Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (30 page)

Matt paused, shining his light past Joss to Grandma Bubsy. “I’m just verifying it still goes all the way through, like you said. You two can turn back and meet me outside. I don’t mind. Nobody’s come this deep for a few years.”

Grandma Bubsy grumbled, “That’s ‘cause
Nobody
had the wisdom to respect their senses. I’m leaving my pride with this here cat cadaver … catdaver. Well, that’s funny, I suppose.” She peered up at Joss. “You coming with me, hot stuff?”

Joss glanced at Matt’s dimly lit face. He nodded, motioning for her to go.

She pulled her phone from her back pocket and activated its light. “I’ll be right behind you, Grandma.”

Grandma called once more to Matt. “You should see the light from the other side after the bend up there. If you’re interested, the old slide rails for the sluice gate are still attached on that side.” She reached behind her in search of Joss’s hand. “Let’s go, sweetie. Pray with me we don’t find whatever squished earlier.”

Joss took her hand, treading carefully at her heels as they crept back toward the dime-sized glow of the tunnel entrance, the bright circle widening like an iris, bit by bit. Behind them, Matt coughed periodically. He sounded close, but each time Joss glanced back, there was no sign of him, not even a distant flashlight.

Finally reaching the warm and untainted air of outside, glorious outside, Grandma Bubsy gasped as if breaking the surface from a deep dive. She leant forward, hands on knees— a lighthearted show of elaborate panting—as if she’d held her breath the entire time.

She peered up, squinting at Joss, and winked. “Well, sweetie, a flood tube isn’t quite the same, but I think I can scratch off ‘Explore an urban sewer system’ from my bucket list.”

Joss laughed. “What about rats, and the flowing waterfalls? You might be missing out.”

“All that and more was going on in my mind back there. Might as well have been rodents crawling over our feet, for all my imagination had churning about.”

“I didn’t run into any rodents,” Matt said, suddenly right behind them, “but there’s a snake here.”

The women spun about and, upon seeing no sign of Matt, realized his oddly reverberant voice was carrying through the tunnel.

“I think it’s a sand boa,” he continued. “Probably who we should thank for the lack of critters in there.”

“Feel free to pass on my thanks,” Grandma Bubsy yelled into the tunnel.

Joss didn’t think they needed to shout. He’d apparently heard them talking about rats.

She said at a normal level, “Are you coming back through, or going to walk around?”

“I’ll walk around,” said the disembodied voice. “Hey, Grandma Bubsy. There’re tire tracks back here, leading off east toward some dunes. Is there another road nearby?”

“Ahh …” She thought a moment, then called back, “Yeah, yeah there is. A ways out there, but yeah. Though I’m betting those tracks are from dirt bikers. I’ve seen them all along those dunes—the dirt bike kind and the four-wheel kind. That’s probably our friends who’re using the ruin as their port-o-john.”

“There’re definitely more leavings on this side than that. You two were wise turning back.” He coughed and spat. “Did you hear me gagging before?”

He received no answer, save for the surreal echo of wild laughter.

* * *

In the van’s back row, Matt sat staring at the static
No Service,
in Greek, atop his phone screen. He needed to check in with Iris.

A mild, salt-tinged breeze flowed from the open driver-side window. Up front, Joss sat in the passenger seat, listening to Grandma Bubsy behind the wheel.

“Glenn?” she said. “No way, he’s all for it! We talk every day, sometimes twice in a day.”

“He ever come out here to visit?” Joss asked.

“Nah.” She cracked a sunflower seed between her teeth, and tossed the shell out the window. “He came with me the first time. Stayed for a few days. Even though I’d been talking with my sponsor out here for a few months, neither one of us really knew what to expect as far as me being American, a woman, Christian, et cetera, et cetera. By day three, he knew I was in good hands, and that our trepidations were misplaced. Even though we’re mostly retired, he serves on the boards of a bunch of companies, and he’s got at least one meeting per week, so he flew back. So far, my work visas have been limited to three-month stints, and I love being home, but I just adore it out here. This is my third stay.” Her blonde hair waved in the wind as she glanced Joss’s way. “
Hoonah yaty thalath merott
.”

“Oooh,” Joss said. “Is that Arabic?”

Matt cut in. “
Hatha ho ziyarti althalithuh
. The other way comes off like ‘Three times here come.’”

Grandma Bubsy eyed him through the rearview. “Put a sock in it, peanut gallery. At my age, that’s about as good as it’s ever going to get. You want a language face-off, put your French on the table.”

Matt saw Joss raise a warning hand, and then whisper.

Grandma ignored her volume. “He’s good at French, too? Oh. What about Spanish? Okay, fine, I’ll be impressed.” She peered back through the mirror again. “I don’t suppose, what with your super power or whatever, that you can do Ancient Egyptian?”

Matt smiled. “I just might.”

In his experience, people working on ancient civilizations were left speechless whenever Matt demonstrated an extinct language they’d studied. He knew Grandma’s day was about to be made.

His phone suddenly vibrated in his hand. A text message from Iris. Two bars of signal. Three!

IT: Did you have Pete assassinated or something?

IT: He’s missed his last two hourly calls, voicemails, and emails.

IT: I’m not complaining, but strangely, his silence is deafening. Weird, right?

IT: Assuming you don’t have signal right now. Get back to me when you do.

Matt was sure Pete was okay—after their brief encounter, it’d make sense for him to halt his unrelenting campaign to get in touch. But now there was a bug in Matt’s head. Once he’d lost them, what if Rostik
had
gone back to the condo complex, having no other leads to follow?

“You can’t leave it dangling in the air like that, mister,” said Grandma Bubsy.

Matt looked up from his phone, blinking. “Leave what? Oh, right. Just a sec. I have to make a call. Are we close to the city? Will this cell signal stay?”

“We’re still a ways out, but you should be good the rest of the drive back.”

Iris answered on the first ring. “Hey.” The sound of furious typing filled the background.

“Hey. We actually ran into Pete earlier today, so it’d make sense for him to lay off, but can you check in with him, just in case? And tell him I’ll reach out tonight.”

“Okay,” Iris said, her keyboard still under attack. “And will you really?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Never mind. What else?”

Matt gazed out the window, past the glimmering sea, toward the horizon, beyond which he imagined Sicily lay. “Any check-ins? Or any word at all?”

“From Palermo? Nada.”

“Or any word at all?” he repeated.

“No. No one.”

“Well, have you called anyone to check? Or you’re just waiting?” He sounded jerkish, he knew, but they should’ve heard
something
about Tuni by now.

The typing stopped. “Dude, chill! Of course I’ve called! I’ve called everyone who might have an update,
and
I’m all over the feeds out of Kenya. The unrest is getting out of control in spots, but the palace is fine. No breaches, and they’ve got a fricken army guarding the perimeter, so if she’s still in there, she’s fine.”

“I’m sorry. Thank you. I’m sorry … It’s just, if she’s still in there, she’s far from fine.”

“No, I know, brother. I meant, she wasn’t caught up in the−”

“No, I got it. Thanks for staying on it. I’m going to call someone you haven’t.”

A twinge of offense from Iris. “How do you know I haven’t?”

“I’m calling Markus.”

“Oh. Copy. Bye.”

Copy.

An unexpected Dad-ism to further muddle his head.

Matt felt eyes on him, glancing up to find a sympathetic Joss face—her brow knit, and chin resting on her seat back. He smiled his thanks and dialed Markus; the first ring lit up his head with a jolt.

Crap. My phone!

He sighed with the second ring, resigned to tossing this phone the instant the call was done.

Damnit, Joss’s too.

It’d be a simple matter to track his phone back to the store in Greece, seeing what else was sold.

Or … This could work out perfectly. Yes, yes it does.

“Well now,” Markus’s words slithered through the tiny speaker. “To where are we driving, Matthew?”

Could he have a GPS trace already?

“Just headed to the drug store for tampons. So … interesting news out of Kenya, eh?”

“Without a hand on my shoulder, is this the sort of bungling effort to which you’re reduced?”

“Pretty much. Or maybe I just miss hearing your voice.”

Markus held silent a beat, before replying, “Matthew, in the event of an erred impression, understand this: my attraction to you does not render me some manipulable twit.”

Oops. He took it as flirtation.

“No, of course not,” Matt said. “Honestly not my intent.”

“Of course it was. Sadly, more bungling than the first.” Not a trace of playful banter remained. He sounded genuinely hurt. “Mrs. Absko escaped the compound. She’s safe from the President, but what happens next, who knows?”

She made it out! Though that last bit was perfectly ambiguous. Intentional? Threatening? Or simply a generic “Anything could happen out there in the world.”?

“Well, thanks,” Matt said with earnest. “I do hope that information I provided was helpful.”

“Little helpful for Mr. Ostrovsky thus far. He waits to see.”

“And the body?”

“Bod
ies
,” Markus corrected. “All unearthed this morning. Press have already begun their onslaught.” Detachment persisted, but at least the information was flowing.

“Man …” Matt began, then eyed Grandma Bubsy through the rearview. Her gaze was glued to the increasingly busy highway, but the women had been silent since he’d begun his calls.

Intrigued by the sudden silence, Joss glanced back, and Matt perked his head toward Grandma. Joss caught the cue and acted at once.

“Grandma Bubsy, you never mentioned how you found those first pyramids on the internet.”

“Truth be told, at first I didn’t know they were undiscovered …”

Markus remained silent on the other end.

With Bubsy instantly engrossed, Matt resumed, “I only wish I had Absko’s private cell number. The guy’s probably a straw light of breaking.” No reply. “Maybe a Skype account …”

Markus kept mute for a long while, such that Matt pulled the phone from his ear to verify the call was still active.

Finally, “Amaranth Vineyard. Google Hangout.”

Matt snatched up his notepad and wrote down the name. Markus hung up before Matt could thank him.

He checked his signal. Full bars.

Beyond the windshield, Alexandria’s first buildings stood silhouetted against the golden hour sun.

He opened the video call app and tapped in the account name. It was there.

A deep inhale.

Odds were, it wouldn’t be this simple. Some assistant would have the phone on them, or an answering service screened all incoming communication. Matt knew that the face—a face the thought of which always gave him a headache—realistically, wouldn’t just pop up in front of him, filling the phone screen. But Markus would most certainly have contact info that’d get Matt within two degrees of separation, if not one. If Absko wasn’t nearby, the message would surely reach him in no time.

Exhale.

CALL

The classic telephone ring jangled from the speaker. Matt’s face appeared in one corner, framed in a little square. He held the phone low, facing up at him, limiting the visible background to the van’s beige roof, and a sliver of pale blue sky through the rear window.

A quick check up front. The outside world had swapped rural fields for aged suburbs. Bubsy was still talking about satellite photos. Joss
oohed
and
aahed
while her canny eyes greeted Matt’s through her sun visor’s mirror.

The ringing stopped.

A bouncing camera on the other end of the video call corrected its white balance, adjusting the overexposed glare, and resolved its focus. A suspicion-laden, golden-brown face coalesced. It was him. It was actually Absko, marching through a high-ceilinged hall. A chorus of hard soles clacking on smooth tile. Absko’s furrowed brow twitched as his eyes scrutinized the unfamiliar bearded visage.

Matt centered his gaze on the little circular lens above his screen so the image in Absko’s hand would stare directly into his eyes. Stressed background voices argued in Swahili. The shaky phone steadied as the President’s pace slowed. He appeared on the verge of recollection. Matt’s mouth ripened into an insolent smirk.

Abkso halted.

The din of footfalls stuttered to a stop as one of the voices asked, “What is it?”

The flash of shocked recognition had dissolved in an instant to bristling rage. “Leave me.”

“Hi!” Matt began. Oozing with chipper cockiness, he spoke swiftly before Absko could interrupt. “It looks like you’re super busy rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, so I’ll be quick and just say: first, Tuni is safe. I’ll be taking care of her now. As you know, she has no interest in speaking with you ever again. Apparently, you—um—weren’t all she’d hoped. You should tend to your own life, what little of it remains. Buh-bye!”

Matt’s thumb hovered over the hang-up button, frozen by a burning need to witness a reaction. Plus, he no longer wished to conceal his location—quite the contrary.

Absko fought to exude composure, but even with the video’s choked throughput, Matt observed a nostril quiver, neck muscles contracting, and taut lips striving to curl into a defiant smile.

“In a world so small,” Absko finally said, “so …
accessible
… it’s reckless to exchange security for pride.”

Matt made a show of laughing and choking. “Pride? Is that the first stone you’re casting?” He wiped faux tears from his eyes as he laughed on.