The Ka

by Mary Deal

  Tears began streaming down Marlowe's face as she examined the hair swatch.

  “That's so Egyptian,” Chione said. “You and Rita belong here.” She tenderly squeezed his hand.

  “You don't want to lose those,” Kendra said, pointing to the jewelry.

  “Or have them stolen from my tent,” he said. “Not sure where I'll hide them.”

  “Here,” Chione said, touching her shirtfront. She lifted the chain from around her neck and over her head bringing out the fat scarab pendant. Everyone leaned closer as she unfastened a tiny clasp and opened the back.

  “Hey, it's like a box in there,” Kendra said.

  “I wear this night and day,” Chione said. “It never leaves my body.”

  “Where did your mom and dad buy that?” Kendra asked. “It looks like real gold.”

  Kendra would know real gold, but this pendant being real was only wishful thinking. “From a scruffy street vendor,” she said. “The guy claimed it was real, but it's probably gold plated at best.” She again signaled her offer to Clifford.

  “You want to take care of these?” Clifford asked, holding the rings up again on his pinkie. The brilliant ruby heart surrounded by a bevy of baguette diamonds needed little direct light to flash their message. “I'd hate to lose them. They're part of my Rita.”

  “Well, that's a big responsibility, Clifford,” Chione said. “But it's better than carrying them around in your pocket.”

  Clifford allowed her to remove the curl of hair from the plastic bag and place it into the back of the scarab along with the rings.

  As they watched her replace the necklace over her head and stuff the scarab into her shirt, Dr. Withers turned to his wife who gulped down some pills. “What's that you're swallowing?” he asked.

  “For my headaches,” she said. “Vimble gave me a prescription.”

  “How long have you had headaches?” Chione asked.

  Everyone looked to Marlowe remembering Rita had a headache for days before dying. What could be affecting them? No substantial evidence of a curse existed for those who believed in such possibilities, but they would have to monitor anyone who came down with any temple throbbing. Still, the mention of another person with a headache, and one death already, sent an unspoken ripple of anxiety through the team. Everyone was fully aware of the multiple deaths that occurred with Howard Carter's group.

  “Only a short while,” Marlowe said. “Vimble said it's probably the heat.”

  “Okay everyone, listen up,” Dr. Withers said suddenly. “All the chambers have been emptied. The loose rubble and sand topside have been removed. None of our technology points in the direction of the Burial Chamber. Any suggestions?”

  “Let's walk it,” Bebe said.

  “With magnifying glasses, if we have to,” Chione said. “Kendra found one hidden doorway. We can find others.”

  They went back into the tomb, except for Clifford who went to catch up on inventory records. The entire tomb now stood bare and offered an intimidating invitation.

  “What I don't understand,” Kendra said, “is why we didn't find any insects, especially white ants in the food annex or gnawing at the wooden doors and furniture.”

  “The tomb is hollowed out of solid rock,” Chione said. “No seams anywhere to come apart.” Stranger still, the years had not created settling cracks.

  “Too mysterious,” Dr. Withers said. “Very few signs of aging. It's as if someone's cast a spell to make this tomb stand still in time.”

  “Oh-oh. Looks like Chione's gotten through to you,” Chione said of herself, imitating Randy. Someone had to do something to break the tension. Aaron laughed the loudest.

  By noon, no sign of a passageway, secret or otherwise, had been found.

  “Okay, Chione, you're our strongest hope,” Dr. Withers said with a half smile, beginning to return to his usual self. “Tonight you sleep in here again. Then we get to know exactly what you dream.”

  “As long as none of you becomes over eager and creeps in on me in the middle of the night,” she said, joking. Then she realized Dr. Withers might insist again that Aaron stay with her all night and how that might look to the others. “I want to be completely alone.”

  “You know the rules,” Dr. Withers said.

  She felt cornered, frustrated, and did not wish to spend another night with Aaron. “I don't need to sleep in here,” she said. “I'll just sit a while like before.”

  “But you get so much more from dreaming, don't you?” Bebe asked.

  “It's unpredictable,” Chione said. “I don't have to be inside.”

  “I don't care what it takes,” Dr. Withers said. “We can't be one day in this desert without measurable progress. The bad news is if we don't find the Burial Chamber soon, our funds will run out.”

  “No,” Bebe said. “That's what Chione cautioned about. We could miss something. We can't let that happen.”

  “Then let's go topside and brainstorm,” Dr. Withers said.

  When they emerged into daylight, the throng of onlookers and visitors had thickened. People craning too far forward threatened to spill over the retaining wall into the pit. The sea of spectators spread down the hill to the beggars' camp. The noise level had risen.

  Randy found them. “Just what we need,” he said. “A bunch of those New Age phonies have joined the camp down the hill.”

  “As long as they don't bother us,” Aaron said. “We have no say over who shows up.”

  “They've heard about Chione's supposed gifts. They're doing spells and incantations.”

  “How do you know that?” Bebe asked.

  “I went down there,” Randy said. “It's a circus. Even the local magicians and spell casters have set up business selling potions and ripping off the tourists.”

  “You actually allowed yourself to get that close?” Kendra asked. “Maybe they put a hex on you.”

  “No one can do that to me,” Randy said. He pulled back his chin and wagged his head side-to-side. “I don't cow-tow to the whims of fate.”

  Dakarai found them in the cook tent and politely delivered several rumpled fax messages that looked as if everyone else had seen them first. “Listen up,” Dr. Withers said after perusing some pages. “Talisman Films wants to make a movie of our discovery.”

  “Hey, we'll all be stars,” Kendra said.

  Dr. Withers looked at the next message. “A company called Pyramid wants to film documentaries.”

  “Scratch those offers,” Aaron said.

  “How so?”

  “We awarded those rights to Exploration Magazine. That's why they've been with us from day one.”

  “Bebe's book and papers along with Kenneth's photos take precedence,” Chione said.

  “Here, here,” Bebe said.

  Dr. Withers continued to read. “I can't believe half these offers.”

  “What else?”

  “A historical novel,” he said, going to the next page. “An offer to buy all our photographs.”

  “Ludicrous,” Kenneth said.

  “Someone wants to write about each of our lives,” Dr. Withers said, mumbling as he read. Then he only glanced at the rest of the fax copies before passing them around.

  “As much as we'd like to bring in additional funding,” Chione said, “I don't care to be in a movie or a book, nor for anyone to represent me likewise.”

  “That's right,” Clifford said. “I don't wish to be made a spectacle of either.”

  “As far as these offers,” Aaron said, gesturing to the papers now scattered on the tabletop. “We're covered by the contracts we've already awarded.” Anyone looking to cash in will conjure their plots, make their movies and write their books regardless of permission or lack of it.

  “I agree,” Chione said. “I suggest we limit our exposure and keep it professional.”

  “But to be in a real movie,” Kendra said. “Think of the publicity.”

  Suddenly the tent flap lifted and in walked Royce with several men dragg
ing dollies loaded with crates. His tailored khakis were crisp, yellow tone boots clean and his wide brimmed hat sat cocked to one side over designer sunglasses. No one in the heat of a dig ever looked that perfect.

  Kendra jumped up to greet her husband and threw her arms around his neck. He gave her a compliant peck on the cheek, and then straightened. He carried several packages in both arms. “Gifts,” he said. “From me and several families in Cairo.” He sat one of the packages down and removed his sunglasses.

  “The rule is that we don't accept this kind of help,” Aaron said.

  Royce handed Kendra one of the packages. She sat again and ripped into the box. He plopped other bundles onto the tabletop and instructed the men to open one of the larger crates.

  “What do have we here?” Dr. Withers asked, standing to peer curiously into the box as Royce dug in.

  “Computer supplies, film, chemicals and such,” he said. “I looked at what you had before I left. You must be down to bare bones by now.”

  Royce's generosity took Dr. Withers by surprise. “I'll cut you a voucher,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “However, you won't be able to collect till we're back in Califor—”

  “I don't want reimbursement,” Royce said. “You don't understand. I'm unable to contribute much here. All I do is enjoy the country, the people, and support my wife's effort.”

  “Which doesn't mean you must support the team.”

  “This is the least I can do,” Royce said. “Please.”

  “Oh, yes,” Kendra said. She held up a sparkling crystal perfume decanter and immediately broke the seal and passed the bottle back and forth under her nose.

  Excited, Marlowe accepted the bottle and sniffed. “Wow,” she said. “That's awfully sweet.”

  “Queen Nefertiti perfume,” Kendra said. “I don't use it on my body. I leave the bottle sitting open in a draft and let it scent our house.”

  The decanter passed from hand to hand. Each person sniffed and gave a different reaction. Aaron fanned air toward himself over the bottle's opening. “It's not a bad scent when it just floats in the air,” he said. “Light, sweet, provocative.”

  “Definitely Egyptian,” Chione said, sensing the lavish gift of perfume only the beginning of things to come.

  “As long as you're playing Santa on a camel in a time warp,” Clifford said, “Where's mine?” He joked for the first time since returning.

  “Actually,” Royce said, “These four crates belong in the tech shack.” He spoke a couple words in Egyptian and motioned that the first two dollies be backed out. Another was brought inside, with still others visible outside the flap. “I managed to find some very special delicacies,” he said.

  “It's not safe to eat local food,” Bebe said.

  “You can where I shop.

  “Something new in our diets might be exciting,” Marlowe said.

  “I've rounded up some bebaghanoug, some ful medames, farseekh and other local foods.”

  “Yum,” Chione said as she leaned over the tabletop to see. “Eggplant paste is my favorite. Fava beans and dried fish too? I'm in heaven.”

  “All prepackaged,” Royce said. “You'll also find some tasty ta'miyya and falaafil mixes. Some tahini too.”

  “Yum,” Chione said again.

  “And to wash it down, a couple cases of Chateau d'Egypte rose', from the real good year you and Rita have difficulty finding, Clifford.”

  At the mention of the wine, Clifford's expression soured. “Rita,” he said as his voice cracked. He and Rita would never enjoy their favorite delightful wine together again.

  “You all look like you've lost your best friend,” Royce said.

  “We have,” Aaron said, looking to Clifford whose elbows were on the table, hands clasped above his face with teary eyes cast downward. Aaron stood and reached over and put a hand on Clifford's shoulder.

  “What's going on?” Royce asked.

  Suddenly, Clifford bolted from the tent as tears poured out.

  “Honey,” Kendra said. “You had no way of knowing. I tried to reach you. I couldn't find you.”

  “What's happened?”

  “Rita passed away.”

  “Wha-at?”

  “Rita had heart failure and died in her sleep,” Kendra said quietly. “Clifford buried her in Garden City.”

  “Oh, Clifford,” Royce said, turning and hurrying after him. Royce's mannerisms said he would attempt to make things right for no other reason except that protocol demanded it. Quickly, he rushed back into the tent. He spotted his sunglasses, snatched them up and put them on, and left again. Maybe he could only console someone if they could not see his eyes. Chione remembered the first time she met Royce. He had smiled with his mouth, but his steely blue eyes expressed nothing. He'd probably never get crow's feet.

  “So it's come to this,” Bebe said. “We haven't located the Burial Chamber but we've buried a friend.”

  “We have thieves in our midst,” Aaron said. “And strangers and a spouse bearing gifts.”

  “We might run out of funds earlier than anticipated and find ourselves hoping for donations to sustain us,” Bebe said.

  “And my husband goes to Cairo for a new laptop and disappears for over a week.”

  “A very sad state of affairs overall,” Dr. Withers said, shaking his head.

  “Well, he did bring me this,” Kendra said, smiling over the crystal decanter. “He does this all the time, just walks in and amazes me.”

  Bebe rolled her eyes and asked no one in particular, “Doesn't it make you wonder why?”

  24

  Kenneth enjoyed himself. He with his cameras was never seen too long in one location. No one would guess he had a back injury. The only tell tale sign was when he came to the cook tent on the pretext of having a cool drink even though he carried a hip flask. Now he elevated his feet on another chair and moaned in relief as he rested and stretched out his spine. Then he leaned sideways and peered out the fly. “Tour groups are Randy's speed,” he said with a smirk.

  “I see he's living up to his reputation,” Clifford said.

  “How's that?”

  “He's always on a break, always got a drink in a hand,” Clifford said.

  “Yeah, and his bone in the other,” Kenneth said.

  “Hey, keep it clean, you guys,” Chione said. “If you need something to occupy your time, we still have artifacts to inventory.”

  “Then outa' here they go,” Clifford said. A few minutes later, he leaned close as if to say something in secret but everyone knew Kenneth to be trustworthy and he leaned close too. Clifford whispered, “What do you intuit from Sterling's meeting with Royce and those other people?”

  “Haven't tried to intuit,” Chione said. “My best guess is they want a piece of the action.”

  “Royce may be touting his own importance?”

  “Could be. Let's not speculate, okay?”

  “Okay, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt,” Clifford said. The expression on his face said that he knew something was brewing; something no one would appreciate. He leaned close again and in his teasing way whispered, “How's it going with you and Aaron?”

  Coming from Clifford, that was a joke. Chione smiled. “Pretty smooth, considering he knows I don't like working this closely with him.”

  “Smooth, huh? Too bad,” Kenneth said. He flinched affectedly and shifted his back in the chair. “No pain, no gain.”

  “Don't you play matchmaker too,” she said, punching him lightly on the shoulder.

  “Would I do that?” Kenneth asked. He rose, poured the water from his flask into the makeshift sink and, surprising everyone, topped off his flask with cool Karkade and left smiling.

  “I hear you two are going into the Underworld again this evening,” Clifford said.

  “I wish either Marlowe or I could convince Dr. Withers his expectations are creating unnecessary pressure.”

  “On you?”

  “To perform. It's as if I'm the only one expected t
o come up with answers. Dr. Withers expects me to tell him every detail of my dreams and hunches.” Not that she would.

  “Maybe he thinks he can glean something from the details.”

  “Maybe, but that's about it for my complaining,” Chione said. “Thanks for the ear.”

  “What will you do?” His concern always seemed fatherly.

  “Prove myself,” she said quietly.

  No one spoke much as they worked. Even the local help remained somber, in empathy with Clifford's mourning, waiting for a cue from him that he was coping. Clifford did not joke much now, only made the effort to be light, which fell flat or came out sounding sarcastic without his silly grin to exaggerate his theatrical wit. Mostly, he sat with elbows folded on the table or workbench, staring unblinking through the fly.

  Just before noon, Dr. Withers called another meeting and excused the rest of the help for an early lunch.

  “Wonder what's so important he wants only team members present,” Chione said.

  “Are you beginning to feel it?” Aaron asked, taking a seat opposite her. An unsettled change of atmosphere due to things having turned negative clouded everyone's enthusiasm. What began as one of the world's most spectacular events had taken a downturn.

  “You mean because of Rita's passing?” Clifford asked.

  “Not Rita but the thefts, our diminishing budget, Royce's—”

  “Let's not dwell on that,” Chione said. “If things have gotten that low, they'll only get better, right?”

  Dr. Withers made another of his hurried entrances. “Okay, everyone, listen up.” Clifford scooted over. Dr. Withers sat down and tore off pages of a scratch pad filled with crosshatches. “Two of the Institute's Directors, patrons of the CIA's Archaeological Trust, will be arriving in about three weeks. With their wives.”

  “Why not?” Clifford asked. “They can write it off.”

  Bebe had arrived behind Dr. Withers. “You're also a patron of the Trust, aren't you?” she asked.

  “A backer, yes. They contributed some.” He cleared his throat, glanced at notes over bifocals and smiled that silly grin again. “I do like having control.”

  “Actually,” Chione said. “Some of the patrons should have been here from day one.”