Into the Shadow (4 page)

She hadn’t lost her touch.

She removed her ear protection and waited, tense, for the roar that meant she’d disturbed the mountain, and it was taking its revenge in a rockfall to obliterate all her work—and her men, and her. After a full minute of silence, she gave the guys a thumbs-up.

They cheered weakly. Lhakpa and Dawa walked for their backhoes. The ancient engines rumbled to life. Ngi‘ma rounded up his team of men and yaks and headed in.

She climbed up the path to grab a quick breakfast before going back down to the site for a hands-on demonstration of why she was in charge. She was near the top when that feeling caught her, that prickly sense of being watched. She’d had it frequently of late, and she turned and scanned the heights—and there was Philippos Chronies coming down the path from the south, his bald head shining in the sun.

Phil was Greek-Canadian, short, wide at the middle, with a body that tapered up to a broad face and down to tiny feet. She hadn’t worked with him before, but it hadn’t taken more than a day for her to judge his character.

They’d met at the airport in Kathmandu, caught the train toward the work site, and within the first hour he’d hit on her. When she’d pointed out his wedding band, he’d shrugged and said his wife knew her place.

Karen announced that she did not, and interrogated him about his work experience.

Things had gone downhill from there.

Now she planted her boots on the rocky ground and waited. When he spotted her, she gestured him to come up and report. Turning her back, she finished her hike to the flat where she’d pitched her tent.

A tiny fire of dried yak dung burned in a fire pit dug into the ground. The spiral of smoke rose straight toward the bright blue sky.

Mingma handed her a cup of hot, milky, sweet tea.

‘‘Thank you.’’ Karen wrapped her hands around the cup and sipped, trying to warm the coldness in her belly.

‘‘Eat.’’ Mingma indicated the small, clean bowl of potatoes, meat, and vegetables mixed with spices and colored green by . . . something.

Karen didn’t care what the
something
was. During the course of her work, she had eaten spoiled meat, rancid cheese, and artfully prepared insects. She was thin, she was muscled, she knew how to survive under the roughest conditions. She could take care of herself, but she didn’t have to—she had Mingma.

Sitting on the camp stool, she ate with a spoon made of yak horn. She’d packed her own equipment, but the night she’d arrived a freak storm blew through, taking one entire box of necessities down into a gorge and scattering them into crevasses and into the raging torrent that formed in an instant and disappeared by the next afternoon. Since then, Karen had discovered that freak storms were the norm here. Freak rainstorms, freak snow-storms, freak windstorms, freak storms that formed on the mountain and reached down to flick her away like a gnat off its massive flank.

She wouldn’t be flicked. She couldn’t.

She paid no attention when Phil presented himself. While he fidgeted, she finished eating, and only when she put down her spoon did she say, ‘‘Phil, give me one good reason I shouldn’t fire you right now.’’

‘‘Haven’t got one. I was just ill last night, but I should have come to work anyway—’’

‘‘Last night? You were ill?’’ She stared him right in the eyes. ‘‘That’s why you were out visiting your girlfriend?’’

He cast a resentful glance at Mingma. ‘‘Yeah, I didn’t . . . I mean, I was looking for someone to help me get better so I could work today.’’ He used a damp whitish handkerchief to dab at the sweat that dripped off his broad forehead.

‘‘One more chance, Phil. One chance, or you’ll be kicking shit down the road.’’ Karen jerked her head toward the site. ‘‘Now go to work.’’

She didn’t watch him leave, but she could hear him shrieking orders as he descended the slope.

Standing, she walked over the edge and looked down on the site. The workers swarmed like ants, moving the boulders loosened by the blast. The backhoes moved the largest stones, while huge black-and-white yaks lumbered after their trainers, dragging rubble into a pile.

When she had been a little girl in her bedroom in Montana, dreaming of princesses and happily-ever-afters, this was not the life she had envisioned.

Mingma joined her on the edge, and the two women stood in silence.

Finally Karen asked, ‘‘How is Sonam?’’ One of her workers had been moving a boulder with his yak when a huge rock had tumbled down the slope, hit his shoulder, then bounced up and struck his yak. Sonam’s collarbone was broken, his yak was dead, and he was terrified.

‘‘His bones are mending.’’ Mingma puffed on her cigar, and smoke eased from between her lips. ‘‘But he will not come back to work. You seek to build on the heart of evil.’’

Karen had heard that so many times since coming here.
The heart of evil.
Everyone seemed to know what it meant. Everyone except her, and she didn’t want to know. By remaining ignorant, she hoped to beat Mount Anaya.

Now, driven by the same defiant impulse that made her meet every challenge life and her father flung at her, she lifted her arms to the mountain. ‘‘You can’t chase me away so easily!’’

Mingma threw the cigar to the ground. ‘‘Don’t, miss! Don’t anger Anaya. We are already in mortal peril.’’

A cold wind blasted down the slopes.

Karen staggered backward, chilled by the ominous reply. ‘‘What makes this place evil? It’s more than just Mount Anaya. It’s the whole place, Nepal on one side, Tibet on the other—’’

‘‘That is truth, miss.’’ Mingma lit another one of the slender cigars she smoked. ‘‘And Warlord is mighty.’’

‘‘Warlords don’t exist anymore. Not in the civilized world. But maybe here . . .’’ Drugs flowed through this area. Slaves, too—male slaves to work deep in the Siberian mines, female slaves to serve their masters. Although the governments protected the trekkers, sometimes a raid occurred on a particularly rich party. And from across the border in Tibet, rumors floated through the air of battles between the Chinese troops that controlled the area and insurgents.

‘‘We all want money.’’ Mingma looked up at the mountain and blew an appeasing puff of smoke in its direction.

‘‘Not you.’’ Karen smiled at her.

Mingma stared solemnly and repeated, ‘‘Money is evil, but we
all
want it. Because it is Mount Anaya which pulls like a magnet all the bad people of the world.’’

‘‘Why? It doesn’t make sense.’’

‘‘But, yes, miss, it does. A thousand years ago a village abided below the mountain.’’ Mingma gestured toward the valley. ‘‘They dwelled in the sunshine, growing the crops, herding their yaks.’’ Her powerful voice dropped to a whisper. ‘‘Then the Evil One came.’’

‘‘The
Evil One?’’

‘‘The Evil Which Walks as a Man. One by one he corrupted the villagers, promising power and glory if they would guard his treasure. They sought to obtain all he promised, and more, and so they agreed to sacrifice their heart.’’

‘‘Their . . . heart? They had only one?’’ Karen wasn’t mocking.

But Mingma frowned, her tanned skin wrinkled by long exposure to the sun. ‘‘It is a legend.’’

‘‘Yes, but somehow it must be true.’’ Karen’s gaze swept the site. Here even the sunlight was tinged with gray.

‘‘Then listen.’’ Mingma pressed her hand to her chest. ‘‘They made their cruel sacrifice, and when their heart had ceased beating, then they realized how the Evil One had tricked them, for they had all the power they sought, but without a heart they were no longer living beings. They became one with the mountain, tainting the sky it pierces, the flesh of the earth around it, the stones that are its bones. Since that day the mountain has been cruel, destroying all who strive to live in its shadow, all who try to tame its heights. The mountain holds the heart and the Evil One’s treasure, burying them deep, protecting them from all who seek it. The people of the village are forever alone, cold and cruel, and that is their punishment.’’

‘‘Heartless.’’ Inevitably, Karen thought of her father. ‘‘Yes, I understand how being heartless can take your humanity, but I don’t know if a village can become one with the mountain.’’

‘‘At night do not you hear the sobs of the mothers who have lost their children? Do not you hear the husbands mourn their wives?’’ Mingma’s voice lowered to a whisper once more. ‘‘Do you not hear the wails of the lost babies, forever damned?’’

If only Karen could be amused about Mingma’s quaint superstition, but in the night she had heard it all—and then in her dream she fell. She always fell into nothingness. ‘‘I wish I had never come here.’’ She paced away.

Mingma joined her, making one round between the viewing point and the fire before squatting beside the pit. ‘‘You had no choice. Your destiny was set the day the creator first thought your name. There is no escaping it.’’

‘‘My destiny? I have a destiny?’’

‘‘As do we all.’’ Mingma’s slanted brown eyes watched and weighed Karen’s impatient movements.

‘‘Yeah, but right now mine sucks.’’ Karen paced back, picked up her cup, and poured herself some tea. ‘‘So I take it we’re digging close to the place where the villagers buried their heart?’’

‘‘The heart of evil. The mountain will protect it against the machines, the men—and you.’’

Karen had trained herself not to be sensitive. With a father like hers, to be sensitive was to ask to be hurt. But right now, as the problems multiplied and she lost her apparently feeble hold on sanity, this felt very personal. She lifted her resentful gaze to the mountain and rose to her feet. ‘‘We’re almost finished with the site prep, damn you, and I swear—’’

Mingma leaped to her feet. ‘‘Don’t, miss, don’t swear, don’t provoke the—’’

An inhuman scream pierced the air.

The two women raced to the edge overlooking the job site.

The men were running, scattering like rodents away from a trap. One man fell getting out of his excavator. He crawled a few yards, looked behind him in obvious terror, scrambled to his feet, and fled.

Phil was yelling at them, gesturing wildly, trying to herd them back to work.

They paid him no heed.

As Mingma watched the panic, her face was still, carved from stone. ‘‘So. It has begun.’’

Mingma caught her arm and swung her back around. ‘‘Don’t, miss. Don’t go down there!’’

But duty called, and Karen always answered. ‘‘I have to.’’

‘‘Run with me. If you come now, I can save you!’’ Desperation filled Mingma’s eyes.

‘‘It’s all right. I’ll be fast.’’ Karen shook her off.

Mingma unlooped the string of bells and wound them around her own wrist. ‘‘Miss, I must leave. Please come with me!’’

‘‘Go on, then. It’s okay. I’ll catch up with you!’’ Karen scrambled down the rugged path as quickly as she could, hearing the chime of the holy bells as Mingma fled in the opposite direction.

As she reached the first pile of rubble, Phil met her. ‘‘For shit’s sake, it’s just an old burial. A mummy, it looks like.’’

‘‘An archeological find?’’ Karen’s heart sank.

An archeological find was the bane of commercial construction. It meant work had to stop while they called in the authorities to determine its importance and excavate the remains.

‘‘If we don’t tell anybody, we can dispose of the body and keep building—’’

She gave Phil a withering look. ‘‘Like nobody’s going to hear those men screaming their heads off.’’

‘‘I can shut ’em up,’’ he said sulkily.

‘‘But can you make them return to work?’’ She walked toward the still-running backhoe and turned it off. The situation was obvious now. The operator had lifted one of the huge boulders out of the way, and there, nestled in a hollow, was a cloth-wrapped bundle.

The skull was clearly visible, and that must have set off the panic. ‘‘Turn off the rest of the machines,’’ she told Phil. ‘‘We can’t waste the gas. It’s too hard to find and way too expensive.’’

As Phil obeyed, she went and knelt beside the body.

It was the body of a child, maybe five years old, curled up and resting on its side in a hollow in the stone, with its hand tucked under its cheek as if asleep. The high, dry, cold air had dried its skin, stretching it across the bones, giving the body personality.

It had been a pretty child. Its fine woven clothing was still intact, with only a few holes and frayed edges, and Karen could see faded colors that decorated its robe. A hammered gold necklace hung around its neck, gold earrings pierced its ears, and a bracelet wrapped its . . .
her
narrow wrist. Another cloth lay under the body and protected her from the cold stone.

A beloved child. An important child. A child interred with love and care—and brutally sacrificed.

For among the wisps of pale brown hair that still clung to her head, a hole cleanly pierced the child’s skull.

‘‘Ah.’’ Karen’s eyes filled with tears. ‘‘You poor thing.’’ She knew she shouldn’t touch it— when the archeologists arrived, they would scold her mightily. But something about the girl called to her. Something about that long-ago murder broke her heart.

Reaching out a trembling hand, she laid it gently on the child’s head—and the child opened her eyes.

They were aquamarine, like Karen’s—
like Karen’s
—and the girl
looked
at her. Karen clearly saw the wealth of sorrow that filled those eyes before they closed again—and the body crumbled to dust beneath her touch.

Karen knelt, frozen, disbelieving, knowing what she’d seen and knowing it was impossible.

She glanced wildly around her, wanting someone close, another living human, but there was only Phil, sitting in the seat of the excavator, cursing the engine as it sputtered and moaned.

She looked again at the shrunken clothes, the gold glistening in the dust of the body.

And in the place where the head had rested, where the bones of the child’s head had held it, was a square white tile a few inches across. Carefully Karen lifted it from among the remains. With a gentle hand she brushed it clean, and gazed at it.

It was an icon, a stylized painting of the Virgin Mary of the type that had hung in Russian homes for over a thousand years. Her cherry red robe and glittering halo made the icon a precious work, yet it was Mary’s large, dark, sad eyes, looking at right at Karen, and the single silver tear that traced her cheek that brought answering tears to Karen’s eyes. This was the Mary of sacrifice, the mother who had given her son to save the world.

Karen’s gaze shifted to the dust of the child slaughtered in obedience to the devil’s command.

Had
her
mother cried as they drove the pick through her skull?

The village had sacrificed their heart . . .

High above her, the mountain groaned, and again Karen would have sworn someone—or perhaps some
thing
—watched her.

She looked up Anaya.

The peak lifted itself toward the sky, and it seemed to have grown, swelling from the inside, the fires of the underworld pressing it upward.

She looked around—and saw him.

A strange man, dressed all in black, poised on the cliff’s edge overlooking the building site. He stood perfectly still, a living statue betrayed only by the wind that blew his long black hair and beard.

He stared.

She stared.

Neither moved.

Who was this man who watched her with such ferocity?

Then Phil’s voice, directly behind her, made her jump. ‘‘Hey, what’s that?’’

His hand reached over her shoulder.

She jerked the icon back to her bosom.

But he plucked the gold necklace out of the dust of an ancient tragedy. ‘‘Son of a bitch, what do you think this is worth?’’

‘‘Don’t!’’ She wrapped her hand around his wrist.

‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘The archeologists will be furious that you touched—’’

‘‘It’s not like
you
were waiting.’’ His fat finger flicked the icon she held.

‘‘It wasn’t like that!’’

‘‘Yeah, right.’’ He grinned into her face, all white teeth in a round, pink face. ‘‘You grabbed what you wanted fast enough.’’

He was completely, utterly obnoxious, a greedy worm of a man . . . the kind of guy the evil mountain drew to itself.

Maybe he was at home here, but she was not. She’d seen that child’s eyes open. She knew now that the old legends were true. And for all that she had trained herself to be tough and strong, she knew better than to challenge the devil. ‘‘I’m getting out of here,’’ she whispered.

The earth trembled, rattling like old, cold bones beneath her knees and feet.

Slowly she rose.

Earthquake?

No, but high above them she heard the mountain give a deep-throated rumble.

‘‘Phil, did you hear that?’’

‘‘Yeah. So? It does that all the time.’’ He planted his knees in the dust of sacrifice. ‘‘What happened to the body? Did the air make it disintegrate? I wonder what’s hidden in the clothes?’’

Sacrilege. Sacrilege!

‘‘Phil, don’t!’’ Another rumble shook the air, and a huge
crack
sounded as the mountain’s bones broke. ‘‘Phil, come on. It’s dangerous here.’’

‘‘In a minute.’’

The urge to stop him warred with the need to escape. She was poised on her toes, ready to run. ‘‘The mountain’s coming down!’’

‘‘Look at the gold they buried with this kid!’’ He dug through the remains.

She tugged on his shoulder. ‘‘We’ve got to run!’’

He turned on her, his lips drawn back, his teeth glistening with spit. ‘‘Run, then. This is mine!’’

Shocked by the demon of greed that peered from his red-rimmed eyes, she jumped back. Glanced up. Saw the dust of the massive rockfall shuddering toward her. Heard the sound of tons of stone descending the mountain. Realized that Mount Anaya had at last decided to crush them and their presumption.

She ran. Ran as hard and as fast as she could away from this place. From the heart of evil.

The ground shuddered. The noise rose, a cacophony of shattering stone and a roar that sounded like . . . like a motor.

A big, black motorcycle cut in front of her. Stopped. The stranger, the man who’d watched her from above, sat on the seat, his eyes ablaze with urgency. He snatched her around the waist, pulled her on behind him.

She grasped him.

He hit the accelerator.

They tore across the site, the bike hitting holes and rocks. The front tire danced to a crazy beat. He couldn’t control the machine. He was going to kill them.

But he stood on the pedals. He skidded, leaned, avoided.

She wanted to scream in fear. And maybe she did. Then a glance behind them made her lean forward, urging him faster.

For the rockfall chased them, fueled by gravity and the mountain’s spite. Boulders as big as buildings slammed behind them like a stone giant’s footsteps, each one coming closer . . . closer. Anaya groaned with exertion. Dust rose, obscuring the sky, the site . . . Phil.

Phil had disappeared, crushed somewhere within the massive pile of rock.

Mount Anaya had once again protected the heart of evil.

Turning her head away, she pressed her face into the leather jacket.

He smelled of cold water, fresh air, and wildness.

She started.

She knew that scent. She’d dreamed about it every night.

This was her lover—not a dream, as she hoped; not madness, as she feared; but a man of daring and courage.

Of course. Who else would defy death to rescue her?

Desperately, she clung to him as Mount Anaya threw its final efforts into their destruction, bouncing boulders like huge rubber balls. The stones collided with one another, smashing into massive shards, sharp and evil. Slivers of rock battered her. Millions of tons of granite obliterated the old paths, the embattled plants, all evidence of the past.

The motorcycle reached the far side of the valley.

The dust cloud enveloped them.

The ground rose.

Each collision of boulder against earth rattled the bike and broke the ground.

Mount Anaya had won. Death had them in its grasp when the motorcycle broke over the top of the promontory and flew through the air—into nothingness.