Keepers of the Lost City

3 The All-Nighter

Purdue was not satisfied being left unsatisfied, so to speak. There had to be some explanation as to the desiccation of the bodies, aside from resorting to the absurdity of old mariners’ tales and man-witches.

“You do know that most legends and myths, no matter how far-fetched, have some sort of root based in reality,” Nina reminded Purdue. The tall billionaire was running his hands through his white hair, glaring intensely at the body on the slab, the sixth one that could deliver no better explanation than those before it. “Purdue, we don’t know what kind of substances were on that ship back then. I mean, Jesus, people used to use cocaine for toothache and had cupboards full of poisons. Who knows what they could have taken! It has been so many decades that all evidence to their fate has to have been destroyed anyway.”

“I get that, my dear Nina,” he replied, still in deep thought. “What I do not believe, as an avid follower of the scientific principle, is that these men could have been subjected to mass hysteria. I refuse to embrace any theory that a ship full of able officers and soldiers could fall victim to some… some spell!”

“Look, is there any way to prove that they could have starved to death anyway?” Sam asked, looking mostly at Harris. The man who looked like a Stormtrooper shrugged, “I doubt it. After so much time in that submarine environment, salt erosion and decomposition would probably not leave us any clues.”

“What about submitting the more substantial tissue to a more specialized lab?” Nina suggested. “I mean, the skin is like animal hide by now, but what if we search the intracranial areas for a bit more…”

“Meat?” Sam jested.

Nina winced. “Aye, kind of. Maybe we will find toxins or drugs in tissue that was not exposed to the outside elements during decay. Just be aware that I am talking through my ass right now,” she sighed. “I am just grasping at straws in a scenario where straws are pretty damn meager.”

Harris looked at his employer. “Could work, sir. Shall I tell Sharon that we are hitting overtime tonight?”

Purdue had new hope between the dedicated freelance forensic experts and Nina’s ass-talking. It was a viable hypothesis, he reckoned, and one worth pursuing, as a last resort. After this, if nothing came up, he would have no choice but to conclude the case and live with the mystery. Purdue could not help, even after all he had seen, but to rebuke lazy suppositions basted in the esoteric.

“Alright,” he smiled with a clasping of hands, “let’s do that then. How soon can we submit the samples?”

“If we work on gathering material through the night, I’d say…,” he sang as he measured out his time frame, “we can have it tested within the next two days. I will make sure the lads at the big lab at St. Petra make it priority.”

“Good man,” Purdue said affirmatively. He looked at Sam, and walked out of the room with his arm around the journalist’s shoulder. They spoke in hushed tones as they disappeared down the hallway toward the flight of stairs that led up to the main entrance hall. “Have we anything to send to Spain about the dive yet, Sam? Have you managed to compile footage from that collar mounted camera of yours?”

“Aye, I have edited a special edition for the world to see, omitting the small detail of, you know, us being there at all,” Sam replied with his trademark cocky charm.

“Good, good,” Purdue said, happy with the necessary deceit. “We don’t need our contribution to clash with the story we told the authorities.”

“We can trust Capt. Sanchez, boys,” Nina assured them. She had been trailing them since they left the lab downstairs.

“Good God, Nina! You’ll give me a heart attack,” Sam gasped. “I’m going to have to put a bell around your pretty neck. Just like a cat,”

Purdue and Nina cackled at Sam’s fragile fright reflex. “Oh,” he added quickly, “Purdue, I hope you don’t mind that I had Bruich brought over. I fear the neighbors had quite enough of playing babysitter by now.”

“No, it is fine. Where is the old devil?” Purdue asked.

“On his way, I hope,” Nina smiled.

“Aye, as we speak,” Sam affirmed. The petite historian had a soft spot for Sam’s large, lazy pet, aptly named Bruichladdich. The ginger feline had kept her company in her lonely historical house in Oban many a time before, and she missed his overweight body on her lap during cold nights.

“I must tell you, I am too hyper to sleep,” Purdue admitted, to no-one’s surprise.

“I am not,” Nina shrugged. “I am turning in, alright?”

“Shall I send Bruich up to your chambers, my lady?” Sam joked, but Purdue could see the bitterness in his dark eyes. He missed being Nina’s lover. Although it seemed like eons ago, Purdue lamented the same loss. She had become successfully untied from romantic notions about either of them. Even though it was generally accepted to be a thing of the past, Sam and Purdue were still, in essence, jostling for her affection. Even if they, themselves, had not noticed, the savage practice made civilized by camaraderie, would never cease.

“Aye, Sam, send him up to keep me warm, will you?” she teased, and without another word, she ascended the first lavish staircase to the first floor of the ancient manor. The two men looked at each other. Purdue curled his bottom lip in a devil-may-care way.

“Billiards?” he asked Sam.

“Single malt?” Sam checked. Purdue nodded, and the two men sauntered into the bar room with its profoundly high ceiling for a bit of inebriate ball and stick.

The next morning, Purdue woke up on the sofa in the grand old bar room. Through sandy, thick eyelids, he regarded the room in search of his drinking partner. In the hearth, the last embers of the fire still hissed. Upon sitting up with hefty labor, Purdue found Sam. Dark, wild tresses hid the journalist’s attractive features, but every drag of air that thundered in a snore lifted his hair like a flap from his face. Sprawled across the thick goat fur carpet, Sam lay flat on his back. To his side, one arm was outstretched, still clutching his tumbler. The other arm rested comfortably on his stomach, tucked in under the huge napping cat that settled on Sam’s gut during the night.

“Sir,” Purdue heard. Carefully, Harris peeked around the corner. “Sir?”

“Morning Harris,” Purdue smiled, trying in vain to compose himself enough to look civilized. It turned out that he was rather more exhausted than he had realized, and it took only half a bottle of whisky and three games of snooker to punch him in the head.

“Morning sir,” the thirty-something scientist replied, clearing his throat. “Just coming to say that we harvested as much tissue as we could find,” he paused uncomfortably, “which was actually not much in the end, sir.”

Purdue nodded. “I understand. I did not expect you to deliver a healthy spleen in a Ziploc bag, you know?”

Their chuckling shook Sam out of his slumber and his eyes sprung open. It was highly amusing to behold, how the hungover Sam Cleave tried to identify the object weighing him down. Pulling a hideous face in his hazy state of consciousness, he peered down at the source of the hot patch on his belly. “Bruich?” Sam asked, and a little smile crept onto his face. “Hey, lad! When did you get h—,” he started, but instantly changed expression. “Christ! My skull is broken.”

“And you are out 200 quid, old boy,” Purdue added insult to injury. He turned to Harris to resume the discussion. “So, did you find enough to analyze, though? I have to have these specimens back inside a week, you know?”

“I know, sir,” the tired Harris nodded obediently. “I will submit the samples to the lab for examination on my way home. They will call you directly when the results are ready.”

“Excellent,” Purdue replied. “Thank you so much for the extra effort, Harris. Where is Sharon?”

“She is in the kitchen with your cook, having some espresso,” Harris reported. “Shall I call her?”

“No, oh no, please, let Lance drive you back to the lab and take both of you home. You cannot drive like this. Go take some rest. I will remunerate you both for the overtime, of course, as soon as my assistant arrives.”

“Thank you, Mr. Purdue,” Harris said. “Good day, Mr. Cleave… and good luck!”

“Ta!” was all Sam could call out that did not assault his brain with a dull stabbing shudder when he spoke.

“Is Nina up yet?” Sam asked.

“Probably,” Purdue guessed. “It is 12:30, did you know?”

“Geez, the whole morning missing, and I can feel it,” Sam remarked, petting Bruich, who was not keen on being lifted off his master’s warm belly. He let out a loud, drawling meow to voice his discontent, but it did not serve him well to get his way. Sam carried him with when he and Purdue ventured in the same direction until they split up.

“Aren’t you getting some tea?” Purdue asked. “Nina is in the kitchen.”

“I have an unholy leak to deal with first,” Sam relayed. “Keep the pot on for me. I’ll be right there.” Bruich took off from Sam’s arms, but his tall, rugged master was too preoccupied to collect him from the floor. Besides, Sam knew that Bruich and Nina got along for one distinct reason — both were equally headstrong. He let the cat run his way and jogged for the downstairs bathroom Purdue reserved for visitors.

Behind him, he could hear Nina’s fresh tone greeting Purdue, and the forensic people leaving through the kitchen’s second door with a jovial din.