The 13 th tribe

[11]

Jagger had just swung his leg over the fence’s top rail when he heard the distant voice of his son.

“Dad!”

He looked toward the monastery, over the heads of the streaming tourists. His vision landed not on his boy but on his wife. There was something about watching her unaware-ages ago, across a lecture hall as she bit her lip in concentration and furiously took notes; plucking a flower from their garden back in Virginia, smiling at its fragrance-that seemed not better than mutual attention but special, like sharing a secret.

The sight of her pushed aside the blackness in his heart, leaving a less volatile but more aching emotion: guilt. After the crash he had allowed depression to get the better of him. His feelings had grown numb to her charms… to everything. He’d been bitter and hurtful to the people he loved the most-knowing it and hating it even as he did it. He’d felt like a junkie constantly scraping for a fix, but instead of heroin he craved misery in himself and everyone around him.

Then Oliver had called, on the recommendation of a former client. It was an offer he hadn’t taken seriously at first. Not only would he be leaping back into security work, but he’d have to transplant his family from comfort and familiarity to isolation and an environment completely alien to them-the last thing any of them needed.

But Beth had a different take on it: she saw the change as a fresh start, away from reminders, and he started thinking that the job could be a form of detox from his depression. And it was working: since moving to the Sinai, the close quarters, the challenge of living in a foreign country under isolated conditions, and his own renewed sense of purpose had energized them, individually and as a family.

Now he wanted time to stop so he could simply watch her-like that moment when falling asleep feels so good, you want to stay like that all night. She pushed her hair off her face and smiled at someone. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires held up to the sun.

He caught two more sparks of that light, as though refracted from her, and saw Tyler running ahead. His son was weaving through tourists on the path, his arms and legs pumping furiously. He wore a miniature version of a guard’s uniform: desert camo shirt, matching shorts, boots, and canvas belt. The boy had begged to have Jagger’s old utility case, a canvas-covered aluminum box the size of a fanny pack, originally designed to carry night vision goggles on a belt. The goggles were gone and so were the canvas covering and felt liner, leaving Tyler’s stash of hard candy, coins, and rocks to clang around with impunity. With every step, the kid rattled like maracas.

Jagger climbed off the fence and opened his arms to receive the bundle of pure energy that was his boy. Tyler leaped and nearly knocked him off his feet.

Jagger oofed. “You’re getting too big for that.” He hoped Tyler hadn’t caught his quick frown. After the crash-losing his best friend and watching his father suffer-Tyler had started acting younger than his years. He’d convinced Beth to bring his old raggedy “blankie” out of retirement, along with a handful of favorite toys from his younger days. For a while he’d called them Mommy and Daddy, and had even wet his bed a few times. His behavior was all the more jarring because he hadn’t abandoned the introspective, logical thinking that Jagger had thought was advanced for a nine-year-old.

A child psychologist they’d consulted said such selective regression was common among children whose immediate family had experienced trauma: it was a defense mechanism, a mental retreat to more stable, comforting times. She’d assured them it was temporary. Tyler was slowly catching up with his age, but Jagger still found himself babying his son-a behavior he suspected had more to do with his own guilt than with Tyler’s childish quirks.

“Mom made sahlab,” Tyler said, his whole face smiling. “Are you thirsty?”

“Does a camel poop in the desert?”

Tyler laughed and squirmed his way higher in Jagger’s embrace until his head was above his father’s. He scanned the excavation. “Where’s Ollie? We got some for him too.”

“Dr. Hoffmann’s working, Ty. Maybe now’s not the best time.” Tyler seemed to have made a hobby out of bombarding the archaeologist with questions and appeals for stories of previous digs.

“He said I can come see him anytime I want. He likes talking about archaeology.” He leaned back in Jagger’s arms to give him a serious look. “You know I’m gonna be an archaeologist.”

“And what excuse do you use when you bother the monks?”

“ Bother? ” He punched Jagger’s shoulder. “They like talking about what they do too. Mom says everyone does. That’s why it’s so easy to interview people for her articles.”

Jagger scowled a little. The last thing he would want to do was talk about himself or his work.

Tyler said, “Did you know young monks are called brothers and old ones are fathers? Except when they talk to each other, then they always say brother.”

“Even when they’re fathers?”

Tyler nodded, eyes wide, like it was the craziest thing. “Anyway, I never told them I wanted to be a monk.”

Jagger shook him up and down, making his treasures rattle. “How about a candy?” he said.

Tyler expertly opened the utility case without looking and produced a gumball. He popped it into Jagger’s mouth. “Can I go see Ollie?” the boy asked.

Jagger relented. “I’ll walk you over.”

Beth reached them and held up a battered lunchbox emblazoned with Clone Wars stormtroopers. “Guess what I brought you?”

Jagger shifted Tyler into his left arm. For all of the trauma that limb had suffered, his biceps were as powerful as ever. In fact, given the metal prehensor, carbon fiber socket, and nylon harness that crossed his back and anchored around his other arm, the “disabled” arm was stronger than his real one.

He reached out, bypassed the lunchbox, and slipped his fingers around Beth’s wrist. He pulled her close, said, “This?” and kissed her.

She smiled up at him. “Actually, I brought two.” Her lips found his again.

Tyler made kissing noises.

Jagger dropped Tyler onto his feet, and the boy started for the excavation. Jagger snagged the back of his collar with his hook.

“Just to the fence, Dad. Promise.”

Jagger released him, and Tyler climbed onto the fence’s top rail to sit and watch the workers milling around the dig.