Bone Box

by Jay Amberg

  “Yes,” Monuglu says. He wipes his mustache with nicotine-stained fingers. “That’s the word the physician used. Stigmata.” He waves to Travers. “You must come.”

  69

  Sophia Altay sits cross-legged on her prayer rug, unraveling the thick braid in her black hair. Evening’s last light slips through the sheered oval above the stone altar, muting the red and gold saints on the wall. She has just pushed the blocking stone into place; the air in the cave, though still, is cool, at least relative to the day. She runs her fingers through her hair. Even though she kept her head covered at all times when she was out, her hair holds a fine grit. Rubbing her palms together, she feels more grit. She is becoming, she muses, a tufa spire, a fairy chimney.

  Untangling her hair, like shoveling dirt and chopping vegetables, helps her think. Though she feels safe here, nothing has gone right. The fraudulent documents, especially the digital versions, are already spreading virulently, making her need to authenticate the originals that much more pressing. And Joe missed the rendezvous call at 19:00. The back-up time is still an hour away.

  She straightens her spine and inhales, bringing her breath deep into her belly. Given the day’s treachery and her understanding of what must have happened to the flash drive she had entrusted to Joe, she has to produce the scrolls immediately. She glances up at the smaller angel hovering at the shoulder of the red-robed saints. There is no clear path, no easy way, even if Joe is all right.

  She takes the plastic water bottle from her woven bag lying next to her on the rug. Swirling the water, she thinks about her lack of options. She drinks deeply and then pours thirty milliliters into her cupped hand. When she wipes the grit from her face, her damp hands and face tingle in the dry air. After setting the bottle on the rug, she leans forward, slides her knees under herself, and stretches like a cat.

  She pulls the phone from her bag. Although the boy who sold it to her assured her the phone had no global-positioning chip, she still has been very careful. She keeps the ringer off at all times. Even when she is far from the town center of Göreme, she never speaks on the phone for more than a minute. And Joe is the only one who knows the number. When she tried to contact her mentor in Cambridge and the call rang through to voicemail, she left neither message nor number. She last checked for messages after she camouflaged the Puegot but before she began her furtive hike to her cave church. When she flips the phone open, she sees that there is a text message. Reception is nil this far up the escarpment so it must have come in during her trek.

  The words knock her back on her haunches. Her breath catches in her throat as she again reads, Abrahim arrested. Going with Mister Monuglu to see him. That’s it, all of it. She strikes the keys frantically, but there is nothing else.

  Taking slow, deliberate breaths, she reads the text a third and fourth time. And then a fifth. If Joe is using the word mister without irony, he must also be in Nihat Monuglu’s custody. Allowed one message, isn’t that the American way? And, Abrahim? Abrahim arrested. They will brutalize him, the prisoners if not the police. She still cannot believe that he would kill another human being. He might, if he felt attacked, strike back—but he would never deliberately murder anyone. Whatever he did or did not do, he will never survive in prison. He will never even make it to trial.

  Her eyes well. Although she knows she’s wholly out of range, she taps out Joe’s number and then grimaces at the phone when the call does not go through. She flips it shut and hurls it down on her bag, where it bounces onto the prayer rug. Raking the fingers of both hands through her hair, she glares at the red-robed figures gone blurry on the wall.

  70

  As Nihat Monuglu walks briskly past the nurse’s station, Joseph Travers limps along at his shoulder. The medical clinic’s hallway smells of disinfectant. The nurse’s aide at the desk shuffles folders and avoids eye contact. The dark floor tiles are worn, and the walls are green gone to bile.

  Monuglu led Travers out of the hotel room without another word, and he has said nothing to Travers since. During the ride in the Mercedes, Monuglu let him text Sophia Altay and did not demand the phone number. Travers looked out the car’s window at the vast, spired countryside, the chimneys and ridges and ranges fading into darkness. He thought that Monuglu had been right earlier—he, Travers, had not known what he was saying after the news conference.

  He’s aware that he has been mistaken about some, probably much, of what has happened. Though the digital translations certainly stirred a media storm, they only aided those trying to discredit Altay. He has been wrongheaded about other things, too—the shadows, the mugging in Selçuk, even Kenan’s death. But a sense of what he must do between sundown and dawn emerges through his confusion.

  Monuglu pushes the stairwell door open and strides up the stairs. The back of his white shirt is wrinkled, and the heel of his right shoe is scuffed. Travers hobbles after him but can’t keep up.

  Sweat breaks on the back of Travers’ neck by the time he reaches Monuglu in the second-story doorway. “Sorry, my friend,” he says, “but I’m not as quick on my feet as I once was.” The sweat isn’t only from the physical exertion; he’s afraid of what he’ll see in the next few moments.

  “I will enter the room with you,” Monuglu says, “but then I will leave you alone with him.”

  Travers nods. “Nihat,” he says, “why are you doing this?”

  Monuglu scratches his mustache. “The boy has information,” he says. “Knowledge useful to the people of Turkey that will otherwise be lost.”

  Travers looks into Monuglu’s dark, tired eyes. “That’s not it,” he says. “Or not all of it.”

  “He is a Turk, and only a boy.” Monuglu looks away. “We each have sons, my friend.”

  Travers continues to examine Monuglu’s face—the dark stubble from his not having shaved, the flecks of gray in his mustache, and the bags under his eyes. This might be the most deeply honest statement the Turk has ever made to him. “But Abrahim is a murder suspect,” Travers says, his voice soft.

  Monuglu returns Travers’ gaze. “I believe that he is too…weak to have killed the Austrian. He did not cause the death. And, the evidence tells me there was another person in that cave when the Austrian died.”

  A gaunt orderly pushes a steel and canvas cart carrying soiled bed sheets past them.

  Travers thinks about Monuglu’s choice of words. “Nihat,” he says, “I want to apologize for what I said to the reporters about your altering the documents. Even if you wanted to, you would not have had the time…”

  Flames spark in Monuglu’s eyes, but he banks the anger. “You jumped to conclusions, my friend,” he says. “You Americans do that.”

  “Yeah,” Travers says. “Sometimes we do.”

  “And that ossuary and its contents belong to the Turkish people.”

  “Yes, but to the world, too.”

  “I have read the documents,” Monuglu says, “the Turkish versions on the memory stick you gave me.”

  “They are no threat to the Republic of Turkey.”

  Monuglu’s harsh laughter erupts in three short bursts. “Perhaps not literally. We are, whatever may be said, a secular nation.” He combs his fingers slowly through his mustache before adding, “But you are naïve. Those in power everywhere will feel threatened by the anti-government rhetoric. And those false documents…they are already being used politically by Zionists, Islamists, and Christian fanatics.”

  Travers takes a deep breath and exhales. “The real letters, taken together, aren’t a threat to….”

  Monuglu snorts again. “Tell that to those who followed you here to Cappadocia. The documents will stir up extremists everywhere. And those in power will retaliate.… Arabs and Israelis. Europeans and Americans…” The bags under his eyes look like bruises. “They are barbarians, all of them. And they are here because of that b
one box.” Pointing down the corridor, he adds, “Come.”

  Travers reaches out and touches Monuglu’s thick forearm. “I have questions about…about both deaths—Kenan’s and Günter’s. Things I need to know before I see Abrahim. I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

  Monuglu scowls. “We do not have time.”

  “Kenan,” Travers asks, “he had money on him?”

  “Two thousand euros.” Monuglu’s frown softens to inquisitiveness.

  Travers leans his shoulder against the wall. “Weren’t there fingerprints on the bills?”

  Monuglu’s smile is crooked. “Yes. Sirhan’s.”

  “Just his? No one else’s?”

  “No. No other prints at all.”

  “And he’d been drinking?”

  Monuglu’s eyes narrow. “High alcohol content in his blood. And raki in his stomach.”

  Travers nods. “And Abrahim?” he asks. “You said you do not think he killed Schmidt?”

  “The boy,” Monuglu says, “he was servicing the Austrian to protect Doctor Altay…and you. To keep him from following you to Altay. He bit the Austrian’s schwanz, and the Austrian hit him. Began to beat him.”

  Travers frowns. “But I had no idea where Sophia was,” he says. “I went for a walk because I needed to.”

  “W…no one, not even the boy, knew that. Americans are not the only ones who jump to conclusions.” Monuglu shrugs. “In any case, I have suspicions that the boy was not even in that cave when the Austrian died.”

  “Then, who killed Günter Schmidt?”

  “That is not clear to the police. The evidence at the scene is contradictory.”

  “What really happened?”

  “There’s no way to be certain, my friend.” Monuglu shrugs again. “Not even the boy knows. But perhaps Herr Schmidt became irrational. In the pain and anger of that moment, perhaps he attacked someone he shouldn’t have.” He turns and lumbers along the hallway.

  Yes…, Travers thinks, somebody who reacts intensely. Somebody strong enough to overpower a trained boxer. Somebody protective enough of Abrahim to keep Schmidt from further hurting—or even killing—the boy for what he had just done. And somebody smart enough to leave contradictory evidence in that cave. Lost in thought, Travers waits another moment before following Monuglu. When he rounds the hallway’s corner, he sees Monuglu approach Leopold Kirchburg who’s pacing at the other end of the corridor. Two uniformed men armed with automatic rifles stand at attention in front of the last doorway.

  Travers slows as Kirchburg stomps over toward Monuglu, shouting, “I demand to see Abrahim. He is my employee.”

  Monuglu tilts his head. “Was your employee,” he says, his voice even but with, for the first time in his dealings with Kirchburg, the overtone of a superior officer. “You are in no position to demand anything.”

  Kirchburg’s eyes flash. His cheeks, already red, darken further. “I must speak to the boy. Now.”

  Monuglu pulls his shoulders back and steps closer to Kirchburg. “The boy is in custody. My custody. Only those I permit will see him.” He clears his throat. “And you, Herr Doktor, will not.”

  The two guards stare straight ahead, unblinking.

  Kirchburg shakes his long boney finger at Monuglu. “I will have your… I will have you…”

  Monuglu cocks his head. “Do not threaten me, Herr Doktor. It is not healthy.” He turns to Travers. “Isn’t that true, Joseph?”

  “Du bist…” Kirchburg rolls his hand and begins to raise it. Then, glancing at Travers, he opens his hand and claws at his beard.

  “It’s true, Leopold,” Travers says. “Definitely. I’ve finally come to understand that.”

  “Him?” Kirchburg asks. “You are allowing him to see Abrahim?”

  Monuglu glowers at Kirchburg. “I have ordered him to. Now get out of my way, Herr Doktor.”

  Kirchburg’s fingers twitch as he turns to Travers. “Find out…,” he says. “You will answer to me when you are finished.”

  Travers shakes his head. “I don’t think so, Leopold.”

  Kirchburg grabs Travers’ shoulder.

  Monuglu sweeps his arm up, snatches Kirchburg’s wrist, and twists.

  Kirchburg’s hand jerks free from Travers. His torso contorts, and his eyes bug.

  “If you touch my friend again,” Monuglu whispers to Kirchburg, “I will tear your balls off.” He wrenches Kirchburg’s arm and shoves him hard.

  His eyes wide, Kirchburg stumbles backward past Travers.

  Pointing over his shoulder at Kirchburg, Monuglu barks Turkish at the guards. “Come,” he then says to Travers. “You must talk to the boy.”

  71

  When Travers enters the windowless room, his chest clinches and his heart pounds. The room is stark except for the hospital bed, two monitors, and an IV tree. The air closing in on him smells of antiseptic. Abrahim, lying on his back in a pale-green hospital gown, looks far too much like Jason in the morgue.

  “Oh, God,” Travers murmurs. “Oh, God!”

  White restraining straps cross Abrahim’s chest, arms, and legs. Gauze and surgical tape bandage his wrists. The IV shunt runs whole blood from a plastic pouch into the vein in his arm. His head is turned a little to the side. His good left eye and battered right eye are closed; his long lashes and tousled hair make him look seraphic. His dark skin has faded to gray—and it’s in this pallor that he is Jason. It is this look of death in a young man that crushes Travers.

  Travers clutches the bed’s raised metal railing with both hands. Abrahim retreats, diminishing before his eyes. Jason lies unbreathing, lost. Travers wavers. The sweat on his neck chills again. His spine is ice so brittle that he might splinter onto the floor.

  Monuglu lays his hand on Travers’ shoulder and, his voice low, says, “Seeing me is not healthy for him. I will be outside. You will have the time you need.”

  When the door shuts, the boy’s eyes flutter open, the left more quickly than the swollen right.

  Travers does not know what to say, even if he could make his voice work.

  The boy’s eyes close. His breathing softens, and then his eyes re-open. “Sophia?” he asks, his voice in some distant place.

  Travers swallows hard. The boy is at once Abrahim and Jason, alive and dead.

  Abrahim’s left eye is rheumy and his right bloodshot, as though he has been crying somewhere deep inside himself. There is no fear in his eyes, though, only an immense sadness and loneliness.

  Travers knows he will lie to keep the boy alive, but he still can’t quite form the words. He reaches out with his right hand and holds it, shaking, just above the boy’s left temple. He clears his throat and says, “I know…everyone knows that you did not kill Günter Schmidt. He hurt you…your eye.”

  Abrahim looks up at the ceiling. “And you,” he whispers. “He hurt you.”

  “And me,” Travers says. “But we both know that Saint John was right. Vengeance is empty. It harms us.”

  Abrahim continues to stare at the ceiling.

  “Doctor Altay…Sophia is safe,” Travers says. “She sends her love.”

  The boy’s eyes focus on Travers’ face, reading the lie. But when he turns his head away, his forehead touches Travers’ hand. He doesn’t flinch but instead shuts his eyes and presses his head to Travers’ palm.

  “Abrahim,” Travers says, “Sophia is safe for now.” He lets his hand settle on the boy’s head. “But, yes, there is still danger.” As he begins to stroke the boy’s hair, his eyes fill. “She needs you.” This is both truth and falsehood layered inward farther than he can fathom. He really can’t be sure what value, ultimately, Altay will put on her discovery.

  Abrahim’s eyes open for just a moment before he sighs, his forehead resting once more against Travers’ hand.


  Travers glances at the monitor screens. Their green lines go on spiking peaks and settling plateaus, but he feels like the boy is being borne away. Not at all sure of what he’s doing, he gently turns Abrahim’s head, leans over the bed, and cups both hands over the boy’s ears. He feels heat in his fingers and palms coming not from Abrahim or himself but from the contact between them. Not knowing what to say, he closes his eyes, lets his mind empty, and surrenders first Abrahim and then, as tremors run through him, Jason. He leans hard on the railing, his life flowing into and through his hands.

  The dark room with its sharp odor peels away, and the world, life itself, furls through him. He is on Ayasuluk Hill immersed in birdsong, in the morgue gazing at the discolored corpse of his younger son, by an Arizona creek with hot air clapping all around him. All of it is here and now, not in his hands or in Abrahim’s head but within the juncture. His hands no longer shake or tremble. When he opens his eyes, Abrahim is looking up at him.

  “Glorificamus Dei,” Abrahim whispers.

  “Sophia loves you,” Travers says. He used the word often with Tom and Jason when they were young, but only intermittently in recent years as things fell apart. And, obviously, in Jason’s case, not enough. He had always meant it, but he had no idea what the anguish would be like when he could no longer say it at all. He has not said the word aloud to anyone in months.

  Abrahim neither moves nor says anything. His eyes continue to look into Travers’ face, not searching but dwelling there.

  “Sophia will come to you,” Travers says. “Tonight.” His—their—plan will have to change yet again, but, whatever else happens, he will ensure that Sophia and Abrahim are reunited. He lifts his hands, which tingle as though they are wet and a breeze is blowing through the still room. He straightens, leans back away from the railing, and takes a deep breath. “Sophia will come,” he repeats, “Not right away. But in a few hours.” Yes, the plan must be altered once more. “She will… She will take you home.”

  Nodding, the boy says, “Dominus vobiscum.”