He paused.
“Well?” Romero urged.
“I didn’t die. She took my hand, held it in hers. And suddenly I—I understood. It’s … it’s hard to explain. But I realized she wasn’t a witch. She was just an old woman, lonely and scared, hiding in the basement, living on tap water and canned food. It was as if I could … I could feel her fear of the outside world, feel her miserable existence in the cold and dark, feel her pain at having lost everyone she cared about.”
He finished his drink. “That was it. She retreated into the dark. I rolled up my sleeping bag and went home. When my parents got back, I told them what happened. My brother got grounded for a month, and the cops checked out the Hackety place. She turned out to be Vera Hackety, a mentally handicapped woman whose family had been taking care of her. Her last surviving relative had died eighteen months before. She’d been living in the basement ever since.”
He looked at Romero. “But a funny thing happened. Something about that encounter changed me. I became fascinated by tales of real-life ghosts, of haunted mansions and treasures with curses, and Bigfoot, and everything else you can imagine. And one of those books—the ghost stories my brother had so thoughtfully given me to scare me even worse—turned out to be a book by E. and H. Heron called Flaxman Low, Occult Psychologist. It was a book of stories about a supernatural sleuth.”
“A supernatural sleuth,” Romero repeated.
“That’s right. A kind of Sherlock Holmes of the spirit realm. As soon as I finished that book, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. Of course, it usually isn’t a full-time job—hence the professorship.”
“But how did you develop your—your skills?” Romero asked. “I mean, there aren’t exactly any graduate courses in enigmalogy.”
“No. But there are lots of treatises on the subject. That’s where being a medieval historian comes in handy.”
“You mean, like the Malleus Maleficarum?”
“Exactly. And many others, even older and more authoritative.” He shrugged. “As with anything else, you learn by doing.”
The skeptical look began to creep back into Romero’s face. “Treatises. Don’t tell me you believe all that stuff about familiars and astrology and the philosopher’s stone.”
“Those are just Western European examples you mention. Every culture has its own supernatural apparatus. I’ve studied just about all that have been documented—and some that haven’t. And I’ve analyzed the elements they have in common.” He paused. “What I believe is that beyond the natural, visible world there are elemental forces—some good, others evil—that always have and always will exist in counterpart to ourselves.”
“Like a curse on a mummy’s tomb,” Romero said. She pointed at Logan’s glass. “How many of those did you have before I got here?”
“Think of atoms or dark matter: we can’t see them, but we know they exist. Why not elemental beings—or creatures we simply haven’t yet encountered? Or, for that matter, forces we simply haven’t learned how to harness?”
Romero’s skeptical look deepened.
Logan hesitated for a second. Then he reached over, plucked the plastic straw from Romero’s drink, and placed it on the white linen tablecloth between them. He placed his hands on both sides of it, palms downward, fingers spread slightly. He breathed in, slowly exhaled.
At first, nothing happened. Then the straw shuddered slightly. And then—after another, more violent shudder—it rose slowly off the table; hovered—trembling—half an inch above it for a few seconds; then dropped back onto the cloth, rolling once before falling still again.
“Jesus!” Romero said. She peered at the straw, then gingerly picked it up, as if it might burn her fingers. “How did you do that? That’s one hell of a magic trick.”
“With the proper training, you could probably do it, too,” Logan replied. “But not as long as you think of it as a trick.”
She looked dubiously at the straw, then put it back down on the table, took a thoughtful sip of her drink. “Just one other question,” she said. “Back at my office—everything you said about me was true. Down to the fact that I was the youngest child. How did you know so much about me?”
“I’m an empath,” Logan replied.
“An empath? What’s that?”
“Somebody with the ability to absorb the feelings and emotions of others. When I shook your hand, I received a series—a flood, really—of very strong memories, notions, thoughts, concerns, desires. They’re nonselective—I have no control over what impressions I receive. I only know that, when I come into physical contact with another person, I will receive impressions, in greater or lesser measure.”
“Empathy,” Romero said. “Sounds like something right up there with aromatherapy and crystals.”
Logan shrugged. “Then you tell me: How did I know all that?”
“I can’t explain it.” She looked at him. “How do you become an empath?”
“It’s inherited. It has a biological aspect and a spiritual one, as well. Sometimes it remains dormant in people their entire lives; frequently it is awakened by a traumatic experience. In my case, I believe it was the touch of Vera Hackety.” He fiddled with his empty glass. “All I can tell you for sure is that it’s proven critical to my work.”
She smiled. “Levitation, reading thoughts … can you predict the future, too?”
Logan nodded. “How’s this: I predict that, if we don’t get to the mess in ten minutes, they’re going to stop serving dinner.”
Romero glanced at her watch. Then she laughed. “That’s the kind of prediction I can understand. Let’s go, Svengali.”
And as they stood up from the table, she picked up the cocktail straw and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.
17
The following morning at nine o’clock, a conference was called to perform a postmortem on the prior day’s accident. Logan wasn’t invited, but—learning about it from Rush at breakfast—he managed to slip into Conference Room A in White on the doctor’s coattails.
The room was large and windowless, with two semicircles of chairs. One wall was covered by several whiteboards; another sported dual digital projector screens. A huge satellite map of the Sudd hung from an overhead support, decorated with pushpins and handwritten legends scribbled on Post-it notes. Logan recognized a few of the assembled faces: Christina Romero was there, and so was Valentino; the chief of the digging operation was surrounded by a small knot of his techs and roustabouts.
Logan helped himself to a cup of coffee, then took a seat in the second tier of chairs, behind Rush. No sooner had he done so than the older man with thinning blond hair—the one he’d seen at the generator the previous day—cleared his throat and spoke.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s talk about what we know.” He turned to a man wearing a white coverall. “Campbell, what’s the status of our power grid?”
The man named Campbell sniffed. “We’ve ramped up generator one to ninety-eight percent of rated load. Our core nominal output is down to sixty-five percent.”
“Status of the methane gathering and conversion system?”
“Unaffected. The scrubbers and interface baffles are at peak efficiency. In fact, with generator two out, we’ve had to dial back fuel production.”
“Thank God they’re still functional.” The older man turned to someone else—a short woman with a tablet computer on her lap. “So output’s down by thirty-five percent. How does that affect Station functionality?”
“We’ve scaled back on nonessential services, Dr. March,” she replied.
Logan looked at the man with fresh interest. So that’s Fenwick March, he thought. He’d heard of March: he was the head archaeologist for the dig. He was, according to Romero, second in command in Stone’s absence—and he seemed to enjoy hearing the sound of his own voice.
“What about the primary search operation?” March asked the woman.
“Unaffected. We’ve diverted power and personnel, as neces
sary.” Now March turned to a third person. “Montoya? What about a replacement?”
The man named Montoya shifted in his chair. “We’re putting out inquiries.”
March’s expression changed abruptly, almost as if he’d caught a whiff of something foul. “Inquiries?”
“We have to be tactful. A six-thousand-kilowatt generator isn’t a common item around here, and we can’t afford to increase our visibility in Khartoum or—”
“Damn it,” March interrupted, “don’t give me excuses! We need that replacement generator—and we need it now!”
“Yes, Dr. March,” the man replied, ducking his head.
“We’re on a tight schedule—we can’t afford any snags, let alone the loss of half our power output.”
“Yes, Dr. March,” the man repeated, ducking his head farther, as if he wanted it to vanish between his shoulders.
March looked around, his gaze landing next on Valentino. “You’ve examined what’s left of generator two?”
Valentino nodded his burly head.
“And?”
Valentino shrugged. He clearly was not intimidated by the head archaeologist—and March seemed to sense it.
“Well?” March pressed. “Can you tell me what caused the explosion?”
“It’s hard to say. The unit was torn apart, the mechanism half melted. Maybe a stator fault, maybe a turn-to-turn failure in one of the coils. Either way, overheating spread to the couplers and collector rings, and from there to the aux tank.”
“The auxiliary tank.” March turned to Rush, almost as an afterthought. “Have you heard any more about Rogers’s condition?”
Rush shook his head. “Last I heard he was in critical condition in Coptic Hospital. I’m waiting for the nurse’s report now.”
March grunted. Then he turned back to Valentino. “Can you at least tell me whether this was caused by mechanical failure or structural weakness or if some … external element was involved?”
At this, Christina Romero looked up and caught Logan’s eye. She gave him an expression that was half smile, half smirk.
“External element,” Valentino said. “You mean, like sabotage?”
“That’s one possibility,” March said carefully.
Valentino thought about this for a moment. “If it was sabotage—and, yes, it’s possible some figlio di puttana monkeyed with the works—the fire would have destroyed any evidence.”
“What makes you think of sabotage, Fenwick?” Rush said in a quiet voice. “You of all people know how carefully the entire crew was vetted.”
“I know,” March replied, lowering his eyes. “But I’ve never been on an expedition where so much has gone wrong. It’s as if—” He paused. “It’s as if someone wants our mission to fail.”
“If that were the case,” Rush went on, “there are much easier ways to accomplish that than compromising a generator.”
Slowly, March raised his eyes and looked meaningfully at Rush. “That’s true,” he said. “That’s very true.”
18
Jack Wildman hung suspended, thirty-five feet below the surface, as he watched his dive partner, Mandelbaum, prepare to fire up Big Bertha. “Watched” wasn’t exactly the right term, he decided: Mandelbaum was little more than the vaguest blur in the muddy horror that surrounded them on all sides, a smudge, black against black, detectable only because it was in motion.
“Able Charlie to base,” Mandelbaum spoke into his radio. “We’re ready to start scouring grid G three.”
“Able Charlie, roger,” came the squawked reply from up top. “Bubble status?”
“Eighty-nine percent.”
Wildman glanced at the digital readout on the device strapped to his forearm. “Whiskey Bravo here,” he said into his own radio. “Bubble at ninety-one.”
“Roger that,” came the response from base. “Proceed.”
There was a low drone as Mandelbaum started up Big Bertha. Immediately, Wildman felt the resulting pressure as thick muck was eddied past him by the machine’s jets of compressed air. It was like standing in a vat of molasses.
Actually, it was worse than that. Because the muck and mire that surrounded them were treacherous. He had to constantly watch his step: sticks and bracken were hidden everywhere, often sharp, ready to pierce his suit. And the Sudd was so damned thick, every move was an effort, like trying to work in an atmosphere of 10 g’s.…
“Able Charlie to base,” Mandelbaum radioed. “Scouring under way.”
Now Wildman turned on the heavy spotlight fixed to his right shoulder and approached the stone face: the freshly bared bed of the Sudd, scoured temporarily clean by Big Bertha. It was Mandelbaum’s job to operate Big Bertha; his own job to examine the scoured areas it left behind for any evidence of caverns, lava pipes, or ancient construction. He felt like an astronaut on some nightmare gas planet, with his heavy wet suit and its powerful light and the helmet video camera and the bubble apparatus all conspiring to weigh him down.
Actually, he was glad about the bubble. Very glad. It kept him oriented in this soup. If not for the bubble, you could easily lose your bearings, forget which way was up. He couldn’t stop thinking about what happened to Forsythe: panicking over a blocked regulator, trying desperately to surface.… The thought chilled him. If you got disoriented in this black ooze, lost your guide cable—forget it. Your only hope was that your dive buddy would find you. Otherwise, you were dead meat.…
His foot slipped in the greasy muck of the bottom and he slid backward, only to feel something hard strike him in the calf. He reached down, felt it. A stick. Since he was unable to make out anything unless it was inches before his mask, he brought it up into visual range. Sure enough. Goddamn Sudd. Good thing the stick hadn’t penetrated his suit—the one time that had happened, the smell had been so awful it had taken him three showers to get rid of it.
He went back to examining the scoured area.
“Able Charlie,” Mandelbaum said into the radio. “I think Big Bertha needs another cleaning. I’m having trouble keeping the throttle steady.”
“Roger that,” repeated the voice from the surface.
Pushing mud and ooze away from his face, Wildman moved to his right, preparing to examine a fresh area. The feeling of muck streaming past his limbs in the wake of the machine’s air jets was horrible. A few days before, one of the divers on another crew had had his mouthpiece jarred loose by his partner’s elbow. The poor sap got a mouthful of the shit, started puking his guts out, and had to do an emergency surface before he aspirated.…
“Able Charlie,” Mandelbaum said again, “I’m afraid we need to terminate the dive. I’m having more trouble with Big Bertha—”
As he spoke, Wildman heard Bertha’s engine suddenly roar, the throttle going wide open. Mandelbaum quickly killed the throttle, but not before an irresistible wave of black muck, thrown up by the jets, knocked Wildman back a foot into the dense soup. Again, he felt something hard prod him, this time in the lower back. Shit. Reaching around, he grabbed for it, felt his hands close over the slippery stick. He brought it around toward his mask. He ought to beat Mandelbaum over the head with it. The thought brought a smile to his face until he got a look at the thing and found it wasn’t a stick, after all.
It was a bone.
19
Late that afternoon, a small group gathered in the forensic bay of Rush’s tidy medical suite. In addition to Rush himself, there was an assisting nurse, Tina Romero, and Jeremy Logan. When Logan had entered, Rush opened his mouth—apparently to protest, given Porter Stone’s standing order for compartmentalization—but then he simply shrugged, smiled faintly, and gestured him forward.
The archaeological team had finished their initial examination of the skeleton discovered by the dive team—now it was up to Rush to perform what would be, in essence, a postmortem.
The collection of bones themselves sat in a blue plastic evidence locker, set upon a wheeled cart of stainless steel. As the others watched, Rush snapped on
a pair of latex gloves, then pulled the ceiling-mounted microphone toward him, pressed the Record button, and began to speak.
“Examination of remains found on day sixteen of project, in a shallow cave within grid square G three. Ethan Rush performing the analysis, with Gail Trapsin assisting.” A pause. “The matrix of silt and mud surrounding the remains has apparently acted as a preservative, and the skeleton is in very good condition, considering. Nevertheless, there is considerable decay.”
He took the cover from the evidence locker, then began carefully removing the bones and placing them on the nearby autopsy table. “The cranial and facial bones are intact, as are those of the rib cage, arms, and vertebral column. Dive teams have searched for the remainder of the skeleton, without success, finding only a few leathery fragments of what might once have been sandals. The archaeological team has speculated that only the upper portion of the body was preserved in the silty matrix, and that the lower section has completely decayed and is no longer extant.”
He placed the bones on the table, roughly in anatomical order. Logan looked at them curiously. They were a dark brown, almost mahogany, as if varnished by their five-millennium-long mud bath. As Rush worked, bringing out more bones, the room began to smell of the Sudd: peat, vegetal decay, and an odd, sweetish smell that made Logan feel faintly nauseous.
Rush spoke into the microphone again. “Radiocarbon dating by mass spectrometer indicates that the bones are approximately fifty-two hundred years old, with a two percent margin of error due to the natural contaminants in the surrounding matrix.”
“Contemporaneous with Narmer,” Romero said quietly as she toyed with her ever-present fountain pen.
“Found with the body was a round shield, badly deteriorated, and the remains of what appears to be a mace.”
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