Indiana Jones and the The Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull

by James Rollins

  A hand dropped to Indy’s shoulder. From the size of the mitt, Indy didn’t have to glance back. It had to be Dovchenko. The Russian squeezed hard, bruising down to the bone.

  Spalko turned on a heel. “Let’s hope yours is stronger, Dr. Jones.”

  She strode away toward the opposite side of the camp. Dovchenko shoved Indy after her. Two soldiers followed with weapons ready.

  The group ended up outside the camp’s largest tent, which was aglow with lantern light.

  Spalko ducked inside without a word. Indy was half dragged, half pushed to follow. Straightening, he frowned at what he found inside. At first he thought it was a first-aid tent. Banks of medical equipment lined one side; a desk sat on the other. But instead of a hospital cot in the center, a single straight-backed chair stood in front of the central tent pole.

  Leather straps hung from its arms and legs.

  Oh, great . . .

  Dovchenko forced Indy into the chair. He tried to resist, but his limbs were still weak from the days he had spent drugged. Still, it took another two soldiers to strap him to the chair. He tugged and thrashed at the bindings for another breath—then gave up.

  Another soldier, dressed in a laboratory smock, came forward dragging a tangle of electrical wires. He bore down on Indy with clear intent.

  “If you think I’m telling you anything . . . ,” Indy spat, anticipating some type of electrocution-as-torture.

  Spalko had crossed to the back of the tent, out of view. “Calm down, Dr. Jones. They are only leads for an EEG.”

  Electroencephalogram? Why would they need to check his brain?

  Indy tried to twist to see her, but another soldier pinned his head while the technician taped electrodes to his temples, behind his ears, and across his forehead. The wires trailed to a piece of medical equipment. The technician flipped a switch, and a small needle began tracing a line of black ink across graph paper.

  Spalko returned with a wooden box and placed it on the nearby desk.

  Indy turned, dragging the wires that draped his head.

  She opened the box and lifted out an object wrapped in silver. She peeled off the strange metallic cloth and revealed the large crystal skull. The lantern’s flames fluttered slightly as if the room’s light were momentarily sucked into the crystal. The skull glowed brighter with the stolen fiery light.

  Spalko spoke, her back to Indy. “As best we can determine, the skull’s crystal stimulates an undeveloped part of the human brain, opening a psychic channel.”

  Turning, she dropped the silver wrappings to the desktop. Paper clips and a penknife slid across the surface and clung to the wrapping. Spalko barked in Russian to two soldiers, who dashed out of the tent.

  She turned her attention back to Indy. “Professor Oxley went mad by staring too long into its eyes. Perhaps you can get through to the professor after you’ve done the same.”

  Indy recalled staring into the skull’s eyes, back at the cemetery, he remembered the blaze of light burning into him. One part of him shuddered at the thought of meeting that crystalline gaze again—but another part craved it. He couldn’t dismiss the desire. Twice he’d been interrupted. He’d been close to something . . . some understanding.

  “And what if I won’t cooperate?” he asked.

  The tent flap tore open in front of him. Two soldiers returned, wheeling a .30-caliber machine gun into the tent. The muzzle pointed at Indy’s nose.

  Well, that was one way of getting him to obey.

  But instead, the soldiers pulled the gun from its mount and headed out with it, leaving behind the weapon’s stand. Spalko crossed to the gun mount, placed the skull atop it, and wheeled the skull square in front of him.

  Its inner fire glowed brighter.

  The eyes blazed, waiting.

  Indy kept his gaze averted. “You know, if you’re so anxious to talk to Ox, why don’t you look at it?”

  “I’ve tried,” Spalko said with disappointment in her voice. “And failed. Many have.”

  She snapped a finger and a soldier positioned a chair next to Indy’s. She sank down into it. She reached to Indy’s face and moved a few leads out of the way. The back of her hand brushed his cheek.

  Off to the side, Indy sensed the skull beckoning to him. He felt its gaze like a sunburn on his cheek.

  “You’re not afraid, are you, Dr. Jones? You’ve spent your entire life searching for answers . . .”

  Answers, the skull seemed to echo with secret promises.

  “. . . think of the truth behind those eyes.”

  Indy’s head slowly turned, unbidden. He could not help himself. A part of him didn’t want to stop. His eyes swung and faced that blaze. Despite the brilliance of the skull, he could feel his pupils widening, making his eyeballs ache, drawing in more of the refracted light.

  The skull filled his vision.

  Spalko whispered at his ear. “There could be hundreds of these skulls at Akator, maybe thousands. Whoever finds them will control the greatest natural force the world has ever seen. Power over the mind of man.”

  Dazed by the brilliance, Indy muttered back, “Be careful. You might get exactly what you ask for.”

  “I usually do, Dr. Jones.”

  More and more light blazed into him. In the background, he could hear the technician who operated the EEG voice concern. Indy heard the machine’s needle rattling up and down, scratching across the graph paper.

  “Imagine that power,” Spalko said. “The power to peer across the world and know your enemy’s secrets. To place our thoughts in the minds of your leaders, to command your soldiers to attack on our orders.”

  Indy barely heard her. In the spaces between her words, there was only light. Somewhere far away, a needle scratched faster and faster across paper.

  He felt Spalko’s breath at his ear. “We will be everywhere at once, as powerful as a whisper, invading your dreams, thinking your thoughts for you while you sleep.”

  Fire burned away all vision. It filled his skull, building pressure. The world became brilliance. And in that brilliance—something stirred, shifted toward him.

  Far, far away, someone cried a warning.

  A woman nattered like a gnat in his ear. “And the best part? You won’t even know it’s happening.”

  He was only light. He no longer had a name.

  From deep inside him, a single word bubbled forth, intoned from his core. It was all that mattered. It was his entire vocabulary.

  Return . . .

  It grew in his head.

  It became his name, his purpose.

  His lips moved, though he was deaf to it.

  RETURN . . .

  But someone else heard.

  TWENTY-SIX

  MAC CIRCLED THE BONFIRE, a bottle of vodka hanging from his left hand. The Russian soldiers had abandoned their earlier festivities. The quiet of the jungle pressed back down over the camp. The shadows grew darker beyond the firelight. Unseen eyes seemed to stare back at him out of the forest.

  Or maybe it was just Mac’s own conscience.

  He marched in a slow parade around the campfire, following the dancing scarecrow. Though no one had ordered him to, he kept a vigil on Harold Oxley, becoming the man’s babysitter.

  It was better than being in that tent with Spalko. He had no desire to see what was happening in there. He knew what she intended to do to Indy. Mac had only to watch Harold Oxley cavort around the fire, mindless and maddened, to know Indy faced a similar fate.

  Completing another circle of the bonfire, Mac glanced toward the large tent. He rubbed at his mustache, a nervous gesture. Indy, why couldn’t you just have minded your own business?

  Distracted as he stared, Mac ran into Oxley’s back. The professor had halted dead in his tracks. For the first time this entire evening, he had stopped.

  Must’ve finally run out of steam . . .

  The professor swung toward the large tent, his head slightly cocked as if listening. His lips moved. “Return . . .” />
  “Oxley? What’s wrong, ol’ chap?”

  The man ignored him. The blankness of the professor’s face crumpled to confusion. The dullness left his eyes, and the slack features tightened. Lips parted, and the mad professor’s voice cracked on a single name.

  “Henry . . . ?”

  The vodka bottle slipped from Mac’s finger and hit the dirt.

  Oh God . . .

  Mac grabbed the professor, guided him to a log, and made him sit. Oxley folded, compliant, and rubbed his eyes, as if struggling to fully wake up.

  “Hang on, mate.”

  Mac ran across the camp, breathless with fear. When he reached the large tent, a guard tried to stop him, barking in Russian, but Mac ignored him. He had no time to argue. He jammed straight through the flap and burst inside. He was ready to shout about Oxley—then he spotted Indy.

  His old friend was strapped to a chair, nose-to-nose with that damn skull. His face glowed a fiery red, his temples visibly throbbed, and sweat poured down his face. But most disturbing of all, bloody tears flowed from both of his eyes.

  “Enough!” Mac shouted.

  Faces turned to him.

  Mac pointed out toward the bonfire. “Indy’s broken through to Oxley!”

  Spalko stepped forward. She and a technician had been studying a needle racing up and down across graph paper, so fast that the tracing it was leaving was solid black. Mac knew the machine was an EEG. He noted that the leads ran to Indy and gaped at the needle blurring over the paper. What was going on in Indy’s brain?

  Mac pointed at Indiana. “Stop! It’s enough. We’ll never reach Akator if he dies, for God’s sake.”

  Spalko hesitated. She glanced from the EEG to the prisoner, her eyes bright with the desire to continue—but then she waved an arm to one of the soldiers. He dashed forward and threw a hood over the skull.

  Indy jerked back as if jolted by electricity. A gasp burst from his throat as if he were surfacing out of deep black water. His head wobbled, rubber-necked, his cheeks bloody. Off to the side, the fluttering needle slowed.

  Spalko picked up the printout, excited. “His theta waves are off the chart. A full hypnagogic state!”

  Mac ignored her and went to Indy’s side. Is he all right? He took Indy’s chin to steady his head and studied his old friend’s face. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, almost bruised. The pupils had grown huge, making it impossible even to tell the color of his irises. Trembling, Mac wiped the trail of blood from Indiana’s cheeks. At least the bloody tears had stopped.

  He stared blankly up at Mac.

  “Indiana?”

  Spalko joined Mac. “Dr. Jones?”

  Indy’s gaze twitched in her direction.

  “He needs medical attention,” Mac said.

  Spalko backed up and motioned to Dovchenko. The Russian colonel came forward and began unhooking the leather bindings. Dovchenko freed an arm.

  Mac stayed with Indy, leaned close. “You’re going to be—”

  A fist slammed square into Mac’s face. As pain exploded in his nose, he fell and landed hard on his backside. Stars danced across his vision.

  Still hall strapped in the chair, Indy shook his freed hand and glared down at Mac. The blank expression had been replaced by fury.

  Mac tasted blood on his lips. He fingered his face and felt an agonizing crunch of bone. “You broke my nose!”

  “Told you I would.”

  Dovchenko held Indy down in his seat, but the Russian giant’s eyes danced with dark amusement.

  Spalko was not as amused. “Enough.” She pointed out the tent. “Dr. Jones, you will speak to Professor Oxley and convince him to lead us to Akator. Yes?”

  Indy turned his glare toward her. “Nyet.”

  She sighed, as if she expected nothing different from her captive. “So be it. It looks like you will need convincing, Dr. Jones.” She headed out of the tent with a final sharp order for Dovchenko. “Bring him!”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  INDY WOBBLED ON HIS FEET as he was shoved through the tent flap and back out into the firelit camp. His head pounded as if his brain were trying to push out of his ears. The firelight stung his eyes, and he had trouble focusing.

  The cooler air outside the tent helped steady him. He took deep breaths and rubbed a knuckle into each temple.

  The rubber in his legs slowly firmed.

  Ahead, Dovchenko disappeared into a neighboring tent, then returned dragging a wriggling, protesting figure.

  Indy dropped his arms as a familiar young man in a black leather jacket was shoved toward Spalko and Mac. It was Mutt Williams! Red-faced, the kid rubbed his wrists and glared at the tall Russian. The kid’s clothes were rumpled, and his oiled hair stuck up in a cowlick and behind his ears.

  Indy struggled to comprehend Mutt’s appearance here. He’d thought the Russians had left the kid unconscious in the Chauchilla Cemetery. Why had they brought him here? Indy glared over at Mac—The boy has nothing to do with this. The traitor had the decency to glance down to his boots.

  Indy took a step toward Mutt, but Dovchenko blocked him with a thick arm.

  “You okay, kid?” Indy called over.

  Mutt’s voice rang with outrage. “They left my bike in that cemetery.

  Indy frowned. “But are you okay?”

  Mutt still wore a deeply wounded expression. “They left my bike, man! How could they?”

  A soldier approached. He cradled in his arms an antique, polished rosewood case, two feet wide and four feet long, covered in ornate Byzantine gilt scrollwork. Spalko crossed to the box and opened it. The interior was molded velvet, formfitted to secure its contents: three handsome swords. Spalko drew her rapier from the scabbard at her waist and gently secured it into an empty slot in the box.

  She studied the other weapons, fingering each one lovingly, contemplating, then selected the thinnest and meanest-looking silver blade. The sword was the least ornate but appeared the most deadly, a weapon hammered for only one purpose.

  To draw blood.

  With a deft flick of her wrist, she turned to face Mutt. “Dr. Jones, I’ll have to teach you a lesson about cooperation.”

  The kid eyed the blade and backed away, one palm raised. “Hey, wait! Don’t! Don’t!”

  Indy heard the panic in his voice—but instead of begging further, Mutt simply freed a comb from a back pocket. He quickly ran it through his hair, patting every strand in place, then straightened, chest out.

  “Okay, now go ahead,” Mutt said. His eyes flicked to Indy. “Don’t give these pigs a thing.”

  Indy had to smile. What else could he do? The kid had moxie.

  He turned to Spalko and shrugged. “You heard him.”

  Spalko sighed her exasperation and lowered her sword. “Clearly I’ve chosen the wrong pressure point. Perhaps I can discover a more sensitive one.”

  Her sword swung toward George McHale. Indy’s smile widened.

  Not this time, sister! Do with that bastard what you want!

  But she kept turning and barked to two guards outside a small dark tent. “Privedite zhenshchinu!”

  They ducked inside and Indy heard a fierce struggle. A voice shouted out in English, furious, fearless . . . and damned familiar.

  “GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME, YOU ROTTEN RUSSKIE SON OF A—”

  Indy felt his stomach sink. It couldn’t be. Impossible.

  From the tent, a woman was dragged into the firelight, carried between two soldiers, her legs kicking at them. She was planted on her feet between Spalko and Mac. She shook off her guards and straightened her khaki vest over a powder-blue long-sleeved shirt. Though older—in her late forties—there was no mistaking her: her dark auburn hair, a dusting of sun freckles, her deep blue eyes.

  Those eyes . . .

  Indy still pictured her eyes when they’d first met, when she’d been a young woman, staring at him with such fire and amusement from the back row of his graduate class. It had been those eyes from the start . . . and always wo
uld be.

  Marion Ravenwood.

  Indy’s knees weakened under him—though this time it had nothing to do with the crystal skull. Memories tangled: her mischievous smile as she pulled him into a closet at the university library for the first time . . . the smoky scent of her hair outside the burned-out Raven Saloon in Nepal . . . the taste of her lips when they’d first kissed . . . and at the end the angry, wounded disappointment in her eyes after what was to be their final fight.

  During their brief but fiery time together, Marion had proved to be equal parts passion and fury, brilliance and frustration. She was all soft curves and hard corners.

  No wonder he loved her.

  No wonder they hadn’t lasted.

  Steps away, her eyes sparked with a familiar fire—until she spotted Indy. Then it flamed even higher. “ ’Bout time you showed up, Jones!”

  Mutt also turned to her. His eyes widened in surprise. “Mom!”

  Marion turned to the kid. “Sweetheart! What are you doing here?”

  Indy stared between the kid and Marion. He felt gut-punched. One word encompassed all his confusion. “Mom?”

  No one heard him. Mutt tried to reach Marion’s side, but Dovchenko held him back by the collar. “Forget about me, Mom!” the kid yelled. “Are you all right?”

  Indy shook his head, rattling his already bruised brain. “Marion is your mother?”

  He was still ignored. Marion pointed an accusing finger at Mutt. “Young man, I specifically told you not to come down here yourself.”

  Indy had to state it once more aloud. “Marion Ravenwood is your mother?”

  Marion glanced over to him, exasperated. “For God’s sake, Indy, it’s not that hard.”

  “I just, I never . . . I mean I didn’t think you’d—”

  “Have a life after you left? Guess again, buster.”

  Indy raised a hand. “That’s not what I—”

  “And it was a pretty good life, I might add.”

  “That’s great, I just—”

  “Pretty damn good life,” she added, punctuated with a sharp nod.