Chapter One
Five days before Halloween, I sat on the hood of my green Jeep Cherokee inside the garage. The doors were open and I looked out on the pine forest that surrounded my home in the foothills outside Denver. The morning was sunny and mild but that wasn't too unusual for October.
We had the day off school and I'd gotten my driver's license exactly one week earlier so I'd made plans to hang out with my friends, Whitney and Mim. That was before the step-Greg called and told me about an important shipment he'd sent to the house. He wanted to be sure there was someone home when the delivery was made. Since my mom had just left for California, it meant I had to hang around.
I didn't like Greg despite his charm and charisma, which he laid on thick for my mother but spread a little more thinly for me. And I didn't approve of his questionable business practices. There were rules and regulations set in place for the removal of antiquities from the UK and Greg didn't appear to follow any of them. My mother didn't seem to realize what was going on; she was too busy with her job.
Anyhow, I was supposed to call him as soon as his shipment arrived, regardless of the hour. I glanced at my watch. Ten a.m. in Colorado made it five p.m. in England. I couldn't help but wish I were in England. If I were, I'd have taken a train to Oxford to see my cousins.
Hooligan had followed me out of the house but wasted no time galloping off into the woods to harass the local rabbit population. Hooligan's my Irish wolfhound. Not that he looks like a wolf; he's not nearly that good looking. Picture a greyhound on steroids having a bad hair day and you'll have a good idea of what Hooli looks like.
Wolfhounds aren't the most handsome breed of dog, just the biggest. They're huge. They're tall and lanky and supposedly can bring down a deer when they want to. Thankfully, Hooligan likes his dinner in a bowl so the deer that visit our three acres come and go in peace.
My mom got Hooli for me two years ago when he was a puppy. He was supposed to protect me when she was out of town on business. I figured he made an adequate guard dog. He liked Mim and Whitney, was wary of most males and hated the neighbor in particular. That made him a good judge of character in my book.
My phone vibrated inside the pocket of my hoodie and I pulled it out. I answered a text from Mim and spent some time browsing through cheap apps for my phone. After downloading the latest free game, I bought a travel app that tracks the location of your phone and shows its position on a map. When I started the app, it displayed a map of the town I live in. A round, red target symbol flashed at the approximate location of my house.
I figured the program would come in handy for the trip to Portland Mim and I were planning when school got out for the summer. Not that I thought we'd actually be allowed to go, but sometimes you just have to plan for the best.
The sound of a chainsaw snarling to life cut into my thoughts and set my teeth on edge. The neighbor had started cutting trees a few weeks ago. At first, my mom and I assumed he was just thinning the forest around his house. My biology teacher, Mr. Kincaid, figured the forest around Pine Grove could do with some serious thinning. But it soon became obvious that the neighbor planned to remove all the trees on his lot. He'd started at his back door and had taken down every single tree that stood between his house and our property line. Then he moved downhill.
A stiff breeze growled through the branches of the lodgepole pines. The forest sounded angry. Or at least damn irritated. I gritted my teeth. If the next-door tree-slayer had wanted a damn lawn, why hadn't he bought a home in the city?
It wasn't the revving of the chainsaw that bothered me; it was the sound of the wood ripping as the trees fell. Not that I'm a tree hugger or anything. Mr. K. is one of my favorite teachers and if he says two out of three trees around my home need to go, I'm good with that. But clear cutting three acres for no apparent reason just seemed like wholesale murder to me.
Feeling edgy, I left my phone on the Jeep's hood and slid to my feet, pacing through the garage doors just in time to see a blue and white delivery van bouncing up the long, steep driveway toward the house. Automatically, I checked to make sure all of my hair was tucked into my blue slouch cap, just in case the driver happened to be cute. Mim knitted the cap for my birthday and I wear it all the time. It's easier than trying to make my hair behave. My hair is red. Dark red and thick. Thankfully, my eyebrows and lashes are darker and tamer. But trying to get a comb through my hair is like trying plow a field of scrub oak.
But I'd wasted my time worrying about my hair because the driver was disappointingly middle aged. And the shorts he was wearing were a bad fashion choice for a man with his knees. Maybe he thought his designer sunglasses balanced the look he had going. Sadly, the glasses fell a bit short of getting the job done.
The driver strolled around the side of his van and opened the rear doors. "No school today?" he asked, his jaw working around a big wad of pink gum.
"Four day weekend," I answered. "We're off Monday as well."
"Must be nice," he grunted. He used a dolly to move a tall wooden crate inside the empty garage bay where my mother normally parks her car. "I gotta get me a job as a teacher."
"The teachers don't get any time off. Friday and Monday are in-service days."
"Then I gotta get me a job as a student," he chuckled as if he found himself extremely entertaining.
"Where are the others?" I asked, eyeing the van's interior through the open doors.
He stopped chewing his gum long enough to ask, "Others?"
"My stepfather told me to expect three crates."
He checked his electronic clipboard and shrugged. "He must have sent them in separate shipments. Maybe the other two will make it tomorrow."
I lifted my chin in a slight nod and signed the clipboard, hoping Greg didn't expect me to wait at home again tomorrow.
"Name?" the driver asked without looking at my signature.
"MacKenzie," I answered. My handwriting wasn't that bad; he could have taken a look and figured it out.
"Last name," he corrected me.
"Campbell."
"Have a nice day," he rattled off mechanically before he returned to the van and steered it back down to the road.
"Thanks, I muttered. And as the dust settled on the gravel driveway, I stood alone with the wooden packing crate, wondering what national treasure Greg had deprived the British of this time. I even walked around it a few times inside the dark garage, looking for a crack or a loose panel that might give me a glimpse of what was inside. But the crate wasn't giving up any secrets. The step-person had done a good job of sealing the wooden box.
At that point, I should have given up and walked away. Greg had told me to call him when the shipment arrived and nothing more. He hadn't said one word about checking the contents. But even though I knew all that, I headed for the giant red tool chest at the far end of the garage.
Technically, the tool chest belonged to my father but he didn't have room for it in his garage in Denver. So after the divorce, he left it behind with us. The thing was massive and almost as tall as me. I love my dad but he tends to overdo everything. He can't do anything small. It always has to be big. Anyhow, I pulled out several drawers before I found what I wanted—a hefty claw-foot hammer. And with my hand wrapped around the red handle, I returned to the crate, determined to find out what was inside.
The crate was tall and each side was made up of two square wooden panels. So I grabbed a folding step stool from a hook on the garage wall and started working on the top one, inserting the tapered end of the claw foot beneath the slat of wood and prying away. But I might have put too much energy into the job because the entire square of wood suddenly came loose and got away from me. I yelped as it smacked the garage floor.
Teetering on the step stool, I eyed the contents of the crate, relieved that nothing seemed to be broken. And when I regained my balance, I took a closer look at Greg's treasure. It appeared to be some kind of stone sculpture swathed in several layers of bubble wrap.
&nbs
p; Bubble wrap! I could have killed the step-person for transporting it so carelessly. And I didn't even know what it was yet! But whatever it was, it was bound to be valuable or Greg wouldn't have…appropriated it. And, considering how anxious he was about its safe delivery, it was probably something quite a bit more valuable than usual. Hopefully it wasn't anything as important as a winged victory or a venus de milo, nothing that would send the International Police breathing down our necks.
Stretching my arms upward, I tugged the plastic bubble wrap apart along a seam, then reached inside to the next layer and pulled that apart as well. As the shape and form of the statue came into focus, I took a swift step backward, forgetting that I was standing on a stool. And for the next few heartbeats, I did a reasonable impression of a windmill, somehow managing to avoid a total wipe out and glad no one was around to see it.
Once I had my feet firmly back beneath me, I lifted my gaze to the crate again, just to make sure I'd seen what I thought I'd seen. A sharp gasp broke from my lips as I stood and stared.
I was looking at a statue of a young male. From beneath the shadow of a sharply jutting brow, two eyes gazed intently out at me. Several strands of hair fell across his left eye and I couldn't help but marvel at the skill required to chisel the impossibly slender strands out of solid rock. Looking closer, I saw that each eyelash was carved with the same incredible precision—out of the smoothest gray stone I'd ever set eyes on.
If my mom had been there, she could have told me what kind of stone had been used to create the amazing sculpture. She's a geological engineer and she knows her rocks. But it would have been hard to grow up in my home without the occasional geology lesson, and the fine-grained stone looked like a flint or chalcedony to me.
At that point, I'd pulled away enough bubble wrap to expose the statue's upper body. His shoulders were wide and stretched with muscle, his arms cut with a lean strength unlike anything I'd ever seen on any of the jocks at school. It didn't look like the sort of physique that had been developed through long hours in the weight room. Instead, it looked like the sort of raw power that was earned from a hard life full of physical demand. His arms were crossed over his chest and he wore a slight scowl on his face, the intensity of his gaze making me feel like he was watching me.
A shiver traveled down my spine but it wasn't because I was creeped out. It was more like a shiver of excitement, like the way you feel when you know something good is about to happen—like a Christmas morning feeling or a first kiss feeling. Not that I'd ever been kissed but you get what I mean. With a soft snort, I shook off the strange sensation and returned my attention to the job at hand.
It was dark inside the windowless garage, even with the lights on, and I wanted a better look at Greg's stolen treasure, so I put my hip against the crate and tried to angle the open side toward the sun. The box was heavy and it didn't budge much but I got it turned a few inches toward the light.
And after I'd worked more of the bubble wrap away from the statue's shoulders, I could see the beginning of wings spreading out behind him. Apparently, the sculpture was some kind of angel, though probably the avenging sort if his expression was anything to go by. But his wings weren't feathered or shaped like the wings normally associated with angels. Instead they were more like the wings of a bat, with flat spans of thin stone stretched between narrow spines.
He was magnificent, though. And not only as a work of art. I'd thought the yearbook editor, Josh Saxon, was good looking. But Josh had nothing on this guy. I'd never seen a more beautiful creature in my life.
With my finger, I traced a vein that tracked the length of his strong forearm, then I reached up to the delicately carved strands of hair that fell across his face. They were so slender and lifelike that I felt compelled to brush them out of his eyes. Of course, they were made of stone just like the rest of him and when I realized they weren't going to budge in my lifetime, I stepped back with my hands on my hips and raked my gaze over the fabulous sculpture. I didn't know how old it was but I'd have given anything to travel back to the time when guys looked like he did.
"They don't make guys like you anymore," I murmured, and lifted my face to meet his stern gaze.
Hooligan must have heard my voice from the other side of the lot because he suddenly reappeared at the garage doors. For some reason, he took an unexpected interest in the sculpture, lifting his front paws to its shoulders and looking it in the eye before giving a soft bark. I was surprised by his reaction because Hooli's usually pretty dignified. He doesn't like to do anything that makes him look silly.
"Out of the way, boy," I told him, ready to start work on the bottom panel so I could see the rest of the statue hidden in the lower half of the crate. But this time I didn't make much headway; the nails seemed determined to hang on. So I headed back to the tool chest for something a little more substantial. I was pretty sure I'd seen a crowbar in one of the drawers before. Naturally, it was in the last drawer I pulled out, which just happened to be the top one.
Unfortunately, as I reached for the heavy bar of metal, the tool chest tilted toward me. Too late, I realized I shouldn't have pulled out all the drawers; the chest had overbalanced. I tried to back peddle out of harm's way but wasn't fast enough. The chest crashed down on me, taking me to the floor. My head hit the concrete so hard I'm surprised I didn't crack my skull. I was probably only saved from permanent brain damage by the thick wad of hair stuffed into my hat.
Have you ever tried to get out from under two tons of red tool chest? In case you're wondering, it can't be done. And after like a dozen attempts to free myself, I started to panic. All ten of the open drawers had slammed into me as I fell and I hurt in too many places to count. My ribs were screaming in agony but my main concern was my right ankle. It felt like the bones were going to snap unless I got out from under the weight of the chest. I needed help but I'd left my phone on the hood of my car.
Hooligan licked my face, his troubled whine telling me that I had his full sympathy, for all the good that would do me. Then he turned and barked at the crate that held the statue.
"Don't bark at the damn statue," I moaned. "Get the phone, Hooligan."
He looked at me and tilted his head inquiringly.
"The phone Hooligan! It's on my car."
He turned and barked at the crate again.
Clearly, Hooligan didn't have much potential as a rescue dog. I lay there panting, trapped against the chilly concrete, trying to come up with a plan. I figured Mim might eventually wonder why I wasn't answering her calls and text messages, but she didn't have a car so she couldn't just run over to check on me. My mother wouldn't be home for ten days, but she'd probably send somebody to the house when she couldn't reach me on the phone later tonight. I just hoped she'd try Whitney or Mim first, before she called the police because the incident would probably be reported in the local newspaper. And everyone at school reads the "police calls" column when they want a good laugh.
The prospect was just too horrifying to even think about.
Although it hurt to breathe, I wasn't going to suffocate before help arrived—but by the time it did, my ankle might be broken. And when the sun went down, the temperatures would drop so hypothermia wasn't out of the question despite the fact that we were having a mild October. Of course, I might be able to count on Hooligan to stay close and keep me warm. On the other hand, if he got hungry he might be forced to eat me.
With another troubled whine, he licked my face and wagged his tail.
Okay, I was overreacting. Hooligan wasn't going to eat me.
Other than the tree-slayer next door, the nearest neighbor was about four acres away and wasn't likely to hear my screams for help. Of course, the tree-slayer would probably hear me if I waited for a pause in the chain sawing, but the thought of having to deal with him made my skin crawl.
Trying for calm, I looked around. The tools had fallen from the chest and were scattered across the concrete floor of the garage, the crowbar just out of reach. I
t was a fairly long piece of metal. If I could jam it between the floor and the tool chest…
I strained my hand toward the crowbar and tried to get my fingers around it but had no luck. Then I found the claw foot hammer beside my shoulder and tried to use it to drag the crowbar closer. But even with the hammer, I couldn't reach the curved end of the crowbar and all I managed to do was slide the straight end around on the floor.
With a groan, I stopped struggling and tried to decide what to do next. And when the distant snarl of the chainsaw puttered to a stop, I knew it was my best chance to call for help. Still, I hesitated, tears of pain and frustration wetting my eyelashes.
Hooligan lifted his huge head and barked again, then gave up his vigil at my side and loped off toward the front of the garage.
"Where are you going?" I cried, feeling suddenly deserted even though I figured he was probably going to look for help. But I knew he wouldn't go to the neighbor, who he disliked almost as intensely as I did. And I couldn't wait too much longer for my dog to find someone else.
So I lay on the cold concrete with my hand wrapped around the hammer's red handle and prayed for help and hesitated a little longer. But if I was going to get my neighbor's attention, I had to do it before he started his chainsaw again. So eventually, I took a deep breath and got ready to shout. Fortunately for me, rescue came before I had a chance to call out.
"Hang on," growled a young male voice. "I've got you."
A large hand caught the upper edge of the tool chest. Then the chest was back on its wheels, bouncing a little as it traveled a few feet and slammed into the wall. Then strong hands were gripping my waist and lifting me to my feet. But I couldn't see my rescuer's face because my knitted hat had slipped over my eyes as he'd swept me from the floor. Reaching up, I shoved the hat back…and looked up into astonishingly blue eyes filled with concern.