They clutched as a group, arms clinging to one another. He held Marion, Marion clutched Mutt, they all held Oxley.
Then the water blasted into the shaft, swirling around them and sweeping them off their feet and upward.
Even so, Indy had underestimated the sheer power of the deluge. They flew faster and faster, spinning, choking, bobbing. The walls sped past. Debris churned with them. Indy spotted a burned husk of a skeleton swim past.
Then with a final flash of blinding sunlight, they exploded out of the shaft on a jetting column of water. It splashed against a hillside. They hit hard and tumbled apart from one another down its slope and came to rest at the bottom.
Waterlogged and dizzy, Indy gained his hands and knees, too weak to stand. He had only enough strength to pick up his hat and jam it on his head.
They had landed on a high plateau above the city, perched near the top of the ridgeline that encircled the valley.
Marion crawled over to him, soaked to the bone. Mutt followed, on his feet already with the stamina of youth. Though at least the kid had the decency to wobble and look sick to his stomach. Oxley simply lay where he had landed, dazed and drenched in his poncho.
Indy waved to the professor. “You might want to see this, Harold.”
Reluctantly, Oxley sat up and shifted over.
Below their perch, the ruins spread out across the valley floor. In the center, the Great Stone Temple stood tall. Until now the pyramid had been a monument against the march of ages—but no longer.
As they all watched, the temple began to crumble, torn apart as it slowly turned upon its base, like the inevitable hands of a clock. Walls shattered and ancient blocks tumbled. It began to turn faster and slowly collapsed in on itself. From this center of the city, fissures and cracks extended outward, tearing apart the metropolis of Akator.
Indy imagined those same cracks going down as well, loosening the entire foundation of the valley. This proved true as the swirl of the temple ruins spread slowly outward, churning the whole valley floor as if it were water.
Homes ground to rubble, roads twisted and broke, and ancient statuary rode across the landscape, carried by the swirling movement.
In the center, the remains of the Great Stone Temple started to sink into the earth, vanishing completely, leaving a gaping hole.
And still the valley floor churned around it, faster and faster near the hole, slower at the edges. Soon the entire city was in motion.
Indy stared down toward the hole where the temple once stood. He knew what he was seeing: the new face of the vortex as those gravitational forces reached the surface. The entire valley had become a sinkhole, drawing down into the abyss.
“Look!” Mutt yelled.
Again with those sharper eyes, the kid had spotted it first.
From the center of the vortex came a flash of silver. Out of the heart of the vortex, it arose, so shiny that the reflected sunlight both burned the eye and seemed to flow over its sleek surfaces. It ascended slowly from the inky pit, an antithesis to the darkness of the abyss. But like the vortex, it spun, carrying debris from below and catching more above.
One of the roaming bits of statuary—a fractured chunk of a stone serpent—joined the debris field circling the sphere of silver.
As the craft climbed higher, hovering now directly across from them, its exact shape was hard to fix with the eye, spherical in the center, yet with changing rings of brilliance all around it, spinning along all axes, sometimes vertical, sometimes horizontal.
On the plateau, Indy stood and drew up next to Marion and Oxley. They all stared out as it spun before them, orbited by debris—then in a wink the image seemed to go flat before their eyes, losing dimensions, becoming like a photograph.
And as it slowly turned one last time, all Indy could discern was a single brilliant silver line, a photograph’s edge. With a final, turn, this, too, was gone.
Vanished.
All the levitated debris, no longer supported, came crashing down. The chunk of statuary in the shape of a serpent landed near them, upright, with the snake’s head staring at Indy, its stone tongue protruding out at him.
It seemed some bit of the cosmos had a sense of humor.
A mighty grumbling crash echoed from the valley.
Indy turned in time to see the wall damming the high reservoir shatter, weakened by the passing of the vortex. The lake it held back came rushing out in a great tidal wave and swept over the city, flooding it completely until no trace remained.
Oxley sighed. “Like a broom to their footprints . . .”
As the churning water settled below and the sun sank toward the horizon, Indy hobbled over to a dry section of their hillside and collapsed. Marion fell next to him. Oxley sat on a boulder. Only Mutt remained at the edge.
“So where do you think they went?” Mutt asked. He pointed a finger upward. “Up there?”
Oxley shook his head. “Not into space. Into the space between the spaces.”
To demonstrate, Oxley put his palms together to form an X—the same way the strange being had—then twisted them once, so the X inverted.
Into another dimension.
Indy spoke up, nagged by a question himself, one more practical. “Harold, how did you ever get past those skeletal guards at Chauchilla Cemetery, where you found the skull? We almost got killed.”
“Hmm? Oh, I went in the daytime when they were asleep. No one in their right mind would ever rob graves in broad daylight.”
Indy smiled with respect. “Never thought of that.”
Mutt came to join them, sitting next to his mother. “I don’t get it. Why the legends about a City of Gold? There wasn’t much down there. Only what others brought here.”
Indy pictured the gold coins and the bits of jewelry and decoration on the corpses. But the Ugha tribesmen had adorned themselves with no such riches.
“Misinterpretation,” Indy said, drawing Mutt’s eye. “The Ugha word for ‘gold’ translates as ‘treasure.’ The Spaniards assumed that meant gold, but it was really knowledge. That was the Ugha’s true treasure.”
Marion touched the gash on Mutt’s cheek, the wound from his battle with Spalko. “You’re going to have a nasty scar.”
Aching all over, Indy groaned. “Plenty more where that came from, kid.”
Shading his eyes, Indy stared to the west, to where the sun was just touching the ridgeline. End of the day. Settling in, he sprawled out on the grassy slope and tilted his hat over his eyes, ready to get a little sleep.
Marion leaned over and peeked at him under the brim.
He offered her a ghost of a smile and held out an arm to one side.
C’mere, babe.
She crawled into his arm, rested her head on his shoulder, and snuggled close and tight. Her warmth melted into him as Indy drew her even closer. They fit perfectly together, as if they were cut from the same mold.
Mutt stared down at them, disgusted, but not about his mother and Indy. He waved an arm toward the cliffs. “What? We’re just going to sit here?”
“Night falls quick in the jungle, kid. Can’t climb down in the dark.”
“I could, old man.” Mutt stood and headed toward the ledge.
Indy pushed his hat back. “Why don’t you stick around, Junior?”
“I don’t know . . . why didn’t you, Dad?”
Indy sighed and stared up at the sky. “Somewhere an old man is laughing.”
Oxley turned with a sweetly puzzled frown, staring between Mutt and Indy. “Dad?”
SIXTY-ONE
HOW COULD I have forgotten?
Charles Stanforth, the dean of Marshall College, hurried down the hallway lined by administrative offices. His polished oxford shoes tapped loudly on the marble-tile floor. He nervously straightened his tie and smoothed his navy-blue suit jacket. He would never live this down.
And on this of all days.
Ahead he noted a painter kneeling by the frosted glass door to one of the offices. The worker
was painstakingly painting letters on the glass with the delicate care of an artisan.
Stanforth’s feet slowed as he neared the painter. He read the top name freshly stenciled on the door.
Professor Henry Jones Jr.
The painter was finishing the last letter on the line below it. He glanced back at the dean with an inquiring expression.
Stanforth waved to him, not meaning to interrupt. “Oh, go on, go on. By all means, do go on.”
Turning back to his work, the painter used his brush to fill in the last letter, completing the line.
Associate Dean
Satisfied, Stanforth hid a smile, hurried on to his own office, and ducked inside. He took a moment to collect himself. He noted a picture of the previous dean of the college, Marcus Brody, hanging on the wall.
He paused to touch two fingers to the frame. “You should be the one here, Marcus.” He sighed and glanced toward the ceiling. “And perhaps you are, my good friend. I certainly hope so.”
But Stanforth had his own duty. He reached his office library and searched the shelves. He found the Bible on the second row. It was bound in well-worn leather. The tome was as old as the college itself. It was said that Abraham Lincoln himself had taken the oath of office on this Bible. But more importantly, it had been in the Brody family going back generations, bequeathed to the college in Marcus’s will.
The ceremony could not commence without it.
With the Bible in hand, Stanforth rushed out of his office with as much decorum as he could muster. It would not be fitting to have the dean be seen sprinting across the campus in his Sunday best.
So it took him a few minutes more to reach the Marshall College chapel. It sat in the middle of a green lawn, its walls constructed of gray stone quarried from the land here. Stained-glass windows glinted in the bright sunshine. The dogwoods that lined the main walkway were already flowering in shades of pink and white. But running late, Stanforth headed to the chapel’s side entrance.
He pushed inside to discover that everything was as he had left it.
The minister still waited in front of the happy couple—though from Henry’s impatient frown at him, happy might not be the right description. Henry, clean-shaven and scrubbed, was dressed in a fine suit with a bow tie. At his side, his wife-to-be, Marion Ravenwood, was resplendent in a simple white dress that set off her beautiful blue eyes. The remaining member of the wedding party, standing to Henry’s right, was also in a fine suit, but he had unfortunately marred the look by wearing a scuffed pair of biker boots.
Youths today . . .
“ ’Bout time, Charles,” Indy said under his breath.
“You know Marcus would not have wanted it any other way,” Stanforth insisted, handing the Bible to the minister.
The impatience faded from Indy’s eyes, and he offered Stanforth a grateful nod.
With the matter settled and his duty done, Stanforth returned to the pew where his wife and two children waited. They had arrived last night. No one wanted to miss the wedding. If only to verify it with their own eyes. The sheer impossibility of it had drawn guests from all around the world.
Indiana Jones was finally tying the knot.
Stanforth settled next to Harold Oxley, who mumbled under his breath, commenting on the delay. “Ahh, how much of human life is lost waiting.”
Indy had waited long enough for this moment—in fact, his whole life.
The minister opened the Bible and began the ceremony.
Indy took a moment to glance back to those in attendance, friends and family, going back years. Even General Ross had made it here from Nevada, outfitted in his dress blues and sporting a saber at his side.
Indy doubted he’d ever been happier than at this moment.
The minister continued, “—but it is also a declaration of love. I wish to read to you what Paul wrote of love in a letter to the Corinthians, who—”
Corinthians? Indy knew all about the Corinthians. He taught classes about the Corinthians. He could wait no longer.
Turning, he grabbed Marion, pulled her close, and kissed her.
She shifted back, lips still touching, just enough to speak. “Jones, I don’t think this part comes till we’re finished.”
“Finished? Honey, I’m just getting warmed up.”
He leaned in, kissing her more deeply, pulling her tighter, letting her know this time he was here to stay. He heard laughter in the background, but he didn’t care. Here was where he belonged.
He finally leaned back and stared into Marion’s eyes.
Let the Spaniards have their gold, let the Ugha have their knowledge . . . Indy had the only treasure he wanted right here.
Oxley called from the pews, “Well done, Henry!”
He grinned and called back, “Thanks, Ox!”—only to have it echoed from Mutt’s lips.
Indy glared over at the kid.
Two Henrys in the family again . . .
Mutt gave him an innocent, questioning look: What did I do?
Indy stared upward. Oh yes, someone was surely laughing.
Mutt had to watch his mother kiss Jones a second time as the ceremony ended.
Oh brother.
But at least his mother was happy.
Happier than he ever remembered her.
The couple finally broke the clinch and headed down the aisle. The crowd cheered, called out, clapped. After a moment, he followed behind. He glanced around the chapel, sensing the weight of its age, imagining all the dignitaries who had once walked down this same aisle. Over the centuries the school’s alumni had included both the famous and the infamous. And in the case of the man his mother had just married, Professor Jones was definitely both.
Mutt shook his head at the thought.
And this was his dad?
Down the aisle, the doors swung open for the happy couple. A stiff New England breeze blew into the church, scattering petals off the flowers that lined the pews and dancing the coats that hung on hooks beside the door.
A hat flew off a peg and rolled down the edge of the aisle.
Mutt blocked it with his boot and bent to pick it up. Straightening, he dusted off the brim of the old brown fedora. He studied it. Scarred and battered, the hat had held up pretty good.
Not bad really.
Maybe . . .
He lifted it up and moved it toward his head.
Before it touched a single oiled hair, a hand shot out and snatched it from his fingers. Mutt glanced up to find Jones giving him a dirty look.
Not today, kid.
Jones mashed the fedora atop his head, turned on a heel, and headed back down the aisle. Reaching the church door, he cocked out an arm, and Mutt’s mother took it.
Together, the pair headed out into the brightness.
To points unknown.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAMES ROLLINS is the bestselling author of nine previous novels: Subterranean, Excavation, Deep Fathom, Amazonia, Ice Hunt, Sandstorm, Map of Bones, Black Order, and The Judas Strain. He has a doctorate in veterinary medicine and his own practice in Sacramento, California. An amateur spelunker and a certified scuba enthusiast, he can often be found either underground or underwater.
www.jamesrollins.com
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull Page 26
