by Tracy Krauss
Good thing he hadn’t had much to eat recently, he observed wryly. The acrid stench of bile assaulted his nose, but he didn’t even bother trying to wipe it off his shirt. He lay back down instead, slowly this time, hoping that the nausea - and the images plaguing his brain - would dissipate.
Sangeruka couldn’t be trusted, that was for certain. All that talk about superstition and religious beliefs was probably a load of crap. But that didn’t change the fact that the man had threatened his family. He just hoped he hadn’t put his parents in any jeopardy. He’d been secretly sending his father shipments of artefacts with strict instructions to keep them in a safe location out of the elements. An insurance policy should things go south, which they appeared to be doing. Not that it was likely he’d get out of this mess in one piece…
He heard the rattling of keys and the creak of squeaky hinges somewhere down the hall. Heavy footsteps advanced and Mark carefully propped himself up on one elbow.
He recognized the same guard who had let him into the cell yesterday. A lifetime ago. The guard jerked his head, signalling for Mark to exit the cell.
They walked down the dark corridor, shoes clacking hollowly on the concrete floor; Mark in front, his hands secured behind his back with handcuffs, while the guard brought up the rear. Mark readied himself for the bright assault on the eyes that was sure to come once they entered the front of the building. However, they made a quick detour to the left, through an unfamiliar doorway. Several more security doors later, they emerged onto a darkened parking lot. Two more armed guards were waiting, along with Chief of Police Ganges. It was a lot later in the day than Mark had suspected and he glanced questioningly toward the Chief.
"Whisking me away under the cover of darkness?" he asked, just a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. The chief did not answer, but just looked at him long and hard with his penetrating stare. Mark’s mouth felt even drier than it had. He swallowed with great difficulty. Better watch it, he thought to himself. They could do away with me right here and no one would be the wiser.
The guards marched him to a waiting police van, and before shoving him roughly into the back seat, a blindfold was tied securely over his eyes.
"There’s really no need," Mark protested, a new and more intense wash of fear spreading through him.
"Quiet," was all someone said. Mark couldn’t tell if it was the chief or one of the guards, but he did as he was bid.
The vehicle sped away and Mark could do nothing but allow his body to sway with each curve. The handcuffs were still in place, making it very uncomfortable to sit properly.
The horrible ride seemed to take hours - whether it really did or not was another question. At one point he dozed off, utter exhaustion overtaking his tensed up nerves.
Suddenly the vehicle came to a stop and Mark almost pitched forward into the seat in front. He could hear the familiar whine of a small plane engine - probably a Cessna - as he was hauled unceremoniously from the car.
"Can I get the blindfold off now?" he asked hopefully. There was no reply as he was half pushed, half pulled closer to the sound, tripping a couple of times along the way. Good thing the guards had a strong grip on his arms, or he would have pitched headlong into the gravel. Up the stairs, bumping down the narrow isle, shoved into a seat… The blindfold was retightened for good measure and before he knew it, he could feel the small craft moving forward, the engine revving up to a near scream. Soon he felt the sensation of take off and the plane was air born.
There were other passengers on this flight. Two that he could make out besides the pilot. He strained his ears, listening for any clues as to who they were or where they were headed. The voices were deep, ribald laughter cutting into their words sporadically.
Except for the odd word in English they were speaking a language he did not understand and he could not make any guesses about their identity. Other prisoners? Probably not. They seemed too jovial for that. Government officials? Probably not that either. He knew he was not merely being transported to the State Pen. They must be miles from Harare by now, and he doubted that the rebels - even Sangeruka - would go to this kind of trouble or expense on his account.
The plane touched down and much to Mark’s surprise, the blindfold was taken off and he was allowed to descend from the plane unaided. A feeling of disorientation washed over him and he stood still for a moment, steadying himself. It was pitch black out now, but he could see that they must have landed on some deserted landing strip - if it could even be called that - out in the middle of nowhere. The men, presumably those from the airplane, were unloading cargo from the plane into a square, canvas covered army truck. The pilot didn’t seem to be inclined to lift a finger, and the driver of the truck stood guard with an automatic rifle. Who were these people and why had he been sent with them?
As if in answer to his unspoken question, one of the men looked at him and laughed, a toothy grin spreading across his pock marked face. He was tall, but lean and wiry. The other man was broader and less friendly. Arms dealers? Drug smugglers? Some other type of contraband?
They were finished now. The pilot was closing the cargo doors and one of the men - the lean one - was climbing back into the plane.
"Uh… what do I do now?" Mark asked no one in particular.
"Town’s that way," the lean one said, pointing with his finger into the blackness of the night. "About forty miles." He laughed. "Of course, the lions are out so it’s doubtful you’ll get there in one piece."
Mark blinked, his stomach tightening. Was that the game? Leave him out in the wilderness to be attacked and eaten by wild animals? That would be one way of disposing of him without a trace.
"Or, you could catch a ride," the man continued, still grinning. "I’d hurry, though. I think they’re ready to leave."
Mark looked toward the frowning burly man, who had just finished securing the flaps on the back of the truck. He scurried toward the passenger side and awkwardly climbed in ahead of the other man. It was a tight fit with the driver on one side and his flight comrade on the other.
"The cuffs? Can I get them off now?" he tried.
"No." The answer was brisk and to the point. There really was little use in arguing, Mark decided. It was better than taking his chances out there with the wild life.
They bumped along the track for about an hour, every movement jarring Mark’s already aching body. Finally he saw lights in the distance. Civilization.
Sticking to the outskirts, they wound their way past ramshackle evidence of industrialization. Soon they were immersed in the tangle of streets - narrow and dirty - obviously not the best area of town, Mark noted. Much to his dismay, the truck pulled over on one particularly seedy looking street and came to a halt.
"This is where you get out," the driver said.
Mark blinked. "Here?" His other traveling companion slid from the truck and waited while he scrambled out.
"Wait," the big man spoke. Now what? Was he going to be shot after all? After all he had endured already?
"The cuffs," the man stated, gesturing toward Mark’s back.
Mark felt his hands being released as a wave of numbness coursed through his arms all the way from the elbows down. He was sure that the circulation had been totally cut off for quite some time and the sensation was almost surreal, like he had huge stumps for hands that were not really connected in any way to the rest of his body.
"Thanks," Mark said, circling his wrists and trying to rub the feeling back into them. The other man went around to the back of the vehicle and a few minutes later, threw a couple of bags at Mark’s feet. Mark blinked in surprise. It was his duffle bag and saxophone case.
The big man caught Mark’s eye for a moment, sending some kind of unspoken message, which Mark could not quite interpret. Then he turned and got back into the vehicle.
"Um, is that it? Are you just going to leave me here?" Mark asked, frowning.
"Good luck," was all the other said as the vehicle rolled forward. Mark watched it
turn the corner and trundle out of sight. Okay. So maybe this was Sangeruka’s next best tactic. Abandon him in some ghetto where he would get mugged or stabbed to death. But then why give him back his luggage?
He looked around uncertainly. It was pretty deserted, and for that he was thankful. He spotted a narrow doorway with an alcove off to one side. Just big enough to curl up in for the night. He headed that way, clutching the duffle bag and saxophone case close.
◇ ◇ ◇
Noise. Honking, shouting. Mark opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness of a new day. He groaned as he struggled into an upright position. Every bone ached; every muscle cried out in pain. And the sandpaper in his mouth was enough to make him want to gag. Not to mention the gnawing hunger in his belly.
Okay. What to do first. Find out where in the heck he was, that’s what.
"Excuse me," he tried, greeting a rather large black woman dressed in a brightly printed dress. "I was wondering -" The woman glared at him as she made a wide berth around him.
Mark threw up his hands and turned to another passer-by, this time approaching a man in a loose fitting cotton shirt. Again, no response as the man hurried past.
Mark frowned. What was up? Did he look like an escaped convict who hadn’t eaten in two days?
"Ma'am? Ma’am!" he cried, sounding desperate to his own ears as he stepped in front of the next person on the street. "I just - what city is this?" She stopped momentarily, surveying him as if he were deranged. "What city is this?" he repeated.
She stepped back and then shook her head condescendingly before continuing briskly on her way.
Mark sighed. He’d just have to find his way to a hotel or hostel and get cleaned up; get some food and water in his system.
He squatted down on the sidewalk and opened his duffle bag. He dug around, taking mental inventory of the contents. Change of clothes, deodorant… His heart sank. Naturally. No wallet, no passport, no cell phone. He should have expected as much. Whoever helped him escape was obviously not that altruistic.
He needed some cash, but there was really nothing of value that he could pawn. He stopped short. Well, there was one thing. He looked at the battered black case that held Jack’s saxophone. He couldn’t part with it. He just couldn’t. It was out of the question.
But what else was he supposed to do? Beg? Starve to death? Die of thirst? With resolve he stood erect, clutching the case firmly in one hand. Jack had told him the story of how the saxophone had saved a life once before. His stepmother Deanie’s life. A former boyfriend attacked her and another one of her friends used the sax to hit the guy over the head. Jack had the instrument repaired, but you could still see the traces of dents on its gleaming surface. Well, it looked like the instrument was going to have to pull double duty again. Only this time, his was the life on the line.
Twenty minutes later, Mark emerged from a pawnshop, burden lighter, but definitely with a heavy heart. Another half hour passed and he’d satisfied his thirst and wolfed down some food from a local market. Next on the list was finding a decent washroom where he could clean up a bit, and then it was off to find the Canadian Consulate. With any luck, he’d be able to get some temporary documents and access his bank account. Then it would be straight back to the pawnshop to retrieve his beloved sax.
He knew better than to even consider trying to make it back to the dig. That was just asking for trouble. He had no idea who had arranged for his escape, or if was all part of some elaborate plot arranged by Sangeruka himself. In any case, he’d be watching his back for the next little while, that’s for sure.
In the mean time, he needed to find out what had gone down back at the site. He needed to get a hold of Laura somehow. And he needed to get back to New Mexico ASAP. There was just too much valuable information floating around out there.
Chapter Fourteen
Mark sat at his workstation, microscope in front of him, as he contemplated his next course of action. He had been back in New Mexico for exactly a week. He debated long and hard about what his next move should be. With the artefacts he had sent to his father and the lab in Albuquerque, as well as the correspondence he had continued with his friend and colleague, John Bergman, he should have more than enough evidence to present his findings. But Sangeruka’s threats continued to haunt him. It wasn’t his own personal safety that he was worried about, but until he was sure the rest of the crew were safely out of Africa, he wouldn’t - he couldn’t - do anything. And his family… the possibility of harm coming to them was so preposterous, and yet so frightening, that he couldn’t even allow his mind to travel down that road.
He could not believe what he had gone through in the last week. It almost seemed like a dream, now that he was back in familiar surroundings. After visiting the Canadian Consulate, he had stayed in Pretoria - which is where he’d ended up he found out - for the next several days, trying to make contact with Laura or anyone else who might have any information about what had happened after he’d been removed from the archaeological site. He had also left a short message - very short - with his father. He skipped the part about abduction and jail, simply informing them that he was on his way to New Mexico to continue with the next phase of his work there.
His friend and colleague John Bergman was at the airport to meet him when he arrived in Albuquerque and they had set to work on analyzing all the data that he had gathered.
"Graham! Still hard at it, I see," John said as he strolled into the lab where Mark was presently working. John was about Mark’s age, smaller in build, but with a wiry, athletic frame. He had sandy brown hair which he kept closely cropped and wore thick rimmed glasses. He was wearing his usual white lab coat, which flowed out behind him when he walked.
"Hi, John," Mark answered, only looking up briefly from his microscope.
"When are the rest of your team coming, again?" John asked, propping himself on the edge of the worktable. "You’ve an awful lot of samples to scour, yet."
"I told you. Laura and the rest need to finish closing out the site."
"Any timeline on that?" John asked, examining a pencil he had picked up off the desk.
Mark frowned slightly. What was up with John, anyway? Why was he being so inquisitive when he already knew the answers to his questions? “Not exactly. But should be soon. Any reason?"
"I know I told you I didn’t mind helping until the rest of your crew arrived, but I’ve got some other research I need to finish up myself," John said, putting the pencil down.
"Thanks for all your help. I appreciate it," Mark said, surveying his friend. So far he hadn’t shared Sangeruka’s directives with anyone. He wanted to wait and see just what kind of final analysis they came up with first before alerting anyone else to any potential threats. And of course, he wouldn’t do anything until he knew Laura and the others were safe.
"Man oh man, you’ve got some pretty interesting stuff here, Graham.” John whistled. "Kind of all over the map in terms of geologic dating, but interesting none the less. You think seismic activity accounts for some of the discrepancies in age?"
“Could be," Mark answered noncommittally.
"Must be something," John said, shaking his head. "I’ve never seen a more perfectly intact Pterodactyl wing before. When you sent me the first sample I was impressed, but what you’ve sent since… " He whistled again. "Beautiful."
"You should have seen the headpiece," Mark offered. "The one I sent pictures of?"
"Too bad you weren’t able to send one over as well. I would have liked to take a look at that baby first hand.”
"The first ones we found were pretty fragile, although I think Laura was packing some fragments. At least I hope.”
"And that last one? The one on the mummified specimen. That’s still on its way, right?" John asked.
"We ran into some glitches with the government. It was considered sacred and not to be removed from the country." It wasn’t really a lie. Just a bit of spin on the truth.
"Too bad," John said, sh
aking his head again. "I suppose you’ll be going back to do your analysis on it there."
"Uh, I’m not sure about that yet," Mark hedged.
John raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Why not?"
Mark sighed. Maybe it was time to confide in John about the actual events that took place before he arrived back in New Mexico. So far John had proven to be a helpful and enthusiastic ally. If there was a conspiracy, he doubted that John would be part of it.
"Listen, John. There were some pretty - strange - things taking place out at that site and afterwards. I wasn’t going to say anything, but I guess it’s time I was straight with you about it, especially since you’re putting so much time and effort into helping me."
John looked at his friend with a sideways frown. "What is it, buddy?"
"I was arrested and forcibly removed from the site," Mark said.
"What?"
Mark nodded. "The last I heard, the army was coming in to move everyone else off site as well. I haven’t heard from any of them since. Not Anthony, not Laura. I don’t even know if they’re okay."
"But why? How? I don’t get it, man. What else did you find out there?"
"You’ve seen it," Mark replied. "But apparently somebody doesn’t want the information to go public."
"Why not?"
"I’m not quite sure. Could be political. Somehow I think there’s more to it than that."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Well," Mark said hesitantly. "Just some theories. Kind of way out there. Never mind."
John laughed. "No way, Graham. You can’t feed me a lead like that and just leave me hangin’!”
"Remember you mentioned something about the discrepancies in geologic dating?" Mark began tentatively.
"Yeah.” John nodded.
"There’s a theory out there that suggests those aren’t discrepancies at all. That dinosaurs and man lived contemporaneously and the world was subsequently exposed to a catastrophic flood that wiped out the dinosaurs."
