“We’re close,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I can feel it.”
CHAPTER 22
Bones muttered a curse under his breath and adjusted Goliath’s sword, which hung strapped across his back inside a long, leather, camera tripod case. Neither he nor the others of his crew had come up with a good idea of how to safely store the sword while they were out and about. They all had also agreed, perhaps irrationally, that the sword should remain with them at all times. Consequently, the camera equipment bag had been the best idea they had devised. Bones had concealed the sword inside a black cover made of the same material as the camera bag, and kept it inside along with a camera and an actual tripod. He had maintained the ruse by setting up the apparatus and taking several very bad pictures. He had not actually developed the film, but he knew what his talents were, and photography was not one of them.
The dig had quickly grown boring. At Dane’s instruction, he and Meriwether, or ‘Franklin’ as the Admiral insisted on being called, had explored this same ravine the previous day, and found nothing but an occasional tomb or shallow cave. Nothing like the passageway that Dane and Kaylin had discovered. According to the GPS readouts, their target area lay somewhere in the center of the giant mass of rock directly between the gorges.
“This blows,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “Some vacation.”
“Come now Uri,” Meriwether said, hefting a bucket of parched earth, “archaeology is fun.”
“Tell you what, Frankie, you call me Uri one more time and I’ll scalp you with my tripod.”
The broad-shouldered man chuckled and returned to his task of putting buckets of dirt through a mesh sifter.
So far, they had uncovered some fascinating rocks, and something that Bones believed was a fossilized goat turd. Muttering a curse, Bones took off his straw hat and fanned his face. Archaeology required a meticulous nature. That was why it was a perfect pastime to an officer, and a total drag to an impulsive, eccentric treasure hunter like himself.
“Mister Uriah, would you come here, please?” The dig foreman called.
Bones, unaccustomed to being called by his Christian name, did not respond at first. The man called his name again. Bones had quickly earned the reputation of being a bit surly. The foreman, a wisp of a man who looked to Bones more like a missionary than an archaeologist, seemed more than a bit intimidated by the tall, muscular Cherokee with the long ponytail and perpetual scowl. Bones had not helped matters by constantly playing with his hunting knife.
“Mister Uriah, a word, please?” the man said petulantly. He stood with his hands folded across his chest, his chapped lips pursed in a pouty scowl.
Bones stood and slowly turned and faced the man. He bared his straight, white teeth in a predatory grin, and narrowed his eyes wickedly.
“You want something, Mr. Jonas?” he asked. Behind him, Meriwether whispered something disapproving. Bones ignored him. He was hot, bored, and anxious to do some exploring.
“Uh, yes,” Jonas said, drastically altering his tone of voice. “I was wondering, since you don’t seem to be, shall we say, enjoying yourself, if you might like to take some photographs of the dig?”
Bones inwardly cringed. The last thing he wanted to do was to take more pictures of these pasty skinned, middle aged, Indiana Jones wannabes in their fresh off the rack safari clothes, and their John Lennon-style shades that he supposed were supposed to make them look professorial. Framed by sunburned faces and perched atop zinc oxide coated noses, they looked silly at best. He took a deep breath, looked up at the sky, and tried to think of a good lie.
As he stared up at the crest of the ridge, inspiration struck. His cold smile melted into one of warmth and sincerity.
“I’d love to,” he said. He was amused at the look of surprise on Jonas’ face at this sudden bout of agreeability. “Tell you what. I’d like to get some overhead shots. I’m going to climb this ridge over here,” he pointed behind them, “and take a few pictures from up above. Shouldn’t take too long.”
Before the dig supervisor could protest, Bones turned and strode down the defile, leaving the thin man standing open-mouthed behind him.
A few quick twists of the gorge, and he had reached the spot where, yesterday, he had observed the remains of an ancient staircase running down from the top of the cliff. Time and weather had worn away the bottom portion of the stairs, and they ended about halfway down the stone face. There had been neither time nor opportunity to explore the cliff top on the previous day. He wanted to get up top and take a GPS reading, to see if there was anything suspicious-looking up above. He positioned the sword comfortably on his back, tightened the straps of the camera case, and began his climb.
The rocky face was irregular, with lots of protrusions upon which to find footholds. An experienced climber, he quickly made his way up the face until the rock wall smoothed out about ten feet below the foot of the ancient staircase.
Bones inspected the stone above him, and noticed a thin crack running upward from left to right at about a thirty-five degree angle. The crack appeared to be just wide enough to fit his fingers inside. Taking a deep breath, he let go of the rock with his left hand and reached over and upward for the crevice. He could not quite reach. He drew his hand back, carefully centered his right foot on the outcropping on which he stood, and slightly loosened his grip on the wall with his right hand, allowing his fingertips to slip back until they had only a small purchase on the rock. Sometimes, it’s a matter of inches, he thought. He refrained from mentally turning the thought into a crude innuendo, and instead focused on the task at hand.
Biting his lower lip, he raised his left foot and stretched out to his left, reaching again for the crack in the wall. His stomach fluttered, and for a brief instant, he felt certain that he was going to fall. Then, he felt his fingers grasp the lip of the crevice. Pressing his body against the rock, he worked his fingers deeper into the fissure until they were in up to the second knuckle. Certain now of his grip, he scrabbled with his left foot until he found what amounted to little more than a rough edge against which to brace the bottom of his foot. He exhaled slowly, took another breath, and pushed up hard off his right foot, at the same time pulling up with his left hand.
His right hand caught the edge of the crevice, and he hung suspended on the cliff face.
“Why in God’s name am I doing this?” he asked aloud. No one answered, so he decided to keep climbing.
He pulled up as much as he could with his left hand, allowing his weight to swing to that side. He then scooted his right hand farther up the crevice, gripped tight, and shifted his weight to the right. Repeating this process, he worked his way up the wall. It was slow going. Twice he had to stop to catch his breath. The muscles of his shoulders and neck were knotted and his fingers screamed in agony. He felt with the bottom of his foot and found a tiny indentation in which he could fit the tip of his boot. It was a small relief, but it took some of the burden of his body weight from his fingers.
A strange tickling sensation ran across the back of his right hand, and slowly down his arm. He looked up.
“You have got to be kidding me!” he shouted.
He had read about the black scorpion, but had never seen one in person. It was monstrous, nearly four inches long. Rather than black, its color was a dark reddish-brown. Its stinger, thick and menacing, curled up above its body like a snake poised to strike.
Bones froze, irrationally hoping that the deadly arachnid would turn around and creep away. No such luck. The scorpion paused, then proceeded further along his arm. Bones tried blowing at the creature, but to no avail. It held fast to his arm, and continued to make its way ever closer to his head. Up close, its pincers looked like crab claws. Bones flexed and relaxed the muscles of his arm, blew another hard puff of air, and then another, but could not dislodge the scorpion.