Touching Midnight Read online

  Quin studied the smooth way Jay was moving, the utter efficiency in everything he did as he searched the man lying sprawled by the cabinet. He extracted something shiny from the man’s rucksack and straightened, a knife in his hand.

  For months now she’d seen him as an invalid, but that impression had just been corrected. “You can’t remember your name, your family, or where you came from. You don’t even know how old you are….” Her gaze locked on the reddish contusion on the side of the sprawled man’s neck. “But you can remember that.”

  And a whole lot more. The words played through Jay’s mind, edged and clear and instantly available, but when they hit the unruly tangle of his tongue, all that came out was a grunt.

  His jaw clenched in frustration. He knew phonetics, and he understood English, Spanish and a smattering of the Quechua that was spoken here, but his mouth and tongue—his vocal cords—had forgotten that most basic of functions: how to make the sounds his mind directed them to make.

  Unclenching his teeth, he tried again, letting out a breath and forcing his muscles to relax. This time he managed a sound, but it was more like a “d” than the “r” he was trying for.

  He studied the knife, felt the awkward weight of it with his fingers. The wooden grip was worn smooth from years of use—a kitchen tool, not a finely balanced weapon for close-quarters combat. With lightning reflexes only slightly blunted by his months of incapacitation, he flipped the knife, gripped it by the blade and threw it. The tip of the blade pierced the chunk of wood perched on top of the pile in the log basket. Despite the fact that the knife was a little on the light side and the handle overlarge, he had hit the log dead center.

  Suppressing his frustration, he found a pen and a notepad, and wrote the word he couldn’t say—rope—ripped off the sheet and handed it to Quin.

  Quin’s face was pale as she absorbed what he wanted, her pupils dilated—a classic sign of shock. As tough as she was, she wasn’t used to physical violence, and he’d been hard on her, but if he hadn’t kept her silent, the two men would have been difficult to contain, and he couldn’t protect the three women in the house, all in different rooms, at the same time.

  As she left the room, he checked on the man behind the desk. He was still unconscious. Like his friend, his reflexes had been nonexistent, his muscle tone poor—easy pickings.

  The chilling assessment came easily, a new facet of him that slid into place as neatly as a well-oiled part in a machine.

  When he’d woken with the sure knowledge that someone was breaking into the house, the burst of adrenaline had altered his mind. Like a door opening on a cold river, the expanse of knowledge that had flooded him had been profound, and this time the door hadn’t slammed closed. For the first time since he’d regained consciousness, he hadn’t had to struggle to think, to concentrate. His mind and body had shifted into another mode. He had sorted and discarded techniques with none of the cloudiness and headaches that usually accompanied trying to remember. The knowledge had simply been there, as if danger had been the key to unlocking it.

  Quin reappeared with a coil of thin nylon rope. Seconds later, Olivia and Hannah stepped into the room.

  Olivia took in the scene with one sweeping glance. “I thought I heard glass breaking.”

  When both men were secured, Hannah briefly examined them, then stood, pushing soft gray hair back from her forehead. “What on earth did they think they could steal? We haven’t got anything worth taking except a few pieces of furniture, and they’d have the devil’s own job dragging those out of the valley.”

  Olivia went down in a crouch and began emptying the contents of one man’s pack. “Artifacts. They probably searched all the outbuildings, and when they didn’t find anything, decided to try their luck in the house.”

  Quin knelt beside Olivia and helped her retrieve their few antiquities, which had been wrapped in pieces of rag. Each piece was familiar: a torc from Wales, a scarab from Egypt, an ancient glass vessel from Greece.

  Her fingers closed around a fragment of stone she hadn’t seen before. Curiously, she examined the symbol, the depth to which the stone was cut and the precision with which the work had been done, automatically trying to grasp the likely time period. There was no question that the symbol was Incan—a warning—and so ancient that her spine tightened and her belly clenched.

  As she stared at the incised curves, knowledge flickered, abruptly disorienting, as elusive and slippery as the eel-like serpent carved into the stone; then her mind fastened on exactly what Olivia had said. The thieves had been searching for artifacts. She studied the chunk of stone. And this was a new artifact.

  To her knowledge, Olivia hadn’t had a new artifact in all the years they’d been at Valle del Sol. She’d turned her back on the archaeological world out of necessity. Other than teaching Quin, she had stubbornly avoided anything at all to do with the subject. She didn’t follow what was happening in the field, and she didn’t participate in digs. As far as Quin knew, no one from the aunts’ past had any clue as to their current whereabouts, and Olivia took particular care to keep it that way.

  The artifact was Incan, and Quin was almost certain it hadn’t been sent to Olivia by an old associate. The only logical conclusion was that she had found it locally. “Why would anyone hunt for artifacts here?”

  Olivia didn’t try to dissemble. “There’s a temple site here, and it’s extensive. Every time we have a flood, the river throws up a piece of carved rock or a shard of pottery. I usually go out and check, and hide anything I find, but it looks like someone else found something and decided to look for more.”

  She didn’t add that, if these two men had come, more would follow. Unearthing an archaeological site was akin to igniting gold fever; there was no sense involved, just greed.

  Olivia studied the unconscious man lying next to the shattered glass of her cabinet, the papers from her desk scattered on the floor.

  The break-in was a shock, but she had half expected something like this to happen. With every flood it had become more and more difficult to contain the secret, and the last flood had been a doozy, wiping out the lower fields for weeks and replotting the course of the river. But the blow of discovery aside, the fact that the Incan site was now common knowledge was just a detail. On a scale of disasters, it didn’t rate with the simple fact that they were broke.

  She bent and picked up a letter she’d received only that morning. According to the Peruvian government, the grant they’d applied for had just dissolved into a handful of nothing. The money wouldn’t have done much more than keep them in diesel and some basic medical supplies—enough that they could have limped through another winter—but even so, the loss stung. The roof was leaking, and, according to Luis, the Bedford needed a new gearbox. If anything else went wrong, they would go under.

  The disappointment of the collapsed funding on top of the break-in was abruptly too much. For the first time in years, Olivia lost her temper, anger flaring so hotly it warmed the chill out of her bones. Once her temper had been legendary, but, as the years had slipped by, she’d forgotten what it felt like to be not just angry, but spitting mad.

  She was tired of trying to squeeze money out of a funding system that had about as much substance as fresh air, and she was tired of hiding from Quin’s father, John Mallory.

  She wasn’t poor—both she and Hannah had resources they could call upon—and now they had no choice.

  It would be a risk going back to England, but there was too much at stake not to take the risk. She had toyed with the idea for the last few months but had pulled back from making a decision, because it was entirely possible there was still a warrant out for her arrest. She might not make it through passport control at Heathrow, let alone manage to sell her townhouse.

  Ignoring Hannah’s worried gaze, Olivia picked her way through the chaos of books and papers, reached up and pulled an atlas from one of the rich, mahogany bookshelves. “I’m going to England. And you, young lady, are going
to school.”

  Quin froze in the act of sweeping shards of glass onto the hearth shovel. She picked up a jagged piece that had snagged between polished boards and added it to the pile. “We can’t afford that.”

  “We can now.” Olivia cleared a space on the desk, set the book down, opened it to a page she had already marked and stabbed a finger at a location.

  “I’ve picked out a university that attracts major funding for its archaeological program, and I’ve checked on the head of department. I might have been out of the loop for a while, but I still know who’s who in that world. Theodore Hawthorne may be getting on in years, but he’s a first-class archaeologist.”

  Quin’s stomach lurched at the opportunity Olivia was handing her. Since she’d been a child, she had dreamed about following in Olivia’s footsteps.

  Mouth dry, she stared at the map—the jumble of the room and the unconscious men lying bound on the floor dissolving. “The United States?”

  “Oxford would have been my first choice,” Olivia said crisply. “But that’s too closely connected to the Mallory family. You’re of age, so it shouldn’t matter, but humor me on this. I don’t trust your father an inch.”

  Olivia reached into a drawer, drew out a thick brown envelope and handed it to Quin.

  Inside the envelope, Quin found a dark blue prospectus and a sheaf of loose papers containing course dates and information on student accommodation. Heart pounding, she flipped through the pages, her throat closing at the trouble that Olivia had gone to. She studied the cutoff date for enrolment, and her stomach plunged. “Even if you could get me in, it’s too late to enroll.”

  “I’ve already spoken to Theo. There’s a place for you if you want it.” Another risk Olivia had had to take, this one almost as bad as running the gauntlet of Heathrow would be. The academic world was small and peppered with gossips. Theo had promised to be discreet, but Olivia had no illusions that the fact that Quin was her niece—and the missing Mallory baby—would remain a secret for long.

  Quin stared blankly at the atlas. Washington, New York, Boston. The names were exotic, enticing, woven with possibilities. She pulled her gaze from the map and closed the prospectus, her mind working furiously. She wanted to go, and now, incredibly, it seemed that she could, but now that the opportunity was staring her in the face—the dream so close she could almost touch it…

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  Olivia and Hannah were both in their midsixties, and while they both frequently stated that they were as tough as old boots, Quin knew the reality. She had done increasing amounts of the heavy work around the mission for years, and now that Jose had retired, unless they managed to hire a casual, like Luis, she was the handyman and gardener. “Who would look after you when I’m gone? Who would chop wood and keep the garden going?”

  “I will.”

  Both Olivia’s and Quin’s heads snapped around at the unexpected clarity of Jay’s voice.

  He rose fluidly from his crouched position beside one of the bound figures, the stiffness in his right side no longer apparent, and Quin was abruptly aware that somehow, in the space of a few minutes, everything had changed. Valle del Sol was opening up to huaqueros—looters; she was going to college; and Jay was no longer an invalid, but a very large, very in-control male.

  Olivia’s gaze was sharp, measuring, and for long moments silence reigned, the ticking of the antique carriage clock on the mantel the only sound. “I can’t pay much.”

  Jay’s head jerked in brief assent. The familiar silence of his reply—bypassing the need to struggle with words—should have been reassuring, but now it went with a sharp, cool look that was utterly devoid of frustration.

  Quin could sense the difference in him—see it physically in the way he held himself. Despite the uncanny link that existed between them, there had always been a yawning gap, and it had just grown even wider.

  Without thinking, she reached out with her mind and found…blankness. Jay had firmly closed the door on the strangeness of the mind link. The invalid she’d healed had ceased to be, buried beneath a new, mysterious layer, and she had to wonder who this Jay was.

  One thing was certain, he didn’t need her anymore. He didn’t need anyone. He was now completely independent, capable of leaving the mission if he wished.

  Ambivalence filled her—a stomach-churning mixture of fear and elation. Everything had changed, and now she was heading into the unknown. By her reckoning she would be gone for five years minimum, more probably eight or nine, if she opted to go for a doctorate.

  After spending most of her life yearning to leave the valley, she had to wonder if she would ever see it again.

  PART 2

  Sixteen

  The Present, Valle del Sol

  A full moon crested the eastern rim of the hills and spilled light into the crescent-shaped chalice of the valley, glowing coldly on the limed walls of the mission and reflecting off the surface of the Agueda.

  A shimmer broke the placid calm, blurring the smooth, glassy perfection, but for long seconds the silence continued to reign, until an owl hooted and took flight, ghosting above the water’s edge. Seconds later, the owl plunged, its talons closing on a tiny field mouse, disturbed and thrown off guard by the strange, shivering ripples that had turned the mirror-like surface of the Agueda into rough silk.

  “Miguel!” Pedro called, directing his flashlight into the narrow underground aperture Miguel had uncovered just a week ago. “It’s time. We need to go.”

  “Idiota! Get that light out of my face. There’s something here….” Miguel scraped at the dirt, wriggled forward in the tight wormhole he’d dug and extended his hand. “I can’t quite reach it….”

  “I don’t like it.” Pedro’s voice faded as if he’d retreated to the opening of the tunnel. “Juana said not to come. It’s not a good night.”

  “What do you mean, not a good night?” Miguel gained another inch, bending his body at an impossible angle to ease between giant blocks of stone that had fallen and wedged at right angles, leaving just enough space for him to reach into the one small pocket they hadn’t yet been able to investigate. “And don’t give me any more crap about the ‘Sun Stone’ or the ‘Eye of the Sun God,’” he muttered, his patience stretched to the limit by Pedro’s babbling and a legend that had already taken a month of his life for no visible pay. “If there’s a jewel that big in this pile of shit, I’ll marry that ugly sister of yours. And if there’s even a fragment of gold or copper or some lousy old broken pot, I don’t care if it’s protected or cursed, or grows nine legs and runs in circles. I’m selling it.”

  “If Lomax sees the light—”

  “He won’t, because you draped a tarp over the entrance.” Miguel sucked in a breath filled with the dank, thick reek of mud and the sharp scent of his own sweat. There was something there—a shape, maybe even a glint of metal. He played his light over the dirt face, minutely studying every grain, every smear. “Holy Mother.”

  “What is it? What can you see?”

  Miguel surged forward, wriggling in the claustrophobic space. He felt the muscles in his back stretch, the vertebrae creak, as he drove upwards with his trowel, scraping all the skin off his knuckles as he swept dirt from the irregularly shaped stone standing square in his path. Dirt showered his face, stung his eyes, and a pale worm wriggled frantically away from the beam of the flashlight as he stared at the precise join he’d just uncovered.

  Miguel didn’t know much about archaeology or architecture—he could barely read or write, come to that—but he knew a keystone when he saw one, and this was the mother of all keystones.

  Dirt showered his face again, this time peppering his mouth and nostrils. “Hey, Pedro, you sonovabitch,” he snarled. “Stop walking around up there. You’re supposed to be helping me.” A paroxysm of coughing cut short a list of expletives. “Now I’ve got a mouthful of dirt.”

  And worms. He spat. He hated worms.

  Pedro’s voice was unex
pectedly close. “Whoever’s up there, it isn’t me.”

  Pedro stepped back from Miguel’s feet, lifted his lantern and craned around, studying the shrouded entrance to the tunnel, looking for some sign of movement. The tarpaulin was still draped in place, blocking out the moonlight and closing them into this damp, stinking little pit.

  He hadn’t heard a thing but Miguel swearing and cursing for the past hour, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone up there.

  Cold clenched at his spine, and his belly turned to water at the possibilities. “Maybe it is Lomax.” Miguel was scathing, but Pedro had a healthy respect for him. He’d spent a year in the army before he’d thrown that life away to hook up with Miguel, supposedly to earn big money in the mines, and he knew the kind of man Jay Lomax was. It was something in the eyes, a way of moving…. “He’s like a cat, that one. If he does sleep, it’s with one eye open.”

  Miguel rolled his eyes, spat more mud and swore. “Shut up about Lomax.” He scraped at the stone, ignoring the throbbing pain in his back, the stinging across his knuckles. The edge of the trowel caught on something hard, and he wriggled forward another half inch and trained the weakening beam of light on whatever it was that had made that hard, metallic sound, praying that it hadn’t been granite.

  Light caught on the hot gleam of gold. Adrenaline pumped, almost stopping his heart.

  Miguel had heard it said that whatever was here was forbidden, that this place had the curse of the serpent on it, but for all he cared, the devil himself could be in residence here and he wouldn’t be deterred. He had no time for the old superstitions. Gold was gold—and, in the artifact trade, ancient gold would earn him a suitcase full of American dollars.

  He reached forward, the ache in his back excruciating as he scraped dirt from the shiny surface—gently, gently, he didn’t want to damage the goods.

  The bold outline of an eye appeared.