The Lost Ark (9 page)

We continued along the crest of the ridge. Almost immediately I spotted a lithe creature darting expertly from rock to rock, pausing every few feet to test the air. Suddenly it stopped, ears twitching. It must have caught wind of us. The white ghost, as the local shepherds call him. The snow leopard turned slowly and displayed its long white teeth and black gums, and in a blink of an eye the big cat was gone, disappearing among the huge granite boulders.

We moved forward into the sunset, the horizon a fiery canvass, painted orange and red and violet with the rays of the setting sun. And as we wound our way up a narrow path, sprinkled liberally with loose rock, Faye Roberts cried out behind me.

Chapter Eighteen

I turned in time to see Faye crumple to the ground in a heap. I dashed to her side, sliding down the loose rock. I saw that her right leg was sticking out at an awkward angle.

“Can you stand?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Is it your knee?” If it was her knee, we were heading down the next morning.

She shook her head. “Ankle.”

I helped her into a sitting position. She unlaced her right boot and massaged her ankle, wincing. “I don’t think it’s bad. I’ve twisted it before in racquetball. Just give me a minute.”

“You need ice,” I said.

She looked around the rocky slope. “If you see some, tell me.”

“The streams here are at near freezing temperatures,” I said.

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m going to carry you to the nearest stream.”

“No thank you. I’d prefer to wait.”

“No waiting. As it is, we have precious little light to negotiate the trail.”

She continued to protest even as I lifted her into my arms. I moved forward, carrying two backpacks and a full grown woman. Once, my own foot rolled over a loose rock, but I managed to keep my balance. My legs burned and my arms shook and I did my best not to pass out from exhaustion.

Not soon enough, the rocky trail gave way to plush grass. Here, a trickling stream cut through the plateau. Near the stream’s grassy bank, I set her down. She removed her boot and sock and put her foot in the water and promptly yelped.

“Jesus, it’s cold.”

I grinned and stretched my aching back. “It’s glacial run-off. With any luck, it should stop the swelling.”

“And with any luck I’ll feel my toes again.”

* * *

I staked our tents side by side. As I worked, Faye watched me from her perch near the brook. “That was a very nice thing you did, Sam.”

I shrugged. “It’s all part of the service. You know, helping damsels in distress and all that. How’s the ankle?”

She pulled her foot out of the water. Her foot glowed palely under the moonlight. In a dazzling feat of dexterity, she pulled her ankle to approximately three inches from her face, and examined it up close and personal. Then she put her foot back in the water. The water rippled and glistened like black lava under the moon.

“It’ll turn purple, but the swelling appears to have stopped.”

“Good.”

I dug a fire pit within the rocks, and fueled it with dry grass and a match. The sky above shone with a million and one stars. The pot of tea came to a boil over the small butane stove, and I poured a cup for each, and handed out beef jerky and trail mix. The trail mix was tilted more toward dried cranberries than anything else, which was fine by me. Faye drank and ate alone by the brook’s edge. When I finished the trail mix, I sat next to her and sipped my tea.

“Feeling sociable?” she said.

“You looked lonesome.”

“Can I take my foot out now?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Who died and made you Dr. Quincy?” she said.

“Dr. Quincy?”

“It’s the first doctor that came to mind,” she said sheepishly.

“But he was a medical examiner,” I said. “You know, autopsies.”

“He probably knew a thing or two about swollen ankles.”

“Then again he was a fictional character. The extent of Jack Klugman’s medical knowledge is in the script.”

“But he played the part well.”

“Yes, he did.”

“So can I take my foot out?”

“If you promise to leave Dr. Quincy out of any future arguments.”

“Agreed.”

“Fine,” I said, and handed her a hand towel with the embroidered symbol of the
Gule
Gule
.

Faye wiped her foot and examined the towel. “Does Camilla know you have this?”

I grabbed the towel from her. “No. And neither does she know of the others.” I rummaged through my backpack and produced two crumpled cigarettes that had seen better days. I lit both and handed her one. I lay back in the dry grass and watched the clouds congeal into something much larger.

Faye exhaled a steady stream of blue-gray smoke. “You’re a bad influence on me, Sam Ward.”

“I’ve been known to have that effect.”

“But it
is
relaxing,” she said. “And if ever there was a day that I needed a cigarette, it’s today.”

“When you’re quitting, every day is that day.”

The wind picked up, forcing Faye to wipe her long hair away from her forehead. As she inhaled, the tip of the cigarette flared brightly. “Have you ever been married, Sam?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been close to marriage?”

“Yes.”

She looked at me, letting her unvoiced question hang in the air. So did I. The tents made flapping noises. More clouds accumulated above. “Let’s take another route,” she said, rolling to her side, eyes both mischievous and curious. “How does an American end up living in Eastern Turkey?”

I flicked my unfinished cigarette in the fire. I needed something stronger. I produced a metal flask from the backpack. I undid the cap, and took a drink. “Single malt Turkish whiskey. Not the best stuff in the world, but good enough.” I held the bottle out to Faye, but she declined.

“Three years ago,” I said, “my fiancé was killed on this mountain.”

Faye brought the cigarette to her lips and inhaled slowly, blowing the smoke out through her nostrils. “Father always said I was too nosy.”

A snowflake touched her lower lip and melted. I could smell Faye’s shampooed hair, a mixture of berries and roses. I shook my head in wonder:
we elude the Turkish military and spend a day climbing and she still comes up smelling like roses.
Women are amazing.

“She was killed in a rockslide,” I said. “I found her face-down in a ravine, the back of her head smashed in, partially covered in loose rocks.”

“Ah, shit.”

“I buried her in a cave above the Abich Glacier.” We were silent. I had brought the morale down a notch or two. “And I’m the only one who knows where she’s buried.”

“Which is why you’re still here in Eastern Turkey,” she said with surprising insight.

I nodded. “If I leave, she will be forgotten. Who else will visit her grave?”

The snow continued to fall, and shortly we retired to our separate tents. I left the fire smoldering in the pit.

Chapter Nineteen

The next morning we were sipping coffee in front of the campfire. The snow had stopped during the night, leaving behind a thin blanket of ice over everything. I held the warm coffee mug in my cold hands, which made for a good combination.

Faye’s hair was in a ponytail, held in place by a blue rubberband. She was dressed in dark blue insulated wool pants, wind- and rain-proof synthetic parka and a thick sweater. The rubber soles of her hiking boots were crusted with pale brown dirt. I was dressed similarly, save my parka was red and the soles of my boots were permanently encrusted with dirt. And no blue rubberband.

A flock of alpine swifts, white shadows against the dark morning sky, swept silently overhead. When we had finished our coffee, I helped Faye into her backpack and noticed she was putting more weight on her left foot.

“How’s the ankle?” I asked.

“Serviceable.”

“That doesn’t sound encouraging.”

“It will have to do.”

I led the way up the snow-covered slope, which was bordered by short cliffs layered with quartz and calcite. The faint skyline of distant rolling foothills came gradually into view as the sun made its morning appearance. We passed a large sandstone boulder. A small monitor lizard, its green spiny back dotted with yellow specks, was perched on top, thermo-regulating. It never even moved.

At noon, we paused next to another stream and filled our bottles and watched a red squirrel work precariously among the roots and weeds jutting from the cliff face. It paused just long enough to look at us sideways.

“Busy little fellow,” Faye said.

“Hunger does that to you.”

As we drank, water ran down Faye’s slender neck. Actually, most ran down her neck. “It’s heavenly,” she said when she had pulled away from the bottle.

I said, “Could be a slogan for a water bottling company.”

“We could make a lot of money,” she said.

“We? It was my idea,” I said.

“But my slogan,” she said.

“Noah’s Water?” I suggested.

She made a face. “It’s gotta sound clean, Sam. A nine hundred and fifty year old prophet who spent the better part of his time with a boatload of dirty animals doesn’t sound clean. How about Ararat Glacial?”

I said, “Ararat
Agua
?”

“Maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

We moved on, making good progress. And as evening came, the sun a massive ball of orange fire sitting on the western horizon, we had climbed a total of four thousand feet. Together, we stood on a rocky cornice overlooking a vast and empty Bayazit plain. The wind blew with gale-like force, carrying with it the sweet scent of wild poppies and cloves.

“It’s breathtaking,” she said.

I agreed in silence and closed my eyes and felt the sun on my skin, the wind in my hair. The hood of my parka flapped on my shoulders like something trapped. My hair, cut militarily short, didn’t do much flapping. Faye held onto my sleeve.

“There’s nothing for me to hold onto,” I said.

“Quit complaining and hold onto me.”

I grinned. And did. We stood like that for some time. I think I could have stood like that for quite a long time.

“When will we reach Omar’s camp?”

“Two days.”

She nodded. We stood quietly. The wind tugged at us like a child looking for attention. “Have you ever been afraid of heights, Sam?”

“I used to be.”

“Not anymore?”

“Rarely. Why?”

“Because I think I’m getting sick.”

“That’s our cue,” I said, and led the way down from the cornice.

Chapter Twenty

We were in a favorite cave of mine eating dehydrated vegetable soup, which I had expertly hydrated with boiling water. Afterward, we sipped tea and watched the snow blow across the cave’s entrance. It could have been static on a TV set.

“How did you know about this cave?” Faye asked.

“It’s a sort of home away from home for me.”

“It’s cozy, but needs some cleaning.” Faye kicked at a mound of dirt covering the floor.

We both saw it. Faye’s boot uncovered a small wooden pencil buried in the dirt. The sort of pencil found in libraries everywhere. I plucked it out of the dirt and studied it. The graphite point was worn to a nub, teeth marks on one end. Probably tasted horrible.

Faye reached out with a shaking hand, and I passed it over. She studied the pencil until her eyes moistened, gleaming in the firelight. “It’s my father’s,” she said. “I’m sure of it. And he’s always losing them, too.”

“And apparently taking them from libraries as well,” I said.

With a flashlight, I moved carefully around the cave. More footprints. All relatively fresh. I pointed to the larger of the two prints. Maybe a size fifteen. “Bigfoot lives,” I said.

Faye said, “Wally Krispin. He’s a smart kid who’s afraid of his own shadow. How father ever convinced him to climb this mountain is any one’s guess.”

“Big kid,” I said, running the flashlight along the length of the print. And it took a while to do so.

“Big and awkward, all knees and elbows,” said Faye.

“And feet.”

We were quiet, ingesting the new information. Outside, the snow streaked horizontally across the opening. A full-fledged blizzard. The wind made high pitch noises. The high-pitched noises failed to bring images of warmth and security.

“I would hate to be out in this weather,” said Faye.

“Even Frosty would agree with you.”

“Frosty?”

I shrugged apologetically. “It’s late. My humor’s on cruise control.”

We watched the storm in silence. Faye held the pencil tightly. She sat straighter and with a noticeable spark in her eye. The spark of hope. She waved the pencil in front of me as if it were a magic wand and she could make her father appear. “This is a good sign, Sam Ward.”

“True, but not an answer to your father’s disappearance.”

She lay back in her sleeping bag, clutching the pencil to her chest. She positioned her other hand behind her head in a fleshy pillow. “Answers can come later, Sam. For now, I will take what I can get.”

I lay back, too, and closed my eyes and listened to the shrieking wind and knew there was no argument for hope.

* * *

It was much later when I awoke to complete silence and darkness. The storm had moved on and the fire had died. Silver moonlight poured through the cave’s small opening, blanketing the dirt floor. There was enough light to see that Faye’s sleeping bag was empty and that I was quite alone.

An inexplicable dread came over me, constricting my chest, tightening my stomach.

I pulled on my boots and coat, and moved over to the cave’s opening. Faye’s small tracks led down the slope, disappearing. She was probably on a potty break. I moved back into the cave and rummaged through my backpack and pulled on a full mountain climbing body harness and attached a coil of rope to my hip. If she needed help, I intended to be prepared. And if she didn’t need help, I intended to be prepared.

I stepped out of the cave and into the cold and followed her small footprints. I moved carefully over the fresh snow. My breath fogged before me. The snow made crunching noises with each step.

I had one fundamental rule:
no one leaves on their own, not even me
. Faye had broken that rule, even for a potty break.