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Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

Angela chuckled.  “Then I’m not going to tell you the rest.”

“Rest of what?”

She stared at him as if considering whether to finish.  “Egypt and Mesopotamia are not the only cultures to lack evidence of an evolutionary beginning.  The third was the Olmecs.”

“And where were the Olmecs located?”

“In Mexico.”

He suddenly turned and peered at her.

“Maybe that’s what you were doing in Mexico,” she joked, prompting Rickards to turn away.

No, he thought to himself.  His reason was entirely different, and having to do with something much more recent.

A mistake.

One Joe Rickards had made almost twenty years before.  Devastating and unforgiving, it had taught him a terrible and unrelenting lesson—that there are some mistakes a person simply never stopped paying for.

36

36

It was more than three hours later when the first glimpses of the impending sunrise could be seen over the curve of the Earth’s surface.  From altitude, the dark midnight sky gradually gave way to soft shifting colors in faint streaks of yellows and oranges.

A steady transition was visible through the window next to a still sleeping Leonard Townsend.  And next to him, Angela Reed dozed quietly into the fabric of her small, crooked pillow.

Rickards’ eyes felt stiff and tired as they moved back and forth every few minutes, from the heavenly scene through the window back to the cabin, where some of the sleeping passengers were finally beginning to stir.

In the aisle next to him, a man in his early thirties passed and lightly grazed Rickards’ sleeve on the way to the restroom, making Rickards wonder if children were designing our modern aircraft these days, given the spatial limitations of not only the aisles but the seats themselves, which seemed to be growing narrower with each new model.  Right in lockstep with the overhead baggage compartments.

He glanced across the aisle and watched an elderly couple awaken together, almost at the same time.  The wife retrieved a small pill box and flipped the lid open for her husband.  In the seat in front of them, a child of perhaps seven or eight years old lounged sprawled over the arm of her own seat like a pretzel and dead to the world around her as though nothing could wake her.

Rickards’ eyes moved back to the window to gaze again at the vibrant colors methodically crawling over the distant horizon. When he looked back up, he was again brushed by the same man returning to his seat.

Rickards’ tired eyes started to glance away but peered back at the young man as he approached his seat row, where he briefly looked over the heads of several passengers to another person along the cabin’s opposite aisle.

Almost without hesitation, the second man rose and headed toward the restrooms.

Rickards blinked, continuing to watch more random passengers rise and make their way back to the head following hours of sleep.