In the recent annals of any country or region, a person would struggle to find more devious acts attributed to a single person without motive or monetary gain than those acts committed by one Leon Steach. A pseudonym for this version of life he would claim to be living, Mr. Steach (that's SH-TECK, for those readers who wonder and then become caught up on the names of things or people) simply did what he did—the thefts, assassinations, the conning—because he wanted to. He already had wealth, from a source he'd never admit, and because he worked, lived, and preferred being alone, the loss of life—or rather, his taking of it—never bothered him in the slightest. It was simply one less mouth for the world to feed. More oxygen for the rest of them. For him.
But since some of his crimes had been recorded in the local papers and, in effect, the annals of history, he had taken up a keen interest in historical records. Even those of myths and legends became the point of his fascination and he used the knowledge for much more than completing the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle. There was treasure to be had among those myths and from those Gods that thousands from different peoples believed had walked the earth. The Golden Hand of Midas. The Lost Dutchman Mine. Even the treasures recorded in Nordic Sagas, those supposedly long ago hidden, protected, or destroyed by dragons. No myth has so far been too far-fetched or fantastical for Mr. Steach's attention.
When a small publication advertising by contract for the tourism department of Oaxaca released its first of five articles detailing the unique history of the Mexican state and the associated attractions that tourists could visit in order to absorb said history, Mr. Steach had barely a moment to read the article in its entirety before his proverbial mouth began watering. Full of mystery and a touch of the supernatural, Oaxaca's past promised a wealth of artifacts for the taking. And, had Mr. Steach (who, at the time, was operating under a completely different pseudonym) not already been working on a certain scheme in the Caribbean, he would have taken full advantage of the open countryside and unchallenging (for him) immigration protocols.
The delightful article, written by a first-year intern, undoubtably, rather than speak of the beautiful coastline to which so many tourists are already drawn, detailed instead the ancient history related to the Zapotec Civilization, Mount Albán and its importance to both the past and present communities, and the strange occurrences that spoke to a supernatural influence. The writer might have delved into or at least quoted from dozens of local orations, but the young scribe focused her prose on that of a small bronze statue that had inspired an entire town into a centuries-long obsession.
What might have become a rivalry between towns sharing a border, in actuality became a barely-remembered game of hot potato in regard to the statue. Some thought it haunted, others assumed it had been graced by God. Some, perhaps, believed in the return of Zapotec deities. The statue at last given (delivered to, forced upon, whatever verb one wants to use to indicate that the original possessors of the statue were more than happy to part ways with the object) to the people of what would become San Luis Amatlán, it disappeared and reappeared in its place of honor in the city plaza just short of a dozen times. Each time, the statue had been returned (or, as the Zapotec deity believers would say, when it returned on its own) with a new mark upon it. The statue, originally of French King Louis IX, is said to have returned the first time with a jewel affixed to the center of its crown where none had been before. The next return revealed a golden flourish melted onto the King's neck. It stood out prominently against the bronze and the paint that had once adorned it was allegedly brightly repainted upon the third return. By the time the statue had returned an eleventh time, it was so gilded and adorned with jewels, it was hardly the modest statue it had been.
It was taken a twelfth time, but it did not make a return. Thought stolen by selfish travelers or thieves who had, no doubt, melted it for the metals and jewels, the statue became nearly forgotten. Only to be recalled, on occasion, by the descendants of the city dwellers who'd lived to see the statue adorned in its glory. Or by the studious intern of a fledgling publication desperate for any contracts floated its way.
Mr. Steach's interest wasn't in the historical, religious, or mystical ties the statue had, but in the idea that someone out there had the statue or the remnants of it. He wanted to be that someone. He wanted that statue, and he would kill for it, even if he didn't have to. That was part of the recipe for a good heist; he couldn't just leave out a key ingredient, now could he?
YOU ARE READING
The Stirlings and the Missing Statue
Teen FictionFour siblings go up against an expert thief who isn't afraid to get a little blood on his hands to get what he wants. The kids don't quite know what they're doing and can never get along even in the simplest situations, so they might not have what i...
