In Case of Mortal Peril

The light was fading in the northern windows of Samantha’s loft. Putting her paintbrush into a waiting cup of turpentine, she shook her arms at her sides while examining the portrait she was painting of a local banker. Corporate paintings like these were her bread and butter now. Sure, she still submitted a work or two to community gallery showings, but she was never going to be world renowned. However, she paid her bills and occasionally she could go somewhere unusual for vacation.

She washed out her brushes, covered her palette, and poured out the herbal tea that had gone cold hours ago. Her tortoise shell long haired cat watched her impatiently from the kitchenette.

“I know that you still have food in your bowl, Priscilla,” Samantha scolded, walking over. “Okay, you do need fresh water,” she conceded, as she retrieved the dish and washed it out. A quick check of the freezer revealed a single serving lasagna from an alternate food grocery down the block. After starting it in the oven, she went to retrieve her mail from the main floor of the apartment building. She nodded at a sculptor maneuvering a large block into his ground floor apartment, while she unlocked her mail box.

The padded envelope inside took her by surprise. Collecting the rest of the envelopes, Samantha looked over the padded one for a return address to no avail. The postal stamped showed that it was mailed within her own zip code. Odd. Maybe it was some promotional thing?

Samantha opened it in the kitchenette after making sure the lasagna wasn’t burned yet. Inside was a small package wrapped in brown paper and a handwritten note.

You do not know me, Senorita Miller. I am sending you this money and letter on the behalf of our mutual friend, Miguel Apaza.

Samantha stopped reading and opened the small package. Tightly banded together was a stack of two hundred $100 dollar bills. She stared at the $20,000 in disbelief. Why would Miguel send her so much money? She went back to the letter.

Miguel’s family is in trouble. They made a very dangerous enemy years ago. As you may recall, Miguel’s father was a business man in Lima, and his grandfather was a shaman in a small village deep in the jungle. There was a power struggle in the village back when you were at the artist retreat. A man was trying to convince the villagers that the artifacts of their ancestors were cursed and offered to take them away for the villagers safety. Of course, he then sold the artifacts on the black market; however, the villagers did not know that. The harvests had been bad, so they believed this man over Miguel’s grandfather. They demanded he give the man the artifacts, but their shaman sent them to Lima to keep them safe instead. Miguel’s father did not want to be caught with the artifacts, so he told Miguel to put them somewhere safe.

I do not know where Miguel put them, but he says that you will be able to find them. That you just need to remember October 15th. Please find these artifacts, senorita. Miguel is now being charged with smuggling and needs those artifacts to prove his innocence. But be careful, his enemy is still looking for them also. Use the money for transportation and other expenses. Do what you need to do to bring those artifacts back to Lima.

Samantha reread the letter several times, but it was unsigned as it had been unaddressed. She remembered Miguel clearly. They met at an artist retreat in Peru, ran by one of his university art professors. Samantha’s ceramics professor was a close friend and the two created a retreat for their graduate students to create a cultural awareness gallery exhibition to be shown in the States. Samantha’s work had been a painting, depicting Miguel as he created Huaco pottery. Both art students thought it a ingenious idea.

The smell of burnt marinara caught her attention then. She quickly rescued her dinner from the oven. Leaving it on the counter to cool, Samantha retrieved her black moleskin journal from the art retreat from her desk. For the life of her, she had no idea why October 15th was so important. Flipping through the pages, she remembered the good times they had at the retreat and the night they went clubbing in Lima before her plane left.

Turning to October 15th, Samantha found that someone had written in the margins. As she traced the strong smooth writing, she recognized Miguel’s handwriting.

Mi ángel, I have hidden something precious in my portrait pot. When the time comes, I will ask you to break it open and set it free.

“Well, the time has come,” she sighed. “Guess I better ask Prof. Olsen where our pieces are.” Searching the faculty website, she made sure that she still had the correct email address. Her query was short. Samantha felt that the situation was too weird to describe in text.

The next morning, Samantha deposited $10,000 into her account at a local bank, explaining to the bank clerk that she had done a family portrait for an eccentric senior citizen that only used cash. If she was going to get plane tickets, it would look suspicious if she paid cash for them. Then she exchanged several hundred dollars for Peruvian Sols at an international bank. The rest of the money she kept with her.

It was while she was eating her lunch when Prof. Olsen’s reply came. Most of the original collection had been auctioned off during the years to fund other art retreats, but she still had a few. Miguel’s portrait pot was still in her office because she used it during some of her lectures. Samantha looked up Prof. Olsen’s office hours and sent back a message that she wished to visit in a couple of days. Hopefully the professor would let her buy Miguel’s pot with the money she still had on her.

Samantha reread her old moleskin journal on the flight east. There were no messages from Miguel on the other pages, thankfully. She had mixed feelings about knowing that he had actually looked inside, but decided that under the circumstances she could overlook the invasion of privacy. As far as she knew, he had only looked at that one page. She reread the anonymous letter again. It had to be real. How else would the writer know the date she needed to look at in her journal?

In Prof. Olsen’s office, Samantha greeted her old mentor warmly. “So why the interest in Miguel’s work?” she asked.

“His family is hoping I would be able to get it back to them,” she explained. “I’ve been authorized to offer you $2000 for it.”

Prof. Olsen’s face was a mixture of shock and concern. “Is he all right?”

“He’s stable at the moment, but we’re not sure how long that will last.”

“$2000 would help with this year’s retreat. Though I loathe giving up such a wonderful piece.” she said sincerely. “But to help Miguel’s family, I will take the offer.”

Samantha handed her the cash, and then paused. “Here’s another thousand,” she said. “They told me to barter first.”

She shook her head. “Give the money back to them.”

Samantha nodded and with the professor’s help, they boxed up the portrait pot, with its mirthful face and subtle colors.

“The one thing that has always fascinated me about this piece is the fact Miguel filled it so carefully,” Prof. Olsen said. “I asked Paulo about it and said that was probably just a personal choice on Miguel’s part - combining an effigy vessel with a reliquary.”

“We were trying to combine two cultures,” Samantha reminded her.

Back at the hotel, Samantha considered just mailing the pot back, but she had no idea exactly where to address it, and Miguel’s instructions were to break it open. Staring at the box for several minutes, she came to a decision.

“I’m going to break you open in Peru,” she said out loud. “But first I will need to add some of my own pieces to your box.”

Five days later, Samantha was in a hotel room in Lima, carefully removing pieces of a cast bronze standing mobile she had made back in college, using the mini crowbar she purchase after landing. The many brass shapes appeared to have discouraged security from examining her crate more closely. Releasing a long sigh of relief, she pulled out the portrait pot. It was a shame to break it. To assuage her guilt, she took out her phone and took a series of pictures of the pot.

Putting her phone away, she picked the crowbar and hit the ceramic pot. She hadn’t expected sawdust to flow out of it. She was going to have a devil of a time getting it out of the carpet. She hit it again, widening the cracks.

Kneeling, Samantha began pulling carved and crafted relics from the sawdust. Looking at the top from the inside, she could see a plug of wax and where Miguel had glued a curved ceramic cover in the back. As she checked the bottom of the pot, she found a small black moleskin journal that resembled her own. She opened it to the first page.

Samantha, you have very good taste in notebooks, mi ángel. For your own safety, Please perform the following ceremony before you do anything else with these relics. Then you can bring them to me.

Thankfully the instructions were in English, or Samantha would have been second guessing her interpretations of the strange steps. She hadn’t expected the sawdust to actually be a part of the circle she was required to make. As she stood to check its roundness, a bullet went through the window.

“Crap,” she whispered, as she hid behind the bed. “I thought Miguel was exaggerating about enemies.” She froze when the lights in the room went out. She couldn’t remember the emergency number in Peru. She only knew it wasn’t 911.

A fluttering noise and a glow caught her attention. It was Miguel’s notebook. It seemed to be beckoning her to finish the ritual as the sounds of pounding started on her door.

Not knowing what else to do, Samantha put the relics into position and repeated the words phonetically written in front of her. The glow of the notebook swirled over each artifact and then around her. She stood enveloped in the glow, as the door splintered open. A black gloved hand reached through and opened it. Three rifles were pointed at her.

“Give us the relics!” a gruff voice demanded.

“They don’t want to go with you,” she said as an unnatural calmness filled her. “They are calling for someone else.”

“Shut up and give us the relics!”

It was then when the police showed up behind the thugs and arrested them. The glow left Samantha and she collapsed in a shivering heap on the floor. “Miguel Apaza,” she whispered. “He was protecting these.” Her vision went black.

When Samantha woke up in a hospital bed. Near her sat a guard, who called for a nurse. Samantha’s vitals were taken, and food ordered. While waiting, an older man came into the room.

“Senorita Miller, I am Luiz Apaza. You know my son.”

She nodded. “Is he okay now?”

Senor Apaza gave her a big smile. “He will be released after the paperwork clears. I wanted you to know that our family is in your debt, please be our guest for as long as you wish.”

“So many questions,” Samantha said softly. She could feel herself slipping back to into sleep.

“Some things have no answers,” he told her.