by Mary Deal
“Enough of that could tear up your gut as it passed through,” Kenneth said.
Inside the inventory tent, the team still wore face coverings. Each time the tent canvas billowed and snapped, dust and sand gusted in on everything. Many artifacts had to be cleaned a second time before being packaged. Some of the local help fashioned screens of large swatches of fabric and stood close to deflect particles from both the precious relics and those packaging them.
Chione was not bothered much by the elements and took it all in stride. While still in California, she had seen visions of more to come. The dig would go on until those visions manifested into reality despite morale being low. Recently, she experienced other dreams, portraying the team's further progress. She would wait out the sandstorm and irritating dryness it produced, and would do what she could to foster higher morale. Marlowe and Bebe had to learn how to cope. Kendra already knew. The hot sand got under clothing, and scratched and stuck to sweaty skin. Even if Marlowe and Bebe had been known to get down in the dirt for a find, neither they nor Kendra were the type to tolerate gritty skin and scalp very long. The portable showers worked overtime.
Then, as usual, Siti came through again. In addition to other tasks, she took it upon herself to maintain the team's laundry, enabling all to have fresh clothes. It beat having to wear the same khakis three or four days in a row. Tarik's only set of ragged clothing was laundered, too, but wasn't holding together well. Chione decided to let him keep a set of her kakhi's and grow into them since she seemed to be growing out of them.
“He is orphan, you know?” Siti asked when returning fresh clothes to Chione, Marlowe and Bebe. “Sometimes sleeps behind rocks.”
They waited till Siti departed. “That's why his clothes are so ragged,” Marlowe said.
“We need to do something for him,” Chione said. “He's been devoted to all of us and our work from the beginning.”
Marlowe looked to be conjuring something. “We should find him a home. How do you think he would fare in the U.S.?” She didn't wait for a reply. “He's a brilliant child, works diligently, and most of all, he's honest.”
Later Clifford made an announcement none wanted to hear. “No word yet when the sandstorm might end. The meteorologists say it's a freak occurrence.”
Randy and the chaperones had packed the children into the old bus and moved their camp a few miles away between Valley of the Kings and the Nile. In the interim, all tours were being diverted to Randy so tourists' vacations would not be wasted.
“Randy says the sandstorm's not affecting other areas,” Aaron said. “It's blowing in way off the Libyan Desert to the west and culminating here in Valley of the Queens.
“Wonder why it's affecting only this area in Thebes?” Clifford asked.
“You know what Randy would say about that,” Aaron said.
Nerves were on edge. Dr. Withers sat in the cook tent each night till way after dark, drinking Karkade to calm his nerves. The light inside reflected his shadow hunched over a notepad as he racked his brain to come up with a way to save their project. He scrutinized fax messages hoping for answers. From time to time, others joined him. Now that the Yagos and other gawkers were not around, Royce's insistent shadow became an all too common sight alongside Dr. Withers's likeness.
Later, down under, Bebe excitedly pulled her aside in a hush-hush. “Chione, you're not going to believe this.”
“Try me.”
“I had a vivid dream the first night we slept in here,” Bebe said, utterly pleased about something. “I dreamed someone was with me—don't know who—but I woke knowing I'd never have my surgery.”
“What?”
“That was it. And I haven't had menopausal problems since.”
The treatment room echoed in Chione's mind. Bebe had slept in Tauret's treatment room. So had she and Marlowe. Chione was flabbergasted. “Who do you think was with you in your dream?”
“Never saw a face. It was a woman though,” Bebe said. “So why are you smiling like that?”
“Think about it, Bebe,” Chione said, whispering. “You did a spell for better health. You're sleeping in a room full of spells used by a woman who evidently treated people with related problems.”
“Do you think it was her?”
Chione shrugged but looked hopeful. “Who's to say?”
“Did she come to me?” Bebe asked. Her eyes flashed as she became enrapt with the possibilities. “Is that what that woman did? She helped me?”
“You asked for help, in her way,” Chione said. “Watch your condition and see what happens.”
Bebe showed signs of teetering between belief and denial. Time would tell a lot of things.
The next morning, after re-braiding her hair and covering all but her eyes with a headscarf, Chione climbed out of the shaft to see Clifford jumping into the back of a jeep. He and Aaron were about to drive away with the Bolis.
“Hey, you two!” she said, yelling down to them. “Wait for me!” She readjusted her headgear and goggles and scrambled down the hillside, hoisting herself into the back of the open jeep next to Clifford on the sand covered seats. “Where are we going?”
“All hell's broke loose,” Clifford said as the jeep lunged forward.
Everyone wore goggles and hats or headscarves. The driver strained to see ahead through the blowing sand as they bumped along the road crudely set down over rough terrain.
“Meaning?”
“You haven't heard?” Aaron asked, twisting around in the front seat. “Someone found two bodies in the beggars' camp. Dr. Withers and some of the Bolis took off on foot.”
The jeep bumped hard into something. They were all thrown forward.
“Jeez!” Clifford yelled as he swung from the roll bar.
Chione was thrown up front and Aaron managed to catch her and keep her from smashing against the windshield.
The officer cursed in Arabic under his breath. “Sorry!” he said, straining to see ahead. “So sorry.” Egyptians were really committed about not touching a woman. After seeming to want to help, he sat looking straight ahead until they were seated again and Aaron gave the sign to get going.
They must have been off the road. The driver backed and nearly got stuck in sand. He pointed the vehicle in a slightly different direction and stepped on the accelerator.
“Two bodies?” Chione asked after settling back into her seat. “That doesn't sound good.”
Clifford wrapped his arm around her as if helping to keep her in the seat. “On top of that,” he said, “Marlowe's headaches are becoming severe. Sterling wants to send her home but she refuses to go.”
“There is some good news, though,” Aaron said, twisting again in his seat and smiling behind his eyewear. He raised his voice to be heard over the howl of the wind. “Our directors decided if Randy could be of no use here, they want him working at the Museum.”
“Blessed be to Al-lah!” Clifford yelled.
The driver threw a quick glance back at Clifford. His eyes laughed. He braked to a stop as a thicker cloud of dust came up from behind and enveloped them.
They needed to wait for a better time to discuss all the changes taking place.
Chione never visited the beggars' camp. Tents of all types, from sleeping to temple sizes, made up a village of billowing colorful tapestry and canvas tentatively held to earth by ropes and stakes. Some of the coverings had been appliquéd by hand in bright, multicolored Egyptian designs, now muted with dust. Where one tent left off and another began was difficult to determine if not for color and pattern.
An officer on the scene remained with the jeep. They made their way deeper into the proliferation of tents, careful not to trip over tie downs and stakes. No thoroughfares or footpaths had been established. One simply picked one's way through the conglomeration that nearly blocked the only access road into the area. The wind brought every scent from fresh to foul to the nostrils in a rush.
“Love the incense,” Clifford said, pressing his face cloth close.
With Yafeu's and Siti's cooking, the incense, and Kendra's Queen Nefertiti, their area smelled somewhat similar. At least they didn't have open sewers and murders in their camp.
The pleasantries vanished as a gust of wind tainted the air with the horrific stench of urine.
The officer made a motion and they thankfully ducked inside one tent. They stopped short, bumping into one another. To their amazement, in a sumptuously draped entry foyer, the air thick with incense, scantily clad women lounged about. A makeshift dance floor lay to one side decorated with plastic flowers and tapestries and stands for musical instruments. At such an early hour, it was difficult to tell if the two men wearing only under shorts instead of gallibayas were coming or going.
Quickly, the officer turned and guided Chione by the shoulders back toward the entrance. Too late, however. She knew what kind of establishment that one was. His embarrassment was evident behind a masked smile. He danced two quick steps to the left then two to the right, trying to keep the hilarity of the situation subdued. Still smiling, he clasped his hands, bowed his head and begged in accented English, “Forgive, forgive.” His squinting eyes told that he might burst out laughing. He turned and led them out.
After a few moments, it became evident the officer was lost. He asked directions. They walked farther. Finally, he called out in Arabic and another officer stuck his head out of a tent just ahead.
Chione heard Dr. Withers's voice but upon entry did not see him until he turned around. He was wearing a gallibaya! With his tanned face and head coverings, he looked stunningly Egyptian.
Royce and more local police were with him. Royce reacted, too, surprised at seeing her enter. One body lay sprawled across a bed. His legs dangled to the floor. No one recognized him. He had been shot in the forehead, possibly at close range. Blood had splattered over much of the inside corner of the tent from when the bullet exited out the back of his head. No blood came from the forehead wound and the tent canvas had a hole in it. Another man lay face down on the woven floor mat between the cots with the top of his head toward the exit. An officer lifted the man's shoulder from the floor exposing his face. He lay in a pool of blood that had spread from beneath his chest. Aaron and Dr. Withers bent down.
“Recognize him?” Dr. Withers asked.
“Can't say I do,” Aaron said.
Pulling away from the officers who tried to block her way, Chione bent down for a look. “I know him. That's Usi.”
Dr. Withers straightened. “How do you know him?”
“He worked with us for a while in Inventory.
“Let me see,” Clifford said. They lifted the man's shoulder again. “I believe you're right, Chione. Damn it anyway, he was good help.”
“So which one's Dakarai's cousin?” Dr. Withers asked of the Bolis.
Two of the officers conversed in Arabic and then one pointed to the man on the floor.
“Then where's Dakarai?” Aaron asked.
The officer shrugged and looked doubtful.
“We can do nothing more here,” Dr. Withers said. He turned to the officers. “We make ourselves available to you at any time.”
They crowded into the jeep for the ride back up the hill. Somehow Royce managed to wriggle himself into the front seat, showing no respect for Dr. Withers. Dr. Withers looked off into the distance, not that he could see much through the sandy haze. He and Clifford positioned themselves on the tool boxes sitting on each side over the rear wheel housing. Aaron motioned for Dr. Withers to take a seat beside Chione.
“Are the killings included in the negative incidents you saw in your visions, Chione?” Royce called out above the wind.
“No,” she said as simply as she could, considering the inability to hear much or speak above the worsening howl. “I didn't see any of this.”
“So the negative occurrences you report seeing are yet to happen?” he asked. “What other incidents are likely to occur?” He seemed so formal when the wind and sand alone made everyone else drop pretenses.
Chione stared at him. She did not wish to answer. Things had a way of working out. Besides, she had only received hunches about certain danger. She might disclose bits and pieces, but only to Dr. Withers, if it helped members of the team to stay safe.
Dr. Withers sat quietly, hanging onto the roll bar and shaking his head. Chione reached over and wrapped her arm around his back. The jeep bounced over a rock, jostling them into the air. “We do finish the dig,” she said when they had settled down.
Dr. Withers smiled again. His mood changed quickly. “You mean you've seen us finish our job here?”
“Of course,” she said and smiled beneath her face coverings. “What do you think I've been working on after hours in the Hall?”
“How does this happen?” Royce asked, leaning toward her from the front seat. “Do we have help from a new team?”
Clifford's expression as Royce spoke was one of utter disgust. In fact, of late, his demeanor showed total lack of respect for Royce. She remembered Clifford's loyalty to Dr. Withers. Like Clifford told Randy weeks earlier, Dr. Withers had donated a huge inheritance, along with funds from other directors, in order to establish the CIA. His lifelong dream of a privately held institute had become reality. Reputable people had pooh-poohed Dr. Withers's nonconformist attitude, commenting that his private institute did not stand a chance. Yet, this tomb validated his effort. Dr. Withers would let nothing rob him of it. Not Randy's careless antics, nor lack of funding, nor jackals at the gate. Chione began to wonder if Kendra's suspicions of Royce's interest in the Yago woman might be valid. She did not answer Royce, who then sat back and took a turn staring off into the haze.
Back at camp, Kenneth appeared as if having been created from the blowing sand. The fabric used for his head covering was wrapped tightly around his cameras. The neck of his undershirt was pulled up over his nose. He wore goggles and had toilet paper stuck into his ears. “Sterling,” he said above the howl of the wind. “I've got something.”
“First, get inside. We've got a bit of a problem here.” Dr. Withers started to walk away, then turned back. “Why aren't you wearing a gallibaya?” He did not wait for Kenneth's reply, but walked swiftly away.
The others headed toward the cook tent with Kenneth in pursuit. Now Chione remembered something and slowly waved a hand in front of her face trying to clear her view. She looked around to see Aaron watching her. She wiped the air again in front of her face. “Aaron, the haze!” she said. “The haze I saw in a vision. This sandstorm is the haze that blocked everything from view.”
“A sandstorm?”
“Yes, happening at a time when everything looks bleak and right now we're threatened with having to abandon the site. I was right! I was right!”
They carefully hurried to the cook tent, not able to see it but knowing the general direction to take.
Inside, Dr. Withers asked, “So what about this problem, Kenneth?”
“A short while ago,” he said. “I saw Dakarai running toward the necropolis.”
“Running? That's strange considering no one can see far enough ahead to make it worth the risk.”
“I thought so too. So I followed him.”
“You sure it was Dakarai?” Aaron asked. As an archaeologist, Aaron always sought tangible evidence.
“Yeah, his blue gallibaya flapped in the wind.”
“A lot of laborers wear those blue things,” Bebe said.
“But they don't hide their face when you try to get a look at them. Besides, Dakarai is one of the tallest Egyptians around here.”
“Maybe he covered his face from the sand.”
“Not likely,” Kenneth said. “He was running at full tilt barely able to keep his face protected. When he saw me, he covered up quick and turned away. Believe me, in my gut—”
“Okay, but I told you to stay out of—”
“There was no one else to follow him. I mean, why would he be running so fast and hiding his face?”
“Okay,” D
r. Withers said. “So what did you learn?”
“He disappeared, vanished.”
“You lost him in the haze?”
“No, actually I had sight of him off and on as he ducked around the mastabas trying to hide.” Kenneth was excited, knew he was onto something. “He disappeared. And get this. I lost him just about where I saw that hole with a box in it.”
“Where Chione felt we were being watched?” Dr. Withers asked. “That is all too coincidental.”
Chione thought so too. Something about that area of the necropolis kept trying to come to mind. She had thought about returning there herself to lay hands on the mastabas to see what she might receive through her sixth sense.
“You remember, don't you?” Kenneth asked. “Many of those mastabas were built with compartments above ground so offerings could be left.”
Dr. Withers took a quick breath. “That must be why you felt we were being watched, Chione. Whoever took our goodies must have stashed them in some of those empty spaces. Whoever you felt was around might have been hiding in those empty cubicles.”
“I'm sure no one's leaving offerings in this ancient burial site,” Chione said. “The compartments would be perfect for storage.” That still did not answer the gnawing feeling she had about the area.
“Dakarai couldn't just disappear,” Clifford said. “He ducked into one of those.”
“Same thing I thought,” Kenneth said. “I suggest we round up some of the Bolis and go investi—”
Dr. Withers quickly raised a hand. “Ju-ust hold on there. The Bolis, yes. Us, no. That's not what we're here for. The Egyptian police won't need our help and you stay out of the necropolis for now, you hear?”
Later over breakfast down under, Dr. Withers said, “Hear me, all of you. We may be onto something. No one's to leak a word about Dakarai being suspect. Got that?”
After lunch, Chione watched the last load of crates being hoisted onto a dilapidated truck for delivery to a barge for the Nile crossing. Vehicles waited on the opposite bank to transport the precious cargo to the airport in Luxor for the flight to Cairo.
Tarik, whose many duties included being a messenger, handed her a fax message. He stood and waited like the curious child he was, turning his ear toward her. He so wanted to be part of the team. He never once put out his hand for baksheesh, and he honestly worked hard to show his intent. “Yes,” she said, reading the message. “Yes!”