by Lynn Sholes
In the distance she heard the throaty diesel of another truck start up and pull out. Only one left.
Cotten started down the stairs. The icy air smelled old like a mausoleum. She'd only been in one, but that distinct mustiness, the dank odor of soil and rock, couldn't be forgotten. Even though she'd been a child at the time, she remembered her father's funeral: the sickeningly sweet scent of flowers, the strange acidic odor of chemicals, and the cold, stony smell of the burial vault.
The steps ended in a small room. She crossed it and peered through a short tunnel leading into an expansive chamber. There she saw two men. One was slightly hunched over and gray-haired, dressed in a dusty khaki shirt and faded jeans. He must be Archer, she thought, because the other man had the swarthy skin and garb of an Arab.
She squeezed through the narrow shaft.
Archer stood next to what Cotten thought was a crypt in the far wall of the chamber. She caught a glimpse of brown bones and a glint of metal. He held open a small box at which both men stared intently.
Cotten opened her mouth to call out.
Suddenly, the Arab pulled a gun from under his robe. Cotten froze as the man pointed the pistol at Archer. "Give it to me!" he demanded.
Archer closed the lid and took a step backward, keeping a firm grip on the box. His eyes widened, his face turned skeleton white. "You're one of them."
Cotten pressed back against a loose support timber. It shifted, and a small avalanche of pebbles and sand spilled to the ground.
The men turned at the sound and for an instant looked at her.
Archer dropped the box and grappled for the gun. He slammed into the man, and they tumbled to the dirt floor.
The Arab shoved the gun barrel against the archaeologist's head. Archer thrust up an elbow, redirecting the aim of the weapon just as it discharged. The blast was deafening in the hard-walled chamber.
The Arab straddled Archer, forcing the gun into the old man's cheekbone. With a loud grunt, Archer kicked his knee up, driving the Arab forward and ramming his head into the wall. Dazed, the man let up for an instant, and Archer scrambled out from under him. The Arab lifted the pistol, took aim, and Archer dove for it, crashing down hard on his opponent.
The gun wedged between them.
A second shot pealed, but their bodies muffled this one.
Cotten held her breath as both men lay motionless. The chamber fell silent except for the sound of her blood pulsing in her ears and the thudding of her heart against her ribs.
Then, finally, Archer moved, slowly rolling off the Arab. A red blotch stained the front of his shirt. More blood seeped from the Arab's chest.
Archer struggled to his feet and stood over the dead man. His chest heaved and labored as he wiped his face on his sleeve. He picked up the box, his tree-knot knuckles blanching as he clutched it.
He coughed and straightened, eyes fixing on Cotten. He squinted, staggering a few steps before slumping to the ground. "My heart," he said, grabbing his chest.
Cotten dropped her bag and moved cautiously, checking behind her. She stared at the body of the Arab as she stepped past him.
"What can I do?" she asked, kneeling next to Archer. "I'll go get help."
"No." Archer reached for her hand. A cough wracked him, and Cotten elevated his head in her lap.
"The box," he said. "Take it." He looked over at the dead man. "They will stop at nothing now."
"Who? What do you mean?"
His face twisted with a wave of pain. Hands shaking, he pushed the box toward her. His skin paled, his lips darkened. "You must not let them have it."
"What is this?" she asked.
His voice was weak, not much more than a whisper. "Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, Matthew."
"I don't understand."
He didn't answer, appearing to stare straight through her. Then Archer motioned her closer, and she leaned in to hear as he whispered.
She shook her head in confusion. "Please, you aren't making any sense. You want me to stop the sun ... the dawn?"
He seemed to rally, lifting his head, his voice suddenly strong as he spoke. "Geh el crip."
Cotten reeled. He couldn't have said what she thought she heard. It was impossible. Impossible. Archer had spoken a language she hadn't heard since she was a child. Only one other person had ever spoken to her in that language-her twin sister.
Her dead twin sister.
HOMECOMING
"How COULD YOU KNOW those words?" Cotten asked, her voice shaky.
But Archer's eyes were already closed. His grip loosened, and his head slowly fell back, chest still.
Archer was dead.
The string of bulbs blinked, and then went dark. The generator must have run out of fuel, she guessed. Carefully, she moved Archer's head from her lap. She couldn't help him now, and with only one truck left, there was no time to waste.
Afraid she might trip over debris, she tucked the box under her arm and crawled through the blackness in what she hoped was the direction of the tunnel. Suddenly, the earth shook and the walls quaked. Cotten curled over her knees and shielded her head, waiting for the ceiling to collapse. Dust and sand filtered down, collecting in her hair and on the backs of her hands. Small stones pummeled her back. Had bombs dropped somewhere close?
The rumble subsided, and she continued crawling. Her bag wasn't that far away, but moving in the pitch-black room was slow going. As her hand touched the floor, she recoiled.
The Arab's blood.
Cotten cringed and wiped the blood off her hand on the dead man's pants leg. When she reached the wall she felt her way to the tunnel opening where she had left her bag. Her fingers groped through the nylon carryall until she found her penlight.
The bulb flickered when she twisted the tip and then died. "Come on!" she said, shaking it. It glowed again, but the light was little better than none at all.
Holding the penlight in her mouth, Cotten dumped some of the tapes and other articles onto the dirt floor and placed Archer's box inside the bag. As she repacked, the light died again. She swept her hand across the floor for anything she might have missed.
A second rumble rocked the chamber, followed by a third and a fourth. It was a distinct clap, one she recognized from when she'd done a piece on high tech Air Force ordinance: sonic booms from fighters breaking the sound barrier.
"Archer." A man called from the direction of the passage. "We can wait no longer." There was a pause. "Do you hear me, Archer? We go now!"
"Wait," Cotten cried, zipping up the bag and scrambling to her feet.
She stumbled through the dark until she finally reached the passageway. A truck engine growled to life and pulled onto the highway as she emerged from the ruins.
"Stop!" she yelled running toward it.
The Turk stood up in the back of the vehicle and waved Cotten on. When she was close enough, she swung her bag up. The Turk grabbed it, then reached out and yanked her up into the truck.
"You run fast," he said.
She gave a nervous laugh as she sank down, breathing hard.
"Where is Archer?" he asked, his voice faltering from the rough ride.
The canvas partially covering the sides of the stake body truck flapped, beating against the wood frame, and the motor grumbled, making it hard to hear.
"Dead. Heart attack." Cotten pointed to her chest.
The Turk shook his head and translated the news to the handful of men riding with them.
Jets roared in the darkness overhead and two pinpoints of orange light shot up along the horizon. She watched with dread, waiting for the missiles to find what she assumed were American fighters. But there were no impacts. The missiles drifted over the desert and burned out like shooting stars.
As the truck rolled north toward the Turkish border, Cotten crouched in a corner, her arms wrapped around her legs. She tried to make sense of what had happened back in the crypt-one man willing to murder a second for a box whose contents were unknown to her. Then the
strange ramblings of a dying old man whom she would have thought delirious if not for one thing. He spoke to her in a language known only to Cotten and her twin sister-a sister who had died at birth.
Chaotic shouts jarred her awake. The Arabian sun, already high in the morning sky, blinded her as she sat up in the bed of the transport truck. Like swarming ants, the Turkish dig team clambered out the back. Cotten pulled herself up to look around.
Throngs of people lined the highway, marching across the rolling hills and out of the surrounding mountains. Refugees, she thought, fleeing before the war began. Women, clasping infants to their breasts and clinging to the hands of their other children, swept past the truck like the incoming tide. Cotten looked into their dazed faces. That was what Americans needed to see.
She grabbed her carryall and climbed down to the asphalt. Coming around the side of the truck, she saw more vehicles lined up, their engines silent, their beds and cabs empty. She realized they had finally reached the Turkish border, probably near Zakhu. A large Constantine wire fence stretched across the terrain, and the highway passed through a narrow checkpoint with barriers of tanks and armored personnel carriers. Hundreds of Turkish soldiers, all holding automatic weapons, herded the refugees into a bottleneck for quick inspections and document checks before letting them through.
Cotten hugged her carryall to her chest as she let the tide steer her closer to the checkpoint. When there were only a few ahead of her, she dug into her bag and pulled out her passport and press credentials.
"American press;" she shouted, holding the documents up. "American press." As soon as she could get through the checkpoint, she'd stop and take some still shots of this scene. Black and white-powerful close-ups of faces, the wide dark eyes of the children, of mother's hands holding smaller hands. She could already envision them intercut into her video edit. No music, no voiceover. Just the stark frozen faces of despair and fear. It would be a brilliant, moving ending. No one would be able to watch and not get chills.
A young Turkish soldier saw her and waved his arm. "Come on, American. This way." He grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her across the border into Turkey.
"Thank you;" she said, but he was already inspecting the documents of the next in line.
Suddenly, another soldier took hold of her arm and pulled her aside.
"Papers!" said the Turkish officer.
"I'm an American," Cotten said, staring up into his cold eyes and his hard expression. "I just showed my papers to the soldier at the checkpoint."
"And now you will show them to me."
Cotten handed him her passport and press ID. "I work for the American news network SNN."
He opened her passport and compared the photo to the one on her press ID. "This way," he said, guiding her toward a truck a few yards away.
"Is there some kind of problem? I just finished an assignment in Baghdad, and I'm on my way back to New York. You have no-"
The tailgate of the large transport was down, and the officer pointed to it. "Place your bag there."
She had to remain calm. This was just a routine inspection. They had no reason to suspect she was bringing anything illegal into the country.
"Open it," the officer said, motioning to her carryall.
Cotten unzipped the top and spread the nylon open. Even through the pile of videos on top she could see a corner of Archer's box.
"What's on these tapes?"
"My assignment. It's footage of children and the elderly."
"Children," he said, inspecting a tape and its label. "How do I know you're not lying?"
Cotten wiped her forehead on her sleeve. "You'll just have to take my word for it."
He moved the tapes aside. "Where's your video camera?"
"I'm the reporter," she said. "My cameraman is still in Iraq."
He continued to rummage through the bag. "And this?" he said, lifting Archer's box out of the bag.
"A weight."
"For what?"
"To help hold down and balance my tripod-for my still camera."
"And where is your tripod?"
"I had to leave it behind."
"But you brought this block of wood?"
"It was already in the bag when I grabbed it to leave. I was in a hurry."
He turned the box over, shook it, then placed it back in the bag, and took out her SLR camera.
A rush of relief flooded her.
"Nikon," he said, examining it. "Very nice."
"Yes, it is;' she said, growing impatient. "Can I go now?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"On what happens to this camera."
"That's a seven hundred-"
"Very, very nice," he said, caressing it.
Cotten reached for the camera, but he jerked it away.
"You are anxious to return to America, yes?" he said, removing the lens cap. He looked through the viewfinder. "We have already detained several Americans for questioning. That is our policy." He panned to his left and then stopped. "Do I need to detain you?"
Cotten reluctantly exhaled. "No."
He rotated the Nikon in his hands admiring it, then strung the strap over his head.
Cotten eyed her camera, wanting to rip it off his neck, but decided that under the circumstances she had no choice but to sacrifice it.
Shouts erupted from the direction of the checkpoint. "Fucking fools," he said. He shoved her passport and ID back at her. "Go home, American." He turned and headed toward the disturbance-the Nikon swinging from his neck.
Cotten zipped her bag closed, shoved her identification back in her coat, and walked on.
Beyond the military vehicles was a sea of cars, trucks, vans, and buses lining the shoulders of the highway. People stood on the roofs and hoods, desperately searching for their relatives among the immigrants pouring past. Cotten continued along the highway looking for a taxi or commercial bus.
Suddenly, she heard a loud, shrieking whistle. To her right, a man waved wildly at her from a bus window. It was the Turk from the dig team.
"We go to Ankara, lady," he yelled. "Hurry."
I think I love this man, Cotten thought, sprinting to the bus. Digging into her bag, she retrieved her reserve cash and bought a ticket from the driver. Once aboard, she maneuvered down the crowded aisle and placed her hand on her new friend's shoulder, thanking him as she passed his seat. She squeezed into a narrow spot in the last row of seats. Cotten held her bag close, wondering what it was she had just smuggled out of Iraq. She was anxious to be alone with Archer's box so she could examine it.
In a moment the old bus vibrated and shook, then pulled onto the highway. She took a quick glance out the back window. The tide of refugees had swelled to a flood.
The long journey across Turkey was uncomfortable. With so many people crammed into the bus, Cotten got a good dose of all the odors the human body could produce. She'd heard once that of all the animals, humans smelled the worst. That was supposed to be an advantage, repelling predators. Now she was sure the story was true. Not only were there the oppressive odors, but the constant joggling of the ride kept her from sleep. When they finally arrived in Ankara, she was starving and felt grimier than she ever had in her life.
After using her credit card to buy the Turk and his friends a meal at a small cafe near the bus terminal, she gave him a firm handshake before taking a taxi to the Esenboga Airport. There, she booked a flight to Heathrow with a connection to JFK.
As much as she preferred keeping the carryall with her, she decided on checking it so she wouldn't have to explain the wooden box at the Turkish airport security checkpoint. The bag had a better chance of making it through security without incident if she didn't carry it on. All she could do was pray that Archer's box didn't contain explosives or other materials that would set off any alarms.
Cotten sponged off in the airport ladies room but still felt selfconscious when she boarded and sat next to a young woman in a crisp blue oxford cloth shirt and creased
pants. The woman made a point of leaning away from Cotten.
Gold and purple twilight stretched across the horizon as she wrapped herself in the airline blanket. Wondering what secret lay within her carryall deep in the plane's cargo hold, she slid the window shade down, closed her eyes, and drifted into a troubled sleep.
Landing in the U.K., Cotten retrieved her bag from the carousel, quickly checking to make sure the box was still safely inside. A ribbon of arriving passengers made their way into British Immigration. Cotten dug her nails into the palm of her hand as she gripped her bag. Thankfully, the attendant didn't seem to note her nervousness when he stamped her passport. She moved on to Customs.
"Do you have anything to declare?" the agent asked as she placed the bag on the table.
"No." Her stomach drew into a knot while the man studied her face.
After a pause, he said, "Welcome to the United Kingdom, Ms. Stone," and motioned her on.
Cotten tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. She smiled at him, gathered the carryall, and moved on. Maybe she could get away with taking the bag onto the New York flight with her rather than checking it. She didn't like it being out of her sight. And it had made it through the first leg home without arousing any safety concerns.
Home. God, it would be good to be home again, she thought, filing through the gate and onto the 747.
It was cloudy, and rain misted on the window as the airplane rose into the sky. She heard the thump of the wheels retracting into their wells. Seven more hours.
As soon as the fasten-seat-belt light went off, Cotten retrieved her carryall from the overhead compartment, took it into one of the restrooms in the back of the 747, and locked the door. She sat on the closed toilet lid and opened the bag. Moving the videotapes aside, she took out the box.
From what she could tell it was made of wood; its color was a dull black-worn and old-a few fresh scratches. She tried to open it but found no lid. Strange, she thought, there didn't appear to be a top or a bottom, no hinges or seams. But Archer had opened it and looked inside. She remembered the intensity of his gaze. She shook the box, but it made no sound. How had he opened something that was as featureless as a solid block of wood? What was so important about this box that he would demand she take it? Why did the Arab try to kill for it? But the thing that haunted her the most were Archer's words. Geh el crip.
