The Camelot Caper by Elizabeth Peters Page B

car.”
    â€œI know, I realized that…oh, David, I hate to admit it, but that place really is gorgeous by full moonlight. Look at it.”
    â€œI am looking at it. And I wish it were—”
    And then, appallingly, the arm under her fingers stiffened till it felt like stone. She heard his breath catch, with a sharp note of terror it had never held even during the worst moments of their capture. In a voice she would not have recognized, a voice muted by horror, he whispered, “Oh, God. Oh, God—look. Look.”
    Then she saw it too, and the shock made her physically dizzy. Passionate disbelief and equally firm faith in the reliability of her own senses met and clashed. For across the leveled grass that surrounded the temple of the sun worshipers a wavering snake of dim light was slowly moving. It was moving toward the temple, and from it, carried faintly through the still night air, came a ragged chorus of chanting.

FIVE
    D avid started to laugh.
    It began slowly, a throaty chuckle that shook his arms and chest, and then mounted in intensity until he was roaring, vibrating from head to foot, slapping his knees. Tears poured from his eyes. He said something, but the words were unintelligible, drowned in the terrible sound of laughter. Then he staggered off across the field, toward the moving procession of light.
    Jess reached out for him—too late, but she would not have been able to stop him in any case. Hysteria, she thought; I don’t blame him, it’s too much. I can’t let him go. What did the Druids do to their victims? Bury them alive? Cut out their hearts? No, that was the Aztecs, or somebody….
    She took one step after him, fighting the most insidiously terrible of all fears, and then a horrid qualm stopped her in her tracks. It was theupsurge of a doubt that had haunted her for some time, and it could be summed up most aptly in the phrase: “Whose side is he on?”
    With her last remaining shred of common sense, she argued with herself. Make up your mind, Jess—ghosts or crooks, you can’t have both. If David is in league with Cousin John, he can hardly be on familiar terms with the spirits of long-dead Druid priests too.
    Having made up her mind, or what was left of it, she began trudging across the field. It was not long before she made out the true nature of the shifting train of lights, but the sight did nothing to reassure her. The lights came from torches, borne high by shrouded white figures. Hooded and robed, they stretched in a short procession from the road, beyond the monument, almost to the entrance. They were standing quietly now; the singing had stopped. David was in earnest conversation with one of the pale shapes. He turned, and his face cleared as he saw her coming.
    â€œThere you are. What took you so long? Jess, this is Sam Jones of the Mystical Order of Sunworshipers.”
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    The bus seemed to careen down the road but maybe, Jess thought vaguely, that was becauseshe was rolling from side to side. In the back seat of the bus—always in a back seat, she thought resentfully—wedged in between Sam—good ol’ Sam!—and David. They both had their arms around her, and she had her arms around them, and they were all singing.
    â€œJolly good fello-o-ow,” sang Jess, but her small voice was drowned out by the roaring chorus from the other passengers. It had something to do with a girl named Mabel.
    Some time later, as the lights of Salisbury appeared, they all seemed to be singing a verse of a classic folk song.
    â€œThis is number four, and his hand is on the floor…”
    â€œThat’s not right,” Jess objected.
    â€œNo?” Sam stared at her in distress. The hood had fallen back from his head, displaying a shining bald pate. His face was almost as round and pink and featureless, his snub nose and pursed rosebud mouth swallowed up in rolls of affable fat. “But you taught it us—taught us