out of proportion. It was odd, yes, but hardly earth-shattering.
“Only one set of bones was missing,” she said calmly, doing her best to emulate Jerry. “Whoever threw it out, and whatever reason he did it, we now have it back. In very short order, 4360 will be back in his snug little box again, as good as new.”
“Except for a gnawed bone here and there, and whatever was carried off by the rats,” Haddon said, “but what’s that among friends?”
TJ eked out a smile. “Well, actually, I think the rats got to him back in the Fifth Dynasty. They usually don’t find 4,400-year-old bones very appetizing.”
“I don’t find any of this very appetizing.”
“Sir,” Jerry put in, “you can rest assured that nothing like this will ever happen again. I’ll go over the security arrangements with a fine-tooth comb-”
What security arrangements would those be, TJ wondered.
“-and make whatever changes are necessary. I’ll clear them with you first.”
“Do,” Haddon said aridly, and to TJ: “Shall we return to the scene of the crime, Doctor?”
“Sure,” said TJ, but wasn’t this the scene of the crime?
Haddon picked up a femur and rubbed the dirt off with the heel of his hand. “Forty-three sixty,” he read aloud, shaking his head. “Do you have any idea what a laughingstock we’ll be if this gets out?”
TJ studied her toes.
Haddon dropped the bone back in the dust and wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “First,” he said, “I want this area scoured for every bit of bone that can be found. You do it; your husband wouldn’t know a metacarpal from a marshmallow. Then I want them cleaned and put back where they belong. And then I want this horrible enclosure torn down and its contents thrown away. I want it done immediately, is that understood? Have Mrs. Ebeid see to it.”
“Getting the garbage people to come out anytime soon is going to be a problem,” TJ said. “They’re-”
“Bury it, then. Dig a hole, shovel it in, and cover it over. Use the whatever-it’s-called.”
“Backhoe,” said TJ. “There’s a lot of stuff in here. It’d have to be a pretty big hole.”
“Well, put it-where was it Arlo suggested?-in the northeast corner, where Lambert’s people used to bury their trash. That’s appropriate enough; some of this rubbish has been around at least since then.” He kicked disgustedly at an old-fashioned kerosene space heater, dented and rusty, and gestured with both arms. “What a pigsty. We should have had it cleaned out-” He stopped, frowning and uncertain, his eyes focused on something in his mind. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t there…”
He turned to look at a corner of the enclosure, against which an old bed frame was propped. He pointed at the base of the bed frame. “There was a head there.”
“No, sir,” TJ said after a second, “the skull was over here, by the-”
“Not a skull, a head.”
“A-head?”
“The head of a statue,” he said irritably. “A statuette. What the devil did you think I meant?” He prowled around the enclosure, edging around bones and junk, his eyes searching the ground. “Yellow jasper, or possibly quartzite-about half-life-size, I think. It’s not here.” He peered at her. “You didn’t see it?”
“No, sir,” she said respectfully.
“Don’t take that tone with me, young woman. I was neither overtired nor intoxicated.” But he seemed uncharacteristically indecisive on this point himself. He chewed at his lower lip. “Of course it was dark, and there was a great deal of excitement, what with Arlo hopping about, and the light flashing everywhere. It’s possible that I may have been… didn’t I point it out?”
TJ shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“I didn’t?” He grew more unsure still. “That’s odd, I’m sure I remember…” He poked randomly at piles of trash with his foot. “Well, it’s not here now, at any rate.”
“No, it doesn’t seem to be,” TJ said.
“Could someone have taken it?”
“Taken it?” TJ said. “You mean, taken it? Between then and now?”
“I mean-never mind.” He continued to worry his lip. “Now that I think of it, I suppose it could have been an illusion caused by the flashlight beams. All those moving shadows…”
“I can ask the others if they saw it.”
“Yes, do. No, don’t. We’ll keep this between ourselves. I shouldn’t want anyone to think…”He cleared his throat and drew himself up, recovering some of his firmness. “And need I point out that nothing about this outlandish affair need be repeated to our visitors? There is no reason in the world for Bruno Gustafson or anyone else connected with the foundation to know anything about-”
“Urn,” said Tiffany. She was trying to decide how-or whether-to break it to Haddon that Bruno already knew about the finding of the skeleton. He and Bea had provided the pizza and joined in its eating the previous night, and the discovery in the enclosure had naturally become the main topic of conversation once she, Arlo, and Jerry had arrived.
“Urn,” she said again. “There’s a slight problem-”
“Hi!” Bruno himself said brightly, appearing magically at the entry to the enclosure. “What’s going on in here?”
Haddon blinked and walked toward him, blocking his view. “Why, good morning, my dear Mr. Gustafson. I understood that you were flying to Abu Simbel today.”
“Nope, just Bea. I’ve been there before and it’s just-Hey, looka here-TJ, is that the skull you were talking about?”
Haddon glowered murderously at her.
TJ cleared her throat. “Uh, well, actually, Mr. Gustafson, it’s, uh-”
Haddon flung up his hands. “Never mind!” he shouted skyward. “We at Horizon House have no secrets. We are an open book. Tell all, tell all!” And he stamped off, his tuft of beard stiffly leading the way.
A momentarily crestfallen Bruno watched him go. “What did I say?”
TJ smiled. “Nothing, he’s been under a little strain, that’s all. It’s nothing personal.”
“Glad to hear it. Hope he’s okay.” He looked happily down at the skull. “So tell me, what’s the story?”
“It’s a long one, Mr. Gustafson,” TJ said.
Chapter Six
Gideon was not at his most scintillating. He was, in fact, having trouble keeping awake. It had been a long couple of days.
He and Julie had left Port Angeles before dawn the previous morning, starting with a three-hour trip by car and ferry to the airport. Then a long wait at SeaTac, followed by sixteen grubby hours and ten increasingly debilitating time-zone changes to Cairo International Airport. This was followed by a hair-whitening forty-five- minute taxi ride into the city to clear up a problem with their visas, and then back to the airport by means of a taxi journey that was marginally less bloodcurdling than the first one (or were they already getting used to it?). They’d missed their flight to Luxor and had had to wait for two hours in the grungy, noisy airport, fidgety and disoriented, until the next one left.
They had arrived at Horizon House in time for a shower, a dazed tour of the facility and a round of introductions, followed by cocktails that they hardly needed but accepted anyway, and a heavy “roast beef” dinner that Gideon was fairly certain had been water buffalo, not that his taste buds were at their most discriminating.
Afterward, as he did most evenings, Haddon had invited a few people to his study for after-dinner drinks and a little anthropological chitchat. Julie had wisely declined, going off to bed instead, but Gideon had accepted for courtesy’s sake. Grainy-eyed and dopey, he was doing his best to participate, but it was a losing battle. And the subject matter wasn’t helping things. Since halfway through dinner they had been mired in a lexicological discussion, or rather a lexicological lecture by Clifford Haddon, on the vagaries of Middle Egyptian script.
