Dateline: Atlantis by Lynn Voedisch Read Free Book Online

through twisting and—to Amaryllis—torturous movements. She turned when the teacher wasn’t looking and caught Fiona’s eye. Fiona gestured with her chin toward the door. Without a sound, the two of them swept up their mats and escaped. Twenty minutes later, they were in a bar on Sunset Strip enjoying Guinness stout.
    Fiona is rock solid. I better listen to her .
    â€œOkay, okay,” Amaryllis says, letting out a withheld sigh. “I’ll talk to Wright about getting out of this quitting business gracefully. It was a stupid idea.”
    Fiona nods.
    â€œBut it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
    Fiona sighs with a rush of withheld air and turns to the sink, her back to Amaryllis. She rinses out her ale glass and places it in a neat row of cups and mugs in her dishwasher. Amaryllis can’t believe that even the inside of Fiona’s appliance is neat.
    â€œMaybe we ought to go over this burglary again and see if there’s something you’re forgetting,” she says, flipping the dishwasher door closed with care. They move to the living room and flop on the deep, soft cushions of the burgundy velvet couch. Amaryllis spills all she knows, from the wondrous days of exploring the caves and pyramids, to the paranoia when the flood buried the treasures, to the anxious flight home. She natters away right up to the point of leaving Garret at home with his precious bag of film. She leaves out the story of the crystal. That’s her own secret, but she reaches into her purse to feel for the silky texture of the dazzling ball. It doesn’t leave her side anymore.
    â€œSo Lucas said, ‘I’ll get these developed right away.’ He was pointing to the camera bags of traditional, light-sensitive film. The digital images he was going to e-mail to me as soon as he could.” She remembers him leaving the taxicab, heaving his heavy bags onto his shoulders and scurrying up the empty walk to his bungalow. The owner was chipping away at flaking brick-work. No one else was around.
    â€œAfter that,” she tells Fiona, “I rushed back to the cab and gave directions to my place in West Hollywood.”
    Fiona asks about the cabbie, and Amaryllis sees little chunks of remembered scenes, playing like interrupted film clips in her head. Little dreams, maybe jet-lag hallucinations. The driver was a standard American WASP type, which, now that she thinks of it, is odd. Most cabbies are from some other country, and many cannot speak English at all. But this guy was as whitebread as a Joe in a sitcom. She shifts in the couch as more memories flood in.
    â€œThe weird thing is how he didn’t have to wait in the taxi queue,” she says, her gaze drifting into space. “He just whipped up there as if we had ordered a private ride. In fact,” Amaryllis presses her brow as she fights for focus, “he seemed to be expecting us.”
    â€œAnd that didn’t seem odd to you at the time?”
    â€œNo. We were too preoccupied with keeping the baggage safe. Garret didn’t want to let him touch a thing.”
    Fiona bobs her sandal on the pedicured toes of her crossed foot. “What did you talk about in the cab?”
    Amaryllis leans back on the couch in exasperation.
    â€œI don’t think we spoke at all. Directions, mainly. Garret asked the chauffeur about the weather while we were gone—as if there were ever any weather in L.A. The cabbie seemed to perk up. He mentioned Garrett’s dark crimson sunburn, and, yes, Garret told the guy we’d been to Mexico.”
    Fiona winces.
    The words are pouring out now, as Amaryllis remembers the entire scene with Garret complaining about the Mexican sun, the cabbie wondering if we’d been in Cancún. Did we miss the tropical storm that had been raging through the area? Did we do all the touristy stuff? He just was far too interested in our trip, Amaryllis thought, when he should have been jaded after