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The archeologist huffed and glared at the floor again. “I get it. I do. It’s just hard letting anyone else help. For most of my life, I’ve done things on my own.”
“I get it. I really do.” Ed sighed and rested his elbows on his knees so that his face was a little closer to Max’s level. “How about this? I’ve got an idea to deal with your family, save your friend, and keep this discovery in your hands without anyone getting killed…possibly. If you like what you hear, we do it my way. If you hate it, I’ll let you walk out of here without another peep from me. You deal with Katona and Rive your way.”
Max stared at him for several painful heartbeats before he finally gave Ed a small nod. “All right. What you got, Big ‘n’ Sexy?”
20
MAX SUTTON
Max glanced toward the west, where the sun had just slipped below the mountains, not that he could see them beyond the tall wall of the Mortuary Temple of Ramesses III, more widely referred to as Medinet Habu temple.
The temple dedicated to the god Amon was one of Ramesses III’s crowning achievements in terms of monuments erected during his reign. It was built in the same style as a temple erected by Ramesses II but significantly larger, as if he’d had to one-up the previous pharaoh.
With its massive gatehouse and thick walls, the temple resembled more of a fortress than a place of worship, which wasn’t surprising considering Ramesses had the walls covered with stories of him leading his people to victory over the Libyans, Nubians, and the Sea Peoples.
Max’s twisted sense of humor also found it amusing that Ramesses was able to bask in tales of his heroic leadership at Medinet Habu, but this was also where the conspiracy to kill him was worked out.
The grand temple became the administrative hub of Ramesses III’s reign. It was where he’d lounged and frolicked with the various members of his harem. The same harem and administrative leaders who’d wanted Ramesses dead for their own benefit. It was also very likely that this was where the attempted mutiny that led to the pharaoh’s death had occurred.
Now, he was standing alone in the Great Hypostyle Hall at the rear of the temple, wondering if he’d set himself up for a similar death.
Except he was no Ramesses III. He knew his sister wanted to squeeze all the usefulness she could get out of him and then kill him so he couldn’t share any of her secrets later.
The stealing, lying, and betrayal had to stop. While he wanted nothing to do with the remains of his family, he was sure that of all people, he had to be the one to act. He had to step in and take responsibility for the damage they’d wrought over the years. And not just to the cultural robbery that had occurred in Egypt, but to all the lives that had been affected by them.
He might have walked away from this life, but his past had left a stain on his soul. That stain would continue to spread so long as he turned a blind eye to the actions of his mother and sister. How was he supposed to be involved with someone as sweet and wonderful as Edison Walker with such a mark on him? He couldn’t. Not with a clear conscience.
One way or another, this meeting was going to wash away that stain and give him the fresh start he should have had two decades ago.
The wind whipped up, sweeping through the valley and slamming into the high walls of the temple. Max crossed his bare arms against the growing chill in the air. Now that the sun had disappeared, the temperature was plunging as the rock and sand gave up the day’s heat to growing twilight. Shadows lengthened. There were no lights in the temple and in less than an hour, it was going to be impossible to see, demanding that this meeting be brief.
He’d chosen the Great Hypostyle Hall because the walls were shorter and all that was left of the dozens of columns that filled the space were simply the bases, while the first two courtyards still had their tall and thick forest of columns similar to the ones found in Karnac. In this hall, it was much harder for a person to disappear, though there were still ample hiding places if bullets began to fly.
No shooting. Please, no shooting.
It was bad enough that wind, sun, and sand continued to wear away the beautiful reliefs and writings that covered the walls. And those bloody Coptic Christians who’d decided to claim this space briefly and carved crosses in the walls. His heart couldn’t take it if stray bullets also chipped away at the ruins.
Maybe this was a bad idea. A bad place to hold a meeting like this.
