Dateline: Atlantis (21 page)

The music is so loud they can hear nothing more than the ringing in their ears, and the corner is no refuge. The Mexican shrugs and downs his beer in three long gulps. Amaryllis sips more lady-like, squeezing the lime into the lager. She's thinking of the tower and what it might contain.
Was that the place where my parents died? Could clues last for twenty-five years under the sea?
Then her thoughts turn to money. She's not sure at all that Wright is going to funnel endless supplies of cash into this story. She ponders whether to shell out a couple hundred of her own meager dollars to the disreputable Captain Johnny—all for the privilege of getting herself ensnared with the U.S. military.

She sighs and downs the rest of her beer, feeling no liberation from her worries, and now, she's hotter than she was before she breezed into the bar. She's sweating so much that her shirt clings to her torso.
I've traveled from one extreme to another. Donny's probably freezing his ass off right now.

The thought of Donny brings her to a full stop. She holds the bottle in front of her face to cool her forehead. She looks through the wavy glass and sees Gabriel in profile. He's gazing eagle-like over the crowd. She ponders what she really wants: this strange Maya's quest for lost ancestors, a successful career for
herself, finding the secret of her parents' murder, or a comfortable and handsome man like Donny? For the first time in years, she finds herself pulled off the career track, wrenched away from the course she's always chosen in journalism. She's always wanted to be the best, and Wright supported that dream by backing her with raises and promotions. Now, she surrenders to the obligation to delve into the family tragedy and solve the questions that linger.
What would Fiona tell me to do?
She misses her friend with a longing that squeezes her near the breastbone.
Fiona always reads me like a psychic. It's time to give her a call.

While she's still daydreaming into the glass bottle, Gabriel grabs her by the shoulder with a pincer-like grip.

“Put it down,” he says under his breath, almost in a purr. Amaryllis thinks he's merely being seductive until she looks into his face, then past his gaze into the crowd. She plops the bottle on the bar.

“That Hewitt is here, and he has company,” he whispers in her ear, as he swings her into his arms and they begin to dance. She begins to follow the reggae steps, which seem to differ from couple to couple. Gabriel's are fluid and intricate, but she has little difficulty following the way he shifts his feet with each syncopated beat. Trying to look like a regular at the bar, she mimics Gabriel's every move. As they swirl, she spots the pursuers.

Hewitt, tall and bearded, stands on a platform at street level and hovers over most of the heads, like a chaperone at a school dance. He's one of the only men not dancing and by his side is a small, dark-complected Hispanic man. Whereas Hewitt is tidy and benign in appearance, even wearing a button-down shirt in this torrid heat, the small man is in tatters, like a feral beast. He has a strange, tic-like smile, the kind that bullies wear when tormenting small animals. Her nerves splay, vibrating throughout her extremities. Danger scorches the air and it's not radiating from Hewitt. The squat, squint-eyed man is emanating a spell of pure malevolence.

“Gabriel,” she whispers. “We've got to get out.”

“Impossible. They'll spot us immediately.”

A stocky white man taps her on the shoulder and asks to cut in. Gabriel nods, and she dances off, keeping her face averted. After a dozen tourists have whisked her around the dance floor, she begs off and finds Gabriel at the end of the bar. She scans the crowd. Hewitt and his friend have moved onto the street.

“Is there a back door?”

Gabriel doesn't answer but grabs her again and pulls her into a savage version of the tango. The music changes again, and it's a merengue.
Oh good. I know the merengue. I learned it in L.A.
She moves seamlessly with Gabriel, who is careful not to spin her or pull her too far away. She's always close to his chest and she moans at the contact of her breasts to his muscled mid-section. Her shirt is pure gauze and her bra is thin, so her nipples are erect as he presses her body to his. She tries not to swoon under the sensations, tries to will her breasts not to give her away. She doesn't look into his face, but knows he can't escape the heat of her body.

They spin together, and he grabs her around the waist. They shake their hips in time to the music, and she acknowledges the unmistakable sensation of urgency course through her belly, making her organs quiver. He pulls her to his breastbone and spins her by her shoulders. She makes a full revolution and stops, just as the music ends, eye to eye with him. For one second, she is sure Gabriel will pull her into a deep kiss. Instead, he looks over her shoulder into the crowd.

“They are gone. Let's get out.” His voice sounds remote, but he leads her by the hand, out the back door of the bar, down the street to the hotel. Hewitt and his ugly accomplice have disappeared, and Amaryllis and Gabriel whisk through the lobby. It also is empty. They go up to the door to Gabriel's room. For one second, they stand, sweating, staring at each other with one un-spoken question between them. Then Gabriel unlocks the door, reaches over and picks her up, and carries her, like a bride over the threshold, to his bed.

For once in her well-controlled life, Amaryllis allows herself to be led, to be overruled, to be taken. He removes her clothing, bit by gauzy bit and then strips himself of his sodden garments. Like a Maya prince of old, he stands proud before her, leaning over and trapping her with his body. He bends down and kisses every inch of her flesh, as if he had been starving and she is the feast he's been dreaming of. When he penetrates her guard and then her body, she realizes a wall has been shattered inside of her. Together, they shudder for several long minutes until sleep washes over their lust.

#

The cell phone rings, incredibly, waking Amaryllis in the middle of the night. She stuffed the device into her purse, sure that it didn't work in the Bahamas, but hoping against hope that it might come alive. In Freeport, she recharged it. Now, it's working. They must be near a cell tower, she reasons in her sleepy, foggy brain. She paws through the odds and ends in the purse and picks up the call just before it goes to voice mail.

“What?” she says, biting the word, trying to keep her voice down.

“Amy?”

“Wright! I mean, Mr. Wright. How did you get me? This thing wasn't working a couple days ago.”

“Dammit, Amy. What are you up to? The FBI is looking for you.”

She gulps and, now horrified at her nakedness, grabs the guest robe from Gabriel's closet. It's crazy, but she can't talk to her boss in the nude. She tucks the phone under her chin as she slips an arm into one sleeve, then the other. It's a laborious process, but Gabriel is lost in sleep and cannot help.

“Let me…can I call you back?”

“No, you cannot! I was lucky to get you now. What's so damn important?”

“Well, for one thing it's 4 a.m. here, and I was dead asleep.” She ties the terrycloth belt and scoops up her purse. Still holding the cell phone under her chin, she slips out the door, sneaks down the hall, puts her own key into her room lock, slips inside and settles on her own bed. She's like a kid caught cheating on a test. Though Wright is thousands of miles away, she can't shake the sensation that he's walked in on the tryst between Gabriel and herself. Along the way, Wright has been sputtering about how she's an important witness to a crime, and how dare she leave the country without telling anyone?

“Well, no one asked.”

“They screen everyone.”

“Obviously, I wasn't on the list of people to hassle. I'm only in the Bahamas, not Lebanon.”

“The Bahamas? Are you mad?”

“No, Mr. Wright. I've got pictures. Photos that are going to make the story work.”

Silence. Amaryllis starts to panic, thinking someone found her hard disk and that Wright's about to tell her that the story is gone.

“Oh, well,” his voice has changed and has that unctuous quality that drives her nuts. “You're on the story again. That's good. Excellent. The FBI has made headway and they think they have located Garret's photos.”

“I'll send mine to you. The druggist has a digital photo service. Of course, I've got to find someone with an Internet connection…”

“It can wait. The story will have to be amended.”

“I can do that in Florida.”

“Is that where you are going? I thought you were coming back to L.A.”

“Unfinished business. I'm not quite done down here. But I'll get to the American border to please the feds.”

“Call me when you get there.” The connection breaks. She sits in the dark wondering if she wants to return to Florida, venture to the tower in No Man's Land, or sail off with Gabriel to Mexico and become a Maya princess, never to return.

She falls asleep on her own bed without even pulling back the covers.

#

“You've got to come with me to Miami.”

Gabriel is slurping down coffee in the hotel diner and paying more attention to his beverage than to Amaryllis. He's been edgy since he awoke and refuses to meet her eyes. In the end, he stops and looks up at her with sleepy lids.

“I don't have a green card.”

“Can't you get a travel visa?”

“It takes weeks.” He slams the cup down and motions the waiter over to pour more.
There's more than a green card keeping him from Florida.

“First, the FBI needs to talk to me,“ she says. “So, I've got to return there.”

“Then go.”

She stares at him as if regarding a strange new beast, certainly not the man who held her in his strong arms last night. She coughs, trying to pitch her voice lower for more authority.

“Next, I have to follow the leads on who killed my parents. Because I do believe it was murder, Gabriel, and whoever murdered them is after me—and you.”

He makes a dismissive motion with his free hand and returns his attention to mixing sugar into his coffee. She stares at him, willing some response, but he's stubborn and silent.

“You don't care.” She can't believe she's seeing this.

He looks up, his eyes bleary, and regards her as he might a brick in the wall. There's nothing there. He has shut down like
a disengaged robot. She gets up and tosses her napkin on the table, shoving her chair in so that it screeches against the floor. Heads turn at other tables, but she doesn't look at them. Before she turns on her heel, Gabriel puts a fist down on the table.

“What makes you think I'd ever go to the United States with you?” he asks in a low snarl. “I hate the States. I hate everything the country stands for. You and your tourist friends, trampling the countryside, defacing the ruins. I hate all of you.”

She has seen hangovers before, but never anything like this.

“I'm an American,” she says, keeping her voice down. “Do you hate me?”

He doesn't answer but turns to look out the window at the clouds that are forming over a sea ruffled by wind. He's lost to her. She slips out, leaving him to pay for breakfast. She stomps to her room and begins throwing the few items she unpacked back into her suitcase. As she grabs her toiletries from the bathroom, her mind begins running at top speed and she starts remembering the many times Gabriel rebuffed her attentions. The only thing she can make of his behavior now is that he's sorry he succumbed to her last night.

“Damn creep,” she says as she stuffs her hairbrush and toothpaste into her carryon bag. “Just like all the others. I'm sport and amusement. Someone to toy with.”

She's steaming now and slams the last few items in her bag, fastening zippers, searching the closet for any leftover items. She doesn't want a trace of her existence left behind, not even a hair in shower drain. As she opens drawers and punches pillows, she hears a knock on the door.

She figures it's the maid and steps to open it, starting to say “It's ready…” Instead, she comes face to face with Gabriel. Now what? They stand close together without speaking, discomfort wafting in the close air. Yet, the warmth of his body is starting to melt her resolve. She's expecting him to apologize. And if he does, she will forgive him; she won't be able to help it.

“I tell you what,” he says, only a bit less contemptuous than he was in the restaurant. “I'll help bring your things to the airport, but I'm not coming with you.”

“You bastard,” she turns away before she gives in to the temptation to slap him across his arrogant face. “It's not that you're not coming. It's that you don't care.”

“I care, but what I care about is not what you seem to value,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. His body language is saying, stay away. “If
you
cared, you wouldn't be leaving this search for my ancestors at such a crucial time.”

“And what was last night all about”