The Dig (37 page)

“Never,” Gwilt replied. One of the men beside the n’wip added, “So move!”

Irin nodded and stepped to the side, and Gwilt hauled again on the poles.

The cutter pierced deep into Gwilt’s side, causing him to slump against the poles with a startled yelp. Amid the horrified screams of nearby women and the gasps of stunned mutineers, Irin stepped over him and plunged the blade into his back. Gwilt gave a guttural scream, begging him to stop.

Raising the cutter a final time, Irin said, “I told you, I can’t allow it.” And the blade struck again.

Gwilt shrunk to the ground. It appeared that he was trying to say something, but when no words came out, Irin wiped the blood from the blade onto Gwilt’s clothes and turned to the gawking people.

“Now, one of you take this n’wip back to the circle. We don’t have time for any more of this.” And he walked away to find Orin waiting for him just outside the circle. He could hear the word spreading faster than he could walk. He hoped his decisive act would not work against him—perhaps a blade thrust between his shoulders when his back was turned—but then, his death was imminent, however it came. His hope was that the people would receive the message that everyone needed to stay together—not that a heartless tyrant was ready to kill them if they spoke against his wishes.

As he followed Orin back through the crowd, avoiding the frightened eyes and disapproving stares, he realized that he probably would have let Gwilt go if not for Orin’s whispered spur to action. He would have taken the n’wip from him—beat him, perhaps, if he continued to resist—but let him leave. The only risk was that more would see him leaving and decide to follow. Acting as if nothing had happened, he signaled for everyone to get moving.

The travelers marched on for several more hours before stopping briefly for food and water. Small trees grew in scattered stands, some of them bearing hard, black pods the size of a closed fist. When one of the men cracked one open with his cutter hilt, he found a slime-covered creature inside, waving a pair of large, wickedly pointed pincers. It had been damaged when the shell was crushed, and green goo oozed from its underside. Irin watched the man throw it away in revulsion.

As they walked through the night, Irin was relieved that no one spoke about Gwilt’s death. Not even Pwig or Norrit breathed a word; it was as if it had never happened.

Finally, they stopped in a vale where the trees were thicker, offering shade from the coming daylight.

There were not as many black pods on these trees, but no one wanted to sleep with such fearsome little creatures hanging over their heads, so Irin dispatched several men to remove every last one and smash them far from the encampment. The rumor among the new was that the slimy things came out in the daylight to pinch off and eat the flesh of sleeping people.

With the meal over and the sun still below the distant mountains, Orin suggested that the people start small fires using fallen branches, saying that it might help calm the new and let them find sleep more easily. The idea worked wonderfully, and for the first time since leaving Pwin-T, a hint of cheer drifted through the people as the new scampered about excitedly gathering sticks.

Irin sat beside Orin. Though it was not at all cold, he enjoyed the warmth of the crackling fire. He put his arms around her and thanked her.

“Who knew the fires would do so much?” she responded modestly.

Irin turned and pressed his forehead to hers. “No,” he continued. “Thank you for everything, not just the fires.”

Smiling, she returned her eyes to the fire.

As the horizon brightened, Irin sent people around to see that all were covering up and preparing for the sun. Then, turning his top backward again, he lay down beside Orin. As he lay there, listening to her breathing, he wondered again whether someone might come to stab
him
in the back. Daylight would come soon, and many of the men who had planned to follow Gwilt were fighters, armed with cutters. Were any of them brothers of the man he had killed? Irin kept his cutter close to him, lest someone approach while he slept. He believed he would have fair warning as he now always slept in his k’yot, his only exposed area the back of his head. Only a fool would try to stab someone in such a hard area, but if anyone did, or tried to pull open his k’yot to expose a vulnerable spot, he would be ready.

When at last he drifted off, his dreams were no better than before. Now the slimy pincered creatures were huge, the size of a small new, and chasing after him. He also dreamed that someone had set his eyes on fire and that he could see nothing but a brilliant, burning whiteness.

T
UNI AWOKE WITH A STIFF NECK
from sleeping in the hard plastic chair. The hospital ward was a long, wide dormitory with a row of beds on either side, like those she had seen in old films. Sick or injured people filled all the beds. Though some had a sliding curtain for privacy, she and Matt had not been so fortunate. Placards identifying HIV-positive patients hung on the ends of perhaps one-quarter of the beds.

The nurses gave Tuni stern looks every time they passed her. Her insistence on a new gown and bedclothes for Matt had not gone over well, but she had fought long and hard and eventually won.

Sitting in the bright-orange molded plastic chair, she looked over at Matt. He had an IV with two tubes dripping fluids into his arm, and a feeding tube ran down his throat. The Nairobi doctors all seemed apprehensive about touching a foreign patient, or perhaps it was just Matt who made them nervous. He and Tuni had been here four days, and all anyone had done after hooking him up to life support equipment was to check him for changes.

Tuni had no phone number for Peter or anyone else in country who might be able to help, so she had finally called Dr. Meier to act as a go-between. Meier had Matt’s old emergency contact card from when he first joined their payroll. He was supposed to call Matt’s parents and find out if he had ever had an episode like this before, and whether they had any suggestions. A friendly voice mail recording was all he could get, so he had left the urgent message with his contact numbers. Tuni had yet to hear back for an update. She was to call him on every odd hour.

She had also asked Meier to call Peter and arrange for Matt to be transferred somewhere else, preferably back in the States. The best he could do was arrange for a medical airlift service to take Matt to a specialized facility in Germany, but it would be a few more days before that happened. Meier assured her that it would be a much easier matter to return him to the States once they were in Europe.

As the days went by, Tuni would stare at Matt’s eyes and wait for them to pop open as they always had before. She found it ironic that her place had always been to wait for him to wake up, just as she was now doing, though now with the fear that those eyes may never pop open again. She struggled with the idea of leaving, knowing that she could not sleep in a chair beside his bed for the next month, three months, three years. How could she leave him, though? He might be ready to emerge from his coma in a week, but if someone stuck an old, imprinted sensor against his skin, he would stay under. He could end up lying on an old set of sheets with
years’
worth of miserable stories stuck in them!

She tried to clear her mind of the endless horror scenarios and take things one day at a time. If she had to go, she would figure it out. Meier wasn’t firing her anytime soon, she had checked on Mr. Pups, called her mom with a brief update, and Peter had pulled strings at the museum to have the medical bills paid. All that aside, she truly cared about this man lying here in front of her.

Dr. Garrett Rheese sat in his chair and watched the van leave.
Yes, go,
he thought as five more people left the site for good. Only the diehards remained now: Peter, Rodney, Collette, and the two fuzzy-wuzzies. The soldiers and police had given up their search for Felch, and no foreign media frenzy had arrived to egg them on. Turner and St. James were both out of the picture, and now it seemed that Peter had decided to carry on the project without Felch or the brat, because “that’s what they would have wanted.” Things were definitely looking up.

The sat phone rang, and he picked up.

“Hello Dr. Rheese, this is Detective Chitundu. How are you doing today?”

Rheese sighed and pulled out his best defeated voice. “Just trying to get through the days, Detective. What can I do for you?”

“Ha-ha-ha,” Chitundu laughed. “Days are difficult now, aren’t they? Yes, of course they are.”

Rheese waited for more but heard only the sound of Chitundu busying himself with something nearby.

“Well, Detective, how can I help you today?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor, I
do
need your help—oh, let me see, now, is it ‘Doctor’ or ‘Professor’? Your good friend Enzi refers to you as ‘Professor.’”

Had Enzi been talking?
Ah, of course, clever plodder, keep fishing.
“Either one is fine, Detective.”

“Good, good,” he continued in his jolly tone, “I think I will call you ‘Doctor.’ It seems the more respectable of the two, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” Rheese said curtly.
Get to the bloody point.

“Well, I do not want to take too much of your time, but I wanted to ask you a couple of questions. Is Mr. Sharma available as well?”

Rheese hunched over and peered out the window. Peter was standing with Rodney in the mess tent, looking at a chart spread out on a table.

“I’m afraid he’s indisposed at the moment, but I can have him ring back at his earliest convenience.”

“Ha-ha-ha. ‘Indisposed’—I like that, Doctor. I always think of a food disposer in a sink, as though someone is
in
the
disposer.
”

Rheese sat silently, waiting for the tedious man to get around to whatever he had to say.

“Have you ever heard of anyone called ‘the Gray,’ Dr. Rheese?”

Bloody hell.
“I’m sorry, you said
the
Gray?” Rheese replied with feigned confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone with such a theatrical moniker, no. Should I?”

“Hmm… are you
sure
about that, Doctor? Think hard.”

Nice try, Officer
. “Sorry, Detective, but it’s unlikely I would forget such a unique name. What does this have to do with our work out here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Ha-ha-ha, I was hoping
you
could answer that one for me, Doctor. But I suppose not. Excuse me for… just a moment.”

Rheese heard the phone clack down onto a desk, without being switched to hold. He could still hear another phone ringing in the distance, and various indistinguishable conversations. A metallic squeak and a grunt later, the phone rattled around, and Chitundu’s breathy voice returned.

“Apologies, Doctor—my shoe was untied.”

Silence.

“Doctor, are you still there?”

“I’m here, Detective. Just waiting for the second question—and then I really must return to my work.”

“Second question? Ha-ha-ha, did I say I only had two?”

“Yes, I believe you did.”

More laughter. Rheese was growing angry. The laugh moved to a series of choking coughs and wheezing.

“I’m sorry, so sorry, Doctor,” he finally said. “Your time is very precious to me.”

“It doesn’t appear to be, Detective, but I’m pleased that I can at least amuse you.”

“Oh, don’t be so offended, Doctor. I can skip the questions if that is what you wish.”

“Well…” Rheese softened. “If it is something that can help our cases, I’m more than happy to assist where I can, but as you said, time is precious.”

“Oh, no, no, don’t worry, Doctor. I can ask Mr. Felch—when he arrives.”

Rheese clenched his teeth and tried to breathe deeply without making any noise.
Appropriate response? Eager excitement!

“I beg your pardon!” Rheese exclaimed. “Did you just say Mr. Felch? Where is he? What’s happened? Is he all right?”

“Ha-ha-ha! Oh yes, Fit as a fiddler! He is understandably shaken up, but he will be here soon and we will have a long conversation, he and I.”

“Well, that’s just smashing news, Detective! When can we retrieve him? Where will he be?”

“Give us some time with him, Doctor. Ha-ha-ha, you seem so excited… it’s funny. Did you think he was dead or something?”

“Well, I don’t see what is so amusing about our friend and colleague disappearing. We have been worried no end, Detective! Of course, the worst enters one’s head in a situation like this—one can’t help it. But I do
not
appreciate your making light of it.”

“Ha-ha-ha, yes, of course. I will call back tomorrow, Doctor.”

“Wait… Detective…”

The phone clattered a bit before finally being disconnected at the other end.

Hank Felch had listened to his captors argue for the past few days. He rolled his head around to try to relieve the soreness in his neck. All his joints and his back hurt from sitting in a wooden chair for three days and nights, with perhaps a half hour off for bathroom breaks in all that time. At the moment, their argument seemed to be about money, since one was shaking a fistful at the other as he yelled.