The Digger's Rest (35 page)

“
Fuck,” he said out loud, not even a
tenuous timeline to link it to Arthur. Disappointed, he lay down on
his bed and closed his eyes.

***

He could hear somewhere off in the distance
hypnotic singsong chanting like he’d heard when he was in Egypt
and Syria with Jack. When he opened his eyes he was dressed in his
desert khakis, hat and boots, and was in the middle of a sandstorm.
Covering his face with a scarf, he could barely open his eyes
against the stinging sand as it blasted his body, tiny pellets
ripping against his skin as he struggled to walk forward against
it; the chanting vibrating in his ears.

Through the slits of his eyes as they peered
through the gauze of his scarf, he could see his destination in the
distance ahead and knew he had to get there at all costs. He closed
his eyes and forged on, the sand feeling like it was tearing off
fragments of his skin with each step he took.

When he could opened his eyes again, he was
closer and could make out what looked like a promenade lined with
stone figures. He closed his eyes again and moved forward. Suddenly
the sand stopped beating at him. The chanting stopped, too. Pure
dead silence. He dropped the scarf from his face and opened his
eyes.

He was at the mouth of the promenade lined
with the stone figures, each exactly like the other, winged like
birds, sitting on their haunches like lions, talons on their claws
like eagles, large firm breasts on their chest, but the faces were
worn off from what could have been thousands of years of sandstorms
just like the one he’d just come through. He took a step forward,
slowly.

His mind rippled like a computer as he
walked past each statue, trying to think of what they were, where
he was,
Iraq? Iran? Were they Assyrian?
Sumerian? Babylonian?
He needed Jack. Jack would know.
“Jack?” he called out to the air as he walked past the dozens of
stone figures. “Jack, I need you. Where are you?”

When he looked ahead, he could see it, an
enormous standing statue with arms outstretched, more than one set,
but he couldn’t see what it was.

The wind started up again and the sand and
began to fly, stronger and stronger as he got closer to the
gigantic figure. When he reached the foot of the statue, sand
filled the air until he was blinded to the point where, when he
looked up at the twenty foot high figure, he couldn’t make out
anything identifiable. “Jack?” he called out again as he covered
his face.

A voice came out of the sand, muffled
and unrecognizable; telling him to do something. He felt the earth
start to tremble under his feet, rumblings at first, then quakes
increasing in violence until he felt he might fall. “Jack, help
me?” he cried out as the strength of the quakes brought him to his
knees, the voice telling him what to do.
“Dig!”
it said.
“Dig!”
and he did, pushing back the sand at the
foot of the figure with his bare hands.
“Dig! Dig! Dig!”

Soon he could see blood on his hands as he
kept pushing back the sand. He felt the pain in his fingertips; his
fingernails coming off one by one as he worked them furiously, the
earth continuing to shake underneath him. “Jack, please. I’m
drowning,” he cried out, anguished.

He went to call out again but before he could
open his mouth, the earth beneath him gave one great shattering
spasm; the ground opened up before him, splitting apart into an
ever wide-ning chasm. He fell. Falling, falling, “Jaaaacccckkkk!”
he cried out as the ground closed up above him, swallowing him into
its blackness, alone with nothing but the echo of his own voice and
the darkness surrounding him.

***

He woke the next morning on the floor. Simon
was kneeling next to him, worry written all over his face. “Mitch,
are you alright?”

“
Huh?”

“
I heard you from next door calling out
for Jack,” Simon said, taking him by his arm to help him up onto
the bed.

“
Where am I?” Mitch asked breathlessly,
soaked in sweat.

“
We’re in England. Don’t you remember?”
Simon asked. He was getting very worried.

“
Oh, yeah. It’s okay, I remember now,”
he said, putting his hand over his eyes, the brightness of the sun
through the curtains making them hurt. “I was just having a bad
dream. Help me stand up will ya, Simon.” Simon helped him up. He
was shaky but still strong. Just in case, Simon put his arm around
Mitch’s waist and walked with him to the bathroom. “I’m going to
take a shower. Wait for me here, will ya?” Mitch asked as Simon
turned to go.

Yes, sir,” Simon said and came back to sit
down on the bed, preparing to wait, thinking, That must have been
some dream.

A statement Mitch could neither confirm nor
deny, because from the minute he saw Simon’s face, he couldn’t
remember anything about it. All he knew was that when he went to
step into the shower, his arms and legs ached like he’d been
climbing Mount Everest for a month.

When he came out of the shower, he had his
hair in a ponytail. He just didn’t have the wherewithal to fuck
with it. Simon was still sitting there, waiting patiently for him.
“Come on, let’s go get something to eat,” was all Mitch could say
as he put his arm around Simon’s shoulder. “Just promise me, no
kidneys or herring, please,” he said laughingly as they walked
through the door out into the courtyard between the two
buildings.

“
Blaaaaahh!” was all Simon could say in
return.

It hadn’t occurred to either of them that
Mitch hadn’t had one single drink that night.

“
I had a return email from Dr.
Edgeworth,” Simon said as he shoveled his breakfast into his mouth.
“…actually it was from Alida saying that Dr. Edgeworth was pleased
to hear from us and glad to hear that the work was going well.
“They got the picture and sketch attachments,” he finished, downing
a cup of black coffee. “There was no mention of Lady Cotswold, so I
take it this message was in response to the first one I sent. They
probably haven’t gotten the second one yet. Oh, and it said that
Dr. Edgeworth returns your PS.”

That part made Mitch a little misty. Maybe he
was getting old, but he missed home, he missed Jack and the Museum.
Things just didn’t seem right. First it was Sandrine, then Lady
Cotswold disappearing. Even with the unearthing of the cross and
the sword, he just felt like he didn’t want to be there anymore, he
felt…threatened.

***

Jed came over to the table to ask about Lady
Cotswold. He hadn’t told Sandrine that she’d gone. He felt that in
her state, it would be best to keep it from her as long as he
could, but how long could that be?

Jed had just left their table when Deck came
rushing up to them. “Have you seen Malcolm?” His normally pale skin
was even paler. Mitch and Simon looked at each other…then back at
him, shaking their heads.

“
No, not since last night.”

Deck sat down at the table. “He isn’t in his
room, and his bed hasn’t been slept in,” he said nervously. “Mal is
as regular as clockwork. He’d never leave off without telling me.
He was so sick when he went to his room last night. Something’s
happened to him. I know it. I can feel it. He must have gone to the
hospital in the middle of the night. I don’t want to worry Ivy or
Jed until I know something. Dr. Bramson, can you go with me,
please?” Deck pleaded, his eyes filling with water and worry. Mitch
stood up with a bolt.

“
Simon, you stay here in case he comes
back. We’ll check the hospital. If he doesn’t come back and anyone
asks, he went with us for…supplies,” Mitch said and rushed out with
Deck in tow, leaving Simon there to wonder,
First Sandrine; then Lady Cotswold; and now Malcolm. What the
hell is going on around here?
He reached in his shirt,
touching the amulet still hanging around his neck. Within seconds
the soundless voice came to him.

“
Be brave, Holly for I am
with thee
.”

***

Mitch and Deck arrived back at the inn an
hour and a half later. They’d checked both area hospitals and
hadn’t found Malcolm. Simon was still waiting where they’d left
him, working on his laptop. He looked up when he saw them and shook
his head. They’d just sat down about to talk about their next move
when Fi came over with a pot of coffee. From the look on their
faces, she assumed they knew. “So you’ve ‘eard already?” she asked,
the blood seeming to drain from her face more with each word.

“
Heard what? Deck said impatiently,
distracted by his own thoughts of Malcolm.

“
My sister says they found pieces of
‘im all along the side the road, torn apart. Police say it wuz a
wild dog. The postman found ‘is ‘ead in the road ‘round dawn. The
men ‘ave been out with guns and huntin’ dogs lookin’ for the animal
all mornin’.”

Simon kept his head down trying not to faint,
crossed himself then reached to touch the amulet again through the
cloth of his shirt.

Deck’s eyes swam in his head. He jumped up
like a wild man, grabbing the girl by the arm.

“
What are you telling me, girl?” he
bellowed at her with a shake, scaring her half to death. She
flinched and tried to pull away, afraid he might hurt
her.

“
Alec from the next village,” she said
and started to cry. They all looked at her, not
following.

“
What?” Deck shouted, shaking her
again.

“
They say it ‘appened on his way home
from ‘ere last night. Can I go now?” she said, shaking and sobbing.
Deck let go of her arms and sat back down, putting his head in his
hands, a tear of relief running down the side of his cheek, relived
that it wasn’t his Mal.

Mitch put his arm around him, holding him up.
“It’ll be alright. Take a breath. It was a bad scare, but it wasn’t
him. Take a deep breath.”

And he did, a deep heaving sigh of relief,
and looked at Mitch, “What are we going to do?”

Suddenly Simon heard the soundless
voice again.
“Maybe he went out to the
castle,”
it said. Simon’s lips moved, repeating it out
loud, unable to stop himself, an unearthly echo in his voice. Mitch
and Deck both looked at him, then each other.

“
Let’s go.”

***

The door to Malcolm’s car was open when they
got there, but no one was inside. Mitch was the first to see the
shirt in the path as they headed in. It was Malcolm’s, the one he
had been wearing the night before at the bar, caked with dried
blood.

A few feet ahead were his trousers; more
blood, then his socks and his shoes. Deck picked them up as he went
along. By the time they got to the site, they weren’t sure what
they’d find but at least they knew he was there.

“
Malcolm, it’s Mitch. Are you here?”
Nothing.

“
Mal, it’s Deck. Where are you?” Deck
called out, his voice distraught. Nothing.

Mitch and Simon were about to go around the
perimeter when they heard the sound of rocks falling somewhere in
the central area.

Deck dashed off toward the sound. “Mal, it’s
Deck!” he shouted again, then heard the sound of more rocks falling
in the distance over in the corner of the central area, and headed
in that direction.

He stopped in his tracks when he heard the
growling. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. “Mal?” he
called out quietly, going toward the sound, turning the corner into
the pit where Malcolm had been working the day before, and stopped.
He couldn’t move.

Malcolm was crouched down on all fours in the
corner of the pit. Naked and covered in blood and dirt, he snarled
at Deck, his bright white teeth sharp and bared, thick clumps of
saliva trailing out of the corners of his mouth like a mad dog, his
blue gray eyes no longer his brother’s, but something…inhuman.

Deck’s poor mind fractured. What he was
seeing was beyond all of his human understanding, his brother had
gone mad. “Mal,” Deck said quietly and went towards him, “It’s
Deck.”

There was a sound and movement to the side,
it was Mitch and Simon. The Mal-wolf turned its head toward them,
rearing on its hind legs. Mitch pushed Simon behind him
instinctively and for a split second, saw its eyes and felt his
spine shrivel as the creature barked and snapped at him. “Mal,”
Deck called out to it again. The Mal-wolf turned back to Deck but
before he could get another word out, the Mal-Wolf crouched back on
its haunches and lunged at him, sinking his teeth into Deck’s calf
before he had a chance to leap clearly away.

Deck went down screaming. The next sound was
the tinny whine of a shovel as it struck the back of the Mal-Wolf’s
head; the ear splitting cry of a wounded animal as it went down,
its blood-covered body twitching maniacally as it fell back into
the pit, collapsing into a heap.

When Deck looked back up, Mitch was standing
over him with a shovel in his hand. Thinking quickly, Simon limped
as fast as he could to the tent to get some rope and the first aid
kit.

Mitch and Simon tied the Mal-wolf up, wrist
to wrist and ankle to ankle, then Mitch went back to Deck and knelt
beside him. They looked into each other’s eyes and knew—without
saying it, they knew. Malcolm had killed that boy.

Shuddering with pain and on the verge of
going into shock, Deck grabbed hold of Mitch’s arm and looked
pleadingly into his eyes. “They’ll lock him up, Dr. Bramson…or put
him in an asylum for the rest of his life. Please, don’t let them
do that to him. He’s never hurt anyone in his life. You saw him,
that wasn’t my Mal in that pit. He’s sick…they’ll hang him. Please
help him Dr. Bramson, please,” Deck cried, breaking into heaving
sobs.