Elisha’s Bones Read Free

potential ouster has nothing to do with a flaw in the application; I’d swear to the document’s integrity right down to the molecular level.
    And to the best of my knowledge, our inspector has been satisfied with the excavation and the subsequent preservation work, and with the timeliness of his pay.
    I think Jim is allowing my indignation to suffice as his own, because I can almost see the anger leaching away from him. He leans back in his chair and starts drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Technically, they can.” Then he winks. “But if we file a protest with the director’s office, we might gain a month or so before they force us out.”
    James Winfield, Professor Emeritus at the University of Canberra, is a throwback to the time when scholarly men met in quaint taverns and downed pints of dark beer while arguing points of philosophy, theology, and hard science. When I studied at his feet, I thought he looked like Oxford—at least the Oxford in my imagination. I’ve since been to Oxford, and I prefer my naïve fancies. He’s also the man who taught me the value of a good cigar and the reason I associate refinement with the practice.
    I can follow Jim’s line of reasoning, can even be somewhat assuaged by it. What I can’t understand is the reason behind the sudden removal of SCA support.
    “Why?” is the only question I can muster.
    Always a step ahead, Jim says, “Not why, but who .”
    “I don’t follow.”
    “In one variation of the question, who within the SCA wants our project shut down?”
    Running a hand through my dusty hair, I nod. But Jim’s phrasing isn’t lost on me.
    “What’s the other variation?”
    “I would think that’s obvious,” Jim answers, forever the teacher. He waits until I track with him, which does not take long.
    “Who was the other guy?” I ask, referring to the man accompanying our inspector. I have never seen a foreigner employed by the SCA, although it is not unheard of for them to bring in a foreign consultant. Too, KV65 is an important work site, and we’ve entertained more than the usual share of interested parties in the months we’ve been here. I’d just assumed our mystery man fit that category. Although, now that I think back on our near collision and the strange vibe I got from the guy, I reconsider—especially because Jim wouldn’t have said anything had he not detected something odd about the man.
    “I’m not sure,” Jim answers. “It seemed obvious that his presence unnerved our beloved inspector. Magdy acted like a small insect in a large web.”
    That prompts a smile, if for no other reason than that an SCA inspector is the bane of an archaeologist’s existence.
    “What I do know,” Jim adds, fingers drumming the tabletop, “is that he was one of my countrymen.”
    “A consultant?”
    He lets my question hang there, and the look on his face suggests he is struggling to corral his thoughts. After a while, he shakes his head and looks up.
    “Consultant is likely,” he says, though his voice lacks conviction. He offers a dismissive wave. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. A few phone calls and the whole business will be cleared up.” Then he brightens as if only now remembering something. “How are things going below?”
    While still reeling from the possibility of having to abandon KV65, I’m grateful for the redirection. Placing this other issue aside, I’m about to tell Jim what we’ve found when the RV makes a minor shift beneath my feet.
    When the moment has ended, a silence fills the vacuum, and it seems almost as threatening as whatever set the vehicle to shaking. Jim and I lock eyes and then he is out of his chair and we are both heading toward the door. Our time in this country has given us ample experience with incidents of seismic activity; neither of us need to verbalize that what we just felt was something else.
    My only thought is for the team I left down below, and the run across the hot sand is a blur.