Disclaimer: Pfft. If only I were genius enough to invent Indiana Jones (and all the places and characters therein). If only I were George Lucas/Steven Spielberg. If only... :p
V
In less than a minute they had arrived on the main floor of the apartment building. It was relatively large as lobbies go, and thoughtfully decorated with potted plants in the corners, and a few padded chairs on the left, surrounding in an artful half-circle a table with various reading materials laid out in fan fashion. The walls were painted a whitish color that looked almost as if it had a blue tint depending on what light you viewed it in. It was a very articulately planned and furnished room, but busy New York tenants rarely spent enough time there to enjoy it; the uniformed clerk behind the counter was generally the only person that stayed for longer than 10 minutes at a time.
Indy paid no notice to the lobby whatsoever, heading straight for the door that would release them into the sprawling city streets. He felt the pressure of Marcus' hand on his arm. The young Jones turned to acknowledge Marcus, who looked at him with the shadow of an amiable smirk. "Has it really been so long since your last outing that you've forgotten the secrets of the chase?" Marcus motioned to the desk, where the uniformed man fiddled with mailbox keys and the buttons on his shirt. "As any good archaeologist should know, the biggest clues lie in the details." Marcus turned his eyes back from the jaded clerk to his hasty friend.
Indy paused and smiled tiredly, rerouting himself toward the front desk behind which his mail was kept. Playing along he said, "Mind if I check my mail, Marcus? I promise I won't be too long." His mood lightened a degree, although he was highly skeptical that this would turn anything up. But even if he gained no other information here, Indy discovered a deeper awareness for the value of Marcus' company.
After a few drawn-out seconds of watching the clerk - whose back was turned to Indy - pretending to be busy dusting mailboxes, Indy began to think this would take longer than he'd expected. The archaeologist tapped his fingers lightly on the mahogany and cleared his throat. The clerk, upon closer inspection proving to be a boy of about twenty, turned and brushed the sandy brown hair out of his eyes. "How may I help you, sir?"
Indy hated being called sir. Professor was fine, as long as he wasn't being mocked; he actually relished his profession. Sir just made him feel old, and Junior. . . well, everybody knew how he felt about being called that. The usual clerk, who was God knows where, generally called him Dr. Jones, which he preferred. Today, though, Indy wasn't about to waste time correcting some adolescent yahoo who was probably the landlord's nephew. "Anything for Jones?" he asked, and seeing the boy fumbling for the keys added, "Box 210," and smiled curtly.
The small metal door squeaked open. "No, sir." Indy went to leave, shrugging mildly at Marcus as if to say, 'Thanks, I tried,' humoring him. "Have a nice. . . wait, did you say 'Jones?'"
The professor looked back, mid-shrug. He dropped his shoulders and raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
The boy's awkward hands pushed the mailbox closed, and not bothering with the keys, came to rest on a stack of ill-organized notes. Indy could only suppose they were messages, and couldn't keep himself from performing the mental equivalent of an eye-roll as he watched the clerk shuffle through. Finally he found a few pieces of paper being handed to him.
"I'm glad I caught you, sir," the boy said, nervous, nodding. "A lady that came by said you'd probably be really interested in one of those." He smiled, put his hands in his pockets, and let the sandy brown hair creep back over his eyes.
The archaeologist blinked and shuffled through the messages. Out of the five or six he'd gotten, Indy's eyes paid most only a fleeting glance. Recognizing Marion's handwriting, he stopped and tried to make his hand stop trembling. Marcus, noticing that something was in fact occurring, ambled closer to his anxious friend to share in whatever news this might bring.
The young archaeologist's eyes absorbed the words almost too quickly for his brain to digest them.
Ah, Jones. You never give up, do you?. . . He could imagine her sigh. I realize the note that I left for you may have made my leaving sound a little bit rash - and even now I might miss my plane - but don't worry. I'll be back before you know it, and then I'll explain. Didn't want to bother you. Just yet.
Marion
Indy folded her second note up thoughtfully after he was sure Marcus had read it. He was still a shade wary, but grateful nevertheless for Marcus' instincts, which might again prove to save him a lot of trouble, as they had so many times past. "What do you think?" He looked into the older man's face, asking for the honest answer he knew Marcus would give him. Indy probably could have guessed the response, but some remaining thread of previous nervousness made him want to hear it anyway.
The last of his concern melting away, Marcus smiled slightly with his eyes. "I'm beginning to suspect you're making a bit too much of things. Remember, people aren't like artifacts; they can actually come to you." Withdrawing a hand from his pocket, he rested it lightly on the side of his face. With an air of pensive curiosity, he asked, "Did you read your other messages?"
Indy took Marcus' words at face value and nodded slowly in agreement. His good-natured half-grin returning, he said, "Thanks, Marcus, I'll remember that." Pausing, reconsidering, he realized it had made a lot of sense. Marion would come back when she was ready. He placed her second note in the same pocket as the first and turned his attentions to the remaining scraps of paper.
The first was a reminder that the fall term would be starting up again 'sooner than he knew it,' and invited him to take part in a speaking tour of the eastern United States concerning projected digs in Saudi Arabia and Egypt. Although honored to be acknowledged as one of the best in his profession, Indy mentally set the prospect aside. It was nice, but not what he needed at the moment. Besides, some of the "colleagues" he figured would be attending were the drippy and dry sorts that rich guys' kids pay big money to hear droning on and on, with the all-familiar detached enthusiasm, about all the unnecessary points of sifting through sand. Not exactly his type. Most of the ones that were good friends of the Professor's were out in the field. This had been an unusually busy season for archaeology.
The next few pieces of paper yielded messages from old friends and college acquaintances that must have heard of Jones' move, and were stopping in the city for a few days. Out of the invitations to coffee and lunch, Indy gleaned only one that he'd consider taking up. Any visit with Gregory Hamilton - one of the more animated archaeology professors that Indy had ever met, and a good friend of his father's - promised to be an interesting one. If he had the time, Indy told himself, he'd give the man a call.
Indy squinted at the final scrap. The handwriting was hard to read, but not intentionally. Marcus shifted, perking Indy to the fact that he'd known something about this that he hadn't let on.