Cries from the Lost Island

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  LaSalle shook her head. “Not Antonius. We know from historical records that she cleansed his body, prepared him for the afterlife, and buried him with her own hands.”

  I said, “That’s the version Gaius Julius allowed to survive. So we know it’s the version he wanted us to believe. But we don’t know if it’s true or not.”

  “Correct.”

  Clouds of dust rose as two cars drove up the road and pulled into the parking lot with the other vehicles. Men in uniforms stepped out. The soldiers who guarded the site trotted over to meet them, then they all walked together toward the cook tent.

  “Changing of the guard?” I asked.

  “Yes. Six in, six out.”

  Though my brain was foggy, something interesting had occurred to me. Had my attack last night been merely a distraction? When I’d yelled, the entire camp had awakened and rushed toward me, which would have given the criminal time to vandalize the entwined skeletons. But that would mean two people had been working together: my attacker and the vandal.

  LaSalle rose to her feet. “Thank you for showing me this. I’ll need to get approval from the Egyptian authorities to finish excavating here, so I’m going to tell you exactly the same thing Samael did: Please, cover it back up for now.”

  “Okay.”

  Scooping up the dirt, we filled in the small hole she’d excavated, and rose to our feet. The instant I straightened, I felt nauseous again, and shaky. I was starting to feel really awful. “If you don’t mind, I might go lie down in our tent for a while.”

  “Feeling sick, Hal?” Roberto asked.

  “Just a little. Nothing to worry about.”

  LaSalle nodded. “Good idea. Get some rest. When you feel better, come and see me in the temple. While Hal sleeps, do you want to help me excavate the temple, Robert?”

  “Nope. I’m staying with Hal. Thanks. See you later.”

  LaSalle waved and turned to walk toward the temple.

  As we headed back to our tent, I saw Mike Bates trotting toward the entwined skeletons. When he arrived, a shouting match broke out. Above all the other voices, I could hear him yelling, “I didn’t do it!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Each step I took heading back across the site felt like a hammer swung into my skull. My heart was thundering in my chest as the pain level increased.

  Roberto seemed to sense it. He slowed down to walk at my side. “You okay?”

  “Sick,” I whispered. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Lacey was right this morning. You should have stayed in bed.”

  “You’re the one who stayed awake all night. You should sleep, too.”

  “When you’re better, it’ll be my turn.”

  “I think you should do it now. It’s broad daylight. No one would dare attack us in our own tent in broad daylight. And you look terrible. Your eyes are puffy.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  As we continued forward, I frowned at the wind. Icy air blew in my face, but it wasn’t constant. Sometimes it shoved me so hard I had to brace myself so I wouldn’t stagger. Other times, it turned hot, unbearably hot. Then it suddenly stopped altogether, as though holding its breath, waiting for me to understand. It was frighteningly animate. When it stopped, I felt certain something or someone had blocked it, and that something was towering above me, evaluating me with sparkling inhuman eyes.

  “Weird cold wind,” I said.

  “Cold?” Roberto asked. “It feels like a blow torch.”

  “Oh. Thanks for telling me.”

  When we reached our tent, I practically fell to my knees and crawled inside. I managed to lie down before I collapsed in a heap.

  Roberto ducked under the flap. “I’m going to lie down, too, but I’m not sleeping, just resting my eyes with my pistol in my hand.”

  “I think it’s safe for you to sleep for a while, too.”

  “No chance. I don’t trust anybody, ’cept you.”

  Roberto dragged over his pack, unzipped one of the compartments, and I heard pills rattle as he shook them out. “Where’s your water bottle?”

  Basking in the darkness behind my closed eyes, I said, “There’s one stuffed into the middle compartment of my pack.”

  Roberto rummaged around for a few seconds, then he came to kneel beside me. “Take these, Hal.”

  I opened one eye to see three white tablets and a water bottle. Swallowing the aspirin all at once, I washed them down with water, and handed the bottle back to Roberto. “Thanks.”

  The sound of the mesh screen being zipped closed filled the tent, then I felt Roberto stretch out on his sleeping bag beside me. Metal clinked against metal, as he tucked the pistol down the front of his pants. When I briefly opened my eyes, I saw his fingers go tight around the pistol grips.

  Softly, he said, “Hal, do you think it was Bates who attacked you last night?”

  “Could have been. Didn’t sound like his voice, though.”

  Shifting around for a comfortable position, his jeans made a scratchy sound against his nylon bag. “What about Jones? He’s the one I’d peg for the job.”

  “Could have been.”

  “I know you didn’t see his face, but can you guess how tall he was? How much he weighed?”

  Pulling my pillow over my eyes, I covered it with both arms, pressing down to block out as much light as I could. My headache felt a little better, though sparks flitted and soared through the blackness. “He was shorter than me. When he had his mouth against my ear, I could feel his toes digging for purchase above my hiking boots. So . . . I don’t know, maybe he was five foot six. As to weight, I’d say around one-sixty.”

  “There are probably fifty guys here that meet that description. But very few of them know your name. Did he have an accent?”

  “Yeah. Egyptian, but he could have been disguising his voice.”

  There was silence for a time, while Roberto thought about that.

  In the interval, I observed the dark gray behind my eyes, and the fluttering light gray around the edges, and made special note of the dove-gray sparks flying around. A guy could suffer sensory deprivation from covering his face with a pillow. Which is exactly what I wanted. I’d had enough of strange scents and lights today.

  “When you said you saw Cleo—” Roberto started slow, “—I was wondering . . . Did you think it was really her?”

  “Or a shape-shifting demon, you mean?”

  “Right.”

  “She looked and sounded like Cleo.”

  “But demons must be really good at disguise. I mean, they live forever, right? They’ve had a lot of practice screwing with mortals.”

  Yawning, I said, “I guess so.”

  “If they’re immortal, how do you kill one?”

  I could feel myself falling to sleep, my breathing getting deeper and slower. “Kryptonite?”

  “See, that’s what makes me nervous. I don’t like danger I can’t pull a gun on.”

  Metal clinked against metal again. And again. And again. It sounded like he was rubbing something with his pistol.

  “Tell me you’re not doing what it sounds like you’re doing?”

  The clinking stopped. “What does it sound like?”

  “You’re being careful with that pistol, right?”

  “Are you really asking me if I’m using the gun to scratch my balls?”

  “I know the answer to that. Where’s your finger?”

  “What?” He sounded worried.

  I hugged the pillow tighter over my face. “Is it on the trigger?”

  “Of course not. I took a gun safety class. Rule number one is: know where your finger is.”

  I had to ease up on the pillow over my face because I was smothering myself. When I did, the dark gray behind my eyes shimmered into soft gray and I felt myself drifting o
ff. . . .

  In the dream, I’m not afraid.

  I open my eyes and see Cleo at my bedside, holding my hand, smiling. “My God, Halloran, are you awake?”

  “Yeah . . .” I inhale and let it out slowly as I look around the room. I’m in a hospital with white, white walls. There’s an IV in my arm, and a bag filled with clear liquid dripping into it. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in Denver. You’ve been in a coma for a month.” Crying softly, she squeezes my hand. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m okay, Cleo.”

  A coma? I should have known. My injured brain has been concocting bizarre stories while I slept. Don’t know why, or what happened . . .

  “I love you, Halloran. I’ve been here every day, begging you to wake up.”

  She loves me. We’re going to go to Egypt together some day to find Cleopatra’s grave.

  But for now she’s smiling at me, holding my hand. Tears of happiness glisten in her eyes. She’s so pretty. Her fingers are warm where they twine with mine. Dear God, let me stay here in the hospital. I just want to hold her hand for a while. Let me do that . . . And I’ll be good.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Dally? Stevens?”

  Moriarity’s voice barely penetrated my dream. I rolled over to go back to sleep.

  Then I heard Roberto say, “Yeah. What?”

  “I need you to come out here.” Moriarity’s voice sounded higher than normal, as though straining against emotion.

  Roberto’s hand lightly shook my shoulder. “Hal? Gotta get up. Sorry.”

  “I’m awake.”

  I dragged myself to a sitting position and rubbed my eyes. Through the mesh screen, I could see several pairs of legs shifting uneasily outside, as well as students walking across the site, heading toward the cook tent for dinner. The pale glow of dusk had fallen over Pelusium.

  “Did I sleep for so long?” I turned to Roberto.

  “You needed to. How do you feel?” He was combing his hair with a blue comb, which he handed to me.

  “Better. Almost no headache now.” As I combed my sweaty hair, I watched him crawl forward and unzip the mesh screen.

  The people gathered outside murmured softly. I could only identify two voices: Moriarity and Corbelle. I didn’t think I’d ever heard the other two men before.

  Roberto ducked outside first, but I wasn’t far behind. My gaze touched on Moriarity, then LaSalle, noting her worried expression. Moriarity looked like a damned soul awaiting judgment. The other two men might have been stone-cold Egyptian killers. They wore no expressions. Both carried notebooks in their hands.

  Moriarity extended his hand to us. “This is Hal Stevens and Robert Dally. My students from Colorado. Boys, this is Officer Fatimid and Officer Sattin. Robert, I think you met Detective Sattin in Colorado.”

  “Yeah.”

  The tall lanky man, Officer Fatimid, didn’t speak. He just looked at the older man next to him, waiting for Officer Sattin to take the lead.

  “Who found the body?” Sattin asked in a calm voice.

  “What body?” I said.

  “I did,” Moriarity replied. “I was out checking my students’ excavations—”

  “What body?” I interrupted.

  “But I was less than ten seconds behind Jim,” LaSalle added, ignoring me. “So, basically, the two of us arrived at the same time.”

  “I see.” Sattin jotted down a couple of notes, then lifted his pen from his notebook and aimed it at Moriarity. “Who moved the body from the excavation pit?”

  Moriarity licked his lips nervously. “I did.”

  I glanced between them. “Will somebody tell me what’s going on?”

  “Hal,” LaSalle said gently, “there’s been a death. Just relax and answer the officers’ questions as best you can.”

  “Who died?”

  Sattin watched me like a hawk, studying every detail, my shock, my rapid breathing, then he turned back to Moriarity. “I’ll answer that in a moment,” he said, and turned back to Moriarity. “Why did you move the body?”

  “He was covered with dirt. I wanted to get a better look at him, to search for wounds.”

  Sattin’s bushy black brows knitted as he wrote more notes. “Did you find any?”

  “No.”

  “And where were you last night, Dr. Moriarity?”

  “Asleep with my wife in my tent. She’ll verify my story.”

  “I’m certain she will.” Sattin smiled politely. “And you three, where were you?”

  LaSalle said, “Asleep in my tent. Alone. No one can verify my story.”

  Roberto and I exchanged glances. I’d learned my lesson about telling the police the whole truth, but I wasn’t sure how to formulate a believable lie. I hadn’t had much practice, and worse, I had no idea who was dead. Fear was burning through my veins. “I was out looking at the site in the starlight until around midnight.”

  “And I was wandering through the camp trying to find him,” Roberto said.

  Sattin fixed Roberto with dark unblinking eyes. “Can anyone verify your story, Mr. Dally?”

  “I talked to lots of people, asking them if they’d seen Hal, so I guess so. Am I a suspect?”

  Sattin swiveled to face me. “Can anyone verify your whereabouts, Mr. Stevens?”

  Back in Colorado, before I got smart, I would have said, Sure, just ask the ghost. Fortunately, I knew better. “I don’t think so, sir. I was by myself.”

  He stared unblinking into my eyes for several seconds, before writing in his book, and I was pretty sure that over the years he’d developed a sixth sense for when someone was lying. “When did you two find each other?”

  “Around midnight. I was over by the cook tent when I was attacked.”

  “Attacked?” Sattin asked in surprise. “Why has no one told me about this assault?”

  Moriarity made an airy gesture. “It didn’t seem important, not with everything else going on.”

  Sattin looked annoyed. To me, he said, “Who attacked you?”

  “I don’t know, sir. He hit me from behind, knocked me to the ground. I screamed and woke the whole camp. People started running toward me, including Roberto. That’s what scared him away.”

  “Can you describe this man who attacked you?”

  “No, never saw his face.”

  Sattin aimed his pen at my face. “Is that how you got that purple bump on your head?”

  “Yeah. The guy slammed my head into a broken table leg.”

  “Did anyone else see him? Perhaps as he ran away?” Sattin looked around. When everyone shook their heads, he frowned down at his notebook and wrote something. “Later, I’d like to see the place you were attacked, and I’ll need to speak with rest of the camp.”

  “Of course,” Moriarity said.

  Sattin closed his notebook. “Let us return to the corpse with Mr. Stevens and Mr. Dally.”

  The officer led the way past the tents and out toward the Roman fortress wall, the students in the dinner line watched us with dire expressions. A few were crying. That set my heart to pumping.

  I almost stumbled when I saw the police van parked near the sterile pit we’d dug yesterday. Beside it, a man knelt over a sheet-covered body.

  A dead body was found covered with dirt near our pit?

  Sattin walked around the excavation to stand over the kneeling man. Around forty, he had rich brown skin and sunken eyes. They spoke in Egyptian for a few minutes. Though they were speaking quickly, I could pick up a few words. Sattin kept asking, “Emta, Hussein?” which meant ‘when, Hussein,’ so I assumed he was asking about time of death, and then Sattin said, “Ana mish fahem,” “I don’t understand.” In response, the man on the ground shook his head and rose to his feet. They talked for a while longer before Officer Sattin turned his attention to the sheet-c
overed body.

  “Dr. Corbelle,” he said, “please describe how the body was lying in the excavation?”

  LaSalle walked over to stand beside Dr. Hussein. “On his back, his arms and legs sprawled.” She demonstrated and continued talking. Occasionally, Sattin nodded or frowned.

  Roberto leaned close to whisper, “You’re weaving on your feet, Hal. You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I was weaving? I spread my feet and forced myself to take deep breaths. There was a trowel lying in the northeast corner of the pit. Had we left a trowel?

  Though twilight was settling across the delta, waves of heat rose from the sand, spawning a mirage that made it look like a thin layer of shimmering water covered the ground. The Roman fortress wall seemed to be floating in the air just above the water.

  Without waiting for authorization, I walked over to the sheet-covered body and threw it back to see who lay beneath.

  Samael’s mouth had frozen into a final silent scream, and his dead eyes stared blindly up me, as though begging me to do something.

  I staggered backward, breathing hard. He gave me his protection amulet, the stone amulet of Ammut. It was hanging around my neck. Without it, he was completely vulnerable. He . . .

  Robert cried, “Wh—what happened? Oh, my God!”

  Dr. Hussein quietly walked over. “That’s what we are trying to discover.”

  I choked out the words: “He can’t be dead! He was just an old man. Why would anyone kill him?” I wiped my face on my sleeve, and took a deep breath.

  “How did he die? Was he murdered?” Roberto asked.

  Officer Sattin frowned at him. “Why would you think that, Mr. Dally?”

  “Moriarity said he was covered with dirt. Samael couldn’t have done that by himself, right?”

  LaSalle extended both hands in a calming gesture. “There are no signs of violence, Robert. He was old. He may have just suffered a heart attack or a stroke. When he fell into the pit, he probably struck the back dirt pile, and it cascaded over the top of him. We won’t really know until Dr. Hussein has a chance to examine him in his lab.”

  “But I was attacked last night, too!” I half shouted. “Maybe we were attacked by the same person?”