Saltar's Point (28 page)

Darrow appeared in her doorway. His demeanor gave her pause. He had that look in his eyes, a look that she had seen all too much recently, a look that tried to conceal anger while attempting to be smug at the same time. He never pulled it off very well.

“Hello Abby.” The words came out smoothly but with a hint of animosity.

“Aye unny.”

“How are you?”

“Ood.” Abby didn’t like where this was going.

“What have you been up to?”

“Uthin, jus eepin.”

“Sleeping huh? Well that doesn’t sound like a very exciting day. You didn’t get up to go to the window or anything?”

Abby shook her head.

“Not even to look at the pretty trees?”

He took a couple of steps closer. Abby could see the rage registered behind his eyes. Her fear escalated. He was pissed off about something and was ready to take it out on her. She wished he would get on with it, the anticipation was worse than anything that he could do to her, but he was biding his time. It was a little game that he liked to play. He took a couple more steps, stopping just in front of her bed.

“You know, a little birdie told me a secret.” He moved around the bed until he was just at her side and then he knelt down putting his eyes at her level. “A secret about you.”

Abby trembled just a bit, but she was not about to let her fear become evident. If Jack wanted to intimidate her he was not going to be successful.

“I was looking at the banister, you know the top one on the main staircase, and I was wondering why there is a mark worn smooth around the top of it.” Abby remained silent. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that now would you?”

She shook her head.

“No of course not, I mean you’re a fucking invalid, a completely useless waste of human skin.” He stroked her hair as he talked in a demeaning and condescending nature. “I mean for Christ’s sake you can’t even get out of bed, not without help.”

His hand tightened into a fist, grabbing her hair in a vise grip, and then he yanked her from the bed and onto the floor with a violent heave. Her shoulder struck the hardwood first, sending pain throughout her entire body and bringing tears to her eyes. The momentum carried her forward and she rolled over on her belly. All she could see were the tops of Darrow’s boots as he stood over her. She began to crawl, inching herself along the floor a little at a time dragging her legs behind her. She knew she could not get away, but instinct had taken over, the desire to live still burned deep within her heart and pulsed through her veins. Darrow seemed amused by the sight. He stood patiently watching her squirm her way along like a slug on a rose petal.

“Although, you know. The other day I found you in the bathroom. Remember that? In the bathroom all by your lonesome, so I guess maybe you can get out of bed after all. And if you can get out of bed, maybe, just maybe you might be able to get down the stairs and back up again. Am I getting warm?”

Abby continued to crawl, elbow over elbow, slowly making her way to the door. She had made it about half way before she felt Darrow’s boot stomp down on her hair, pinning her to the floor.

“Where’re you going sweetheart? You’re not trying to get away from little old me are you?”

Abby tried to move her head but she was pinned hard and fast to the floor. Darrow knelt again while keeping his boot securely on her hair. He placed his hand on the back of her neck and leaned forward until his mouth was just inches from her ear. She could smell his putrid breath reeking of cigarettes and this morning’s whiskey.

“Where’s the rope Abby?”

Abby continued to struggle pissing him off even more. He grabbed the underside of her chin and yanked upward, straining her neck and pulling a large chunk of her hair free from her scalp. Despite all of this Abby managed to remain silent. Darrow sighed and yanked her head up further. Abby felt as though the tendons in her neck were about to snap. She was having difficulty breathing now and she wondered if she would have been able to answer Jack if she wanted to.

“Where’s the fucking rope Abby?”

Darrow repeated the question, tired of her little games. Abby gritted her teeth and held on to her determination. The rope was stowed safely within Porter’s study, but Jack would never know that. Even if he killed her she would not give him the satisfaction. He released her hair from under his boot and slammed her head into the floor with all of his might. Her brain exploded like a firecracker and for a moment Abby thought that she would loose consciousness, but unmercifully she did not.

“Not going to talk eh? Well that’s just fine. I’ll just have to beat it out of you, that’s all.”

He kicked her underneath her jaw with as much force as he could muster. Abby heard her jawbone crack under the tremendous force. Her teeth cut through the top of her tongue, severing the tip. Abby felt the small fleshy mass in her mouth, she spat it out in a fountain of blood and watched as it bounced off the floor. She didn’t care; her tongue was virtually useless now anyway. Darrow kicked her again, this time in the side of her head with enough force to scoot her body sideways on the hardwood. Almost by instinct Abby swung her left arm backwards with all of her might. It bounced harmlessly off of Darrow’s shin, causing him to erupt in a fit of laughter.

“Oh, you’re going to fight back now. After all these years, Abby Darrow decides to take a stand. Whoopty fuckin’ do.”

He grabbed the back of her head and slammed it down onto the hardwood with enough force to fracture her two front teeth. They plinked on the floor close to the tip of her severed tongue. Blood was spilling from her mouth now in a torrent of sticky red fluid. It formed around her head like a liquid pillow.

With a claw Darrow grasped her shoulder and flipped on her side, Abby peered up at him with hate filled eyes.

“There’s a reckoning coming for you Jack Darrow.”

The words came out garbled as usual but Darrow had no doubt as to what she said. Even without her words her look said it all. It was the first time in her life that she had ever looked at him this way. Despite all that he had done to her she had managed not to hate Jack Darrow until that very instant. Jack noticed it too, and for a second it gave him pause, but then he regained his composure and kicked her again. This time his boot landed squarely in her stomach, doubling her over at the waist, rupturing her stomach lining and causing her to vomit blood. Her life was over then, she was sure of it. Darrow would continue to beat her until she was dead and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. The futility of her situation and her wasted life drew the agony deep from within her soul. She could have been so much more, could have done something with her life, but now this was her fate, to die at the boots of a monster. The tears welled in her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. A long pitiful wail escaped her lips as she sobbed.

Darrow looked down at her, lying on her side in the fetal position. It had a haunting familiarity. Decades earlier he had lain like that on the cellar floor as his mother beat him unmercifully. The memory cut through him. What had he done? The monster, the monster that had possessed his mother was now controlling him. He had become his own worst nightmare. What if the demon had been wrong? No it was wrong, Abby couldn’t have made the trek down to the first floor, and now he had beat her senseless for no reason.

“I’m so sorry Abby. I’m so sorry.” The words and the tears flowed through him as he cradled her head in his lap. He only beat her like this when he was drinking. It was time for him to stop. He vowed right then and there to quit drinking once and for all, and for the next year he didn’t touch a drop.

Abby felt Jack’s hands cradled around her head and could almost make sense of his words as she slipped in and out of consciousness. Abby too made a vow to herself. If she lived through this she would escape the clutches of Jack Darrow once and for all. It was time for her to leave.

PART II

THE RECKONING

I am sure the grapes are sour.

-Aesop

TWENTY-NINE

Lake Nasser, Sudan 1898

Najid was dying, he knew, he had watched the others die. The river sickness had ravaged their bodies until they were nothing more than skin and bones. Now he too was sick. He would continue to sweat and shake, the fever would come and go, and just when he was feeling better it would come back worse than before. He would become bloated. His face, hands, and feet would swell up as if they were about to pop. His skin would yellow, and his eyes would become red. There would be blood in his urine. He would watch as he pissed his lifeblood away. It would not be an easy death, he knew. He had watched the others die.

Like the others Najid had been lured by promises of wealth, glory and riches beyond his wildest dreams. He had followed the wealthy American and the Irishman to the Sudan, a place where not even the most impoverished Egyptians dared to go, for the poverty of Egypt was wealthier than the riches of the Sudan. Still they had promised. They had promised, and he had believed. He had wanted to believe, and now he lay dying just like the others. He drew ragged breaths, hoping with each inhalation that it would be his last, and each time that it was not his disappointment grew. For now Najid wanted to die, wanted it more than anything else in the world. Even death would be better than facing the wrath of what they had unearthed.

The white men did not fear it. White men did not fear much for they knew little, but Najid felt fear unlike any he had ever felt. He did not know that they had been seeking the burial shrine of the Bedouin, for if he had he surely would not have come, not for any amount of riches. The Shadow Walkers were feared, sent by the devil himself to strike down the missionaries and their false prophets. He drew another breath and the tent walls began to close in upon him, drawing nearer until they would choke the life from his lungs. Najid only prayed it would be quick.

The American had entered the tent. Najid could tell from the way his boots scuffed through the sand like a sidewinder. The American leaned over him, his beard and eyes focused upon his face with mock concern. Najid’s vision blurred. The American’s face distorted and then became three images, all speaking to him with words he once understood but now meant nothing. He tried to concentrate but it was becoming more and more difficult. He focused on the central image, saw the lips moving between the coarse gray fibers of an unkempt beard, but the sound that slipped by his ears was a raging river, loud but indiscernible.

Naajeeed. Naajeeed.

Even his own name was unfamiliar.

Hooow aaargh yooo feeeeling?

The words continued to slip by until they faded from his mind like water in an oasis, evaporating in steaming waves beneath the scorching desert sun. Najid drew his last breath and then… silence.

Doctor Mussaud pulled the stethoscope from his ears, felt his pulse at the wrist one more time, looked at Talcott and shook his head.

Talcott’s words were a hush between his teeth. “God damn it.”

It was the second man he had lost this week, and the fourth in the last month. His men were dropping faster to the river sickness than Sioux Indians to the pox. He looked down at his doctor, the Egyptian hack that was the only doctor who dared to come along on this suicide crusade. He was thin and balding, weather worn features and an elongated narrow nose common to the Egyptians dominated his face. Talcott wondered if he even was a real doctor, or just another blood letter trained in the back alleys of Cairo, preying on the sick and the dying for a few coins to feed his family. Either way Talcott had disdain for the man. He had hired him to keep his men healthy and so far all he had to show for it was a crude trench dug to house the ashes of the dead.

Talcott ran his hand along the back of his neck. “You try my patience Mussaud. My men die every day now it seems.”

“Surely you don’t think I could have prevented this?” Dr. Mussaud’s voice was thick with Egyptian accent. “This river sickness, this is what I warned you about. This is what I told you would happen. The sickness is worse than it has ever been. Whole villages have been cut down, entire families decimated, the living wail in the streets and yet we try our hand at playing God? We should not have come.”

Talcott bent low until his face was just inches from the doctor. “Your job is not to play God, nor is it to challenge my judgment. It is to keep my men healthy. Let me remind you Doctor Mussaud that the men also look to you to keep them well and they have seen your miserable failure measured in the bodies of their friends and brothers rotting in the desert sun. They have begun to talk Mussaud. I have heard them whispering amongst themselves while they sit huddled around their campfires at night. They say you are a witchdoctor, that you curse them and bring the sickness upon them, that you do nothing to cure them. Do I need to remind you that these are not the sort of men you want turning against you Mussaud?”

“You can’t be suggesting that I can do anything about this? There is no cure!” The doctor’s face was placid but anger resonated behind his eyes. “Even in the best hospitals the doctors can do nothing but make them comfortable and give them fluids and vitamins, and even then nine out of ten will not survive. I have no equipment, no supplies, not even herbs or aspirin. And yet you expect miracles from me? This is madness!”

Mussaud attempted to rise but the American pushed him back into his chair with thick and calloused hand. “I will have no more of your excuses Mussaud. You say there is no cure, then find one, or else find a way to keep them from getting sick. For if you don’t I will confirm what they have been whispering about at night while you sleep. I’ll tell them that you have been making them sick. They will not be pleased.”

Talcott rose to his full height, towering over the doctor. “Get the body out of here and burn it. I don’t want anyone else getting sick.”

The anger in Mussaud’s eyes had been replaced with fear. “Yes Mr. Talcott, right away sir.”

Mussaud stood and hurried from the tent to fetch a stretcher and find another man who was willing to help him carry the body away from the campsite. Talcott watched him go then pulled the glasses from the brim of his nose and wiped his sweating brow with the back of his sleeve, as he did often, making his shirt yellowed and starchy with dried sweat. They could not go on much longer. Without a payout, without the riches promised to them the men were growing restless. “Our brothers die in vain,” the men had begun to whisper amongst themselves. “We Chase nothing but a myth, Atlantis in the desert.” Talcott knew that soon the remaining men would turn against him and McGinty. They would be cut down where they lay, rusty blades drawn across their windpipes while they slept. It had been six months and they had uncovered nothing, until today.

Today’s find would bring him the fame and fortune that he desired, it would have to, or he was a dead man. He had been holding out hope for the last two months even while McGinty had panicked. The Irishman had a strong desire for success but a weak will to back it up, that was why men like him would always be reliant upon others to help them achieve their meager conquests. It was why he was here, because McGinty could not do it without him, of course he couldn’t, or he would have done it long ago. Talcott placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and headed outside, brushing the tent flap back with one arm and shielding his eyes with the other.

The night was cold, a striking contrast to the thirty-eight degree Celsius temperature earlier today. They dug at night to avoid the scalding sun; even the desert men could not labor in such temperatures. The wind was howling, kicking up dust in swirling tempests that assailed the sides of the tents and stung the skin like biting locusts. Talcott brought his scarf up around his face to shield his mouth from the sand then pushed his glasses close upon his face to cover his eyes. With his arm still draped around his face, he stumbled across the desert sand before the limestone steps descended into the tomb. Inside it was remarkably quiet, the howling wind reduced to nothing more than a whistling banshee, eerie but inconsequential.

John stood at the back of the tomb, overseeing the men as they labored to clear the sand away from the base of the East wall. The two Egyptians labored heavily, sweat dripping from their brows. Their spades had been worn down to mere nubs from months of constant digging. The Bedouin always lay the sacred dead in the eastern chamber. It was there, if anywhere that they would find what they sought. At last the final spade full of sand was thrown clear.

Talcott moved forward and examined the Sanskrit text. He traced his thick fingers along the worn edges to be sure that he was really seeing what his eyes were telling him. When his doubt had been assuaged he looked over at his partner, exchanging more words than could have possibly been spoken in that moment.

McGinty too was bathed in sweat, though he did no labor. His breathing accelerated, he drew wispy breaths that whistled slightly between clenched teeth. He removed his fogged eyeglasses and wiped away the perspiration on his shirt before replacing them on the bridge of his nose with shaking hands.  Talcott laughed, an amusing and disbelieving little chuckle escaping his lips. McGinty was scared. The man stood at the door to his dreams, his lifelong quest to make his name memorable in the pages of future historians, and he looked scared. Talcott huffed to himself and stared at the man who had persuaded him to fund this treasure hunt in the first place. He was tall and lanky, six foot two and weighing no more than seventy kilos. He was dressed in desert garb as was Talcott, khaki pants tucked into black leather boots, beige safari shirt, and wide brimmed hat, but he wore it like a child playing dress up, out of his element, pretending. He was fifty-five years old, but a lifetime of constant worry and anxiety had etched lines in his face so deep that most people took him to be in his seventies.

“McGinty, show a little enthusiasm. This is what we’ve been searching for. Soon we will be famous men. We’ll celebrate you and I with the finest scotch and the youngest girls that money can buy.”

“I pray that you’re right my friend.”               McGinty’s words drew out like a dull blade. “I pray that you’re right.”

The two watched as the Egyptians removed the last of the sand from the base of the wall and pried the grit from the edges with raw fingers. A doorway took shape in the sandstone, a mass of inscribed symbols carved upon its surface. Talcott strained his eyes and examined the etchings. It was a dialect used only by the Bedouin, a crude language of letters and symbols scrawled together reading right to left that seemed to sway and dance in the flickering torchlight.

“Move away.” Talcott’s Arabic was broken and crude.

The two men did as they were told. Talcott grabbed a spade from one of the men and carefully scraped away the loose grains of sand from the etchings. He was no expert in the field of cryptography, he doubted if anyone was in the language of the Bedouin, but he had managed to learn a few words and symbols. He translated aloud the words he knew. “Death. Evil. Passage.”

McGinty had turned a pasty white, an unhealthy glow even for him. “George, the script. It is a warning…”

“I know what it says.” He waved the Irishman off with a flick of his wrist. “A scare tactic to ward off any would-be grave robbers, nothing more.”

The Egyptians shifted uncomfortably in their sandals. The one who spoke no English muttered something in Arabic. Talcott turned to the other one, who spoke very little English.

“What did he say?”

“He says the door bears the mark of the devil. We should not have disturbed this place.”

“Open it,” Talcott commanded.

The two Egyptians stared blankly for a moment. The one who spoke no English averted his eyes from Talcott’s penetrating glare.

“Open it,” Talcott said, more forcefully this time.

The first man, the one who spoke no English shook his head and screamed. Overcome with terror, he turned and fled from the crypt. The second man called out after him.

“Baresh. Come back. Baresh there is a sandstorm.”

But Baresh did not hear him, and he did not stop. He bounded up the stairs and fled into the howling winds. Talcott watched him go then turned calmly back to the remaining man. Inside his guts bubbled with impatience but he had learned how to deal with these men and a calm demeanor was best.

“You. Help me.”

The Egyptian weighed his options, and deciding that they were few, complied with the request. Talcott and the Egyptian began chipping away at the edges of the door, loosening it within the sandstone. When they had cleared away the debris from the edges Talcott motioned to McGinty to hand him the large iron pry bar. Talcott took it and using all of his might jabbed the jagged end into the rock and the door line. Then the three men each took hold of the bar and threw their weight against it. The heavy rock began to slide outward an inch at a time. A grating sound of rock against stone split the air. At last they had pried it just far enough to allow a man to squeeze through. They stood back and peered into the darkness beyond. Talcott tried to illuminate the darkened chamber with his torch but the blackness was vast and the light was swallowed within it.

“Very well,” Talcott said. “Shall we?” He motioned at McGinty to enter first.

Inside the room was barren except for a staircase that led downward even further beneath the Earth’s surface and into the penetrating blackness. Talcott did not hesitate, boots thudding on the stone steps. The other men followed wearily, wondering quietly what in the hell had they just gotten themselves into. The stairs continued for hundreds of feet leading them further down than even Talcott had imagined. The bottom of the stairs opened into a large open chamber. The men strained their eyes as they stared into the massive room. Five large pillars spanned from the floor to the ceiling high above. In the center of the room was a single sarcophagus comprised of marble. No etchings or markings of any kind adorned its front. The three men took cautious steps until they stood just a few feet from it.