word from the kidnappers and I know nothing about what they want.”
“All right, all right, I'm sorry,” he said, feeling like scum. He wanted to comfort her with a hug or something but felt awkward about touching another man's wife, even with that man gone and under these circumstances. “Did either of the men speak while they were here?”
“No,” she said, sniffling as she tried to regain her composure. “I don't think they felt the need to. Neither of us put up any resistance.”
“I was just wondering if they asked for anything...” he said. “Perhaps... Mrs. Hernandez da Rosa, I heard from a man at the Museo Arqueológico e Histórico that someone in your husband's family offered them a document years ago which they did not accept. Do you know anything about that?”
“Yes,” she said. “It was the journal of his ancestor, a conquistador named Victor Ramón Duarte. A whole trunk of his possessions has been passed down through his family for generations. I think it was just before the turn of this century when Manuel's grandfather sold them to the Museo, but they did not accept the journal. They said it was a fake. They never insinuated anything about the family's integrity, but the grandfather took it personally anyway and so did his children. Manuel still complained about it to his friends once in a while.”
“So people knew about this journal.”
“Well yes, but everyone thinks it's a fake. The people at the Museo are experts, you know.”
“I see. Where is this journal kept?”
“In the basement, in the trunk which we still have. We never look at it anymore. There is no point.”
“Will you show me?”
“Of course,” she said. “Would you rather look in our bedroom first? That is where the clues will be.”
“This intrigues me more. I just might know something the police don't.”
She raised an eyebrow, but decided to wait and find out. “Okay then,” she said, “right this way.” She led him through the next room to a doorway with a rickety set of stairs descending into blackness. “Watch your step,” she warned as she flicked on a solitary bare lightbulb. “A few of these boards are ready to disintegrate.”
“I see that,” he said, eyeing wood that had grown warped and rotten even in this climate. He made sure to copy her every careful footfall exactly, keeping his head low to avoid filthy, long-abandoned cobwebs. Behind him, Fernando stopped at the edge of the stairs and stared mournfully after them.
“You came all the way from the United States to help us?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Oh yes, and it's no trouble at all. A person's a person.” Looking past her, Reid knew something was afoot as he had suspected. Two sets of footprints led through the layer of dust on the stone floor, away from the stairs and back. Faded magazines and newspapers had been shoved aside everywhere, leaving a clear path towards a simple antique wooden steamer trunk that lay wide open.
Carmen noticed it at about the same time, and rushed to it. “By the Saints!” she cried. “You were right!” She knelt down, rummaged through it and confirmed her suspicion.
He came up alongside her and looked in. It still contained a few artifacts, but nothing of museum display quality. And no journal was to be seen.
“I don't know what they would want with it,” she said. “I don't understand...”
“Neither do I, but I may have another piece of the puzzle,” Reid said. “Mrs. Hernandez da Rosa, you said the thugs were wearing robes and hoods, yes? Could you describe exactly what their uniforms looked like?”
“Well, sure,” she said, turning around and rising to her feet. “It was dark, of course, but they –” Her eyes focused on something behind him and her Hispanic flesh turned pale. “They looked exactly like that,” she whispered.
Reid spun around. At the foot of the stairs stood two figures dressed identically to the ones who had visited his office, but armed with Webleys instead of Smith and Wesson's. At the top of the stairs he could just make out the limp form of Fernando, still breathing.
“Buenos dias, professor,” one of them said. The rest of his words were in English and a British accent. “You're a long way from home, aren't you?”
“I do a lot of traveling,” he said. “Usually not at the beginning of a semester, but sometimes things come up.” He glanced quickly at Carmen; she was numb with terror. He absolutely had to conceal his fear this time, for her sake. Pushing aside his misgivings he put a comforting arm around her, but she was oblivious.
“We knew you'd show up,” the thug continued. “One of your friends was poorly chosen. This was an unexpected turn of events, but a welcome one, after those morons botched their job in Flagstaff.”
One of his friends had told them he was coming? Who? Henderson? Impossible; in spite of their differences he was a great friend and would always be loyal. Eliana? Too ridiculous to even contemplate. Dean Havelock? He'd probably complained to everyone he knew about Reid skipping out on his classes –
“Yes, you were quite a handful for them,” said the other thug. He handed his pistol to the first, withdrew a rag, and began advancing. “But I trust you will be more cooperative this time.” He nodded towards Carmen, and his companion turned both guns in her direction. “I'm sure that you, like us, wouldn't want innocent bystanders getting hurt.”
Reid raised his hands and sidestepped to block her from them, but as he did it he realized it was no use. For her sake he still couldn't risk the slightest resistance. “Don't worry,” he said over his shoulder, “this is an important clue. Wherever they take me, that's where I'll solve this case.” He couldn't see her reaction, but he guessed she wasn't thrilled by this turn of events.
The rag was placed over his mouth and the smell of chloroform overwhelmed him. Then blackness was closing in from the edge of his vision and in the distance, someone was singing Cole Porter while Pandora returned, grinned like a maniac and hit him over the head with a rock.
Next: Chapter Four
No, his biggest worry was Eliana.
“I’m going with you,” she said two seconds after he had visited her on the reservation and delivered the news.
“The heck you are,” he said.
“I know Spanish as well as you do, probably better. And I have traditional Hopi warrior training. Come on, you can’t go alone.”
“I have to. I can’t ask anyone else to go into a war zone to look for a kidnapping victim!”
“You’re not asking me. I’m volunteering.”
“Look,” he said, “it’s very much appreciated, but you’re a woman.”
She scoffed and locked her fists locked in place on her matronly hips. “Brilliant discovery, Dr. Reid,” she said. “Nothing escapes your attention, though in this case, I was beginning to wonder!”
“Knock it off,” he snapped back. “You know what I mean. It doesn’t matter how capable you are; if I brought you along I’d be a miserable excuse for a man. It’s not that I don’t want to, per se, so much as that I don’t have the right. Call it old-fashioned, but –”
“You're not bringing me along. I am not your child. I am perfectly capable of –”
“Stay here, gosh dang it!”
For a moment she stared at him, and he had a first-time glimpse of understanding into that Shakespeare quote about hell and the fury of a woman scorned. She uncurled one hand and raised it as if to slap him across the face, and knowing her strength he tensed for a broken jaw. But then it fell limply to her side, and the other arm followed suit, and the fire left her eyes.
“Keep in touch,” she said softly.
“I’ll try,” he said, feeling more awkward than ever before in his life. “It might not always be possible, but I’ll try.” He looked away and saw that at least half the Hopi tribe was staring at them, mouths agape. He greeted them with a sheepish smile. They returned to their work and tried to act like nothing had happened.
That last conversation ran through his mind, now, as he stared idly out the window of the Douglas DC-3 carrying him over the Atlantic Ocean towards Lisbon, Portugal. True to his word he had sent her a letter upon reaching New York City, although nothing but travel had transpired thus far. But the conversation refused to leave the forefront of his mind. He had left her in a less than chipper mood, and he wondered why this was such a big deal to her. It shouldn’t take too long. Unless, of course, he died while he was over there.
Why am I doing this? he realized. Not two days had passed since learning of Manuel Garcia Hernandez da Rosa, and here he was heading into hostile territory to look for the guy, with no strategy beyond pretending to be a soldier. Without the whole civil war thing going on it would have been dangerous enough. Who was to say he wouldn’t die while he was over there?
He tried to distract himself by reviewing the facts of the Spanish Civil War, which he had brushed up on before leaving. Current events didn't interest him much, but they were tomorrow's history, after all, so it didn't hurt to be familiar with them even if one wasn't going to be in the middle of them, and even if they weren't potentially deadly.
“Howdy,” said the passenger next to him.
Reid had paid no attention to the passenger, but now he turned to see a young kid who couldn’t have been long out of high school. He had tousled sandy blonde hair, blue eyes and a liberal spattering of freckles with just a touch of acne thrown in.
“Hello there,” Reid said, but his heart wasn't in it, and the kid could tell.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to take you out of your thoughts like that,” he said. “I'm just bored, is all.”
Reid shrugged. “It's fine. I’m just not a people person,” he said. “And I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“You’re telling me,” the kid said. “I’m terrified. I have no idea what to expect. I mean, my uncle told me all about fighting in the Great War, and he says that wasn’t fun at all. But this will be different – no trenches, no gas, no corrupt politicians playing God with troops. This is the way wars are supposed to be; a straightforward clean fight between good and evil.” He'd said it all in one breath. He had Reid's attention now.
“Wait, back up there,” Reid said. “What – ?”
“The name’s Daniel Parker,” said the kid, extending his hand, which Reid shook impatiently. “Call me Dan; it's what I'm used to.”
“Professor Jonathan Reid. Call me Dr. Reid; it’s what I’m used to.”
“Professor, huh? What of?”
“Archaeology.”
“Nice.”
“Yes, I think so. Now what is this about war?”
“The Spanish Civil War, of course,” Dan said proudly. “I'm going to fight in it.”
What a fascinating coincidence, Reid marveled. Of all the people on this plane – He eyed the boy curiously. “How old are you?” he wondered.
“Seventeen. I dropped out of school. No offense, but I don’t think learning about history and stuff is nearly as important as deciding the present. I mean, I know about that whole thing with history repeating itself and stuff, but I don't need a textbook to tell me that Franco is a creep and needs to die. There’s a cause out there, an important cause, and it's got my name on it.”
They stared at the ocean together for a few moments of slightly awkward silence. The sun was lowering in the sky, and it appeared that the small fireball was soon to be extinguished by an endless expanse of water.
Reid nodded slowly. “I suppose, if you feel that strongly about it... how did your parents react?”
“I don't know,” Dan said. “I haven't gotten a letter back from them yet.”
There was another silence, this one more awkward than the first. Reid found this boy's situation tragic, and yet the mention of sending letters only brought Eliana more fully into the focus of his mind. He felt guilty for not being more concerned with the path young Dan was on, but what could he do? The kid was obviously dead set in his ways. Maybe soon to be simply dead. If not, the future still didn't look too bright for him. These thoughts went through Reid's head unnoticed for the most part, as he went over his last conversation with Eliana for the sixtieth time, and wondered what she was doing right now.
“You're thinking about a woman,” Dan said. It wasn't a question.
Since it wasn't a question, Reid didn't offer an answer.
“I'm sorry, it's none of my business,” Dan said. “I just –”
“No, it's not like that. She's just a friend. But she was really upset that I wouldn't let her come with me, and it's bothering me because I have no idea why.”
“You should've brought her, and she could get in on the action with me. You know, professor, women kicked some serious ass in the Mexican Revolution. And Mexico, Spain – revolution, civil war – same things. Close enough.”
“Perhaps. That would be her choice, but I couldn't let her help me with what I'm doing. It's too personal, and too dangerous.”
“Ah,” Dan said. “A secret agent. That will get her attention.”
“I told you, we're just friends,” Reid said, a bit more testily than he had intended.
“Sure you are,” Dan said. “Look, I may not have had much experience with this sort of thing, but I've seen the look in your eyes often enough. She means something to you.”
“Of course. She's very intelligent and an invaluable resource in learning about her people and their culture. And she's looking into my religion, so I have some interest in her soul as well. But that's as far as it goes.”
“Religion, eh? What sort?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I'm a Mormon.”
“Well day-um,” Dan said, “you lucky S.O.B.! How many more broads have you got lined up back in Utah?”
“None,” snapped Reid, again more testily than he had intended, “and I don't live in Utah.”
Dan had been sincere, but he saw that he had somehow hit a nerve. “Hey, sorry man,” he said. “You look pissed. How about a drink?”
“No thanks.”
“Then, wanna play chess or something? It relieves stress.”
Reid just wanted to stare out the window and be left alone, but he acquiesced. He knew that like all Latter-day Saints it was his duty to teach others about his religion and this could provide the opportunity for just that. Besides, maybe it would do him some good to get away from his dreary thoughts for a while.
The rest of the flight improved somewhat, or rather his mood did. He felt rather awkward hanging out with a teenager the whole time, but Dan was unusually sophisticated for his age. Reid gathered that he had led a lonely life and learned much about self-sufficiency, and that his strained relationship with his parents was only a symptom of something big. He seemed interested in learning about the Church and Reid hoped that something would come of it. Something that would change his life for the better. If it didn't end when they got to Spain.
“I don't know what to think about God,” Dan said as he pondered his next move. “I mean, I don't think all this” he gestured past Reid at the sky and ocean “came from nowhere, but I haven't felt like God cares about me, or anyone for that matter. Look what's happened at home, and look what we're going to.”
Reid nodded. He'd pondered the same thing as a teenager during the Great War, during the long months without his father. “Trials come and go, or sometimes they stay,” he said, “but they all make us stronger. Look at the Depression. It's been hard, but look what caused it – runaway spending and instant gratification. Now we have an opportunity to realize what can come of selfishness, and to reevaluate what's really important. Reduced to the bare essentials, and sometimes less than that, we have to be grateful for every little bit we have. You have to realize most Americans are still the wealthiest people in the world.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Dan said. He didn't sound convinced.
“And God helps us through our trials,” Reid said. “In my church we just implemented a welfare program a few months ago that we believe to be divinely inspired. I've already seen it bless the lives of many of my acquaintances. It teaches us self-reliance and Christian charity at the same time.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Dan repeated, still not sounding convinced.
Reid thought for a moment and decided a J. Golden Kimball story might be just the ticket to get the point across to this teenage boy. The General Authority never minced words and always got across to the people in no uncertain terms. “We have a leader in my church,” Reid began, “and he's, well, he's rather unorthodox, but I think you'd like him. Most of us do. Anyway, his take on the matter was, 'This depression is going to pass. But this selfishness that you're showing is going to stay with you. Here is an opportunity to be more giving and sharing.'”
“That's unorthodox? It's pretty much what you already said.”
“Wait, I'm not finished. He told a story to illustrate the point. An elderly sister – a woman of the church – has nothing to speak of aside from a few chickens. So she gathered up all the eggs she could get and carefully carried them down to the store in her apron. Well, the grocer offered her a penny apiece for them. I don't know how the story ends, only J. Golden Kimball's reaction when he told it. He said, 'Can you believe that, brothers and sisters? Just a penny apiece? Brothers and sisters, that hardly pays for wear and tear on the chicken's ass!'”
Dan nearly fell out of his seat and knocked over the chessboard laughing.
“Yes, and that's another thing God's given us to cope with hard times,” Reid mused. “Senses of humor, and companions to share them with.”
“Tell me more about this Golden guy,” Dan said, still chuckling. “Your church just got a lot more interesting. Checkmate, by the way.”
***
Upon their arrival in Lisbon there was a telegram waiting for each of them. Dan took one look at his and said, “It's from my dad.” He skimmed its contents. “Wow. He spared no expense on those words.”
Reid's was from Eliana. It said simply, “ALL WELL HERE STOP. HOPE SAME FOR YOU STOP. COME BACK SAFELY STOP. LOVE ELIANA FULL STOP.”
“Don't feel bad,” Dan said, reading over his shoulder. “Mine's even shorter, when you take out the unnecessary words. Basically 'come back before you get killed, so we can kill you'. I'm feeling the love.”
“They do love you,” Reid said. “That's why they're mad that you're gone and risking your life. Look, it's not too late to go back. Things should even be better now, now that they've seen how much they truly value you.”
“Nah. Tempting, but I'm committed to the cause.” He nodded at the letter in Reid's hand. “You gonna write her back?”
“What is there to say? I wrote her before I left and nothing's happened yet.”
“Did you notice, right there, that second to last word –”
“Full?”
“No, second to last of what she wrote.”
“Love? Jeez, Dan, will you ease up? Friends love each other. This is an appropriate situation for expressing that.”
“Whatever. You'll come crawling to me for help when you find out I'm right.”
“Don't hold your breath.” Reid sighed and headed for the telegraph office door, destination unsure. “Dan,” he said, pausing and looking back, “you are one outgoing and nosy kid. You need to be talking to people, not blowing their heads off. When this is over, if you're still alive, you should join my church and be a missionary. It's a great experience.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Dan said, as they opened the door and stepped onto the street, “but don't hold your breath. I'm still not thrilled with God's hands-off approach to things.”
“I thought we resolved that,” Reid said. “Look, you believe there's a God, so why not –”
“Later, professor, later,” Dan said. “I need to get going. You're going to – Lugo, you said?”
“Yes.”
“That's as good as any starting point for me. I'll ask around, read the local papers and figure out where to go next. So we can go together and you can finish lecturing me.”
“Right.” Reid had nothing to gain by waiting either. He stepped up to the curb and hollered “Taxi!” He was thinking of the Spanish word, which was not only quite similar to the English word but fortunately enough so also to the Portuguese word (táxi) that the natives had no trouble understanding him.
In a few moments a taxi driver had pulled up to them. Here came the challenging part. Reid hoped the Spanish-Portuguese similarities ran deep enough for him to convey himself. For now, though, he pulled a map from his pocket and pointed to the town of Lugo which he had circled, in northwestern Spain.
The driver's eyes bugged. “Está indo custar muito dinheiro,” he said.
Reid ran through the cognates in his head. Costar mucho dinero... cost a lot of money. Well, no kidding, he thought. I wasn't expecting a three-dollar joyride. He nodded to show that he understood, and pulled his wallet out to show that it was stuffed with cash.
The driver shrugged, grunted and motioned them to get into the car. They did so gladly.
***
“Look there,” Reid said as they approached the town, “The only completely intact Roman wall still in existence. Third century AD. It was worth the trip just to see that.”
Dan raised his eyes to look out the window from his splayed position. He had been nodding off for the last three hours of their eight-hour drive. The wall surrounded the entire town and stretched ten to fifteen meters high, with towers at distant intervals. “Awesome,” he said without enthusiasm.
“Você quer parar e olhar para ele?” the driver asked, wondering if Reid wanted to stop and look at it. He had kept himself going this whole time with a half-dozen mugs of instant Brazilian coffee.
The only word Reid was sure of was “parar”, to stop. He hesitated. A few minutes of delay couldn't hurt after this long trip, but he might lose track of time. Before he went home, perhaps. “Não, obrigado,” he said, using one of the few phrases he had picked up while skimming through a traveler's dictionary at one of their rest stops, and gestured for the driver to keep going.
The town itself was equally fascinating, its architecture hearkening back to a simpler time, a time when wars didn't span continents and only killed thousands at worst, a time when people had respect for God and for each other. It wasn't perfect, to be sure, thought Reid, but he was reasonably certain the passage of centuries hadn't improved things a bit. He thought of how much it had cost to get here and thought what the heck, might as well go the whole way. He handed the driver a small piece of paper with the address he had gotten from Henderson. “Here, now,” he said.
The driver took it and grunted his understanding.
“This town,” Reid told Dan, “was probably founded by Celts and named for a god called Lugos, the deity of light, oaths, and arts. In 13 BC it was conquered by the Romans under Paulus Fabius Maximus as they took the Iberian Peninsula and renamed Lucus Augusti as it became the position of a military camp. In spite of its size, and possibly because it was located in an active gold mining region, it became one of three conventus seats in Galicia, and later one of two capitals. By the late fifth century it had become a bishopric and an administrative center for Suebi and Visigoths, but by the middle of the eighth century bishop Odoario found it completely abandoned and attempted to build it back up. The going was slow through the tenth and eleventh centuries, and it wasn't until the High Middle Ages –”
Dan moaned pathetically. “Professor,” he said, “if all this is gonna be on the test, you can flunk me right now. I dropped out, remember?”
Reid chuckled. He was paying more attention to the town himself, now, anyway, to the houses they passed. They were small, modest dwellings, more modern than the town's main sights but not horribly out of place. The one they came to a stop in front of was white with black shingles, like most of them, with a very small but well-kept lawn and a fancy brass door knocker.
“Aqui,” said the driver and, even if it hadn't been identical sans accent to the Spanish word for “here”, Reid would have known they had reached their destination.
“Obrigado,” he said. “Quanto?”
The driver took out a pen and wrote how much on the scrap of paper Reid had given him, to ensure there would be no misunderstandings. Reid looked at it and gulped, but he hadn't expected this to be cheap, and in this economy you took what you could get. He nodded, took out his wallet and began counting.
“Guess I'm getting off here too,” Dan said, pushing himself up. “Hey, look, I've got some money. I'll pitch in.”
“Don't worry about it,” said Reid. “You need all the money, all the luck, everything you can get. Unless you go back home and forget this crazy –”
“Not a chance. I'm gonna make Franco cry like a baby. I won't give that up.”
“Fine,” Reid said, giving the money to the driver, who grunted his appreciation. “That's not my choice to make, I suppose. All right, I'm going to this house here, and it's best I go alone. So this is goodbye, then. Take care of yourself.”
“Of course. No one else will.” Dan shook his hand. “Don't you worry, I'll probably be back home and in school by Christmas. And hey, if I die, at least it was for an important cause. That's more than most people can say. Well, none of them can say it, 'cause they're dead, but –”
The driver grunted and motioned for the two foreigners to get the heck out of his taxicab.
“All right,” Reid said, holding out a placating hand. He shook Dan's once more. “Goodbye, kid. I'll keep you in my prayers. Remember everything I told you.”
“Of course. Wouldn't want to fail the test now, would I? Goodbye.”
They exited opposite sides of the car, which roared away almost before they could close the doors. Then with a last friendly nod to each other, they parted ways. Dan headed for parts unknown, preferably a bar where he could catch the news and gossip. Reid walked straight up to the house. There was no porch, no front steps, just the door with the knocker which he could now see was carved in the shape of a rather unattractive gargoyle.
He took it in hand and rapped gently on the door. A dog instantly began barking and after a moment, beneath the frantic scattering of paws, steadier footsteps could be heard approaching. They stopped, there was a pause as someone tried to hush the dog, and then the door opened a crack and a pair of brown Spaniard eyes peeked out, several feet above a snarling furry gray muzzle.
Reid got to the point. “Mrs. Carmen Mercedes Hernandez da Rosa?” he inquired.
“Yes, that's me,” she said in a wearied, sultry tone, not opening the door any wider.
“I heard about your husband, Manuel, and I'm sorry,” he said in Spanish. “I'm John Reid, and I'm sort of a private investigator. But I work for free. I guess that makes me more of a vigilante. Anyway, I'd like to hear your story and, with your permission of course, look around your house for clues.”
She opened the door and he could see that she was a housewife in her mid-forties. She was rather pretty, but her hair was put up in a simple bun and her face was beginning to show the lines of age. This was worsened, Reid assumed, by the sleepless nights she must have spent since her husband's disappearance, which had also left telltale bags beneath her eyes. She wore a necklace with a cross and he pegged her as a Catholic, like most of Spain. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Please come in. I hope you are more successful than the police. They haven't found a thing.”
“Thank you,” he said, stepping in, “and yes, I hope so too. Now, let's not waste any time. Where were you both when this happened?” He allowed the dog, a lanky greyhound, to sniff his hands, legs and other parts. He liked dogs and besides, resistance could have consequences.
“We were in bed, asleep,” she said. “It was about two in the morning. I awoke when they were right on top of us. They chloroformed Manuel and pulled him out of bed, pointing guns at me so I wouldn't follow. When they were gone and I went to check on Fernando I saw that he had been chloroformed, too.”
“Or maybe his food was drugged,” Reid said, “if he didn't get a chance to bark before they got him.”
“The police thought of that. I don't see how they could have done it and besides, he got all confused when we tried to make him track Manuel down, as if his nose was still full of something. But what does it matter? He's safe. My husband is gone,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes.
“There, there,” Reid said. “I'm sure he's fine, wherever he is. Once we establish a motive it will be a lot easier to figure out what's happening. There have been no ransom notes or anything?”
“None. I would have said if there was.”
“Are you certain? Perhaps they sent a note and warned you not to tell, for fear of your husband's life. If they did, you must tell me. I'm not the police and they won't be expecting it.”
“Mr. Reid,” she burst out bawling, “you must believe me. I haven't heard a word from the kidnappers and I know nothing about what they want.”
“All right, all right, I'm sorry,” he said, feeling like scum. He wanted to comfort her with a hug or something but felt awkward about touching another man's wife, even with that man gone and under these circumstances. “Did either of the men speak while they were here?”
“No,” she said, sniffling as she tried to regain her composure. “I don't think they felt the need to. Neither of us put up any resistance.”
“I was just wondering if they asked for anything...” he said. “Perhaps... Mrs. Hernandez da Rosa, I heard from a man at the Museo Arqueológico e Histórico that someone in your husband's family offered them a document years ago which they did not accept. Do you know anything about that?”
“Yes,” she said. “It was the journal of his ancestor, a conquistador named Victor Ramón Duarte. A whole trunk of his possessions has been passed down through his family for generations. I think it was just before the turn of this century when Manuel's grandfather sold them to the Museo, but they did not accept the journal. They said it was a fake. They never insinuated anything about the family's integrity, but the grandfather took it personally anyway and so did his children. Manuel still complained about it to his friends once in a while.”
“So people knew about this journal.”
“Well yes, but everyone thinks it's a fake. The people at the Museo are experts, you know.”
“I see. Where is this journal kept?”
“In the basement, in the trunk which we still have. We never look at it anymore. There is no point.”
“Will you show me?”
“Of course,” she said. “Would you rather look in our bedroom first? That is where the clues will be.”
“This intrigues me more. I just might know something the police don't.”
She raised an eyebrow, but decided to wait and find out. “Okay then,” she said, “right this way.” She led him through the next room to a doorway with a rickety set of stairs descending into blackness. “Watch your step,” she warned as she flicked on a solitary bare lightbulb. “A few of these boards are ready to disintegrate.”
“I see that,” he said, eyeing wood that had grown warped and rotten even in this climate. He made sure to copy her every careful footfall exactly, keeping his head low to avoid filthy, long-abandoned cobwebs. Behind him, Fernando stopped at the edge of the stairs and stared mournfully after them.
“You came all the way from the United States to help us?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Oh yes, and it's no trouble at all. A person's a person.” Looking past her, Reid knew something was afoot as he had suspected. Two sets of footprints led through the layer of dust on the stone floor, away from the stairs and back. Faded magazines and newspapers had been shoved aside everywhere, leaving a clear path towards a simple antique wooden steamer trunk that lay wide open.
Carmen noticed it at about the same time, and rushed to it. “By the Saints!” she cried. “You were right!” She knelt down, rummaged through it and confirmed her suspicion.
He came up alongside her and looked in. It still contained a few artifacts, but nothing of museum display quality. And no journal was to be seen.
“I don't know what they would want with it,” she said. “I don't understand...”
“Neither do I, but I may have another piece of the puzzle,” Reid said. “Mrs. Hernandez da Rosa, you said the thugs were wearing robes and hoods, yes? Could you describe exactly what their uniforms looked like?”
“Well, sure,” she said, turning around and rising to her feet. “It was dark, of course, but they –” Her eyes focused on something behind him and her Hispanic flesh turned pale. “They looked exactly like that,” she whispered.
Reid spun around. At the foot of the stairs stood two figures dressed identically to the ones who had visited his office, but armed with Webleys instead of Smith and Wesson's. At the top of the stairs he could just make out the limp form of Fernando, still breathing.
“Buenos dias, professor,” one of them said. The rest of his words were in English and a British accent. “You're a long way from home, aren't you?”
“I do a lot of traveling,” he said. “Usually not at the beginning of a semester, but sometimes things come up.” He glanced quickly at Carmen; she was numb with terror. He absolutely had to conceal his fear this time, for her sake. Pushing aside his misgivings he put a comforting arm around her, but she was oblivious.
“We knew you'd show up,” the thug continued. “One of your friends was poorly chosen. This was an unexpected turn of events, but a welcome one, after those morons botched their job in Flagstaff.”
One of his friends had told them he was coming? Who? Henderson? Impossible; in spite of their differences he was a great friend and would always be loyal. Eliana? Too ridiculous to even contemplate. Dean Havelock? He'd probably complained to everyone he knew about Reid skipping out on his classes –
“Yes, you were quite a handful for them,” said the other thug. He handed his pistol to the first, withdrew a rag, and began advancing. “But I trust you will be more cooperative this time.” He nodded towards Carmen, and his companion turned both guns in her direction. “I'm sure that you, like us, wouldn't want innocent bystanders getting hurt.”
Reid raised his hands and sidestepped to block her from them, but as he did it he realized it was no use. For her sake he still couldn't risk the slightest resistance. “Don't worry,” he said over his shoulder, “this is an important clue. Wherever they take me, that's where I'll solve this case.” He couldn't see her reaction, but he guessed she wasn't thrilled by this turn of events.
The rag was placed over his mouth and the smell of chloroform overwhelmed him. Then blackness was closing in from the edge of his vision and in the distance, someone was singing Cole Porter while Pandora returned, grinned like a maniac and hit him over the head with a rock.
Next: Chapter Four