The

  LOST ARK

  The Rain Collective

  by

  J.R. Rain

  The Rain Collective

  The Body Departed

  Winter Wind

  The Pale Cold Light

  Silent Echo

  Elvis Has Not Left the Building

  All the Way Back Home

  Killer Whale

  The Grail Quest

  The Lost Ark

  The Lost Ark

  Published by J.R. Rain

  Copyright © 2010 by J.R. Rain

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook 2nd Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To my father. Thanks for everything, Pops.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Reading Sample: Bad Blood

  About J.R. Rain

  The Lost Ark

  Chapter One

  The dream is always the same.

  It’s a warm day with the sun hot on the back of my neck as I set up the tripod on the steep mountainside. The sky is clear and Mount Ararat, fabled resting spot of Noah’s Ark, sits in silent repose, a dormant volcano that dominates the landscape of Eastern Turkey. A small wind works its way over the rocky surface, bringing with it the scent of wildflowers, ancient dust and something else.

  Death.

  The great mountain shakes suddenly, violently. I look up, my heart racing. A single word instantly crosses my thoughts: landslide. And it’s nearby.

  Immediately, I snap my head around to where Liz, my fiancé, has disappeared around a bend in the trail to, as she puts it, “go potty.” We’d been engaged for the past two years, traveled the world together on assignment with the National Geographic, and still she can’t pee in front of me. Cute, right? Endearing, right?

  Except now I didn’t find it so cute and endearing. Now we were separated, and something bad was happening.

  And it was happening directly above her.

  I’m moving. I snatch my tripod and camera, hastily shoving both into my lightweight field backpack.

  The mountain shakes harder.

  Angrier.

  “Liz!” I shout, but my voice is instantly swallowed by the deep, primeval rumblings of the legendary mountain.

  The outcropping of boulders she had chosen to pee behind is fifty yards to my left, along the face of a steep slope. Above, the mountain continues to shake. Dust drifts lazily across the upper slopes. Something is coming, something very bad, and it’s coming down on top of her.

  I see to my horror that there is no easy trail to the outcropping. Indeed, the path is paved in loose shale, akin to walking on bowling balls. Earlier I had watched as she carefully picked her way over the shifting rock, arms outstretched, balancing herself with amazing cat-like grace, marveling once again at the extremes she was taking for privacy. But, alas, I respected her need for a peaceful pee, although I didn’t completely understand it. Indeed, I loved her for all her quirks.

  I had never been in love before. Not true love. I was never around long enough for anything to develop, at least anything substantial. I was a photojournalist. The world was my home.

  But this was different. Liz was different. We had met in Nepal three years earlier, and the chemistry between us was frightening. She was all I could have imagined—and often more than I dared imagine. Hell, I don’t think we left the hotel for a week. It was love and I knew it and I was terrified to leave this one behind, as I had left so many others. So I asked her to join me, to work together as a team. To my utter shock, she had agreed, and now I was traveling the world with the girl of my dreams. Part daredevil and part Mother Teresa, she was unstoppable in her pursuit of justice and equality for those less fortunate. We had been jailed twice for her beliefs, and once sentenced to hang. But that’s another story. She was the best photojournalist I knew, stronger than any man and heartier than even me. And, of course, sexy as hell.

  Ultimately, she made me happy. Very happy.

  ***

  From high above, beyond a rocky cornice to the east, I can see movement. Big movement. Rock and dirt and debris are in motion. Moving slowly at first, but picking up steam, gaining momentum. Massive boulders are soon mixed into the fray.

  By my judgment, the landslide is directly over Liz.

  And I am moving myself, clawing my way over the loose rocks. Mount Ararat, at least this lower section, is comprised almost entirely of loose shale, which made footing treacherous. At the moment, I couldn't give a damn about my footing. I use my hands to help claw my way forward. I slide and fall often, slashing my knees and palms on the sharp-edged rocks. Whole sections of shale slip out from under me as if they were banana peels. I fall hard, painfully and often, but still I continue.

  The mountain shakes harder. From behind me, emerging from his tent, I can hear my Kurdish guide shouting at me, warning me to stay away.

  To hell with that. The churning wall of rock has now picked up considerable steam. Anything could have set this rock slide in motion. We are just below the snow line, and so there are some pastures above and around us. A wandering sheep, shepherded by local Turks, could have set off this raging, churning mass of earth. The mountain is called Angri Dagh for a reason. The Mountain of Pain.

  I continue my mad scrabble forward. My knees are badly cut, pouring blood into my boots. My palms are torn and slick with the stuff.

  The outcropping of boulders is just ahead. Thirty feet. I can hear my own breathing rattling in my head and lungs, my desperate gasps mixed with the ominous rumblings around and above me.

  Errant loose pebbles shower down on me. I am at the fringes of the coming rockslide. Now larger rocks pelt me, cracking my jaw and skull.

  Still, I keep moving forward. Falling, crying out to her.

  And there she is. Appearing from around the corner, hastily pulling at her loose drawstrings. She stops and looks up. I do, too. A wall of rock, a tidal wave of earthen fury, rears above her like a living nightmare.

  “Sam!” There is fear in her voice. We have traveled through the world’s most dangerous places, we have endured tyrants and terrorists, and this is the first time I hear such fear.

  And it will be the last.

  I move forward, faster, falling hard. A churning cloud of dirt and debris fills the air. Liz lunges forward, moving as fast as she can—

  Just as a speeding wall of rocks slams into her, hurling her fifty yards into the air. She disappears in a hail of mercilessly churning debris that continues down the mountainside.

  She was there one moment and gone the next. I am left standing in shock, gasping and weeping and bleeding.

  It would take me three days to find her mangled body.

  And when I do, true to mountain climbing tradition, I bury my sweet girl high on the desolate slopes of Mount Ararat, deep in a secluded mountain cave...

  ***

  Now, with the distant rumblings of a thunderstorm approaching, I sit up in bed, gasping, hearing her calling my name over and over again, as if she were just outside my window. The cracking thunder sounds ominously similar—too similar—to the devastating rockslide.

  At least, the rockslide in my memory.

  Dreams are a funny thing. Often they only give you a feel for a memory. Half memories, perhaps. The reality was, Liz had disappeared for many days. She had indeed wandere
d off to use the bathroom...and that was the last time I had seen her alive. I found her three days later, broken and battered at the bottom of a ravine. She had indeed been a victim of a rock slide. Only, I had not witnessed it. She had died completely alone, and there hadn’t been a damn thing I could do about it.

  I take a deep breath and my fumbling hand finds my lighter and a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. I light up and move over to my window, where I sit on the ledge and stare down at the empty street below. The first drops of rain splatter against the glass as I exhale a plume of billowing gray smoke.

  ***

  I must have fallen asleep, because Liz is suddenly standing just outside my two-story window, which overlooks a battered industrial street. Liz has no business standing out there in the middle of the night, in the rain. Besides, she has been dead for three years, right?

  Another crazy dream.

  I dash out my cigarette, smashing it against the window frame. Liz is standing there on the curb in her cargo pants with its too-many pockets, pockets she always stuffed with her essentials. Liz hates purses. Even from here, through the slanting rain and darkness, through the window and my tears, I could see her pant pockets bulging with everything from basic cosmetics to snack food. Once, I had even seen her place an injured lizard into such a pocket.

  “Come out of the rain,” I say. As I speak, I try desperately to open the bedroom window, but it won’t budge. Strange, it has never been stuck before. I frantically work at the lock, growing increasingly desperate and furious. I am nearly ready to drive an elbow through the glass, to get to Liz, when she speaks to me from the street. Her voice rising up through wind and rain and a closed window supernaturally easily.

  “It’s okay, Sam,” she says hauntingly, her voice sweet and raspy. “Leave the window be. I don’t mind standing out in the rain. I like the rain, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember,” I say frantically, thrilled that I am talking to her again, but still frustrated to no end by the stubborn window. “But if I can get this window open you can come inside and stay dry and I can protect you and keep you warm.”

  “Forget the window, Sam.”

  I try the lock again.

  “I said forget the window. You can be so stubborn. Please, Sam. We need to talk.”

  At her insistence, I let the window issue drop and settle for pressing my hot forehead against the cold glass.

  “Were you just smoking, Sam?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you start smoking?”

  “When you died.”

  “You’ve been drinking, too,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “Too much, I think,” she says.

  “Yes, probably. I miss you. I can’t help it. I miss you so much. The drinking...it helps a little. I’m sorry.”

  She lets the issue go. “So what are you doing with yourself these days, Sam?”

  I shrug, suddenly ashamed. “Not much, really. I run a small bar here in town, and lead the occasional expedition. I’m a certified Ararat guide.”

  The rain continues to pour down. The image of my fiancé wavers briefly behind the glass. Lightning flashes directly overhead, illuminating the street. And when it does, she briefly disappears. But now she is back, to my great relief.

  “Why are you still in this godforsaken place, Sam?” she asks.

  “Because I don’t want to leave you, Liz. Don’t you see? I can’t leave you. You are buried all alone up on that damn mountain, and I’m the only one who knows where you are buried, and I visit you as often as I can.”

  “It’s been three years, Sam. You can leave me now. It’s okay. I’m okay. I’ve moved on. You should, too.”

  “But you’re still here,” I say, speaking into the glass at the figure standing on the dark street below. Her pants flutter in the wind, and her raven-colored hair lifts and falls. I could see her eyes sparkling with tears even from here. “I can see you, and you’re still here.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not.”

  And then my heart breaks all over again, because now I can distinctly see through her. Now amorphous, she shimmers like a ghost.

  “Please,” I say, real desperation in my voice. I press my face hard against the glass, fingernails clawing. “Please don’t go. You’ve only just returned. You’re the only girl I’ve ever loved, the only girl who’s ever loved me. I can’t live alone, not anymore.”

  “Go home, Sam. It’s time for you to go home.”

  “I love you,” I say.

  “I know you do,” she says.

  And then she disappears, and the wind and rain blows across the now empty street, and I hang my head...and this is the position I find myself in when I awaken in the morning: sitting next to the window, face pressed against the glass, dried tears in the corners of my eyes...

  Chapter Two

  Dogubayazit, Turkey

  Present Day

  He was a yuruk, a Turkish shepherd, and he was trouble.

  He and his goats were up from Lake Van as part of the autumn migration. Lucky for me, my bar sits right smack dab in the middle of their migratory route. Perhaps it’s no coincidence, then, that a sign outside my bar has a picture of a goat circled in red with a line drawn through it.

  As the evening wore on, the big yuruk had amassed a considerable bill. He also amassed a considerable amount of alcohol in his blood stream. Drunk as a skunk, I decided it was time to cut the big fellow off, and had Pascal drop off the bill at his table.

  Pascal consisted of my entire staff. I liked Pascal, even though I was fairly certain he stole from me. Considering his parents were both dead and he was raising his little sister alone, I tended to look the other way at his mild thievery.

  From behind the bar, drying glasses with a towel, I watched closely as Pascal dropped the bill off at the goat herder’s table. The goat herder promptly tore up the bill. Pascal said something—or tried to say something. In a blink of an eye, the yuruk was on his feet and swinging. Pascal, all five-foot-two inches of him, dropped to the floor in a heap.

  I have a motto in my bar: No beating my help.

  I tossed the towel over my shoulder, stepped around the zinc-topped counter, and, after three long strides, hit the yuruk as hard as I could square in the face, just under his eye. The big head snapped back violently. His sandaled feet lifted high in the air. And a moment later, he skidded to a stop on his impossibly wide shoulders.

  Certain I had broken a knuckle, I reached down and helped Pascal find his feet. The little Turk raised his hands up into knobby fists. His fists wobbled. “I can handle him, Sam bey,” he said. His voice was slurred, and he was looking toward the blank wall next to us.

  I tapped the kid’s shoulder. “Over here, Pascal.”

  He turned, lost his balance, and would have fallen if I hadn’t held him up by the nape of his neck. His nose, I saw, was a complete mess. Broken, no doubt. It would need to be packed later.

  “Why did he punch you?” I asked the kid.

  “He says you charge too much for beer.”

  “I do,” I said, “but I make up for it in atmosphere. Did you tell him about the atmosphere?”

  Pascal nodded eagerly. More blood dripped free. “I tried to, Sam bey, but it’s a fairly difficult concept for a desert nomad.”

  On the floor near me, the big shepherd was unsteadily finding his feet, shaking his massive head.

  “Go get some ice, Pascal,” I said.

  “If you insist, Sam bey.”

  “I insist.”

  The kid nodded and moved erratically toward the back of the bar.

  I turned back to the yuruk. He was on his feet now, blinking his head, clearing the cobwebs. He was a foot taller than me, and a whole lot uglier. His hands, I noted, were the size of frying pans—which, for all I knew, helped in the herding of goats. More importantly, those massive hands would make for massive fists.

  Duly noted.

  And since when did goat shepherds get so damn big?

  “I accept your apology,” I said in Turkish, noticing I had taken a giant step backwards. “Now, will you be paying your tab in Liras or on credit? Unfortunately, I no longer take goats as they tend to eat the padding out of the bar stools and make a general mess of the place.”