Author's note: we don't actually know--at least according to the film, when last seen--the difference in Jonathan's and Evelyn's ages. I looked up the actors' respective ages, considered the dynamic of their relationship, and decided to give them a nice round 10 years. Also, the pistol described in the following scene is a Walther Model 3 handgun; what I know about guns could be written on the head of a pin, so I looked it up and did the best I could. :)

5.

"These people would steal their grandmothers and sell them if there were a market for decrepit old ladies."

~~

When my brother was fifteen and I was five, he fell out of a tree trying to get my doll, Reshwet. (He was the one who'd thrown her up there. I love Jon, but heaven knows he's no saint.) He took a tumble from a height equal to a second-story window, hitting just about every branch on the way down. He got up afterwards, battered and bruised, nose bleeding copiously, but otherwise undamaged. When he was seventeen, he had his first driving accident, and by twenty, he'd added two more to his curriculum vitae. Again, no serious injuries. There was, as I recall, a disastrous dunk in the Cher one summer, while punting with his friends from school. He cracked his head soundly, but somehow managed to keep conscious and afloat long enough for his friends to drag him back into the boat. His life had been threatened on more than one occasion by various "chaps" of his acquaintance, to whom he owed sizeable sums of money, but he'd always been able to talk his way round them. And then, of course, there was our recent series of encounters with the undead.

Despite all the odds, Jonathan had emerged from childhood and adolescence--both his, and mine--relatively unscathed. He'd been born with more than his fair share of what my father used to call the devil's luck. Oh, he'd been knocked about a bit; he'd had his bells rung, as he liked to put it, more than once. But to me, he'd always seemed, if not infallible, somehow... indestructible. Sometimes down, but never out. Few impressions formed in childhood are practical, but some of them are incredibly enduring. Seeing that bloodstain on the sheet--right where his head would have lain--terrified me.

I immediately took charge of the situation. One of us had to, and having a tentative plan of action kept the hot, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach from rising. Before we could go haring off into the teeming city, with guns blazing (which was Rick's inclination), we had to figure this thing out properly.

The first thing I did was find the nearest steward, and demand information about anyone who might have been seen with my brother. It would have been easy enough to smack Jonathan on the head while he slept and drag him out of the room, unconscious and unresisting--even people who knew him wouldn't ask questions if they saw him slumped against some stranger's shoulder. They'd simply assume he was drunk. But nobody could recall seeing anyone with him, apart from when Rick had been down to the hotel bar and dragged him off. That bit, everybody remembered, thanks to Rick's pernicious lack of modesty. The only other thing they were able to tell me did not bode well: apparently the floors had had to be cleaned early in the morning, due to several patrons complaining about a trail of droplets of blood leading down the hall to our room.

Whoever had taken Jonathan was obviously after something--something we would have kept hidden, assuming we possessed it. Most of the Hamunaptra treasures had already been sent on to our home, in the trunks Jonathan had arranged passage for. I telephoned and double-checked to make sure that those were safely on their way; I was assured that they were. The rest of the treasures, the most precious and delicate of the lot, were locked in my suitcase, under my bed. I'd hesitated to tempt Jonathan by putting any within easy reach. I quickly ascertained that everything was still where I'd left it.

When I returned to the sitting room, Rick had spread his gunnysack out on the table. He was perched on the edge of the settee, elbows resting on his knees, meticulously cleaning and oiling one of his many guns.

I am by no means a squeamish person, but I will say quite candidly that guns make me very uneasy. My dislike for them does not, as certain people have suggested, have anything to do with the fact that I am prone to occasional bouts of falling over repeatedly. Nor does it stem from my having been raised as a delicate, sheltered flower. I wasn't, believe me. I'd been around guns while growing up; our father couldn't be bothered with them, but Jonathan was always being invited to shooting parties and fox hunts and silly masculine activities like that.

Quite simply, there is no good use for a gun. It isn't like a hammer, or something, that can be used as a weapon and also a tool. And it isn't like a blade, something you can use to parry an attack from someone who comes at you. A gun is designed and constructed with one purpose only: to kill. Which is something I'd just as soon have nothing to do with.

He looked up, body tensed for action, when he heard me enter. A soldier, too, is designed with one purpose in mind. To seek out and destroy the enemy. Rick knew this was a part of his past that troubled me. But I was glad to have him there, just the same. I would need his strength.

"None of it's been touched," I told him. I picked up my purse and headed for the door. "I'm going back down to use the telephone again."

"What for?"

"I'm going to telephone the police."

"I wouldn't," Rick answered, maddeningly calm. He was in full soldier mode now, fazed by nothing.

"And why not?"

He shot me a look. "You know why not. They won't do anything. They've got their hands full. And you and your brother are British, which makes you not exactly the Cairo Police's favourite people right now."

I had nothing to say to that. He was right.

"Besides," he added, "who was the last person seen roughing Jonathan up in the hotel bar?" He jabbed a thumb in the direction of his own chest.

"But..." The room blurred momentarily, as I realized how things would look to an impartial observer. If I claimed Rick had been with me the whole night, all that did was render my motives rather suspect--particularly if it came to light during an investigation that the three of us had recently come into a large quantity of unreported gold.

"I was thinking," Rick continued, performing some complicated maneuver with the back end of the shotgun he was working at. "What about that necklace he gave you?"

"What, this?" I pulled the amulet out of my blouse.

"You were wearing it all night? You never took it off?"

"You were there," I reminded him. "You don't think..." But he did. So did I. I'd even asked Jonathan about it. "He told me he didn't steal it," I protested weakly.

"Yeah, and he also told me you two were missionaries," was Rick's blunt reply. He held out his hand, palm up. "Take it off. I don't want anything around your neck that might be worth more to someone than your head."

I bristled at his tone of command, but now was not the time to have that discussion. "You don't think they'll hurt him, do you?" I undid the chain from the back and placed my brother's wedding present carefully in Rick's hand. "I mean, not... not seriously?"

He looked at me for a moment. I could tell he wanted to say no, to reassure me. "I don't know, Evie," he admitted. "Depends why they took him. I mean, if they just wanted this thing," he hefted the amulet, "they could have woken us up and forced us to give it to them."

"But if what they wanted was something else--like information... Rick! Before we left, I know Jonathan was boasting that he was going to find Hamunaptra. I tried to keep him quiet, but I wasn't with him every second..."

"Yeah. When it gets a little darker, I'll check out his usual haunts, follow up this amulet thing. Since it's the only lead we have. And I'll find out if anyone heard him talking about our little trip."

We both knew perfectly well that he didn't have the patience to get that sort of information out of people without resorting either to physical violence or the threat of same. "I'll go with you," I told him.

"No. You won't."

We shall see about that, I thought, but let it stand for the moment.

Rick was examining the pistol in his hand with a grim expression. "Okay, c'mere."

"What for?"

"I'm gonna teach you how to use this."

"Oh, no, you're not."

He looked at me as if I were completely cracked.

"I'm not going anywhere near it. They make me nervous, Rick."

"Evelyn..." He stood up and took a step towards me. I took a step back. He came forward, and I retreated again, jumping when I slammed into the sideboard.

"I--I mean it," I asserted.

"I'll be more comfortable leaving you alone if you have this. And I'm not giving it to you until you know what you're doing. Now, come here."

I took a tentative step in his direction.

"It won't bite you." He put his arm around my shoulders, drawing me close. "The safety is on. You can't shoot anything. Here."

I held out my hand, and allowed him to mold my fingers around the handle of the gun. I hefted it in my hand. It was small, felt cool and hard, and was heavier than I'd expected. What terrified me was, its weight was reassuring. Even comfortable. I could see myself, deadly cool, pointing this scary thing at someone and firing. Not now, perhaps, but in the future.

"You get six shots," Rick was explaining. "You cock it, like this--" he demonstrated how to work the slide-- "and you take the safety off." He pointed to a small lever, next to which was an engraved letter F. "When the F is covered, you can shoot. When it isn't, you can't. See?"

"F for fire," I said, slowly, like a child learning to read.

"Yeah. F for fire." He smiled down at me. "Then you just squeeze the trigger--squeeze, don't pull."

I shuddered.

Rick showed me how to load the gun, how to clean it, and how to aim using the sight. I was ready to be sick by the time we were through. It must have shown on my face, because he hastened to reassure me.

"You probably won't have to shoot anyone, Evie. Just the threat of a gun is enough to make 'em back down."

"I hope you're right." I held the pistol out to Rick, who immediately grabbed my arm and forced it upwards.

"Safety," he growled. "And don't point it at anyone you're not planning to shoot."

"Oh. Right." I flicked the lever back into its proper position. "Sorry." I tried again to pass him the gun, but he wouldn't take it.

"That's yours. Put it in your bag or something."

Shame-faced, ears burning, I dropped the gun into my purse. If there's one thing I absolutely hate, it's being made to feel ignorant, and Rick had schooled me pretty thoroughly. He went back to checking his weapons, and I sat down in the armchair opposite him.

"I am going with you," I told him quietly.

He didn't raise his voice, didn't even look up from what he was doing. "I said no."

"Well, I said yes," I countered. "You are not my lord and master, Richard O'Connell, however much you may like to think that you are, and I will do as I choose, no matter what you have to say about it!" I hadn't intended to shout, but the more I thought about it, the angrier it made me. He had no right to give me orders, or to cloister me in the hotel room as though I were a child or an imbecile.

He looked up at me. His eyes were all ice and steel. Was this the same man I'd invited to share my bed only last night? It didn't seem possible. "I'll lock you in your room if I have to," he told me calmly.

"You will not!"

"Yeah, I will."

"Then I'll climb out the window and follow you!" I informed him.

"We're two stories up."

"Then I'll shoot the lock off the door! I've seen you do it."

His voice was still soft and low, but alarm and frustration began to show on his face. "You'll shoot your foot off trying..."

"I don't care! Jonathan needs my help, and so do you--whether or not you choose to admit it."

"You wanna help me? You can start by staying here and not getting your damn self killed!" he roared.

"Don't you swear at me!"

"I'll swear whenever the hell I feel like it!"

With no warning whatsoever, I burst into tears. Just burst, out of nowhere, like a dam breaking. It wasn't something I'd intended--in point of fact, it was probably the last thing on earth I would have done at that moment if I'd had the choice. I hated to be thought of as a weak, helpless female, and yet, given the opportunity, I acted exactly like one. "Rotten, foul-mouthed bastard!" I screamed, tears streaming down my face.

For a moment, Rick simply gazed at me, his expression one of mingled anger and surprise. Then he stood up, and without a word, put both arms around me.

"He's my brother," I sobbed. "He's all the family I have in the world. And someone's taken him away. They could be hurting him right now. I can't just... sit here, doing nothing..." I sniffled into Rick's shoulder. "Don't let's fight any more. Please." My nerves simply couldn't handle any more confrontation at that point. And it wasn't really Rick I was angry with, to be perfectly honest. If I hadn't asked him to stay the night before--if I'd done as I should have, and insisted that he go back to his own bed--he would have been there to protect Jonathan. I couldn't help but feel awful. The entire wretched mess was my doing.

"I didn't mean to yell at you," he told me. "It's just that... I mean, you... Evelyn, you're all I've got." He squeezed me tighter, so tightly I could barely breathe, let alone move. "And sometimes you're so... stubborn... look, I'm not trying to put you in your place or anything. I'm not that stupid. I just worry about you. If anything happened to you, I'd never forgive myself."

"You've got until midnight," I told him. "If you haven't reported back by then, I'm going to come looking for you."

He nodded. "Deal."

He relaxed his grip on me a bit, and I heaved a sigh. "Well, while you're gone, I'm going to call the consulate, see if there isn't anything they can do to help."

"Okay."

"And I'm going to find out if he spoke to anyone in the bar last night."

"Good idea."

"And... and you be careful too." I tilted my head back, rested my chin against his chest, and gave him a watery smile. "If I have to come and rescue you both, I'll be very put out. I might be able to carry Jonathan, but you, I don't think I could manage."

He smiled, then bent down and kissed the very tip of my nose. "I'll keep that in mind." Then, more seriously, he added, "I'll find him, Evie. I promise."

We held each other a while longer, without speaking, and then I went into his and Jonathan's room so I wouldn't have to watch him leave. I'd decided to sift through the mess on the bed and floor, to see if there was anything we might have missed. It would have helped if Jonathan's room didn't naturally look like a rubbish tip to begin with. Absently, I sorted his shirts into two piles--clean, and dirty--removing sundry articles from the pockets of the latter as I went along. Honestly, if it weren't for me, Jonathan would have tipped his laundry service with a gold-plated cigarette lighter a hundred times over by now. Once the shirts were done, I started on his jackets. The IOUs, which were numerous, I left in a neat little stack on the bedside table. He could attend to them when he came back.

If he came back.

I chided myself for being so pessimistic. For all we knew, the matter could turn out to be a completely harmless misunderstanding. Well, I thought, eyeing the dried blood on the sheet, maybe not harmless. But there was a possibility that the entire thing was just--

My train of thought suddenly derailed at the sound of a crash in the sitting room. Frantically I darted around, looking for my gun... which I had, of course, left in my purse. On the sitting room table. Under my breath, I employed a few words I'd overheard from my brother and Rick, then tentatively opened the bedroom door a tiny crack. No one there as far as I could see. So far, so good. I eased it open a little bit more, and then even further, before heaving a sigh of relief. The sitting room was empty, the curtains of the big picture window stirring placidly in the breeze...

...a breeze which entered where a shattered pane of glass had once been.

Mouthing a single, anatomically improbable observance that would have made even my legionnaire fiancé blush, I moved carefully among the fragments to pick up the object responsible for breaking the window: a brick. When I turned it over, however, I found a note carefully affixed. Whoever had sent this wanted to be quite certain we received it. I began to breathe shallowly, my heart pounding in my throat. I ran to the window and looked out, but nobody on the street below looked even remotely out of the ordinary. Then again, whoever had thrown the brick could easily have blended in with the crowd. There were plenty of Egyptians who would support a random act of vandalism against a large British hotel.

After reading and re-reading the missive, I sank into the nearest chair--then immediately regretted it, as I caught the business end of a shard of glass in an area that shall remain nameless. By the time I'd dealt with that, and the resulting nicks on my fingertips, a plan was already half-formed in my mind. Rick wasn't going to like it, but then again, he wasn't going to have much of a choice in the matter.