Page 41 of What Remains (John Worthy #3)

After another ten minutes trudging uphill, Poya hooked left along a narrow switchback. This kinked around an enormous outcropping of rock. The wind died, almost instantly, to a thin whisper. The air was also a touch warmer here and held an odd scent. A stink, really, of boiled egg yolks.

He followed his nose until he spied a rocky point jutting from the mountain like the business end of a giant’s axe.

The smell was even stronger here, riding on faint, gray steamy wisps emanating from a narrow cleft in the rock.

There was a temperature gradient, too, that reminded him of frigid winter days in Kabul, when he could feel a cushion of cold air spilling over a windowsill in an invisible waterfall.

It was the same here: warm air bathing his face and chest while denser, more frigid air swirled around his ankles.

Today, there wasn’t any snow or ice at the entrance.

Normally, there was. Not a lot, usually just a dusting. But today the rock was clear.

Pausing at the cleft, he listened. Habit, really. In all the weeks he’d been coming here, he’d heard nothing and seen no animals. The only sound reaching him now was a faint hiss.

Still . Slipping the hammer from his belt, he hefted that in his right hand and took up his flashlight in his left. Better safe than sorry.

Thumbing on his light, he followed the beam into the darkness.

After a few feet, the cave’s ceiling rose, and he could walk without stooping. The air was noticeably warmer and more humid. The smell of boiled egg was stronger, too. The only sounds were the crunch of his footsteps, that soft hiss, and a very faint, watery burble.

Out of habit, he fanned his flashlight’s beam right and left, checking the now-familiar nooks and crannies.

The rock was covered with primitive figures, some chiseled into the stone and others painted with splashes of red and black and white, though the red was faded and the blacks beginning to grey.

Some images were large, hairy horned animals, which he thought were meant to be yaks.

Other smaller, four-legged creatures with pointed ears and mouths bristling with spiky teeth were likely to be wolves.

Snow leopards were easy; those spots were dead giveaways.

To the right of these, an ancient artist had painted a line of stick-figure people, armed with bows, sending a barrage of arrows arcing toward a huge horned creature with long fangs and hairy arms and spiky claws for hands. So, a bear, maybe? Or a demon? A malevolent jinn?

A few inches below this was a handprint. Once red, the print now was a dull copper. A signature, Poya thought, of someone long ago. The first time he’d seen it, he’d spread his own hand over the print, being careful not to touch the painted rock. The match wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough.

A long time ago, some prehistoric kid had used this place the same way Poya did now: as a hiding place where he could be himself.

Rounding the next bend, he stepped into an enormous room.

The ceiling soared away, broadening into a craggy dome.

At its center, a nearly perfect circular opening glowed like a milky white eye.

To his left, a low arch led to another large room and more branching tunnels which he hadn’t explored.

To his right, a narrow stream of steaming water dribbled over the lip of a white travertine limestone terrace, burbled across the cavern’s floor, and trickled into a rock pool about the size of a small tub.

This emptied, slowly, through a much smaller channel which disappeared beneath a flat expanse of sparkling gray and white rock along the righthand wall.

Above the slab was a very wide, flat shelf of flowstone frilled along its edge with a spiky beard of white calcite.

The shelf was high enough that someone would have to look very hard to see all the way to the back.

This made the shelf an excellent hiding place for the odds and ends he’d stolen over these last few months: a folding knife, a waterskin, a spare set of clothes.

A small compass he’d discovered in one of Bas’s many trunks.

A box of matches and a tin can he could use to carry a few embers as he made his way toward, well… wherever.

In his blacker moods, he knew the stash was pitiful.

Stealing made him feel a little better, but only momentarily.

He needed real supplies: a store of yak dung to burn, food, water.

A weapon and ammo, too. A person would have to, as the Americans would say, get his head examined if he ran into the wilderness without a rifle.

He might steal Amu’s, but that would probably backfire, ha-ha.

Amu might not care as much if he ran, but if he took the rifle, Amu would come after him. So, best to leave the rifle behind.

He had the passports his father had arranged, too: not only for Afghanistan but one for India, another for Pakistan, a third for Tajikistan. Even one for America.

But he still had a huge problem.

Even if I get ahold of a rifle, where do I go? Stepping onto the large slab, Poya reached into the shelf and pulled out a rough towel and a washcloth folded around a coarse lump of sheep’s milk soap. Where would a kid like me be safe?

Baba would probably say America , but since Baba’s handler had failed to materialize, that was off the table. Which meant that he was—as the Americans would say—royally screwed.

Okay, so I can’t escape just yet. Placing his toiletries on the flowstone slab, he slid out a plastic, zip-top bag with exaggerated care. But that doesn’t mean my mind can’t.

Because what the bag contained was treasure.

What the bag protected was hope.

What the bag held was a book.