Alternatively, there was a dense grove of jungle foliage to the left of the building that might serve as a more inconspicuous hiding spot. However, she worried it might be too challenging to sneak out from the copse without rustling fronds and leaves.
Another approach option was the path that snaked between the bench and sphere. It led from a field of smaller spheres beyond the grove and continued in the direction of the main museum building. As it curled around the grove, it briefly passed behind two tree trunks that blocked the view of the path from the bench. It was a more exposed approach, but one that might garner less attention if played right.
She imagined strolling along the path, head buried in a museum brochure, knife gripped inside the folds. Don’t mind me, she thought, I’m just a gawking tourist. Nearing the bench, she would look up to see the orb and slow her pace. It would be a natural reaction to step back from the path to get a better view. With one eye on the seated Navarro and the other on the orb, she would loiter behind the bench and slide out the knife. Navarro would likely position his bodyguards far enough away to avoid detection, so even if they grew uncomfortable with her so close behind him, it would take them too long to reach the bench. She closed her eyes and savored the thought of yanking back on the bastard’s ponytail and slashing his throat. There would be no time to utter pithy parting words, but that was almost better. She would leave him as he left her — gasping, covered in blood and stricken with panic.
Roused from the dark fantasy by a couple arriving to admire the monolith, Margaret glanced at her watch and departed to quickly scope out egress options.
Once the deed was done, she counted on a moment’s shock among the bodyguards at the sight of Navarro flailing to the ground clutching his neck, and then another brief delay as they mulled whether to rush to his aid or chase after her. After all, she doubted Navarro brought his henchmen expecting an attack. He was probably more worried about the money he carried, so their eyes would be glued on the briefcase.
Assuming the worst, she expected one or more to give chase. This made it unappealing to consider an immediate dash for the parking lot. She looked around and reasoned the best course of action was to flee into the grove behind the outbuilding. From there, she could pull the Breylofte from her backpack, deal with any pursuers and wind her way through the foliage back to the parking lot.
To test her theory, she disappeared into the grove. Sure enough, it was only one hundred yards between the point where she entered and the edge of the parking lot. She decided to move her rental car close to the grove and position it facing outward so she could escape quickly when the time came.
If she could make it to the junction of Route 34 and Route 2 before any chasing vehicle was in sight, there was little chance of getting caught. There, the junction split in three directions, all of which provided means of returning to San Jose. If one or more cars tailed too close behind on the museum’s dirt access road, she could pull over and blast them into the surrounding banana trees.
She smiled with satisfaction; all her bases were covered. Removing the knife from her pack, she once again admired its light weight and said, “Payback time.”
Indio Maiz, Nicaragua
When the helicopter arrived, Anlon roused Hector. The guide, who was tied at the hands and feet, struggled to free himself while regaining his senses. Anlon shouted above the thumping sound of the propellers, pointing at the hovering aircraft. “Settle down and listen. You’re going back to Greytown in that. When it touches down, we’re going to lift you aboard. Don’t squirm, or we might ‘accidentally’ drop you. Got it?”
The guide glared at Anlon and attempted to spit in his face, but the air turbulence splattered the trail of goo on his own face instead. Cesar came alongside and shouted to Anlon, “Do you need me to translate?”
“Nah, screw him,” Anlon called back. To Hector, he shouted, “By the way, you’re fired!”
Their agreed plan called for Jennifer to deliver Christian to a waiting ambulance and Hector to the police. Once the handoffs were complete, she would head for the lodge to retrieve dry clothes, food and water for the group. Then, Henri would fly her back. Anlon questioned how she planned to describe the shooting so as not to land in jail herself. Jennifer assured him it wouldn’t be a problem, but provided no explanation.
As Jennifer prepared to climb aboard, Foucault approached. “My bag is in the back. In it, there are several bottles filled with pink water. Please feed one to Christian if he wakes during the ride. If you would, please leave two of the bottles with me. For my hands.”
Jennifer retrieved the two bottles of enjyia, slid on her backpack and shouted to Anlon: “I’ll call when I’m on my way back. Don’t trust him, Anlon. And don’t give him any of the Stones!”
CHAPTER 22
FLASH POINT
Indio Maiz Biological Reserve
Nicaragua
September 5
With the helicopter on its way out of the preserve, Anlon, Pebbles, Cesar and Foucault gathered at the base of the hill. Exhausted, they sat atop fallen rocks in silence. Foucault took advantage of the break to slather his hands with enjyia. With Anlon’s assistance, Foucault wrapped his hands with gauze and then drank some of the enjyia. He offered some to the others. Anlon and Cesar deferred, but Pebbles decided to sample the real thing. She pursed her lips after a sip and said, “Yuk. Malinyah’s is much better.”
The gray blanket that had covered the sky for much of the day had given way to late-afternoon sun. The rain-drenched foliage surrounding the clearing sparkled under the influence of rays filtering through broken clouds.
Anlon pondered where to start the conversation. When they left Tahoe for Nicaragua, the mission seemed simple: find evidence of a Maerlif to affirm Anlon’s reading of the Waterland Map. He knew it was a long shot to discover an intact vault with a cache of Lifintyls, but he hoped they’d at least find ruins or some other evidence that pointed to the Munuorians and their Stones.
So, the discovery of what appeared to be an intact Maerlif was an exciting and unexpected development. Yet, presently, opening the vault was the last thing on his mind. Fighting for dominant attention were the sudden appearance of Christian Hunte, the subsequent arrival of Jacques Foucault and Pebbles’ reaction when she saw the aristocrat.
Given the whirlwind of events, a good part of Anlon wanted nothing more than to head back to the lodge, enjoy a nice dinner accompanied by a stiff drink and start all over the following day. But that wasn’t possible.
His thoughts were interrupted by Foucault. The Frenchman looked between Anlon and Pebbles and said, “The confrontation, it was my fault. I told Christian to prevent you from entering the crypt until I arrived. I am sorry. I worried you might damage the Tyls inside.
“I didn’t know you knew to use the Breylofte. I thought you would blast it open like greedy treasure hunters. However, once I landed, Christian showed me how you marked the wall and he told me you had a Breylofte. I realized your intentions were different than I had feared. And then I learned that Señor Perez was in your party, and I told Christian to release you all.
“Dr. Cully, please accept my apologies…and please allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Jacques Foucault.” He bowed slightly and then turned to Cesar. “It is good to see you, my friend. I am sorry for restraining you and your companions.”
Cesar’s voice was stoic. “It was very dangerous, Monsieur. It could have escalated into something far worse.”
“Damn right, it could have!” growled Anlon. “What’s your interest here anyway?”
Until that moment, Pebbles had remained quiet. She was exhausted. The long slog through the jungle, the rain, the monkeys, the sudden onset by Hunte and Hector, the threats and the violent confrontations combined to drain her energy.
But those events paled when stacked against meeting the man Malinyah credited with saving the human race. It was beyond possibility. Yet, there was no mistaking the medallion. If there had been any doubt, it
was erased by the images and emotions that rushed forth when she came face to face with Foucault.
In answer to Anlon’s question, she said, “He is Mereau.”
“Non, madam, you are mistaken, I am not Mereau.”
“Who in the hell is Mereau?”
The tone in Anlon’s voice shook Pebbles. She said, “He’s the captain that led the ships to help the survivors, remember?”
Face frozen, Anlon stared at Pebbles. He shook his head. “Come again?”
“He’s one of them. A Munuorian. The Munuorian. We wouldn’t be here without him. We owe him everything,” she answered. Turning to Foucault, she repeated Mereau’s parting words to Malinyah: “Ailta erill, ento ainfa.”
Foucault’s face reddened as she spoke the phrase. “It is remarkable that you know the words. You understand their meaning?”
She nodded. “Ever apart, together always.”
Anlon noted the wistful looks passing between Pebbles and Foucault, then exchanged a disbelieving glance with Cesar.
Pebbles pointed at the medallion dangling from Foucault’s neck. “She gave you that. You were wearing that when you said good-bye.”
The Frenchman reached for the medallion. “It is true, this was a gift from Malinyah. But she did not give it to me.”
“Okay, time out,” Anlon said. Pointing a finger at Foucault, he asked Pebbles, “You’re trying to tell me he’s ten thousand years old?”
Pebbles slowly nodded. Foucault said, “Non! I am not Mereau.”
“Then where did you get the medallion?” Pebbles asked.
“Let me explain, s'il vous plaît. I have Mereau’s Sinethal. I discovered it in a crypt such as this a long time ago.”
“And, the medallion?”
Before Foucault answered, Cesar jumped into the conversation. “That is the second time you have used the word ‘crypt,’ Monsieur. Are we to understand you found the tomb of this Mereau?”
“Précisément!” said Foucault.
“What?” Pebbles exclaimed.
Anlon rose from his stone perch and began to pace. A tomb? The Maerlifs were tombs? He cast a puzzled look at Pebbles. “Did you know these were tombs?”
“No way! Malinyah never said anything about tombs or crypts. She said they were hiding places for the Tyls. That’s it.”
While he continued to pace, Anlon’s mind raced. Tombs…
Cesar asked Foucault, “I see now you choose your words with purpose. You said you found Mereau’s crypt ‘a long time ago.’ When was this?”
A sly grin stretched across Foucault’s face. “I see now you listen more closely than I expected. Perhaps I should have chosen my words more carefully…I will answer your question, but, first, I should like to know where Devlin Wilson discovered Malinyah’s Sinethal. I have searched for it for many years.”
Where indeed? thought Anlon. Although he didn’t know the answer, he was beginning to understand his uncle’s confusing actions more clearly. He wasn’t searching for more Stones; he went hunting for something else entirely. What better way to prove the Munuorians’ existence than to find the final resting place of one of them. Date the contents of the tomb, the bones, and voilà, prove the timeline. Jesus, why didn’t the man just say so!
“I wish I knew,” said Anlon. “Devlin left us very few clues about any of this.”
Pebbles stood and smoothed her hands against the wall. “Do you think it’s here? Have we found Malinyah’s tomb? Oh my God, Anlon, is it possible?”
“Non,” said Foucault. “She is not here.”
Anlon spun around. “How do you know that?”
“It is simple, Dr. Cully. There is no volcano here,” Foucault said with a nonchalant tenor.
Pebbles gasped. “Ometepe?”
The Nicaraguan volcano crossed Anlon’s mind at the same moment. It all made sense. Isabela, Ometepe…Devlin’s search for the Munuorian homeland was instead a search for Malinyah’s tomb!
“What’s this you say? Ometepe?” Foucault asked, suddenly interested.
Anlon gazed at Pebbles and wondered if the same thought flowed through her mind. He recalled Malinyah’s evasions about the fish-man statuette and her Sinethal. Was it that simple? Did Malinyah lie to Pebbles to protect the location of her final resting place? Had she lied to Devlin as well?
His thoughts were interrupted by another question from Cesar to Foucault. “You say volcano. Then, you found Mereau’s tomb near a volcano?”
Foucault ignored the question. His voice rose with urgency as he demanded an answer from Pebbles. “Ometepe? Why do you say this?”
Pebbles shot an embarrassed look at Anlon. He said, “Don’t sweat it. If you hadn’t said it first, it was on the way out of my mouth.”
Cesar said, “Surely, Monsieur Foucault. This name should not come as a surprise to you. If you believe Malinyah was entombed near a volcano, you must have thought of Ometepe in your ‘many years’ of searching for her crypt. The petroglyphs? The statues? Are there not logical signs to draw your attention?”
Foucault blinked several times and covered his head with his bandaged hands. “No, no, no! You know of the Taellin?”
“The what?” asked Pebbles.
“I knew it! You are alliés with her, admit it!” Foucault’s face turned red as he yelled at Anlon.
Anlon recoiled. “Huh? Her? You mean Malinyah?”
“Don’t be timide with me, Doctor! You know of whom I speak. The Betrayer!”
The sharp epithet caused Pebbles to wince. She recalled Malinyah screaming the words on the cliff-side. The anger in her voice was as venomous as that which spilled from Foucault’s mouth. Pebbles said, “Muran.”
“Précisément!”
Anlon glared at Pebbles. “What the f—— does Muran have to do with this?”
She started to answer but was cut off by Cesar’s raised voice. “Forgive my interruption.” He motioned for Anlon and Pebbles to sit again. Then, in a subdued tone, Cesar said, “Come, we are talking past each other. Let us take a deep breath and start over. It is clear, Foucault, you have pieces to the puzzle we seek to solve. The same is true the other way around. But none of us will make progress unless we discuss these matters calmly. Agreed?”
Foucault nodded his assent.
“Good. Now, as the three of us are new to the mysteries of the Munuorians, and you claim many long years of knowledge, it seems to me you should go first, Monsieur. Educate us. We will share what we know in return.”
Foucault hesitated and looked down at the medallion. Raising his gaze, he stared deeply into Pebbles’ eyes. “Very well. I suppose it is best to start at the beginning. My real name is not Jacques Foucault. It is an alias I adopted some fifty years ago. One of many aliases I have used over the centuries. I was born Mathieu Du Pre, in the year 1619.”
San Juan de Nicaragua (Greytown)
Nicaragua
Jennifer sat in Greytown’s Policía Nacional waiting room while officers questioned Hector Santos. Through the thin walls, she could hear the Rama guide shouting at the officers and a scuffling of chairs. While Jennifer was unable to make out the details of the interrogation, the tone of Hector’s voice was all too familiar. First came his sullen indifference. Then, he turned defiant. Finally, she heard him gush indignant cries of innocence.
Her own interrogation had been quick, as the story she told was brief. She and her colleagues went into the nature reserve looking for a possible archaeological site with Hector as their guide. Christian Hunte had suddenly appeared, and together with Hector they held Jennifer and her friends hostage at gunpoint for reasons unknown. Jennifer became concerned about the group’s safety after the men physically assaulted them and after repeated threats by the gun-wielding Hector. She told the sergeant she had managed to disable Hector and take the gun. Christian had then rushed at her and she fired one shot in self-defense.
When she handed over the revolver, Jennifer made sure to mention that she, Hector and Christian had handled the weapon, in addition
to one other member of her party. “You’ll find multiple sets of fingerprints on it.”
The sergeant examined the revolver and frowned. “You said you fired one shot. There are four empty chambers.”
“Check Hector’s hands for gunpowder residue. He fired three shots to scare away some monkeys,” said Jennifer.
The sergeant crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “You seem familiar with procedure. Are you policía?”
Jennifer’s face reddened. She had hoped to avoid revealing she was a detective, as she knew her involvement in a shooting while on suspension would not go over well back in Massachusetts. But, as she walked the sergeant through her story, she realized there was no escaping the revelation. “Yes, I’m a detective with the Massachusetts State Police.”
“Are you here on official business?”
“No. I’m on…vacation.”
The sergeant had relaxed considerably after hearing she was a fellow police officer, but he asked for her captain’s contact information to verify her claim. After she provided him with Gambelli’s phone number, the sergeant said, “I will call him as soon as I finish with Santos. In the meantime, please do not leave the station.”
While Jennifer waited, she pulled her cell phone from her backpack. Looking at the screen, she muttered an expletive. There were three notifications showing two missed calls and a voice message from Dan Nickerson. At first she was surprised she hadn’t heard the phone ring, but then remembered there had been no cell signal in Indio Maiz.
Jennifer sighed. There was no way she could call Dan back without also talking to Gambelli, and the captain would be pissed to hear of her predicament. After deliberating, however, Jennifer realized Gambelli would learn of the shooting soon enough. She decided it was better to hear about it first from her rather than the Nicaraguan police.
Race for the Flash Stone (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 2) Page 31