by Alton Gansky
“I suppose,” Curtis sighed after a moment, “we could see how easily the shield separates from the body. We might get lucky. But I want everything taped.”
“I’m on it, Doc,” Brent enthused, raising the camera to his eye. “Quiet on the set . . . roll ’em.”
Curtis studied the shield and the occupant upon which it rested like a chess master planning his next ten moves. “Perry, you take the corner opposite me; Gleason, you take the lower left; Jack can have the lower right. We’re going to lift gently and evenly. I will set the pace; the rest of you will lift as I do—no more, no less. Everyone got that?” They all agreed and took their positions.
Curtis reached forward and slid two fingers under one corner of the shield. Perry did the same and waited for the others to follow suit. “Here we go,” Curtis said, and he gently pulled up.
Perry fixed his eyes on Dr. Curtis’s hand. He was determined to keep the shield flat and level. For a moment the shield felt stuck, and Perry was afraid that Curtis would back off in the name of caution, but he didn’t. Letting his eyes rise from Curtis’s hand for a moment, he looked at the professor and saw that he was biting his lip. Perry expected to see blood any moment.
The shield rose with a gentle crackle. Perry had visions of the ancient soldier’s arm dangling beneath, but his fear was unfounded. The four men removed the shield from its centuries-old resting spot.
“Okay, this is good,” Curtis said, sounding like a man who had just run a mile uphill. Perry realized that he too had been holding his breath. “I think two of us can handle it now.”
Perry slid his other hand down the shield to the opposite corner. Curtis did the same. It felt remarkably light. As soon as Gleason and Jack were out of the way, Perry and Curtis took several side steps and then gently set the shield down on the grassy ground.
“This guy was buried in full military dress,” Jack said.
Perry returned to the coffin and took in the sight of a skeleton dressed in deteriorated and crumbling armor.
“Brass greaves on the legs,” Curtis said. “Segmental armor strips probably held in place by leather ties.” He hunkered down again. “He’s got it all: long double-edged sword called a ‘Spanish sword’ on his right side, leather belt, iron ring mail, and a dagger.”
“That’s quite a sheath,” Perry said, looking at the dagger’s inlaid enamel and silver scabbard.
“He’s wearing a baldric,” Curtis commented. “That could be significant.”
“A what?” Gleason asked.
“A baldric,” Curtis replied. “It’s the leather sash running from his shoulder to his hip. It was used to provide additional support for the sword.”
“Oh, silly me,” Gleason quipped. “Why would it be significant?”
“It may help date the soldier. If memory serves me, baldrics came into use around the first century.”
“It looks like there are shreds of red material,” Jack said. “Is that his uniform?”
“Tunic,” Curtis answered. “This is amazing,” he admitted. “If the other objects in the survey are like this, then archeologists are going to have a field day.”
“And historians are going to have migraines.”
“So this is why you wanted to keep things quiet,” Montulli said. “Trying to keep all this undercover until the research is done. I can understand that.”
That’s only one reason, Sergeant, and a small reason at that, Perry thought to himself. He turned to Jack. “How is the other digging going?”
“Good. The ground is firm but easy enough to handle. The two digs farthest from us may need to use the backhoe. The objects are too deep to reach with shovels.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Use the backhoe to get within three feet of the objects. Shore the sides of the pit and put men down there to do the sensitive digging.”
“Just make sure the backhoe doesn’t dig too deeply and upend our precious find,” Curtis said.
“I’ve got our best man on the job,” Jack said. “He has a gentle touch. He can scratch an itch on your back with a bucket, if you want.”
“No thanks,” Curtis shot back. “I’ll just take your word for it.”
“As soon as any team hits their target, I want Dr. Curtis standing there, directing the extraction. We’ll open each coffin for a brief look, then wrap it in ten mill plastic sheeting. We’ll crate them after that.”
“That part is easy,” Jack said. “The real challenge is getting the coffins through the crowds and into the trucks.”
“Can you help us with that, Sergeant?” Perry asked. “I know that I’m not on your good list, but a few deputies helping the private security would be appreciated.”
“I don’t have a problem with you, Mr. Sachs,” Montulli replied. “Sure, you’ve turned my town upside down and put the mayor on the war path, but I can’t say you’ve done anything more criminal than annoy me.”
“Does Detective Sanchez feel that way?” Perry asked with a wry grin.
“No. Him you ticked off quite nicely,” Montulli answered. “Getting a call from the governor’s office didn’t put him in a good mood. Sanchez is a good cop, but he doesn’t like to have his work meddled with.”
“It couldn’t be helped,” Perry said. “I had to do what I did. Can I count on you for a little more help?”
“Yeah, I’ll pitch in again, but I want to stay on the scene. This stuff fascinates me. I love surprises.”
“Then you are going to be one happy man, Sergeant. One happy man indeed.”
CLAIRE’S HEART BEGAN to slow from its hour-long frenetic pounding. Her breathing came easier now. The woman said she could take off the blindfold five minutes after she heard the door close. Claire had no idea how much time had passed.
The woman had come to the old warehouse office, opened the door, and strolled in as if paying a visit to an old friend. Claire bolted to her feet; Joseph remained seated on the floor, rocking back and forth. “You’re moving,” she announced without emotion. “I’m going to blindfold you. Sit down and tilt your head back.”
“My head?”
“Just do it,” she demanded. “Tilt your head back and close your eyes.”
Claire did. Thoughts of escape ran through her mind. Maybe she could overpower the woman, or at the very least, push her aside and escape through the open door. But the thoughts never became action. The woman was less than half Claire’s age and looked to be twice as strong. Claire had rarely been athletic and never confrontational. Violence sickened her.
With her head back and eyes closed, Claire felt the soft touch of material. It had a slight but familiar odor to it. Gauze. The woman was putting medical gauze on over Claire’s closed lids. “Can’t you just let us go? We don’t have anything you want.”
“No, I can’t let you go, and yes, you do have something we want.”
“We?”
“Shut up and hold still.”
Something else was laid against Claire’s eyes, something hard and round; small disks about the size of a half-dollar. It occurred to her a moment later that that was what the objects were: coins. A second later there was a ripping sound followed by a tearing noise. Something sticky was placed over the coins and gauze. It stuck to her forehead and cheek. Tape, she realized. Her abductor had taped the large coin and gauze to Claire’s face. She did the same to the other eye.
“Okay, tilt your head forward.”
Claire complied, and she felt a band of cloth placed around her eyes.
“That ought to do it,” the woman said. “One down, one to go.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Claire objected. “Joseph can’t talk. He’s harmless and no threat to you.”
“Uhh . . . uhh . . . Perry . . . uhh . . . uhh.”
“That sounds like talking to me,” the woman snapped.
“That’s all he can say. That and just a few other words.”
“Too many words for my comfort. Okay, buddy, head back.” A second later: “I s
aid, head back.”
“He doesn’t understand you,” Claire said. “Let me sit by him.”
Another pause, then, “He’s right in front of you, in the same place he was when I came in. And make him stop rocking.”
Claire scooted forward on her seat, extended her right hand, and reached for her son. She found him, touching him on his shoulder. He rocked twice more then stopped. Easing forward, Claire reached out with her other hand then slipped from the chair to the floor. With only touch to go on, she quickly determined Joseph’s position and sat on the floor next to him. Slipping her arm around his shoulders, she pulled him close. He responded by laying his head on her shoulder. Moving her hand from his shoulder, she felt along his body until she found his hair, then his forehead. Gently she pulled back. Joseph offered no resistance.
“Be gentle with him,” Claire pleaded.
The woman gave no reply. Through the subtle motions of Joseph’s head, Claire could sense the work her captor was doing: the gauze, the coins, the tape. Joseph took it all with no resistance or sound.
Events moved quickly after that. The woman demanded that they rise and Claire did, helping Joseph to his feet. “We’re going for a little ride,” she said. “I’ll lead you down the stairs and to the van. You will do exactly as I say. The stairs are treacherous, and a fall could be . . . painful.” Claire understood the threat.
The trek down the stairs went without incident, something Claire was thankful for. Once on the first floor of the warehouse, the woman took Claire by the arm and started walking, towing Claire after her. Joseph followed closely as he always did, with his head pressed against Claire’s shoulder. Time passed, but Claire had no means to measure it. Blindfolded and in a strange environment, minutes seemed like hours. She had few sensations. They were placed in the back of a vehicle that seemed to be the same as
the panel truck that had brought them to the warehouse. The drive was punctuated with stop-and-go driving. After what seemed like an hour, the vehicle stopped and the back doors opened.
“Everybody out.”
Claire prayed that someone would see them exiting the van, that someone would notice the blindfolds and call the police. It was a prayer that Claire began in detail but that quickly became a mantra, “Please, please, please, please . . .”
In her lifetime, Claire had felt helpless on several occasions. First, when the doctors first told her that Joseph would never be like other boys. That moment had sent her reeling, emotions tumbling like a skydiver who has lost control of his descent. The worst had been the moment the hospital called to give her news of Jamison’s injury and heart attack. Uncertainty descended like rain in a hurricane. The reality of his death had made the past precious and the future a place to fear. In each of those cases, she’d survived the shock and pain. She could do it again, she told herself. If she were careful, if she were smart, if she made no stupid moves, then she and Joseph might make it through all of this. God willing, they would survive.
The rest of the journey was on foot over a hard surface that Claire guessed was concrete. Her footsteps echoed harshly, and she assumed they were in a parking structure. There was a slight smell of oil. Moments later the unforgiving concrete gave way to a softer, but still firm, floor. She could feel a low pile carpet under her feet. A bell also sounded, and the purring of a quiet motor floated in the air. They were familiar sounds. Claire and Joseph were led three more steps and they heard the moving of metal doors. The floor lurched to the accompanying sounds of rattling nearby, as if behind the wall. The sensation of motion was proof enough for Claire to know they were in an elevator.
Moments later, another ding preceded the sound of the doors opening. The woman, who was both captor and guide, took Claire’s elbow again and moved her forward. The floor felt softer underfoot, a sign that they were walking on a thicker, plusher carpet. She heard no other sounds. The pace picked up.
“Not too fast,” Claire said. “It’s hard for Joseph to keep up.”
“No talking,” the woman snapped. There was anger in her voice, but she slowed her pace.
At first, Claire tried to count her steps, making a mental map like she had seen people do on television movies, but it was impossible. Without her sight she soon became disoriented and fearful of tripping or bumping into something. She felt more helpless with each step.
“In here,” the woman said and pulled Claire at a right angle to the course they had been walking. The constant pressure of Joseph’s head on her shoulder suddenly disappeared. Unable to see, he had no way of noting the change in direction.
“Joseph,” Claire cried and pulled loose of the woman’s grasp. Claire turned and extended her hands, reaching for her son.
“He’s right here.” Claire felt the woman’s grip again and a pulling motion. She bumped into Joseph. “Here, take his hand.”
Joseph’s hand made contact with hers, and Claire took a firm hold. Next, she felt herself being tugged along. Her shoulder
hit something solid, sending a scorching pain down her arm. She let slip a small cry of pain. The woman pulled harder, and Claire stumbled forward.
“Stand here for five minutes,” the woman said. “After that, you may take your blindfolds off.”
Claire stood frozen in place listening, straining her ears to hear anything. A few seconds later, the thud of door meeting jamb filled the room. So did the sound of a lock being set. Claire waited, Joseph’s hand held firmly in hers. Seconds jerked by like the halting steps of pallbearers.
“Stand still,” Claire said as she released Joseph’s hand. Reaching to her face, she removed the cloth band that circled her head and dropped it to the floor; then she gently removed the tape on her face. The glue pulled at her skin and took whatever hairs had been unfortunate enough to be under the tape. The coins and the gauze came off as well, and Claire blinked several times before being able to take in her surroundings.
She was in a room much larger and cleaner than the one they’d left behind in the warehouse. The walls were smooth and white; the floor was also white and covered in industrial-looking vinyl tile. There were no windows, and the only sound was the gentle breathing of the air conditioner. Overhead were recessed fluorescent lights, only half of which were on. Turning, she saw several metal cabinets against one wall, their doors open revealing empty shelves. Next to the cabinets were two plastic folding chairs. A large counter dominated the center of the room, with a small sink to one side. The counter was covered in black Formica. It reminded her of the lab stations in her high school chemistry class. In the back wall was an open door. A small light burned inside, just enough for Claire to know that she was looking into a bathroom. She was thankful for that.
“Let’s get this nasty stuff off you,” she said to Joseph. It took several minutes for Claire to gingerly remove the tape from her son’s face. Seeing Joseph’s face taped had filled her with churning pity and boiling anger. She could do something about the tape, but she could do nothing about the emotion she felt or the situation they were in. It frustrated her to know she had no more influence over the events that surrounded her than a cork had in the ocean. If help were to come, it would have to be from the outside.
“Uhh . . . uhh,” Joseph said and pushed past Claire. She turned, uncertain where he could go. He didn’t go far. Shuffling as he went, Joseph stepped to the side of the center counter and pointed. Claire walked to his side. At his feet lay something she’d not seen in her hurried examination of the room: a thick roll of butcher paper like they kept at the house. On the counter were a dozen boxes of crayons, colored chalks, and even watercolors.
Joseph bounced on his toes and continued pointing.
“Okay,” Claire said. “At least you’ll have something to do.”
The roll of paper was too heavy for Claire to lift; it would have to remain where it was. Reaching down, she took hold of the edge of the two-foot-wide paper and took several steps back. With a practiced pull and twist, she ripped off a length of paper about f
our feet long and draped it across the counter. She opened one of the boxes of crayons and stepped to the side. Joseph immediately began to draw, his face hovering over the paper by mere inches. Claire made use of the bathroom and then insisted that Joseph do the same. No sooner was he out than he returned to his project.
Claire sat in one of the chairs. And waited.
“INTERESTING,” RUTHERFORD SAID and tapped a key on his keyboard. The image on the video monitor zoomed in slightly. “Only mildly vocal, but he seems aware of things around him.”
Julia looked over her brother’s shoulder. “He shows no sign of fear and has offered no resistance. He’s the most passive person I’ve seen.”
“He doesn’t seem all that intelligent,” Alex said.
“He’s not,” Rutherford said. “He’s a savant, brilliant in a few things he cannot himself understand. Beyond that, he’s dysfunctional in every way. I did a little research while Julia was gone. Extraordinary material. Seems it all centers on damage to the left hemisphere. There are several cases on record in which adults, even the elderly, become savants after injury or disease. Our boy here may be a ‘prodigious savant.’ Not many of them around, maybe fifty in the world.”
“Prodigious savants?” Julia said.
“People with skill levels beyond any expectation. They’d be remarkable even if they were normal in other ways.”
“What’s his fascination with drawing?” Alex asked.
“It’s one of the few communication outlets he has. I doubt his brain processes information as ours do. Our brains work by retention and relation. We see things or events happen, and we store them away. The brain then processes that information through relation to other events and expresses it in the form of emotion or thought. I’d bet the way his brain relates to its stored information is nothing like that. He might as well be a creature from another world, evolved in a way we can’t imagine. And here he is, stuck among five billion people who are nothing like him at all.”