The Secret Of Ka Part 1

The Secret of Ka.

by Christopher Pike.

Chapter One.

An entire summer in turkey alone with m y father. When I first heard about the trip, I was so excited, I didn't sleep for two days. But now that I had logged the obligatory twenty hours of jet travel that it took to get to the middl e east and another week in Istanbul itself-the hot and crowde d capital of turkey- I was having second thoughts . M ost of my doubts arose from just two of the above words: h ot ot and and crowded crowded . I . I f I was not in an air-conditioned room, I felt a s if my clothes squeezed like a deep-sea wetsuit. And if my roo m didn't have every window tightly sealed, then my ears ached . f I was not in an air-conditioned room, I felt a s if my clothes squeezed like a deep-sea wetsuit. And if my roo m didn't have every window tightly sealed, then my ears ached .

T he turks were so loud! Often I thought the problem wa s something as simple as mistaking the horn on their cars for th e brake . I had yet to master their bus system . T axis were my mai n form of transportation, but riding one was like working as a bouncer at a heavy metal concert . I mean, why would any drive r use his brake when he could hit the horn and swear? I had tried running the complaint by my father before h e left for work-the only time I ever saw him-but he laughe d and said that all foreign languages sound loud when you don' t understand them .

"h.e.l.l . T hat's ridiculous," I said .

"S hh, Sara , don't swear. Remember , you're in an Ara b country. "

" h.e.l.l h.e.l.l is a swear word here? " is a swear word here? "

" Yes. "

" Gosh darn, I didn't know," I replied sarcastically . M y father frowned but didn't reply. He merely returned to b.u.t.terin g his toast . T he truth was, I was annoyed with him . I had no t given up my summer to go sightseeing . I wanted to be with him .

But after sharing a two-bedroom hotel suite for a week, we ha d yet to spend a single day together. He had not even picked m e up at the airport, but had sent some guy with a turban wh o worked for him to deposit me at the five-star hotel that ha d been home for the last seven days .

During that week I'd only seen Dad at breakfast and for a few minutes each night, when he would stumble back to ou r s uite, totally fried. He'd kiss me on the cheek and ask if I'd ha d a nice day . N aturally , because he looked so tired, I'd smile an d say, sure, had a great time. Which made not an iota of sense sinc e I did the same thing each day: which was absolutely nothing . T o put it mildly, by the seventh day, I was going nuts . T hen, finally, fortune smiled on me, and I met Amesh . I was sitting in the hotel restaurant, eating carrot cake an d ice cream, when a cute Turkish guy came pedaling up on a moped. He parked outside the hotel and hurried into the lobb y with a package that sported the logo of my father's firm . I wa s sure it was a Becktar enterprises package and that it was for m y father. We were the only foreigners the company had stowed a t the Hilton . I jumped from my seat, gestured to the waiter to put th e half-eaten dessert on my bill, and ran to the lobby. He was panting as I approached. He had on long white shorts that hid th e better part of his muscular legs, and a long-sleeve white shirt- w hich was odd, since it was over a hundred degrees outside . T hen I noticed that his shirt was knotted at the end of the righ t sleeve-tied so far up his arm, there was no room for anythin g beneath it .

He was missing his right hand . T he deformity did not bother me. Honestly, I found i t intriguing . I wondered if he had lost it in battle. We were in a n Arab country, after all . I f you could believe my father, blood y wars were being waged outside our hotel every night .

But to be honest, his missing hand probably didn't bothe r me because he was ridiculously cute, though not Hollywoo d handsome. He didn't look like anybody I had ever met before .

His hair was long and black, but not curly, unlike the vast majority of turkey's population. He wore it in a ponytail tied wit h a rubber band .

His features were oversize: large dark eyes, thick lush lips, e ven his nose was too big for his face. Yet somehow the combination worked, and what we had left was pure babe . R eally, bac k home at my school, if you took a hundred girls and asked i f they'd like to get to know him better, all one hundred woul d have said yes . I felt kind of lucky I had him all to myself .

"I s that package for Charles Wilc.o.x?" I asked as the woma n at the desk prepared to sign the guy's form. He had alread y placed the package on the counter, and he did glance over at me, b ut I must not have made much of an impression because h e turned back to the woman and said something in turkish . S h e responded in kind and the two of them went about their lovel y business and basically ignored me . I told myself I should have been relieved. For once tw o turks were having a quiet conversation and not giving me a headache . N evertheless, I resented being ignored. After all, I was a visitor to their country, an d I had suffered to reach their land . T he y could at least show me some respect by acknowledging I existed . T hey continued to babble at a thousand words a minute .

For all I knew, they were talking about how immoral American s were . I t might have been their rudeness, or else I was just in a foul mood, but something inside me snapped . I reached ove r and grabbed the package .

"I 'm going to take this," I said . "S ee the Charles Wilco Charles Wilco x x spelled out here? that's my father. And see the six red lines ove r here? that stands for Becktar . T hat's the company he works for . spelled out here? that's my father. And see the six red lines ove r here? that stands for Becktar . T hat's the company he works for .

You don't have to worry about it; I'll make sure he gets it. Bye." I walked away . I did not get far before I was attacked. Well, m aybe that's too strong a word. But the guy did not ask for th e package back, in en glish or turkish. He tried to yank it out o f my hands, which was too bad since the floor was made of ver y slippery marble .

He sent me toppling . I was lucky to land on my b.u.t.t, yet I still felt a painful jolt inside my head. But I did not let go of th e package . T he way he stared down at me, you would have though t I had tried to steal his moped or slaughtered one of his sacre d lambs or something .

He was furious! I was furious! We screamed at each othe r for a whole minute before I realized that he was speaking en glish . I t was only then that I stopped to listen to what he wa s saying .

"S illy girl, I didn't hurt you," he said, his accent not nearl y as thick as the other turks I had met. "You tried to steal m y package."

"Your package!" I said. "Where does it say it belongs t o you? Huh? And didn't I point out-just before you hit me- t hat it has my father's name on it? "

"I didn't hit you," he said .

"A re you Sara Wilc.o.x?" the woman behind the counte r asked . S he was not as upset as I would have expected . S ecretly, s he was probably enjoying the whole scene .

"Yes. I'm Sara Wilc.o.x," I said . "M y father's Charles Wilc.o.x . T his package is for him . I was just trying to do you two a favo r and deliver it to him. But I can see my help is not appreciated."

He stared at me, puzzled. "Why do you keep sitting o n the floor? "

"B ecause you're too rude to offer me a hand to get up." th e words were no sooner out of my mouth than I realized it migh t sound cra.s.s to criticize a guy for not offering a hand when h e only had one hand. But my fear was probably unfounded. H e quickly offered me his good hand and helped me to my feet .

"T hank you," I said, brushing off my b.u.t.t .

"You're welcome," he replied. "Can I have the package back?"

A stroke of genius struck . I suddenly realized that if I played my cards right, I could use this package, and this guy, t o take me straight to my father. After all this time, I still did no t know where he worked .

"Don't worry about it . I said i'd give it to my dad."

"But the woman at the counter has to scan it into he r computer. "

"S orry, she won't be scanning today," I said as I held up th e address slip, which had torn during our fight. "tell your bos s not to worry . M y dad will get the package. You have my word." I walked away . I was not positive he was following until I reached the elevator-i refused to turn around and check-bu t I was not surprised . T he guy was starting to look worried .

"I need it back," he said .

"T rust me," I said . "M y dad will get it. "

" You don't understand . I f the woman at the desk doesn' t scan the slip, she won't give me a piece of paper that I have t o give to my boss to show I was here. "

" Have your boss call me . I'll tell him you were here . I'll even leave out the part where you hit me. "

"I didn't hit you. "

" You keep saying that. How did I end up on the floor? "

" You slipped and fell. "

"A fter taking a brutal hit." the elevator rang and the doo r opened . "E xcuse me, gotta go." Getting on the elevator, I pushe d the tenth floor b.u.t.ton. "Bye."

He jumped in beside me . T he elevator doors closed an d for the first time he looked me straight in the face. He wa s so interesting-looking, it made me wonder how I appeared i n his eyes .

That June, I had just turned fifteen, and my frame was lon g and lanky . I was five-six, still growing, but I did not have muc h of a chest . M y most formidable a.s.sets were my bright blue eye s and long blond hair . T hey received plenty of compliments, fro m girls and guys . M y nose was kind of small . M y mother had gone throug h a phase where she called me "b.u.t.ton," as in "b.u.t.ton nose"- a nd she had wondered why I did not speak to her that year .

High-priced braces had given my smile some amps .

But what did I have to smile about? I was trapped i n istanbul for the summer . T rapped in an elevator with a cut e turkish guy who didn't like me. Of course, I was the one torturing him . T o be blunt, I was behaving badly . I t might have bee n his extraordinary s.e.xiness that had thrown me off. Or else it wa s my desire to get to my father . T he elevator stopped on the tenth floor and I got off . T h e guy did not-sigh-and I realized that I was about to lose m y excitement for the day. Yet he held the elevator door open .

"What's your problem?" he asked .

"M y problem? I have a whole a.s.sortment of problems .

What's today? Wednesday? I'm usually a monster come th e middle of the week." i t was supposed to be a joke. He didn't smile; he didn' t even speak .

"Do you work just for Becktar?" I asked, trying to chang e the subject. "Or do you deliver packages for lots of companies?"

" I work for Becktar . T he same as your father." I suddenly brightened. "You know my father? "

" Yes. "

" Do you work in the same place? Out at the job site? "

" When I'm not making deliveries. I'm a gofer. Becktar ha s another office in town full of executives . T hat's where this package is from. "

"A gofer. Cool. Look, I want to see my dad. But I don' t know where your job site is. Can you take me there? Or can I take you there?"

He let go of the elevator door and stepped onto th e tenth floor .

"Do I get my package back?" he asked . I handed him the torn address slip. "this is al l you need. "

"T hank you . . . Sara . "

" What's your name? "

"A mesh. Amesh Demir." I offered my hand. " Sara sashee Wilc.o.x. "

"N ice name. "

" Do we have a deal?"

He stared at my hand before shaking it. "Okay. "

" How old are you, anyway? "

" Eighteen . "

"S ure ," I said .

He stiffened. "How old are you?"

" Seventeen . "

" You don't look that old. "

" Looks can be deceiving. "

" Where are you from?" he asked .

" R aleigh. Know where that is? "

"N orth Carolina." I was impressed. "Clever boy. You a local? "

" Yes." He sighed. "A taxi will charge fifty lira to drive u s out there . M ore if I don't argue the price . T hat's just one way. "

" Great. Argue all you want. Just come with me and giv e the driver directions." I started walking toward my suite. H e followed .

"I t's none of my business but don't you see your fathe r after work? "

" Look, Amesh, it's complicated . I know I'm asking for a favor, but I'm willing to give one in return . I t's boiling outside .

You don't want to ride your moped all the way back to the site .

Come with me and you can relax in the back seat of an airconditioned taxi." I paused. "You might even discover that yo u enjoy my company."

He was interested but hesitant. "Girls aren't allowed wher e the men work. "

" Christ, that's ridiculous," I snapped .

"S hh, Sara , don't swear, this is an Arab country. "

" Christ Christ is a swear word here? Wait, never mind, I'm sure i t is. Look, there's got to be some women who work there." is a swear word here? Wait, never mind, I'm sure i t is. Look, there's got to be some women who work there."

"T here are a few. But the site's dangerous . I t's easy . . ." H e hesitated, before adding, "to get hurt there." i t hit me then that he had probably lost his hand at work .

We stopped in front of room 1026 . "I f you don't min d waiting, I'll just be a few minutes," I said .

"Okay," he said . I t sounded like he was finally agreeing t o my plan . I hurried inside and grabbed my bag and a wad of turkish bills from my dad's room . I put on a hat along with m y sungla.s.ses .

Before leaving the suite, I placed the package on th e night table beside my father's bed and swiped two bottles o f c.o.ke from the minibar. When Amesh saw the soda, his fac e lit up. He had the whitest teeth . I opened a bottle and hande d it over .

"T hank you." He must have been thirsty. He gulped dow n half of it before adding, "i'll take you there, but the taxi has t o drop me away from the front gate . M y boss doesn't pay m e enough to ride in taxis. You have to get yourself inside. "

"T hat won't be a problem," I replied .

Downstairs, he gave the woman at the desk the battere d address slip, and she was able to read enough of it to give hi m the paperwork he needed . T he perimeter of the hotel was always crowded with taxis .

One lira, I knew, was worth roughly two-thirds an America n dollar . S o fifty lira-or thirty-five bucks-was not cheap for a o ne-way ride . T hen again, I wasn't paying for it; my father was .

Fair was fair, I thought. He was the one who had locked me u p in the blasted hotel for the last week .

Amesh had been right about having to argue with the tax i driver . S ince they spoke turkish, I didn't understand a word the y said, but it sounded like they were insulting each other's mothers . T wice they came close to blows. But finally it was settled, a nd the driver loaded Amesh's moped in the trunk and we wer e on our way .

"How much is he charging us?" I asked .

"Fifty lira," Amesh replied .

"You knew that ahead of time. He must have know n the price. "