Night Train to Memphis, page 31
And he proceeded to do so, though “fall over” would have been a more accurate description.
He looked rather peaceful with his head pillowed on his bent arm but when I touched his cheek he didn’t move. His skin was burning hot.
In a way, it was a relief to have no more choices left. I covered him with the coat and brushed the hair away from his temple. “Good-bye, John,” I whispered. “I love you.”
I stood up.
His hand wrapped around my ankle and brought me thudding to the ground. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
Sand is a lot harder than it looks, and this variety of desert is littered with rocks. By the time I recovered my breath it was too late to get away; he had rolled me over onto my back and was lying across me.
“You low-down skunk!” I gasped. “You did that on purpose!”
“Is that any way to talk to the man you love?” His voice was almost back to normal; I knew the slight unevenness was due to suppressed laughter. “I’m deeply hurt that you would think I’d resort to a childish, melodramatic trick like that one.”
“John, are you crazy? Those people out there—”
“There’s plenty of time. Were you really going to dash out and lead the hunters away from me, risking capture and a fate worse than death?”
His lips were hot and dry. At first. I wrenched mine away. “You’re not crazy, you’re delirious. Let me go. It’s the only sensible course of action.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is. Stop doing that.”
“No, it’s not. Why should I?”
“Because…” I had lost my grip on the conversation, not to mention the whole situation. “Look—”
“I can’t. I’m busy.”
“They won’t do anything to me,” I said, giggling insanely. I do that when I’m upset, and his lashes were tickling me. “I’ll tell them—”
“It is not a sensible idea,” said John, “because that may not be the police. And if it isn’t, and if they catch you, I’ll go after you and then we’ll have to repeat the whole tedious performance.”
“Would you?”
“I told you not to ask silly questions. Say it again.”
“I love you.”
“That’s what I thought you said.” He lifted himself on his elbows, freeing my hands. I wrapped them around the back of his head and drew his face down to mine.
I was a trifle distracted, however, not only by the unnatural heat of his skin but by a far-off sound. Turning my head I murmured, “We’d better stop this.”
“Discretion would seem to suggest a more responsible course of action.” Instead of moving, he kissed the corner of my mouth. “Vicky, I couldn’t tell you the truth. I couldn’t even let you begin to wonder. They had me so boxed in—”
“I know. Feisal told me.”
“I must have missed that part. I hope he portrayed me in a favorable light?”
“You came out looking like Sir Galahad and me like something that had crawled out from under a… Oh, God. John—”
“Sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“Yes. Do it again. No! No, don’t, we’ve got to—”
“I did hurt you—that night, after you danced with Feisal. While you were laughing and giving him languishing glances, she was leaning against my shoulder, watching you, and smiling, and saying things under her breath… Schmidt turned up in the nick of time. I couldn’t have kept my hands off her much longer. And then when I saw you—you’d been so cool and indifferent, I thought you didn’t care, and… But that doesn’t excuse what I did. Can you—”
“John,” I said desperately, “isn’t that a dog I hear?”
“Probably. There are dozens of them around and they howl at… Oh.” He lifted his head and listened. “You mean a dog, as opposed to dogs in general. Damned if I don’t think you’re right. That puts a different complexion on things. We might elude human searchers but man’s best friend is another matter. I’m beginning to detest the bloody creatures. First that diabolical hound of yours—”
“Get up this minute!”
The lights were closer now. Three separate beams—flashlights, I thought. Not the police, then. They’d have more effective equipment, and they’d be making a lot more noise.
“How could they know we’d end up here?” I demanded.
“Good question.” John got to his feet. Another outburst of canine commentary floated across the desert, and John echoed it with an outburst of profanity. “My brain seems to have crashed. We’d better get into hiding. It may not be necessary, but—”
My brain wasn’t working any better than his. It had gone back to basics, driven by the same primitive instincts that move all hunted creatures. “Right. Hide. Where?”
“I know a place. I hoped we wouldn’t have to resort to it since I know how you feel about—”
“Oh, no. Not a tomb. I can’t, John, I really can’t.”
“Not a tomb. We couldn’t get into them anyhow; they’ve all got locked gates. Come on.”
The surface under our feet cracked and crunched with every step. The shadows through which we moved weren’t dark enough; the rocks between us and the plain weren’t thick enough or hard enough. If John hadn’t kept shoving at me, I might have sat down on the ground and waited in fatalistic acceptance like some poor cornered rabbit. In a way it was worse for me than it would have been for the rabbit. I knew exactly what would happen if we were caught. I had seen what Mary could do when she was just amusing herself. She’d be really annoyed by now.
The face of the cliff was weathered and uneven; I saw a dozen crevices big enough to offer concealment, but every time I headed mindlessly toward one, John pulled me on. I could have handled a nice shallow crevice, no problem. I had a feeling he had something less comfortable in mind. He seemed to know where he was going. How? The question, like a lot of others, ran through my head and out the other side, without hanging around long enough to inspire an answer.
After passing around a low ridge he headed for one of the openings in the cliff. The moon was down but those impossibly bright stars cast enough light for me to see how dark the opening was. Really dark. Very, very dark. He had to drag me though it. The space beyond was devoid of light but not of sound. Things squeaked and flapped. The blackness moved.
I flung myself at him, clutching at his shirt. Not such a smart move, that one, but there was a wall behind him; otherwise we’d have both fallen to the ground. His breath went out in a sound that would have been audible a long way off if compressed lips hadn’t contained it. Then his arms closed around me and his mouth brushed my ear.
“Hang on, darling, it’s just a cave and a few miserable bats. Lazy little buggers, they ought to have been out before this.”
“Oh, God,” I whimpered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I hurt you.”
“No, you didn’t.” That was a lie if I’d ever heard one, and I had heard plenty of them from John. “Listen to me, Vicky. I doubt they know about this place but the dog may be able to lead them here. If that happens, there’s another way out. A tunnel.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” We had both been whispering; he was barely breathing the words now, his lips against my ear. “Rest a minute. Catch your breath.”
I tried to pull away from him, so my weight wouldn’t press against his chest, but he tightened his grip. His lips moved across my cheek.
“Show me where the tunnel is,” I murmured.
“In a minute.”
It seemed to go on longer than a minute. Then he said softly, “This way,” and drew me with him toward the back of the cave. “Here. See it?”
“I can’t see a damned thing.”
“Feel it, then.” He guided my hand.
“Got it. How did you know about this place?”
“There’s an old family…”
He didn’t have to warn me to stop talking. Sound carries a long way in the quiet desert night. The footsteps were still some distance away, but they were coming closer.
His hand moved to my shoulder. I resisted the pressure. It wasn’t difficult.
“You first,” I said.
“I’ll follow.”
Another lie. Adrenaline and a mix of other hormones had given him a temporary burst of strength, but I doubted he could stand erect without the support of the wall against which he was leaning.
Sometimes my instincts work better than my so-called brain. The one that gripped me now superseded fear and even self-preservation. My hands were icy-cold but absolutely steady. His were neither. I got the gun out of his pocket while he was still fumbling for my wrist.
The dog was right outside. I heard its quick, excited panting, then a slither of rock and a muffled expletive. The uneven contours of the entrance brightened.
I got my finger around the trigger and aimed, bracing my wrist with the other hand.
The dog let out a sharp, peremptory bark. The man with it cleared his throat.
“Uh—Dr. Bliss? Mr. Tregarth? Are you there?”
It wasn’t Max’s voice. It was a voice I had never heard before—slow and hesitant, with a pleasant Southern accent.
John’s hand closed over mine and pushed my arm down. The voice went on, “Uh—I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you, Dr. Bliss, but—uh—if you’re there, you, uh—Damn it, Fido, are you sure this is the right place? Stupid dog…”
Fido (Fido?) barked indignantly. “Oh, well, then,” the voice said. “I feel like a jackass, but if you say so… Uh. You remember me, Mr. Tregarth—Keith Kendrick, from UCal? Uh—how are you?”
I started to laugh.
“Do come in,” John said. “You’ll have to excuse Dr. Bliss; she does this sometimes.”
Giggling maniacally, I shielded my eyes against the brilliance of the light. Behind it was a tall, thin man with sandy hair and an embarrassed smile. The dog at his heels looked like one of the pariah dogs that hang around the villages, but it had a collar and its tail was flailing furiously.
John cleared his throat. “Dr. Bliss, may I present Dr. Kendrick?”
“Vicky,” I gasped. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Call me Keith.”
I made an effort and managed to stop laughing. “How did you know we were here?”
“He told me, of course. He’s been expecting you.”
“Feisal?” I asked doubtfully.
“Not Feisal,” John muttered. “I’m afraid it wasn’t Feisal. I’m afraid… I don’t think I can stand this.”
“We did run into Feisal,” Kendrick said. “While we were looking for you. He expected you’d be here before this, and he was getting worried, so we went out—”
“He?” I began waving my arms. “I don’t think I can stand this either. He who?”
Kendrick shied back. I’d forgotten I was still holding the gun. “Uh—Dr. Bliss, if you wouldn’t mind putting that away… He’s coming. Don’t get excited. I think I hear him now.”
There was no “think” about it. He was coming at full speed, tripping over and running into things. When he burst into the cave he was too out of breath to speak; he grabbed me and hung on, wheezing.
“Schmidt,” I gasped. “Schmidt, is that you? Thank God you’re all right! What are you doing here?”
“But why should you be so surprised?” Schmidt let me go. “I told you I would be here. Guten Abend, Sir—John, I am so very happy to see you again!”
He rushed at John, grabbed his hand, and began pumping it up and down. John gave him a bemused smile. “Amarna,” he mumbled. “You left those clues. The brochure and the—the—”
“The bag, yes, I knew you clever ones would know what they meant. What else could they mean?”
“Amarna,” John repeated. “Right. Clever ones.”
“Stop shaking him that way, Schmidt,” I said. “He’s not… he’s not feeling well.”
“Ach, my poor friend! You have a fever, ja? We will return at once to the house. Here, I will support you.” He turned and yanked John’s arm over his shoulder.
It was too much for poor John. I don’t know whether he was shaking with chills or with laughter, but he managed to make it back to the jeep, where Feisal was waiting, before he keeled over.
Our arrival at Keith’s house wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. He and Feisal had to carry John in, and Schmidt wouldn’t shut up. But nobody came out of the neighboring houses to ask what was going on. Sometimes it’s safer not to know what is going on.
The house had only two rooms. The one into which Keith led us was obviously his bedroom. It contained a camp cot, a few boxes, a table and chair—both draped with miscellaneous male garments—and a lamp. “I wouldn’t have been able to afford such comfortable quarters if it hadn’t been for Mr. Tregarth’s generosity,” Keith said. “I hope he’s not seriously ill. What can I do?”
The place didn’t look comfortable to me. It didn’t even look sanitary. But it was a lot better than we had any reason to expect. I asked for water, and was pleased to learn that John’s generosity had also provided plenty of the bottled variety. Feisal went off to deal with the jeep and Keith went for more water, and Schmidt hunkered down beside me and watched while I unbuttoned John’s shirt and started peeling back the tape.
“He has been wounded?” He was genuinely concerned, but I detected an underlying note of enjoyment. Wounds are so romantic. In Schmidt’s favorite form of fiction they are usually in the arm or the shoulder and after biting his lip and muttering, “It’s only a scratch,” the hero goes back to fighting four or five opponents barehanded.
“You could say that.” I lifted the cloth.
“Lieber Gott,” Schmidt whispered. “Who has done this?”
“I’ll tell you later. It’s not as bad as it looks, Schmidt,” I added, as tears of sympathy rolled down Schmidt’s sunburned cheeks. “Something else must be causing the fever. Maybe… Maybe a good night’s sleep is all he needs.”
John opened one eye. “Was that…” The eye rolled toward Schmidt and then closed. “It was. I thought I was dreaming. I hoped I was dreaming. Schmidt, what have you—”
“Ruhig sein, my poor friend,” Schmidt said. “All is well. You are safe with—”
“All is not well.” John raised himself on one elbow. “What have—”
“Rest and sleep,” Schmidt insisted, trying to push him back down.
“No, have something to drink. You’re probably dehydrated.” I shoved Schmidt away and held a glass to John’s lips.
“Yes, that is probably better,” Schmidt agreed.
“Oh, Christ. Will you two stop picking at me like dogs over a bone? I’ll submit to your infernal attentions as soon as Schmidt tells me what wild story he gave Kendrick.”
“ ‘Richard is himself again,’ ” I remarked.
“Richard is a hell of a long way from being himself. Which is lucky for you. Schmidt—”
“Why, I told him the truth, of course.”
“Oh, God.” John collapsed back onto the hard pillow.
“That you had discovered a plot directed against the museum and were on your way to Cairo to disclose it, with the villains in hot pursuit,” Schmidt went on.
“In those exact words, I suppose.” He let out an involuntary sigh as I began wiping his face with a wet cloth. “Well, it could be worse. You didn’t go into detail?”
“I told him no more than that,” Schmidt said indignantly. “It is an old rule of espionage, the need to know. Besides, he would have thought me verrückt if I had told him the entire truth. And now you must rest. Perhaps a sleeping pill, eh? I have with me—”
“No pills,” I said. “He’s taken too many already.”
Feisal and Keith returned at that point. “How is he?” the latter asked, squatting beside the bed. “God Almighty. How did he—”
“A slight accident,” John said. “I’m prone to them. Especially when I’m in the company of certain people.”
“If he’s complaining he’s back to normal,” said Feisal. He shoved a heap of garments off the chair and sat down.
“You all look as if you could use a drink,” Keith said. “I’ve got a bottle of bourbon.”
“And there is beer,” Schmidt offered. “I brought with me—”
“Beer, of course,” I said. “Where there’s Schmidt there’s always beer. Sorry, boys, but we are not going to have a party. Everybody out. He needs to rest.”
“Just… one more thing.” John’s brief burst of energy was fading. He forced his eyes open. “Schmidt. How did you get here?”
“Why, by the train of course. My cryptic message to you—”
“Was received and deciphered,” John said gravely. “Which train?”
“It left Luxor at six in the evening. It tore my heart in two to leave you, Vicky, before I could know whether you had succeeded in your courageous rescue, but I felt certain you would, and if you did not, I could serve you best by going for help as quickly as possible. So—”
“You left the hotel shortly after I did.” I was beginning to understand what was on John’s mind, and to share the wild curiosity that kept him conscious. “I suppose you were… disguised?”
“Aber natürlich. They might have been watching for us at the station. Would you like to see how I disguised myself?”
“I can hardly wait,” John murmured.
Schmidt rummaged among the articles on the table. He was too pleased with himself simply to display the garments; he had to put them on—a long, dusty black robe, a headcloth of the same color, and an opaque veil that covered his face from the bridge of his nose to the end of his chin.
“I wore also my contact lenses,” said the chubby little Egyptian woman in a muffled voice. “They made my eyes water very much because the windows of the car were open and there was a great deal of dust and sand. Such a useful costume, eh? I did not even have to cut off my mustache, though I would have done it, Vicky, if… What is wrong?”
“He’s fainted,” I said. I didn’t blame him.
He felt cooler after I had sponged him off, and he had passed from unconsciousness to what seemed to be normal sleep. After washing the parts of me that showed, and a few that didn’t, I went into the next room, where the party was in full swing.
