Lost Empire (46 page)

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.

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.”

Sam extended his wrist. Rivera grabbed it and used Sam’s counterweight to pull himself free. Sam felt Rivera’s weight shift forward. He twirled the flashlight in his fingers, shining the beam directly into Rivera’s eyes.

“Sorry,” Sam said again.

Even as he said the words he was moving, sidestepping left, using Rivera’s momentary blindness to get the gun barrel off him. Sam swung his right hand forward as though throwing a baseball. The salt hit Rivera squarely in the eyes. Knowing what was coming, Sam dropped to his belly.

Rivera screamed and started pulling the trigger. Bullets thudded into the walls and ceiling. Salt crystals rained down, sparkling in the glow of Sam’s flashlight. Rivera spun wildly, trying to regain his balance as he staggered across the floor, the gun bucking in his hand.

Sam pushed himself to his knees, coiled his legs like a runner in the starting blocks, then pushed off and charged. Rivera heard the crunch of Sam’s footfalls and spun toward the sound, firing. Still running, Sam dropped back to his belly and skidded across the floor, the salt crystals ripping at his chest and chin. He went still. Held his breath.

Rivera whirled again, trying to pinpoint the sound. He lost his balance again, lurched sideways, and stepped squarely into another hole. With a zipperlike crackling sound, Rivera’s legs plunged through. He spread his arms to arrest his fall. The gun dropped from his hand and skittered across the salted floor, coming to a stop beside Sam’s face.

He grabbed the gun and climbed to his feet.

“Fargo!” Rivera screamed.

Sam walked over to the hole. Rivera arms were fully extended. Only the palms of his hands were touching solid ground. Already his arms were trembling; the tendons in his neck strained beneath the skin. Still blinded by the salt, Rivera rotated his head wildly from side to side.

Sam crouched down beside him.

“Fargo!”

“I’m right here. You’re in a bit of a pickle.”

“Get me out of this thing!”

“No.”

Sam shined his flashlight into the hole. Salt-encrusted rock outcroppings jutted from the walls like barbs, leaving only a two-foot-wide gap in the center. Far below, Sam could hear the roar of waves crashing against rock. He grabbed a nearby softball-sized stone, dropped it into the opening, and listened to it ricochet off the rocks until the sound faded.

“What was that?” Rivera asked.

“That’s karma calling,” Sam replied. “About a hundred feet of it, based on Newton’s Second Law.”

“What the hell does that mean? Get me out!”

“You shouldn’t have shot my wife.”

Rivera growled in frustration. He tried to press himself upward but managed only a few inches. He slumped back down. His head dipped below the level of the floor. Beneath Rivera’s shirt, his muscles quivered with the strain.

“I just realized something,” Sam said. “The more your palms sweat, the more the salt dissolves beneath them. I think that’s what financial experts call diminishing returns. It’s not a perfect metaphor, but I think you get my point.”

“I should have killed you.”

“Hang on to that thought. Soon it’s all you’re going to have left.”

Rivera’s left hand slipped off the edge. For a split second he clawed at the ground with his right hand, his nails shredding, before he tipped sideways and started to fall. He landed back first on one of the outcroppings, shattering his spine. He screamed in pain, then slid off and kept tumbling, his head slamming on rock after rock before disappearing from view.

 

 

REMI LIMPED INTO THE SOLARIUM AND EASED HERSELF DOWN ON the chaise lounge next to Sam’s. Without looking up from his iPad, Sam said, “You’re supposed to be using your cane for at least another week.”

“I don’t like my cane.”

Sam looked over at her. “And you call me stubborn. How’s the leg feel?”

“Better. The doctor says I’ll be fit for full duty in a few weeks. Given the nasty alternative, I couldn’t be happier.”

“By ‘nastier,’ I assume you mean starving to death inside the crater of a dead volcano?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Though Remi hadn’t been in danger of bleeding to death on what they’d since dubbed Chicomoztoc Island, the risk of infection and sepsis were all too real, Sam had known. He had only two choices: Stay put and wait for Selma to send help, which she was sure to do, but how quickly would her request for assistance take to make its way through the right channels in the Indonesian government? His second choice was to leave Remi alone and strike out on his own in search of help. In the end, Remi, knowing her husband as she did, encouraged him to leave her the gun and go. That left Sam the question of which direction.