The Obsidian Mirror, page 15
“Are you a cop?” asked Kaylee, nervously.
“No. What’s wrong with your friend?” The woman kneeled next to Chaco and put a slender hand on his forehead. She started violently and turned to Kaylee.
“What the hell are you doing with Coyotl, the Trickster, the Creator, in César Chavez Park in the middle of the night?” she snapped.
Chapter 17
Sierra awoke to a darkness so profound that she couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed. At first she feared it was another vision of the terrifying stone hall, but after a moment of panic, she realized she was lying on a soft surface, not stone. She sat up, straining to see, and groped cautiously around in the dark for something—anything—familiar.
Her hand collided with a small table, which rocked slightly. Judging by the crash and liquid splash, she had knocked a glass off the table. She felt more cautiously across the surface of the table and encountered a lamp. After a bit of fumbling, she found the switch and the room flooded with light.
Sierra was lying in a wooden four-poster bed furnished with a wonderfully comfortable mattress and a lacy canopy. Down pillows covered in real linen cases embroidered with tiny flowers were tumbled about the silky coverlet. The bed stood in a large room with a high ceiling and crown molding. A few elegant tables and chairs were tastefully scattered about, and opposite the bed stood a large, ornately carved antique wardrobe, its dark wood gleaming softly in the light. Once Sierra’s eyes adjusted to the light, she could see her reflection, wavery and dusty-looking in the aged mirrors set in the wardrobe doors. And as the fog of sleep cleared, Sierra remembered.
She had been ushered into the back seat of the black Mercedes by Chris Jumlin, the lawyer Clancy had sent. As they drove away from the police station, Jumlin continued to talk. He seemed articulate, confident that Black Diamond had no case against her. Worried and more than a little puzzled, she listened intently, asking occasional questions, and didn’t notice for quite a while that he was not driving her home.
"Wait a minute," she had said, suspicion lending a sharp edge to her voice. "You're not taking me home. What are you doing?"
Jumlin glanced back at her briefly and smiled. “I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “I’m actually taking you to my home. You’ll be safer there.”
“Safe from what?” she had asked, trying to keep the anxiety from her voice. “You think Black Diamond’s going to have me assassinated or something?”
“Well, stranger things have happened, Sierra,” Jumlin said seriously. “I’ve had a client or two go missing before they came to trial, you know. I just want to make sure that sort of thing doesn’t happen in your case.”
“That’s awfully kind of you,” Sierra said, letting the sarcasm creep into her tone. “I suppose it’s all part of the service? Do you bring all your clients home with you?”
He laughed easily. “By no means! But I just have a feeling about your case. I’ve learned to trust my hunches in this business.” His tone was light, but sincere. “I understand your concerns, Sierra.” Now his voice was warm and soothing. Sierra suddenly felt sleepy, like a small child past her bedtime.
“You don’t know me, but I’m your lawyer. You can trust me. I will take care of you,” Jumlin assured her. That sounded nice. It would be lovely to have someone take care of her. There had been too many dangers in her life lately, too many overwhelming responsibilities. Too many threats. But Jumlin’s soft, warm voice felt like a security blanket warding off the nightmares of her recent life. Sierra felt comfortable and safe. Nothing could touch her now that Chris Jumlin was there to protect her. Sierra slumped bonelessly against the seatback, reveling in a sensation of utter relaxation and freedom from fear.
Somewhere inside, a small voice was screaming, beating itself against her obliviousness like a moth at a lighted windowpane. Sierra, wrapped in the cozy blanket of Jumlin’s hypnotic voice, was deaf to all else.
Eventually, Jumlin pulled off the road and into a gated drive. The tall, wrought iron gates swept open smoothly as he approached them and continued down the wooded drive. Soon, the car emerged from a screen of trees and shrubs, and Jumlin pulled to the right around a circular drive fronting what Sierra could only think of as a mansion. It had been constructed in the 1920s or 30s. It was a Spanish-style house, shining white in the moonlight, with a red tile roof and many arched windows and doors. A short flight of stone steps led to a stone terrace flanked by French doors. Light shone golden and welcoming from several of the windows.
Jumlin climbed out of the front seat and opened Sierra’s door. He has no trouble opening it from the outside, she thought. But I couldn’t open it from the inside. It didn’t seem important. He held out his hand to help her out of the car.
“You must be very tired,” he said, smiling. “I’ll show you to your room.” Sierra suddenly realized she was exhausted. The evening had been one shock after another—first Chaco, then the arrest. She was drained. She wanted to go home, she wanted to find Kaylee and Chaco and Fred—but she had no more resources. She would stay for tonight, and in the morning, she’d go look for them—Jumlin or no Jumlin. So she had followed him meekly into the great house, accepted a bag containing a thoughtful selection of personal care items, and was finally left alone in this pretty room to sleep.
Sierra had no idea how long she had been asleep, but it was time to find a bathroom. There were three doors in the room, and she reasoned that one led to the hall outside, one to a bathroom, and one to a closet. Taking a guess, she headed to the door on the left and cautiously opened it, shielding her bare body behind the door in case she was wrong. It was the hallway. She shut the door hastily and tried the door on the right. This one led to a large bathroom. She used the facilities, drank a glass of water from the tap—and remembered that she had spilled a glass on her host’s plush wool carpet.
She grabbed one of the thick towels from the rack and ran back to the bed. On the floor beside the bed, an empty wine glass, unbroken, kept company with a dark, well-absorbed pool of red liquid. She recalled that her host had pressed a glass of wine on her as she headed off to bed. Using an obviously expensive and beautifully fluffy towel on this mess wouldn’t do. She’d have to ask Chris Jumlin for a rag and some soda water. And confess her clumsiness.
Sierra found her clothes where she had left them, thrown in an untidy pile on one of the chairs. Grimacing slightly at dressing in the grimy outfit in which she had been arrested—how long ago? It seemed like days—she pulled on her clothes. An investigation into the small bag of toiletries revealed a new toothbrush, but no paste. She returned to the bathroom and began opening drawers. Her search was quickly rewarded by the discovery of a tube of toothpaste. Sierra reached into the drawer for it—and swiftly withdrew her hand. A large, black spider sat suspended in a web, motionless in the rear of the drawer.
Sierra was tempted to brush without using the toothpaste, but her teeth felt furry, and she craved the freshness of the paste. The second notion that occurred to her was to smash the spider with a wad of toilet paper and flush the victim down the toilet. Sierra sighed as her conscience kicked into gear, and she began searching around the bedroom. She located what she was looking for and returned to the bathroom. The spider still crouched in the drawer, apparently aware it was the focus of her attention, as it hunched down slightly at her reappearance. Sierra quickly lowered the empty wineglass over the spider, slid a sheet of paper under it, and lifted the paper and glass simultaneously, the spider neatly trapped. She opened the bathroom window and dropped the spider onto the ledge outside, where it scuttled away as she hastily shut the window. She brushed her teeth briskly, felt distinctly better, and decided to venture out of her room.
The house was quiet. Her room was on the second floor, one of several lining a long hallway. A long runner, which looked like an antique Persian rug, lay on the shining hardwood floor, cushioning her footsteps. She found the stairs, which curved sinuously down to the foyer of the house. The foyer was bright with sunlight streaming through tall windows, and more Persian carpets were strewn across its parquet marble floors. Sierra still heard no signs of life in the house. Cautiously, she said, “Hello?”
After a short interval, Chris Jumlin appeared in a doorway off the foyer. Moving with the easy grace of a cat, he looked slim and wiry in form-fitting jeans and sports jacket over a dark T-shirt. He smiled at her. “Good morning. Ready for some breakfast?”
Sierra’s stomach emitted a loud rumble at this suggestion.
“I guess it’s obvious that I am,” she said, “But I’m afraid I’ve made a mess. I knocked over my glass of wine when I was trying to turn on the lamp, and it’s made a nasty stain on the carpet. I need something to clean it up.”
Jumlin seemed unperturbed at this news. He gestured for her to follow him into the next room, which proved to be a large dining room overlooking a patio with a sparkling swimming pool. Flowering shrubs and palms in gaily painted pots were massed on the patio’s flagstones, and there was a selection of tables, chairs, and umbrellas to accommodate poolside loungers. But the patio was empty of other people.
“Don’t worry about it,” Jumlin said, holding a chair out from the table for Sierra to sit. She did so, feeling grubby and out of place amid this elegance. “I’ll send Theresa up to take care of it.” He sat down and rang a silver bell that sat on the table. Almost immediately, a short, dark-haired woman appeared through a door at the end of the room. Although she did not wear a uniform, from her bearing, it was clear she was a servant of some kind. She stood respectfully by Jumlin’s chair and said, “Yes, sir?”
Chris Jumlin told Theresa about the spilled wine and politely asked her to attend to the cleanup. Sierra could have sworn that Theresa nearly bobbed a curtsey, but, catching her boss’ eye, she merely nodded and left the room.
Sierra helped herself to eggs scrambled with crab and dill, sausages, toast, and coffee. Everything was served on fine china, an elegant and dainty floral pattern with a narrow rim of gold. The silverware was definitely silver. Even the juice glass was crystal, if she was any judge. Jumlin must be a very high-priced lawyer, she decided, and experienced a pang of worry.
“So, how do you know Clancy?” she asked after an interval of reflective chewing. Jumlin looked up from The Wall Street Journal.
“Who?” he said, looking puzzled for second. Then his brow cleared. “Oh, Clancy Forrester? I’ve, that is to say, we’ve been acquaintances for a long time.” Leaving Sierra none the wiser, he returned to his paper.
She attacked a piece of toast and tried again. “I suppose Clancy told you that I don’t have a job right now, Mr. Jumlin. I’m not sure I can afford your services.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” was his reply, delivered from behind the newspaper. His tones were comforting, reassuring. Sierra remembered how reassuring this had been the previous night. She remembered last night’s sensation of total relaxation and safety and suddenly wondered at her easy acquiescence.
She waited for a few more minutes. “Well, it was really nice of you to put me up for the night, but I really have to get going. There’s a few things that I urgently need to attend to. Um, could you call me a cab or something?”
The newspaper went down. Jumlin folded it deliberately and laid it to one side. “Well, Sierra,” he said, leaning forward and fixing her with his dark eyes. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. It would be best if you stayed here for a while. Remember, you need a safe place to stay until we can settle this bit of trouble with Black Diamond.” Again, his words surrounded her like a warm cloud, promising security and freedom from fear. For an instant, Sierra teetered toward that alluring sense of safety. Then her hackles went up, and she pushed temptation away.
What she needed was to find Kaylee and Chaco and Fred, and assure herself that Chaco was going to survive. Well, Jumlin didn’t know about Chaco, she thought, so she gave it another try.
“Mr. Jumlin…”
“Call me Chris,” he said, smiling amiably and setting the newspaper aside with no sign of impatience. His teeth were very white, like a movie star’s, against his smooth, tanned skin.
“Chris, then. I have a friend who’s in bigger trouble than I am, and I need to find out what’s happened to him. So I need to go home and start tracking him down and talk to some people, and…”
“Oh,” said Jumlin, looking surprised. “I didn’t realize that. Well, I see that there are other priorities here. Certainly, you must help your friend! I’ll drive you home.” He stood up and courteously pulled out her chair for her as she stood.
Surprised but relieved at how readily he had agreed, Sierra walked back into the foyer. Jumlin opened the door for her, and she could see the sleek Mercedes waiting for them.
“Hang on, Sierra,” he said, reaching behind the door. “Tell me, do you think the rear tire looks a little flat?
Sierra peered at the car, which seemed to have four perfectly inflated tires.
She started to turn back to him, saying, “No, Chris. They all look…”
But she never completed the sentence. Chris Jumlin looked down dispassionately at her crumpled body on the marble floor and replaced the heavy oak walking stick behind the door.
“Theresa,” he called. “Can you come down here for a minute, please?”
Chapter 18
There was a long moment of silence as Kaylee stared at the newcomer. Then she said, “How did you know?”
“It’s my business to know,” returned the woman. “Now answer my question; why are you here with Coyotl? What did you do to him? Quickly, now. He’s going fast.”
Kaylee, abandoning any hope of sounding normal or rational, said, “We didn’t do anything to him; he’s our friend. We found him like this, and ah, another friend said he had been attacked by…dammit! What’s that name?”
“Tzintzimitl,” squeaked Fred, suddenly reappearing by her side. “It was Tzintzimitl, Wise One.” He looked at the newcomer with adoration. “Thank you for coming, Wise One! Coyotl needs you.”
“And a mannegishi, too,” said the woman, shaking her head. “Well, we’d better get the Trickster away from here. And fast.” She bent and put her arms beneath Chaco’s shoulders. “You take his legs. Where’s your car—that must be it, over there. The one that’s parked illegally, right?”
Kaylee nodded, and she took Chaco’s legs. Fred scuttled alongside. With two working together, Chaco was easier to carry. They put him in the back seat again, tucked him under the blankets, and Fred climbed on top of him.
“I’m driving the white van over there,” the woman said, pointing down the street. “Follow me.” Without another word, she strode away. Kaylee pulled out as she saw the van move and began to follow.
After several minutes, Kaylee asked, “Do you suppose Quetzalcoatl sent her?”
“I don’t know. I thought I saw the statue glow, but just for a second. Then she showed up,” said Fred.
“It doesn’t seem like a coincidence to me,” remarked Kaylee. “How does she know Chaco?”
Fred piped up from the back seat. “She is a Wise One, of course.”
“A Wise One? Do you know her?” Kaylee asked.
“Nope. Never saw her before. But she is a Wise One. You can tell,” said Fred.
“Well, I can’t tell,” retorted Kaylee. “I thought she was a cop. What’s a Wise One?”
“One who knows. One who heals.”
“Sounds like the right kind of person, then,” Kaylee said. “I’m glad you saw the statue glow, too, Fred. I thought it was my imagination.”
Fred began to chant softly in the back seat, a tune with what sounded like nonsense words, and Kaylee listened in silence as she drove.
The white van sped down the freeway, exited on Highway 17 south and headed toward the coast. They followed as the highway began to climb into the Santa Cruz Mountains and became curvy and steep. There were few other cars on the road. Soon they were into redwood country, the trees towering on either side of the highway. Before long, they passed the summit and the highway began to wind down the other side of the mountains. A thick, gray fog began to obscure the tree tops as they descended. Suddenly, the white van signaled a right turn, and Kaylee turned close behind it.
They drove down a narrow road that snaked its way deeper into the mountains, away from the more populated areas. The night became darker as fog closed in under the redwood trees. Finally, the van turned into a gravel driveway, even narrower than the paved road they had been traveling. Kaylee glanced at the clock in the dashboard. It was now three-forty-five in the morning. She felt weariness descend on her like a lead blanket. She rubbed her gritty eyes and yawned. She heard an answering chirpy yawn from Fred in the back.
The gravel drive ended at a cabin. The windows were dark, and there was no exterior light on. The woman parked her van and, leaving the headlights on, walked to the front door and unlocked it. She disappeared through the door for a moment, and warm yellow light burst from the cabin’s windows, creating a welcoming glow. Then she went back to her van, killed the headlights, and walked to Sierra’s car. The two women picked up Chaco and lugged him through the cabin door, blankets trailing. Fred scurried in behind them.
“Let’s put him on the couch for the moment,” said the woman. “I have some preparations to make, and then we need to take him outside.” Without paying any more attention to Kaylee or Fred, she began bustling around the cabin, opening boxes and baskets and collecting objects from their depths.
With Chaco safely ensconced on the couch, Kaylee looked around. The cabin’s main room was fairly spacious, with a high, raftered ceiling. A small kitchen area was partitioned off from the main room by a bar. The rafters were hung with bunches of dried plants, and on the walls hung objects that seemed to be of native American origin: blankets woven in a Mayan pattern, reed baskets decorated with grasses or feathers, a flint axe, a carved and painted totem, a shield, and a bow with arrows in a buckskin quiver. Pueblo pottery rested on shelves that were bursting with books. Sierra noted in particular a plaque representing Quetzalcoatl on the wall. The rear wall of the room was mostly glass, and the faintest early light beyond the windows revealed a small patio outside, with a fire pit and several chairs apparently crafted from small logs and branches.
