Sam took in a lungful of air, flipped over, and dove. His outstretched hand found the leading edge of the wing, and he pulled himself across the fuselage, then down into the doorway.
He stopped.
Rivera was gone. Sam looked into the tail section, saw nothing, and checked the front seat again. He saw movement out of the corner of his right eye and turned his head. A shadow rushed toward his face. He felt something hard strike his forehead. Pain flashed behind his eyes, and everything went dark.
“SAM!” HE HEARD DISTANTLY. The voice faded, then returned. “Sam!”
He felt hands on his face. He knew that touch: Remi. He forced his eyes open. She was leaning over him, her auburn hair dripping onto his face. She smiled. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Very funny. None. I’m okay. Help me sit up.”
“Just stay there. You’ve got a nasty gash on your forehead.”
“Rivera . . . Where is—”
“I’m here, Mr. Fargo.”
Sam tilted his head backward. An upside-down Rivera was sitting ten feet up the black-sand beach. “Damn,” Sam muttered. “I’ll give you this much, Rivera, you’re one tough bastard.”
Sam forced himself up onto his elbows, then sat upright with Remi’s help. He turned around. Rivera was in tough shape; his nose was broken, one of his eyes swollen shut, and his lower lip was split. The gun in his right hand was held in a rock-steady grip, however.
Rivera said, “And you’re too clever for your own good. As soon as you’re feeling better I’m going to kill you and your wife.”
“I may have tried to kill you, but I didn’t lie about this place. I could still be wrong, but I don’t think so.”
“Fine. I’ll kill you both, then find the entrance myself. The island isn’t that big.”
“It doesn’t look big now, but once you get into that jungle it’ll suddenly get a lot bigger. It would take you months to find it.”
“And how long for you?”
Sam checked his watch. “Eight hours from the time we get into the caldera.”
“Why that number?”
“Just a guess.”
“Are you stalling for time?”
“That’s part of it. Also, we want to find Chicomoztoc as much as you do. Maybe more. We’ve just got a different motive than you do.”
“I’ll give you four hours.”
Rivera stood up.
Remi helped Sam to his feet. He leaned on her as though dizzy. “Headache,” he said loudly, then whispered in Remi’s ear: “I had a gun.”
She smiled. “You did. I have it now.”
“Waistband?”
“Yes.”
“If you get a chance, shoot him.”
“Gladly.”
“I’ll try to distract him.”
HAVING TOUGHENED THEMSELVES over the past few weeks, first on Madagascar, then on Pulau Legundi, Sam and Remi found the hike up the island’s forested slope relatively easy. Rivera, however, was struggling. His broken nose forced him to breathe through his mouth, and he was now limping. Still, his years as a soldier were shining through. He kept pace with them, keeping ten feet between them and his gun.
At last they reached the top. Below them, the caldera’s slopes dropped a hundred feet to the valley floor. The bowl shape, having acted as a rain funnel for centuries, had caused the trees and vegetation to grow faster than their cousins on the exterior.
“What now?” asked Rivera.
Sam turned around in a circle, orienting himself. “My compass was in the plane, so I have to estimate this . . .” Sam walked to the right, picking his way through the trees for another fifty feet, then stopped. “It should be right about here.”
“Here?”
“Below us.”
“Explain.”
“Right after which you shoot us. No thank you.”
Rivera’s mouth tightened in a thin line. His eyes never leaving Sam’s, Rivera shifted his gun slightly right and pulled the trigger. The bullet punched through Remi’s left leg. She screamed and collapsed. Rivera shifted the gun back onto Sam, stopping him in midstep.
“Let me help her,” Sam said.
Rivera glanced at Remi. His eyes narrowed. He limped over to where she was lying, crouched down, and picked up the pistol that had fallen from Remi’s waistband. Rivera stepped back. “You can help her now.”
Sam rushed to her side. She gripped his hand hard, her eyes squeezed shut against the pain. Sam patted his pockets, came up with a bandanna, and pressed it against the wound.
Rivera said, “Do I have your full attention now?”
“Yes, damn it.”
“The bullet hit her in the quadriceps muscle. She won’t bleed to death, and, providing she doesn’t stay out here more than a couple days, there’s not much chance of infection. Between these two guns I’ve got thirty more rounds. Start cooperating or I’ll keep shooting.”
CHAPTER 48
THEY MADE THEIR WAY DOWN TO THE VALLEY FLOOR, SAM IN THE lead with Remi cradled in his arms and Rivera trailing behind. They found a small clearing in the approximate center of the bowl, and Sam laid Remi down. Rivera sat down on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing. His gun never wavering from Sam’s chest, Rivera lifted his shirt up; on the left side of his abdomen was a black softball-sized bruise.
“That looks painful,” Sam said.
“It’s just a bruise.”
Sam knelt beside Remi. He lifted the bandanna on her thigh. The bleeding had slowing to a trickle. He whispered, “Rivera’s bleeding internally.”
Through clenched teeth Remi asked, “How bad?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Stall until he keels over dead.”
“I’ll try.”
“Stop your whispering!” Rivera barked. “Move away from her.” Sam complied. “Tell me your theory about the entrance.”
Sam hesitated.
Rivera pointed the gun at Remi.
“It’s based on the illustrations,” Sam said. “Chicomoztoc is always a cavern with seven smaller caves around it . . . like a flower. The cavern is beneath a mountain. The drawings vary, but the big details are the same—including the location of the entrance.”
“At the bottom,” Rivera said.
“Right. But if I’m right and this is the place, it means the exterior shape of the island was as important to them as the interior.”
“How could they have gotten an overhead view of it?”
“They didn’t. They sailed around it and mapped it. As small as this island is, it would have been easy to do it accurately.”
“Go on.”
“If you’re looking at the illustration face on as a two-dimensional image, the entrance to Chicomoztoc is down. If you look at it from overhead—and they oriented themselves on the four cardinal directions like most cultures do—then the entrance lies to the south.”
Rivera considered this, then nodded slowly. “Good. Now go find it. You’ve got four hours. If you don’t find it by then, I’ll kill you both.”
RIVERA MADE THE GROUND RULES clear: Sam would search for the entrance while he, Rivera, guarded Remi. Rivera would call Sam’s name at random intervals. If Sam didn’t answer within ten seconds, Rivera would shoot Remi again.
AS HE AND REMI HAD DONE on Pulau Legundi, Sam made do with what was at hand: a sturdy six-foot-long stick and patience. Facing what he thought was due south, he started up the caldera’s slope, prodding ahead of him with the stick.
The first pass to the top took him twenty minutes. On the rim he sidestepped to the right and started back down the slope. He felt ridiculous. Though his method was sound and still used in certain cases, the gravity of where he was, what he searching for, and the clock that was ticking on Remi’s life blended together, giving him a nagging sense of helplessness.
The afternoon wore on. In twenty-minute intervals he hiked up the slope, then down the slope. Up, down, repeating until he’d made six passes, then eight, then ten.
&
nbsp; Shortly before five o’clock, with the sun dropping toward the western horizon, he was picking his way through a particularly dense cluster of trees when he stopped to catch his breath.
Initially, the sound was just a faint hiss. Sam held his breath and strained to pin down the location. It seemed to be all around him.
“Fargo!” Rivera hollered.
“Here!” Sam called back.
“You have thirty more minutes.”
Sam picked his way ten feet farther down the slope. He paused. The hissing had faded slightly. He stepped ten feet to the left, listened again. Louder now. He repeated his test, box-stepping up and down the hillside, until he found himself standing before a bulge in the slope. He poked the bulge with his stick; the tip disappeared.
His heart thumped in his chest.
He dropped to his knees and shoved his head into the opening.
The hissing doubled in volume.
“Waves,” he whispered.
He pulled back, dug into his pocket, found his penlight. He clicked it but nothing happened. “Come on . . .” He unscrewed the bottom and dumped the batteries on the ground and used his shirt to dry each one in turn. He reassembled the flashlight and clicked the button. He was rewarded with a bright beam.
He stuck his head back into the opening and shined the light around. A three-foot-wide, smooth-walled shaft descended diagonally into the slope. At the edge of Sam’s flashlight beam the tunnel curved right into darkness.
“Fargo!”
Sam pulled his head out. “Here!”
“Twenty-five minutes left.”
He had a decision to make. With no idea where this tunnel led and without proper gear, he could easily find himself beyond earshot of Rivera or, worse still, he would hear Rivera’s check-in call but be unable to answer it within the allotted ten seconds. He had no doubt that either of these circumstances would lead to Remi being shot again.
“He’s going to kill us anyway,” Sam said to himself. “Roll the dice.”
Feet first, Sam wriggled into the opening and started downward.
HE HADN’T GOTTEN ten feet when Rivera shouted: “Fargo!”
Sam scrambled back up the chute and stuck his head into the light. “Here!” He checked his watch: nineteen minutes.
He backed into the chute and let himself slide, braking with his toes and palms until he reached the bend, where he had to curl his body to navigate the angle. The chute steepened, continued for ten feet, then suddenly widened out. Sam felt his legs dangling free. He clawed at the walls, trying to arrest his slide, but gravity took over. He slipped from the chute and started falling.
CHAPTER 49
HIS PLUNGE LASTED LESS THAN A SECOND.
He landed feetfirst in a pile of something soft, rolled backward in a reverse somersault, and came to rest on his knees. His flashlight lay a few feet away. He crawled over, grabbed it, and cast the beam about.
The pile into which he’d fallen was almost pure white. His first thought was sand, but then he smelled it: the distinctive tang of salt. The rush of the waves echoed around him, bouncing off the walls, fading and multiplying as though he were caught inside a fun-house auditorium.
Sam checked his watch: sixteen minutes.
He looked up. The chute from which he’d fallen was ten feet above his head. He turned around, panned his flashlight. The wall nearest to him sparkled as though encrusted in tiny mirrors. He stepped up to it.
“Salt,” he murmured.
Beneath the faceted white veneer he could make out a darker streak. It was green—translucent green. The stripe rose up the wall, widened into a foot-thick band, then turned again, forking into dozens more veins. The branching continued until it was a giant latticework beneath the white salt veneer.
The cavern itself was roughly oval and no wider than forty feet in diameter. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, he started across the cavern. He felt a jet of air blow up his leg. He stopped and crouched down.
The four-foot-wide hole in the floor was perfectly disguised by a crust of salt, punctuated by pencil holes through which the air was being forced. Sam stood up, looked around. Now knowing what to look for, he could see dozens of holes within the beam of his flashlight.
He reached the center of the cavern. Spaced at regular intervals around him were what looked like salt-encrusted stalagmites, each one approximately five feet high. There were seven of them. These were ceremonial cairns, he realized. Each cairn a metaphor, perhaps.
“The Place of the Seven Caves,” Sam murmured. “Chicomoztoc.”
Careful of his footing, he strode over to the nearest cairn, knelt down, and pressed the head of his flashlight against the surface. Beneath the crystallized salt he saw a dull green glow. He used the butt of the flashlight to lightly hammer the surface. On the third blow, a scab of salt fell away, followed by a Ping-Pong-ball-sized rock. He picked it up. It was a translucent green, the same as the maleo statuette. The stone absorbed the beam of his flashlight, swirling the light until the interior seemed to glow and sparkle of its own accord. Sam pocketed the stone.
“. . . argo!” Rivera’s faint voice called.
“Damn!” Sam muttered. He whirled around, casting his light wildly about. He needed a plan. He needed something . . . His beam fell on the salt pile. The kernel of an idea formed. It was sketchy at best, but it was all he had.
Dodging holes, he sprinted back to the salt pile. He grabbed a handful of it and stuffed it into his pocket. He scanned the flashlight along the wall beside him. It curved to the right. He followed it. The floor sloped down, then up, then left. The hiss of waves faded behind him. To the right he glimpsed a faint light source. He ran toward it. The walls closed in, and the ceiling descended until he was running hunched over.
He stumbled through a wall of foliage and fell forward.
“. . . argo!”
Sam rolled onto his back, caught his breath. “Here!”
“Eleven minutes.”
Sam lay still for thirty seconds, picking at his plan until satisfied it could work. But, then again, could was a far cry from would. He had no choice, no other options, and virtually no more time.
He picked his way to the bottom of the bowl, then made his way back to the clearing. “I found something.”
“Are you lying to me?” Rivera replied.
“No.”
Rivera stood up. “Let’s go.”
“Give me a minute.”
Sam walked over to Remi and sat down beside her. She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Hi.”
“Hi. Does it hurt?”
“No. It’s dull throbbing. I’ve been counting my heartbeats to pass the time.”
Sam chuckled. “Never bored, are you?”
“Never.”
“I found something. I’m taking Rivera there now.”
“Is it—”
“I think so. I think we found it.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m going to take him in there,” he whispered. “With any luck, I’ll be coming out alone.”
“Then I’ll see you when you get back.”
Sam stood up and turned to Rivera. “Ready.”
“Lead the way.”
SAM TOOK RIVERA to the exit, then handed him the flashlight and stood to one side as Rivera ducked his head into the entrance. Rivera tossed the flashlight back to Sam.
“What’s in there?”
“I didn’t go far.”
Rivera paused. Sam knew he was debating whether the Fargos had suddenly become extra baggage.
“But as far as I went, I got lost three times. In one of the side tunnels there’s a drop-off; beyond that, I saw something on the wall. A symbol of some kind.”
This did the trick. Rivera gestured for Sam to enter the tunnel. He stepped inside and hunch-walked until the walls and ceiling widened out. Rivera was a few steps behind.
“Which way?”
Sam feigned confusion for a few seconds, then headed right and followed the sloped floor’s dips and
rises and turns until finally they emerged into the salt cavern.
“Are those waves?” Rivera asked, looking around.
“I think so. There’s probably a maze of sea caves down there.”
“And the walls? Crystallized salt?”
“Sea salt, blown up from the caves. Do you see the dark streaks?” Sam pointed the flashlight at the nearest wall. “Take a look.”
His gun fixed on Sam’s chest, Rivera sidestepped to the wall.
Sam said, “It’s some kind of mineral deposit. Emerald or jade.”
Nodding absently, Rivera followed the veins with his eyes as they spiraled up the wall and across the ceiling. “Where’s this side tunnel?”
Careful to keep the beam off the floor, Sam shined the flashlight across the cavern. He held his breath, half expecting Rivera to notice the cairns and their arrangement, but he didn’t.
“Go on.”
Sam started across the floor. Heart thudding in his chest, he tried to keep his pace steady, watching the placement of his feet as he stepped over holes or along their edges. As he crossed the cavern’s center point, there came a crackling sound, like pond ice giving way. Rivera cursed.
Sam turned around.
“Don’t shine that in my eyes, damn it!”
Rivera had stepped into one of the smaller holes and fallen through up to his crotch. He struggled to extricate himself, straining to get his free leg under his body. He tried twice more, then stopped.
“You’re going to come over here and help me up. If you—”
“I know,” Sam replied. “You’ll shoot me.”
Flashlight in his left hand, Sam strode forward. He flicked the beam into Rivera’s eyes, then down again. At the same time he stuffed his right hand into his pocket, grabbed a fistful of salt, and pulled it out again.
“Damn it!” Rivera growled. “Keep the light—”
“Sorry.”
“That’s close enough. Just give me your wrist. Don’t grab ahold of me.”
Lost Empire: A Fargo Adventure Page 34