Page 13

Mia

“You scream, you die. You lie to me, you die. You so much as turn around and—”

“I got it, I got it, okay?” There is no way to misread his meaning with the way he is pressing a gun into my kidney. “I-I’ll do what you want,” I say, hating the way my voice comes out as a whimper.

“Good.” The man has his free hand at my elbow, placing an incredible amount of pressure into the muscle just to the side of the bone. An acute pain shoots up my arm, only to be followed by a tingling numbness. He leans down to my ear. I’m met with an overly spicy cologne that assaults my nose and makes my eyes water. “Where are you headed, Mia?”

At the sound of my name, my blood turns icy. The familiarity of his tone is on par with friendship or perhaps something more. I don’t like it. Especially since I haven’t even seen his face. Dillon was behind me one second, and then he wasn’t. In a split second he was replaced with this man who evidently knows me. Or of me.

“Up there,” I say. “To the Chapel Real.”

Surely, Dillon has noticed me missing. Did he see this happen? Did he see the man that has me captive?

I was so stupid to be frightened by the sound of the fireworks. They reminded me of the beach and it triggered me. I should never have covered my ears. Or bent down cowering. I now know why the guys were so apprehensive to enter the crowd. Too many variables. And hardly any that they could control.

My shoulder grows tight and tense under the man’s grip. I yank it away in the attempt to roll away some of the pressure that’s growing at the juncture of my neck and shoulder. He pushes the gun further into my back. It’s a warning. And it hurts badly.

I don’t know how we get to the chapel. Moving our way through the rest of the crowd is a blur. Did anyone even notice I’m a hostage? That there is a gun pointed to my back? Probably not with the close proximity of everyone.

I barely notice the grandeur and splendor of the cathedral as we approach. All I see is the humble (in comparison) arched double wood doors as we approach. My foot catches on a mosaic pebble and I trip. Falling is impossible with the death grip the man has on me. He pulls back on my arm to keep me steady. There’s an unmistakable pop that comes from my shoulder socket and I wince.

The pain in my back is gone. Behind me, the man shifts and adjusts his tweed sports coat. He’s removed the gun and placed it in his pocket.

“Give me your phone.” I do as I’m told, and watch him throw it to the ground before he crushes it with the heel of his shoe. At least he’s conscious of littering; he picks it up and tosses it in the first receptacle he sees. “One wrong move…” he says.

I’ve never had a weapon pointed at me before. I’m scared. I can smell the pungent tang of my own nervous sweat with each step I take. But I find myself saying, “I’m not really in the mood to die, so you don’t have to worry…I’ll cooperate.”

The man says nothing when we enter the chapel. The door groans under its own weight as I push it open.

“ Lo siento, pero estamos cerrando .” We are greeted by a woman at a ticket counter just inside.

“I understand you’re about to close,” my captor says, “but my fiancé and I would be most grateful to you if you’d allow but an hour to tour the space?” He casually places his arm around my shoulders. I offer the woman a tight smile. Because he’s placed his arm over my bad shoulder. And because his excuse makes me sick.

He continues with his flimsy ruse. Removing his arm from me, he extracts his wallet from inside his jacket. “Of course, senora…I am willing to pay…and then some.” His hands are steady as he presents a small stack of euros that’s easily equal to a few thousand dollars.

The woman is torn. Surely, such a donation would be advantageous to the church. Ticket sales can only cover so much when annual maintenance bills on historical buildings can run in the millions. While she’s considering, I take the opportunity to look at the man. He’s in profile, but I recognize him. Or rather, I know of him.

Last summer, The Met had published a monograph on Divinity in Early Christian Art. There were several contributing authors, but none stood out like he had. Dr. Carl McIntyre, Professor of Medieval History at Harvard was well known in the world of academia. It didn’t hurt that his black handlebar mustache and circular spectacles made him look like a middle-aged wannabe wizard without his robes—kind of hard to forget.

But why? What is his motive in all of this? Did he think I had the cuff, or knew where it was? Was he trying to steal it, only to sell it to an anonymous bidder who would pay hundreds of millions? Is this the man that kidnapped and ransomed my father? Or is he part of something bigger?

Defiance hits me like a freight train. I don’t want to help him. I don’t want to be the one that contributes to anything nefarious or worse yet, self-serving. And for what? So this bastard can live out the rest of his days in ridiculous wealth and comfort?

Listen to me, Mia…if anything happens to me…I want you to remember…

My dad’s words float to the forefront of my mind. How selfish can I be? I don’t want this professor-turned-thug to succeed. I don’t want to hand him over any information or artifacts. I don’t want him to win.

But I also don’t want my dad to die over an item , regardless of how priceless it is or how it would rock the foundation of historical finds. If I do manage to find it, I don’t need recognition. I won’t care. It just matters that my dad is safe.

The woman at the ticket counter looks left, then right. She takes the money from Dr. McIntyre and locks the door behind us. “ Una hora ,” she reiterates.

He bows to her in sincere thanks. “Come on, darling ,” he says in a sickening sweet tone, “we don’t want to squander our time, do we?”

I don’t answer him. I bat his hand away when he tries to reach for mine. I feel like Melania Trump.

Ahead of us are wooden pews facing the stunning gold grille. I pause to appreciate the intricacy and craftsmanship. We are posing as tourists after all. Three tiers make up the massive metalwork piece, topped with a depiction of the Passion of the Christ.

I’m about to voice a fact about its design and construction, but my words die in my throat. I’m not with Dillon. Or the guys. They would care to know. They would show interest. Dr. McIntyre won’t because he already knows the history and facts.

We’re well out of earshot of the ticketing woman who has finished with closing down her computer and has disappeared. The space is cavernous and empty of any visitors. I hate that I’m alone with Carl. I admired him at one point.

“Put that brain to work and find the cuff,” he says rudely. “And make it quick before your hired muscle get much closer.”

“If I find it, will you let my father go?” I ask boldly.

He snorts out a laugh that challenges his highbrow status. “That depends on you,” he says cryptically.

I look beyond the Spanish grille. In front of us are the tombs of Isabella and Ferdinand. The air is thick with smoke from extinguished candles. The waxy scent lingers, hovering over the altar and the marble effigies like an apparition charged with guarding their slumber for eternity.

I continue on, ignoring his ambiguous statement. We make our way around the tombs from the left side, stopping to glance at the impressive altarpiece. An equal to the Alhambra’s status as the best-preserved Muslim palace, the altar is a stellar example of the transitional moment between Gothic and Renaissance style.

I hate this man for tainting a site that should be remembered with nothing but awe.

“Don’t tell me you have no idea what you’re looking for,” he says, crowding me.

“Oh, I do. I just want to do a little sightseeing.”

“We don’t have time for that!” He suppresses a yell.

I turn. On the altar side of the tombs is a set of stairs that leads down to their lead coffins. I decide to skip it, not wanting to be in close quarters with Carl.

Off to the left is a grand archway leading to the Sacristy-Museum. In the center of the room is a glass pyramid that houses the queen’s scepter and crown. I’m drawn to her belongings. The simplicity of their design is astounding.

“You have mere minutes, Mia.” I turn to Carl. His hand is in his pocket and it’s pointed at me.

My lips purse together and I dip my head in understanding. I’ve tried stalling. The longer I pretend to be a tourist, the more time it buys Dillon and the team to get here. The chapel was our meeting place if we got separated. “Separated” might be the understatement of the century, though.

I know I need to find the queen’s jewelry box and see if it offers any sort of indication as to the cuff’s whereabouts. I don’t think the cuff is inside, nor do I have an explanation at the ready if Dr. McIntyre forces me to break the glass and lift the lid. Cameras and sensors would be triggered undoubtedly.

Around the corner is an area portioned off by two large glass display areas. As I enter, I see it. On a dark wooden base, under a glass case, is Isabella’s jewelry box. I approach it, realizing it’s identical to the one we left in the Alhambra. Only much larger.

“Is that it? Is the cuff in there?” he asks me, a newfound excitement in his voice.

“It’s why I was headed here, yes,” I say cautiously, “but I don’t think the cuff is inside.”

He makes an irritated sound at my left. It’s something between a sardonic laugh and a stunted wail.

I ignore him, concentrating on the box. Much like its smaller version, there are five gold bands that separate intricate carvings. The scroll-like griffins flank the coat of arms that appear just under the keyhole.

There’s more wear and tear on this box than its counterpart. Some of the carvings have been worn down and the relief is much shallower in places…like the coat of arms. I rub my eyes. It can’t be. The monarch’s insignia isn’t there. It’s replaced by two men with spears atop a single horse. The Knights Templar?

Why would their seal appear on Isabella’s box? My eyes squint, focusing on everything and nothing. The world around me becomes fuzzy and I lose myself in thought.

“…Mia.” Carl startles me, feigning an amorous hug. He does it to jut the gun into my side. “Care to share…or,” he whispers, “do I need to prove just how serious I am?” He’s so close I can smell the fragrant oil in his mustache.

I gulp. “It-it’s not here,” I say, stammering my words.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Everything leading up to this…everything I thought…it-it’s just not what I expected.” I can barely form a coherent sentence.

My dad’s seal…Colombia…the Alhambra…Queen Isabella…Knights Templar.

GOLD. It’s been the common thread all along, hasn’t it? And now, it makes sense.

I draw in a deep breath. “The cuff isn’t here. The jewelry box commemorates the ones at its origin. The Knights Templar are responsible for the gold.” Carl looks at me with owl eyes. There isn’t an ounce of comprehension on his face. Despite the situation, I laugh. Dillon and the others would’ve been able to connect the dots. “What I’m saying,” I tell him, “is the cuff is supposedly made of solid gold. The Knights Templar had gold in spades, as you know. They also were involved in anti-Muslim activities on the Iberian Peninsula in the mid twelfth century. Isabella would have been indebted to them for their cause…and their gold. The gold that helped fund the conquistadors to the New World where they traded with the Guztá.”

“And the Guztá created the cuff out of the gold that once belonged to the Knights…” He rolls the end of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “Israel, then?” he asks me.

I shake my head no. “London,” I say.

“London?” he repeats, incredulously.

“Think about it,” I hedge. “The cuff wouldn’t be placed somewhere that would be so obvious. Nothing’s ever been found in Jerusalem…the ark, the cup of Christ, King Solomon’s menorah…it’s all missing,” I say. “So, whoever took the cuff most likely ensured its safety and hidden whereabouts. In a church…”

He finishes my sentence. “…Built by the Knights as their headquarters. The Temple Church. Of course!” he says.

Carl tenses beside me. His hand with the gun pushes further into my ribs when we both hear a metallic sound and an echo. The main door has been unlocked. The ticket lady would not leave for the night without escorting us out. It can only mean one thing: the team .

Carl also comes to the same conclusion when he stabs the gun even further into my flesh. “You make one sound, Mia…” His voice is low, but shrill. He’s frantic. His cologne has grown sharper and its aroma is no longer palatable. He looks left and right, then behind us. The only way out of this room is through the arched doorway we came in. “Come on.”

If it is Dillon and the guys that have broken in, there’s no one in sight. Carl ushers us down the stairs that lead to the crypts. There’s no time to appreciate the reverent state of the royals in their unusually shaped coffins. I realize that he is improvising at this point. He snorts like an angry horse about to rear.

He pushes me along and we follow the narrow pathway that takes a ninety-degree turn. Along the outer wall is a continuation of the crypt. The dim spotlights that usually illuminate the room have been turned off for the night, but there’s just enough light to see that this space has numerous cavities in the wall where lesser-known family members are laid. The ceiling is low and vaulted, restricting the claustrophobic room even more. A series of velvet ropes stands a foot or two in front of the wall.

Carl has me by the elbow once more—the opposite side, thankfully—and his next words send pinpricks across my skin.

He releases me. Grabbing one of the posts, he moves a section of the rope out of the way. My fight or flight instincts kick in. I take a step backward. Then I hear the click of the gun’s hammer. I gulp.

“Take the other side,” he says, flicking his head to a coffin.

The small amount of spit I have in my mouth tastes acrid. I swallow, but it does nothing to whet my throat. “Why not just kill me, then?” I ask.

“Come on, Mia. You’re a scholar . Are you really that obtuse?” He uses the gun to point at the coffin he’s chosen. “Perhaps you’re lying to me and are sending me to a false location. I can at least hide you here and come back when your bodyguards leave me alone. Then you can go to London with me.”

“Come back?” Somehow, I don’t believe him.

“Don’t make me ask again!” he hisses.

My feet are like bricks with weights around my ankles. I manage to walk over, then bend to help scoot the coffin out. It’s remarkably light. And when Carl forcefully removes the lid, I know why. There’s no body in it. Just a skeleton.

“But I can’t possibly go in there. It’s someone’s final resting place. I can’t desecrate a tomb,” I say, feeling the panic rise.

“Get. In.”

“I-I…”

“Now!”

I have a strong doubt that he will in fact shoot me. The sound would be a dead giveaway to our location. Calling attention to our whereabouts would make his escape infinitely more difficult. But even if he was a terrible shot, nobody could miss a fatal blow this close.

I’m a cat with its claws extended, about to be dropped in a bath. I cannot fathom lying in a confined space. Especially one that’s occupied. I place one leaden foot inside, then the next. It takes every effort I have to perform the task. Will this be the last time I see the light of day? I don’t want to die in an occupied coffin—or at all.

I sit down and adjust myself around an assortment of femurs, tibias and ribs. I’m extra careful to scoot down and keep away from the skull. Lying face to face—even in the dark—with what used to be a head, it’s…it’s just too much. “I’m so sorry whoever you are…” Then, I’m prostrate like the body that once was.

Carl shuts the lid. I can hear him banging something to secure the edges. My surroundings become obscured. I am in complete darkness.

The coffin is jostled as he shoves it back in the wall roughly and with haste. Then, I’m alone.

Every fear I’ve ever had about the darkness rushes at me faster than the blood that’s pumping through my veins. I want so desperately to close my eyes and shut it out, but there’s no difference with them open or closed; it’s still pitch black. Wildly irrational scenarios play out like a horror movie.

In my mind’s eye I picture a hole in the lid where Carl will feed insects and snakes through a funnel. I see them crawling, twitching and slithering over my body. Around my limbs. Under the curve of my neck. Nestling their ways into my orifices. I imagine cocoons and webs they spin around my face, suffocating me in the process. I hear the scurrying of their shelled bodies against the brittle bones, the gentle rubbing against the denim on my hip from a scaled serpent. It makes its way up toward my head where it twists around my neck, it’s tapered tail flicking against the skin of my sternum. It’s tongue darts out. Tasting the salt at my temple, feeling, sensing, moving. When it’s done with me, it lazily curls its way around the skull above me, its girth just narrow enough to slip between the vacant nasal cavity and through an eye socket. It settles itself in a perfect coil against the cradle of the brain case.

Oh my god …I can’t handle this.

It's involuntary, my whimper. My breath catches and I hiccup. Then, I start breathing rapidly. My heart is hammering inside my chest, a strong and panicked tattoo. What if I run out of air? Is the coffin air-tight? Is it harmful to breathe bone dust?

It’s as if the second the dark surrounded me, I slipped into an agonizing death brought on by the torture of time. It’s awful. It goes against human nature; we’re buried when we’re no longer a living being, not the other way around. Someone else like a spelunker or cave diver might find this bearable, but not me. Because with less than a few inches of head room and even less for my elbows, how can I ignore, even in the sheer darkness, the oppressiveness of my surroundings? Even if I was in this musty coffin without a skeleton, it still wouldn’t afford me enough room.

I focus on my breathing. Like Dillon taught me. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The air is stifling and thick. Mustiness clings to my nostrils with each breath I take.

My shoulder is throbbing. I adjust myself as best I can. Logic tells me I have inches before my elbows meet solid walls. But my fear says otherwise. Is it centimeters? Millimeters? Or are the walls shrinking and closing in around me?

I’m lying on a bed made of bones. Some have turned to dust beneath my weight. The grittiness grates against the wooden interior as I attempt to get comfortable.

In through my nose, out through my mouth. It’s slow, but my heart’s rhythmic pattern reduces.

Finally, I settle. I can do this, right? It’s a matter of time before Dillon and the guys figure out what happened. They’re here, I tell myself. Unless it’s someone else who’s broken in… No. I know they made it. Then doubt creeps back in because I don’t know what would compel them to go searching through coffins…

I try not to think about the way my body is wedged inside a sealed box. Instead, I think of Carl’s betrayal. Whoever is paying him to find the cuff clearly has more pull than his own moral compass. What a terrible thing to do; abusing your knowledge for personal gain. Treasure hunting almost always turns deadly when gold is involved.

A spark of hope instantly pulls me from my thoughts. I feel a barely-there breeze across my wrist, a flutter of something. A hole? For air? It grows more pronounced. Then it skitters across my arm, up toward my neck. The movement becomes too random for a simple waft of air. Especially when it’s accompanied by a faint chirping sound. I’m not na?ve enough to think I’ve disturbed a grasshopper’s dwelling; it has to be a cockroach. And he’s not alone. I feel another one scurry across my chest and I scream.

“Ew, ew, ew, ewwww !” I attempt to get them off my bare skin at least, but my arms and forehead hit the lid, which doesn’t budge. Shit, that hurts. The contents of my stomach feel like they’ve turned into a day-old pudding that’s been left out. I will not vomit. I will not vomit. I will not vomit …

It’s now impossible to think of anything else.

Heat makes thin tracks down the sides of my cheeks. Dampness pools at my temples and I belatedly realize I’m crying.

I can no longer rationalize the situation to calm myself. One minute more in this suffocating box is one minute too long.

So, amongst bones and insects, I succumb to my fears. A sob rents from somewhere deep inside me.

There’s nothing else to do.