Yeti

by Richard Edde

  The phone rang. It was Harry.

  “Where have you been, my boy? I’ve been trying to reach you for days,” Kesler’s demanded in a loud voice.

  “Professor, we are on a trek into the mountains. Examined an old skull of some sort of primate or hominoid, don’t know which. I’m sitting on a ridge right now. We are heading back to the research compound.”

  “Harry, when I couldn’t reach you, I went to the police and they have contacted INTERPOL and the Mongolian authorities about the men who kidnapped me. Are you all safe and sound?”

  “Calm down, Professor, we are all fine. A little tired perhaps but fine. I’ll fill you it when we get back to the site.”

  “As long as you assure me everyone is safe, Harry. It’s hell being halfway around the world. Hopefully, the local authorities there are taking action.”

  “Like I said, Professor, we are all fine.”

  “Well, I had to hear your voice. Is Dixie with you?”

  “Yes, she is, and she is fine as well. Relax. When we get back to the compound, I’ll give you all the details. We’ve had an interesting few days.”

  “Those bastards that roughed me up may be in Mongolia so, Harry, I worry a lot. Just be careful, please.”

  “We will, Doctor Kesler, I promise.”

  After hanging up, Kesler sat and watched the haze over the bay get thicker, until the far shore disappeared from view. Harry’s predicament saddened him. The young man had made a dreadful mistake and it had stunned Kesler. He couldn’t believe that Harry had falsified data in an academic journal and over a theory that mattered very little. Feeling betrayed by his star pupil and assistant, Kesler had isolated his feelings and had emotionally distanced himself. But during the past year, he’d observed what the mistake had cost Harry. His pride and self-respect were gone. The man still possessed a brilliant mind. He appeared to have learned from the mistake. Only he, Julius Kesler, knew the complete story and he was resolved to see that Harry was made whole again.

  Satisfied with the phone call, he ambled into the kitchen to fix his dinner.

  ***

  Doyle and his men were traveling along a winding trail leading higher into the Altai Mountains in the general direction they had seen the boy point. Whether it was the correct direction, Doyle didn’t know and the uncertainty unnerved and angered him. What angered him more was the complete breakdown of his self-control when he shot the monk. What the hell had he been thinking? He knew what the men were thinking--how their leader couldn’t control himself in the heat of their mission. Now his preaching concerning bloodshed would fall on deaf ears, especially Kurt’s. When Eastwood learns of the two murders, he is going to be madder than hell.

  They wormed their way, single file, with Doyle in the lead, their horses plodding nose to tail. The path followed a small brook that cascaded in brisk, dark ripples to the basin below. At a broad ledge overlooking the peaks of Belukha and Kuitan, Doyle called a halt to their progress and dismounted. Gillum, Kurt, and Marley followed suit. The sun was out, the mist burning off the mountains.

  “Where the hell are we?” growled Marley, pacing along the edge of the ridge.

  “I have no idea,” Doyle said. He retrieved his map from a saddlebag and, kneeling, unfolded it on the ground. Gillum squatted beside him. “Here is Tenduk,” Doyle continued, pointing a finger on the map. “We have been traveling in this direction here, along this small stream, so we should be somewhere near this point right here. Agree, Gillum?”

  Doyle’s assistant squinted at the point on the map and nodded. “Sounds about right,” he said.

  “Look here,” Marley said from a short distance away.

  Doyle and Gillum joined Marley who was pointing at the ground. “Look at all these tracks in the mud here. Must have been made in the snow and it melted, making mud.”

  Doyle studied the tracks for a while. “Something happened here,” he said. “A scuffle, or a struggle, something like that. Horse tracks lead up that way.”

  “What’s this kind of track?” Marley asked. He was pointing to a different-looking track, a footprint.

  “Looks like a track of a large person. A large, barefooted human.” Kurt broke his silence. “But why would they be barefooted up here?”

  Doyle walked back to their horses. “Beats me but those tracks must belong to the research team. I can feel it. Let’s go.”

  ***

  Captain Stepan viewed the corpse at the Tenduk monastery, studied the single bullet wound to the man’s head. According to the account told by abbot Zhing, the old monk had been murdered execution style on the temple steps. His brothers had brought the dead man to his room until the monastery could notify the authorities. It was fortuitous luck that the captain’s helicopter landed just as abbot Zhing was making the call.

  “He was such a kind man,” Zhing said. “He meant so much to the monastery and to all of us. He was my Dharma teacher many years ago when I was a novitiate. We will all miss him.”

  Stepan shook his head at the senseless violence. “What were the circumstances surrounding his murder?”

  A small lantern lit the room and the monks who crowded in it made it stuffy.

  “Four Americans arrived, asking questions about the research team that had been here a day earlier. I was in the maintenance office when it happened. The other monks were going about their usual afternoon duties. When Lama Pu Yang did not answer, the big one shot him. The others had guns as well. They had an evil look about them, sir. I heard the shot, ran to the front, and saw them mounting their horses. Lama Yang was lying there and blood was all over his face. He didn’t move. I knew he was dead.”

  Stepan examined the rest of the monk’s body, satisfying himself there were no other signs of injury. He covered the man with his brown robe.

  “Can you describe them?”

  “The big one, the one who shot lama Yang, had scars on his face. All of them wore black. They looked mean.”

  “Scars,” Stepan said, thinking on what the monk had said. “All right, clear this room and lock the door.” The captain began moving everyone out of the lama’s room. “Where can we talk further, abbot?” When settled into a chair in the main monastery office, Stepan continued to question Zhing. “Why was the research team up here? Their site is down on the steppe.”

  Zhing sat behind a small primitive desk, surrounded by statues of the Buddha and paintings of Khan history. He poured two small cups of tea and offered one to Stepan. Then he took a sip of the liquid and eyed the captain. “They were here to examine a certain relic in our possession,” he said. “After doing so, they left. The doctor said they were going to return to their compound.”

  “Relic? What kind of relic? A skull perhaps?”

  Zhing shifted in his chair and toyed with his teacup. “I’d rather not say, unless it is absolutely necessary.”

  “Abbot Zhing, a murder has been committed here and this is not the eighteenth century. Yes, it is quite necessary.” Stepan’s voice was hard and cold as steel.

  “Of course. Yes, it was a skull they came to see,” Zhing said and, with that, the captain raised his eyebrows. “But it is not a human skull.”

  “A skull of some animal? A Buddhist holy artifact?”

  “Not quite, Captain. People who live up here in the mountains claim it is of a Yeti. This Dr. Olson and other members of his team came to examine it.”

  Stepan blinked then stared. “You serious?”

  “Yes. A Yeti. People say it is the skull of a wild man, an Alma, a Yeti.”

  “People up here in the mountains still believe in those tall tales?”

  “Old habits die hard, sir. Some of our fellow monks here believe the creatures exist.”

  “So, after examining this skull, this doctor just left?” The captain’s expression did not change.

  “His woman assistant was with him and two other people on the research team.”

  “So they left. Where were they going?”

  “Like I said, I
believe they were returning to their research site. Have you been there?”

  “Yes. They were not there. Probably on the trail somewhere. So the murdering Americans are, in all likelihood, pursuing them. How far behind the doctor are they?”

  “A day. They arrived here the day after the doctor and his group left.”

  Stepan and the monk returned to the front doors of the monastery. Stepan turned to a sergeant standing near the two men and gave a circling motion with his index finger. “Wind up the chopper, Sergeant. Inform the pilot we are airborne in a few minutes.”

  The man saluted and ran off in the direction of the helicopter.

  Stepan resumed his discussion with the abbot. “You may bury your friend now. And we will go and search the mountainside for these murderers.”

  “He will be cremated, Captain, and his ashes we will store in our relic room. It is our highest honor.”

  “I understand. If need be, we will return and borrow horses at the village. So long.”

  He turned to leave but the abbot grabbed him by his elbow. “Our people are always willing to help the police. If I can be of help in the future, you can find me here or have Tenduk’s mayor call me. Good luck.”

  Stepan returned to his waiting helicopter and climbed aboard. As the aircraft lifted off the grassy knoll, he watched the small monastery get smaller and smaller.

  ***

  Harry and Li finished setting up the lean-to while the women got a fire started and put the copper pot on the stove for tea. Harry unloaded the horses and laid their saddles by the fire. The campsite was in a grassy gorge, off the trail that cut through the shallow neck of a knoll. A rock-covered ridge on the one side, which blocked the gentle breeze that had sprung up late that afternoon, sheltered it. When the tea was ready, all but Harry gathered around the campfire.

  “I still cannot believe our monk has disappeared,” Jing said, taking a long drink of the steaming liquid.

  “Neither can I,” said Li.

  Harry, carrying a bundle of firewood and hearing that the talk was about the monk, interrupted.

  “Listen, all. He’s gone. Where, we don’t know. Carried off by that...thing...most likely. We don’t know if he is alive or dead, but we need to get a good night’s sleep then make it back to the compound as quick as we can. We have to report this.”

  “That thing was a Yeti, Dr. Olson,” Jing said. “It doesn’t matter if you believe or agree or not. I know what it was.” Jing’s voice shook with emotion as she spoke.

  “We don’t know any such thing, Jing. I was upset earlier but now, listen. Just who the creature was or is remains pure speculation and all this talk fuels needless worry. Why you insist that it must be a Yeti is beyond my comprehension. A few days ago, you were telling me how these stories were just tales, birthed from fertile imaginations, and that they couldn’t possibly be true. Now you seem to have changed your mind, all because of a few tracks in the snow. I would appreciate it if you would refrain from such mindless gossip.”

  Harry stared at Jing until she looked away and started their supper. He was in a foul mood and wasn’t interested in prolonged conversation about the missing monk. Hoping for a quick meal, he planned to crawl into his sleeping bag and stay there until morning. The evening sky was turning from a light purple to a dull gray, and golden eagles were soaring through the thin air.

  Dixie came and sat beside him. “You don’t need to bite her head off, Harry,” she said. “Jing comes from a culture that believes Yetis do exist. Her uncles and grandfather saw something they claimed was the creature. And she led us to a skull that supposedly belonged to a Yeti. You can’t blame her for that.”

  “I know, I know. The missing monk has put my nerves on edge. The sooner we get back to the compound, the better. At first I wanted to see where those tracks led, but now I think we need to call the National Police.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. Just try to be patient with the people we ask to help us is all I’m asking. Understand?”

  “I do,” Harry said. He accepted a bowl of dried vegetable soup from Jing and smiled at her, touching her arm with his free hand. “Jing, forgive my impertinence. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Please forgive me.”

  “Yes, Dr. Olson. I will try to not mention the Yeti again.”

  That night, after the group retired to their sleeping bags, Harry lay awake, sleep not forthcoming. He tossed and turned, long after the others were breathing regularly. His mind was a jumble of thoughts of his mother, the monk, Yetis, and Dixie. And Jing. He had hurt her feelings, he knew. For the rest of the evening, she sat silent, sipping her tea, looking at the stars. The fact that his research had been interrupted by this Yeti business unnerved Harry. It was a distraction to the main purpose of the expedition and his career. He wanted dearly to leave this place with enough artifacts to eventually provide material for an earth-shattering scientific paper, one that would redeem his reputation in the professor’s eyes. Was that such a horrible, selfish goal? He was tiring of fieldwork and hoped the Mongolian dig would be the last he would be required to endure. Someday, Professor Kesler would retire and Harry hoped to fill his shoes. A monumental discovery would cement his place as heir apparent. And maybe repair their damaged relationship. But now, what else would slow his progress, and threaten to derail the research? Harry had a distressing premonition that something dreadful was about to happen.

  And when the sun rose in the morning, it had.

  Dixie was missing.

  Chapter 19

  Eastwood was in a foul mood. He had just received a call from Garrett Sawyers, informing him the president would be choosing someone else to head his commission on charitable organizations. Eastwood sat behind his desk and toyed with a cigar before finally lighting it. He’d wanted this appointment like he had wanted nothing else in a long time. It would have meant a great deal of welcome publicity for BioGen, whose detractors had been increasing, amid spurious rumors, after the Saudi deal.

  It was unfortunate that his parents were no longer alive to appreciate what he had accomplished with BioGen and the wealth he had accumulated. His father, a tough, grizzled veteran of the depression and Second World War, would be proud, no doubt. But with his mother, he wasn’t so sure. She had wanted him to be a musician, to play the violin like Isaac Stern. He remembered listening to those records of the master violinist while he fell asleep each night. No, he wasn’t so sure that his mother would be proud of him.

  He took a deep puff on the cigar and endeavored to calm the growing apprehension that mounted inside him. He had not heard from Doyle in several days and had no idea what was happening with his team. Not knowing was worse than having to deal with a problem. He prided himself at his ability to make quick decisions but, at present, there were no decisions to make. He was left to wallow in his chair, waiting for the next shoe to fall. Reacting. Since Vietnam, he had schooled himself in being proactive, creating, not reacting to whatever life handed him. Waiting for Doyle to call was a formidable task.

  He didn’t know what had been discovered in Mongolia but whatever it was, the professor in California said it had the possibility of being something monumental. Eastwood’s knowledge of archeology or paleontology was limited but, most often, he could determine the value of things and evaluate a market for potential buyers. In a way, he was glad that this was happening in Mongolia. If killing became necessary, it would be good to have it happen in a third-rate, backward country, where it would be difficult for the authorities to trace it back to him. The thought, however, did not make the waiting any easier.

  He studied the map of Mongolia on his desk and tried to pinpoint Doyle’s last known position. It was imprecise, for his security chief had never given him exact coordinates. He took a deep puff on the cigar and exhaled slowly blowing smoke over the map. Give me a call, Doyle. Give me a call and let me know where you are.

  ***

  The Russian helicopter circled a small group on horseback riding along a ridgeline next
to a rocky gorge. They were in single file and Stepan noticed that each person shot a glance skyward as the chopper buzzed overhead. He directed the pilot to land on a small knoll next to the ridge and as, they descended, the group halted and dismounted.

  On the ground, Stepan commanded his troops to exit the aircraft with their weapons at the ready. He could not tell if these people were the scientific team or the American murderers. He drew his pistol and jumped to the ground, while his men fanned out around him.

  A man approached him with a woman following close behind. Stepan took a deep breath and relaxed as he realized this was the group of scientists.