“We saw what was left of him,” Pillow said quietly. “So why aren’t Kiwi geologists crawling all over the place? Not to mention the army?”
“You know how isolated this place is. Nobody leaves without Witako’s permission, and that’s only if you’re on his payroll. I could never figure the way out through that limestone maze.”
“But how do Kildare and scouts like Ngati navigate it?” I asked.
“With guides like Medusa. There are six of them who trade off. The rest of the time they sit outside the green boulders with their black cloaks pulled over heads, weaving or chanting.”
“Craddock said they were witches. They spooked him.”
“Craddock was right to be afraid. They’d prick you with a tatu-poisoned needle as soon as look at you.”
Then the big man turned solemn as he looked at Pillow. His voice was soft again.
“I’m afraid Tane is dead. With time running out, I needed a strong ally. I took the chance—as I am now with you—of telling him what I’d learned. He set off to explore the cavern, looking for an exit before coming back to get me. Somehow, Witako found out. He sent Medusa and three of the Dogs after him….”
“I knew he’d never desert us,” Pillow said tonelessly.
I thought of the man who had been such a help to Esme, who had been so touched when forgiven by Pillow. Who held the rope when I was blown off the mountain.
I’ve known a few like Tane Craddock in the Marines and on the rugby pitch, but none better.
“I still don’t see where China’s interests figure in this,” I said, after an uneasy silence. “If New Zealand regulators aren’t about to let its own companies mine the deposits, they damn sure won’t allow foreigners.”
“It was hard for me to understand as well. But two months ago I discovered something Kildare’s boys brought up and stored behind the tracker buildings. Inside it were four dozen tubes with the markings of a chemical component. I shouldn’t have touched them without rubber gloves. Ever hear of polonium-210?”
“No, but I saw the canisters myself today. You say you saw forty-eight? There were only fifteen this afternoon.”
“The Chinese have moved them into the cavern. There must be hundreds in there now and, as your friend Hart would say, they are very bad, indeed.”
He looked at Pillow. “What do you see in that te kaihau*1 anyway?”
“It’s a long story,” she replied. “Tell us more about what’s in the tubes.”
“It’s intensely radioactive—two hundred fifty thousand times more toxic than hydrogen cyanide if inhaled or absorbed through the skin. The containers I saw weren’t properly sealed.”
For a moment I was confused. What the devil did those deadly canisters have to do with anything? Then I saw it with blinding certainty—all Witako needed to do was poison the tailings in the cavern. If and when other geologists became aware of the REE deposits, as they inevitably would, no New Zealand corporation would ever be able to exploit them. Nobody would. And that was the point.
China, desperate to maintain its global monopoly on REEs, must have been willing to pay hundreds of millions just to neutralize the value of the minerals. TransNational, if Witako so chose, would then have the funds to continue exploiting the earth in more traditional ways.
“We’ve got to do something,” I said. “They’re planning to release the gas in the morning.”
Kahoura nodded. “Witako intends to secure the compound before the engineers move in to open the valves. We can’t count on more than ten lads to support us. He has at least four times that many, plus the latest pack of Mongrels who Kildare brought up today.”
“At least we have the element of surprise.”
“We did until you fell into that pit, Bevan. If we’re lucky, they won’t find the body of their friend for another two hours.”
Kahoura stood up.
“A single gram of Po-210 can expose twenty million people to cancer. If Witako succeeds in contaminating the deposits, a huge portion of the South Island could be uninhabitable for generations.”
After he left to gather volunteers for the upcoming struggle, Aronui reentered my hut.
“The Ranginui wants to see you both.”
“Anyone with him?”
“Just the Ariki.”
* * *
*1 Literally “wind eater,” a jerk
Chapter Thirty-four
Witako eyed Pillow and me warily as we entered the great room. Ivo Mackin, looking like death warmed over, sat in front of a wooden dish piled with mashed sweet potatoes, various vegetables, and slices of pinkish brown meat.
“Here,” the Ranginui said, pushing the plate toward me. “I’m not hungry.”
I’d hardly eaten the entire day and dove in with knife and fork. I was astonished at how delicious it was, particularly the cutlet, which was tender and rather sweet-tasting.
“Is this veal?” I asked, after the first two bites.
“It’s something Witako brought over from the blockhouses,” Mackin mumbled. “I prefer pork, however.”
The Ariki smiled disingenuously. I gave the steak a closer inspection. Along a marble of fat, barely visible on the charred ends, was part of an inked circle. I put down my utensils.
“You have something to tell us?” I asked, looking up at Mackin.
“I’ve reconsidered the matter of the journal,” he said, apparently oblivious to the provenance of my dinner. “While I’m not prepared to share it with the world, I recognize there must be some purpose for it to have survived this long.”
He motioned for Witako to go to the safe.
“Sergeant Gibson’s tale is as much your legacy as mine,” Mackin said to Pillow. “Do with it as you wish.”
Shifting his attention to me, he added, “She’ll need your help.”
“Do we have your permission to leave, then?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager. “The helicopter is scheduled to meet us at Pearl Flat in three days. We can make it if we leave in the morning.”
“Yes, of course.” He turned to Witako. “Make sure Medusa takes them through the cavern first thing tomorrow and have Ngati guide them over the mountains. I don’t suppose that Craddock fellow has shown up?”
“He has not, Ranginui.”
All this was news to make my day—aside from the Tane-still-missing part—but I should have known better. You’d have to be a pretty hard case to deny that I’d had my share of tribulations on this trip. But it had all been a walk up Daisy Hill compared with what was to come.
“All right, then. Be a good man, Witako, and bring out the journals.”
The Ariki took his time opening the safe, as if savoring the moment to come. When he paused to look over his shoulder at me, I knew what he’d say when the door opened. All I could do was sit and wait uneasily.
“They’re gone, Ranginui!”
Sure enough, the safe was as empty as an Eskimo’s wallet—the journals, the captain’s bones and skull: all gone.
Ivo Mackin reacted as if he’d been harpooned. His roar brought Ngati and another youth scrambling into the room with raised patus. Witako, of course, got on his high horse to noisily declare that I was the thief.
“I caught him sneaking into the whare yesterday,” Ngati added cheerfully, jabbing his finger at me.
“And for one reason only!” cried the Ariki. “To extract the combination from a confused Ranginui!”
* * *
Once, during my semi-illustrious law career, I found myself arguing a case before a crooked judge and a bought jury in Peculiar, Missouri. There wasn’t much use in citing legal precedent, let alone evidence favorable to my client, the sleazy owner of a rural porn shop. But as an officer of the court, I was expected to put on a good show. For some reason, however—it might have been the snarky look the foreman of the jury gave the judge—I withdrew from the case midway through the trial. It cost me five days in the county jail for contempt, but the judge was forced to declare a mistrial and the case reassig
ned—with a new defense counsel—to another court, where the defendant was promptly convicted fair and square.
Need I mention that my scumbag client stiffed me on fees?
If you’re wondering what’s my point in telling this, I suppose it’s to show there was some precedence for my having the balls to laugh in Witako’s face at his accusation. It must have been the first time anyone had ever done that to him, because his jaw dropped like a broken marionette. It didn’t take long, however, for him to recover. And this time his rage was real.
Looking back on that evening, I’m convinced the only thing saving me from a boiled brain was the sudden return of Mackin’s hallucinations.
The Ranginui’s mouth stopped in mid-bellow as he gaped in horror at the opposite wall. Thrusting out his arms to ward off imaginary demons, spasms wracked his body until his bulging eyes went empty and he slumped in the chair.
During the eerie silence that followed, the marks of stupefied anguish departed from Mackin’s face. The only motion that remained was a slight fluttering of the nostrils from ever-decreasing exchanges of air.
For an instant, his eyes opened as if he was startled to still be alive. Just as quickly, the light within them dimmed. There came a hushed exhalation of breath, followed by the slacking of the jaw. It pulled his lips back, giving him the painted grin of a circus clown, the teeth gleaming yellow in the rictus of death.
* * *
It was Pillow who played the role of coroner, callously confirming her father’s death by pinching his nostrils then pricking his cheek with a pin. She avoided my eyes when Daig Kildare and his pack of louts from the campfire conference entered the room. I might have handled the two youths and escaped to the woods, but not six gangbangers armed with chains and bats.
They tied my hands behind my back and dragged me outside just as Adrian Hart approached the whare.
“Is the deed done?” he asked Kildare.
“Aye. The crazy bastard’s gone down the stairs for good.”
Facing me, Hart held up the three journals in his stubby hands.
“When Witako lost control over Ivo, it threatened to blow his deal with Baomong Iron, Ltd. Ms. Wilkes and I offered to help in exchange for these and safe passage.”
“Are you aware what they plan to do?” I said.
“No. And I don’t give a damn. Whenever circumstances are in my favor, I find it wise not to ask too many questions.”
That said, he turned and walked into the whare, whistling a sea shanty.
“Haul Away, Joe,” I think it was.
Chapter Thirty-five
The Mongrels who manhandled me were in a foul mood, having learned they would be hauling the rest of the canisters into the cavern the next day. Not only that, Witako had forbidden them the fun of raping and pillaging until after the Ranginui’s funeral.
The fact that one of their own had had been barbecued didn’t seem to have bothered them in the least.
* * *
It must have been past midnight when they dragged me into the cavern. Immediately, the guards’ flashlights startled thousands of long-tailed bats and soon had us ducking to avoid their frenetic, screeching dives.
In the midst of the chaos, a loud crack resounded close to me, followed by a horrible shriek. The Mongrel who had been pulling me by a leather leash staggered heavily against my chest, his skull cleaved nearly in half. As I recoiled, he went limp and crumpled to the ground, leaving a trail of warm blood on my shirt. An instant later, Kahoura used his gore-covered patu to cut the cord binding my hands. Then he tossed me a five-foot-long taiaha while the other Mongrels warily surrounded us, one of them holding back to keep us in his light.
I countered the first assault with a jab to the man’s solar plexus, followed by a downward slice to his collarbone that brought a satisfying scream. Kahoura had similar success with his patu until an ax swung from the blind side cut off his left arm at the elbow. As he toppled over, growling in agony, another blow struck his spine. It must have severed the cord because everything below his neck stopped moving. His eyes went blank and the veins on either side of his thick neck swelled and his lips opened but no sound emerged from them.
I swung my weapon wildly over the constable’s limp body, keeping the murderous bastards at bay until a machete sliced my stave in half. There was nothing for it then but to stagger backward from the melee while they, like jackals sensing the kill, tore Kahoura apart—literally.
The only positive thing to come from the Mongrels’ bloodlust was that it gave me time to slip away. Had I dallied a moment longer, I wouldn’t be telling this tale because additional Witako loyalists were streaming into the chamber holding their weapons aloft like a bunch of pissed-off Transylvanian villagers.
As my old drill instructor once said, “A Marine fights with all he’s got, but when Johnny Turk overruns the ramparts, it’s best to get where the enemy ain’t until reinforcements or the next sundown arrives.”
Pulling the flashlight from my jacket, I sped over the rugged ground, dodging calcite formations, fumaroles, bats, and God knows what else, never breaking stride, praying like Moses to add distance between me and those hounds of darkness.
Upon reaching the limestone wall, I popped into the first cleft available. The passage was wide, but ended after twenty meters. It contained a narrow flowstone hole, however. I knew that these deposits of calcite created from seeping water could lead to new chambers. Even if it led nowhere else, it would provide temporary cover.
The thought of crawling into that slimy vent caused my heart to palpitate like a premature bunny’s. But what choice did I have?
So in I went, scrunching down the cavity using my back against one side and my feet pressing against the other. Aiming the tiny beam of light between my thighs, I could see that the hole went down another five or six feet before opening into a wider pocket.
To descend farther meant I wouldn’t be able to shinny back up. Fighting panic, I decided to climb out while I could.
But approaching voices and the light of torches reflecting on the ceiling above put a stop to that. They would soon be right above the flow hole and would surely look into it. My only option was to slip farther down the cold, wet tube and hope I’d be able to get back up when the danger passed.
It took less than ten seconds to drop into a small chamber, but that was enough for one of them to have seen the beam of my flashlight. Treading along another slippery path, I groped along the face of the walls until I found another opening, four feet high and about as wide. Cool air streamed into my face accompanied by the sound of rushing water.
I took a deep breath and plunged forward, keeping my head low to avoid it scraping the ceiling. The roar of the underground torrent now blocked the sound of footsteps and voices, but the flickering light from behind made it clear my pursuers were not giving up. I was sprinting now, hunched over to avoid banging my head on the ever-lowering wall with only instinct to guide me—instinct and hope, for there was no turning back.
Another twenty yards and I was on my knees, crawling in the narrowing tube, encouraged only by the breeze that continued to caress my face. There were neither beams of light nor voices behind me now. I lay still for a minute or two, gasping, desperately wondering how long they might wait.
It was a mistake.
The longer I thought about it, the more my faith in going forward dissolved. The walls and the darkness began to close in, gripping me in the horror of claustrophobia. Having scrambled into a space no wider than a coffin, I tried scooting backward. But my toes, knees, and elbows couldn’t gain traction on the smooth, water-slick stone. I was trapped.
It was Esme’s green jade pendant that saved me from succumbing to panic. I swear I heard the thing speak to me just when the screaming meemies began to take over.
I steeled myself to crawl as far as the tunnel allowed.
Five meters later the walls were touching both shoulders. My chin brushed the slippery wet floor, but there was less than three
inches of clearance above my head. My knees had no room to maneuver. With my arms extended in front of me, I could only push forward with my toes, inch by inch.
But I still felt that breeze.
A few more feet and the floor of the tunnel began to slant. I moved a yard, then another, and suddenly I was sliding without effort toward the rushing sound of water. Water and air, the elements of all life.
* * *
I glided headfirst into a pool warmed by some thermal influence in a chamber infused with the turquoise luminescence of the glowworms.
Sharp-edged crystals surrounded most of the lagoon except for a flat limestone slab at one end. I swam to it and pulled myself onto the slippery rock by grasping a pair of spiral stalagmites. I sat there for a long time, marveling at the myriad display of tiny lights dotting the grotto’s ceiling and giving thanks to every patron saint Sister Mary Agnes pounded into my skull at Our Lady of Perpetual Anguish Grammar School. After I’d sent regards to Saint Bonaventura (bowel disorders) and Saint Lidwina (skaters), I found a relatively smooth ledge and caught some much-needed sleep.
It must have been close to dawn when I got to my feet and began looking for a way out.
Moving under low-hanging draperies of calcite, I made my way along the pool until coming to an opening twice my shoulder width. The light of the glowworms barely penetrated there, but it was just enough to see a cataract of white water plunging into the abyss of the mountain.
White-water rapids are fearsome enough aboveground. Pour a rampaging river into a dark limestone shaft with the velocity of a freight train and it becomes something altogether more terrifying. The torrent looked to be flowing fifteen feet below where I stood. Even if I wasn’t drowned or pummeled to death, I would die from decompression in water that, from the sound of it, plunged hundreds of vertical feet.
But I couldn’t climb up. And I wasn’t partial to dying a slow death in that beautiful sepulcher. The only option was to go down while trying to avoid falling into the deadly vortex.
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