Chapter Two: Parted
"Quelqu'un est dans l'eau!"
Someone is in the water, the waterlogged cogs within the head resting on the driftwood translated.
"Est-ce qu'elle est vivante?"
Is she alive?
The water churned as a boat approached and her arms slid from the life-saving raft. She slipped under the surface, her chilled legs unable to move in attempt to keep her afloat. Water flooded into her nose and mouth, going down into her lungs.
Strong hands gripped hold of her arms tightly. She was pulled upwards and dragged into the small boat. Feeling air on her face again, she made a feeble attempt to draw in breath. She choked and then coughed, water pooling out of her mouth and joining the torrents that ran from her hair and clothes. She coughed again and then drew in a ragged breath.
"Respirez! Madame, respirez!"
She obeyed, drawing in breath after breath of sweet oxygen-rich air, as her long black hair was wiped away from where it had stuck to her face.
"Le hôpital, Helene!"
The boat at once began to move with haste towards the shore.
.
.
"Professor Fox."
Sydney sleepily opened her eyes and looked up at the doctor who was treating her at the Toulouse hospital.
"Dr Bois, did you manage to – "
"I'm afraid there has been no Englishman with a gunshot wound admitted to the hospital today," he told her, gently. "I've notified the police."
The relic hunter's hopeful face fell.
"Is there someone we could telephone for you?" Dr Bois suggested.
"Yes," she answered, weakly. "Yes…in Paris…Karen…and Preston Bailey…must tell him…his brother…"
"Do you have a telephone number for them?"
"They're staying in Le Hôtel Paris…for the Egyptology conference."
"Try to get some more rest, Professor Fox," Dr Bois urged, softly. "We'll contact them."
The doctor stood up and turned to leave. Sydney stared at his departing back, yet it wasn't the French doctor that she saw, but Nigel bleeding to death lying on the tomb floor as she had last seen him.
"Oh, Nigel…I'm so sorry…"
.
.
"Sydney, are you sure you're up to this?" Preston Bailey asked, catching her arm as she stumbled for the sixth time since they'd left the hospital. They hadn't even made it across the car park yet.
"I'm fine," Sydney snapped. "Where's the car?"
"Over here," Karen replied, indicating a blue rental car up ahead, her young face creased into a concerned frown.
As the relic hunter nearly fell again, her secretary decided to give it a go.
"Look, Syd, maybe we should wait a few hours. Let you gain your strength a bit."
"It's been six hours, Karen! How long do you want to wait?"
"The police have looked, Sydney. They didn't find him," Preston argued, though they continued towards the car nonetheless.
"Preston, he's your brother!" Sydney accused, stopping and turning on him. "Don't you want to do everything in your power to make sure he is found?"
"Yes, of course. But – "
"Then come on!"
Preston and Karen admitted defeat and, without further objections from either, the three of them finally reached the car. They pulled out of the car park and Preston followed Sydney's directions to the tomb.
They stopped at the edge of the woodland within which lay the fateful tomb. Sydney swung her legs out of the car, obstinately ignoring the throbbing in her head. Clutching the crossbow that she had miraculously not lost in the river, she led the others through the trees.
Sydney's brisk pace brought them to the entrance of the tomb in two minutes. They then carefully examined the surrounding area. The well-trodden ground and broken undergrowth showed that everyone who had come to the tomb that day had all taken roughly the same route from the road. There were signs of people having left the same way, but it was impossible to make out whom. Apart from the telltale print of a policeman's boot, all the other fainter prints could have belonged to anyone. The land was void of any sign of another direction of departure.
Deciding they could gain nothing more from the outside, Sydney flicked on her torch and the other two followed suit. Taking a deep breath, she led them into the tomb.
They followed the passageway to the main chamber, where the tiger's eye engraved into the rock above the entrance stared down at them. With their footsteps echoing around the tomb, they passed under the eye and entered the burial chamber. Preston went to the back of the room and began to mumble to himself as he scanned the writing carved into the half-opened lid of the stone coffin, which Sydney and Nigel had removed the First Scroll of the Tiger from early that day. Karen stared uneasily into the river, rubbing her arms as if cold.
Meanwhile, Sydney had instantly gone straight over to a particular spot by the wall. She shone her torch onto the floor and stood there oddly still and silent. The other two eventually noticed, and warily approached her. Preston added his torch light to Sydney's.
He gasped in horror upon realising what the circles of light were illuminating. A pool of blood had dried on the sand. Nigel's blood. His brother's blood.
Nausea rose to Preston's throat. It hadn't seemed real before – not when the hotel receptionist had relayed the message, not even when a distressed Sydney had told him. Yet, here was the proof. Nigel, his own little brother, had been shot and had then lain bleeding on the floor of this tomb. Now he was missing and there was no way to tell whether he was alive or dead.
"What are we going to do now?" Karen asked the question Preston couldn't manage to get out. He was feeling physically unable to speak and swallowed thickly.
"The men dressed in black," Sydney declared, "we've got to find them."
*******
*******
Nigel opened his eyes. His blurry vision took in an ornate ceiling styled with a mixture of French and Spanish designs.
"Maman, he is awake!"
Nigel turned his head to see a young girl hurry out the door. Groggily, he looked around the room, which appeared to be the bedroom of a large Spanish villa. The large windows were thrown open, letting in the hot sunshine of late afternoon. Yet, the room was comfortably cool thanks to the air conditioning and additional electric fans dotted around. The furniture and décor spoke of the luxury and great wealth of someone with fine taste in architecture. Bright, typically Spanish colours adorned the fabrics, while the walls were painted a calm cream with thin gold bordering.
He heard the girl running back, her bare feet hitting the floorboards. At the door the sound abruptly stopped and wide blue eyes stared around the doorframe at him. Nigel tried to smile weakly at her, but he was slowly regaining sensations from his body and the messages he received from his left side were none too kind or gentle. Instead, he turned away, his face twisted into a grimace.
Nigel heard heavier footsteps approach more slowly, and then the scurrying of the young girl as she followed the older arrival. He wanted to turn back to see who this new visitor was, but dizziness had gripped him and he found himself unable to move.
"Does this mean he will live, Momia? Will he get better now?" The girl's voice again, high-pitched with excitement.
"Nicole, calm down. Fetch me a glass of cold water," an older female voice commanded. Its owner moved around the bed to come into Nigel's field of vision. A dark-haired pretty woman of just over thirty looked down at him, smiling slightly.
"Hello, Nigel. How are you feeling?" she asked, gently.
"How…how do you know my name?" Nigel asked, his voice weak and strained.
She smiled kindly again and reached to pick up what Nigel recognised as his wallet from the bedside table.
"You are Nigel Bailey of the Trinity College, USA." Then the woman frowned faintly. "But your accent…it is not American…?"
"No. I was born in England." Nigel pushed his hands against the mattress and tried to sit up. The woman sprung forward and placed a hand on his chest to prevent him rising, but it was too late.
"Ah!" Nigel cried out, as a sharp burning ripped across his stomach.
"Lie still," the woman pleaded. "You must lie still."
Memories flooded back to Nigel. The pain in his side…he'd been shot…in the tomb…Sydney…
"Sydney! Where is she?" Nigel looked around the room frantically. "An American woman, Professor Sydney Fox, is she here?"
Ignoring the pain and vertigo that swept over him, Nigel sat up. The woman's face mirrored his alarm, but for an entirely different reason.
"Please, you must lay back down!" she cried. "You'll reopen the wound!"
Nigel paid no heed to her, pushed back the sheets that covered him and slid his legs over the side of the bed. He was surprised to find himself wearing loose trousers made of blue silk and had thick white bandages wrapped around his exposed top-half.
"They didn't bring a woman back, only you and two men who are now locked in the prison." The woman placed restraining slender hands on Nigel's shoulders. "My husband will tell you everything he knows when he gets back."
But Nigel pushed her away with strength she didn't expect, rose to his feet and made for the door.
"Sydney! Sydney!"
He staggered and clutched a nearby desk. With fright the woman noticed red rapidly blossoming through the bandages around the man's side. She hurried over to him, but he was quicker still, pushing away from the table and attempting the remainder of the distance to the door.
Nigel reached the threshold, but then the room reeled and his hand clutched at his wound. The young girl appeared before him, as black spots filtered into his vision, multiplying quickly. Then he was slowly falling.
The girl screamed and dropped the glass she was holding. It shattered on the floor.