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I embark upon a journey in
this year of our Lord 1539 with Father Marcos de
Niza. The priest will lead an expedition through
uncharted lands north of New Spain where we will
search for the Seven Cities of Cibola, the Cities of
Gold. I have heard that compared to these cities,
Tenochtitlan, the Aztec capital destroyed by Cortés,
was a village of paupers. My life began in poverty,
but it will not end the same way. The Spaniards can
have the land. I will have the gold.
Chapter 1
An almost forgotten child’s face startled Jackie as
it appeared through the haze. “I’m asleep,” she
muttered, basing her hunch on decades of experience
with the unconscious state. That knowledge failed,
however, to explain the ghostly image. If it meant
to resolve a real life problem, as dreams often did,
understanding the message might require a course in
dream analysis or code breaking.
Pale yellow hair, soft as corn silk, flowed over the
young girl’s shoulder as she knelt to wave a
reproachful finger. The air around her moved in a
suggestive flutter, like gauzy curtains at the first
hint of a storm. It gave the scene a fairytale
quality and reminded Jackie of a fable she’d read
long ago. In it, an evil witch imprisoned three
maidens in a cave and forced them to spin flax into
golden threads. The spun gold hair of
the child fit nicely, but
her voice sounded harsh beyond its years. “You
weren’t supposed to come here anymore. Don’t you
remember what happened last time?”
Other senses stirred. Noxious fumes of rubber and
oil stung Jackie’s nostrils to gain entry and cast
doubt on the sleep theory. For as long as she could
remember, rose and lavender scented the air of her
bedroom, not petroleum products. There were noises,
too soft and muffled to identify, but they echoed as
if in a small space. Maybe I’m in the garage,
she considered through the mush. Why would I be
on the garage floor?
Jackie stretched, or tried too, only to find vague
unresponsive lumps where she remembered arms and
legs. Something flickered—a memory—or perhaps a
movie she’d seen. A woman stepped from her car
searching her purse for house keys when a noise
distracted her. Before she could react, a thick arm
wrapped around her neck and pressed a hand over her
mouth. The scene fast-forwarded and a needle
punctured her sleeve. Almost at once, her vision
darkened and the house blurred. They drugged me.
Why?
Where the hell am I?
The slab beneath her began to vibrate and she
recognized a new sound. Oh,
dear god, no. I’m in the trunk of a
car. This isn’t happening. She renewed her
struggle to break free—not from a dream, but from a
nightmare even sleep would not allow.
*
“Geez.” Pat smashed the
remote’s power button in disgust and tossed the
control to the coffee table. Her limited budget
allowed her to watch only those stations attracted
to the television’s archaic rabbit ears. Even more
depressing was that after dutifully attaching the
analog-to-digital converter box, it failed to
improve the content of a single show. “How bad does
this crap have to get before I stop watching?” She
cleared a space on the table for her glasses and
shifted to face the couch’s course fabric. Anything
was better than the offending screen.
At one hundred and eight pounds, Pat’s
five-foot-two-inch frame defined petite. Her lack of
body fat had little to do with watching what she
ate. She simply didn’t think about food. A tap on
the top of her head drew her attention from the drab
green upholstery to the pushy black paw of her cat,
Zodiac. The feline stretched across the back of the
couch in a potentially hazardous pose with Pat
directly in striking range. One of Zodiac’s many
duties was to remind her distracted human when they
needed to eat. Sometimes a quick swat proved the
most practical solution.
She lifted the cat to her stomach. “Hi, Zoey, did my
whining disturb you? Sorry.” At fifty-three, Pat had
a comfortable grasp of her priorities. When the
phone rang, she closed her eyes and scratched a
furry black ear to wait for the machine to retrieve
the call and identify the caller. Only a rare voice
could tempt her to move once she’d snuggled in with
Zoey.
“Patricia, pick up. It’s Gwen. Pick up the phone.
It’s important.”
One of those voices belonged to Gwen, a person who
seldom sounded anxious or upset. Pat sat up and
placed the cat on her perch to dig around the coffee
table for the phone. “This better be important,” she
told Zoey and pressed talk. “Hi,
Gwen. What’s up?”
“Jackie’s missing.”
Patricia Sexton, Dr. Gwendolyn Garcia-Wilson, and
Jacqueline Tracy co-owned ‘Zodiac’s Rare & Used
Books’, named after their not always silent partner.
The meager profits didn’t support any of them, but
they all loved books and somehow kept the doors
open.
Gwen, a semi-retired psychiatrist, continued to see
a few patients and do the occasional lecture. She
and her husband enjoyed a comfortable life and it
calmed her to putter around the bookstore. Jackie
worked in finance, an occupation equated with
witchcraft by the other two women, and Pat and
Zodiac made their home in an apartment above the
store. Pat managed day-to-day operations and
supplemented her slim share of the profits doing
freelance computer graphics. When in the proper
mood, Zodiac graced book buyers with her stately
presence. Opening the bookstore had been Jackie’s
idea, and her friends knew why. Besides offering a
space to nurture her lifelong love affair with
books, it gave her an opportunity to help someone
she loved.
“What do you mean she’s missing? We saw her less
than four hours ago. If she stopped for dinner or
had some other business she might not be home yet.”
“No, she went home to change and planned to come
back and pick me up for dinner. She never showed.
Pat, that’s not like her.”
Gwen was right. Jackie’s nature did not allow for
bad manners. She was punctual to a fault and
expected the same of others. If she found herself
running late or saw she’d be unable to make an
engagement, she notified the waiting party as far in
advance as possible. “It is a little out of her
norm, but what can we do, Gwen? I don’t think the
police will even look into it until she’s been
missing twenty-four hours.”
“The police?” Pat pulled
the phone from her ear at Gwen’s louder than normal
response. “Should we call the police? Do you think
she’s in trouble?”
“No, I didn’t say we should call the police. You
tried to reach her at home, right?”
The doctor took a breath. “Yes, I’ve been calling
for an hour. I keep getting a notice that they can’t
connect to her voice mail.”
“Maybe she had a family emergency or one of her
business associates had an urgent situation and
she’s been in a conference.”
“I suppose anything is possible in that business,
but Beth is her only family and she’s in Europe.
Patricia, I have a terrible feeling.”
Gwen’s near hysterics convinced Pat to share her
concern. “Why don’t you pick me up and we’ll take a
drive to Evanston and see if she’s home. Maybe she
spaced out dinner and turned the phones off to take
a nap.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Pat rubbed Zoey’s neck
as she retrieved her glasses. “Madame Zodiac, I need
to step out. Your Aunt Jackie has gone missing.
You’ll stay out of mischief while I’m gone, I
trust.” The cat stretched, directed two yellow eyes
in her mom’s direction, and blinked. “I’ll take that
as a yes.”
Late November in Chicago meant cold temperatures,
although not cold enough to warrant the heavy down
coat Pat grabbed from a hook as she left the
bookstore. Along with no cable TV, her unfortunate
financial situation did not allow for an additional
lighter coat during those weeks between denim jacket
weather and heavy coat season. Pat decided long ago,
if the choice were hers, she would rather be too
warm than cold. The chill she felt as she waited for
Gwen had more to do with her missing friend than
cold temperatures. She tried not to consider that
Gwen had good reason to panic. Jackie would never
forego dinner without a call.
The previous day, Pat and Nicole arrived at her
house ten minutes late for Thanksgiving dinner and
had to listen, hushing growling stomachs, as she
gave her ‘the importance of punctuality’ speech.
Luckily, they heard a shortened version because
their catered dinner waited on the table and Jackie
had indulged in a glass of wine.
When Gwen pulled to the curb, Pat put a gloved hand
on the door handle and decided not to worry until
she knew a problem existed. Her confidence
deteriorated when she opened the door and found the
drive had done little to calm Gwen. “This is so not
Jackie.”
“It’ll be okay,” Pat reassured her as she buckled
her seatbelt. “Huh. How’s that for role reversal?
Me telling you it’ll be
okay.” The doctor’s warm smile reflected off the
windshield as she merged into traffic. She’d helped
Pat through a difficult time of her life, and in her
eyes, Gwen Garcia-Wilson was part woman and part
angel. If Jackie was missing, Pat couldn’t think of
better company than her friend, Gwen the
psychiatrist, except maybe her friend Nicki the
detective.
I am Amate
Jayn. My skin is as fair
as that of a Spaniard, but I am a Moor and therefore
became their slave. When the ship on which we sailed
crashed in New Spain, I freed myself from the
shackles in the galleon’s hold. My good fortune
continued when I found a dead priest and took his
robe, prayer book, and his name. My servitude in the
monastery before the voyage has proved useful. I
know the ways of the order and deception is easy.
The pompous Spaniards thought their slaves too dull
to understand, but I listened and learned of the
Seven Cities of Cibola. When I heard of Marcos de
Niza’s expedition, I
offered my services as a humble priest.
Amate
Jayn, for now, Pedro
Fernando
Chapter 2
A man with an insatiable desire for wealth needed
brains and commitment to feed that hunger. Samuel
Barnes enjoyed intelligence and passion beyond even
that of the conquistadors he revered, but unlike the
Spaniards, he served neither king nor god. Personal
gain motivated his every action.
His interest in the explorers began as a youth, but
his enthusiasm soared upon seeing an exhibit at the
Field Museum shortly after his arrival in Chicago.
Intrigued by the conquerors and their conquests, he
taught himself Spanish and studied everything
written about their search for wealth and power. One
of his champions was Hernán Cortés who had a
reputation for military prowess, shrewdness, and a
distinct lack of morals. His knack for making
enemies of powerful people almost cost him his
commission as commander of the army chosen to invade
Mexico. He avoided capture by sailing out of Cuba
before troops from his own kingdom arrived to arrest
him. When he conquered the Aztec Empire, the success
of his victories changed his political position and
history.
The more Barnes learned about the conquistadors, the
greater his appetite for artifacts of the warriors
he considered kin. That well-known passion recently
led to a phone call from an antique dealer in
Phoenix about the discovery of an ancient journal.
The book identified the location of Cibola and the
Seven Cities of Gold. It, Barnes believed, held the
key to the only thing on earth with the power to
satisfy his thirst.
*
The drug’s grip on Jackie lessened and her brain
cleared enough to consider the situation. The
horrible tasting stuff over her mouth was duct tape
and it might have covered her eyes as well. That
would explain the lack of light and her inability to
produce a noise louder than a groan. As feeling
trickled into her limbs, she found they’d met the
same fate. She had no idea how long she’d been there
and the restraints and limited space kept her from
changing positions. Her right shoulder pressed
against the cold floor and alternated between a
sharp pain and complete lack of feeling. When the
frigid temperatures registered, she shivered.
She’d left home that morning wearing a navy blue
wool pantsuit and a calf length lined trench coat.
The coat, she remembered, was on the passenger’s
seat of her car. When she returned that afternoon,
she’d planned to run in, change, and come right out,
but someone altered her plans. Gwen and I were
meeting for dinner. She’ll know there’s a problem
and call Nicole. I’ll be safe at home in no time.
The car left smooth pavement and bounced along a
road, jarring the comforting thought from her mind.
Moments after the vibrations stopped, two doors
slammed. She tried not to move as the trunk opened,
or as the owner of the thick arm picked her up and
placed her over his shoulder. At six feet, Jackie
never considered herself a lightweight, which meant
the person tossing her around was enormous. He
carried her inside a structure and laid her
surprisingly gently on the floor where she remained
as unmoving as her trembling body would allow. Her
hearing, one of only two available senses, told her
nothing about her surroundings. No one spoke and she
heard no other noise. Her sense of smell, however,
perked when she sniffed cigarette smoke. She’d quit
the soothing vice a few years earlier and still had
the occasional craving.
A voice broke the silence. “Why don’t I just yank
that tape off her mouth? That’ll bring her around in
a hurry.” The floor rumbled beneath her as the
lighter of the two men approached. She imagined an
old black-and-white cowboy movie where a scout put
his ear to the ground and listened for horses. She
wasn’t expecting the cavalry, but a small posse
would be nice—a small posse and a cigarette.
“Ow. Shit.” She shouted
in astonishment and pain when he ripped the tape
from her mouth. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Keep your mouth shut,” said the man who removed the
tape. “Put her on the couch and take those boots off
her feet. They look dangerous.”
Thick Arm lifted her from the floor and carried her
to the couch. With her hands still taped behind her,
she perched on the edge uncomfortably and in
increasingly bad temper. “What do you want? You
know, you can’t just pick someone up off the street
and take them home.”
“Trust me, lady. You wouldn’t be my first choice to
bring home. I don’t want to hear nothing from you
except where to find that journal.”
She hesitated for the briefest moment to wonder what
he found unappealing, but decided at her age there
was nothing to consider. The sound of a Zippo
lighter lid flipped open and she lifted her head.
She heard the small wheel scratch against the flint
and the soft whoosh as the wick ignited into a
flame. Seconds later the intoxicating fragrance of
lighter fluid mixed with fresh burning tobacco awoke
an old craving. She sighed and responded more
sharply than she’d intended. “I have no idea what
you want. Release me at once.”
The unexpected slap surprised her as much as it
stung and knocked her backward into the couch. It
also frightened her enough to stop further comments.
Thick Arm removed the tape from her boots and pulled
them from her feet. She knew why the kidnapper
thought they were dangerous. The dagger thin
three-inch heels would have made an impressive
weapon. If she could have kicked him, she would have
found an excellent place to plant one or both of
those heels.
“Tie her on the bed and belt her if she says
anything except where she put the journal.”
“Why would you tie me to a bed? Do you think I’ll
just mosey on out the door?”
“Shut up. Get her out of here.”
Thick Arm laid her on her back and taped her hands
to the headboard. When he finished, the man who
wanted the journal joined them. “I’m a patient
person, Ms Tracy. You’ll tell me where the book is
before you leave this place, dead or alive. It makes
no difference to me.”
She stiffened and tilted toward his voice. “How do
you know who I am? Who are you?” He smacked her
again and her head dropped to the mattress. The
‘keeping her mouth shut’ plan needed work, but in a
short time, a pin pricked her arm and numbed her
body. When she tried to call him a few choice names,
the most venomous thing to escape her mouth was
drool.
*
The headlight beams bounced across the open gate as
Gwen turned into the Tracy’s driveway. Both women
gasped and Pat’s hand flew to her mouth. It didn’t
muffle her scream. “Oh god, the gate’s open. The
gate’s not supposed to be open.” She tried to remain
calm, but the gate should not have been open. Any
lingering composure dissolved when they drove
between the pillars and saw Jackie’s Mercedes in the
drive with the doors and trunk lid open.
Gwen pulled behind it and jumped out. “That’s why
she hasn’t answered her cell phone.” The device lay
crushed next to the car.
“Gwen, call the police.” Pat knew from her visit the
previous day that the cook, Maria, had resigned
because her baby was due. She also knew that the
housekeepers were off for the holiday and Jackie
considered wasting electricity a crime punishable by
a lengthy jail sentence. “The lights are on and
there shouldn’t be anyone here but Jackie.”
Jacqueline and her aunt, Elizabeth Tracy lived in
Evanston, a suburb north of Chicago, in a
fourteen-room brick home. The Colonial style
structure, built in 1925, sat hidden amid rows of
ancient trees on a two-and-a-half acre lot with a
private beach on Lake Michigan.
Pat found the front door slightly open and gripped
the handle. It swung wide when she pushed and her
eyes took a second to adjust to the bright interior.
Every light burned, illuminating the turned over,
emptied out, and tossed aside furniture. Curtains,
ripped from the windows, covered the floor along
with stuffing emptied from shredded chairs, couches,
and cushions.
“Jackie, are you here?” She ran up the curved oak
staircase to the second floor, slowing at the
thought of what she might find. “Jackie?”
As Pat disappeared to the upper level, a voice
startled Gwen. “Stay right where you are.”
She spun to face a police officer at the front
entrance with a gun pointed in her direction. “You
almost gave me a heart attack,” she shouted.
“Please, put that away.”
The policemen did a quick scan of Gwen’s short
sturdy body and slid the weapon in its holster,
satisfied she posed no immediate danger. That might
have been his first mistake. “Did you call about a
missing person?”
Gwen continued to clutch her chest and was about to
answer when Patricia flew down the stairs. “She’s
not here. She’s not anywhere. The entire house was
torn apart.” She stopped when she almost ran into
the dark blue uniform.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Patricia Sexton, that’s Gwen Garcia-Wilson and
we’re,” she waved her finger between them, “friends
of the woman who lives here, Jacqueline Tracy. She’s
missing.” Pat stopped and gulped in air.
“How did you get in?”
The officer probably thought it was a reasonable
question, but Gwen was in no mood to be reasonable.
“For heaven’s sakes, the door was open.” She spread
her hands. “You can see that someone tore this place
apart.”
“Why are you here?” Although the officer was a man
of few words, Gwen wasn’t. She explained her dinner
plans with Jackie in detail. “Okay. I get the
picture. Give me your names and phone numbers and
you can go.”
Along with their contact information, Pat and Gwen
made sure he understood how important punctuality
was to Jackie. When they were ready to leave, Gwen
saw the squad car in the driveway. “You’re blocking
the gate.”
“Then maybe you’ll have to wait until I finish my
investigation.”
The evening’s events had left the doctor in a rare
nasty mood and the prospect of waiting until he
finished was not an option. “Be serious, Officer.
You want two menopausal women to hang around here
with nothing better to do than help you with your
investigation?”
Pat snorted as the young man processed the
implications of Gwen’s remark. He dropped his
notebook in a pocket, pursing his lips at Gwen’s
crossed arms and spread feet. She was a big-boned
gal and knew how to carry those bones to her
advantage. Without another word, he left through the
front door.
Two minutes later, Gwen and Pat drove out the gate.
“What could have happened? I didn’t see a ransom
note, and she doesn’t have family except for Beth,
who is just about unreachable when she’s on
vacation.”
“Have you noticed Jackie acting strange lately, Pat?
How was she yesterday at dinner?”
“As hyper as ever, but that’s normal behavior for
her. Her brain’s always going a million miles a
minute.”
“No, I mean, different strange.”
“Not that I remember.” The line of red brake lights
they trailed hypnotized Pat. Even at eight o’clock
at night, every street in or out of Chicago had
bumper-to-bumper traffic. She sighed. “I’ll call
Nicki. She’ll find her.” Nicole Jordan, longtime
friend of both Patricia and Jackie, was a retired
Chicago police officer turned private investigator.
Gwen agreed. “Good idea, Pat, and I’ll see what Hugh
thinks.”
“Hugh’s an accountant.”
“Accountants are detectives. They detect numbers
instead of crimes. Sometimes they detect numbers
that are crimes.” She grinned. “Besides, he loves
puzzles.”
“We should try to remember what’s happened in the
last few days or weeks, Gwen. Maybe that’ll give us
a clue about why someone tore her house apart and
why she’s missing. Outside of money, what could
Jackie have to make someone kidnap her?”
The unsettling silence returned and Gwen glanced at
the passenger’s seat. “I don’t think they’re after
money and that scares the hell out of me.”
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