The Lost Choice by Andy Andrews Read Free Book Online Page B

Dylan stared blankly at the map on the wall, not really taking it in, but lost in thought—only occasionally glancing at the object still in his hands. So a kid finds this in his backyard, Dylan thought. Kinda weird, kinda not.
    No one could ever know with certainty how any particular relic came to lie in a particular place—it was one of the enduring mysteries of his profession and purely guesswork. Origins,however,were easier to pinpoint. For instance, no one knew how the obsidian pottery with elaborate faces formed into the edges ended up in one hundred feet of water off the Pacific coast. Archaeologists were, however, able to determine that they were more than three thousand years old and came from Southeast Asia.
    Moving the chair closer to his desk, Dylan shook his head sharply to clear the cobwebs and placed the object in his hand under the magnifying light. Mentally, he plodded through what he knew. Almost certainly leaded bronze. A cast piece, no carving except the script. Script is clearly etched. No staining or corrosion evident. Is that unusual? I don’t know.
    For a full minute or more Dylan sat completely still, then he opened the drawer by his right knee. Carefully, he removed a small electronic scale and placed it next to the light on his desk. Plugging it into an adapter on the base of the lamp, he turned the scale on and placed the object onto its measuring pan. Dylan pressed the buttons “Clear” and “Zero,” then watched as the digital numbers 139.22 appeared in green. Hmmm.Okay. A little more than 139 grams . . . almost five ounces. He pulled a small tape measure from the drawer in front of him— 43.4 inches long and . . . 17.8 inches at its widest point.
    Dylan leaned back in his chair, faced the map, and began moving back and forth again. He reviewed what he knew, which was not much. I am an anthropologist, not an archaeologist. Dylan smiled. Most people, he knew, did not know the difference. He had to explain it to his own mother every time he was home for a holiday. Archaeologists studied ancient civilizations, whereas he, an anthropologist, was concerned with the human beings themselves—their environment, social interaction, and culture.
    Dylan’s particular area of proficiency was directed toward the Plains Indians of the early 1800s. Show me an arrowhead, I’ll tell you what they ate for dinner. He turned to look at the object on the scale. But I don’t know jack about this! Suddenly he stood up, grabbed the object, and slipping it into his pants pocket, headed to the door. I may not know anything, he smiled to himself, but I know some archys who do!
    TWO WEEKS LATER, DORRY SAT IN TRAFFIC AS SHE left downtown Denver. She kept a wary eye on the sports car trying to ease in front of her as she fished the chirping cell phone from her purse. Seeing “HOME” on the display, she punched “Send” and answered. “Is this my big boy or my little boy?”
    On the other end of the line, Mark chuckled. “This is your big boy. Why do you ask?”
    â€œBecause if it was my little boy,” Dorry said wryly, “I didn’t want him to hear his mother screaming like a lunatic.” “Traffic?”
    â€œYep. I just might kill somebody in a couple of minutes.” “Don’t tell me that. I’m a cop.”
    Dorry laughed. “If I had known cops worked shifts and got off at three in the afternoon, I’d never have gone to journalism school. I’d have been running the obstacle course at the academy with you.”
    â€œYeah, well, you didn’t think so much of the job when I was eleven-to-seven,” Mark replied. Changing the subject, he said, “Hey, what I called about . . . Dylan touched base earlier—Kendra’s brother? The guy from the museum?”
    â€œReally?” Dorry said, her mood changing instantly despite the traffic.“What did he say?”
    â€œNothing