CHAPTER 5

New York City—September 25th, 1965

Rain lashed Indy as he hurried up the museum steps. Marion had made it clear she was less than impressed to get to the FDR, only for Indy to spin the car around and race back here. But hell, he'd learnt a long time ago to listen to his gut, and right now it was telling him something was off.

The museum was dark inside. He tried the front door. It was open. Damn, he didn't want to be right, but why hadn't Barney locked up?

He glanced back at the DeSoto, hastily parked on the far side of the museum plaza. The rain and the glare from the headlights meant he couldn't make out Marion in the passenger seat, but he threw a smile and a shrug in her general direction and then entered the museum.

His footsteps echoed through the lobby.

"Hey Barney? What's the matter with you? The goddamn door was open." No response.

Indy headed past the visitor restrooms and through a door marked Museum Staff Only. He flicked on the lights. The guard's room was the last door on the right, and it was empty.

A half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich rested on the desk next to a copy of Herodotus's Histories—abookmark poked out near the back of the book. Indy felt a pang of guilt.

He remembered a conversation with Barney a few months earlier, the guy had a passion for the classics and Indy had said he'd arrange for a try out as a guide in the Greco Roman gallery. Indy had clean forgot all about it until now, and he kicked himself. The guy was unquestionably more passionate and well read than some of the jokers Charlie had on the payroll, but he'd failed to get an interview when a vacancy had been advertised recently—and the reason was clear.

It angered Indy that a guy could be held back on account of the colour of his skin, and now Indy had made things worse by raising Barney's hopes then doing nothing about it. He promised himself he'd speak to Charlie tomorrow.

Indy returned along the corridor and back into the lobby. He moved into the atrium. Tiered balconies—one for each of the museum's four upper storeys—overlooked the atrium on three sides, each held aloft by great gothic columns.

Moonlight shifted eerily over the T-Rex cast which dominated the space; the pale blue light shone through streaks of rain flowing over a roof window high above. The beast's predatory stance was supported by long cables running up to the ceiling.

A torch beam extended from one of the second floor galleries.

"Barney? You up there, pal?"

No response, and the beam didn't budge.

Indy headed to the far side of the gallery and paced the stairs to the second floor, his attention fixed on the unmoving torchlight.

He followed the light and turned into the Mesoamerica & South America gallery; an enormous bat-like creature—its wings outstretched—towered before him, silhouetted by the glow of the torch. Indy's heart skipped a beat. Then he recognised the grotesque outline belonged to Camazotz, the Mayan bat god. Indy imagined the guardian of the underworld would be pleased to still illicit such a response, fifteen hundred years after being carved from stone.

Indy hurried behind the statue and found the torch. It was grasped in Barney's hand, the security guard lay motionless on the floor.

"Jesus, Barney!" Indy took the torch and shone it at Barney's face. The guard's unmoving eyes bulged from their sockets; deep, bloody garrotte lines sliced across his neck.

Indy wasn't given time to process the horror.

An alarm bell screamed above his head, dozens more blared throughout the museum.

Indy sprang to his feet—a dazzling red security light flashed repeatedly from the Egyptian & Mesopotamian gallery on the opposite side of the atrium. Indy's shock morphed into fury. Instinct drew his right hand to his hip, reaching for the Webley he knew wasn't there. Indy glanced back down to Barney; his torchlight fell on a baton attached to the guard's belt.

Indy gripped the weapon as he walked past an arc of Egyptian sarcophagi; ten elaborately carved and painted fig wood coffins stood upright, leading from near the entrance into the main chamber of the gallery. Intense flashes of red washed the room and gave the coffin's gold painted faces a ghoulish severity.

The regular bursts of light, combined with the deafening clatter of bells, threw Indy's senses off. He felt exposed, vulnerable. He'd entered the gallery via the only entrance; whoever had tripped the alarm—and killed Barney—had to still be in here.

He moved around an immense stone bust of Ramesses II, and almost tripped over the body of another security guard. Indy crouched and put his first and middle finger to the poor guy's lacerated neck. There was no pulse.

Indy's gaze was drawn to shards of blinking red light on the ground; glass fragments glinting beneath an empty display cabinet. A knot pulled tight in Indy's stomach.

The Sword of Irkalla was gone.

Indy stepped toward the cabinet. A gunshot. Pain sliced his right cheek. The thud of a bullet hitting stone—piercing Ramesses square between the eyes. Indy dropped behind the bust. More bullets studded the Pharaoh's face. Indy touched his cheek, just a graze.

He peeked from behind the effigy and glimpsed a lithe silhouette lurking in the shadows. The figure was reloading his pistol and backing toward the entrance, making his escape. Then he raised the weapon and opened fire once more.

Indy ducked back behind Ramesses as fragments of stone exploded from the Pharaoh's torso.

Indy was penned in. Trapped.

The gunfire stopped. Indy seized his chance, he leaned out from behind the bust and saw the silhouette sprinting away, toward the gallery entrance and the atrium balcony beyond—the sword's lapis handle glistened, protruding from the shooter's backpack.

Indy raised the baton and hurled it—it was a hell of a shot—the spinning weapon struck the silhouette hard on the back of the skull and he crumpled to the ground beside the Egyptian coffins. Indy scrambled to his feet and darted toward the thief.

But the shooter was only momentarily dazed; he rolled over and fired back at Indy. Indy dived behind a sarcophagus—the one furthest from the entrance.

The shooter continued to fire as he backed away. Bullets pulverised the three thousand year old—and lovingly restored—coffin lid. Indy imagined poor Charlie's expression when faced with the carnage in the morning. Then an idea leapt into his head.

He shoved the sarcophagus.

Indy dropped to the floor as the coffin toppled and crashed into the next, which fell into the next, which hit the next, and so on. The priceless artifacts tumbled like dominoes. Indy winced as ancient wood cracked and splintered. He could wave his tenure goodbye.

But the tenth sarcophagus fell just as the shooter backed past; it struck him across the shoulders and slammed him to the floor.

Indy rolled the coffin away and glimpsed the unconscious murderer close up. The guy was a silhouette, dressed from head to toe in black. Indy knelt and ripped off the shooter's ski mask. It took Indy a second to place the bastard's face; then he remembered the waiter who'd topped up his champagne flute little over an hour earlier. He recalled clocking the guys name tag—Gale Parker. Indy once knew a girl with the same name, she had a knack for dragging him into life threatening scenarios, too.

Indy unhooked the rucksack from Parker's back. He reached for the sword handle, but hesitated.

He'd spent the past four decades trying to convince himself that what happened that day in Warka had nothing to do with this thing, that it had been a bizarre coincidence. But clearly he'd not succeeded. Forty years was no time at all for an object that chalked up its age in millennia. Whatever power this thing may have had back in '26 likely hadn't faded in the intervening decades.

Pull yourself together, Jones. He could hear Marion's voice and smiled. He grabbed the sword handle. In the same instant the heel of a boot cracked into his jaw. Turns out Parker wasn't quite as unconscious as he was making out.

Indy lost his grip on the sword and landed hard on his back. Parker snatched the rucksack—the sword still inside—and tossed it over one shoulder. He stood and aimed the pistol at Indy. He pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. He tried again. Another click. The magazine was empty.

"Must be your lucky day, professor." Parker smiled, he replaced the gun in his shoulder holster and sprinted from the gallery—this guy could move. He was nimble, athletic; he flew across the balcony and vaulted over the balustrade. His gloved hands grabbed one of the steel cables—supporting the T-Rex cast below—and he zipped downward, toward the beast.

Indy arrived at the balcony edge a few seconds later. He watched Parker deftly manoeuvre from the dinosaur's skull to its hip.

In moments like this Indy had become adept at blocking out extraneous information—like the fact it was a twenty foot drop to the monstrous skeleton, and then another fifteen to the unforgiving marble floor beyond; or like the fact Parker was a good thirty years his junior and in better shape than Indy had ever been in. No, in moments like this Indy was skilled at focussing on what needed to be done, and right now Indy needed to stop that sword from leaving the building. He gripped the balustrade and pulled himself up onto the rail. He felt a twinge in his back and an ache in his hip. It had been a while.

He threw himself over the edge.

Indy collided with Parker; plaster-cast bones shattered as the pair crashed through the beast's spine and into its rib cage. They tussled scrappily, hanging upside down in a tangle of plaster fragments and steel cables. Indy landed a blow to Parker's nose, but the thief retaliated with a gut punch that knocked the wind from the archaeologist.

Parker freed his foot from a twist in the cables and hung from one of the giant ribs. Indy's knee connected firmly with Parker's jaw, the rib cracked and the thief tumbled from the skeleton. Indy grabbed onto the pubis bone and wrenched his left foot from between two vertebrae. He swung free and dropped the last few feet to the atrium floor. Parker was already running through the lobby, towards the entrance.

The watch had been a gift for their anniversary a couple of weeks earlier. Every time she looked at it, her spirits lifted—it worked even now; sat alone in a car in the middle of Manhattan, soaked to the skin at a half past eleven on a Friday night.

The watch was a near replica of her father's, which she'd worn for years before losing it somewhere along the Amazon. Except, of course, this watch was gold. By tradition it should have been bronze, but Indy had said he didn't think their luck would quite stretch to celebrating fifty years of marriage, so he'd got in early with the gold.

She unfastened the strap and turned the watch over, tilting the face cover until moonlight caught the engraving. It was corny as hell, but it made her smile;

M, My Greatest Adventure, I x.

It was unlike him to be so extravagantly sentimental. A guilty conscience, maybe? Nah, he'd not been able to keep a secret from her in forty years. Maybe he was just softening in his old age.

She hoped not, and looped the watch back around her wrist.

Eight years. She'd been Mrs. Jones for eight years. Jesus, where had the time gone? Married life had taken a bit of getting used to, for both of them, but especially for him. He'd been promising to slow down since the first time they were engaged. But she knew—better than he did—that he needed to feel the dirt under his fingernails and the sweat on his back. He was always itching for the next assignment long before the wounds had healed from the last one. And she'd never asked him to change. She'd never wanted him to.

But what happened in South America had changed him. It changed everything, for all of them. She knew how much he'd wanted to build a relationship with his son, and she knew how much it hurt that he hadn't been able to. Father and son were too alike, both mistrusting and infuriatingly stubborn.

The more Indy had tried to influence Mutt, the more Mutt had pulled in the opposite direction. Mutt thought Indy was trying to shape him in his own image, and it drove Indy crazy that his son was so unfocused, so unwilling to stick at anything.

It had been three years since Mutt had quit the army, and the two men hadn't spoken since, they'd not even been in the same room. Mutt always timed his visits when he knew Indy was overseas. It broke her heart, and she could see it broke Indy's, too. Last time she'd spoken to her son he was back fixing motorcycles for a living. She just hoped he was happy, and that some day the two of them could find a way back into each other's lives. It had taken Indy the best part of forty years to finally connect with his own father, she just hoped her boys would get through this quicker than that.

Marion wriggled to get comfy in her wet dress, then closed her eyes. The soporific patter of rain against the car roof, combined with the haze of headlights, the champagne and the late hour, overwhelmed her.

She awoke suddenly. How long had she been out for? There was another sound now. A ringing. An alarm bell.

A flashing red glow bled through the rain coursing down the windscreen. Marion reached over to the steering column and flicked on the wipers—the blades swiped the water aside and revealed a red security light blinking on the museum's clocktower, a hundred yards across the plaza.

Her heart raced. Fear, panic, exhilaration. A cocktail of emotions her husband hadn't elicited for a while. Marion leapt from the car. In the same moment a man dressed in black burst from the museum. He yanked a bike from a rack by the entrance, swung his leg over the frame and pedalled hard—heading across the far side of the plaza.

A moment later her husband ran from the museum; he clocked the man, also grabbed a bike, and raced after him.

"Indy?!"

He couldn't hear her over the rain.

"Shit!" Marion ran around the DeSoto and climbed in the driver's seat. She twisted the key, the engine roared to life and she hit the gas hard; the car thundered through the torrent of rainwater and sped off in pursuit.

Indy couldn't remember the last time he'd ridden one of these things, but it sure as hell hadn't been this tough. Parker was around ten yards ahead, effortlessly slicing across the flooded plaza, and Indy was fighting to keep up.

He tailed the thief around the side of the imposing, gothic-revival building and through the museum's memorial garden, home to Indy's old friend Marcus Brody, immortalised in bronze. Indy was certain he saw the former curator's smile tilt fractionally upward as he pedalled past.

Ahead, the path disappeared; a steep stairway led down to Washington Square East. Indy watched as Parker picked up speed, soared from the path, then dropped from his view. It was an impressive jump, and Indy imagined he'd comfortably cleared the twenty or so steps.

Indy hoped to pull off the same trick, he pumped harder with his legs and ducked his head low. His bike flew from the path, but he knew straight away that he wasn't going to make it. Rainwater cascaded down the steps as his rear wheel, then the front wheel, made contact. The bicycle threatened to topple as it bounced and juddered down the last half of the stairway, but Indy somehow managed to stay upright and the bike splashed through the reservoir collecting at the base of the stairs and shot out into the road.

Indy was dazzled by headlights; a taxi swerved to his left, then a black coupe honked its horn to his right. Missing the coupe's hood by inches, Indy weaved through the traffic and followed Parker into Washington Square Park.

The pair hurtled along the lamp-lit pathways and veered through the triumphal arch, startling a young couple who were taking cover—and getting friendly—beneath the marble monument.

A hippy sang and played guitar as his friends danced; shirtless guys, and girls stripped to their bras, raised their hands to the heavens in appreciation of the rain. Parker shot past and snatched the guitar.

"Hey! Not cool, man!"

Parker approached a mounted police officer from behind. He whipped the guitar against the horse's backside; the instrument shattered and the horse reared up, tossing the cop into the fountain. Parker sped away as the horse bolted across Indy's path. The professor swerved around the spooked animal, but Parker's trick had worked and he pulled even further ahead.

Leaving the park, Indy watched as his quarry turned left into the West Village. Indy desperately tried to keep pace; car horns screeched as he pedalled furiously down the middle of the road, then swung onto the sidewalk and turned sharply.

A blur of neon lights whipped by as Indy hurtled past cafe bars and nightclubs. He weaved around shrieking pedestrians, kids mostly—hundreds of them lined the sidewalk, braving the torrential rain for a fix of their pop and folk music—and every damn one of them was in Indy's way. Parker was on the opposite side of the street. Indy flew onto the road, narrowly avoided colliding with an oncoming night bus, and mounted the sidewalk, twenty or so yards behind Parker.

The street grew steeper and the cyclists picked up speed quickly. Parker kicked a hot dog stand as he flew past; the vendor screamed abuse as it toppled, spilling frankfurters and pretzels and blocking Indy's path; Indy lurched to the left, and careened under the awning of a cafe-bar—startled hipsters leapt from his path as Indy smashed through tables and chairs, drinks glasses and ashtrays shattered on the ground.

Cars skidded from Parker's path as he turned right onto Seventh Avenue. Indy followed, but his legs were throbbing, fatigue was kicking in hard; Parker was getting away.

A horn blared behind Indy, he steered snug to the sidewalk as a white '58 Chevrolet Impala pulled alongside him.

"Holy shit! Professor?!" Mitch Coleman was one of Indy's undergraduates and the college's star quarterback. "What the hell?Bit late for a bike ride, you feeling alright?" Coleman smirked. "Shouldn't you be tucked up in bed at this time?" The two pretty girls sat beside him giggled. Coleman would be getting straight 'A's in Indy's Celtic Archaeology class if he applied as much energy to his studies as he did trying to impress cheerleaders by cruising the village.

Indy nodded toward Parker and panted. "Coleman, get me close to that guy and I might let it slide that your essay on Newgrange was a week late."

Coleman looked ahead to Parker then back to Indy. "You got a deal, Doc."

The girls whooped as Coleman hit the gas. The Chevvy roared ahead, kicking street-water into Indy's face as he grabbed the right tail fin and was almost dragged from the saddle. Gripping the centre of the handlebar with his other hand, Indy desperately fought to steady the bike, swaying one way, then the other, as he was towed along.

He eventually regained his balance and the car continued to pick up speed. They were closing in on Parker.

Then, the Chevvy lurched to the left—overtaking a dawdling station wagon. The tail fin was whipped from Indy's grasp, but the bike continued to surge forward, headed straight for the station wagon's trunk. Indy quickly steered right, undertook the station wagon, cut right across its path and seized the Chevvy's tail fin once more.

Coleman called back, "Sorry, Doc!" as the girls leaned out of the passenger window and cheered Indy on.

They were almost alongside Parker now, Indy could see the sword's handle; if he had a free hand he could reach out and grab it.

Indy let go of the tail fin, but at the same moment Parker turned a sharp right, sliced across the sidewalk and descended into a subway station. Indy skidded to the right, too; pedestrians dived from his path as he hurtled toward the subway entrance.

Great, more stairs.

Marion had lost sight of her husband for a while, but she just followed the screams and the clamour of car horns and soon caught up with him as he careened onto Seventh Avenue.

She was well acquainted with Indy's tenacity, but even so, this guy in black must have snatched something pretty spectacular for Indy to be going all out like this.

Her heart had leapt into her mouth when he'd decided to go water skiing, clinging to the back of that white coupe, and now he was heading underground.

She hit the brakes and the car screeched to a stop. Marion hurried from the vehicle, took a few steps, kicked off her heels and then ran into the subway station.

The commuters' reactions were determined by their level of inebriation; some gasped, other's cheered, as Indy zipped along the platform, then skidded the bike to a stop and abandoned it. A train had just pulled in and Parker had already dumped his bike and was dashing aboard.

An ageing, lanky, red-haired street musician blasted a jazzy tune from his cornet as a younger woman sang and played guitar.

"You know I fled Chicago,

Late in twenty-one.

Floated on 'cross the water,

And never did see the sun."

A blast from the past, but Indy had no time to reminisce as he leapt onto the train.

A freshmen was getting it on with his date. A hobo mumbled to himself, rocking back and forth. A baby-faced city worker slept. But there was no sign of Parker. Indy hurried along the aisle, yanked open the metal door, crossed the short gangway and stepped into the next car. This one was a little busier, mostly night workers and drunks—people the day commuters liked to pretend didn't exist.

The train moved out of the station. Indy paced the aisle. Weary faces glanced up at him. But one guy, a rangy black guy in overalls, fixed him with a glare. The guy's eyes widened and in the same instant Indy felt a blade pressing hard against the side of his neck. The metal was unnaturally cold, its icy sting familiar to Indy.

The Sword of Irkalla.

"You're a hard guy to shake."

"Well, I never like letting a waiter go before I can give him a decent tip."

Parker smiled. "And what would your tip be for me, Doctor Jones?"

"I s'pose, just remember, what goes around, comes around."

"Okay. Wise words. And this has been fun. But it's time to give up the chase. Before things get messy. You know what this sword is capable of."

Indy's face tightened. He didn't know what it was capable of, and he was damn sure Parker didn't either.

The tall black guy slowly stood. "Take it easy there my friend. Why don't you put that thing away?"

"I'm pretty sure this doesn't concern you, friend!" Parker swung the sword outward; it effortlessly glided through a metal pole, whisked above the heads of several seated passengers and shattered glass as it sliced the side of the train. Screams of terror accompanied the blast of warm, damp air that was sucked through the car. Parker swiftly returned the blade to Indy's neck.

"Everybody out!"

A stunned beat.

"Now!"

A flurry of commotion as the dozen or so passengers clamoured for the door at the far end of the car. The black workman helped shepherd them through, reassuring a sobbing young woman and pulling a bewildered old timer to his feet.

He looked to Indy. "I'm sorry, man." then he backed out the door.

Parker and Indy were alone.

"So, professor. You're lucky. I like you. I don't wanna have to kill you. When we pull into the next station, I'm getting off. And I don't want no-one followin' me. You got that?"

Indy nodded slowly and raised his hands in the air.

"I got it. But it's gonna be a few minutes, you mind if I take a seat? It's been one helluva week, and I didn't expect to be capping it off doing bicycle stunts and throwing myself from museum balconies."

Parker smiled and sneered. "Sure, you rest up." he removed the sword from Indy's neck but kept the blade pointing at the professor.

Keeping his hands in the air, Indy carefully turned to face Parker then lowered himself onto the bench that ran along the side of the car.

"I'm curious though. Who put you up to this? Who are you working for"

Parker stepped forward and shoved the blade across Indy's throat. "Rest your tongue, as well as your legs."

Indy slowly slid his legs out so that they were beside Parker's. Indy's eyes narrowed. "And what are they planning?"

Parker's patience was running low. "You going deaf old man? I said button it!"

Indy realised. "You don't know, d'you?" he smiled. "You're just a flunky."

Parker's nostrils flared. "And you're just a corpse—"

Indy thrust his legs back, cutting them hard into the back of Parker's knees; the thief's legs buckled and he stumbled backwards, withdrawing the blade from Indy's throat. Indy grabbed Parker's arm, jumped to his feet and planted his fist square in the thief's face—Parker dropped the sword, and Indy floored him with a second blow to the head.

Indy reached for the sword, but Parker got there first and kicked it along the car. Parker's other foot then connected with Indy's chest, and the archaeologist doubled over. Parker grabbed the back of Indy's collar and rammed him head first through the already smashed window. He forced Indy's face toward the tunnel wall. Indy dug his hands into the window frame—splintered glass slicing into his palms—and pushed back with all his strength, his cheek just inches from the speeding concrete. Ahead, a green light—a subway signal—flew straight at him, decapitation a certainty within seconds.

Indy twisted his shoulders and shoved to the side, overpowering his assailant and thrusting himself back into the car. The signal whipped past—it caught the tip of Indy's ear and he yelped in pain. Indy hit the floor, Parker landed beside him. The thief elbowed Indy hard in the windpipe and scrambled toward the sword. He seized it and got to his feet.

"Freeze!" A city cop stood at the far end of the car, his gun fixed on Parker. The guy was barely out of the academy; he held the revolver shakily, his voice cracking as he continued. "Drop the weapon, mister!"

Indy, a few feet behind Parker, pulled himself up as he caught his breath and massaged his throat.

"I said drop it! Drop it!" The cop looked like he might burst into tears.

Parker calmly nodded. "Okay, okay, take it easy, officer."

Then he threw the sword, sending it spinning along the car—it sliced through the young cop's neck; flesh, muscle, bone, offered no resistance to the razor sharp blade and the poor guy's head was severed clean off. The sword embedded itself in the side of the car as the officer slumped to the floor. His head rolled toward Parker's feet.

A stunned beat, Parker's eyes wide with the horror, with the possibilities. He looked to the sword. What exactly was this thing?

The train slowed as it approached the next station. Parker kicked the head to one side and darted to the body. He grabbed the officer's revolver and reached for the sword in the wall. But Indy had him by the shoulders and yanked him backwards. The two men fought for control of the gun. Parker slammed Indy into the wall and then forced him to the floor, the bastard barely breaking a sweat as he inched the gun toward Indy's neck.

"The problem with you professor, is you don't know when you're beat!" Parker pulled the trigger as Indy wrenched his assailant's hand to the side; the bullet missed him, firing off down the car. Parker jabbed the butt of the revolver in Indy's face, then got to his feet. He cocked the gun and readied to shoot Indy, but then he saw something at the opposite end of the car. His expression softened. He looked down at Indy.

"Seems like you're about to find out the hard way." Parker turned, yanked the sword from the wall, and fled.

Blood ran from Indy's broken nose as he pulled himself up.

A deep dread took hold of him, as if he was about to step off a precipice into an all consuming darkness. A darkness he wasn't sure he'd ever emerge from. He registered short, erratic breaths. There was someone else in the car. Someone who was fighting for their life. Indy turned.

Parker's bullet had found a victim. Marion.