Maria Hudgins - Lacy Glass 02 - The Man on the Istanbul Train

by Maria Hudgins

  “Something tells me you’re going to find out.”

  * * *

  She left Paul’s tent at a quarter to eleven. The camp was silent except for a strain of barely audible music. A few of the students had rechargeable speaker docks for their iPods. On the rise to the east, the same one she and Paul had climbed earlier, a lone figure stood silhouetted against the ambient light of the night sky. Lacy stopped and waited for the figure to move. It was a man, a big, stocky, man at that. He wore a billed cap. He stood facing southward for a minute, then slowly turned, making a complete circle. With his head lowered, as if searching for something on the ground, he wandered around again, this time in a wider circle. Maybe he did lose something, she thought, and then headed for her own tiny tent.

  Inflating Sierra’s air mattress left her a bit light-headed. She had to brush her teeth before she could possibly go to sleep, but how? Recalling the five-gallon bottle of water in a dispenser outside the kitchen, she used a flashlight to pick a path around tents and ropes and pegs. She grabbed a plastic cup from the sleeve of fresh cups on a rickety table beside the dispenser, returned to her tent, and brushed her teeth with the water. She changed into an oversized T-shirt and crawled into the fleecy tube of Gülden’s sleeping bag. It smelled of the same musky cologne she’d noticed in the car today. Exhausted after two long days and one sleepless night behind the bunkhouse, she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the rolled-up jacket that served as her pillow.

  * * *

  Lacy woke, as did everyone in the camp, to a scream. She sat up and looked at the luminous numbers on her watch. Three-eighteen a.m. Shouts, running feet—someone was crying in a high-pitched keening whine—lights swerving, making blue streaks that raced across her blue nylon cocoon. It took her a minute to remember where she was.

  “To the big tent! We need light! No! Don’t touch her!”

  Lacy crawled out of her tent on hands and knees into absolute chaos. Someone ran past and fell onto her tent, knocking the whole thing to one side. Still scrambling, Lacy and the unseen stumbler helped each other to their feet with apologies and questions. “What’s happening?” and “I don’t know,” and, “Why are we running?”

  In the dark, she could see only shadow people, scurrying, yelling, flashing lights in random directions, shouting obscenities. When a light passed across a face, she saw confusion, much the same as she was feeling.

  “It’s Sierra.”

  Chapter Ten

  “What happened to her?”

  “Somebody jumped her.”

  Lacy heard the strong voice of Paul Hannah. “Stay back! Everybody back! Go to the big tent and stay there.” Then, “Where’s Bob?”

  A distant voice answered. “I’m here. Ambulance is on the way.”

  Paul again. “Everyone to the tent. And stay there until we tell you to leave.”

  Going more or less with the flow of traffic heading for the glow of the electric lights inside the big tent, Lacy heard Paul’s voice again, this time only feet away. A flashlight on the ground shone a horizontal cone of light through trampled grass and onto a dark heap. Paul was waving people away, his bare feet planted over the heap like a latter-day Colossus of Rhodes. Lacy caught a glimpse of Sierra Blue’s bloody, matted, curly head. She lay face down on the ground.

  The ambulance arrived within minutes, almost as if it was waiting nearby for the call. Lacy, still wearing only T-shirt and panties sat inside the big tent, which by now was full of folks in all states of dress and undress. She saw men carrying a stretcher toward the parking area. Someone had rolled up the tent flap and tied it, so they could see the emergency light from the ambulance pulsating like a living heart. Paul appeared at the opening and waved, Lacy thought, to her, but when she stood, she saw he was actually summoning Bob Mueller. The two men talked for a second, then Paul disappeared.

  Bob made them stay inside until the police arrived. Actually it wasn’t the police, but the gendarmerie, and one of them was a man Lacy had already met at the station. She wondered if he would recognize her. She watched his gaze sweep across the group and do a double take when it came to her. Was he thinking, this is just too damned coincidental to be believed? Every person in the tent, about twenty in all, had to be interviewed. Bob Mueller was questioned first, then put in charge of choosing who went next and in what order.

  When Lacy’s turn came, she sat across the table from two men. One was fluent in English and handled the questions, the other was the man Lacy had met the previous morning. He greeted her with,“Merhaba, yeniden,” or “Hello, again.”

  “Merhaba,” Lacy replied.

  They wanted to know what she had heard and seen. Lacy figured her answers were the same as those of most of the people there. They wanted to know how long and how well she had known Sierra Blue.

  “I’ve been here only two days. Sierra picked me up at the train station the day before yesterday and drove me here.” Lacy listened carefully to the English-speaking man’s questions, hoping to discover by his use of present or past tense whether Sierra was dead or still alive.

  They asked how well she knew Paul Hannah. Lacy told them of their previous work in Egypt.

  “And while you were doing this work on the tomb, you and Dr. Hannah lived in the same house?”

  “Yes. There were nine of us living in the expedition house.”

  “What is that on your leg?” The man pointed to her left leg with his pencil.

  She looked down and saw a crimson smear of blood on her knee. Realizing both men were thinking blood spatter, she grabbed up the tail of her oversized T-shirt, spit on it, and used it to swipe at the blood. Thankfully, the swipe revealed fresh scratches beneath the blood. “I fell coming out of my tent. I guess I was too confused to notice the scrape.” She hoped she hadn’t exposed her panties when she lifted the shirttail to her mouth. Like most of the campers, she was still barefoot and dressed as she was when awakened by the hubbub.

  * * *

  The Gendarmerie left the camp as the sun was rising. A few people went back to their own tents but most hung out, wandering around, talking in subdued groups inside the big tent, their feet on extra chairs. Süleyman had coffee brewing by the time the officers left and soon appeared with the first tray of bowls for the breakfast buffet. Paul had gone to the hospital in the ambulance with Sierra and all were now waiting for his first call.

  Sierra had been hit on the head with something. A blunt instrument, they said, but what blunt instrument and where it might be now, no one knew. Had anyone seen her attacker? Apparently not, but if Sierra was alive and if she came around, she might know. The police had made note of where everyone said he or she was at the time of the attack, and whomever else they saw or could vouch for at the critical moment.

  Little Madison Penrose, wrapped in a blanket and lying on the ground with her feet raised onto a chair, was in shock. Her face was white. She was the one who’d discovered Sierra’s battered form.

  Lacy grabbed a chair and sat a discreet distance behind another girl who kneaded Madison’s hands to rev up her circulation. “Let me up. I’m feeling better,” she said, rising up on one elbow. Another girl pushed her gently back down. “If only I could’ve seen. I feel like such a loser, but I don’t know if it was a man or a woman. It was so dark. I don’t know if he, or she, was still carrying whatever they hit her with. I can’t remember. All I saw was a blur and all I heard was running. Someone running away. I saw Sierra on the ground. I didn’t know it was her, of course, until I shined my flashlight on her and saw her head all full of blood.” She choked on that last word, and the girl working on her hands shushed her.

  Lacy looked around. Chances were, one of the people within sight was Sierra’s attacker. It was also possible that someone had come from outside the camp, but why? Bob and Henry sat near the door, both now decently dressed. Tyler, the kid with natty dreadlocks, and Todd the photographer stood talking to Süleyman, coffee cups in hand.

  Henry slipped up beside Lacy and loo
ked down on Madison’s slowly pinkening face, gradually getting its color back. “What happens now?” he whispered. “I have to go to Adana sometime today, but when can we leave?”

  “They haven’t told us we can’t leave, so I assume we can.” She thought for a minute. “Which way are you going? I need to find a train or bus station or something that can take me to Istanbul.”

  “You can go with me if you want. They have both in Adana. But I don’t want to leave here until we hear from Paul.”

  “What do you know that I don’t? Is Sierra going to be all right?”

  “That’s why I want to wait until Paul calls. Bob’s on his way out to Four Bars Hill to wait for his call.”

  * * *

  Lacy returned to her tent for clean clothes and washed quickly in the shower station behind the kitchen. The shower was nothing more than a six-foot-tall plastic tube suspended on a metal ring with a hook inside from which one could hang a five gallon PVC bag of water with an attached nozzle. These bags were left out in a sunny spot all day, but Lacy had been warned that, first thing in the morning, the water was cold. Even so, the cold shower proved a more pleasant experience than her hot shower at the bunkhouse.

  * * *

  Paul’s call came at about ten that morning. Bob Mueller came bounding down from Four Bars Hill and called them all together. “Sierra is under sedation and the doctors are watching for swelling in her brain. But she came to briefly, Paul said, and talked a little. It looks like she’ll be all right.”

  Huge sighs from everyone within earshot.

  “Did she tell him who hit her?”

  “She doesn’t remember anything about it,” Bob said. “She didn’t even know why she’s in the hospital.”

  * * *

  From the dig site to the industrial city of Adana was eighty miles of bad road. Winding road with nothing on either side to rescue a poor traveler with car trouble. Henry pulled a pair of sunglasses from a designer case and slid behind the wheel, adjusting his shades, then the rear view mirror. He was quite handsome, Lacy thought, though a little overweight. She could imagine him in a turban, like an Indian rajah.

  On the drive to Adana, Henry wanted to know more about her relationship with Paul. Why? Is he getting ready to make a move on me? When she assured him she and Paul had nothing going, he glanced at her quickly, then said, “I think Sierra was coming out of Paul’s tent this morning when she got hit.”

  “Why do you think that?” Lacy felt her face flush and was glad Henry’s eyes were now back on the road.

  “Paul told the police and someone overheard. Actually I heard it from Süleyman. Paul said he heard the commotion less than a minute after she left his tent.”

  “What commotion? Did Sierra scream or something? A crack on the head wouldn’t necessarily make a lot of noise.”

  Henry shrugged.

  “Madison was on the scene, wasn’t she? I can hardly see little Madison pulling off an assault like that.”

  “Madison was probably on her way to or from the toilet. If you’ve ever been out in the wee hours, you know people do make that trip fairly often. It’s not unusual.”

  “I suppose not.” Lacy turned and checked the back seat to make sure she’d put her backpack in. She’d brought only necessities with her, leaving the rest in her duffel bag inside Gülden’s tent. She had no idea how long she’d be gone from camp. “Who could it have been, Henry? Do you have any idea who’d want to kill Sierra?”

  “None whatsoever. Nor can I believe anyone in camp had reason. What would it be?” He took both hands off the steering wheel long enough to make a large gesture of disbelief. “Hatred, jealousy, fear, money? There aren’t that many motives, are there?”

  Jealousy? Lacy prayed that her own had not shown. She remembered the blood on her knee and the policeman pointing to it. Funny, how many wrong connections could be made when you looked for them. “Mistaken identity?”

  “How about a nut case?” Henry said.

  “Do we have any resident nut cases?”

  He laughed out loud. “A couple of borderlines, at least. Have you checked out that kid with the dreadlocks?”

  “Tyler? Come on. You’re stereotyping.”

  “No, I’m not. Watch him sometime. He could have a five hundred dollar razor cut or be as bald as an egg—he’d still be spooky.”

  During the long drive, their talk wandered from one thing to another. Lacy asked about the fate of the dig since Henry, more than anyone else, would know. He told her the current season’s expenses would be covered by the Sebring foundation. “They’re having meetings in New York right now, trying to find their direction, you know. Who’s in charge? What about the museum? What about their other projects? What did Max want? I think everyone agrees that Max’s vision for the future should be their guide.”

  “They? What about you? Aren’t you part of it?”

  “That’s the million dollar question.” He pulled off the road and asked Lacy to find the map in the glove box. Opening it across his steering wheel, he pushed his shades to the top of his head, studied the map, then looked up at a bank of road signs ahead. He handed her the map to refold and pulled back onto the asphalt. “Actually, I may not even have a job now. I work for Max. Not the Sebring Foundation. Max paid my salary, so who pays it now? I don’t know.”

  “Golly.”

  “I’m trying to make myself useful. Once the Foundation figures out what’s what, they may have a spot for me.”

  Lacy wanted to know more. “What’s your background?”

  He told her his degree was in anthropology but he had worked for Max since he graduated college. Twenty years. He was the first in his struggling immigrant family to go beyond high school, so he’d graduated with a mountain of student loans and a critical need for a job. Max had hired him on the strength of Henry’s intern work at the museum, and over the years had used him as curator, research assistant, travel planner, secretary, and doer of whatever needed to be done that Max didn’t want to do himself.

  “Your parents are immigrants? Where are they from?”

  “My mom’s from Thailand. Dad was Welsh.”

  “So that’s where the name Jones came from.”

  Henry grinned but said nothing while he studied another group of road signs. “Where are you going in Istanbul?”

  “I have to look up a couple of people I canceled appointments with when Paul called and asked me to come to the dig. I’m supposed to be writing a book on the use of pigments and dyes in ancient times and I’ve been working with museum people in Istanbul.”

  “So are you looking for a one-way ticket or round trip? Do you know when you want to come back?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “The reason I ask is because Adana has an airport. They probably have direct flights to Istanbul that could get you there a lot quicker but a one-way ticket is usually not very cost-effective. If you want a one-way ticket, you’d probably be better off with a bus or train but they’re slower.”

  “Which would be closest to where you’re going?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea, sweetheart. I’ve only been here once and I didn’t notice any train or bus stations but I saw a sign back there that said this way to the airport.”

  Henry’s use of the word sweetheart sounded more casual than flirtaceous, as if he might say that to anyone. Lacy considered her options. “Take me to the airport.”

  It wasn’t a large airport but it did have several daily flights to Istanbul. Ticking off days on her fingers, Lacy calculated this was Monday, August fifteenth, and asked for a return flight three days hence, on Thursday, August eighteenth. She had no idea how long she would need to sniff out the trail of the man on the train but she had two starting points: the Pera Palace Hotel, and Elbert MacSweeney, whom she hoped to find at the Museum of Turkish and Islamic Arts.

  Henry stayed with her until she bought her round-trip ticket and trekked off to the security line.

  * * *

  Her pl
ane landed at Ataturk Airport at seven p.m., too late in the day to get much done. Lacy decided to grab a quick bite at the airport and check into her former hotel for the night. While there, she could make sure the bags she’d left in the hotel’s storage room would be okay for a while longer. On the flight from Adana she had made a list of things to do, places to look. All of them remote possibilities at best. As starting points, she listed the items from the green trench coat and that Boracık rug from Max Sebring’s tent. It occurred to her that Elbert MacSweeney would probably know of Max’s rug purchase, since he worked directly with the women who wove them and the entire project wasn’t that large. Could she find out where and how the green trench coat passed from Max Sebring to the man on the train? Was it theft or might Max have lent him the coat? If the latter, they probably knew each other.

  She finished her sandwich, slid off the stool at the row of singles along the wall of the quick-service café, and located the arrivals board. Lufthansa. The baggage claim check in the pocket of the trench coat had said Lufthansa and 18 July. Probably Max’s, since the rental agreement in the glove box of the rental car was dated 19 July. It made sense that they would have flown in on a Lufthansa plane, spent the night somewhere in Istanbul, and rented the car the following day. Should she talk to someone at Lufthansa while she was here? Checking the airport map board, she turned in the direction indicated, walked a few yards, then stopped, nearly bumping into a woman with bright orange hair. Why bother? Why would they tell me anything about another passenger even if they had the information right in front of them? I’m neither law enforcement nor an agent of any government. I’m nobody.

  She caught a shuttle to her hotel in the section of Istanbul called the Old City, wondering if she’d be remembered at the front desk. On the ride into town the bus driver weaved from lane to lane, holding his own with the most aggressive drivers in the world, forcing Lacy to grab the armrest to avoid falling onto the passenger beside her. They approached the historic area, and Lacy delighted in the sights and sounds she’d come to love over the summer. Istanbul was under her skin. The fading daylight gilded the faces of picnickers in the park by the Sea of Marmara. Men carrying tall stalks of multi-colored cotton candy dodged traffic along the old city wall.