Heart of Fire Read online

  She wished she had those boxes right now. Her father had never given her anything but support, and she needed that. He was gone, but those old records were more a part of him than the few mementos, mostly photographs, that she had.

  She wavered for a minute. This was the blackest moment of her career, the angriest and saddest she had been since she had learned of the professor’s death. She was independent by nature, but even the most independent person sometimes needed comfort, and this was one of those times for her. She wanted to feel closer to her father, needed to refresh her memories of him.

  Making up her mind, she moved briskly back inside and looked up Rick’s number in her address book, thinking wryly that it was an accurate comment on their relationship that she didn’t know it. In essence, there was no relationship between them in any emotional sense. He had borrowed money from her a couple of times, but on average she saw him maybe once a year, which was plenty for both of them.

  She let the phone ring for an entire minute before hanging up. Always realistic, she knew that it might take her a couple of days to get in touch with him, so she controlled her impatience and changed into her gym clothes. A workout was always good for stress, and she liked staying in shape anyway. Visits to the gym three days a week, plus jogging, kept her fit.

  Still, as soon as she returned home a couple of hours later, she picked up the telephone and hit the redial button. To her surprise, after the first ring there was a click as the receiver was lifted and a brusque, only slightly slurred “Yeah?” barked into her ear.

  “Rick, it’s Jillian. Are you going to be home tonight?”

  “Why?” The second word was guarded, suspicious.

  “I want to look through those boxes of Dad’s old papers.”

  “What for?”

  “Just to look through them. We never have, you know. We don’t know what’s in there.”

  “So what does it matter now?”

  “I don’t guess it does. I’m just curious.” Instinctively she didn’t let Rick know how much she hurt inside or how she needed that contact with their father.

  “I don’t have time to sit here and watch you trip down memory lane,” he said, totally bypassing the possibility of letting her pick up the boxes and carry them home with her. Rick would never give up what he perceived as an advantage over her.

  “Okay,” she said. “Forget it. It was just an idea. Bye.”

  “Wait,” he said hurriedly. She could almost feel him thinking, picture the idea forming in his mind. “Uh . . . I guess you can come over. And, uh, do you think you can spare some cash? I’m a little short.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” she said, not wanting him to think it had been too easy and maybe change his mind. “How much cash?”

  “Not much. Maybe a hundred.”

  “A hundred!”

  “Okay, okay, make it fifty.”

  “I don’t know,” she said again. “I’ll see what I have.”

  “Are you coming over now?” he asked.

  “Sure, if you’re going to be there.”

  “I’ll be here.” He dropped the phone, crashing it in her ear. Jillian shrugged as she hung up. Every contact with Rick was like that. Sometimes she wondered if he would ever see the futility of trying to spite her.

  She checked her wallet to make sure she had fifty dollars in cash; she did, but it would wipe her out until she could get to an automatic teller, something she didn’t like to do at night. She had plenty of gas in her car, though, so she wouldn’t need cash for anything that night. It was worth fifty bucks to her to be able to go through her father’s papers right away, when she needed bolstering. She seldom did, being solidly planted on her own two feet, but sometimes even the most resilient plant wilted. Tonight her leaves were definitely drooping.

  She didn’t bother changing out of her sweats because she was certain it would be a dusty, dirty job, sorting through those boxes after all these years. It took her forty-five minutes to reach Rick’s apartment complex. It was a trio of two-story buildings, the stucco painted a pale salmon that had probably looked fresh lo, those many years ago when the complex was new but now was stained and faded to an unappetizing pinkish tan. Rick lived in the building on the left, on the bottom floor. The parking lot was crowded with vehicles in various stages of disassembly. Those that did presumably run were mostly in need of bodywork or were evidently in the process of getting it, since the main color was paint primer. The apartment occupants were in much the same shape, except for the paint.

  She knocked on Rick’s door. She could hear the television, but nothing else. She knocked again.

  “All right, all right,” came a faint, disgruntled answer, and a minute later Rick opened the door.

  She was always surprised by how pleasant and boyish Rick’s features were, how well his face had resisted the effects of cigarettes, booze, and his general life-style. His looks were fading a bit now, finally being worn down, but he was still an attractive man.

  “Hi,” he said. “You bring the money?”

  “I don’t have much more than fifty, but I can get by if you need it,” she said, while thinking, Hello, I’m fine, how are you? She could smell the alcohol on his breath. Rick wasn’t much for manners when he was sober, but he had none at all when he was drinking. Unfortunately, that was most of the time.

  “Sure, I need it,” he snapped. “I wouldn’t have asked for a hundred to begin with if I didn’t need it.”

  She shrugged and took out her wallet, opening it so he could see that she was giving him every bill she had. Fifty-seven bucks. She would never see it again, but she didn’t expect to. She gave him the money and said, “Where are the boxes?”

  “Back there. In the other bedroom.”

  The second bedroom was a junk room, without any hint of ever having seen a bed. Rick used it for storage and, evidently, as a convenient place for tossing anything that got in his way, including dirty clothes. The boxes were stacked in a corner, she fought her way over to them and began clearing out a space so she would have room to unpack them.

  “What’re you looking for?” Rick asked. She heard the suspicion in his voice and knew he hadn’t quite believed her before.

  “Nothing. I just want to read them. Why don’t you bring in a couple of chairs and go through them with me?”

  “No, thanks,” he said, giving her a “get real” look. “I’d rather sip a cold one and watch the tube.”

  “Okay,” she said, reaching for the first of the boxes; there were five of them, water-stained and fittingly coated with dust since most of the things the professor had loved had been dusty. She sat down on the floor and began tearing off the brown masking tape that had been used to seal them shut.

  A lot of the material was research books, which she arranged around her according to subject. Some of the books, she noted with interest, were rare editions, which she handled with appreciative care.

  There were notes about various digs, articles he had thought interesting and saved, maps and charts of varying ages, and several spiral notebooks in which he’d recorded his own ideas. These she opened with a smile tugging at her lips, for in the cramped handwriting she found again the essence of her father. He had had such enthusiasm for his work, such a boundless joy in reconstructing lost civilizations. He had never tried to rein in his imagination but had let it flow, trusting that it would take him toward the truth, which to him had always been much more fantastic than the most clever of lies.

  His zest for his work had led him to try to track down several legends, and he had accorded each one a chapter in his notebooks. Jillian remembered the many evenings she had spent as a child, sitting enthralled at his feet or in his lap while he spun his wondrous tales for her entertainment. She hadn’t grown up on fairy tales, though in a way perhaps she had, but her fairy tales had been of ancient civilizations and treasures, mysteriously vanished. . . . Had they ever really existed, or were they exactly that, tales grounded only in man’s imagination? For her