Shadows In The Night

Jensen Morrow came striding through the temple area. He apparently saw Harley, but not Micah Fox, probably because he stood in the shadow of a carved obelisk.

“I knew I’d find you here!” Jensen told Harley, heading toward her for a huge hug.

He’d written his thesis, gotten his graduate degree and taken a job here as an assistant curator, making use of his doctorate in Egyptology. He’d been her friend through her suspicions, her anger, her demands—and her final defeat, when she’d realized that nothing was going to be done.

No one was ever going to make her believe that Henry Tomlinson had been convinced that a mummy was attacking him—while strangling himself with his own belt.

Jensen, she was certain, had just given up. He’d been told the lie so many times that to him, it had become truth.

Harley accepted Jensen’s hug; she still cared about him. When they’d first met, they’d hit it off as friends. They might have become more at one time; he was fun, energetic and thoughtful, not to mention tall, dark and handsome. But everything had changed the night Henry Tomlinson died.

Even though she didn’t see the friends she’d made in Egypt very often—they were all busy working, getting on with their lives—they had all stayed friends. They were, in fact, oddly close; they had shared the experience of the dig, Henry Tomlinson’s death and the escape from the desert under dire circumstances in the middle of the night. All of that meant they had an emotional bond few people shared.

And yet it was a closeness stained with the loss of the man they’d all adored. Stained, too, by the way they’d fled on the very night he died, swept up in a reign of terror.

She’d gone on to finish her own graduate work, head bent to her studies, and had taken part-time work with a prestigious investigation firm in the city so that she could still take classes when she chose while deciding what path to take for her future. It felt right, for the time being. But she had to make some real decisions soon. And yet, even as she’d worked toward her educational and career goals, she had felt that she was waiting. A temporary post—with flexible hours!—was all she’d been willing to accept at the moment.

“They’re about to start,” Jensen said, pulling away from her to study her face. That was when he rather awkwardly noticed there was someone else in the temple exhibit.

He offered Micah Fox a hand. “I’m sorry. How rude. I didn’t see you. I’m Jensen Morrow.”

“Micah Fox,” the other man returned. “And actually, we’ve spoken. Over the phone.”

“Oh! Hey, that was you?” Jensen said. “Wow. Was I vague when I talked to you? Or worse, rude? If I was, I didn’t mean to be. It’s just that...well, you had to be there that night. We found Henry—or, I should say, Harley found Henry—and by the time the medical examiner arrived, they were screaming that the insurgents were a few miles out and we had to break camp ASAP! I know Harley and I were going crazy with concern and disbelief and...well...hey,” he finished lamely.

“There wasn’t anything you could have done to change the situation,” Micah said.

“Well, you’re FBI, right? I guess if you couldn’t prove anything different from what was said or get anything done, Harley and I, who had no law enforcement power, couldn’t have done more than complain and question. Which we did. Who knows? The thing is—thing that got me, anyway—we weren’t in a closed or confined space. I mean if bacteria were going to get him, you might’ve thought someone else would’ve had a reaction or... Anyway, had you been assigned to the case—officially? The FBI works in Egypt? Or does it?”

“The FBI works all over the world, as necessary,” Micah replied. “But...I was there because of Henry.”

“Special Agent Fox was another of Henry’s grad students, but years ago,” Harley quickly explained.

“Ah,” Jensen murmured. That was obviously enough of an explanation. “I guess you were crazy about him, too.”

“I was. Brilliant man. Horrible circumstances.”

Jensen glanced at Harley. “I think we were the last people who saw him. Alive, I mean. Harley was trying to get him to come out with us. But you knew him. There was no way he was going to leave his work that night.”

“No, Henry wouldn’t want to leave his work.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Well, I think they must be about ready to start.”

“Let’s go.” Harley slid her fingers into Jensen’s and they left, nodding to Micah. It was ludicrous, but she was suddenly afraid to be too close to the man. He not only projected strength—he was someone warm when the world had been cold. Too confident, too attractive...

She could easily give in to her feelings of sadness and loss and even anger on a night like this. With a man like this.

She was aware of Micah watching them leave.

And she wondered what he was thinking.

* * *

HARLEY FRASIER, CRAIG’S COUSIN, was certainly a beautiful young woman, Micah thought, watching her leave, hand in hand with Jensen Morrow. He’d been studying her intently for some time before he’d spoken with her. It was evident that she had really cared about Henry. And he knew how Henry had felt about her.

According to Craig, she had wonderful parents and a great older brother, living grandparents, all kinds of family life. Micah’s parents had been lost in a bridge accident when he was a child; his aunt had raised him. Auntie Jane. He loved her and she was a talented and compassionate woman. But she was it as far as family went. He had no siblings, no cousins—no one else anywhere that he knew about. His family went far back in Virginia history; it had simply winnowed down to him and Jane.

His father had been FBI. People had feared the dangers of his job. They’d never imagined that he might die young because of a bridge collapse.

Henry Tomlinson had treated him like a son or grandson. He’d shared his enthusiasm for Egyptology with Micah. Henry had a family he adored. He hadn’t married, but he had a loving niece and nephew-in-law, and he was crazy about their kids.

He’d send Micah pictures of an unusual canopic jar right alongside ones of the kids with their new puppy. That was Henry.

Micah followed the pair who’d just left, wondering if he was indulging himself in an exercise of futility. Was the truth about Henry Tomlinson’s death ever going to be uncovered? Henry had been murdered, which was terrible enough, but it had happened on a night when both the Egyptian government and the US Department of State had been determined to get all the workers away from the site and out of the country. The group who’d planned the attack had called themselves The Ancient Guard.

Apparently, they hadn’t believed that Alchemy intended that the treasures they’d found would merely go on loan to the United States and other countries—and that they’d remain Egyptian property. Maybe they hadn’t cared. And maybe, like most militant groups, what The Ancient Guard wanted, religious and political ideology aside, was a chance to fight and stave off frustration. And probably steal the treasures to finance their fighting.

They’d either been beaten back or dissipated quickly when met with armed resistance.

Micah had gone to Cairo to investigate Henry’s death on an unofficial basis, and then to Rome, where the Alchemy crew had briefly stayed. Their communication had been by phone—he’d been a day behind each time everyone had moved on. And by the time he’d reached the States, it had all been too long.

Henry had been cremated, just as he’d instructed his niece to arrange in the event of his death. Then, of course, it was too late to bring in any experts.

But Henry had never suspected that he might be murdered.

And why would he?

Why the hell kill an academic like Henry? The man had never wanted or kept anything for himself—he’d never tried to slip away with even the smallest, most insignificant artifact. His work had always been about sharing treasures with the world.

Tonight... Well, tonight, Micah could watch. He could see the people who’d been close to Henry in his last days.

The grand foyer of the museum had been chosen for the site of the private gala opening. The center monument here was a massive replica of a temple from Mesopotamia that sat in the center of a skylit rotunda. The museum was beautiful, and just down the street from its larger cousin, the Metropolitan. Many design ideas that worked well in the first had been used in this newer museum. The offices were deep in the basement, for the most part. The museum was dedicated to the ancient world; it was divided into sections that concentrated on the earliest humans to the rich, ancient civilizations of Greece, Egypt, Persia, Mesopotamia and more.

The exhibition hall that would open to the public in the morning was an admirable addition to the museum. Exhibits didn’t stay forever, but the hall itself would continue to thrive because of the work of Henry and other archeologists and scholars; right now, however, it was all about Henry.

Men and women in pairs and groups stood around the room, chatting, while waiters and waitresses in white-and-black attire moved about with trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne.

Many of those invited were here because they were sponsoring patrons of the museum. There were also a number of politicians, including the mayor.

None of them interested Micah.

He scanned the crowd, taking note of those he did find intriguing.

Arlo Hampton, young, pleasant, eager. Tall and slim, but handsomely boyish-looking in a suit, speaking with an Egyptian dignitary. Ned Richter and his wife, Vivian. He so robust, she so tiny, both smiling, standing close, chatting with the mayor. And there—between an aging Broadway director and his latest ingénue—Belinda Gray, sans her fiancé, who was still serving in the military. He saw Roger Eastman, wiry and lean, wearing thick-lensed glasses, talking with his hands as he loudly discussed a technical innovation for dealing with the security of priceless historic objects. Across the room, in the midst of a few young female museum apprentices, was Joe Rosello. Joe seemed electrically energetic; he was a square-shouldered guy who could’ve been a fullback. He had a full head of curly dark hair and a very white smile.

Micah had done research on everyone involved with the last stages of the dig. Every one of the workers who’d had access to the tent. It hadn’t been easy finding out about the Egyptian workers. Since they weren’t archeologists or preservation experts, they hadn’t been allowed into the inner sanctum of the camp, where the preparation tent was located. Still, he’d done his best. But everything in him screamed that the guilty party was not Egyptian, but someone among those who should have loved and honored Henry.

Why? he asked himself again. Why the hell would anyone kill Henry? If he could come up with a why...

“Micah?”