Call Me Crazy (Janet Lomayestewa, Tracker)

by Bonds, Parris Afton

  “What if . . . well, what if, something else had been in the sarcophagus?”

  His mustache twitched. What kind of goofball idea was she entertaining? “Like what?”

  “Something that contained the greatest power transmitter in recorded history.”

  He reclined against the less than clean white-washed wall, hands clasped behind his head. This conjecture promised to be interesting, regardless how birdbrained academia would consider it. “Do enlighten me.”

  “Didn’t you white kids have to go to Bible School like we injuns had to?”

  She paused, and he waited with baited breath for her next utterance of lunacy.

  “The Ark of the Covenant.”

  He thumped the heel of his palm to his forehead dramatically. “Shades of Indiana Jones! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic!” She stamped her tiny bare foot. “Is that any more far-fetched than your idea of a twenty-five-hundred-year-old nuclear reactor operating out of the sarcophagus?”

  This time he rolled his eyes. “Your brain has to be an equal mix of powdered concrete and beer.”

  Sheet dropped, she was on him quicker than a black widow dealing death on her mate. Since her knife was still on the rickety nightstand, he was able to defend himself sufficiently. He flipped her onto her back. Straddling her on the mattress, he pinned her arms on either side of her. Her sulphur black eyes radiated nitric fury. “You bastard that was a rotten low blow! Not when you know I’m aiming for sobriety!”

  “Okay, Okay. I was out of line with that one, but, sweetheart, really? The Ark of the Covenant?”

  Her wrists went limp. Her lids closed in an deadly arrow-straight line, and she grunted. “I know. It sounds preposterous.”

  “That it does.”

  Her lids flicked open. “I’m telling you, Jack, I’m getting . . . ,” her voice lowered, “well, you know, a message every so often again.”

  A part of him often wondered if she suffered moments of reformed alcoholic’s delusional fits, but another part had learned a certain amount of respect for this so-called matrilineal gift she claimed. “The Voice?”

  She nodded, then sighed. “Yes. It’s telling me . . . it’s telling me to go home.”

  “And that ties in with the Ark of the Covenant how?”

  Another sigh. “Well, what came to mind was those boring, dragging hymns we used to have to sing in the Rez church as children. But I remember at Sunlight Baptist Church there would sometimes be one of those powerful gospel songs. Distinctly one in particular. With a verse like Jesus is calling me home. I sort of connected the dots like you’ve been doing and came up with the Ark of the Covenant. I admit, this one has to be off the charts wacko. And speaking of off, get off me, you brute. You’re heavy.”

  He grinned and swiftly shifted her faerie body so she was nestled on her side with him cupped behind her. “Missionary style was never my favorite,” he whispered against her ear in a wicked voice.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Perusing the destination map, Craig sat in a small gate area off the central hub of Cairo’s airport. The hour was early, and the flight’s destination was not a major tourist locale. Few passengers cluttered the terminal’s offshoot arm; nor had any agent appeared yet to cover the counter duties.

  His gaze drifted across the aisle to the woman’s tanned and supple legs, splayed at the moment from the knees outward for stability. The pixyish brunette, obviously American, was trying to corral two children, a boy and a girl, neither older than three to five years old.

  “Now, Zack, don’t stick your gum under the seat. Throw it in that trash bin. Over there. Heather, come back here this instant! Listen to me, Heather, or it’s time out!”

  His investigation slipped higher, past a glimpse of her pantied crotch, to take in the diamond rings and gold bracelets that graced her darting hands. Supple, French-nail, pampered hands. She was probably the wife of an upper level oil executive.

  Craig had come to realize that stuttering was not his only defect. Sexual addiction lurked in his DNA. Several times, this predilection had almost cost him his job. Only his superior operative skills had saved his prickly penis. Now he had only one job – a job that once completed would net him more money than all the pharaohs combined had ever possessed; that would pay for all the isolation and bullying and ridicule he had experienced as a child and even later in his adult years; a job that would allow him to play out all his sexual fantasies.

  Still, he eyed the American woman. Most likely, she would be excited to be rejoined with her husband for a few colorful days and not interested in getting laid. And, of course, there were the children to deal with. While anyone was fair game, children were exempted. He still felt badly about the American Indian girl. He had wanted only to scare her grubby little hands into dropping the quartz chip he now kept tucked securely into his thermal jacket’s inner pocket.

  His gaze traveled from the American woman over a few seats to the left to fall upon a pair of beautiful hennaed hands and nails. He glanced from the hands to the narrow face with the intelligent and surprisingly blue-green eyes, framed by the black hijab’s gauzy veil. An equally black abaya draped the rest of her body. Judging by her hands, he guessed her age to be around twenty to twenty-five. And the blue-green eyes? Most likely, her DNA was linked with one of the Berber tribes. Considering that Kahina, the 7th century Berber female religious and military leader helped give meaning to the term derived from Berber, barbarian, then this woman across from him might prove to be the height of transitory amusement.

  Her eyes encountered his, lowered, then skittered away. Arab women, especially those clothed in the traditional garb of modesty, rarely traveled alone. Sure enough, in the seat next to her far side hulked her male companion, a swarthy Arab, with well manicured nails and dressed in an expensive Western pinstriped suit.

  Craig’s years of service in Middle East intelligence enabled him to move almost as one among the Arabs. Arabs, of course, could size each other up in an instant, differentiating by a few revealing details a person’s tribe, class, and level of devoutness. A man demonstrated his wealth and prestige by flaunting a pricey rhinoceros-horn-handled sword or curved jambiya in an ornate jeweled sheath.

  One measured glance at this woman’s black abaya with its absence of embroidery along the wrists and collar told him she was not of the upper class. So why was her companion sporting a Rolex? And who was he to her? Could be her husband or brother or uncle, but this Arab woman would in no way be available for a couple of hours of dalliance once their flight reached its destination. Which made him want her all the more. She was taboo. Her darting sidewise appraisal of him piqued his interest even further. Her traveling companion also gave him a measuring glance.

  Craig flicked on his cell phone. One hour and fifteen minutes until boarding. He was a patient man. His lower lip folded in, tilting its toothpick up in anticipation of the encounter with the Arab cunt.

  Forty-three minutes later his patience paid off. Not another glance had been flicked from the young Arab woman, but her gorilla of a traveling companion murmured something to her, rose, stretched, and then ambled across the gate’s main passageway to the men’s restroom. Craig gave him a little over a minute and then, without even a glance at the young dusky woman, stood and made his way toward the men’s restroom.

  Luck was with him. No one else was in the restroom. Gorilla guy stood at an urinal. He reeked of cologne. Craig moved to the closest urinal and, naturally, caught his attention when he unzipped. The Arab’s dark eyes glanced down, zeroed in, and then lifted with heightened interest to meet Craig’s piercing gaze. Craig nodded toward the farthest stall.

  The Arab grinned, showing a gold tooth. Five strides later the man entered the seclusion of the last stall. Craig found it amazing that while homosexuality were punishable by death in the Middle East, an astounding number of Arab men regularly engaged in the elicit act.

  Zipping up, Craig closed in on him. Without
a word, the Arab dropped his pants and, bending forward slightly, braced his palms on the stall’s tiled wall. Standing behind him, Craig rusked, “I’ll whack you,” then quickly hooked his arms under the Arab’s.

  The man didn’t have a chance to glance back. Only a fraction of a second in which to emit a loud gasp of horror in realization of what was to come. Craig locked his hands behind the guy’s head, and, using his powerful upper torso strength, snapped the beefy neck column. All done in a neat four-seconds.

  With a modicum of movement, he slumped the Arab carcass onto the commode and rifled through his pockets, extracting wallet and passports with boarding passes. He tucked the girl’s passport into his jacket pocket with his own and stowed the dead Arab’s wallet and passport into an inner pocket of his thermal jacket. Then he quickly washed his hands, and returned to sit in the vacant seat beside the young Arab woman.

  Her gaze flurried from him to the restroom. At the counter, a uniformed man was announcing boarding by rows. Craig inclined his head next to hers and said in fluent Arabic, “You’re traveling companion has requested I accompany you the rest of the way.”

  Her kohl-darkened lids widened. Seeing the alarm there, he gently cupped her elbow and levered her to standing. “They’re calling for boarding.”

  Like all Arab females accustomed to complying docilely, she nodded, albeit hesitantly. Excitement thickened and hardened his prick. He didn’t give her a chance to ask questions but propelled her toward the male agent now presiding at the turnstile. Would she keep her mouth shut?

  Craig dipped into his outer jacket pocket and extracted boarding passes and not two, but three, passports. Instantly realizing his egregious error, he quickly dropped all three and knelt, flicking his forged Canadian one beneath the portable counter. It would not do for him to be caught with two of his own. Not at all. By the time it was discovered, he and the young female would be lost in a city’s multitudes.

  When he rose, he held only the female’s Egyptian passport and his Australian one. He handed the passports plus boarding passes to the airline attendant. As the man scanned first one, then the second, Craig rolled the toothpick between his lips to counter his stutter and forced a smooth social smile. “I am a little flustered,” he explained. “My fiancé and I are on our way to meet her parents.”

  At last, the attendant nodded and handed Craig back the passports and ticket stubs. “Enjoy your flight.”

  Craig took the young woman’s arm again, steering her toward the boarding ramp. Oh, I will. You can count on that.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Janet lay on her side, her fist supporting her head, while her free hand crumpled the worn, dingy white bed sheet into little hilly patterns that resembled undulating desert dunes. Dressed now, she and Jack were both strung out, waiting impatiently for a call from Wes with any info to steer them in the right direction. Jack’s steps were directed uphill toward the bathroom sink. She heard him running water. “You’ll get the Pharaoh’s Curse,” she said, a hopeful note in her voice.

  “Just washing my face. This cheap-ass mirror tells me I look like the Pope on peyote.”

  She laughed. “Naw, you just look like you’re in a constipated seizure.”

  She heard his chuckle. “This waiting’s not what I had in mind.”

  “We could always visit the pyramids,” she called out.

  “Not a chance.” Drying his mustache and jack-hammered chiseled chin with a threadbare towel, he descended the slope into their small bedroom. He paused to collect his black bandana from the nightstand. Damn, the CSD was handsome. If his springy, tawny curls were any longer, he would have been sporting a lion’s mane. A black muscle t-shirt emphasize his broad, solid chest. Experience warned her to distrust anyone who looked like a film star. He had rocked her life, and somehow she had to regain control. “Whatever was once there at Cheop’s Pyramid, particle collider or not, is long gone.”

  He corralled his curls and knotted the bandana at his nape, then sat beside her on the lumpy mattress. It gave beneath his weight so that she listed toward him. Elbows on knees, he hunched over and propped his determined jaw on his fist. “There’s got to be something we can do. I can’t just sit here and wait. A man can only wait so long.”

  She lifted her shoulders. Her baby-poop green T-shirt, a great find at a bargain basement discount house, proclaimed, Home grown in Arizona, eaten the world ‘round. “Well, there’s always the Ark of the Covenant.”

  He groaned. “Told you, Indiana Jones I am not.”

  You are. She blinked. Shook her head. Shook off the crazy-ass Voice. “Google Ark of the Covenant.”

  He grimaced. “Charley’s phone has all the apps. Mine barely displays contacts.”

  “For a scientist, you’re woefully behind on communication technology. She could have Googled on her own cell phone, but she wanted news from home. News about Molly. And the FBI wouldn’t pass her calls through. “Then call Charley. I bet his Notepad could come up with some interesting info on the Ark.”

  “All right,” he grunted, sitting erect, “I’ll put through a call. But I say we’re on a wild goose chase.” He glanced at the digital alarm clock. “He should be awake at this hour.” Fishing his cell phone and notepad from his pale blue windbreaker jacket draped across his carryon, he tapped in the phone number and waited.

  When he began to talk, telling his son how much he loved and missed him and asking how school work was going, she rose abruptly. She paced the room, rubbing her upper arms. That invisible yet indissoluble connection of love she might never know again. The connection with the child she had carried beneath her ribcage yanked on her like a huge fist squeezing the life from her heart. When that part of Jack’s conversation with Charley began to wind down, she stopped pacing and said, “Please . . . ask Charley if he knows anything about Molly.”

  Jack repeated her question, listened, then looked at her and shook his head forlornly. “Charley says Chief Keevama claims the suited guys are all over the place. No word in or out.”

  She bit her lips, nodded, and then resumed pacing and rubbing her arms.

  Jack returned his attention to Charley. “Hey, pumpkin-head, I want you to Google the Ark of the Covenant on your Notepad. He waited a couple of minutes then said, “What can you tell me? I mean, is there any proof it really existed? And, if so, where?” A pause, then, “Um-huh. Um-huh. About when? Um-huh. Well Google that part then. I’ll wait.”

  “Give Charlie a hug for me,” she said in the silence, but Jack was making notes, connecting the dots. After a few minutes, he said, “And after that?”

  Her own cell phone rang. Quickly, she extracted it from her jean’s hip pocket and trekked up the incline to the bathroom. Closing the flimsy door, she stepped through the shower stall and out to the port-a-potty cubicle. She glanced at the caller. Wes! “Yes?” she asked. Would he, could he, have any news about Molly?

  “There’s been another murder.”

  She sighed. “In the world? In Cairo? Where?”

  “Cairo’s airport. About six hours ago. Info’s just now filtering down to me.”

  “That’s a start. A hot-damn good start.” She watched a cockroach make a dart for the floor’s drain. “So? Fill me in.”

  “Male. Wealthy, judging by his clothing. No ID on him. Neck broken. In the men’s restroom.”

  “Hmmm. And?”

  “And nothing. Nothing, unless you want to tie in with the murder a Canadian passport found beneath the gateway counter directly across from the restrooms. A fake passport. That’s what put the neck snapping on Interpol radar.”

  She froze, stared down at her bare feet. In the wavy mirror her scar was a pink moon’s sickle against her caramel skin. “The passport – a male?”

  “Yeah. Eye glasses. Scruffy beard. Short-cropped fair hair.”

  She sighed. “Could be anyone.”

  “Could be a disguise.”

  “Can you get me a list of the gates nearest the men’s room.”

  �
�Already did. And the flight departures from each gate in the last six hours.”

  “You’re my man!”

  “Never was. That was the problem.”

  She thought of Wes, married to an invalid and devoted to caring for her. Were things other than what they were, she and Wes would have made an ideal couple – whereas she and Jack were about as mismatched as two lovers could come.

  “Got a pen?” Wes asked, jarring her from her reverie.

  When she opened the bathroom door, Jack stood and flashed his notepad. An enigmatic smile lifted the ends of his mustache over his fabulously sexy mouth.

  She grinned and held up her three-squares of dangling toilet tissue with its colored lip balm scribbling.

  He settled his lengthy frame back onto the mattress and patted beside him. “Women go first.”

  She plopped onto the bed, facing him, and crossed her jeaned legs beneath her. “No, you.”

  His lips were harder, thinner, hungrier than usual. Had he overheard her conversation with Wes? “Did you know that the Ark of the Covenant was said to contain the stone tablets inscribed with the Ten Commandments?”

  She lifted her shoulders as if to inquire, So? “You think that ties in some way with the Hopi stone tablets inscribed by our Guardian Spirit?”

  “Just found it interesting. It seems our Ark appears to have been quite the nomad.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well,” he glanced down at his notepad, “2 Maccabees in the Bible, written around 100 BC, says the prophet Jeremiah, being warned by God, buried the Ark in a cave on Mount Nebo in Jordan. And that’s just for starters.”

  “Where else?”

  “In the twelfth century Abu Salih the Armenian wrote ‘The Abyssinians possess also the Ark of the Covenant.’” He glanced up at her. “Abyssinia is now Ethiopia.”