Chapter Three
It was early afternoon on a rainy spring day at Marshall College, Connecticut. Students ran across campus to the shelter inside, protecting themselves with textbooks.
Rain splattered the window of Indiana Jones’ cramped, cluttered office. Crooked stacks of dog-eared textbooks and papers climbed for the ceiling. The spindly bookshelves were stuffed with various archaeological relics and instruments; primitive pottery, statues, and the like, most of which had been purchased on the antiquities black market and had yet for their authenticity to be determined so they could be handed to the museum. Sitting at a small wooden desk, amidst a mountain of term papers, was Indiana Jones himself, wearing a brown three piece suit and circular, wire rimmed glasses that he hoped made him look smarter. In one hand he held a student seating chart as he hurriedly read through and graded each paper, cursing his procrastination with every stroke of the pen.
To make matters worse, the office was crowded with students, and countless others spilled out into the hallway. All were anxious to get inside, and not for autographs. They badgered, complained and moaned all at once.
“Dr. Jones,” said a student named Teddy, “I took your class instead of all the others! I coulda had Professor Needles... Professor Eisenschmidt... Professor –”
“You promised,” Angela said. “You said you’d have ‘em graded by yesterday.”
“My paper finished yet?” said another student whose name Indy didn’t remember, but whom he recognized as a consistently annoying smartass. “Name’s ‘Virgil Vektor’. That’s VIRGIL. Capital V... I... R...”
“My parents paid good money to send me here,” Julia said. “You know how much they shelled out for your class?”
“He doesn’t care about us,” Charles told her and anyone else who could hear him over the din. “He only wants fortune and glory. We’re just a buncha peons to him.”
“VEKTOR,” Virgil said. “Capital V... E... K...”
Indy tried to ignore the verbal assault. Why, oh why, couldn’t you stay focused yesterday, Jones? he asked himself. This happens every infernal year.
In fairness, he had somewhat of an excuse this time. The drunken nightmare he’d had in Scotland still haunted him every time he closed his eyes. It had seemed more real than any dream he’d ever had, too – but then, he couldn’t remember being that drunk before. He wondered what he’d really done in his state of mind to lacerate himself the way he had, and whatever it was, he hated himself for it. Some of the wounds on his chest and hands were obviously going to become nasty scars. He knew that something had happened, and that two policemen had been killed, but he was generally somewhat desensitized to such things – surely that hadn’t driven him to the bottle?
What could it possibly mean? He wished he’d paid more attention to Freud. Something about his father, probably, who was from Scotland. But he didn't resent his father that much – did he?
On top of that, the problems overseas were never far from his mind, not when he kept getting dragged into them. He’d made a point of not reading the newspaper while on vacation, but on returning home wasn't surprised at all to find that Japan was still terrorizing China, Italy was still terrorizing Ethiopia, Spain was still terrorizing itself, and Germany was still looking uglier by the day. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the worst was yet to come. FDR was set to pass the third of his Neutrality Acts to prevent the US from getting too entangled, but Indy had to wonder why three of them were even necessary, and under what circumstances neutrality would actually be the greater evil, and why they could never all just get along.
He became aware of his student assistant, Betsy Tuffet, pushing her way to the front of the incensed mob. Twenty-one years old, with thick, luxurious black hair, bright brown eyes and a small framed, athletic body, she was nonetheless a tough, brash, Brooklyn kid. She moved close to Indy, her hair ever-so-slightly brushing his cheek. He tensed but pointedly refused to look up from the term papers.
“Hello, Ind–” she began, and giggled like a teenager. “Dr. Jones,” she corrected.
Oh good grief – “Not now, Betsy,” he said.
Betsy cocked an eye. “Look at all of those papers!”
“Please, I –”
“Want me to come by later? Help you grade?”
“Help me grade. Yeah. Sure.” Just go away, please.
Graciously, she complied with his unspoken wish. “Goodbye, Ind–” she called as she left, and giggled again. “Dr. Jones!”
He sighed.
“Didja get the name? VIRGIL! Capital V... I... R...”
Professor Thad Priestly, a young, wisecracking, greasy-haired acquaintance of Indy’s, entered and pushed Virgil aside. Indy was grateful for a moment, but realized quickly that this was not an improvement of the situation when Priestly shoved a photograph beneath his nose.
“Moby Dick,” Priestly said.
“Huh?”
Priestly pointed at the photo. “That’s what I named ‘im. Captain said it was the biggest fish he ever saw.”
Indy glanced impatiently to the photo. It showed Professor Priestly dressed in a fisherman’s outfit, standing on a pier, holding a fish that had to measure two feet if it was an inch. Indy began to steam. Priestly gave him a manly slap on the back, aggravating his still-fresh bruises. “What about you, big guy? You were over in Scotty-land for two weeks... Didja catch the big one?”
Memories of his last night there began to flood back, and he winced perceptibly. “Look, Priestly,” he began, trying to hold his temper, “I’m real busy –”
He was interrupted by a slap to the face that nearly knocked the fillings from his teeth. He looked up, prepared to make Priestly suffer, but he saw instead a beautiful blonde student named Rebecca standing over his desk. “Two-timing snake!” she screamed, her face purple.
Indy rubbed his jaw, sure something must have been broken. And what was she blabbing about?
“How could you?!” she continued. “My own mother?! In my own bed?!” She slapped him again, nearly giving him whiplash. “I’ve had it with you! It’s over!”
Oh, so that was it. He’d forgotten all about that. Priestly tried unsuccessfully to hide a chuckle. Rebecca threw his shirt on the desk and stormed out of the room. “If it makes you feel any better,” he called after her, “I didn’t enjoy it!”
He shook his head and continued working. Why couldn’t you have been strong? he berated himself. The woman had been aching for companionship since her husband had run off with all the money, and he’d been distraught for months about breaking things off with Marion... Mercifully, the office had not fallen silent during this exchange, but now another loud voice came toward him.
“Special Delivery! Dr. Indiana Jones!” A burly postman stood in the doorway, holding a thick, enormous brown envelope.
What could that be? Indy didn’t care; he had things to worry about right now. He motioned to the postman, who grudgingly tried to force his way through the crowd. Indy went back to his grading once again, but was interrupted by a loud tapping noise. He looked up to find Dean Claude Coventry, a stately, elderly gentleman, rapping a steel ruler on his desk. The Dean was visibly upset. “Dr. Jones,” he said sternly, “I’ve had complaints from several of the students –”
The postman interrupted the interruption, dropping the heavy envelope onto the desk and shoving a yellow paper in front of Indy. “Sign here,” he said.
Indy did so as the Dean continued lecturing, oblivious to the intrusion. “They feel that you are ignoring them, that you are distracted...”
“Me?” Indy scoffed as he handed the paper back to the postman. “Distracted?”
The postman stared at his signature, puzzled. “What’s this? ‘B+’? That’s how you sign your name?”
Indy grabbed the paper, crossed out the grade and signed his name. The Dean still paid no heed. “Marshall College is not the place for sloppy behavior...”
The postman left and Indy opened the envelope. A large amount of water poured out, saturating most of the papers on the desk, followed by an enormous dead trout. The students exchanged startled and nauseated glances. He removed a water logged note from the envelope and read, A MacGowan’s word is truer than an angel’s kiss.
As Indy grabbed a tissue from the box behind him and futilely attempted to wipe some of the water from his desk, Dean Coventry shook a finger at him. “I have one final warning for you, Dr. Jones –”
The phone rang, and Indy quickly answered it, delaying the threat by a few precious seconds. The fuming Dean finally had to acknowledge an interruption as Indy spoke into the receiver. “Dr. Jones... yes... oh, hello, Marcus...” He glanced at Coventry and realized the Dean’s patience was not going to hold out much longer. “Look, can you hold on?” He covered the receiver and spoke to the Dean. “You were saying, sir?”
Coventry tried to rebuild his head of steam. “Either you begin concentrating on your –”
“Yes, Marcus,” Indy was saying into the phone again, “I’m still here. Just hold on!” He turned back to the Dean. “I’m very sorry, sir...”
Coventry was boiling now. “ – concentrating on your teaching duties or –”
“Dammit, Marcus! I’m standing here with Dean... What?.. Just how important?” He listened impatiently. “It is, huh? Okay. Five minutes. Yeah. I’ll be right over. But this better be important, Marcus!” He hung up and looked sheepishly at the furious, red-faced old man.
“You are on probation, Jones! Ten days! If there is no improvement, you will be dismissed!” And he stormed out of the room.
The words were like a slap in the face, far worse than the literal ones Rebecca had administered. His mind reeling, Indy hastily began to gather the wet papers, deciding to leave the fish behind for now. With his arms full he tried to push his way through the crowd. “I promise,” he yelled above the noise, “by tomorrow I’ll have all of these graded... and dried!”
Some of the students quieted down, but one whiny voice still rose above them. “‘VIRGIL VECTOR!’ Capital V... I... R...”
Indy handed him his soggy paper. “F!”
Virgil stared at it, his mouth doing a convincing impression of the fish on the desk.
Indy hurried out the door and down the hall, ignoring the curious stares of his colleagues who had seen the crowd pressing into his office. Now that he had enough quiet to hear himself think, he thought about what the Dean had said. It was inevitable, he figured. After welcoming him with open arms, Coventry had been steadily losing patience with him over the years. And why not? Indy figured. He could never quite explain why his most interesting finds always slipped through his fingers.
He exited the college front doors. The rain had slowed considerably and the sun was beginning to break through the clouds. He hailed one of the taxis that always loitered around to take students to less than reputable places. “History Museum,” he said, “and step on it.”
The driver grunted. He understood no English, aside from the names of places he was likely to be asked to go, and a few key phrases such as “Follow that car,” “Step on it,” and “For the love of God, slow down!”
They arrived in less than a minute. As Indy caught his breath and removed his fingernails from the seat, he began wondering now what Marcus, whom he could see waiting outside in the rain for him and practically dancing with anticipation, thought was so urgent and important. Indy found archaeology interesting enough, to be sure, but it took second place to eating decently and having a place to sleep. Marcus, on the other hand, was more than a bit of a fanatic at times.
“Thanks,” he said to the driver, paying him. “But try not to break the sound barrier next time.” The driver grinned uncomprehendingly and zoomed away while Indy was still pulling his second foot out, splashing a puddle all over him in the process. “Barbarian,” he muttered, picking up the term papers that had slipped from his grasp into the puddle.
“Nice to see you again, old pal,” said Marcus Brody, assistant curator of the History Museum. He extended a hand, saw that Indy was a bit laden down, and retracted it. “I hope your vacation was relaxing?”
“Well, actually –”
“Good, good, glad to hear it. Come along, I have something simply wonderful to show you. You have no idea how hard it was to wait for your return.” He walked as fast as he could back toward the museum.
Indy followed him. “Look, I have some pressing matters to take care of. Couldn’t you just tell me?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Marcus said. “Even if I had a way with words, which I don’t, you would never grasp the significance of all this until you saw it with your own eyes. Er, would you like some help with those papers?” he added as he held open the door.
“No thanks, I’ve got them,” Indy said.
They headed through the Prehistory Room, a large room filled with skeletons, fossils and statues dating back to the dawn of man. Marcus pulled from his pocket something decidedly modern, a l6mm metal film canister, and placed it beneath his arm.
Indy’s eyes darted to a full sized Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton. “This better be important, Marcus,” he said, “or the museum will soon be displaying my bones. My teaching career is in danger of extinction.” He saw no point in trying to hide that fact from his old friend.
Marcus didn’t seem ruffled in the least. He smiled mysteriously. “You will not be disappointed, Indy,” he said.
Indy sighed. He liked Marcus quite a bit. The two had been close friends since his childhood, when Marcus had known his father. But the man often seemed quite out of touch with reality, or at least the reality of this century. He imbued old bones and artifacts with the personalities of living people, and old myths and legends with the truth of newsreels.
Marcus held open the door to the museum board room. Indy entered and sat down at his desk without being asked, and tried to go back to his term papers for a moment. If he spent every spare second on them maybe he could get them finished by tomorrow and actually do an okay job of it. But Marcus promptly shoved a tattered ancient painting in his face.
Indy blinked and pulled his head back. He found himself face to face with some sort of watercolor anomaly, half human, half monkey. Its wise, wrinkled face possessed penetrating coal black eyes, but in a comforting way unlike Baron Seagrove’s. It wore a lion skin robe and held a tall, golden hooped staff. It stood in a garden of luscious, ripe peach trees, as a bright ray of light emanated from an opening in the clouds to engulf it.
“Look familiar?” Marcus said.
Indy dismissed it and returned to feverishly grading the term papers, but inside he wracked his brain for the significance of the painting. It did look awfully familiar. And you didn’t see one of those guys out on the street every day. He finished the paper he was on and pinned it to a nearby bulletin board for drying. And then it came to him. “Sun Wu-Kung,” he said. “The Stone Monkey King.”
Marcus nodded encouragingly.
It was all coming back to him now. From ‘26 to ‘27 he had launched an expedition, in spite of mockery from the entire scientific community, to prove that the story of Sun Wu-Kung had some basis in true history. He’d ended with nothing tangible to show for it, but he had also done quite a bit of research on the actual legend. And now Marcus had some news about it to share? He didn’t like where this was going. “Big deal. That was ten years ago, Marcus,” he said. He went back to the papers again. “Geez! This Heller kid’s got the worst grammar.”
“Ten years or fifty years. It will always be in your blood,” Marcus insisted.
Indy pretended not to hear him. “Don’t believe this... he spells ‘repeat’ with two ‘E’s.”
“Think back, Indy. Remember your desire? Your passion?”
“Kid gets an ‘A’ on content... a ‘D’ on form.”
“Dammit, man!” Marcus yelled, slamming his fist on the desk. “You can’t bury those feelings forever!”
Indy realized he wasn’t getting out of this that easily, and reluctantly looked up from the papers. He glanced at Marcus, then at the painting. What the hell? I’m going to lose my job anyway. He became very serious, somber. His eyes grew empty. His voice lowered to nearly a whisper. “Two years,” he said. “Nearly two years of my life... looking for the remains of that Monkey... a piece of his legendary Golden Hooped Rod... or some sign of the Lost City.” He shook his head. “Nine men perished on the journey. The rest of us nearly died from starvation or one of the many horrible diseases we discovered...” He looked back at the papers, and his voice was barely audible. “We still came back empty handed.”
Marcus began threading the projector on the desk with the film he had been carrying. “One mustn’t give up so easily, Indy.”
“Give up?!” Indy sputtered. “Marcus, we spent thirteen months in China! Another seven in India!”
“But none in Africa.”
That threw Indy for a loop. He had researched the legend and expedition both quite thoroughly. “There was no proof... archeological or anthropological... to indicate that Sun Wu-Kung ever visited Africa...”
“Until now,” Marcus said, turning off the lights.
“Hey,” Indy protested weakly. “My papers...”
Ignoring him, Marcus started the projector. A black and white image flickered on the far wall. An African pygmy, standing in what appeared to be a grassy area. Only a shade over four feet tall, his body was nonetheless taut and muscular. His long shaggy black hair framed an impish face with a very inquisitive expression, and a pair of wide, bright, almost childlike eyes. His energy was boundless and he could not stop moving. Beside him, a tall, strikingly beautiful woman communicated in sign language.
“The woman is Dr. Clare Clarke, the famous zoologist,” Marcus said. “She works in Africa, studying animals in their natural habitat.”
Indy had heard of her. It was rare for a woman to be so prominent in any scientific field, let alone one who appeared better suited as a fashion model, but he managed to encounter most of them somehow and he’d never complained about that fact. Still, she wasn’t going to help him keep his job. “Very interesting, Marcus. Now if you’ll turn the lights back on –”
“Three weeks ago,” Marcus continued, “Dr. Clarke discovered that cute little fellow, Tyki, a pygmy of an unusual race. Unrelated to any known African tribe.”
Genealogy put Indy to sleep. “Marcus. The lights.”
“Dr. Clarke believes that Tyki comes from the Lost Civilization of Sun Wu-Kung.”
“What?” Indy paused, about to say something else. He stood, walking closer to the flickering image. Tyki smiled straight at the camera, and then Dr. Clarke did the same. Even in black and white, it nearly turned him to jelly. He turned away. “But how did Miss –”
“Doctor.”
“‘Doctor’ Clarke. How did she arrive at such a preposterous hypothesis?”
“The pygmy speaks in a language that has no African origins... but bears a strong resemblance to Chinese.”
Indy waved him off. “Means nothing. The rivers of Africa have been plagued by various Oriental pirates and scavengers since the sixteenth century.” He looked back at the screen. Tyki and Dr. Clarke seemed to be playing a game. “You’ll have to do better than that, Marcus.”
“There’s more,” he continued, unperturbed. “The pygmy was found wearing an ornamental peach stone around his neck... believed to come from Sun Wu-Kung’s legendary Garden of Immortal Peaches.”
Indy nearly laughed. “Marcus, there are countless undiscovered African tribes... all with various obscure beliefs and practices...” He smirked. “One tribe may wear peach stones... another may wear banana peels...” He walked back to his papers, allowing himself to entertain the thought that Dr. Clarke should have been a fashion model after all.
Marcus paused before adding, excitement evident in his voice, “There is one final bit of evidence...”
Just as flimsy, no doubt. “Enlighten me.”
“The pygmy is over two hundred years old.”
Indy adjusted his spectacles, forgetting in his surprise that they were mostly for show, and stared at the black and white image. The pygmy appeared to be in his mid-twenties, unmarred by a single wrinkle. He was walking to the camera now, staring curiously into the lens as if he had just noticed it. What am I thinking? Even if he was ancient, he wouldn’t be two hundred years old. No one’s two hundred years old. “That’s impossible,” he said flatly, not looking away.
“Dr. Clarke has done a considerable amount of testing on the pygmy’s clothing, his sandals – everything is over two hundred years old.”
“He’s probably wearing his great-grandfather’s stuff,” Indy retorted. Tyki began to unscrew the camera lens. The picture went out of focus for a moment, and then the film ran out. Marcus turned off the projector and flipped on the overhead room lights. Indy blinked at the sharp change and looked at him. “What does all of this have to do with me?”
“Dr. Clarke wants to mount an expedition to find the Lost City of Sun Wu-Kung. She is quite familiar with your reputation, and she’d like you to come along.”
So that was it. He hadn’t wasted enough of his life on this already. “No chance,” he said, gathering up his papers.
“There will be money involved,” Marcus continued. “The museum is willing to fund the expedition...”
“The museum is, or you are?”
“No difference.”
“You can’t afford that right now and you know it,” Indy said. “If this expedition fails – like the last one –”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take for such an incredible find. Indy, please –”
He was so excited, and so desperate, Indy almost hated to reject his old friend. But this just wasn’t realistic. “Sorry, Marcus,” he said, and meant it. “I’ve burned this bridge.” He turned and began to walk away.
“Indy,” Marcus called after him.
With a heavy sigh, Indy turned back and waved the papers at the museum curator. “Marcus. Please. I’ve got to finish these –”
“You’ve got to finish something much more important,” Marcus insisted. “You crossed the threshold over a decade ago... and it’s been tearing at your insides ever since.” That familiar madness had come into his eyes and he clenched a fist to his heart in passion. “My friend, if there is even one iota of truth in Dr. Clarke’s findings, then you can lift the veil of mystery that has surrounded this Chinese legend for centuries. You may uncover the secrets to a lost civilization...and possibly, to man’s never ending search for immortality.”
Indy stared at the painting of Sun Wu-Kung. He did still believe there may be something behind the legend – but immortality? That will be the day. Might as well go looking for the Holy Grail, or the Fountain of Youth. He didn’t want to become a fanatic, to throw his life away like his father had.
“Indy,” Marcus implored him, “can you afford to pass up the single most important adventure of your life?”
Indy opened his mouth to shoot off another excuse, but he could not make the words come out. He picked up the painting and stared into the Monkey King’s wise eyes.
The single most important adventure of your life. A tall order, considering how many he’d had, and more than likely an exaggeration. But he thought of Dean Coventry’s words... probation... ten days... no improvement... dismissed...
Marcus was right. He couldn’t afford to pass this up. Because if there was something behind this legend, anything at all, maybe it was the only thing that could save him. In more ways than one. He turned to his friend, now benefactor, and silently nodded.
“You can? Seriously?” Marcus looked as if he had been stabbed in the chest.
“What?” Indy was shaken from his revery.
“You can pass up the single most important adventure of your life? After all that?”
Indy went through his memory and realized that had indeed been the last question Marcus asked. “No,” he said. “I meant, yes, count me in.”
Before he could protest, Marcus enveloped him in a bear hug, crushing the wet term papers between them. “I knew it!” he said through tears of joy. “I knew you wouldn’t let yourself down, Indiana Jones!”
Indy grinned awkwardly, but his mind was already racing. Perhaps there could be a third angle to this venture as well. Perhaps he could be making full-body contact with someone else in the near future. He recalled the image of Clare Clarke smiling straight at the camera. She looked like the perfect candidate for another sort of research project he had in mind.
***
The term papers were still wet, and that state was not helped by the additonal drops of water now falling on them. Salt water, falling from the eyes of Betsy Tuffet as she graded at Indy’s desk in his small apartment.
Behind her, he was filling a suitcase on the bed and trying to ignore her. He set aside his Smith and Wesson handgun to be put in last, where it would be easily accessible. He hoped Dr. Clarke at least had the brains to organize rifles and elephant guns, because in all likelihood this wasn’t going to cut it. Still, it made him feel better. He had missed it in Scotland, especially that last night. His other supplies consisted mostly of clothes and snacks, with some odds and ends like a compass, pocketknife and of course his bullwhip. He hoped Dr. Clarke would be bringing enough archaeological equipment to share.
Finally, the silence unnerved him and he found himself looking at Betsy. She was miserable, but she had never once complained, preferring to let the guilt gnaw at his insides. He knew this was his fault in a way. The collaboration between him and his student assistant was rather closer than the traditional sort. He counted on her for more than a little bit of help preparing his lessons, and sometimes even grading assignments, nearly every night. And somehow over the course of the year she had gotten the wrong idea about their relationship.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He walked over and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
She jerked away. “You can’t do this to me!” she snapped.
“C’mon, Betsy. Relax.” He grabbed a couple of papers and tried to shake the tears off. “You’re gettin’ ‘em all wet again.”
“You just can’t go away,” she insisted. “I mean... Africa is so far away, and... well...” she stared into his eyes. “I love you, Indy.”
Come on, I don’t need this kind of emotional baggage. “Thought we agreed this was s’posed to be casual.”
Betsy snorted. “You call what happened last night ‘casual’.”
Again, he cursed himself for not being stronger. He’d gotten back late, jet-lagged, still sore all over, and shaken by that infernal dream. He’d needed an escape... “My dear,” he said lamely, “a momentary lapse into passion does not a love affair make.”
She gaped. “Momentary lapse! So that’s all I am to you!” She shot to her feet. “Rebecca was right. You don’t care about anyone. She was probably telling the truth about her mom, then, too!” She stomped away from the desk.
“Betsy, wait...” he pleaded, but it was just as well that she didn’t. What could I say to her now? He sighed, and then his eye caught one of the term papers Betsy had left unfinished. He began to read, making a few corrections here and there, wishing he could correct his life as easily.
A creaking noise sounded behind him. Indy turned and his face went white. He bolted to his feet.
One end of his bullwhip was attached to an overhead lamp. The other end had been formed into a noose around Betsy’s neck while she stood on a wooden chair. As Indy raced across the room, she kicked the chair away and started gagging.
He grabbed her in midair, removed the noose and placed her on the floor. “Whatsa’ matter with you!” he snapped. “You think this is a joke!?”
“If I can’t have you,” she said calmly, “I don’t want to live.”
Indy tossed the whip into his suitcase, pulled up the chair and forced her into it. “Stay here,” he said, looking around. “You’re a little loopy... you need to calm down...” He found what he was looking for, a bottle of bourbon, on the bedside table, and poured her a tall glass. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”
He turned his back on her and returned to his packing. Betsy raised the glass to her lips, but the message on the bottle caught her eye. DANGER! CONTENTS FLAMMABLE! She beamed.
Folding his clothing, Indy picked up the shirt Rebecca had returned to him that morning. It had been a favorite of his, but now it had too much stigma attached. In the silence he heard the unmistakable flick of a matchstick. He turned and saw Betsy, doused in bourbon, preparing to light herself on fire.
He dashed forward and blew out the match an instant before it sparked her clothing. As she frowned at him, he realized this problem had to be addressed right here, and right now. He shook her by the shoulders. “C’mon, Betsy,” he pleaded. “Get ahold of yourself. You’re young. There are a lot of other guys –”
“Not like you,” she protested.
Bless her heart. “That’s true,” he admitted. No! Wait! Wrong point! “But that’s no reason to stop living! Besides, I’m too old for you. By the time you’re seventy-five, I’ll be...” He did some quick mental calculations, and the image that came to mind made him grimace. “Yeccchhh! I’ll be disgusting. If not dead.”
That ought to settle it. Once again he returned to his packing. Betsy sighed and looked away for another option. It wasn’t his looks that made her so drawn to Indiana Jones. Well, yeah, that was part of it, but not the important part. It wasn’t even all those adventures he went on; she figured they were probably exaggerated anyway. It was the awesome charisma he had, that seemed to ooze from every pore of his being. No male she had ever met had it quite like that. And she knew that if such a one could not care about her, she did not want to be cared about by anyone.
She noticed an enormous, stone African urn atop a section of bookshelves. She recalled Indy telling her it weighed no less 150 pounds. Without hesitating, she laid down with her head against the shelves, reached behind her, and shook them.
Indy placed his gun atop the rest of his belongings and tried to close the suitcase, but this proved a Herculean undertaking. Sweat beaded on his brow and his sore muscles screamed in protest. He could have just gotten another suitcase, but didn’t feel like having two to worry about. “Betsy?” he said, turning his head. “Could you give me a hand with – holy cow!”
As he watched, the urn tipped over the bookshelves’ edge and fell through the air, directed straight at Betsy’s head. The whole thing played as if in slow motion. Without giving himself time to think he lunged for it – grabbed it in the air inches from her face – spun around – landed painfully on his back, pinned by the heavy artifact.
“Oof,” he said. He gently pushed it aside and struggled to his feet, then tried to pull Betsy from the floor. “Look, Betsy, this is an irreplaceable relic – worth a lot of money –”
She jumped up and wrapped her arms tightly around him. “Don’t leave me, Indy!”
He hobbled over to the bed and tried to pick up his suitcase, but Betsy’s grip would not yield. I’ve just about had enough of this. “Look,” he snapped, unable to stop himself, “you’re just a flighty kid. Twenty minutes after I walk out this door, you’ll have a date with the college Romeo. Two hours from now, you’ll be madly in love with him. By tomorrow, you’ll forget I ever existed.”
With the pain of a wounded animal in her eyes, she removed her arms and stepped back. He realized he had probably just said the entirely wrong thing. What was to stop her from killing herself the moment he left? “Betsy,” he added quickly, “promise me you won’t – do any more of the things you just did.”
“What’s it to you if I do?” she mumbled.
“It would hurt me very much,” he admitted. Oh geez, this is completely negating everything I said – the things I have to do – “I care about you. As a friend. You’re a bright young girl with a wonderful future ahead of you, and I don’t want you to throw that away just because life gives you a disappointment.”
“Life gave me a lemon,” she insisted. “You’re throwing it on the compost heap.”
“But don’t you see?” he shouted. “It will never work! It isn’t meant to be!” He lowered his voice, and his eyes. “I’m sorry about last night. It was wrong. I know you’re in a lot of pain right now. But promise me you’ll stay alive.”
Betsy stared at the floor for a minute. “I promise,” she mumbled at last.
“Look at me.”
She looked at him. “I promise,” she repeated.
“You promise what?”
“Not to kill myself.”
“All right. Good.” Phew, I’ve had enough of playing counselor. I’m going to blow it any minute now. Not knowing what else he could do, Indy gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and hurried out the door.
***
Betsy glared at the closed door. He had a lot of nerve playing with her emotions like that. But he cared that she was alive; that was a start. So she’d stay alive, all right, if only to get the better of him in the end. A tough, angry expression covered her face, but it was mingled with a smile.
“Never underestimate the determination of a Brooklyn girl, Dr. Jones,” she said to the closed door. “Never.”
Next: Chapter Four
Rain splattered the window of Indiana Jones’ cramped, cluttered office. Crooked stacks of dog-eared textbooks and papers climbed for the ceiling. The spindly bookshelves were stuffed with various archaeological relics and instruments; primitive pottery, statues, and the like, most of which had been purchased on the antiquities black market and had yet for their authenticity to be determined so they could be handed to the museum. Sitting at a small wooden desk, amidst a mountain of term papers, was Indiana Jones himself, wearing a brown three piece suit and circular, wire rimmed glasses that he hoped made him look smarter. In one hand he held a student seating chart as he hurriedly read through and graded each paper, cursing his procrastination with every stroke of the pen.
To make matters worse, the office was crowded with students, and countless others spilled out into the hallway. All were anxious to get inside, and not for autographs. They badgered, complained and moaned all at once.
“Dr. Jones,” said a student named Teddy, “I took your class instead of all the others! I coulda had Professor Needles... Professor Eisenschmidt... Professor –”
“You promised,” Angela said. “You said you’d have ‘em graded by yesterday.”
“My paper finished yet?” said another student whose name Indy didn’t remember, but whom he recognized as a consistently annoying smartass. “Name’s ‘Virgil Vektor’. That’s VIRGIL. Capital V... I... R...”
“My parents paid good money to send me here,” Julia said. “You know how much they shelled out for your class?”
“He doesn’t care about us,” Charles told her and anyone else who could hear him over the din. “He only wants fortune and glory. We’re just a buncha peons to him.”
“VEKTOR,” Virgil said. “Capital V... E... K...”
Indy tried to ignore the verbal assault. Why, oh why, couldn’t you stay focused yesterday, Jones? he asked himself. This happens every infernal year.
In fairness, he had somewhat of an excuse this time. The drunken nightmare he’d had in Scotland still haunted him every time he closed his eyes. It had seemed more real than any dream he’d ever had, too – but then, he couldn’t remember being that drunk before. He wondered what he’d really done in his state of mind to lacerate himself the way he had, and whatever it was, he hated himself for it. Some of the wounds on his chest and hands were obviously going to become nasty scars. He knew that something had happened, and that two policemen had been killed, but he was generally somewhat desensitized to such things – surely that hadn’t driven him to the bottle?
What could it possibly mean? He wished he’d paid more attention to Freud. Something about his father, probably, who was from Scotland. But he didn't resent his father that much – did he?
On top of that, the problems overseas were never far from his mind, not when he kept getting dragged into them. He’d made a point of not reading the newspaper while on vacation, but on returning home wasn't surprised at all to find that Japan was still terrorizing China, Italy was still terrorizing Ethiopia, Spain was still terrorizing itself, and Germany was still looking uglier by the day. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the worst was yet to come. FDR was set to pass the third of his Neutrality Acts to prevent the US from getting too entangled, but Indy had to wonder why three of them were even necessary, and under what circumstances neutrality would actually be the greater evil, and why they could never all just get along.
He became aware of his student assistant, Betsy Tuffet, pushing her way to the front of the incensed mob. Twenty-one years old, with thick, luxurious black hair, bright brown eyes and a small framed, athletic body, she was nonetheless a tough, brash, Brooklyn kid. She moved close to Indy, her hair ever-so-slightly brushing his cheek. He tensed but pointedly refused to look up from the term papers.
“Hello, Ind–” she began, and giggled like a teenager. “Dr. Jones,” she corrected.
Oh good grief – “Not now, Betsy,” he said.
Betsy cocked an eye. “Look at all of those papers!”
“Please, I –”
“Want me to come by later? Help you grade?”
“Help me grade. Yeah. Sure.” Just go away, please.
Graciously, she complied with his unspoken wish. “Goodbye, Ind–” she called as she left, and giggled again. “Dr. Jones!”
He sighed.
“Didja get the name? VIRGIL! Capital V... I... R...”
Professor Thad Priestly, a young, wisecracking, greasy-haired acquaintance of Indy’s, entered and pushed Virgil aside. Indy was grateful for a moment, but realized quickly that this was not an improvement of the situation when Priestly shoved a photograph beneath his nose.
“Moby Dick,” Priestly said.
“Huh?”
Priestly pointed at the photo. “That’s what I named ‘im. Captain said it was the biggest fish he ever saw.”
Indy glanced impatiently to the photo. It showed Professor Priestly dressed in a fisherman’s outfit, standing on a pier, holding a fish that had to measure two feet if it was an inch. Indy began to steam. Priestly gave him a manly slap on the back, aggravating his still-fresh bruises. “What about you, big guy? You were over in Scotty-land for two weeks... Didja catch the big one?”
Memories of his last night there began to flood back, and he winced perceptibly. “Look, Priestly,” he began, trying to hold his temper, “I’m real busy –”
He was interrupted by a slap to the face that nearly knocked the fillings from his teeth. He looked up, prepared to make Priestly suffer, but he saw instead a beautiful blonde student named Rebecca standing over his desk. “Two-timing snake!” she screamed, her face purple.
Indy rubbed his jaw, sure something must have been broken. And what was she blabbing about?
“How could you?!” she continued. “My own mother?! In my own bed?!” She slapped him again, nearly giving him whiplash. “I’ve had it with you! It’s over!”
Oh, so that was it. He’d forgotten all about that. Priestly tried unsuccessfully to hide a chuckle. Rebecca threw his shirt on the desk and stormed out of the room. “If it makes you feel any better,” he called after her, “I didn’t enjoy it!”
He shook his head and continued working. Why couldn’t you have been strong? he berated himself. The woman had been aching for companionship since her husband had run off with all the money, and he’d been distraught for months about breaking things off with Marion... Mercifully, the office had not fallen silent during this exchange, but now another loud voice came toward him.
“Special Delivery! Dr. Indiana Jones!” A burly postman stood in the doorway, holding a thick, enormous brown envelope.
What could that be? Indy didn’t care; he had things to worry about right now. He motioned to the postman, who grudgingly tried to force his way through the crowd. Indy went back to his grading once again, but was interrupted by a loud tapping noise. He looked up to find Dean Claude Coventry, a stately, elderly gentleman, rapping a steel ruler on his desk. The Dean was visibly upset. “Dr. Jones,” he said sternly, “I’ve had complaints from several of the students –”
The postman interrupted the interruption, dropping the heavy envelope onto the desk and shoving a yellow paper in front of Indy. “Sign here,” he said.
Indy did so as the Dean continued lecturing, oblivious to the intrusion. “They feel that you are ignoring them, that you are distracted...”
“Me?” Indy scoffed as he handed the paper back to the postman. “Distracted?”
The postman stared at his signature, puzzled. “What’s this? ‘B+’? That’s how you sign your name?”
Indy grabbed the paper, crossed out the grade and signed his name. The Dean still paid no heed. “Marshall College is not the place for sloppy behavior...”
The postman left and Indy opened the envelope. A large amount of water poured out, saturating most of the papers on the desk, followed by an enormous dead trout. The students exchanged startled and nauseated glances. He removed a water logged note from the envelope and read, A MacGowan’s word is truer than an angel’s kiss.
As Indy grabbed a tissue from the box behind him and futilely attempted to wipe some of the water from his desk, Dean Coventry shook a finger at him. “I have one final warning for you, Dr. Jones –”
The phone rang, and Indy quickly answered it, delaying the threat by a few precious seconds. The fuming Dean finally had to acknowledge an interruption as Indy spoke into the receiver. “Dr. Jones... yes... oh, hello, Marcus...” He glanced at Coventry and realized the Dean’s patience was not going to hold out much longer. “Look, can you hold on?” He covered the receiver and spoke to the Dean. “You were saying, sir?”
Coventry tried to rebuild his head of steam. “Either you begin concentrating on your –”
“Yes, Marcus,” Indy was saying into the phone again, “I’m still here. Just hold on!” He turned back to the Dean. “I’m very sorry, sir...”
Coventry was boiling now. “ – concentrating on your teaching duties or –”
“Dammit, Marcus! I’m standing here with Dean... What?.. Just how important?” He listened impatiently. “It is, huh? Okay. Five minutes. Yeah. I’ll be right over. But this better be important, Marcus!” He hung up and looked sheepishly at the furious, red-faced old man.
“You are on probation, Jones! Ten days! If there is no improvement, you will be dismissed!” And he stormed out of the room.
The words were like a slap in the face, far worse than the literal ones Rebecca had administered. His mind reeling, Indy hastily began to gather the wet papers, deciding to leave the fish behind for now. With his arms full he tried to push his way through the crowd. “I promise,” he yelled above the noise, “by tomorrow I’ll have all of these graded... and dried!”
Some of the students quieted down, but one whiny voice still rose above them. “‘VIRGIL VECTOR!’ Capital V... I... R...”
Indy handed him his soggy paper. “F!”
Virgil stared at it, his mouth doing a convincing impression of the fish on the desk.
Indy hurried out the door and down the hall, ignoring the curious stares of his colleagues who had seen the crowd pressing into his office. Now that he had enough quiet to hear himself think, he thought about what the Dean had said. It was inevitable, he figured. After welcoming him with open arms, Coventry had been steadily losing patience with him over the years. And why not? Indy figured. He could never quite explain why his most interesting finds always slipped through his fingers.
He exited the college front doors. The rain had slowed considerably and the sun was beginning to break through the clouds. He hailed one of the taxis that always loitered around to take students to less than reputable places. “History Museum,” he said, “and step on it.”
The driver grunted. He understood no English, aside from the names of places he was likely to be asked to go, and a few key phrases such as “Follow that car,” “Step on it,” and “For the love of God, slow down!”
They arrived in less than a minute. As Indy caught his breath and removed his fingernails from the seat, he began wondering now what Marcus, whom he could see waiting outside in the rain for him and practically dancing with anticipation, thought was so urgent and important. Indy found archaeology interesting enough, to be sure, but it took second place to eating decently and having a place to sleep. Marcus, on the other hand, was more than a bit of a fanatic at times.
“Thanks,” he said to the driver, paying him. “But try not to break the sound barrier next time.” The driver grinned uncomprehendingly and zoomed away while Indy was still pulling his second foot out, splashing a puddle all over him in the process. “Barbarian,” he muttered, picking up the term papers that had slipped from his grasp into the puddle.
“Nice to see you again, old pal,” said Marcus Brody, assistant curator of the History Museum. He extended a hand, saw that Indy was a bit laden down, and retracted it. “I hope your vacation was relaxing?”
“Well, actually –”
“Good, good, glad to hear it. Come along, I have something simply wonderful to show you. You have no idea how hard it was to wait for your return.” He walked as fast as he could back toward the museum.
Indy followed him. “Look, I have some pressing matters to take care of. Couldn’t you just tell me?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Marcus said. “Even if I had a way with words, which I don’t, you would never grasp the significance of all this until you saw it with your own eyes. Er, would you like some help with those papers?” he added as he held open the door.
“No thanks, I’ve got them,” Indy said.
They headed through the Prehistory Room, a large room filled with skeletons, fossils and statues dating back to the dawn of man. Marcus pulled from his pocket something decidedly modern, a l6mm metal film canister, and placed it beneath his arm.
Indy’s eyes darted to a full sized Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton. “This better be important, Marcus,” he said, “or the museum will soon be displaying my bones. My teaching career is in danger of extinction.” He saw no point in trying to hide that fact from his old friend.
Marcus didn’t seem ruffled in the least. He smiled mysteriously. “You will not be disappointed, Indy,” he said.
Indy sighed. He liked Marcus quite a bit. The two had been close friends since his childhood, when Marcus had known his father. But the man often seemed quite out of touch with reality, or at least the reality of this century. He imbued old bones and artifacts with the personalities of living people, and old myths and legends with the truth of newsreels.
Marcus held open the door to the museum board room. Indy entered and sat down at his desk without being asked, and tried to go back to his term papers for a moment. If he spent every spare second on them maybe he could get them finished by tomorrow and actually do an okay job of it. But Marcus promptly shoved a tattered ancient painting in his face.
Indy blinked and pulled his head back. He found himself face to face with some sort of watercolor anomaly, half human, half monkey. Its wise, wrinkled face possessed penetrating coal black eyes, but in a comforting way unlike Baron Seagrove’s. It wore a lion skin robe and held a tall, golden hooped staff. It stood in a garden of luscious, ripe peach trees, as a bright ray of light emanated from an opening in the clouds to engulf it.
“Look familiar?” Marcus said.
Indy dismissed it and returned to feverishly grading the term papers, but inside he wracked his brain for the significance of the painting. It did look awfully familiar. And you didn’t see one of those guys out on the street every day. He finished the paper he was on and pinned it to a nearby bulletin board for drying. And then it came to him. “Sun Wu-Kung,” he said. “The Stone Monkey King.”
Marcus nodded encouragingly.
It was all coming back to him now. From ‘26 to ‘27 he had launched an expedition, in spite of mockery from the entire scientific community, to prove that the story of Sun Wu-Kung had some basis in true history. He’d ended with nothing tangible to show for it, but he had also done quite a bit of research on the actual legend. And now Marcus had some news about it to share? He didn’t like where this was going. “Big deal. That was ten years ago, Marcus,” he said. He went back to the papers again. “Geez! This Heller kid’s got the worst grammar.”
“Ten years or fifty years. It will always be in your blood,” Marcus insisted.
Indy pretended not to hear him. “Don’t believe this... he spells ‘repeat’ with two ‘E’s.”
“Think back, Indy. Remember your desire? Your passion?”
“Kid gets an ‘A’ on content... a ‘D’ on form.”
“Dammit, man!” Marcus yelled, slamming his fist on the desk. “You can’t bury those feelings forever!”
Indy realized he wasn’t getting out of this that easily, and reluctantly looked up from the papers. He glanced at Marcus, then at the painting. What the hell? I’m going to lose my job anyway. He became very serious, somber. His eyes grew empty. His voice lowered to nearly a whisper. “Two years,” he said. “Nearly two years of my life... looking for the remains of that Monkey... a piece of his legendary Golden Hooped Rod... or some sign of the Lost City.” He shook his head. “Nine men perished on the journey. The rest of us nearly died from starvation or one of the many horrible diseases we discovered...” He looked back at the papers, and his voice was barely audible. “We still came back empty handed.”
Marcus began threading the projector on the desk with the film he had been carrying. “One mustn’t give up so easily, Indy.”
“Give up?!” Indy sputtered. “Marcus, we spent thirteen months in China! Another seven in India!”
“But none in Africa.”
That threw Indy for a loop. He had researched the legend and expedition both quite thoroughly. “There was no proof... archeological or anthropological... to indicate that Sun Wu-Kung ever visited Africa...”
“Until now,” Marcus said, turning off the lights.
“Hey,” Indy protested weakly. “My papers...”
Ignoring him, Marcus started the projector. A black and white image flickered on the far wall. An African pygmy, standing in what appeared to be a grassy area. Only a shade over four feet tall, his body was nonetheless taut and muscular. His long shaggy black hair framed an impish face with a very inquisitive expression, and a pair of wide, bright, almost childlike eyes. His energy was boundless and he could not stop moving. Beside him, a tall, strikingly beautiful woman communicated in sign language.
“The woman is Dr. Clare Clarke, the famous zoologist,” Marcus said. “She works in Africa, studying animals in their natural habitat.”
Indy had heard of her. It was rare for a woman to be so prominent in any scientific field, let alone one who appeared better suited as a fashion model, but he managed to encounter most of them somehow and he’d never complained about that fact. Still, she wasn’t going to help him keep his job. “Very interesting, Marcus. Now if you’ll turn the lights back on –”
“Three weeks ago,” Marcus continued, “Dr. Clarke discovered that cute little fellow, Tyki, a pygmy of an unusual race. Unrelated to any known African tribe.”
Genealogy put Indy to sleep. “Marcus. The lights.”
“Dr. Clarke believes that Tyki comes from the Lost Civilization of Sun Wu-Kung.”
“What?” Indy paused, about to say something else. He stood, walking closer to the flickering image. Tyki smiled straight at the camera, and then Dr. Clarke did the same. Even in black and white, it nearly turned him to jelly. He turned away. “But how did Miss –”
“Doctor.”
“‘Doctor’ Clarke. How did she arrive at such a preposterous hypothesis?”
“The pygmy speaks in a language that has no African origins... but bears a strong resemblance to Chinese.”
Indy waved him off. “Means nothing. The rivers of Africa have been plagued by various Oriental pirates and scavengers since the sixteenth century.” He looked back at the screen. Tyki and Dr. Clarke seemed to be playing a game. “You’ll have to do better than that, Marcus.”
“There’s more,” he continued, unperturbed. “The pygmy was found wearing an ornamental peach stone around his neck... believed to come from Sun Wu-Kung’s legendary Garden of Immortal Peaches.”
Indy nearly laughed. “Marcus, there are countless undiscovered African tribes... all with various obscure beliefs and practices...” He smirked. “One tribe may wear peach stones... another may wear banana peels...” He walked back to his papers, allowing himself to entertain the thought that Dr. Clarke should have been a fashion model after all.
Marcus paused before adding, excitement evident in his voice, “There is one final bit of evidence...”
Just as flimsy, no doubt. “Enlighten me.”
“The pygmy is over two hundred years old.”
Indy adjusted his spectacles, forgetting in his surprise that they were mostly for show, and stared at the black and white image. The pygmy appeared to be in his mid-twenties, unmarred by a single wrinkle. He was walking to the camera now, staring curiously into the lens as if he had just noticed it. What am I thinking? Even if he was ancient, he wouldn’t be two hundred years old. No one’s two hundred years old. “That’s impossible,” he said flatly, not looking away.
“Dr. Clarke has done a considerable amount of testing on the pygmy’s clothing, his sandals – everything is over two hundred years old.”
“He’s probably wearing his great-grandfather’s stuff,” Indy retorted. Tyki began to unscrew the camera lens. The picture went out of focus for a moment, and then the film ran out. Marcus turned off the projector and flipped on the overhead room lights. Indy blinked at the sharp change and looked at him. “What does all of this have to do with me?”
“Dr. Clarke wants to mount an expedition to find the Lost City of Sun Wu-Kung. She is quite familiar with your reputation, and she’d like you to come along.”
So that was it. He hadn’t wasted enough of his life on this already. “No chance,” he said, gathering up his papers.
“There will be money involved,” Marcus continued. “The museum is willing to fund the expedition...”
“The museum is, or you are?”
“No difference.”
“You can’t afford that right now and you know it,” Indy said. “If this expedition fails – like the last one –”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take for such an incredible find. Indy, please –”
He was so excited, and so desperate, Indy almost hated to reject his old friend. But this just wasn’t realistic. “Sorry, Marcus,” he said, and meant it. “I’ve burned this bridge.” He turned and began to walk away.
“Indy,” Marcus called after him.
With a heavy sigh, Indy turned back and waved the papers at the museum curator. “Marcus. Please. I’ve got to finish these –”
“You’ve got to finish something much more important,” Marcus insisted. “You crossed the threshold over a decade ago... and it’s been tearing at your insides ever since.” That familiar madness had come into his eyes and he clenched a fist to his heart in passion. “My friend, if there is even one iota of truth in Dr. Clarke’s findings, then you can lift the veil of mystery that has surrounded this Chinese legend for centuries. You may uncover the secrets to a lost civilization...and possibly, to man’s never ending search for immortality.”
Indy stared at the painting of Sun Wu-Kung. He did still believe there may be something behind the legend – but immortality? That will be the day. Might as well go looking for the Holy Grail, or the Fountain of Youth. He didn’t want to become a fanatic, to throw his life away like his father had.
“Indy,” Marcus implored him, “can you afford to pass up the single most important adventure of your life?”
Indy opened his mouth to shoot off another excuse, but he could not make the words come out. He picked up the painting and stared into the Monkey King’s wise eyes.
The single most important adventure of your life. A tall order, considering how many he’d had, and more than likely an exaggeration. But he thought of Dean Coventry’s words... probation... ten days... no improvement... dismissed...
Marcus was right. He couldn’t afford to pass this up. Because if there was something behind this legend, anything at all, maybe it was the only thing that could save him. In more ways than one. He turned to his friend, now benefactor, and silently nodded.
“You can? Seriously?” Marcus looked as if he had been stabbed in the chest.
“What?” Indy was shaken from his revery.
“You can pass up the single most important adventure of your life? After all that?”
Indy went through his memory and realized that had indeed been the last question Marcus asked. “No,” he said. “I meant, yes, count me in.”
Before he could protest, Marcus enveloped him in a bear hug, crushing the wet term papers between them. “I knew it!” he said through tears of joy. “I knew you wouldn’t let yourself down, Indiana Jones!”
Indy grinned awkwardly, but his mind was already racing. Perhaps there could be a third angle to this venture as well. Perhaps he could be making full-body contact with someone else in the near future. He recalled the image of Clare Clarke smiling straight at the camera. She looked like the perfect candidate for another sort of research project he had in mind.
***
The term papers were still wet, and that state was not helped by the additonal drops of water now falling on them. Salt water, falling from the eyes of Betsy Tuffet as she graded at Indy’s desk in his small apartment.
Behind her, he was filling a suitcase on the bed and trying to ignore her. He set aside his Smith and Wesson handgun to be put in last, where it would be easily accessible. He hoped Dr. Clarke at least had the brains to organize rifles and elephant guns, because in all likelihood this wasn’t going to cut it. Still, it made him feel better. He had missed it in Scotland, especially that last night. His other supplies consisted mostly of clothes and snacks, with some odds and ends like a compass, pocketknife and of course his bullwhip. He hoped Dr. Clarke would be bringing enough archaeological equipment to share.
Finally, the silence unnerved him and he found himself looking at Betsy. She was miserable, but she had never once complained, preferring to let the guilt gnaw at his insides. He knew this was his fault in a way. The collaboration between him and his student assistant was rather closer than the traditional sort. He counted on her for more than a little bit of help preparing his lessons, and sometimes even grading assignments, nearly every night. And somehow over the course of the year she had gotten the wrong idea about their relationship.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He walked over and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
She jerked away. “You can’t do this to me!” she snapped.
“C’mon, Betsy. Relax.” He grabbed a couple of papers and tried to shake the tears off. “You’re gettin’ ‘em all wet again.”
“You just can’t go away,” she insisted. “I mean... Africa is so far away, and... well...” she stared into his eyes. “I love you, Indy.”
Come on, I don’t need this kind of emotional baggage. “Thought we agreed this was s’posed to be casual.”
Betsy snorted. “You call what happened last night ‘casual’.”
Again, he cursed himself for not being stronger. He’d gotten back late, jet-lagged, still sore all over, and shaken by that infernal dream. He’d needed an escape... “My dear,” he said lamely, “a momentary lapse into passion does not a love affair make.”
She gaped. “Momentary lapse! So that’s all I am to you!” She shot to her feet. “Rebecca was right. You don’t care about anyone. She was probably telling the truth about her mom, then, too!” She stomped away from the desk.
“Betsy, wait...” he pleaded, but it was just as well that she didn’t. What could I say to her now? He sighed, and then his eye caught one of the term papers Betsy had left unfinished. He began to read, making a few corrections here and there, wishing he could correct his life as easily.
A creaking noise sounded behind him. Indy turned and his face went white. He bolted to his feet.
One end of his bullwhip was attached to an overhead lamp. The other end had been formed into a noose around Betsy’s neck while she stood on a wooden chair. As Indy raced across the room, she kicked the chair away and started gagging.
He grabbed her in midair, removed the noose and placed her on the floor. “Whatsa’ matter with you!” he snapped. “You think this is a joke!?”
“If I can’t have you,” she said calmly, “I don’t want to live.”
Indy tossed the whip into his suitcase, pulled up the chair and forced her into it. “Stay here,” he said, looking around. “You’re a little loopy... you need to calm down...” He found what he was looking for, a bottle of bourbon, on the bedside table, and poured her a tall glass. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”
He turned his back on her and returned to his packing. Betsy raised the glass to her lips, but the message on the bottle caught her eye. DANGER! CONTENTS FLAMMABLE! She beamed.
Folding his clothing, Indy picked up the shirt Rebecca had returned to him that morning. It had been a favorite of his, but now it had too much stigma attached. In the silence he heard the unmistakable flick of a matchstick. He turned and saw Betsy, doused in bourbon, preparing to light herself on fire.
He dashed forward and blew out the match an instant before it sparked her clothing. As she frowned at him, he realized this problem had to be addressed right here, and right now. He shook her by the shoulders. “C’mon, Betsy,” he pleaded. “Get ahold of yourself. You’re young. There are a lot of other guys –”
“Not like you,” she protested.
Bless her heart. “That’s true,” he admitted. No! Wait! Wrong point! “But that’s no reason to stop living! Besides, I’m too old for you. By the time you’re seventy-five, I’ll be...” He did some quick mental calculations, and the image that came to mind made him grimace. “Yeccchhh! I’ll be disgusting. If not dead.”
That ought to settle it. Once again he returned to his packing. Betsy sighed and looked away for another option. It wasn’t his looks that made her so drawn to Indiana Jones. Well, yeah, that was part of it, but not the important part. It wasn’t even all those adventures he went on; she figured they were probably exaggerated anyway. It was the awesome charisma he had, that seemed to ooze from every pore of his being. No male she had ever met had it quite like that. And she knew that if such a one could not care about her, she did not want to be cared about by anyone.
She noticed an enormous, stone African urn atop a section of bookshelves. She recalled Indy telling her it weighed no less 150 pounds. Without hesitating, she laid down with her head against the shelves, reached behind her, and shook them.
Indy placed his gun atop the rest of his belongings and tried to close the suitcase, but this proved a Herculean undertaking. Sweat beaded on his brow and his sore muscles screamed in protest. He could have just gotten another suitcase, but didn’t feel like having two to worry about. “Betsy?” he said, turning his head. “Could you give me a hand with – holy cow!”
As he watched, the urn tipped over the bookshelves’ edge and fell through the air, directed straight at Betsy’s head. The whole thing played as if in slow motion. Without giving himself time to think he lunged for it – grabbed it in the air inches from her face – spun around – landed painfully on his back, pinned by the heavy artifact.
“Oof,” he said. He gently pushed it aside and struggled to his feet, then tried to pull Betsy from the floor. “Look, Betsy, this is an irreplaceable relic – worth a lot of money –”
She jumped up and wrapped her arms tightly around him. “Don’t leave me, Indy!”
He hobbled over to the bed and tried to pick up his suitcase, but Betsy’s grip would not yield. I’ve just about had enough of this. “Look,” he snapped, unable to stop himself, “you’re just a flighty kid. Twenty minutes after I walk out this door, you’ll have a date with the college Romeo. Two hours from now, you’ll be madly in love with him. By tomorrow, you’ll forget I ever existed.”
With the pain of a wounded animal in her eyes, she removed her arms and stepped back. He realized he had probably just said the entirely wrong thing. What was to stop her from killing herself the moment he left? “Betsy,” he added quickly, “promise me you won’t – do any more of the things you just did.”
“What’s it to you if I do?” she mumbled.
“It would hurt me very much,” he admitted. Oh geez, this is completely negating everything I said – the things I have to do – “I care about you. As a friend. You’re a bright young girl with a wonderful future ahead of you, and I don’t want you to throw that away just because life gives you a disappointment.”
“Life gave me a lemon,” she insisted. “You’re throwing it on the compost heap.”
“But don’t you see?” he shouted. “It will never work! It isn’t meant to be!” He lowered his voice, and his eyes. “I’m sorry about last night. It was wrong. I know you’re in a lot of pain right now. But promise me you’ll stay alive.”
Betsy stared at the floor for a minute. “I promise,” she mumbled at last.
“Look at me.”
She looked at him. “I promise,” she repeated.
“You promise what?”
“Not to kill myself.”
“All right. Good.” Phew, I’ve had enough of playing counselor. I’m going to blow it any minute now. Not knowing what else he could do, Indy gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and hurried out the door.
***
Betsy glared at the closed door. He had a lot of nerve playing with her emotions like that. But he cared that she was alive; that was a start. So she’d stay alive, all right, if only to get the better of him in the end. A tough, angry expression covered her face, but it was mingled with a smile.
“Never underestimate the determination of a Brooklyn girl, Dr. Jones,” she said to the closed door. “Never.”
Next: Chapter Four
