Bone Box

by Jay Amberg

  “It is. That’s why… I’ve got to find… I’m going to my work. To what matters most.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She shakes her head again.

  “Sophia?”

  Rolling her shoulders back and tapping her thumbs and middle fingers together, she stares into his eyes. “I need you to do something, Joe.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to…” She stoops, opens her knapsack, reaches in among the neatly folded clothes, and pulls out a computer flash drive one-fifth the size of Monuglu’s Zippo. As she stands, she turns the drive over in her hand as though it really were a lighter and she needed a cigarette. Holding it out to him, she says, “Give this to Mr. Glavine.”

  “Bill?”

  “No. Le pére. Personally. Only to him.”

  He hesitates. A man fell to his death from the wall that runs outside this house. Whatever danger she’s in, he’ll accept it with the flash drive. But he doesn’t even know if he should trust her—or even if he’s capable of trusting anybody at this point in his life.

  “Promise me,” she says, leaning toward him and extending her arm.

  He takes the flash drive. The metal feels cool, and the green plastic on its side glimmers.

  Her eyes lock on his. “Don’t tell anyone else about it. No one.”

  “Bill’s father, yes,” he says. The drive feels unbearably light in his hand, as though it might float away.

  “Go up the hill,” she says, wrapping his fingers around the drive. “Keep Leopold and Charles Lee occupied.”

  “But Sophia…”

  “Check your email. And text messages.”

  “Kirchburg’s men are here. At the gate. In the ruins.”

  “I know,” she says. Hefting her knapsack and computer case, she leads him out to the patio. They stand in the shade, but the morning light floods the orchards and fields all the way to the Aegean. The breeze is scant in the rising heat, and the wind chimes are silent. She takes hold of his forearm, leans up so that her mouth is close to his ear, and whispers, “Le pére, Joseph.” Without saying anything more, she walks off into the pine trees toward what he thinks is only a precipitous bluff.

  22

  As Travers climbs Ayasuluk Hill, the tractor and wagon rumble toward him. He is just starting to sweat, and the hike all the way to the citadel would have done him good. His mind won’t clear, but at least the image of Altay vanishing into the trees along the bluff is vying with that of Sirhan’s corpse. As Travers approaches, the tractor turns onto the narrow, worn path toward the knoll where he noticed Sirhan the previous night. Charles Lee, who wears a dark sportshirt, blue jeans, and lightweight hiking boots, sits on one side of the wagon talking with the young Turkish woman with raven hair. Leopold Kirchburg faces away from them and toward the ruins of the cathedral. His slip-ons are dusty, and his shirt is sweat stained.

  Kirchburg shouts, “Dur!” at the old Turk driving the tractor and then, pointing ahead toward the knoll, calls out, “What do you know about this site, Herr Travers?”

  Lee and the young woman look over their shoulders at him.

  “Nothing,” Travers shouts over the noise of the tractor’s engine. Both the light and his perspective have changed, but the area beyond the cairn looks to have been tamped down again.

  Kirchburg scowls. “The trench digging is obvious,” he says.

  Travers looks out over Selçuk at the waves of heat drifting from the roofs. The sun washes out the hills to the east. “But without adherence to standard archeological practices,” Kirchburg adds. His eyes narrow. “Where is Fräulein Altay?”

  “I saw her near the restoration office a few minutes ago,” Travers answers.

  Kirchburg smiles superciliously, turns, and shouts for the old man to get moving again.

  As the driver accelerates, blue-black smoke rises from the exhaust pipe. The woman glances at Travers as the wagon passes, but her dark eyes offer nothing. Diesel fumes hang in the air.

  When the tractor stops by the cairn on the knoll, Lee steps down from the wagon. Kirchburg slips off and brushes the back of his pants. The young woman stays on the wagon, and the old Turk turns off the tractor’s engine. As Kirchburg and Lee walk about looking down at the chunks of overturned dirt, Travers passes them by, continues to the edge of the bluff, and gazes out at the distant sea. The slope of the orchards and fields down toward the water is particularly beautiful. A figure with a backpack is crossing through an orchard to the right.

  When Kirchburg comes over, Travers turns to keep him from looking down the bluff. “Terrible accident,” Travers says before the Austrian can ask about Altay again.

  “It will have adverse consequences on the work here,” Kirchburg answers.

  “Did you know him—Kenan?” Travers asks.

  “I met him once or twice through Sophia,” Kirchburg answers.

  “He drove me to Ephesus and the Virgin Mary’s House yesterday.”

  “One of his duties was to transport visitors.”

  A cloud of gnats swirls in the light.

  “I have a couple of questions,” Travers says, gesturing back toward the citadel.

  Kirchburg glances at his gold Tag Heuer. “This is not a good time for your questions, Herr Travers.”

  “Another time, then.” Travers sticks his hand in his pocket so that his fingertips touch the flash drive. “They’re related to my evaluation.”

  Kirchburg waves the gnats away. “Your report,” he says, “has be-come superfluous.”

  Travers isn’t so sure, but he answers, “Maybe, you’re right.”

  Kicking a clod of dirt, Kirchburg says, “I need to be informed about this site now.” He turns and shouts at the young woman, “Asar, kommen sie!”

  The woman climbs down from the wagon. Her jeans are dusty, but her red T-shirt is clean. Lee, too, strides toward the bluff.

  “What was going on here?” Kirchburg asks.

  The young woman’s focus moves from Kirchburg to the ground, then out over the bluff toward the Aegean, and finally back to the dirt by her feet. Her nose is sharp, and her skin dark. Her eyes veil whatever she’s thinking. “A dig,” she says. “A added…” She looks at Travers as though he can help her find the English words. “A extra…”

  “A supplemental site?” Lee asks as he steps into the conversation.

  She nods. “That is what Sophia called it. She worked it only after…” She waves back toward the citadel. “…After her other work.”

  “She herself worked the site?” Lee asks.

  Looking Lee in the eye, she nods again. “Yes. In the evening. When her other duties were completed.”

  “Who else?” Kirchburg asks. “Who else worked it?”

  “The diggers sometimes stayed after.”

  “And Kenan?” Travers asks, trying to deflect Kirchburg’s attention. “Did he work up here, too?”

  “Yes. At times.”

  “And what about the missing boy?” Kirchburg asks, his voice more imperative than inquisitive.

  What boy? Travers thinks.

  “Abrahim?” she asks.

  Kirchburg stares at her, his silence ordering her to go on.

  “Yes. Abrahim is Sophia’s most…” She glances at Travers again.

  “Trusted?” Travers asks. “Enthusiastic?”

  “Yes, enthusiastic.” She nods, a grateful smile briefly crossing her face. “Yes. The hardest worker at Saint John’s. Always willing to help. To do extra. To do what was needed.”

  “And he’s missing?” Travers asks.

  She looks at him, her eyes again not giving anything away. “He did not come to work yesterday.”

  “Is that like him?” Travers asks.

  “Pardon?”

 
“Were there other times when he did not show up?” Travers asks.

  “Oh, no. He is very…dedicated.”

  Travers smiles at her use of the last word. “Were you…was Sophia worried?”

  She nods. “She was quite concerned at first…when she returned from Istanbul,” she says. “But then other matters took her attention.”

  “And you?” Kirchburg asks. “What about you?”

  “Yes, I was worried. Abrahim is my friend.”

  “Not that,” Kirchburg says. “Did you work this site?”

  A bead of sweat serpentines down her temple, but she looks straight at Kirchburg. “When I had time. When I was able to finish at the restoration house.”

  “Where is the most recent trench?” Kirchburg asks.

  She hesitates for the first time. “I…I have not been up here for days. Since before Sophia went to Istanbul.”

  Kirchburg steps closer to her. He is more than a foot taller than she is, and he leans forward so that he blocks Travers from her. “Asar,” he says, “which is the newest trench?”

  Stepping back, she says, “I am not sure.”

  “Which one?” he repeats.

  “Near the edge,” she says to the hummocky earth. “Close to the bluff.”

  “What did Fräulein Altay find?” Kirchburg asks, his tone now magisterial.

  The old Turk fires up the tractor’s engine.

  Asar swipes sweat from her cheek. “Nothing. She found nothing.”

  “Why is the site backfilled?” Lee asks.

  “You mean, the earth?” she says, wiping her hand on her shirt. She glances from Lee to Kirchburg. “Because the orders were for the work on the citadel only.”

  “Leopold,” Travers asks, “is that what you were confronting Sophia about last night?”

  “I…” Kirchburg begins, but then he stops, as though answering Travers is something he need not do. He turns back to the young woman who has already begun to walk to the wagon. “Asar!” Kirchburg shouts, but she climbs onto the wagon’s bed without looking up, as though the noise of the tractor’s engine is drowning his command.

  “What was that about last night?” Travers asks Kirchburg.

  Lee stares at Kirchburg as if the answer means more to him than to Travers. His expression is blank, but his eyes shine.

  Kirchburg glares at Travers for a moment before saying, “What did you and Sophia discuss last night?”

  Travers smiles at him. “We talked about my visit to Ephesus and Saint Mary’s house. I learned that her family makes good wine.”

  Glaring again, Kirchburg says, “We have work to do. Come, Charles.”

  “I think I’ll walk from here, Leopold,” Lee says. He shakes his arms like a swimmer trying to get loose before a race.

  “Fine,” Kirchburg says. He pulls back his shoulders and turns toward the wagon.

  Travers looks again toward the west. The color in one of the distant fields has changed, gone to celadon in the few minutes that they were standing there.

  23

  “Nice view,” Lee says as the tractor pulls out with Kirchburg sitting straight-backed on the wagon and the young woman, shoulders hunched, looking away from the Austrian.

  “Yeah,” Travers says, “the light’s incredible.”

  Travers and Lee walk back over the hardscrabble to the path and then head down toward the restoration house.

  “What did you and Ms. Altay chat about last night?” Lee asks, his drawl less pronounced.

  “Nothing, really,” Travers says as they pass one of the grape arbors. “Mostly I was just trying to get a feel for the place.”

  Lee nods. “She didn’t mention any artifacts?”

  “Nothing specific.”

  “But something?” Lee closes his fists and then splays his fingers. “Anything?”

  Shaking his head, Travers smiles. “No. Nothing at all.”

  Lee rolls his neck. “She certainly left Istanbul in a hurry.”

  The tractor is parked by the restoration house, and Asar has gone inside—but Kirchburg stands in the shade speaking to the two young men he left guarding the area. Both are fair-skinned and thickly built, and both lean their heads forward while Kirchburg speaks to them.

  “If she found something,” Travers says as he slows sixty yards from the restoration house, “she certainly didn’t tell me what it was. I think she sees me as a hatchet man.” Travers has the sense that Lee, like Kirchburg, sees him more as an errand boy.

  Kirchburg walks briskly around the side of the restoration house toward Altay’s porch.

  Lee slaps Travers on the back and steers him off the path. “Leopold is sure that your Ms. Altay is holding something out on him. Something significant.”

  “He is? Why?”

  “The way she’s been acting.”

  “Lately? Or is there more to it?”

  “That, Brother Travers, is the question.” Lee’s voice becomes low, as though he’s distancing himself from Kirchburg. “I do believe he kept after her when she interviewed for the job, but then she didn’t put out once she was hired. He sees himself as a player, and she wouldn’t play.”

  Travers smiles at the thought that the Cat Woman somehow got to Herr Professor Kirchburg.

  “Still makes him mad,” Lee adds.

  Travers starts to walk again, and Lee falls into step with him.

  “Turkey,” Travers says, “has been more than I bargained for.”

  “I guess.”

  “Have you been here often?”

  “Fourth…,” Lee shakes his head, “fifth trip. I come in a week every quarter to make sure the locals aren’t flushing our money down the can.”

  “So you’ve been here to Saint John’s before?”

  Lee nods. “It’s not Texas, but there’s worse places. Hard to scare up a good steak, though.”

  “And the site? It’s been running okay?”

  Lee’s smile is crooked. “If y’all don’t mind Ms. Altay digging holes all over God’s creation.”

  “What do you think of Kenan’s accident?”

  Lee brushes the back of his hand across his chin. “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “Well, the timing of it, for one thing. It happening the first night we…”

  “Shit happens, Brother,” Lee interrupts. “It hits the fan sometimes.”

  “Did you know Kenan?”

  “I’d met him here. But he wasn’t too talky. Not like Nihat with his diarrhea of the mouth.”

  “And Abrahim? What’s that about?”

  “That little squirrel,” Lee says, a hint of disdain in his voice. “Your Ms. Altay doted on that gal boy. She…”

  Below them, Kirchburg storms out the door of the restoration house and shouts in German at the two young men.

  More shit, Travers thinks, is hitting the fan.

  24

  Travers hangs up the telephone in Sophia Altay’s office. He called Bill Glavine to let him know about Sirhan’s death, but it’s still well before dawn in Dayton—and he got only Glavine’s voicemail. He opens the file drawer he saw Altay reach into at dawn, but it holds only neatly organized supplies and personal items—everything from a stapler to hand lotion. Wondering if the flash drive was in the drawer earlier, he rotates it in his pocket. Turning on the computer and slipping the drive into the USB port would be easy enough, but it’s too risky at this point. He simply has no way of knowing who might come through the door.

  Once Leopold Kirchburg realized that Altay’s laptop computer was gone with her, he browbeat his minions and then questioned Asar, who seemed genuinely upset that Altay wasn’t there. Kirchburg demanded that they get the Selçuk police involved immediately, but Lee pointed out that it was too soon. There wa
s nothing to indicate that Altay had not merely stepped out for an hour.

  Travers looks closely at the three photographs on Altay’s desk. The first, in an antique silver frame, is black and white. A man and a woman stand on a paved surface with a seawall and water in the background. Both stare somberly at the camera. The man is dark with a full mustache and thick hair. The woman is slender, with sharp features and large eyes. He wears a black suit, she a long white gown. They are holding hands but not otherwise touching. The second photograph shows a young Sophia Altay sitting on a boulder. Behind her is a dark hollow, perhaps the mouth of a cave. With her legs pulled up, she hugs her knees. Her head is tilted, and she is grinning. Even at a distance, her eyes glow. The third photo was taken in the courtyard outside. Altay stands behind the large amphora Travers saw by the cactus. She is smiling, as are the dozen people around her. To her left are four diggers, the old tractor driver, and Sirhan, who stands at attention. To her right are younger people, including Asar who has her arm around a thin young man who’s so handsome he’s pretty.

  When Travers returns to the work area, Charles Lee is just leaving for a meeting at their hotel. As Kirchburg shouts orders into his cell phone, Travers sits in the shade on the section of column he sat on the evening before. The birds are silent in the pines, heat radiates from the nearby piles of stone and timber, and trucks grind through their gears in the distance.

  Kirchburg stops pacing, puts the phone in his pocket, stands over Travers, and asks, “What do you know about Sophia’s disappearance?”

  Travers leans over, scoops a pebble from the ground, and tosses it toward the timbers. Then, squinting up at the Austrian, he says, “Nothing, really.”

  “You informed me that you spoke to her. You were the last one to see her.”

  Travers shoos a large black fly. “What about your boys?” he asks, his choice of the last word deliberate. “They must’ve seen her go.”

  Kirchburg puts his hands on his hips. “They did not. She must have had assistance.”

  Travers runs his fingertips over the dirt, finds another pebble, in-spects it, and then discards it. “How?” he asks. “From whom? Asar and the old man were with us. You sent everybody else away.”