Rogue Angel - Restless Soul Part 8

"Now, not later," she told herself. She'd not wormed her way through the tunnels and risked the rising river to wait.

The waxy material broke loose and crumbled in her fingers. She held it in front of the flashlight. It was clay, dried by the years.

The lid shifted. She hesitated for just the barest fraction of a second, and then swiftly plucked it off.

Something threw her backward. Pressure slammed into her chest, like so much compressed air, and shoved. Something she couldn't see.

Images flashed through her mind. The paint-smeared faces beaded with sweat and the rain, visages filled with a mix of wonder and horror and finally relief.

She heard the rat-a-tat-tat. rat-a-tat-tat. Her mind wanted it to be rain, but she knew in her gut it wasn't. There were shouts in a language she couldn't understand, a voice thick with a Southern accent shouting. Her mind wanted it to be rain, but she knew in her gut it wasn't. There were shouts in a language she couldn't understand, a voice thick with a Southern accent shouting.

"Annja? Annja!"

She blinked. Reality slammed back into her mind, shutting out the voices.

Luartaro was standing over her, holding out his hand. "Are you all right?"

She nodded and picked herself up without his help. "I'm fine. Just slipped." Another lie to Luartaro.

"Find something interesting?"

She looked down at the skull bowl, but she didn't touch it again. "Just this. It has dog tags in it."

"Odd place for dog tags, but then this is an odd place for golden Buddhas and crumpled cigarette packs." He took a few pictures of the bowl, and then one just of her. "I'd like to send some pictures of this to the university where I teach. Never saw anything like it." He took several more pictures of the bowl. "I'd like to get that translated. I don't recognize the script."

When Luartaro turned to take more pictures of the rest of the treasure, Annja gingerly touched the bowl, poised to jerk her hand back if anything happened. The voices were gone, as were the impressions of the men's painted faces. She picked up the bowl, cradling it carefully in her hands.

The dog tags were coated with dried blood, and more dried blood covered the bottom of the bowl. The blood had been at least an inch thick when it was poured in. Her stomach knotted at the sight. She stirred the tags with her finger and read the names. Some of them were difficult to make out, the caked blood so thick. But she flecked it off with her fingernails. Thomsen, Gary A., Baptist; Everett, Timothy J., Catholic; Moore, Gordon A., Lutheran; Winn, Edgar B., Baptist; Mitch.e.l.l, Samuel R., Baptist; Farrar, Harold B., Methodist; Collins, Robert B., Catholic; Wallem, Otis H., Methodist; Seger, James A., Jewish; Duncan, Ralph G., Lutheran. There were also blood types and social security numbers on each tag, nothing to indicate rank or home city, and USA USA to stand for United States Army. to stand for United States Army.

Not from World War II. Dog tags then had serial numbers, not social security numbers. Somewhere she had picked up a bit of trivia about dog tags, and it had served her well during a session of Trivial Pursuit. Dog tags had been used by the military since 1906. The ones just prior to and around the early part of World War II listed the first name of the soldier, the middle initial, the surname, serial number, blood type, next of kin and address. From 1941 to 1943 they included immunizations such as teta.n.u.s, and the soldier's religion. They dropped the address line in the latter part of the war. In 1959, dog tags switched from their rounded shape to rectangular.

These were rectangular, so definitely post WWII, Annja decided.

And not from the Korean War. If she remembered correctly, it was in 1965 that the dog tags changed again, to use social security numbers rather than serial numbers. So these dog tags were from 1965 to more recent times.

Because of the images of the jungle, she doubted they were from Operation Desert Storm or any other Middle Eastern struggle. And while they could have come from soldiers serving at a base in the jungle recently, she somehow doubted it.

The images had to be soldiers from the Vietnam War. The jungle and paint from the vision, and their location, made her fairly certain.

She felt a sense of relief and an even greater sense of peace. She'd done whatever it was she was supposed to do simply by taking the lid off the skull bowl. She'd somehow freed the spirits.

Had the soldiers the tags once belonged to been captured? Killed? Were they MIAs?

Annja knew a soldier wore two tags on a chain; if he died one tag was removed and brought back with the men who discovered the body. Often the other was placed in his mouth so he could be identified when his body was returned home.

Could she find records of these men?

"We take nothing," she'd told Luartaro and Zakkarat of the treasure chamber. But she was taking this bowl and the dog tags.

In taking the skull she was taking a nightmare thing, not a glittering relic, and somehow that seemed to make it okay.

Annja retrieved her pack, which Zakkarat was eyeing as if he was about to fill it. She removed the last few pitons, and placed the bowl inside. It wouldn't break, though the ceramic lid might. She had nothing to pad it with, so she cut off one of her pant legs from the knee down and used it to wrap the lid. It would suffice, and she would travel carefully.

She took the dog tags out of the bowl, thinking that she should keep them separate from the skull.

"What is it?" she asked again of the skull. She'd seen hundreds of artifacts through her years as an archaeologist. She was normally less judgmental of antiquities, but this piece seemed sinister. She would get to town-Mae Hong Son or Chiang Mai-by whatever means available and contact some of her internet resources as soon as possible.

Then she would find a way to come back to this chamber with a camera crew, laptop computer, maybe some local archaeologists to help doc.u.ment everything. She remembered Zakkarat mentioning an archaeological team from Bangkok working in the range by Tham Lod Cave. Surely they would want to come here.

They'd spirit everything off to museums. Doc.u.ment it all.

Everything except the sinister bowl-that was for Annja to study.

She noticed that Zakkarat, Luartaro or both of them working together had opened some of the larger crates. They seemed to be filled with a lot more packing material and more antiquities. Luartaro took a few pictures, nudged Zakkarat back and then resealed one of the crates.

She briefly thought about searching for more skull bowls, but she'd heard no more voices in her head, and the chill that had gripped her earlier was gone.

Instinct told her there were no more such bowls.

She walked around the chamber, surveying the piles of treasure. Pieces stood out-embossments, vessels, jars, axes, rings, earrings. They were made of ceramic, gold, wood, stone and silver. Some things were impossibly smooth, like a river had worn away many of the imperfections and most of the details.

"Whoever put this stuff here will be back for it," Luartaro said. "Maybe they're waiting for buyers, or for a way to transport it. This certainly is not the intended final destination."

"It's all illegal," Annja said. "Whatever is going on here is highly illegal. If this was an honest operation, these antiquities would be in a warehouse or someplace else, protected and dry-not in a damp cavern in the mountains that we found in desperation and by accident. There would be guards and security, maybe sensors and definitely cameras."

"So we we will find the police or whatever authority polices this mountain," Luartaro said. "We'll get somebody out here, and they'll take care of it." will find the police or whatever authority polices this mountain," Luartaro said. "We'll get somebody out here, and they'll take care of it."

At least one thing has been taken care of, Annja thought, considering the bowl in her backpack. She suspected Luartaro had seen her take the bowl. Certainly he'd noticed that she was missing part of the leg of her pants. But he hadn't said anything. Maybe he didn't mind that she'd taken a "souvenir," as he didn't seem too upset that Zakkarat had stuffed his pockets.

"You're not taking that pack," Annja told Zakkarat.

"Annjacreed, you have no right to-"

"You heard the lady," Luartaro said. "Your pockets are plenty full." He pointed to the Thai man's chest. A gold chain with a topaz-encrusted fob hung from it. "You've taken more than enough to be a rich man."

With a soft snarl, Zakkarat sat the bag down. "You've no right," he said softly.

"Neither do you, Zakkarat," Annja returned.

Just then a thick bolt of lightning cut across the sky above the hole. The mountain seemed to rock with thunder.

"Man has a lot of dirt that G.o.d needs to wash away," Luartaro said.

8.

"You're right, Annja. No use waiting out the storm," Luartaro said.

He gave the rope ladder a tug. "It should hold. We need to get back and find out who should be notified about all of this."

And so I can also set the proverbial wheels in motion to find out about the skull bowl, Annja thought.

Zakkarat's gaze traveled from Luartaro and the rope to Annja, and then reluctantly to the bag she'd forced him to leave behind. "No. There is no reason to wait out the storm," he said. He shook his head in disappointment and started climbing up the ladder.

Luartaro held the bottom to steady it.

"This storm might last for days, Annjacreed," their guide said.

"After you, Annja." Luartaro shrugged as if he was also reluctant to leave the wealth.

Annja waited until Zakkarat was all the way up, and then she started, placing the flashlight in her pack, and making sure the bag was secure over her shoulders.

Now that they were leaving, her mind began to race with all that had to be done and her stomach churned.

The authorities needed to be notified.

She wanted to get a film crew here before looters or the authorities could spirit all of it away.

They'd likely leave the coffins, though, she decided. They'd left the coffins in the other caves.

Her crew could film them, and she and Luartaro had hundreds of shots of the treasure to supplement whatever show was put together.

Work had intruded on her precious vacation, after all. And she'd had to summon her sword to break through the earth wall. That part of her life had intruded, too, but fortunately she'd managed to convince Luartaro he hadn't seen a sword.

The hole in the cavern roof was just south of an overgrown and thoroughly muddy trail. Perhaps the cavern had been discovered by accident when someone went off the trail, walked across a thin section of rock and broke through. Maybe that particular someone decided to hide the treasure inside.

As she emerged, Annja spotted a tarp caught on a bush and guessed that it had been used to camouflage the hole, but the storm had blown it loose. The rain beat down on her helmet. It pelted her shoulders, almost painful in its intensity.

The ground she and Zakkarat stood on had turned into a sluicy mixture of mud and gravel. She stared at the trail, which was at best wide enough for a vehicle and more likely had been used for mountain bikes.

"Difficult to get a Jeep up here, Annjacreed," Zakkarat said.

"Inaccessible," she said. "Except to someone who is very determined."

"But people did not carry the Buddhas here in their arms, Annjacreed. And they truly did not manage that..." Zakkarat paused, searching for an English word. "h.o.a.rd," he said. "They did not manage to hide that h.o.a.rd in one trip. Many, many trips, maybe."

He didn't meet her gaze when she looked up; he was clearly still regretting that she'd convinced him to leave the treasure-stuffed pack behind. Annja thought he also looked a little bit ashamed, perhaps because of the looting-even if he was doing it to help his family.

She looked around, trying to get her bearings.

They were in a low spot in the mountains, and the rest of the range rose like the spiny backbone of some prehistoric creature all around them. The highest peaks were to the north.

It was difficult to make out details because the vegetation was so thick and the trees so tall. And all of that was blurred into a miasma of greens and browns by the driving rain.

She canted her head up and squinted through the rain. The clouds were swollen and the color of iron.

Luartaro joined them and tugged the rope ladder up and rolled it. "No use making it easy on whoever has been visiting this spot. Let's get rid of this just in case they come back here before we do."

He worked the ends of the ladder free from clamps that had been hammered into the stone. "Got to find a spot to hide this."

He pointed to a clump of high, thick ferns, the leaves of which were flattened down from the rain. "See? We'll be able to find this place again. A parrot plant. Pretty rare even for this area. Find the parrot plant, find the treasure."

Next to the ferns was a delicate-looking plant that had rosy blossoms in the shapes of parrots hanging upside down. Most of the flowers had been smashed against the ground by the storm.

He bent to stuff the coiled rope ladder under the fern, and then straightened in surprise. "What's this? Annja, it seems this hiding place is already being used."

She slogged toward him and peered around the ferns. "A winch and cable. So that's how they got the treasure into the chamber."

She knelt and examined it. "But it's broken, the motor's burned here and here. They probably discarded it."

"And will have to come back with another one," Luartaro added.

"We should get going." Annja stood and looked to Zakkarat. She had an innate sense of direction and didn't get lost easily, but this section of the mountains-like all of Northern Thailand-was wholly unfamiliar to her. "Can you tell where we are? How far we might be from your Jeep?"

The guide scratched his head. "I am not sure," he said after a moment. He slowly turned, raising and lowering his eyes, and then shrugging. "We cannot be terribly far from anything, Annjacreed. There are many tribes in and around the mountains. More tribes now than there were a few years ago. A few thousand Karen from Myanmar-Burma-settled here not long ago to avoid fighting in their country. Other tribes divide."

"Karen?" Annja asked.

"Yes, but not the long-necked ones the tourists like to see. So if I cannot find the Jeep, I will find a tribe. I will get home, and you will get to your lodge." He dug the ball of his foot into the muddy path and pointed south. "And this muddy little road must lead somewhere, yes? We will not be lost for long." He started walking without another word.

She gave a last look at the cavern opening, and then plodded forward, pa.s.sing Zakkarat in a few strides. If he didn't know where they were, she might as well take the lead.

The rain felt good against her skin, neither cold nor warm but more than tolerable on this summer day. It smelled good, it and the trees and mud, chasing out the last trace of mustiness from the cave and all the guano that she'd smelled in the various chambers and knew wasn't good for her.

She nimbly avoided what looked like a deep rut from a tire, filled with water and ringed by small green frogs that made chirping sounds.

They quieted and leaped away when Zakkarat, not walking as carefully, stomped by in his effort to catch up with Annja.

She listened to the slap of his boots against the mud and the jangle of coins and whatever else he'd managed to stuff in his pockets.

It continued to grate on her, the notion that he'd stolen some of the treasure. But she did her best to force her displeasure down...and she decided she would not tell any authorities of his theft.

Let Zakkarat provide well for his family and other Shan members. She couldn't fault a man for wanting to do that, and she'd prevented him from taking out the rest, after all. And she, too, was guilty of removing the skull bowl.

She hitched her pack higher onto her back. The bowl pressed against her spine through the canvas.

Zakkarat poked her shoulder. "Annjacreed, what is this finder's fee you talked about? When will I get this fee? How many baht will it be?"

As if you don't have enough treasure, she thought. "I don't know how many baht. A finder's fee is typically what an agency gives someone for discovering a thing of value or interest. Sometimes it is a percentage of the value of the find, occasionally negotiated. Sometimes museums or universities give them, and sometimes-"

"I should have taken more treasure," he fumed. "And you should not have stopped me." Zakkarat chattered in Thai-profanities, she guessed-waving a hand that had several gold rings on it. She pushed his voice to the back of her mind.

At least the odd, chilling sensation had not returned since she'd discovered the bowl and its contents.