The Lost Choice

  “I said, 696-8777. It’s the number for Domino’s. Just get whatever.”

  “Okay.”

  “Mark?”

  “Yes?

  “No anchovies.”

  AFTER DINNER THAT EVENING, MARK PRESIDED OVER Michael’s bath and got him into bed while Dorry made coffee and engaged in small talk with Dylan. When at last they were all in the living room, Mark asked,“Well, is this gonna be good or did we waste your time?”

  “Good, I think,” Dylan grinned.“Intriguing anyway. Are you ready?” Mark and Dorry nodded.“All right, here goes.” Dylan pulled the object out of a satchel he’d brought in and left on the couch earlier.

  “Well . . . ,”Dylan began,“I gave it to an archy down the hall from me . . . an archaeologist,” he added, noting the quizzical expressions on the Chandlers’ faces.“Her name is Abby. She’s nice. Cute, which is a plus. And she said ‘yes’ when I asked her out, which is another plus.” Dylan looked up and smiled before continuing. “She’s new to Denver and the museum, like me, and being young, is anxious to prove her PhD is not a fluke.”

  “So what did she say?” Dorry pushed.

  “Hang on, I’m getting there,” Dylan answered. He pulled a palm-sized personal computer from his satchel, clicked a few buttons with a plastic pencil, and said,“Leaded bronze.” Dylan looked up. “You know, I thought it was leaded bronze, but this is really old stuff. I mean really old. Not Bronze Age exactly, but almost.”

  Mark leaned forward.“Which means what? How old?” “Less than twenty-four hundred years old, but almost certainly older than eighteen hundred. Old.”

  “You’re kidding,” Dorry said.

  “Nope. Could be only sixteen . . . seventeen hundred years, but Abby doubts it. She said the quality of the casting is not that great, which would skew it older. It’s soft, she says, though it doesn’t feel soft to me.”All three of them looked at the object on the coffee table. “Soft is a relative term with metals, I suppose.”

  Dylan continued.“Bronze is an alloy—an amalgamation of metals—originally created by adding tin to copper. Copper was too brittle to use for anything other than ornamentation.”

  Dylan looked at his computer again.“Lead was deliberately added to the mix during this period to lower the melting temperature and facilitate pouring and molding. When this was made”—Dylan bent forward and picked up the object from the table—“leaded bronze was mostly for statues, pots, some weapons. And—I thought this was interesting—leaded bronze coins were used by the Roman Empire during the same time period as the casting of this particular piece.”

  “Wow!” Dorry exclaimed. “Did she know where it came from?”

  Dylan scrunched up his face, closing one eye.“Hard to tell from the composition. Listen to the list of places that made this kind of thing during that time period.” He punched a button on the computer with his thumb.“Babylonia, Egypt, Greece, Mesopotamia, China, Persia, and most of Europe.” Dylan smiled. “Tough to narrow anything down with that list . . . but you haven’t asked about the script!”

  Mark and Dorry unconsciously moved closer to Dylan. “Was she able to actually translate that?” Mark asked.

  “Wait a minute,” Dylan chuckled. “The words are Aramaic.” Noting the frowns on the faces of his friends, Dylan explained. “Aramaic is actually a grouping or combination of languages known almost from the beginning of recorded history. It includes Arabic, Hebrew, and Ethiopic, as well as Akkadian from Babylonia and Syria. Our first glimpse of this written style appeared around 900 BC.

  “Portions of the Bible and all of the Dead Sea Scrolls were written in Aramaic, and we have surviving doctrinal works from Sumaria in this same script. Believe it or not, Aramaic is still a spoken language in parts of Syria, Iraq, Turkey, Iran, and Lebanon.” Dylan smiled broadly and held up the object.“So you see. It was not hard to translate.”

  “So you were able to translate it!” Mark said.

  “Well,Abby was able to,” Dylan responded.“You wanna know what it says?”

  “Yes!” Mark and Dorry answered in unison.

  “Okay. It doesn’t make much sense, but it’s kinda interesting. In any case, it translates as ‘By your hand, the people shall live.’”

  For a moment, all three were silent. Dylan put the object back on the coffee table. Mark picked it up.“Huh. By your hand, the people shall live.”

  Dorry held out her hand and waggled her fingers at Mark. “Let me see it.” Mark gave it to her. “What’s that mean?” she asked Dylan.

  He shrugged.“Don’t know. And we probably never will. It is an enigma that belongs in the same category as how it ended up in your backyard.”

  As they talked, Dylan told stories of the ancient finds that had been made over the years on the North American continent. Coins from the Roman Empire had shown up in Missouri, Oklahoma, and Alabama, and an Egyptian-minted Gallenius coin was found by geology students in a streambed near Black Mountain, North Carolina. A Chinese ship found in thirty feet of clay near Sacramento was carbon-dated over one thousand years old. A cave discovered in southern Illinois in 1982 yielded stones engraved with ancient Semitic script and portraits of Egyptians, Romans, and Hebrews. “And no one has any idea how any of this stuff got here,” Dylan said.

  It was almost ten o’clock when Dorry grudgingly announced the end of their evening. Explaining her work situation and the article to be written by morning, she and Mark walked Dylan to the door.“Thanks so much, Dylan. We really appreciate your time on this,” she said. “And please thank Abby too.”

  “No problem,” he answered, “and I will thank Abby. By the way, I forgot to mention this. The thing is hollow.”

  “What?” Mark asked.

  “Yeah, no big deal really. But she ran a scope on it— radio waves, direct light-beam attachments—and it’s hollow! Anyway, thanks for the pizza, and keep in touch, okay?”They assured him that they would.

  Within the hour, Dorry was writing, Mark was asleep, and the object of the evening’s discussion lay on the coffee table—a unique souvenir, a conversation piece . . . a relic from the ditch.

  FOUR

  DENVER, COLORADO—OCTOBER

  MARK, DORRY, AND MICHAEL HAD EATEN BRUNCH earlier than usual. Scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, real waffles (not the kind from the freezer) with blueberries, orange juice, and coffee. It was the same menu Mark prepared every Saturday. The only wild card was the fruit that went into the waffles. Sometimes strawberries or bananas, but blueberries were Michael’s favorite, so most times they ate blueberries.

  Mark sat at the breakfast table scanning the newspaper while Dorry cleaned the kitchen and drank her fourth cup of coffee. This, too,was a Saturday tradition. Mark cooked the food; Dorry cleaned up the mess. Michael was in the recliner watching cartoons,but Mark always stayed in the kitchen and read to his wife.“Do you have anything in here today?”

  “Uh-huh,”Dorry said as she rinsed a plate and placed it in the dishwasher. “It should be in the first section.”

  “And it is about . . . ?” Mark turned the pages quickly, searching for his wife’s byline.

  City council voting on sign restrictions for small businesses and the redistricting of school board members. I’m sure you’ll want to cut it out and frame it.”

  “Here it is.” Mark spread out the paper on the table. “Page fourteen—Dorry Chandler. Do I have to read it?”

  “No, but if you’ll let me read it, I’ll be able to go back to sleep.”

  “Boring, huh?”

  “Unbelievably.”

  “It sounds boring.”

  “You’re very perceptive,” Dorry said as she closed the dishwasher and pressed the START button. She poured another cup of coffee and sat down across from Mark. “What else is in there? Read to me.”

  “Okay . . .,” Mark said.“Let’s see . . .what should we read? Sports? Hard news? Sports? International news? Lifestyles? Or . . . sports?”

  “Anything but sports,” Dorry said, taking a
sip of her coffee.

  “The Broncos’ offensive coordinator is upset about the turf conditions for tomorrow’s game.”

  “Tragic. Next.”

  “The Rockies and the Braves are talking about an off-season trade.”

  “A trade?! I know my life will change. Excuse me,” Dorry said banging her spoon on the side of her coffee cup.“Excuse me, Marky, but was it someone else to whom I made the request ‘anything but sports’?”

  Mark tried to suppress a smile. “What? Oh! I’m sorry, dear. You’re right. Let me find some dull, humdrum, mind-numbing articles we can enjoy together!” He grabbed another section with a flourish.

  “Sheesh! Here’s a picture of a woman who is 104 years old.” “No way!”

  “Mm-hmm. Mrs. Bonnie Mae Bounds of Fordyce, Arkansas. The cutline on the picture says she’s 104.And she doesn’t look a day over a hundred.”

  “Funny. You want some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Dorry stood and stretched. Before pouring the coffee, she glanced at the picture of the old woman. There was no accompanying article. It was wire service filler, sent to newspapers as human interest, for use on slow news days. The photograph was large—almost one-eighth of a page. Bonnie Mae Bounds, an African-American woman with snow-white hair, was seated in a wooden, high-backed rocking chair with a shawl draped across her lap. The photo had been taken indoors, presumably in her home. There was, Dorry saw, a painting of a house on the wall over her right shoulder and a bookshelf directly behind her. Though the picture was in black and white, Dorry imagined that the long dress she wore was a dark green or blue.

  “Gee. A hundred and four.” Dorry stepped over to the counter to get the coffeepot.

  Mark turned the page. Then another couple of pages. “Swim lessons are opening for five-year-olds at the Y.We want to do that, don’t we?” Mark looked up.“Dorry?”

  Dorry was standing at the counter beside the refrigerator. She had her back to Mark, the coffeepot in her hand, and was not moving a muscle. When Mark said her name, she turned around with a quizzical expression on her face. “Turn back to that picture,” she said.

  “What?”

  Dorry turned again, placing the coffeepot in its holder. “The photo of the old lady, turn back to it.” She walked back to him.

  “Why do you—,” he began as he reached to thumb through the paper.

  “Mark!” she interrupted and made a “hurry up!” motion with her hand.

  “Okay!” he replied. “Okay. Here.” He smoothed the newspaper and tilted it toward her.

  Dorry got on her knees beside her husband and picked up the page in order to angle it into the light. Her eyebrows raised as her mouth dropped open.“Did you see this?” she asked simply and put the paper back on the table. She sat down on the floor and looked at Mark.“Did you?”

  Totally confused by his wife’s reaction, Mark frowned. “What? Did I see what?”

  Dorry rose to her feet without a word. She moved the newspaper back to face Mark and placed her finger on the photo. Mark leaned over and followed the direction of Dorry’s point. For a long moment, he stared. Then, he straightened and said,“You have got to be kidding.”

  For several seconds they gaped at each other. Mark spoke first. “Let me see that again.” He grabbed the newspaper and, walking to the window, folded it thickly so that virtually the only thing showing was the photograph. He held it into the light. The bookshelf behind the old woman was filled with knickknacks and small framed photographs in addition to the books. But unmistakably, there on the shelf just beside Mrs. Bonnie Mae Bounds’ left elbow was an object exactly like the one Michael had found several months earlier in their backyard.

  Mark turned the photograph this way and that as if he might get a closer view as Dorry hurried to the living room and snatched their relic from the coffee table. Returning to the kitchen, she stood close to Mark and held the object up next to the picture.“What do you think?” she asked.

  “Well”—Mark spoke cautiously—“it sure looks like the one we have. But Dylan did say that pieces like this were not uncommon.”

  “Yeah, but this is identical,” Dorry argued. “Look—you can even see the writing.”

  After a moment Mark said,“So, what do we do now? Do you want to find out about it?”

  “Yes, I want to find out about it! Aren’t you curious? I mean, why are there two of these things? And why does a 104-year-old woman have one? Let me see the pic again.” She reached for the paper.“I didn’t notice . . . is it AP?” She looked. “It is AP. Okay, the Post will have a record of the date and time it came over the wire. I can track the photographer that way. Maybe we can get an address or phone number for her.”

  “She won’t be hard to find,” Mark said.“How many 104-year-old people could there be in Fordyce, Arkansas?”

  ON THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY, FROM HER DESK IN the newsroom at the Post,Dorry talked by phone with Braxton Pringle, a young-sounding employee of the Fordyce News-Advocate. Braxton was the photographer/reporter responsible for the picture that Mark and Dorry had seen.

  After discovering Dorry was a journalist, and with the Denver Post, Braxton enthusiastically gave Dorry the woman’s address—1022 Jug Creek Road—and then proceeded to pepper her with questions about journalism. It was, he told her, his passion.

  After patiently answering questions for several minutes, Dorry guided the conversation back to Bonnie Mae Bounds. “I’m interested in something I saw in the picture you took, something on the bookshelf behind her,” she explained.

  “I remember that bookshelf. Lotta junk there,” Braxton said.“Anyway, you know how to get in touch if you think of a way I can help. Keep our number, okay?”

  “I will, Braxton. And you hang in there! You’re going to make a great reporter.”

  That evening at dinner Mark and Dorry could talk about nothing else but Bonnie Mae Bounds, the object on her bookshelf, and what it could possibly be—considering the fact that they had a duplicate in their living room. So it was a natural unfolding of events that occurred when Mark mentioned he had to fly to Memphis the following week. Four times in the last two months, he’d had to leave home in order to work with police departments in other cities regarding situations of mutual concern. Chicago, Salt Lake, Memphis, and Memphis again. Mark had developed a degree of specialization in cases involving missing persons and was often called for help of one kind or another, particularly those that involved kids. This was one of those cases—two children, a brother and sister from Denver’s suburbs, who had been missing for months.

  Within an hour of the realization that Mark was indeed headed yet again to Memphis, Dorry had checked on the Internet to find that Fordyce was less than a four-hour drive from there. With that information and a go-ahead from Mark, she reserved a rental car from Hertz, used Sky Miles to get a round-trip ticket on the same flight as her husband, and talked to her parents about keeping Michael. She could hardly wait. They were going to Arkansas.

  FIVE

  MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE—OCTOBER

  IT WAS A CLASSIC CASE OF “HURRY UP AND WAIT.” And waiting was not an easy thing for Dorry Chandler to do.

  Eight days after her conversation with Braxton Pringle, their flight had taken off on time at 7:52 Wednesday morning, but that was two days ago. So here it was Friday and she was waiting again. Mark was using the rental car, so she was stuck by herself in a hotel on a service road of I-40 that was located next to . . . nothing.

  They would drive on to Fordyce this afternoon and check into a hotel there. Tomorrow—Saturday—was all blocked out to spend whatever time they could with Mrs. Bounds. Mark should be back anytime, Dorry thought as she flopped onto the unmade bed and contemplated taking a shower. Instead, she got back up and poured the last of the coffee from the room’s pot and started a new one brewing.

  When Mark arrived, Dorry was showered, dressed, packed, and ready to roll. “Okay!” she said clapping her hands together and heading for the door. “Let??
?s do it!”

  “Hey,Dorry! Give me a second to take a breath! At least say ‘hello’ or something!”

  “You’re right,” she said, walking over and giving him a hug.“I’m sorry—I’ve just been bored out of my mind!”

  “I’m not sure the boredom caused that,” Mark pouted. “Give me just a minute and we’ll get out of here. Have you eaten lunch?”

  “No,” she replied. “I thought we’d grab something on the way. How did it go with your meetings?”

  “It didn’t,” Mark said from the bathroom. “This is my last trip to Memphis—for this case anyway. Trust me, those kids are not here. Not that I have any clue where to go next . . .” He cursed. It was one word, under his breath, but loud enough for Dorry to hear from where she was sitting on the bed.

  She studied Mark as he emerged from the bathroom, toweling water from his face. She was well aware that he took every case personally. The ones that ended badly or continued past a certain point with little progress sometimes made him physically ill. Dorry worried about him, especially when he dealt with missing children.

  But less than an hour later, Mark was back to his old self. Before the green Ford Taurus hit the on-ramp to the interstate, they had connected with Dorry’s mother and Michael. The two had just come back from a movie, and Dorry silently said a “thank-you prayer” that they had been home when she called. Michael jabbered away, telling his dad all about the movie as Dorry watched Mark’s anxiety melt away. By the time they hung up, Mark was beaming.

  FORDYCE, ARKANSAS

  “It’s raining,”Mark said as he opened the hotel room curtains the next morning.“Do you want me to get my shower first?” Dorry did not move.“Dorry. Wake up. It’s seven-thirty. Do you want me to go ahead and take my shower?”

  Dorry never understood why Mark didn’t just take a shower! Why was it, she wondered, that he felt the need to get her permission? Just take it! Do it! Be first, she wanted to scream! Be my guest!

  “Dorry . . . are you awake?” Mark shook her lightly.“I’ll go ahead and take my shower, okay?”