Mountains looming to the south. Freestanding sculptures, replicas of ancient tomb decorations, and Canopic jars stood about the room, and the curving interior walls were lined with glass cases holding more artifacts than the state museum down in Tucson.
At first Cam thought Swain had stepped out, for the padded captain’s chair at his massive mahogany desk in the midst of the archeological assemblage stood empty.
Then a voice called, “I’m over here,” and Cam shifted position enough to see the director around the tomb panel that had obscured him. Swain stood at the south window peering through a telescope aimed at the grounds.
Wending his way through the artifacts and replicas, Cam felt his trembling increase and his chest grow tight. Thankfully he drew up beside the director without falling into another flashback, and his tension subsided. It helped to have the openness of the mountain view now spread before him.
Immediately below, the ziggurat’s two lower sections stairstepped down and away from them, their flat rooftops glaring in the midmorning sun. Beyond them sprawled the Institute’s desert campus, its inner mesquite park cradled between the long, curving berms formed of the earth that had been removed from what was now the ziggurat’s multilevel basement. Paved and graveled paths wandered throughout the park, past several ramadas, a central bricked plaza, and a small lake as they linked the various outbuildings and maintenance buildings with each other and the zig.
To the right, about halfway down the bowl’s slope, stood the white-walled clinic Cam had left some fifteen minutes ago. Beyond it, scattered across the northwestern berm and continuing up the surrounding hillsides beyond were the guest casitas, meeting rooms, and office buildings of the Fountains of Eternal Life Health Resort—adobe walls a warm contrast with the oak and cottonwood trees surrounding them. Between it and the ziggurat, the red-granite slabs of Swain’s avant-garde Black Box Theater lifted from the side of the berm like a hatching pterodactyl.
The director, a wireless headset clipped to his right ear, had focused his telescope toward the southeastern boundary of the Institute’s property, where a dissipating dust cloud rose off the distant draw that Cam knew lay just inside of the perimeter fence. He glimpsed a bit of the eight-foot-tall chain link, in fact, but only because he knew where to look.
Face still pressed to the eyepiece of his scope, Swain said, “Where is it exactly that you run on these morning jaunts of yours?”
Cam blinked. “Where do I run?”
Swain straightened from the scope to regard him blandly. “I was up early this morning—well, I’m up early every morning—and I saw you coming out of the desert down there by that ramada.” He gestured toward the freestanding porchlike structure southeast of the park. “About half an hour after dawn. So where exactly do you go?”
Cam eyed the telescope, unnerved to think that Swain had been watching him at 5:30 in the morning. He turned his gaze to the wooded hillsides, taking comfort in the fact he’ d done most of his run in the dark.
“I just go over the east berm, up the draw, and loop back on the trail there,” he said, forcing himself to meet Swain’s gaze. “Why?”
“Did you see anyone or anything unusual?”
“Just one of our vans. It was parked near one of those abandoned mine shafts. I assumed it had something to do with the search for last night’s intruder.” He paused. “I take it you haven’t found him?”
“No.” Swain returned to his scope. “Do you run every day, then?”
“Except Sunday.” Cam was certain Swain knew the answers to these questions.
“Of course, not Sunday,” Swain said, giving him a sidelong smirk. “Well, I suppose given the level of dedication you devote to other areas of your life, that’s hardly surprising. Still, I must warn you—it’s dangerous out there, especially in the dark. You
At first Cam thought Swain had stepped out, for the padded captain’s chair at his massive mahogany desk in the midst of the archeological assemblage stood empty.
Then a voice called, “I’m over here,” and Cam shifted position enough to see the director around the tomb panel that had obscured him. Swain stood at the south window peering through a telescope aimed at the grounds.
Wending his way through the artifacts and replicas, Cam felt his trembling increase and his chest grow tight. Thankfully he drew up beside the director without falling into another flashback, and his tension subsided. It helped to have the openness of the mountain view now spread before him.
Immediately below, the ziggurat’s two lower sections stairstepped down and away from them, their flat rooftops glaring in the midmorning sun. Beyond them sprawled the Institute’s desert campus, its inner mesquite park cradled between the long, curving berms formed of the earth that had been removed from what was now the ziggurat’s multilevel basement. Paved and graveled paths wandered throughout the park, past several ramadas, a central bricked plaza, and a small lake as they linked the various outbuildings and maintenance buildings with each other and the zig.
To the right, about halfway down the bowl’s slope, stood the white-walled clinic Cam had left some fifteen minutes ago. Beyond it, scattered across the northwestern berm and continuing up the surrounding hillsides beyond were the guest casitas, meeting rooms, and office buildings of the Fountains of Eternal Life Health Resort—adobe walls a warm contrast with the oak and cottonwood trees surrounding them. Between it and the ziggurat, the red-granite slabs of Swain’s avant-garde Black Box Theater lifted from the side of the berm like a hatching pterodactyl.
The director, a wireless headset clipped to his right ear, had focused his telescope toward the southeastern boundary of the Institute’s property, where a dissipating dust cloud rose off the distant draw that Cam knew lay just inside of the perimeter fence. He glimpsed a bit of the eight-foot-tall chain link, in fact, but only because he knew where to look.
Face still pressed to the eyepiece of his scope, Swain said, “Where is it exactly that you run on these morning jaunts of yours?”
Cam blinked. “Where do I run?”
Swain straightened from the scope to regard him blandly. “I was up early this morning—well, I’m up early every morning—and I saw you coming out of the desert down there by that ramada.” He gestured toward the freestanding porchlike structure southeast of the park. “About half an hour after dawn. So where exactly do you go?”
Cam eyed the telescope, unnerved to think that Swain had been watching him at 5:30 in the morning. He turned his gaze to the wooded hillsides, taking comfort in the fact he’ d done most of his run in the dark.
“I just go over the east berm, up the draw, and loop back on the trail there,” he said, forcing himself to meet Swain’s gaze. “Why?”
“Did you see anyone or anything unusual?”
“Just one of our vans. It was parked near one of those abandoned mine shafts. I assumed it had something to do with the search for last night’s intruder.” He paused. “I take it you haven’t found him?”
“No.” Swain returned to his scope. “Do you run every day, then?”
“Except Sunday.” Cam was certain Swain knew the answers to these questions.
“Of course, not Sunday,” Swain said, giving him a sidelong smirk. “Well, I suppose given the level of dedication you devote to other areas of your life, that’s hardly surprising. Still, I must warn you—it’s dangerous out there, especially in the dark. You
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