Relentless - By Cherry Adair Page 0,95
picture of himself at the entrance—the one he sent to me—then was struck on the head,” she reminded him, although why he needed reminding she had no idea. He knew the sequence of events as well as she did by now. “He thought he was in the Valley of the Scorpions, but instead he was found at Dafarfa Oasis.”
“Concussion. No memory of what had happened.”
“Right. Something like us being in a car going one way, and ending up camping somewhere miles away in the desert. Put those two events together and there certainly seems to be a similarity, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
Frustratingly, Isis couldn’t identify any of the other ancient Egyptians depicted on the walls. She thought one might be Horus when she passed a bird-headed man wearing a red and white crown. But what did she know? She’d always just admired the style and color of the images, never learned their meanings. Sorry, Dad.
“He didn’t even remember leaving Seattle to come on this dig.”
“What if it isn’t Alzheimer’s? What if the blow to the head caused memory loss, either permanent or temporary?”
“I never considered it wasn’t Alzheimer’s—nor did the doctors. But of course, given everything we now know, the blow to the head absolutely could’ve caused his memory loss. And of course people would want to be the first—the first to get the glory and accolades of a monumental discovery, or in the case of your nefarious Yermalof, the first to grave-rob and sell off everything before anyone discovers he’s done so.”
A woman wearing a headdress shaped like a throne, elegant wings spread wide—
Her namesake. Isis. This image she knew. Oh, dear God.
Her brain went blank for a moment as Isis tried, without freaking herself out or misleading Thorne, to assimilate the people painted along the walls.
Isis and Osiris, husband and wife. Even she knew that much.
SIXTEEN
If her father were here, he could analyze the archaeological and architectural evidence of the tomb. He’d know when it was built and for whom. He’d understand the significance of the mythology in the painting—Isis had seen him identify iconographical and other evidence based on less.
Did what she was seeing embody the symbolism of divinity and religious ritual of Cleopatra? Could this be Cleopatra and Mark Antony’s tomb? Maybe? No. Probably not. It seemed too plain to convey Cleopatra’s incredible personal legacy. But—damn it. She didn’t know. It would help if they had more light—and a detailed guidebook with pictures. Which of course didn’t exist, because no one had found the tomb yet.
Back to square one. Isis sighed. “A dig like that would take months and months—hell, years.”
“Not if they were doing a smash-and-grab. Taking the most valuable pieces and leaving the rest. And not if they didn’t give a shit whether anything left was preserved or documented.” Thorne’s torch flickered and swayed.
Isis closed the gap between them and curled her fingers in the back of his belt. If that thing went out she wanted to know exactly where he was at all times. “That’s terrible. Wait—What? You’re saying Yermalof was the one who left my father for dead and killed his crew?”
“It’s starting to make sense, don’t you think?”
It did. But she didn’t want it to. “Your Russian guy and my father?” Dear God, had her father brought all this down on his own head when he’d dabbled in the buying and selling of black market antiquities all those years ago? Stealing and selling. “You think my father didn’t stop selling artifacts on the black market, and got himself in over his head with this guy?”
“Occam’s razor.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the law of succinctness. The principle stating that among competing hypotheses, the one that makes the fewest assumptions should be selected. It has to be considered.”
“Well, I don’t want to consider it,” Isis said tightly. But she did. God help her, this scenario made sense. She pressed a hand to her roiling stomach. “He promised me that it was a onetime thing, and that he’d stop.”
“And then his funding started drying up…”
“And then his funding stopped.” She repeated the truth bleakly. “But he always seemed to have a bit more money to dig.”
Thorne stopped and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. His chest was broad and solid, and he smelled achingly familiar, his natural musk coupled with the smoky odor of burning wood. Holding her tightly, he brushed his mouth over the crown of her head. “It’s just a theory at this point, okay? We don’t know anything for sure. Not yet.