The Adventures Of Indiana Jones (48 page)

Indy reeled backward, dazed by what had happened. But what happened next confused him even more: he fell through an opening in the roof.

Dust flew up around him as he struck the floor. Rays of sunlight leaked through the cracks in the boards, but it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He smelled a heady animal scent in the air, and his nose twitched. Then he saw the source of the odor. In the opposite end of the car an African lion was slowly rising to its feet. Obviously it was intent on investigating the creature who had dropped into its den.

The lion roared, and the stockcar walls seemed to shudder. Dust swirled in shafts of sunlight around the lion as it stalked him like prey.

“Oh, boy.” Indy gulped as he backed away toward the corner of the car.

He saw a glint of light reflect off something on the floor and suddenly realized what it was. The cross had dislodged from his belt when he fell, and now it lay at the lion’s feet.

He glanced around and continued stepping back until he felt the rear wall of the car against his spine. He pressed his hands against the wall as the lion continued stalking him, preparing to make a deadly pounce. His right hand struck a nail. Under it he felt something leathery. He snapped his head around, thinking it was another snake. Instead, it was a whip—a lion tamer’s whip.

He carefully took it down by its handle. The lion recognized the whip and growled softly. Indy swallowed hard and gave the whip a snap. It unraveled awkwardly, its tip flying back and striking him across the face, cutting his chin.

The lion growled louder.

Indy quickly gathered up the whip, wet his lips, and tried again. This time it cracked sharply, as it was supposed to, as he’d heard it crack at the circus when the lion tamer circled the king of beasts, whip in hand.

The lion bellowed, swatted the air, and snarled, then backed off. He knew from experience what the crack of the whip meant.

Indy grinned, amazed and delighted by his feat. He cracked the whip again, and the lion backed away even more. Indy inched forward until the cross was just in front of him. The lion stood its ground about ten feet away. Slowly, Indy bent over. Never taking his eyes off the lion, he picked up the cross.

Then he stepped back and realized his hands were shaking and sweat was pouring down his face. He took a deep breath of musty air, exhaled, gathering his wits. Now, how was he going to get out of here?

He looked up at the opening he had fallen through and saw Fedora looking down at him. Fedora nodded to him, smiled, and extended a hand.

That was all it took. Indy decided he would rather face Fedora than remain a minute longer caged with the lion. He tossed one end of the whip toward the hole, and Fedora snagged it.

Fedora slowly reeled him in as Indy walked up the side of the wall. He looked back once, to see the lion crouched and ready to pounce if he fell. He quickly turned back and concentrated on getting out.

When he reached the edge of the hole, Fedora clasped his arm and pulled him out, depositing him on the roof. Indy dropped to his hands and knees. He was breathing hard; he was exhausted. The lion had finally taken the fight out of him.

“You’ve got heart, kid. I’ll say that much,” Fedora said. He pointed at the cross. “But that belongs to me.”

Indy looked up to see that he had more company. Half-breed and Roscoe were also there. He stared at Fedora. “It belongs to Coronado.”

“Coronado is dead. And so are all his grandchildren.” Fedora reached out, turning up his palm. “Come on, kid. There’s no way out of this.”

“Yeah, fork it over,” Roscoe barked, then grabbed at the cross. Indy clung to one end of it, refusing to let go. A tug-of-war ensued. In the middle of it, a snake slithered out from Indy’s shirtsleeve and wrapped around Roscoe’s hand.

“Get it off me,” he screamed. He let go of the cross and shook his arm until the snake was flung away. The lion roared beneath them. Indy took advantage of the momentary diversion and darted between Half-breed’s legs and bounded onto the next car. Half-breed was about to give chase, but Fedora motioned him to wait.

“Stay put! Don’t let him double back.” He turned and headed after him.

Indy scurried down the ladder between two cars and entered the caboose. The car was full of costumes and magic equipment. He looked around for a place to hide. He heard Fedora coming down the ladder and slipped out of sight.

Fedora walked calmly into the caboose and surveyed the car. He strolled over to a large black box and casually pulled off the cover. One by one the four sides of the box flopped away, revealing nothing.

He smiled confidently when he saw the top of another smaller box move slightly. “Okay, kid. It’s all over. Come on out.”

He opened the box, and several pigeons flew out, scattering about the caboose. He was getting fed up with this elusive boy. He pawed his way through the costumes and magic gear. He picked up a cane and prodded into the corners, but the cane wobbled and turned into a handkerchief. “Damn it. Where the hell . . .”

Then he saw a couple of the pigeons fly out the rear door of the caboose, which was swinging in the breeze. Realizing what had happened, he rushed out onto the rear balcony. The train was slowing as it neared its destination, and in the distance he saw Indy disappearing down a street of modest clapboard houses.

O
UT OF BREATH
but still carrying the Cross of Coronado, Indy charged into his house. He quickly locked the doors and raced from the kitchen to the living room, peering out windows. The street was clear.

He hurried through the hallway and ducked into another room to check outside again. He squinted into the sunlight. He could still taste dust in his mouth. Water, he thought. He wanted a big, tall glass of ice water. But first things first. His father. He needed to talk to his father.

“Dad?”

There was no answer, but Indy knew his father was in his study. Ever since Indy’s mother had died, it seemed his father lived in his study, forever hunched over old books and parchments. The ancient past was more real to him than the present.

Just look at the house, Indy thought. The rooms said it all: no feminine touches, nothing soft, no color, just books and old things everywhere. He was the only one who cleaned the house. Sometimes Indy felt as if his father had abandoned life beyond his study. That was the only place his father’s presence was real to him.

He opened the door to the study. Books spilled off shelves and were piled on the floor. The walls were covered with maps of ancient lands and pictures of wonderful old castles and cathedrals. In one corner was a rusting helmet that a knight had once worn. Everything in the room seemed to possess meaning, even if Indy didn’t know what it was. All of it reflected a passion for medieval European studies.

Indy cleared his throat. “Dad?”

Behind a heavy, dark mahogany desk, his father, Professor Henry Jones, was absorbed in his work. Papers and books were strewn around him. Indy stared at the curve of his father’s back, willing him to speak, to nod, to acknowledge him in some way. He knew his father had heard him, but the fact that he didn’t greet Indy, didn’t even turn around, meant he didn’t want to be disturbed.

He never wanted to be disturbed.

Still, this was important. He neared the desk, glimpsed the ancient parchment his father was working on, and said, “Dad, I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Out!” Henry snapped at his son without even turning to look at him.

“But this is really important!”

Henry continued with his work. “Then wait. Count to twenty.”

“No, listen . . .”

“Junior,” Henry warned, his voice low and threatening and stern.

Indy gulped, nodded, and took a deferential step back. He knew his father was annoyed with him. There was little he could do. He started counting in a faint voice and, as he did, looked over his father’s shoulder.

He saw that the top page of the parchment revealed an illustration of what looked like a stained glass window containing several Roman numerals. His father was busy copying the drawing in his notebook.

“This is also important . . . and it can’t be hurried . . . it’s taken nine hundred years to find its way from a forgotten box of parchment in the Sepulchre of Saint Sophia in Constantinople to the desk of the one man left in the world who might make sense of it.”

“. . . nineteen . . . twenty.” This is really important. Pay attention to me.

Indy pulled the Cross of Coronado out of his shirt and started talking fast and loud again. “I was in the cave with the scout troop and . . .”

“Now do it in Greek,” Henry commanded, still not turning from his work or listening to his son.

He never listens to me.

Indy hated him for that.

In a louder, angry voice, Indy began counting in Greek. He imagined each number was a curse word that he hurled at his obstinate father.

He heard a car stop in front of the house. He backed out of the study, still counting, and spotted a police car.

Now what should I do? He realized that if his father saw the police there, he’d think Indy had gotten into trouble again. He wouldn’t even give him a chance to explain. He knew that from experience.

He glanced back into the study at his father, who was still working on his sketch. He listened as his father spoke softly to himself.

“May he who illuminated this, illuminate me.”

Indy held his breath as he carefully closed the study door and stepped into the hall. He jammed the cross back under his shirt as the front door swung open, and Herman stumbled, out of breath, into the living room.

“I brought him, Indy! I brought him!”

The door opened again, and the sheriff entered the house and looked around.

“Sheriff, sir! There were five or six of them! They almost got me, but . . .”

“All right, son.” The sheriff held up a hand. “Do you still have it?”

“Yes, sir. Right here.”

Indy pulled out the cross again and handed it to the sheriff, who casually took it without even bothering to look closely at it. As the cross left his hand, Indy sensed something was wrong about the way the sheriff was acting. If he only knew what he had gone through.

“That’s good, boy. That’s good . . . because the rightful owner of this cross said he wouldn’t press charges against you if you cooperated.”

Indy did a double take. His jaw dropped. His fingers curled into fists. “Press charges . . . What are you talking about?”

Fedora walked into the house and removed his hat. He nodded to Indy in a friendly manner and patted Herman on the head.

“Theft,” the sheriff said. “He’s got witnesses, five or six of them.”

The sheriff and Fedora were in cahoots. What else could it be? The lawman wasn’t even going to listen to him. He didn’t care about what really had happened.

“And we wouldn’t want your mama turning in her grave, would we now?”

The sheriff handed the cross to Fedora, who put it into the leather pouch that hung from his hip. As the sheriff walked away, Indy glanced through the screen door and saw a cream-colored sedan, the one that had chased him through the desert. It was parked behind the sheriff’s vehicle and was coated with a thin layer of desert dust. Behind the wheel, waiting patiently, was the man in the Panama hat.

Fedora lingered behind after the sheriff was gone. When he spoke, it was in a man-to-man tone that was laced with irony. “Well, you lost today, kid, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

He took off his fedora, held it a moment by the crown. Then he took a step forward and extended it as it he were about to place it on Indy’s head as a show of respect and admiration. But he checked himself as Indy spoke up.

“The Cross of Coronado is four hundred years old, and it still has a long way to go. I aim to be around. You can count on it.”

Fedora grinned, dropped the hat on Indy’s head, and turned away. “I’ll tell the boss,” he said, and laughed.

He stopped a moment at the door and looked back at Indy. “You were good with that whip today, kid. I like your spunk.”

Indy kicked the door, slamming it behind Fedora.

He heard Fedora chuckling as he walked down the sidewalk.

He ran to the window and saw Fedora slide into the cream-colored sedan, the cross in his hand. He saw him pass the precious artifact to the man behind the wheel and watched them drive away.

He would get that cross back, he swore to himself as he touched the brim of the felt hat. He would do it no matter how long it took.

T
HIRTY
-
FOOT WAVES CRASHED
across the deck of the old cargo ship, washing away everything that wasn’t tied down. Rain whipped it from every side. Wind howled. The old cargo boat’s wood shrieked as though it were being yanked apart at the seams. It was a hideous sound, the sound of a thing in pain, and Indy couldn’t block it out.

He clung to the edge of his bunk, certain that in the next second, or the one after that, a wave would slam through the wood, crushing it, and sweep him away. He squeezed his eyes shut as the storm hurled the ship to the right, the left, the right again. Now it was slammed down at the stern. Now it was flung backward. Now it rolled, it rocked, it rose and fell.