The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [115]
For an instant she stood motionless as a black paper silhouette, slender and featureless. One arm lifted. The dark form glided silently away.
“She is beckoning us to follow,” I exclaimed.
“So I see.”
“Where the devil is she going?”
“No doubt she will explain when we catch her up.”
Emerson increased his pace. I had to trot to keep up with him, yet the distance between us and the slender form ahead never grew less.
“Curse it,” Emerson said. “This is ridiculous, Amelia. Is she going to run all the way to Dahshoor? I will give her a hail.”
“No, don’t do that! Even a low voice carries a long distance here; a shout would waken everyone for a mile around.”
“Well, damnation, we have been walking for a mile.”
“Hardly that, Emerson.”
We went on for a time in silence. I began to share Emerson’s annoyance, and yet there was something uncanny about that silent pursuit across the quiet sand. Ever retreating yet ever beckoning us onward, the figure ahead seemed not a living woman but a symbol of mysterious fate.
“Can she have mistaken us for someone else?” I panted.
“Impossible. The night is bright as day and we are, if I may say so, quite distinctive in appearance. Especially you, in those bloomers.”
“They are not bloomers. They are Turkish trousers.”
“And you are clashing like a German brass band.”
“One never knows…when one will need…”
“Save your breath, Peabody. Ah—there—she is turning east toward the cultivation.”
One lone palm, a giant of its kind, had invaded the rim of the waterless desert. The slim shadow vanished into its shade. Emerson broke into a trot and I into a run.
She was there. She awaited us. Her head turned.
Then from out of the very ground, or so it seemed, three ghostly forms emerged. Barely visible against the darkness, they moved with the speed and ferocity of the afreets they resembled. My hand went to my belt—too late! They were upon us. I heard Emerson’s shout and the smack of his fist on flesh. Rough hands seized me; I was flung to the ground.
Ten
So sweet, submissive Charity was in reality the Master Criminal mistress of vicious thugs! I proceeded no further with my reflections on the case, for other considerations supervened: for one, a large foot planted in the small of my back holding me prostrate while rough hands stuffed a gag into my mouth and rapidly enclosed my body with cords. Even more distracting than physical discomfort was my apprehension concerning Emerson. No longer did the sounds of complaint and struggle reach my ears. The miscreants must have rendered him unconscious—or worse…. But no; I could not, I would not, entertain that ghastly thought.
One of the villains picked me up and tossed me over his shoulder. The muscular arm holding my lower limbs warned me of the futility of attempting to escape; I bent all my efforts instead to twisting my neck far enough to get a glimpse of Emerson. As my captor set out across the sands, I was finally rewarded in this endeavor, but what I saw was far from reassuring. Close behind came a pair of bare feet and a ragged robe. I could see no more of the second villain than that, owing to my unconventional posture, but behind the feet a lax, limp hand trailed through the sand. They were carrying him. Surely that must mean my dear Emerson yet lived. I clung to that thought while endeavoring to discern some sign of animation, however faint, in the member.
I could look no more. The discomfort of strained neck muscles forced me to relax. This brought my face in close proximity with the dirty robe covering my captor’s body, and I was conscious of a strange odor, even more unpleasant than that of unwashed flesh. I knew that smell. It was the unmistakable stench of bat droppings.
I could see only a small expanse of the desert floor, but I am not a trained archaeologist for nothing; the nature of the debris that, before long,