The Moses Riddle (Thomas McAllister 'Treasure Hunter' Adventure Book 1) (12 page)

The sun rises quickly, and the time from when the light grazed his eyelid until it was wholly focused on them was short. In his dream there was a blow torch emitting a hot blue flame onto his exposed eyeballs, melting them like wax.

He wakened with the worst headache he’d ever had. Where was he? What was this place with these rustic adobe walls? He looked around the sparsely furnished room until he saw something that brought most everything back. It was the shiny light blue ribbon Ann had used to tie her hair back into a pony tail. It was sitting on the table beside the bed. What had he done? He chronologically traced the events of yesterday to the bar at the hotel. He remembered being there, talking to Ann, listening to music but at a certain point, he could remember no more. He couldn’t even remember leaving the bar.

A shot of adrenaline was all that enabled him to get out of bed. He slowly turned his head. The other side of the bed had been slept in, but Ann was gone. He was in his boxer shorts. Christ almighty! What had happened here last night
? What had he told her?
He threw on his clothes, his wallet still in his jeans, and bolted from the room.

There were stairs to his right. As he headed toward them, he fought nausea. He went back to the room, fearful that he might throw up, but the door was locked. He thrust his hand into his front pockets, searching for keys. Nothing. He made his way down the hall to the stairs and took them two at a time. No one was at the front desk. He had to find a bathroom fast. He remembered where the bar was located and hurried to it. The first thing he saw was Ann and Arturo having a full Mexican breakfast.

At first they smiled to welcome him but, as they saw him run forward, shirt untucked, unshaven, hair askew, with a wild look on his face, their smiles disappeared. They both pointed toward the men’s room.

By the time he was there, he had controlled his nausea. Seeing Ann and Arturo happily breakfasting together had sobered him. He cupped cold water on his face, which helped further calm his stomach.

He returned to the dining room, color better, and slumped into the extra chair at the table. Ann was shaking hot sauce on the last of her scrambled eggs. He reached for Arturo’s water and slowly sipped a few drops, unable to look at their plates. Staring at the floor, head in hands, he asked Ann, “What’s that you’re putting on your eggs?”

“This, my hung-over friend, is the single best hot sauce ever made. This is only the second place I’ve ever found it. The first place was in Arizona. I bought a bottle and then, when I ran out, I started ordering it by the case from the distributor. I keep a bottle in my purse. Try a few drops on a piece of toast. It’s great for hangovers.”

Arturo looked sympathetically at Thomas. “You look a little pale, amigo.”
“I feel like I was drugged. I’ve never had such a headache. I
never
drink like that. Well, almost never.” He looked at Ann. “You don’t really keep that in your purse, do you?”
Ann reached for her canvas backpack and pulled out a bottle of the deep, red colored sauce. “I can’t live without the stuff. Come on, try some it’ll help your hangover.”
“All right, give it to me.” Thomas took the bottle, shook some on a piece of toast and took a bite. It cut the taste of stale tequila and had good flavor. And it did seem to settle his stomach. “Not bad,” he said. “Lesson number one for graduate students on a dig. A dig is not a vacation. It’s not a party! It’s work. Business.
Despite
what you witnessed last night.”
Ann and Arturo looked at each other and winked.
Arturo said, “We’ve all had nights like yours last night. They are cleansing, every so often. And, from what you tell me, you’ve been through a lot lately.”
Thomas didn’t like being placated or lectured, especially in front of Ann, but everything Arturo said was true. “Will someone tell me what the hell happened last night?”
“Ann will have to tell you that. I retired early.”
Ann smiled deviously. “What part don’t you remember?”
“I remember talking with you, here at the bar. I remember you . . . forcing me to try that Commerativo tequila, but I don’t know how I got upstairs.” He paused, trying to think of anything else. “Or . . . how I got to my room, or anything after that.” The feeling of hot, soft lips and . . . thoughts of treasure danced through his mind, and he had the grave feeling that something regretful had happened last night. Something that shouldn’t have, and that couldn’t be taken back. Suddenly, he remembered the ribbon in his room. Had she taken him upstairs and—
Ann smiled and started to speak, but Arturo interrupted, “First things first, Ann. Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“There’s one thing you need to know, as a professional.”
“All right, Arturo. What do I need to know?”
“Last night . . . you told her.”
“
What
!”
Arturo nodded.
“Told her what . . .
exactly
?” Thomas already knew the answer. He was furious with himself.
Ann saw a cold look come over him. It was a look she wouldn’t have thought his friendly eyes capable of. She nodded gravely. “Yes, Thomas, you told me.”
“I told you why . . . Arturo and I are here?”
Ann nodded.
Thomas gazed at the floor. Talk about unprofessional. Had he lost his mind, as well as his job?
I told her. What do I do now? How do I get rid of her?
“She wants to help us, Thomas.”
“Out of the question! We don’t need any help!”
“She says we’re digging in the wrong place.” Arturo continued, his voice measured and calm. His eyes watched Thomas’s face, waiting for a reaction. “I think she’s right.”
“
What
?”
“Yes, you told her that the riddle said that the treasure could be found ‘in the middle.’ And that is why we were going to dig in the middle of the pyramid. But Ann says that the Mayans would have been the ones who actually buried the treasure, since they would have had thousands of laborers at their disposal and the Egyptians would have had only the men who had come over on their boat.”
“So?” Thomas said flatly.
“She says if the Mayans buried the treasure, they never would have interpreted the middle of the pyramid as being height divided by two, as we did.”
Thomas looked perplexed. “Why not?”
“Because the Maya viewed the size of the pyramid not by its outer structure, but by its volume. If the pyramid was a cup, they would not think about the cup in terms of its surface area, how high and wide it was. They would think of it in terms of how much it could hold? So if you want to know where the middle is, you must measure the volume,
not
the distance, and divide
it
by half.”
Thomas began the calculations in his head, “OK, we can do that. That would mean that the middle is going to be lower, since pyramids get smaller and lose mass as they go higher. Yes. Since we know the measurements of the original pyramid, it can be done.
It can be done
!”
Ann shoved a napkin toward Thomas. “I’ve already done the calculations.”
He saw the pyramid, nicely drawn with the corresponding metrics. He saw the original middle, then the new one, farther down the slope, now that Ann had calculated the middle based on area and not height. The mathematical calculations were neatly written off to the sides. The new middle was significantly lower.
Thomas looked at Ann. He was a proud archeologist, but he could also acknowledge good work, even when it replaced work that he’d done and that he’d previously thought correct. He knew the danger of not being able to admit when you were wrong.
Suddenly Ann said, “Well, I’m through with my breakfast. I’m going to go up and get ready for today. We’ve got to measure the pyramid and start digging.” Her look of assumed confidence said that she was now a member of the team. Payback for helping them understand where the Maya would have most likely buried the treasure.
Thomas looked at Arturo. Arturo shrugged. It was Thomas’s call. He looked at Ann and an abrupt memory of hot, soft lips flew through his mind. He pushed it out, wishing that he had more time to find out about her background before making such an important decision. They needed her expertise but, damn it, they’d just met her. Finally, he thanked her for her contribution by saying, “Great! Meet you at the truck in fifteen minutes.”

When he was finished eating, Arturo headed for the truck and Thomas used the opportunity to speak privately with Ann. “What happened in my room last night?”

“Why do you ask?”
“Were you . . . drunk?”
“I was tipsy, but not wasted. You were singing. It was hilarious. You

Thomas grimaced. “That’s it? I was singing and . . . and you helped me to my room? Did we . . . kiss . . . or anything?”
With a deep throaty southern accent she said, “Why, Thomas McAlister, I believe you honestly don’t remember. That’s a shame, because I believed you when you said I was the absolute
best
kisser!”

They worked all afternoon, rotating every thirty minutes because of the steadily increasing heat. By dinnertime, they had a hole five feet deep and about six feet wide. They knew they should hit the outside of the pyramid soon. In preparation, they switched to smaller shovels and worked with greater care, more like the well-trained archeologists that they were. This felt more natural to Thomas and helped him relax a little. The earlier pace had made him feel like a grave robber.

After dinner, they resumed digging. The pit was so deep now that only one person could dig at a time. It was on Ann’s shift, at the edge of darkness, that her shovel hit something solid.

Ann stood straight up, with a huge smile on her face and looked at Thomas and Arturo, who were sitting over by the fire. The reflection of fire made her eyes look red, like the Devil’s.

She was wearing a white tank top, soaked through with sweat, smudged with dirt. The sweat on her chest and arms glistened, and her tan was the color of dark honey, a shade or two darker than her hair.

Thomas walked over, remembering all the times that he had hit something solid, only to find that it was a stray rock. “Don’t get too excited yet.”

Like a boxer who had knocked his opponent down, Ann stood in the corner farthest from where the shovel had made contact. Thomas jumped into the pit with her and examined the exposed area with a flashlight and horsehair brush. He could feel the heat radiating off her body as he worked.

“Hey, Arturo! No loose rock. We’ve hit the side of the pyramid! Good work, Ann. We’ll stop now and continue tomorrow morning. We might do more harm than good, if we continue tonight.”

Driving back to Mercado that night was one of the hardest things Thomas had ever done. He wanted to stay at the site and work all night to find Moses’ treasure, but patience would be their best tool during the next several hours of excavation.

All three stopped for a quick meal in the hotel dining room-bar, and Arturo excused himself first again. He wanted to get a chance to talk to his kids before they went to bed. Thomas and Ann were alone at the table.

“Sure, I’ll have Jose bring a bottle over. Only kidding. Actually, this beer is hitting the spot.”
“Any thoughts on what we’ll find tomorrow?”
“I’ve had two concerns all along. One is that someone deciphered the pyramid text long ago and that they are the ones who destroyed the wall at Saqqara. We’ve assumed that it crumbled away naturally, but I’m not so sure. My second concern is that grave robbers may have seen the markings on the stones of this pyramid, the circle on the square, and taken whatever was hidden here.”
“What are the odds it will be there?”
“I don’t know. Long probably, but there’s no way to tell. This site is not far from Mercado. At any time during the past 3000 years someone could have come over here and started digging around. My instinct though. My instinct tells me it’s here.”
Ann’s eyes lit up. Thomas loved seeing the excitement on her face. It was how he had felt on his first trip to Egypt.
The sounds of “Under My Thumb” suddenly filled in the quiet that had followed his expression of hope. They both turned toward the juke box. Jose waved at them. He had remembered their selection from the evening before. Ann searched Thomas’s face. “Want to dance?”
He almost said no, but he was having such a good time, and there was something about this woman he really liked.
“Sure.”
Thomas led her around the floor at a slow pace. Halfway through the song, he gathered enough nerve to try to finish the conversation he’d started earlier in the day. “Ann, I hope I wasn’t too . . . last night, I-I hope I didn’t do anything that offended you.”
Her head was against his chest so he couldn’t see her smile. “You weren’t obnoxious. And you didn’t offend me. I’d had a few drinks myself.”
“I don’t remember much.”
“Really?”
“I think I remember one thing, but . . . I’m not sure.”
“Yes. What was that?”
“I think I remember kissing you.”
“Did I kiss you back?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you kissed me. Did I kiss you back?”
“Listen, you should probably know something about me. I . . . don’t date much. I mean I get setup a lot, but nothing has ever come of it. I guess you could say I’m . . . out of practice. In the condition I was in last night . . . and being with such a . . . well, with you, I thought maybe I’d made an improper advance.”
“Let’s just say that the feelings expressed were mutual. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always wanted to kiss a famous archeologist!”
He laughed and unconsciously pulled her closer. She closed her eyes and her mouth went slack as she let out a deep breath. He loved the feel of her warmth against him. It had been a long time, too long, since he’d felt that kind of closeness.
“What exactly did happen anyway? I remember a kiss.”
“That’s what happened. We kissed. It wasn’t very long.”
Not long enough? Or too long? he wondered.
Jose had played four songs off of Hot Rocks, in the order that they appeared on the album. When
“
Under My Thumb” ended, “Ruby Tuesday” started.
Thomas said, “You know, I love the Stones, but I never liked this song”
“Come on, let’s sit.”
They went back to their table. Jose had brought them a fresh round of Carta Blancas. Thomas took a drink of the cold beer and glanced at Ann. He found her staring at him, and she smiled, almost apologetically.
He was generally considered good-looking. He’d been popular with girls in both high school and college but had never let it go to his head. Good looks could get him a date, but they didn’t guarantee that it would be fun, or that the girl would be interesting. But his dedication to archeology hadn’t left much time for dating, and he’d never gone out with anyone exclusively for more than a year.
The most serious relationship he’d had, with a girl named Jill, had ended when he left for Egypt with Karl Johnson on the Amenophis campaign. As a single professor at Arizona his peers had often tried to set him up, and occasionally there had been the flirtatious student, but Thomas was never serious enough about any of them to sustain longer term involvement.
Now, sitting with Ann, Thomas felt nervous. It had been years since he’d been genuinely interested in someone, since a date hadn’t been contrived, planned, and at some level, rehearsed. He felt teenage angst, that even mix of nervousness and excitement. It constricted his chest and throat. What was happening with Ann was natural, and it felt good. She was spirited, energetic, and challenging. And so passionate and forward looking.
They sat in comfortable silence and listened to “Ruby Tuesday.” The next song on Hot Rocks was “Let’s Spend the Night Together.” Like the evening before, the beer was affecting him, so Thomas ordered water. The song reached the chorus and Mick sang, in his most convincing tone, “Let’s spend the night together. Now I need you more than ever. Let’s spend the night together now”. Synchronicity. The song, at that very moment, was verbalizing the exact words that Thomas had been thinking. But it was wrong somehow. Not only was it too early, since they’d only just met, but he shouldn’t be thinking of women at all. He was on a dig. The most important dig of his life.
Ann was making him lose focus. Images of her at the site stirred warm memories. Her hat cocked, strands of blond hair dangling around her face, which glistened in the sunlight. Sweat dripping from her chin, as she forced the shovel into the hard Mexican earth with surprising strength. Well-toned thighs and calves flexing, chest heaving, as she shucked her shirt to dig only in the sleeveless T-shirt.
But Thomas’s feelings for Ann were not one sided. He had a special place in the hearts of younger archeologists. In the Internet age, when most young people were chasing dollars, he’d given hope to those who were truly passionate about archeology. His finds had revitalized the profession. He was proof that there was more to be learned, that there were significant artifacts still to be found. He was proof that it was okay to challenge old ways of thinking. When they said the Valley of the Kings would bear him no fruit . . . he had proved them wrong. All of them.
It had given students like Ann reason to sit through the tedious introductory classes. When mothers, fathers, grandparents, and in-laws asked about their major, becoming an archeologist was a point of pride. Ann was one of the new breed of questioning archeologists who looked at Thomas as a mentor. Other professors at Arizona somewhat jealously called them McGroupies. People, primarily women, who took Thomas’s class because of the academic stardom created by him being featured in the textbook, and because of his good looks. But that label had been misguided. Sure some of the students registered for those reasons, but the vast majority did so because they wanted to learn from someone who was as fervent and excited about the prospect of adding to historical knowledge as they were. And many of his students went on to do so by becoming world-class archeologists.
“Tomorrow will be a long day,” he said, abruptly. “We should turn in.”
Ann looked slightly disappointed, but agreed. “You’re the boss.”
They climbed the stairs together and he continued past his room to hers.
“Here I am,” she said.
“All right, well, get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow, early.”
She stopped him with a light touch on his forearm. “Thomas?”
He turned. She rose on tiptoes to kiss him. A long, soft, warm, fulllipped kiss. And that confirmed it. It was the same kiss as last night. The one that had, subconsciously, competed all day with the image of the treasure. The kiss had shared equal time, which was not a good thing. Or was it.
She lowered herself, turned, slid through the door and was gone. Back in his room, Thomas grinned as he remembered the old joke about boxers,
no sex before a fight
, and Woody Allen’s jazz spiff,
no sax before a fight
. Before nodding off to sleep, he mumbled aloud, “
No sex the night before the biggest archeological find of the new millennium either
!”