She was beautiful. Her face was perfectly tanned and featured a pair of stunning violet eyes. Her curves seemed to go on forever. Her legs were long and shapely. And her chestnut-colored hair had more waves than the ocean. But her beauty didn’t stop at her appearance. She also possessed something unique, something intangible. There was no word to describe it other than perhaps magnetism. She had that rare ability to walk across a crowded room and leave a gaggle of tongue-tied men and women in her wake.
“Get the truck,” I said. “And make it fast.”
She darted through the flap. Squinting through my goggles, I watched her lithe figure, shaded a gorgeous green, sprint across the desolate landscape.
“What about us?” Graham asked.
“We need to keep this tent in one piece until she gets back.” I nodded at the covering. “Patch up that tear. I’ll check on the poles.”
Graham opened his toolbox. He dug out a roll of duct tape and hurried toward the torn covering, limping slightly on his artificial leg.
I grabbed a piece of cloth and trudged toward the entranceway. A sturdy gust of dry wind ploughed into my face. It dried my sweaty forehead and stole the saliva right out of my mouth. Quickly, I wrapped the cloth around my face and ran outside.
A fierce air current struck a nearby shed. Dirt thudded against the dilapidated wood exterior and pinged off the old sloped roof. Glass windows cracked under the onslaught.
Storms and freak weather-related events, although annoying, didn’t usually bother me. It was part of the job. Over the last few years, I’d survived an underground flood in Manhattan, vicious snowstorms in Antarctica, and endless rain in Mexico. But the rising dust storm was different. It felt strange. Like something out of myth and long-forgotten legends.
I trudged around the tent, feeling drier by the second. My outfit — a navy blue ribbed skullcap, dark gray cargo pants, a navy blue vest jacket, a long-sleeve white shirt, and sturdy hiking boots — rippled in the wind. Sweat beaded up on my forearms only to be whisked away by the blowing air, taking with it valuable fluids and electrolytes.
The tent’s outer structure consisted of sturdy PVC piping, arranged in a dome-shape. The covering was suspended underneath the dome and attached to it with powerful fasteners. This kept the pipes from rubbing against the fabric.
Almost immediately, I saw a pipe shift in the dirt. Then it started to slide out of the soil.
I fought my way to it. Blocking the wind with my back, I drove the pipe deeper into the soil. Then I knelt down and pushed dirt around it, packing the soil as tightly as possible.
Glancing through the translucent covering, I saw the reliquary locked in the gantry crane’s loving embrace. It intrigued me. I knew nothing about it other than the fact that it looked old and was covered with images of death and destruction. I didn’t know who had buried it, how Lila had located it, or what she expected to find inside it. And quite honestly, I didn’t really care.
I just wanted to save it.
The scales of progress vs. preservation had been thrown out of whack and I was, for better or worse, the only one who could restore them. Maybe saving the reliquary wouldn’t fully balance the scales and erase the guilt that plagued my soul.
But it would help.
I packed more dirt against the pipe. But as soon as I lifted my hands, it started to vibrate all over again.
Gritting my teeth, I grasped the pipe. My muscles strained as I drove it even deeper into the soil.
The wind kicked up a notch. The nearby shed quaked violently. Glass shattered. Wood splintered.
I twisted my head. Metal crashed. Wood beams cracked.
And then the shed disintegrated.
Pieces of wood ripped free. They were joined by the roof, which tore off the structure in largely one piece. The walls blew outward. Rolled-up metal fencing, bundles of blankets, and small tools flew into the air, swept skyward by the swirling winds.
My jaw clenched. The dome tent was built to withstand heavy winds. But I knew it couldn’t last much longer. And once it fell, I’d be powerless to protect the reliquary from the elements.
The pipe continued to vibrate. Then it began to push upward, pulled by the fierce current.
“Tent’s patched.” Graham’s voice crackled in my ear. “How’s it going out here?”
“Help …” I struggled to hold the pipe in place. “Help me.”
Rushing forward, he grabbed the pipe with both hands. Slowly, we shoved it into the earth.
The wind increased in ferocity, rising to gale force levels. Dirt stuffed my nostrils, my ears.
Abruptly, the pipe kicked like a wild mule. Graham and I flew backward, landing hard on the dirt.
Slightly dazed, I lifted my head. The loose pipe sailed back and forth, a slave to the insane winds. Then the pipes on either side of it began to vibrate. Within seconds, they kicked out of the ground as well.
The wind ripped at the covering. Graham’s patch job quickly came apart. Other holes appeared. They widened as the tear-resistant fabric failed its ultimate test of strength.
I struggled to gain my footing, to race forward. But the wind pinned me down. Helplessly, I watched the dome structure break free from the ground. It sailed away, bouncing like a tumbleweed and taking the covering with it.
My jaw hardened as I stared at the exposed reliquary.
Faster. Got to go faster.
Chapter 3
Dirt struck my goggles as I climbed to my feet. Hunkering down, Graham and I made our way to the reliquary.
Light flashed. Spinning around, I saw a tiny speck of brightness. Quickly, the speck grew larger.
A medium-duty flatbed truck appeared. It halted about twenty feet from us. Beverly put it into reverse and twisted the wheel until the flatbed faced the reliquary.
As she climbed out of the cab, Graham returned to the crane’s control panel. The gantry sputtered. Curls of smoke rose upward and were quickly swept away with the wind.
Chains clanked as the gantry lifted the cradled reliquary a few feet higher. Manipulating the controls, Graham angled the chain hoist, directing it toward our truck. Then he flicked a switch, causing the giant stone box to halt above the flatbed.
“What’s the hold-up?” I asked.
“The cradle will fit,” he replied. “But we should lash it down before we start driving.”
I winced as dirt-choked wind slashed against the stone box. “There’s no time,” I said. “Lower it in.”
Graham returned to the controls. The cradled reliquary settled onto the waiting flatbed. The rear tires dug an inch or two into the dirt. Then they halted.
I exhaled softly. “Give me some slack on those chains.”
Graham punched a few buttons. The chains sagged.
With Beverly’s help, I disconnected the chain hoist from the gantry system. We placed the chains onto the flatbed, taking care not to scratch the stone box. Then we hustled to the cab.
Beverly climbed into the driver’s seat. I helped Graham through the passenger door and climbed in after him.
Beverly released the parking brake and put the vehicle into motion. Spinning the wheel, she directed us toward the barn. It was tall, rising at least thirty feet over our heads.
As we drew near, the barn doors cracked. Straining her muscles, Lila pushed them all the way open. I caught a glimpse of her expression as Beverly drove us into the yawning interior. She looked furious.
Beverly hit the brakes. Graham and I hopped outside. The wind assailed the barn doors as we helped Lila pull them shut. More gusts of wind struck the barn’s sides as well as its roof. But the old building stood firm.
Lifting my goggles, I turned toward the dimly lit interior. The structure was large and filled with discarded farming equipment. I saw a dust-covered tractor, various tools, and bales of hay. More recent additions included the soil from the pit as well as piles of packing materials.