by Tom Hunter
“He’s no friend of mine. That’s for sure. But, how do I know him? That’s a story for another time, I think.” Thomas wasn’t sure why they were whispering, but it seemed the natural thing to do. Almost like they’d entered some kind of sanctuary; a place to be revered.
“Time? We’ve got plenty of time. Once we turn around to go back, we’ll have several hours before we reach the entrance.”
“Pediah, I’d rather not talk about it. It wasn’t, and isn’t, a pleasant experience to know Noah.”
“I understand where you’re coming from, Thom. I really do. But, we just lost Howard, and almost you. If I’m honest, it’s more of a need to know. Am I making sense? Also, I’m kind of hungry. It’s just occurred to me that Ramon was carrying all our food.” At that, the image of Shaggy sprang to Thomas’s mind again, and he laughed. His laughter broke the reverent silence, and Pediah joined him. Too much had happened in too short a time, and they needed a release.
“Well, I don’t have food to eat, but I have food for thought. It should give you an overview of the general relationship I’ve had with that black-hearted bastard, Noah Ashbridge.”
Pediah nodded for him to go on.
“It was a few years ago, and Noah was fairly new to the field of archaeology. Come to think of it, he wasn’t much older than Howard, then…” – he shook his head to rid himself of the image of Howard’s body, lying almost a thousand steps behind them. “Anyway, back then Noah was my assistant.”
Pediah’s eyebrows shot up into his forehead.
Thomas smiled wanly and went on, “Oh, it gets better. So, as I was saying, Noah was my assistant, and we were exploring a sunken shipwreck off the coast. Noah stabbed me in the back. Figuratively and literally. He left me for dead and made off with the relics we’d discovered.” Thomas looked at Pediah, and nodded at the look in his eyes. “Yeah, I know. I really do need to do better background checks. It wasn’t until a few months later – four months, I think – I learned the pieces had been sold off. A story in a newspaper spoke of new pieces acquired for a private collection. From the photos, I saw it was what we’d found together on that ship. Noah had sold everything to a black-market dealer. I still feel stupid for not seeing who or what he was earlier.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Thom. Betrayal is the worst sort of sin. You put your faith and trust in people, a noble gesture. It isn’t your fault others don’t do the same.”
A smile almost broke Thomas’ heavy expression. “I know and you’re right. But, ever since then I do my best to double check the backgrounds of everyone who joins one of my expeditions, and I’ve failed yet again. And Howard paid for it with his life. I must have missed something with Ramon. When we get back, I’ll go back over his history with a fine-tooth comb. ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’ There will not be a third time.”
Pediah nodded. He understood now, and changed the subject. “How long do you think we should wait? I’ve been counting steps absentmindedly, just to take my mind off things, but I’m not counting to a thousand.”
“Let’s go a little farther. Maybe we’ll find something. This is an expedition after all, and hopefully it will take our mind off things for a few more minutes,” suggested Thomas.
“A few more steps, then we’ll turn back, collect Howard, and bring him topside for a proper burial.” Thomas sounded so matter-of-fact, almost deadpan, that Pediah looked at him curiously. Then, he quickly realized this was how Thomas needed to deal with everything. Pediah nodded in silent agreement. He would leave Thomas to his musings for a while. Pediah needed some space to his own thoughts as well.
As they followed the trail further in, signs of the mining operation began to disappear. Replaced with more natural cave elements, the two men now navigated stalactites and stalagmites. The going was harder now. Thomas and Pediah sidestepped and ducked, weaving their way through this strange, densely packed underground forest. The stalagmites and stalactites then thinned out, and the intrepid pair found themselves in what amounted to a clearing. But, instead of dirt and grass and a few trees, they found themselves in another room. Another chamber. Much different than the one they’d come from. Somewhere, they had turned a corner, although Thomas could have sworn they walked straight the entire time.
They were looking at a small set of doors and tunneled chambers. Above the doors and the arches of the tunnels were ancient drawings and letters neither recognized. This was no known language.
“Whoa,” Thomas and Pediah breathed together.
Thomas checked his pocket for his comb, and his fingers brushed his recording device. How had it not been crushed in the fight with Ramon? It had been some time since he combed his beard, and doing so helped him think. A few quick downward strokes and Thomas felt better. More alive. More himself. He returned the comb to his pocket and checked his recorder. It seemed to be in working order, and he marveled at the tenacity of modern technology. He began to record.
“Howard dead by Miss Welker’s hand. Pediah and I remain,” Thomas choked on the words. He took a breath, and spoke in a detached monotone. “We’re farther in the caves near Mustard Canyon than we’d hoped to be today. It’s been, I imagine, three hours since my last recording.” Thomas paused, then mumbled into the device, “Guess Noah was good for something. Without his, ahem, push we might not have found this place. What we’ve found is…remarkable. At last recording, we’d come across a great room filled with old rusted mining equipment, plans to expand, and the Ashbridge journal. You guessed it,” he said wryly, “Noah Ashbridge’s ancestor.”
Thomas lifted his finger from the record button to clear his thoughts, then pressed the button once more and continued. “Now, Pediah and I are in a much larger chamber. In this chamber, set in the walls are doors, and tunnels to other chambers set beside them. Animal pigment and coal smudges suggest ancient cave drawings, but what is far more interesting are the letters above each door and archway. They are Roman. We can see the letters and make them out, but the language is not known.”
As Thomas spoke into the recorder, Pediah moved toward one of the doors, reached for the handle, and tugged. Sturdier built than Thomas, he was surprised the door wouldn’t budge. He pulled again, this time with one foot on the wall to brace himself. Nothing. They made their way around the chamber trying all the doors. None would open.
Pediah looked at Thomas in frustration, then asked quizzically, “Why are you smiling? All the doors are stuck. We can go no further.”
“Don’t you get it?” Thomas giggled. “All the doors are stuck! Doors! Stuck!”
“Are you alright?” Pediah was genuinely concerned. Thomas was giggling wildly now, and rambling about stuck doors.
The next sentence Thomas uttered, brought it home for Pediah, “Someone lived all the way down here, deep in these caverns, and now that we know this, okay suspect this, it’s more than enough proof to warrant a full and fully funded excavation.”
“Of course! Why didn’t I see that?” He snapped his suspenders in agreement and confirmation.
“Let’s snap some photos, then start heading back. Wait till Abby hears about this!”
“I’ll snap, you record,” Pediah suggested.
“Perfect. Wow, what a find. If someone lived down here a few hundred, a few thousand, hell, a few days ago, how did they survive? Every species needs food, water, and air.” Thomas Knight’s mind raced with possibilities.
“Well, every species we know of anyway.” Pediah returned. “These are ancient cave paintings. Do we know of any civilizations that lived this far beneath the earth?”
Thomas shook his head, “No. And the wording above the doorways, that’s no language I’ve ever seen. Maybe it was the ancient language before the ancient languages we know. Or it could be gibberish. Who knows?”
“A historical find of this significance…” they spoke out loud together, and laughed.
Pediah took his last photo, and Thomas turned off the device. After one more know
ing look, they headed back toward Howard, each once again lost in his own thoughts.
Six
Noah and his crew gathered what they could besides the Ashbridge journal: maps and plans, in particular. Then, as the footsteps of Thomas and Pediah faded into the distance, they turned and went back the way they’d come.
Miss Welker led, with Ramon behind her and Noah bringing up the rear. He found it difficult to breathe on their return trip to the surface. The slope was a bit too steep for his taste. It was one thing coming down the thing; it was quite another to go back up. Already a little annoyed with himself for reasons he couldn’t yet fathom, Noah was more annoyed at the constant chuckling in front of him.
She moved with purpose, and from her straight back and narrow shoulders hunched forward, Noah could imagine her stone-faced countenance. The woman had no remorse, no conscience, no soul. She was perfect.
Noah himself walked with eyes forward, stone-faced, and with purpose. He wanted to get the hell out of here. He felt damn near claustrophobic and then, he heard it again. Snickering, chuckling, smiling! This Brazilian didn’t smile. Well, not smiling like normal people. Grinning, he guessed. It was hard to tell, on that tan, leathered, scarred face.
Finally, out loud, Noah asked, “Okay chuckles, what’s so funny you can’t stop snickering for five seconds?”
“I can’t stop thinking about it. The look on his face. The complete shock. He never saw it coming. When he turned holding that journal, and saw the gun in my hand trained on him. Real steady like. It was damn near priceless.”
In a mocking tone, Ramon went on, hands blocking his face, “‘But wh- wh – why did you betray me?’ “And with that, he doubled over in laughter.
Miss Welker had stopped to listen to the exchange, and cocked her head to one side. “Why, then? You didn’t know yet what he’d found, what he would find. Why did you choose then to betray him?”
He shrugged, “Figured you guys were pretty close behind. He heard your footsteps, by the way, but I covered. And when I heard him read the name ‘Ashbridge’ out loud, I knew we’d found quite a prize. It was kind of a now or never moment, I thought.”
“I think you jumped the gun, pardon the pun. There may have been more to find, deeper in the mine. What do you know about the book, other than that a distant ancestor of Noah’s name was scrawled in it? That’s hardly a prize unless you have more intel.”
Noah raised himself up to his full five-foot-five height. “Do you doubt my lineage, Miss Welker?”
“No sir. I- “she looked down at the ground, chastised.
Noah interrupted her to continue, “Reginald III is the reason you and Ramon are paid so well. He is the reason the Ashbridge name is synonymous with wealth and influence. And he is the reason we are here in this godforsaken desert wasteland they call Death Valley. It was his theory, possibly mentioned in the journal” –Noah’s voice rose to a fevered pitch–“that he found untold wealth and treasure. Right here.”
He let out a whoosh of air, his diatribe at an end, and continued calmly, “Family records indicate Reginald kept his findings in a journal at one of his mining projects. This discovery proves it.” Noah spoke evenly, shaking the book toward Ramon and Miss Welker.
Or at least, I hope it does, he thought. I also think Miss Welker is right. The Brazilian should have waited. But, it’s too late now.
Though cowed somewhat, Miss Welker still thought Ramon might have hung in there a little longer. A shadow flitted across Ashbridge’s features, and Miss Welker nodded to herself, her own suspicions confirmed. They still had no idea what was in the journal. Had the boys gotten any farther than the name? Her mouth set in a firm line, she knew better than to say anything, and kept her opinion to herself.
Noah clasped the book close to his chest, and smiled, “I’ll need a bit of alone time with the journal, but I’m sure we’ll be able to arrange a treasure hunt once its secrets are laid bare.”
As they’d walked upward, the air had gotten thicker, denser, more oppressive, and their breathing had become more labored. They were nearing the top, the end, their reward a rush of stifling hot air, and the sight of someone dressed like a valet leaning against one of two jeeps, guzzling water from a canteen.
From here, they could see the expanse of desert: the yellow sands of Mustard Canyon, and the rust colored sands in the shadow of the setting sun, a few miles away at Red Wall Canyon, and their campsite at the mouth of the tunnel.
Finally! Each thought, unbeknownst to the other. Miss Welker’s skintight camouflage and heavy boots bore no sign of the intense heat, as she left the cool of the cave for the blistering sands. She was the first to spot their relief and their ride home. Behind her, Ramon, his pack from his infiltration of Thomas Knight’s team still heavy on his back, took a deep breath of relief to be back topside, where he had a good view of the potential dig sites. And finally, Noah, bringing up the rear, his great grandfather’s journal clasped tightly to his chest, his pale face now ruddy with sweat from the climb, itched against the scorching heat that no wealth, influence, or stylish hat could protect him from.
The heavy clunk of the SUV’s doors sealed Noah, Ramon, and Miss Welker into a leather, air-conditioned cocoon. At once, the lunar landscape of Death Valley and its hellish heat seemed surreal. Ramon, in the front seat, leaned to look out the driver’s side window. “Ah Noah. I think that is Thomas Knight’s jeep. Want me to, ah, dismantle it?” The fly in the ointment, he thought, as he grinned sardonically. I hope their camp is nearby, because they won’t get far without wheels, especially carrying a body. But, his face soon dropped, and his excitement was extinguished.
“No, we haven’t the time.” Noah patted his newfound treasure. “Let’s just go.” He nodded at his valet, who shifted into drive, and gently pressed the accelerator. Their camp wasn’t far away. No one looked back as they rolled away from Mustard Canyon.
Seven
It was the quintessential house on the hill. The stately home everyone drives by, and wishes they lived there, knew someone there, or one day hoped to be invited to a party there. It was half hidden by ornate iron gates, which were held up by narrow brick columns. Stone owls, atop each column, stood sentry to the comings and goings; guardians of those who lived within. This was the Hogan Estate, current home of the present matriarch, Abigail “Abby” Hogan.
Mr. Alfred Hogan had designed and built this house for her. With a flair for the dramatic, it was more or less a southern plantation transplanted and set on five acres of land in California wine country. A long winding drive overlooking immaculate gardens, and a small vineyard they’d planted together out back was the perfect home to host, well, anyone. But, the Hogans didn’t host just anyone. They were explorers, and that was the company they kept.
The life of an adventurer is not without its pitfalls and pains. Abby Hogan knew this, and learned her (harsh) lesson early. However, she didn’t let it stop her. She carried on their traditions in Alfred’s memory, feeling his presence in every far flung location. In their memories, she reminded herself–Alfred wasn’t the only one to perish–as she watched Thomas Knight’s jeep pull up to her gates. We do this for them.
Abby was a young matriarch, being only in her 50s. A youthful Angela Lansbury, somewhere between Gaslight and Murder, She Wrote. She was the ‘mother hen’ of all who graced her home, and something of a spitfire when the occasion called for it.
He took in the house and the gardens almost subconsciously, noting historical items out of habit. The whole thing was a living embodiment of Architectural Digest or Southern Living.
As he drove up to the gates, he reached into his glovebox to check the invitation he’d received. It had been delivered to his mailbox at the university where he taught history.
Thomas double checked the address and the time against the clock on his dashboard. Good. Right on time. He noted a glimpse of white in his peripheral vision, and turned his head to the seat beside him. In the passenger seat, riding shotgun, were tw
o letters as yet unopened. Like Abby’s invitation, they were addressed to him at the university, the hand feminine and somewhat familiar. These were letters in reply to communications to Howard’s family. Letters he hadn’t wanted to write had been written. His hand had been unsteady in the telling, with a smudge here from a single tear, the only one he could shed. Two letters stood sentry to the thoughts he couldn’t voice and the fear of the family’s response.
How else could they respond? How would I respond to one such as I, the one they’d trusted with their son’s life?
Thomas’ fingers nervously stroked his beard, the other hand steady on the wheel, as his mind turned away from what he couldn’t yet face. If I open the letters, then it’s all real. Final. He’d been grasping with the why he hadn’t opened them; this single thought gnawing at him. Under his breath, he spoke his fears aloud, “I can’t open them because I’m afraid of what his family will say. I’m to blame for the loss of their son. But, I can’t throw them away either.”
He looked down once again at the crisp envelopes. And so they remain by my side; a silent reminder of Death Valley, and how it got its name.
Two stone owls, perched atop brick columns, stood sentry to the estate and watched him approach. Thomas stopped at the gate, rolled down his window, and pushed the intercom button. A short buzz, and Abby Hogan’s voice came, “Thomas? Thomas Knight? Is that you?”
“Yes, Abby. It’s Thomas.”
“Come through! We’re waiting for you.” Ah, so I am the last one here.
The gates opened, and Thomas drove through, up to the house. The long driveway was an extension of the road he’d driven to the gates. In the distance, he could see Abby as she stood at the front door to greet him in person. He noted the other cars already parked nearby.
