Cries from the Lost Island

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  “Bought himself a two-week trip to the whorehouses in Thailand. Came home bow-legged and dripping. Took massive doses of antibiotics to clear it up, I guess.”

  I grimaced. “Could we get back to my delusions? The visual images are way more pleasant.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure.” Roberto’s forehead knotted in deep thought. “Anyway, you get it now, right? You may not be crazy, and you may not be seeing a ghost.”

  My thoughts started to churn. Though I felt better about what had happened at Starbucks, the new direction of my thoughts did not ease my nerves. “But if that’s true, then Moriarity, or someone else, staged the whole thing.”

  “Totally. Hired a girl that looked like Cleo from the back. Fired some rifle shots, got her to scream. Pretty simple stuff when you think about it.”

  “Jesus.” I flopped back in my chair. “Do you really think so?”

  “Makes the most sense.” He shoved one of the wineglasses across the table to me. “Now, sit and let’s talk about this rationally. If the chick isn’t Cleo, you need to stop going catatonic every time you see her. You’re playing right into Moriarity’s hands.”

  I took a long drink of cabernet and shivered, which had nothing to do with the wine, but Roberto said, “Try some sugar. Makes it drinkable.”

  Just as he shoved the flowered bowl across the table to me, I heard my parents’ Lexus pull into the driveway outside, followed by another car.

  We both upended and drained our glasses.

  “You wash the glasses, Hal. I’ll stash the bottle.”

  I jumped up to obey, while Roberto carried the half-full bottle over and hid it in the garbage can under a bunch of greasy paper towels. As though he didn’t have a care in the world, he wiped his hands on his hair and ambled over to look out the window.

  “Bad news, Hal,” he said. “The second car is a sheriff’s cruiser.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By the time my parents opened the front door and walked inside with the officer, Roberto and I were slouched on the living room sofa with our hiking boots braced on the coffee table.

  Mom gave Roberto an evil look, pointed to the front door, and said, “Go home, Robert.”

  “Oh, okay.” Roberto exchanged a glance with me and walked for the door. “Call me later, Hal.”

  “Yeah.”

  I eyed the sheriff’s deputy. I didn’t know him. He’d never interviewed me before. Young, maybe mid-twenties, he had black hair, brown eyes, and a scowl. His silver badge reflected the light streaming through the windows. I had grown sick to death of these interviews. Couldn’t they leave me alone? I’d told them everything I knew on the first day.

  “Let’s go into the kitchen to talk,” Mom said. As she walked across the room, she pulled off her black sweater and tossed it onto a chair. “Deputy McDougal, may I get you a something to drink? A cup of coffee?”

  “No, thank you, Dr. Stevens.”

  Mom and Dad walked toward the kitchen.

  Just before Roberto stepped outside, he drew a couple of pentagrams in the air, plus some other squiggles, and seemed to cast them at me. He mouthed the word protection spell.

  I gave him a thumbs-up.

  When Roberto was gone, Dad called, “Can you please come into the kitchen, Hal.”

  I rose and went to my chair at the table, where I sank down and waited for the bad news, which is what it had to be. The deputy pulled out a chair beside me.

  “How are you today, son?”

  “I’m not your son, sir.”

  Mom made a threatening sound deep in her throat, but I tried not to notice.

  The deputy started over. “Sorry. How are you today, Hal? Do you prefer Hal or Halloran?”

  “Hal is fine.”

  While Dad busied himself making a pot of coffee, Mom eased down onto the chair at the end of the table, and said, “Deputy McDougal was a participant in a meeting we had today at the police department, as was Dr. Moriarity. We have granted the deputy a few minutes to speak with you.”

  “I want an attorney.”

  “We have waived your right to an attorney in this instance, Hal,” Mom said.

  “I’m not saying a word without an attorney present.” I clenched my jaw.

  Mom started to say something really unpleasant, but Dad cut her off: “That’s okay, Hal. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. You can just listen.”

  Deputy McDougal seemed to be trying to decide how to proceed. Clearly, he’d planned on talking with me, maybe even needed to talk with me. But after a few seconds, he turned away and looked at the end of the table where Mom sat and Dad stood with his hands on the back of her chair.

  “At today’s meeting, Dr. Moriarity laid out the details of the trip he has planned to Egypt. While we are hesitant to allow your son to leave the country—”

  I blurted, “You can’t stop me! You have no evidence that I have committed a crime.”

  “What I’m trying to tell you, Hal, is that the final results of the autopsy just came in this morning,” the deputy said. “And our office agrees that it may be safer for you to be away for a while.”

  “The autopsy?” I said in a quavering voice. No one had told me there had been an autopsy. But, of course, there had been an autopsy. It was a murder case. The idea of Cleo being cut apart . . .

  Without realizing it, I squeezed my eyes closed and sagged forward to prop my elbows on the table. Grieving, I whispered, “What did you find?”

  Deputy McDougal waited a short while, giving me time, I guess, before he answered, “Ms. Mallawi tried to fight off her attacker. And she got a piece of her. The blood beneath Ms. Mallawi’s fingernails belongs to a woman.”

  I sat there like a speechless lump.

  Mom said, “So you think she was killed by a woman?”

  “Obviously, at this point, we can only say she fought with a woman, but it seems likely that her attacker was also her killer. We have no evidence that anyone else was involved. However, this is an ongoing investigation.”

  I looked up at him with tears in my eyes. When had that happened? “Sir, did you find any other evidence left by the woman? Tracks, murder weapon?”

  The deputy shook his head. “No. But the rainstorm washed away a wealth of evidence. By the time we got there, the only tracks we could find belonged to you and Mr. Dally.”

  “What about the claw marks? Did you find out how they were made? Did the woman have a knife? Or was she—”

  “Our forensic experts are still analyzing that information, so I’m not at liberty to answer that question.”

  I must have looked terrible. Everyone was staring at me like my face had turned green.

  God bless Dad. He cleared his throat and Mom and Deputy McDougal turned away from me to look at him. “Why do you think it’s safer if Hal goes away for a while?”

  McDougal studied me for five awful seconds, before he said, “In Hal’s initial discussion with Officer Sackett, he told him he thought an Egyptian demon named Ammut, wearing an Egyptian Army uniform, killed Ms. Mallawi.”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  “Is Ammut male or female?”

  “I . . . female, I think, but I’m pretty sure the demon can appear as either. Why?”

  He shrugged, as though it didn’t really matter. “Just curious. There is a cult in Denver that worships Ammut, among other demons. Their high priest is a pretty scary guy. Has multiple felonies on his record.”

  From a locked door somewhere inside me, Cleo’s voice whispered: She and her priests have successfully kept me from reaching the Island of the Two Flames for over two thousand years.

  Dad said, “Then you think members of the cult killed Cleo?”

  “I have no evidence to suggest that, but we are checking into all possible leads.”

  Placing my hands on either
side of my skull, I pressed hard, trying to force out the lingering images I had conjured of the autopsy. “Thank you. Really.”

  Mom had never been known for being subtle. She stood up and gestured to the front door. “My son is finished speaking with you, Deputy. Have a nice trip back to your office.”

  McDougal looked a little startled at being told to leave. “Oh, well, thank you. I appreciate the opportunity to speak with your son.”

  “Of course, you do. Goodbye,” Mom said.

  While Dad led the cop to the door, Mom sat down again and silently glowered at the tabletop. We both jumped when the front door closed. Dad walked back into the kitchen and dropped onto a chair beside Mom.

  His voice was ominous. “Well, what do you think, Jenna?”

  Mom lightly ran a hand through her short blonde hair. When she looked up at me, her professional look was gone. She was really worried. “I want you to answer me, Hal. Do you have the medallion that Dr. Moriarity is looking for?”

  “N-no,” I stammered. Why had Moriarity told them about the medallion? Had he wanted them to turn my room upside down searching for it? “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us that he’d asked you about an ancient medallion?”

  “Because I didn’t have it, so it didn’t seem important.”

  “It is important. Very important,” Mom said. “Dr. Moriarity suspects that Cleo was attacked by someone trying to find that medallion. Which means, if you have it, they may come for you next.”

  Time seemed to stop between two heartbeats. Nothing moved. If Ammut’s priests would kill a sixteen-year-old girl for the medallion, they would certainly kill me. They must want it badly. Why? Was one of the Denver whackos a Sem priest? Oh, God . . .

  Dad leaned toward me. “Hal? Are you all right? You just went pale.”

  My parents were watching me like vultures, just waiting for me to keel over so they could pick my mental bones clean.

  I took a deep breath. “Is that why you agreed to let me go to Egypt?”

  Dad held my gaze. “You’ve always wanted to go to Egypt, son. We think it will be emotionally healing for you to do that.”

  Mom added, “But we also think you’ll be safer out of the country until they can catch the murderer. Dr. Moriarity agrees.”

  “What about Roberto? He’s a target, too.”

  “We know,” Dad said. “Dr. Moriarity has spoken with Robert’s parents, and they’ve agreed to allow him to accompany you to Egypt. You’re leaving at the end of the month.”

  I sat up straighter. “That’s only three weeks. That’s not much time to prepare.”

  “No, it’s not, but we’ll help you.”

  “How?”

  Mom rose from her chair and went to the sink to wash her hands, which I found a little curious. Did she feel soiled after talking with the deputy? She dried her hands on a paper towel and opened the cabinet door to toss it in the garbage. Something seemed to have caught her eye, but she said, “Your father is going to buy supplies and archaeological equipment for you, while I take care of making appointments for the infectious disease shots you’ll need. Dr. Moriarity will get the necessary visas for you to enter the country. You’ll be listed as members of his field crew. Egypt will only allow you to stay for one month.”

  I closed my eyes and nodded as though exhausted, which I was. “Okay. Good. Thanks. I’m going to my room.”

  As I rose from my chair, I saw Mom’s eyes widen suddenly, and I trotted up the stairs. When I reached the landing at the top, I turned back. Mom stood curiously examining the garbage. It took a few seconds for her to decide to stick her hand in the mess and shove aside the greasy paper towels. The curious look on her face changed to one of horror.

  “Dear God!” she yelled loud enough for it to echo through the house. “There’s a $7,000 bottle of wine in the garbage!”

  I tiptoed into my bedroom and closed the door.

  Nobody came up to yell at me, so I spent most of the day curled on my bed, sleeping, climbing to the top of the ancient lighthouse with Cleo.

  It would have been okay with me if I’d never woken up.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The day we left, we insisted our parents not accompany us to the airport. Instead, we said goodbye in Georgetown, and rode to the airport with Dr. Moriarity, who kept glancing suspiciously at my carry-on shoulder bag. Maybe because the tan canvas bag had belonged to Cleo or maybe because he knew what it contained.

  As we proceeded through the serpentine line toward the security checkpoint, I fell as far back as I could. I didn’t want Moriarity to be watching the X-ray monitor when my shoulder bag went through.

  “Roberto? Keep him busy for me, will you?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Roberto went through the line ahead of me, picked up his carry-on—his worn-out gym bag—and proceeded to join Moriarity on the other side of security, where he engaged Moriarity in a lively conversation.

  By the time I’d stepped out of the body scanner, a redheaded TSA agent already had my bag in his hands. “Is this your bag? You don’t mind if I open it, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  The man carried my bag to the rear, unzipped it, and pulled out small metal box where I kept the medallion safe. He examined it, apparently decided it was just a piece of jewelry and put it back in the box. After he shoved the box into my shoulder bag, he handed me the bag and said, “Have a nice day.”

  “Thank you.”

  I slipped the strap over my shoulder and walked out to meet Roberto and Moriarity.

  So far so good.

  In the fluorescent light, Moriarity’s graying brown hair and beard looked more silver, almost white. He had a knowing expression on his face, as though no one had to tell him why it had taken me so long to get through security. Like a laser, his gaze focused on my bag.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. My laptop is in the bag. They had to turn it on and stare at the screen for a while.”

  “Uh-huh,” Moriarity said as though he didn’t believe a word of it. He checked his watch. “All right, boys, we have two hours before our flight. Let’s go find some lunch. I didn’t have breakfast. I’m starving.”

  Moriarity turned right and walked toward the Elway’s restaurant in Concourse B.

  We followed.

  Keeping him in sight wasn’t difficult. The professor wore light green chinos and a tan shirt with hiking boots. His fedora was classic Indiana Jones, including the ingrained dust and soot, presumably from sitting around a thousand campfires at exotic archaeological sites. The man had been twitchy all morning, irritable, clearly eager to get out of America.

  Denver International Airport was bustling. Dodging the numerous baby strollers, shrieking children, rolling bags, and rushing people took real concentration, which wasn’t easy given that the overhead loudspeakers kept calling out names and announcing departing flights. I felt a little overwhelmed by it all.

  When we reached the door of the Elway’s, the front of my red T-shirt was damp. I shook sweat-soaked blond hair out of my eyes and surveyed the crowded restaurant.

  Over the din of conversations, I said, “Do you see him, Roberto?”

  “No. Oh, wait. There he is.” Roberto pointed. “Way in the back.”

  Moriarity waved to us from where he sat with a menu open in front of him. We worked our way around the tables. I was proud of myself. I only stumbled over the luggage in the middle of the floor twice. After I’d almost tumbled into the laps of the idiots who’d left them there, it was a little curious to me that they made no attempt to move them. I must not understand airport etiquette. Probably because it’s an oxymoron. When we slid into the booth on the opposite side from Moriarity, he tossed us the menu.

  “The Smash Burger is good,” he said and began scannin
g the crowd like a cop, squinting at people before his gaze moved on. What was he looking for? A person?

  “I don’t like Smash Burgers,” Roberto countered, and sank back against the booth. Since I had the menu, Roberto folded his arms across his chest, and examined Moriarity. A curious expression came over his face. He asked, “So. Once we get to Egypt, what then?”

  Moriarity waited until the waitress had set his beer in front of him, took a long drink, and used his tan sleeve to wipe the foam from his beard. “Then, Robert, you’re mine.”

  Roberto stared at Moriarity. The staring match lasted so long I felt like there was some sort of struggle of wills going on, and I suspected it presaged the month ahead.

  “I’m having the chicken-fried steak burrito,” I announced and handed Roberto the menu.

  Moriarity took another drink of beer. “To answer your question, as soon as we get off the plane, we’re going to pick up the Jeep my student has left for us in the parking lot, then head out into the depths of the Egyptian desert. We will be completely out of contact. Keep that in mind. And it’s going to be a long hard hike. The sand is too deep to drive the Jeep to my friend’s cave.”

  My heart rate quickened. “Samael Saqqara? The man who helped excavate the mysterious medallion you keep talking about?”

  Moriarity pinned me with bottomless black eyes. “That’s right, Hal. For a few hours, or maybe days, it’s just going to be you two and me, hiking alone through sand dunes that seem to go on forever. The entire region is swarming with insurgents, not just Daesh, but tribal groups and local militias. They are well-armed and brutal, and they hate Americans. We cannot allow ourselves to be captured. I’m not trying to scare you, but I don’t know if you two flabby boys are up to it. Don’t either of you engage in sports? Football? Basketball? Maybe a little baseball?”

  Still absorbed by the menu, Roberto didn’t look up when he said, “Gangster Cyclops from Centaurus: Death Mission Edition. Become Death, bro. Way more interesting than a couple of dudes tossing their balls around.”

  Moriarity looked distressed by being called bro. He took another long drink of beer. “You’re really are obsessed with death, aren’t you?”