She didn’t recall beating the nurse or the escape from the hospital. She did remember lying in wait in a nearby parking lot for an unsuspecting victim. When the elderly man approached his car, she leapt from the shadows and tackled him to the ground. He struggled as she pounded his head against the pavement.
When he went limp, she riffled his pockets and relieved him of his car keys, cell phone and wallet. Still worked up by a combination of pain medication and adrenaline, Margaret drove several blocks away and called Christian. The conversation was brief. Find a hotel and then call him back. The next thing she knew, Christian was prodding her to sip fragrant water.
Margaret was roused from her thoughts by the sound of Foucault’s voice. “I am anxious to learn more of your ordeal, but first you are in need of medical care. Christian has done his best to tend your wounds, but we fear you are bleeding inside. If we don’t stop the bleeding quickly, you will die. Do you understand?”
She reached down and weakly tapped his hand with her index finger.
He gently squeezed her thigh. “Bon. I can stop the bleeding, Margaret, but I will need your help. Do you remember these?”
Foucault held out the Dreylaeks. Margaret held up a finger.
“You saw only a glimpse of their powers; they have many beyond self-defense. I can use them to stop the bleeding. Comprende?”
She tapped out another affirmative response on his hand.
Foucault said, “Christian will give you something to drink. It is gritty and tastes unpleasant. It will hurt to swallow, but you must drink it all. There is a sedative mixed in. You will become woozy and fall asleep. When you wake, you will be in much less pain. Then we will talk.”
Christian handed her a small bottle containing a sludgy mixture of bright orange. She took a whiff of the concoction and flinched. Foucault said, “It smells worse than it tastes.”
Unconvinced, Margaret took a small sip and gagged as the thick liquid coated her tongue. The initial flavor had an earthy-briny quality and was followed by a metallic aftertaste. When she swallowed, the grainy mixture scratched her already raw throat. She shook her head and tried to hand the bottle back.
“It is necessary, Margaret. Drink it,” Foucault commanded.
With a heavy sigh, she closed her eyes and downed the contents. Christian held out his hand to receive the empty bottle and then guided her into a prone position on the bed. In less than a minute, she was out cold.
Turning to Christian, Foucault said, “Now we wait for her to digest the lichens.”
During the wait, Foucault stepped out onto the hotel’s small balcony. He lit a cigarette and watched a pair of men on motorbikes pass by and park in front of a small cantina across the street. A group of other men stood on the street outside the cantina and conversed over the clamor of an up-tempo reggae tune.
Evening had descended on Apuí, and the sprawling jungle town was stirring to life. Once a tiny community, the town’s population had exploded in recent years thanks to a modern-day gold rush labeled Eldorado de Juma by fellow Brazilians. At the outset, the rush had been an international phenomenon, drawing upwards of ten thousand wildcat prospectors from all over the world. Though the mania peaked within a few years of the initial discovery, prospectors still made up nearly half of Apuí’s population.
By day, Apuí was relatively quiet. Most of its working population pushed into the outlying fields, rivers and rainforest early in the morning. Ranchers, farmers, fishermen and prospectors worked long hours extracting nature’s bountiful resources in the area. At night, however, when several thousand workers returned from their labors, the sleepy town buzzed with the sounds of a modern city.
While some residents welcomed the influx of commerce created by the gold rush, many others were appalled by the surge of deforestation of the surrounding lands and harsh changes to the tranquil rivers running near the town. Many viewed the prospectors as carpetbaggers who cared for little besides chewing the land for their glittering fortunes.
In turn, Apuí’s longtime residents became increasingly distrustful of foreigners — a circumstance that had not escaped Foucault’s notice from the moment he deplaned at the town’s airstrip. Glowering eyes had followed him across the tarmac and into a taxi. The same was true when he arrived at the hotel, and even now Foucault felt stares among the men outside the cantina. He took a long drag on the cigarette and returned the stares.
The sound of the balcony door sliding open and quickly closing was followed by an update from Christian. “She is still asleep.”
“Keep your voice down, mon ami,” hushed Foucault.
Christian followed Foucault’s eyes to the group outside the cantina. “My apologies, Monsieur.”
“We need to leave here as soon as possible. Have Henri ready the plane for tomorrow morning,” whispered Foucault.
“But she is in no condition to travel.”
“We have no choice. The police must be searching for her, and there are too many eyes and ears around us.”
The answer emboldened Christian. “Forgive me for asking, Monsieur, but do we really need her any longer?”
Foucault turned and glared at him. He inhaled deeply on the cigarette before flicking it onto the balcony floor. As he crushed it with his foot, he growled, “Inside.”
Once Foucault closed the balcony door, he instructed Christian to close the connecting door to Margaret’s room. Foucault then sat on the edge of one of the room’s two double beds with Christian facing him from the other. In a low voice, Foucault firmly stated, “For now, Margaret’s assistance is necessary.”
Christian bristled. “May I speak freely?”
“Of course, mon ami.”
“Her injuries, even with your help, will take time to fully heal. What assistance can she provide?”
“We don’t need her fully healed,” Foucault said. “Tell me, Christian, why do you think Navarro wanted to kill her?”
“For the same reasons we must. She is a fugitive, she draws too much attention…and, she knows too much.”
Foucault frowned. “How long was she on Barbados?”
“Two months, give or take.”
“Did she draw attention there?”
“No, but she went to Domin—”
“Did she not hand over the map freely? Was she not un agent infiltré for us? For Navarro, did she not guide him to the Maerlif?”
Christian slumped and nodded.
“I ask you again, why did Navarro want to kill her?”
“I don’t know,” Christian said.
Foucault lit another cigarette and rose to pace the room. “Précisément! It is possible he thought she knew too much, as you suggest. But, consider this. What if Navarro discovered she had betrayed him? Did he confront her? Did she confess? Is Navarro now aware of us? Should we not seek answers to these questions before deciding her fate?
“Or, if Navarro remains blind to us, did she learn any more about his intentions? Did she discover if he seeks the Tuliskaera? What if he is aligned with Muran?”
It was hard for Christian to debate Foucault’s points, but there were other considerations. “Monsieur, every second we delay, Navarro moves farther ahead of us.
“And now we know Cully is actively looking for the Tyls. We don’t know how much he has discovered or where his intentions stand. Can we afford to babysit Margaret for more than another day? Should we not wake her, pry what we need and then be done with her?”
“Non! I know you promised her brother we’d kill her when we found her, but I have a plan in mind for Margaret. You will need to trust me as you have many times before, Christian.” Foucault patted Christian on the shoulder. “I feel the same urgency to act. So much is at stake.”
Christian sighed. “Very well, Monsieur. Have you decided what to do about Cully’s inquiry?”
Foucault fiddled with the gold medallion. When Christian first relayed the details of his conversation with Cully’s associate, Foucault had been relieved. If Cully was simply c
ataloging Devlin Wilson’s possessions for probate, then it might mean he was otherwise uninterested in the Tyls.
On the other hand, the fact that Cully’s associate was headed to Mexico on business worried Foucault. It might mean Cully was trying to decipher the map. Foucault had struggled to read it; why not Cully, too? The longer he pondered the possibility, the more it surprised him that Navarro was the first to crack Devlin’s cryptic rendition.
When Margaret first gave Foucault an electronic copy on Barbados, he had been baffled by the map’s lack of detail. Even the supplemental file she provided was of little help. He knew of Dominica, of course, and several other burial Maerlifs, but none were apparent on Devlin’s map.
The same was true when Foucault layered Devlin’s drawing over a world map on his computer. None of the volcano crypts he knew of aligned with Devlin’s map, with the sole exception of Dominica — and that was only possible when the map was rotated at an odd angle. Though Foucault was intimately familiar with the Egyptian Duat wall drawing that inspired Devlin’s map, he was surprised by the angle required to find a point that aligned with Dominica. He wondered whether Devlin had incorrectly interpreted Malinyah’s vision.
However, when the map was aligned with Dominica as its focal point, Foucault had noted a few sites that seemed plausible Maerlif locations, even if they weren’t situated near volcanos. After all, Foucault had thought, Malinyah might have chosen to stash Tyls in places other than volcanos. She might have picked more accessible spots along the Munuorians’ trading routes. This latter thought had attracted Foucault to one particular site on the Dominica-oriented map, Parque Natural Los Alcornocales, near Gibraltar, in southern Spain.
When considering the site, Foucault had been drawn to its strategic location. From the many Tyls found among Greek, Mesopotamian and Egyptian ruins, Foucault had long ago concluded that some of the ships sent to help Munirvo survivors had made their way to the Mediterranean. Beyond the Tyls, there were other signs the Munuorians had visited the area. In Foucault’s mind, many of the mysteries surrounding dynastic Egypt hinted at Munuorian influence. There was their fascination with pyramids as burial monuments. One could also point to the unexplained, precise shaping of their stone blocks, sarcophagi linings, spheres and sculptures. Many showed no chisel marks, no evidence of manual tooling of any kind. And, of course, there was the biggest archaeological mystery of all…how they moved and placed the massive blocks to construct the pyramids.
Foucault speculated the Munuorians passed the Spanish site on their journey to reach Egypt as well as other locations in southern Europe and northern Africa. So, Foucault sent Christian to Los Alcornocales.
For several days, Christian had traveled around the rocky Spanish park with detecting devices and a Breylofte but found nothing. Then, shortly after Christian returned to Pézenas, Navarro had contacted Margaret to request she join him on an expedition to “find more Stones.” She, in turn, had alerted Foucault.
When pressed for the expedition’s location, Margaret had said Navarro would not reveal his intended target. He only told her to meet him in Manaus, Brazil.
It was a puzzling choice, Foucault thought at the time, for the map showed no site in Brazil when aligned to Dominica. Nevertheless, Foucault decided to send Christian to Manaus to await an update from Margaret. Later, after she finally communicated the coordinates of Navarro’s search, Foucault had again rotated Devlin’s map atop the world map and discovered it was possible to align with a point deep in the Amazon. The resulting alignment didn’t include Dominica as a marked spot, however, leading Foucault to assume Navarro was grasping at straws.
At the same time, Navarro’s selection had suggested a troubling thought. The Argentinian had progressed beyond reading the map and was now on the hunt. The question was, whose reading was right, Foucault’s or Navarro’s?
When he called Christian with Navarro’s coordinates, Foucault had told him he thought it was a wild goose chase but asked him to go nonetheless. Christian agreed to the assignment, but he disagreed with Foucault’s goose-chase assessment. When asked why, Christian had said, “Monsieur, the Cinta-Larga, surely you remember the Cinta-Larga?”
The mention of the tribe jogged Foucault’s memory. He recalled the Amazon denizens and their terra preta, the rich soil from which Foucault’s oleanders drew their nourishment.
Long before the Cinta-Larga had been chased into the Amazon by invading colonists, they had been farmers, prolific farmers who planted their seeds in “Black Earth,” a soil that produced unusually strong yields. Terra preta was unlike soil found anywhere else in the world.
After disappearing into the jungle, the Cinta-Larga were forgotten. But in the nineteenth century, whispers of a ruthless tribe spread among Amazon explorers. Rumored to practice dark magic, the tribe was said to possess powers that made rocks cry diamonds. These rumors lured prospectors into the jungle, and ever since, a battle had raged on both sides for the Amazon’s gems.
Christian had reminded Foucault of these rumors, adding, “Perhaps Navarro knows something about the map we don’t.”
“Oui. I am missing something, Christian. A detail I should know. I can feel it,” Foucault had replied.
It was a sobering thought, one that still weighed on Foucault’s mind. In that context, Cully’s interest in Mexico was a concern. Might he, too, know something about the map unknown to Foucault?
At present, there was nothing Foucault could do about Navarro. Until Margaret could communicate, he was temporarily blind to Navarro’s knowledge and intentions. But…he’d be damned to pass the unexpected opportunity to probe the same with Cully.
Emerging from these thoughts, Foucault turned to answer Christian’s question. “When we are finished with Margaret, call Cully’s associate back. Tell her I’ve asked you to handle the matter. Answer her questions about the Naetir, but for heaven’s sake, don’t call it that in your conversation. Then, ask her what Cully plans to do with Devlin’s Tyls. Tell her I might be interested in acquiring one or more pieces if Cully is considering selling them. Let’s see what she has to say.”
While Christian kept a vigil over Margaret, Foucault disappeared into the adjoining room to rest. An hour later, he returned and announced it was time to begin the procedure. Christian expressed surprise they were starting so soon. “Can she have digested it all already?”
“Not all, but most,” Foucault said. “The magnetic particles we need her to digest are bound to sugars in the lichens. They absorb quickly.” The puzzled look on Christian’s face caused Foucault to further explain. “The conditions are in our favor. She has not eaten for two days, so she is starved for energy. The body will seek the quickest and easiest source of energy available — sugar.”
Satisfied with the explanation, Christian peeled away the tape and gauze covering her sutured abdomen. He was pleased to see reduced swelling and discoloration around the stitched wound. Foucault had surprised him when he initially suggested layering Margaret’s sutures with gauze soaked in enjyia.
In the many years of their association, he’d rarely seen Foucault use it as a topical. When making the recommendation for Margaret, Foucault had explained that it was an effective antibacterial when applied topically. “It is too precious to use on nicks and cuts, but large wounds are another matter.”
Christian knew enjyia ravaged damaged and diseased cells, but he also knew it worked too slowly to seal a seeping wound. For that, the Dreylaeks were necessary.
He was anxious to see the Dreylaeks used in this way. Although Christian knew they possessed healing powers, he’d only seen Foucault use them as weapons. He asked Foucault to describe how they would stanch Margaret’s bleeding.
“The procedure is not complicated,” Foucault said, “but it requires an experienced touch.”
If the Dreylaeks were heated too quickly, he explained, they would lose their sensitivity to detect the magnetic particles in Margaret’s blood. If they were heated too long, they could cause the parti
cles to liquefy and set her internal organs afire. However, if stimulated properly, a heated Dreylaek pressed against the skin near the injury would excite the magnetic particles leaking from the rupture. Other magnetic particles circulating in the bloodstream would flow to the injury site and oscillate as Foucault rubbed the second green stone against the first. When enough particles accumulated, the Dreylaek pressed against Margaret’s skin would vibrate. Then, and only then, Foucault would strike the Stones together, sending a jolt of electricity toward the gathered magnetic bits. Electrified, they would fuse the leak.
“It is the same principle as cauterization, but it does not require an incision to find the rupture,” Foucault said.
“But, Monsieur, how can you be sure they gather at the leak and not somewhere else?”
“It is simple, really. Blood vessels have a protective lining. When the lining is intact, it acts as a shield that weakens the Dreylaeks’ pull on the magnetic material inside the vessel. But, at a tear in the lining, there is nothing to prevent the Dreylaeks from attracting their magnetism. It is the only place where a critical mass of the particles can gather,” Foucault said.
More fascinated than confused, Christian asked, “What if there is more than one rupture?”
Foucault pressed the Dreylaeks between his palms. “That is certainly possible, but if there are multiple leaks, they can only be small ones. Otherwise, she would have died before now. But, to be sure, we will repeat the procedure around each stitched area.”
In slow, purposeful circles, Foucault began to grind the Dreylaeks against each other. Soon, they began to warm. Closing his eyes, he increased the rhythm of his strokes. As the heat from the Stones rose, he reduced the pressure of the grinding motion but maintained a steady, circular rhythm. Christian noticed a faint glow appear between Foucault’s fingers.
Shortly afterward, Foucault opened his eyes and ceased rubbing. Lowering one of the stones to Margaret’s abdomen, he said, “It is time.”
Race for the Flash Stone (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 2) Page 23