Читать книгу Treasure - Helen Brenna - Страница 8

“BLOOD,” the Aztec prince whispered in the twilight. “The gods will require it.”

I knew then his intention to make a sacrifice.

Annie Miller, a curator at Chicago’s Field Museum, sat at her desk engrossed in the Spanish soldier’s nearly four-hundred-year-old diary. A group of coworkers approached the hall outside her office, and she prayed they wouldn’t stop to make the requisite once-a-month lunch invitation. Though they tried including her in their outings, even amidst this group of introverts Annie was a bit of an oddity.

She leaned over the ancient book, letting her long brown hair fall like a privacy fence over her face. Thankfully, they passed by, and, in no time, the office white noise all but disappeared. She was lost in the wild jungles of Veracruz, Mexico. 1621.

The right place. The right time.

“Huitzilpochti!” The prince softly summoned his god of war and raised his arms to the sky. “Hear me. Defend your people!”

Hidden amidst the brush, I was both mesmerized and frightened. Duty demanded I stop the prince, and yet had I not borne witness to the heinous crimes perpetrated against his people? Native boys and men, beaten and slaughtered. Women, raped and enslaved. Did this man not deserve a measure of revenge?

“Make all who would have this gold,” the prince cried, now uncaring as to who might hear him, “those greedy of heart and wicked with intent, know your wrath and die! Make them suffer as they have made my people suffer!”

Annie swallowed. All these years she should have known. She might not be dead, but in looking at her life she might as well be.

I watched in horror as he set his shoulders and dug a sharp rock across each wrist. Thick, menacing clouds swirled above my head as he poured his lifeblood over a golden cross. His blood oozed over the pearls and emeralds set within the cross’s frame, casting the largest, clearest stones I had ever beheld in deep, red glory.

Gold. Pearls. Emeralds. Annie’s neck tingled with dread. The Santidad Cross. It had to be. She wasn’t crazy after all.

Having heard the disturbance, several guards came quickly to find the prince collapsing to the ground. Lieutenant Sanchez kicked over the dying man and seized the cross. The storm gathered strength. Rain fell hard and fast. Lightning split a nearby tree, scattering the guards, but I remained rooted to the spot, watching as a large limb sundered from its trunk and crushed Sanchez, the cross still in his grasp.

The gods had listened.

Annie closed her eyes. Gripping the diary in her shaking hands, she remembered another time, another place. Other deaths. The curse was real, and this proved it. She picked up the diary, drew a small, heavy box from her briefcase and went in search of the head curator. He had to see this.

“Aaron!” She knocked on the way into his office, a large, white space filled with artifacts, book after oversized book and curious pieces of what most normal people considered junk. “I need to show you something from these newest acquisitions.”

A prime focus of her work at the museum, many called it an obsession, involved acquiring Spanish artifacts from Central America. She was always searching, always hoping. Upon hearing of the death of an elderly man in the area who’d brought back many relics and such from his travels to Belize and surrounding countries, she’d jumped at the opportunity to acquire his collection.

Aaron stood behind his untidy desk pulling on his suit coat. “You made it through that stuff already?”

Annie nodded. “A lot of what he owned belongs in antique stores,” she said, “but this—”

“Annie, I’m sorry. I’m already late for a lunch meeting.”

“Read this one passage. Please?” She held out the diary. “It’ll only take a second.”

Sighing, he scanned the excerpt and handed it back. “Intriguing. Let’s talk about this when I get back.” He didn’t believe her. No one did.

Unwilling to give up, she followed him down the long, antiseptic hall. “I’ll walk out with you.” Though the museum was filled with rich historical artifacts and lavish decorations, its administrative offices lacked a speck of personality.

“You’re thinking Santidad Cross,” he said, “aren’t you?”

“What else could it be?”

They reached the outside grounds and were greeted by a perfectly warmed summer day. As they came to Aaron’s parking spot, he slowed to face her. “I thought you’d decided to quit obsessing over that cross.”

“This is it, Aaron.” She glanced up at him, squinting against the noonday sun. “The validation I’ve been looking for all these years.”

“Annie.” He reached for her cheek, stopped, and instead squeezed her shoulder. “This…fixation is ruining your life.”

What life? She had no life to ruin, but it was sweet he cared. She’d tried caring back, really she had, but as attractive, intelligent and financially stable as Aaron was, she felt nothing romantic toward him. There had to be something wrong with her.

“We don’t even know if there is a Santidad Cross.” He tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat of his convertible.

“Did you read the soldier’s description?” She jabbed the old book. “No other such cross existed at this time.”

“You can’t accept it, can you?” Clearly frustrated, Aaron ran both hands through his light brown hair. “The Santidad Cross and its curse are myth. Speculation. Rumor. The cross isn’t listed on one single manifest, let alone the Concha’s. There’s no port master’s record of it. No ship record. Nada.”

She held out the diary. “What about this?”

“No official document ever mentions the Santidad Cross!”

“Maybe it wasn’t listed on anything official because no one wanted to scare the crew of the ship carrying it. News of the curse could easily have spread from one port city to the next.” She shook the book in his face. “And because of the rumors, the Concha’s captain may very well have kept the cross hidden in his private quarters.”

“Annie.” He gripped her shoulders with both hands. “The cross…doesn’t…exist.”

Her breath lodged in her throat. She’d known he’d say this, but all the same it blindsided her. She’d allowed a part of herself to hope Aaron, of all people, would believe her. He was her friend. And he’d given her no choice.

As he climbed into his car, she loosened the string on the box she’d been carrying. “Here.” She drew back the cloth coverings. “Look at this.”

He put the keys into the ignition and, obviously humoring her, glanced halfheartedly at the contents of the box. In an instant, he grew completely transfixed, didn’t tremble, didn’t breathe. Only his hair ruffled slightly from the breeze blowing in off Lake Michigan. “Have you shown this to anyone else?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Aaron, we have to lock it away at the museum. Put it somewhere no one can touch it.”

“This is yours? You came by it honestly?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want it?”

“No!”

He grabbed the box and tossed it on the seat. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Aaron, don’t!”

“We’ll split it.” He started his car and revved the engine. “Fifty-fifty.”

“No—”

He grinned at her, pointing to his ear as if he couldn’t hear her, and zoomed out of the parking lot.

“Wait!” She raced after him, hoping to catch him at the red light. The stoplight turned green before she got to the intersection. He sped across Columbus. She saw the truck. Heading north. The driver wasn’t slowing.

“Aaron!” she screamed, running.

Tires screeched. Metal crunched. Aaron’s body flew across the road. He hit pavement with a sickening thud. Cars slammed on brakes. The busy street hit gridlock in seconds.

“No, no, no!” She reached Columbus and bent beside his still body. His blood poured onto the hot, dry asphalt. Frantically, she tried stopping the flow. Brushing away the tears clouding her vision, she felt his wrist. No pulse. Felt his neck. Nothing. “Aaron! Oh, Aaron!”

It was starting all over again, and the truth hit her with sickening awareness. She was the only person who could stop it.