Arkana Archaeology Mystery Box Set 2

by N. S. Wikarski

  He glanced off in the distance toward the guest house where Leroy Hunt had sequestered himself to nurse a particularly stubborn hangover. As Daniel had expected, Hunt drank himself into a stupor the night before they left in anticipation of several days without alcohol. Needless to say, the early morning flight from Mumbai to Bhuj and the lengthy car ride to Dholavira only aggravated the cowboy’s already vile mood. Upon arrival at the archaeological site, Hunt immediately commandeered a guest room and told Daniel he was on his own for the rest of the day.

  Truth to tell, the scion was relieved to be allowed to search the ruin alone. Hunt’s only purpose at this stage of the trip was to keep a lookout for the appearance of the three relic thieves. Since it was highly unlikely they would pop up in the middle of this exposed stretch of desert, Daniel felt the cowboy’s presence was superfluous. The scion entertained the fleeting hope that the trio had taken his advice and abandoned the quest altogether. Only time would tell.

  By a process of mental association, Daniel’s brain skipped from his anxiety about the trio to his anxiety about Annabeth. He felt a sense of foreboding every time she crossed his mind. Of course, his fears were groundless. Each time he called his father to give a progress report, he inquired after his wife’s mental state. Each time, the diviner assured him that she was doing well. Abraham would then pointedly remind his son to devote his full attention to the relic quest and leave domestic concerns to the diviner. Everything was as it should be. Daniel chalked up his apprehension to an overactive imagination. He sighed and did as his father ordered. He focused on the ruined city before him.

  The scion took out a compass and oriented himself toward the north, then consulted his map again. Yes, he was standing in the middle of the bailey. Now all he had to do was find some circles in the midst of all these squares. Lost in thought, he fairly tripped over the first one. Upon closer examination, he couldn’t see anything significant about it—a ring of flattened rocks and nothing else. He continued his search a little farther up the hill and spied the second circle. His pulse quickened as he glimpsed something much more important than the structure itself. He ran toward the spot with feverish anticipation and dropped to his knees. There was no mistaking it—the lily inscription. It was carved on a stone embedded in the earth—part of a line of stones encompassed by the circle. He’d found it! He’d actually done the impossible and found it.

  Daniel sank back on his heels to contemplate his own personal needle in a haystack. He tilted his head to the side, studying the carving. It appeared as if the top portion of the stone had been cleaved away from the base at some time in the past. Then, at a more recent date, someone had restored it. He could see a seam of concrete running beneath the carving. He sat down cross-legged and sank his chin into his hands, meditating on this puzzle. The repair looked recent. It wasn’t weathered as the stones around it were. Well, that wasn’t particularly suspicious. Perhaps a careless digger had struck the rock while the site was being excavated. Certainly, the archaeological team responsible for Dholavira would have ordered it to be repaired if that were the case. Such an explanation was plausible, but something about that seam of concrete bothered him.

  He referred to his notes on the site. The last dig had taken place nearly a decade before. This repair looked fresher than that. A chill ran down his spine as a new thought struck him. What if the relic thieves had gotten here first? What if they had found the artifact itself? His heart was racing with panic.

  Daniel jumped to his feet and paced around the circle, searching for evidence of other footprints. Unlike the sands of Nabta Playa, the hard-packed ground at Dholavira wasn’t revealing any clues. Besides, if the trio had discovered something here, why would they take the time to repair a cracked piece of stone? Surely, they would have vandalized it to keep the Nephilim off their trail. What could it possibly mean?

  Daniel’s heart rate slowed to normal. He dismissed his suspicions as vague paranoia. There was no evidence of digging anywhere near the circle. Even if his far-fetched idea was true and the relic thieves had beaten him here, they obviously hadn’t found the artifact. He slumped back down on the ground, peering at the bare circle and the line of stones that bisected it. He recalled the exact words of the riddle. “On an island tower she alights to drink, biding til her kindred fill the jaws of the lion.” He had found the island tower mentioned in the clue. In fact, he was sitting in the center of it, but the rest of the riddle indicated that there was something more to be discovered. In fact, the words of the verse implied that the artifact had never been hidden here at all. So where was it?

  He took a legal pad out of his backpack and recorded every visual detail about the place. He noted the size of the circle, the number of rocks crossing the center, the position of the lily stone among them, the observatory’s position relative to the other structures surrounding it, even the location of its entrance door. He knew he was going to need that data when he contacted Chris to discuss the situation. Thankfully, the guesthouse had a strong enough cell signal for him to get through. It was well before dawn back in Chicago. He wondered if the librarian would bite his head off for calling so early. He chuckled to himself. Chris’s interest in the relic hunt was even keener than his own. His friend would take the call, no matter what the hour, especially when he learned what the scion had found. Daniel decided not to share his theory about the relic thieves with Chris. It was an idiotic notion. Of course, the trio hadn’t been here ahead of him. Of course, they hadn’t repaired the rock for his benefit. There was no earthly reason for them to do so. It was absurd. He shook his head at his own fanciful notions and jogged back to the guesthouse to place his call.

  Chapter 44—Witch Doctor

  Doctor Rafi Aboud idled the engine of his BMW at the entrance to the Nephilim compound. He waited for the two iron gates inscribed with the giant letters P and X to part. Glancing casually at the guard tower, he noted that surveillance cameras were trained on his automobile. It had been a long time since he had been summoned to his benefactor’s headquarters. In the interval since his last visit, security had obviously been tightened considerably. The guards motioned him forward. They carried rifles now. That was also new.

  He drove up the gravel driveway to the main building. A nervous looking young man in a black suit was standing on the front steps, apparently waiting for him. Aboud got out of his car and was ushered inside then led down a series of vacant stone corridors. To his surprise, his guide wasn’t taking him to Abraham Metcalf’s office. Instead, the young man stopped in front of a door which was protected by two tall, muscular men. They wore the same uniform as the guards at the gates though they didn’t appear to be armed.

  His guide said, “I’ll wait out here. My instructions were to tell you to examine the woman inside to see if she’s physically healthy.”

  Aboud raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “For what purpose?”

  The guide appeared alarmed. “I don’t know, sir. The diviner told me to say those exact words, but I don’t know what they mean.” He turned the door knob and gestured for the doctor to pass in. “I’ll wait here until you’re through.”

  The doctor entered warily, not knowing what to expect. What he saw didn’t match any of the mental scenarios he had conjured. He found himself alone with a thin, pale woman in her mid-twenties. She was seated in a rocking chair next to an empty crib, staring off glassy-eyed into space. There were no other children about.

  “Hello,” Aboud advanced tentatively. “My name is Doctor Aboud. What’s yours?”

  Her eyes moved ever so slowly in his direction. “Annabeth,” she murmured barely above a whisper.

  Aboud suspected she had been sedated. “I’m here to examine you.” He ventured a few paces closer.

  “There were other doctors here this morning,” Annabeth offered. “They stuck needles in my arm, and now I’m sleepy.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “No doubt they gave you something to help you rest.”

 
; She mustered enough energy to sit upright. “Do you know where they took my son?”

  “Why no,” he protested in surprise. “Is your son missing?”

  “Yes. Everybody keeps telling me that he’s dead, but I know he isn’t. He’s been gone for such a long time now. I have to keep looking. I have to...” Her voice trailed off, and she gave him a puzzled look. She had apparently lost her train of thought.

  “Let’s see how you’re doing.” He placed his fingertips on her wrist, counting the beats. Her pulse was fluttery and weak. He then performed a cursory examination of her breathing and reflexes. When he stared into her dilated pupils, she focused narrowly on his face.

  “I think you’re the one.” She uttered the statement in mild surprise.

  Aboud straightened up. “The one what?”

  “The one my lady angel told me would come. She said you would be able to take me to where my son is.”

  “Did she?” he asked indifferently.

  She peered at him through her drug-induced haze. “Yes, I’m sure it was you she meant. Have you come to take me to him?”

  Aboud was thrown by the question. “Not today, dear,” he replied evasively. “Another time perhaps.”

  “Alright then.” Accepting his statement at face value, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

  The reason for sedating the woman was now obvious to Aboud. Given that she was in the habit of conversing with angels, she must have suffered some sort of psychotic break. Annabeth was much mistaken if she thought he was a messenger from her lady angel, whoever that might be. The doctor smiled grimly to himself. The only angel with whom he maintained a nodding acquaintance was the angel of death. He slipped quietly out of the room.

  His guide appeared to relax at his re-emergence. “She was very calm with you,” he observed.

  “Isn’t she usually?”

  “Um... not lately,” the young man hedged. “This way, doctor.” He gestured down the hall. “The diviner is waiting for you.”

  They traveled down yet another labyrinth of corridors before arriving at Abraham Metcalf’s office. The obsequious guide bowed the doctor in and then vanished.

  Metcalf stood facing the windows, his hands locked behind his back. He wheeled about to greet his visitor. “So, you’re here at last.”

  Aboud ignored the churlish comment but looked pointedly at his Rolex. He had arrived at the compound precisely on time. It was no fault of his if he’d been whisked away to have a chat with a madwoman.

  “Sit down,” the old man ordered, taking his own chair behind the desk.

  The doctor noticed a change in his benefactor’s demeanor since their last meeting. Metcalf’s eyes appeared sunken, and his gaze flitted uneasily from place to place. It wasn’t insomnia. Rather the old man’s face bore an expression that could only be described as haunted.

  “I thought you wanted me to keep my distance from this place, sir,” Aboud began.

  Metcalf squinted at him for a few seconds, as if he hadn’t quite heard. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. “What was that?”

  “I was wondering at your decision to summon me here rather than meet me at the lab. I thought I was to keep my distance.”

  “Something urgent has come up,” the old man said cryptically.

  Whatever it was, the matter had clearly taken a toll on his benefactor’s health. “Is there anything I can do?” Aboud offered tentatively.

  “Yes, that’s why I called you here.” Metcalf stopped speaking abruptly. Without explaining further, he hoisted himself out of his chair and walked back towards the windows. With his back to the doctor, he asked, “What headway have you made in your experiments?”

  Aboud shrugged off the old man’s elliptical thought process. “A good deal, sir. I have continued to refine the strain of pneumonic plague bacteria to increase the speed at which it can kill.”

  This caught Metcalf’s attention. He turned around. “How fast?”

  “The most recent test subjects you sent me succumbed in less than eighteen hours.”

  The old man nodded but remained silent for a few seconds. He seemed to be mulling something over. “Are you in need of any more subjects?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” the doctor assented readily. “I would be obliged if you could provide me with at least one more. I’ve been able to shorten the incubation period by culturing an unusually aggressive strain of bacteria. It may be able to produce mortality in fifteen hours, and I’d like to confirm that theory using a human host.”

  “Very well, then. I have just the person for you. Annabeth.”

  “Annabeth?” Aboud echoed. Up to that point, the individuals Metcalf had sent him were either men in the prime of life or older women. Apparently, those were the two demographic groups inclined to give him the most trouble.

  “She’s healthy enough, isn’t she?” the old man challenged. “That’s why I wanted you here to examine her.”

  “Certainly, she’s physically healthy,” Aboud concurred half-heartedly. “Might I ask why you specifically singled her out?”

  Metcalf looked guiltily over his shoulder as if he believed he was being overheard by some invisible presence. He resumed his seat and leaned over his desk. “What I am about to tell you is confidential, doctor.”

  “That goes without saying,” Aboud reassured him. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

  The old man hesitated, his eyes darting toward the door. “Annabeth is afflicted. She is beyond help.”

  “I see,” the doctor murmured gravely. If Metcalf was proposing to use Aboud’s bacteria as a form of euthanasia, pneumonic plague could hardly be called a merciful kind of death. “From what disease is she suffering?”

  “The disease of spiritual corruption. She is a witch. Like all witches she has bowed down to Satan and rebelled against the righteous authority of God,” Metcalf replied flatly.

  Aboud had to struggle not to register shock. “Really?” he asked blandly, trying to keep a look of contempt from crossing his face.

  Metcalf was lost in his own thoughts and barely noticed the doctor’s disdainful reaction. “She is the principal wife of my son Daniel. He will inherit the title of diviner from me one day.”

  This bit of news shocked Aboud even more. “So, she’s your daughter-in-law?” he asked in amazement. “A member of your own family?”

  “Why should that surprise you?” Metcalf retorted. “Satan can corrupt any vessel he chooses. In fact, those nearest to me are his preferred targets. He’s already spirited away my youngest wife, Hannah.”

  “But sir, surely something can be done to help your daughter-in-law short of...” He paused trying to clarify the danger. “You do realize that I’ve perfected a strain of bacteria that is impervious to all known antibiotic treatments. I haven’t devised an antidote yet. If she is exposed to it, the results will be fatal. There is no turning back.”

  “Of course,” Metcalf agreed. “I don’t see the difficulty. She has merited that fate. Exodus is very clear on the subject: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’”

  “Actually, I’ve heard that’s a mistranslation,” the doctor corrected mildly. “A more accurate interpretation would be: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a poisoner to live.’ Given my line of work, I found that bit of trivia amusing.”

  “What!” Metcalf roared. “Do you presume to quote scripture to me?”

  “No, sir.” Aboud immediately realized his error and back-pedaled. “That’s your unquestioned area of expertise as biological warfare is mine. But as I am an expert on the subject of toxins, I feel compelled to point out that pneumonic plague is not a pretty way to die. The bacteria ravages the lungs so that the test subject is left coughing up blood and gasping for breath. Every inhalation brings with it searing pain until death itself seems a kinder alternative than struggling to capture one more excruciating breath of life. Each time I shorten the incubation phase of the plague germs, I intensify the mis
ery of my test subjects. They succumb more quickly but much more painfully.”

  His words failed to make any impression on the old man. Metcalf stared at him stonily. “There is divine justice at work here. A woman who is weak-willed enough to allow Satan to seduce her deserves some punishment in this world in exchange for a reward in the next.”

  Aboud held no particular spiritual beliefs, but he couldn’t help feeling unnerved at the readiness of his benefactor to kill a physically healthy young woman for no better reason than a superstitious dread of witchcraft. He opened his mouth to protest, but Metcalf cut him off.

  “God has spoken to me. He has said that blood restitution is required of Annabeth. If she pays with her life, He will pardon her heinous offenses and allow her to enter the kingdom of heaven. She will receive peace everlasting.”

  When the doctor continued to gaze at him blankly, he elaborated. “Don’t you understand? Her death must be painful. The more agonizing, the better. How else is she to atone for her many sins and be forgiven?”

  In the face of such a ludicrous question, Aboud merely said, “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, of course, you don’t!” Metcalf exclaimed. “God doesn’t speak to you. He speaks only to me. I am his prophet.”

  “Yes, sir,” the doctor assented mildly, not wishing to antagonize the old lunatic any further. “When may I expect my new test subject to be delivered?”

  “In a few days. I’ll phone you in advance when she’s about to be transported.”

  “The usual spot?”

  “Yes. You may send your driver to the pick-up point when I give the word.”

  “Very good,” Aboud agreed unenthusiastically, rising to go.