Remi took off. Sam returned to the driver’s seat, switched the transmission into reverse, then jogged beside the Rover, steering, until the rear tires bumped over the lip of the slope. He slammed the door and jumped aside. The driver of the Nissan saw the Rover rolling toward him and slammed on the brakes. The transmission ticked as he switched into reverse. Behind him, the red Nissan came around the corner and skidded to a stop.“Too late,” Sam said.
The Rover’s back tires bumped over a bundle of exposed roots. The tail vaulted, then crashed down onto the Nissan’s hood. The driver’s door opened. Sam drew the Webley, crouched down, fired a round into it. The door slammed shut. Sam adjusted his aim, put a bullet through the red Nissan’s hood for good measure, then turned and ran.
SAM CAUGHT UP to Remi a minute later. They’d been mistaken; the trail didn’t go down to the river but rather over it. Remi stood at the head of the footbridge. As Sam drew alongside her, she handed him his pack. Behind them, through the trees, voices called to one another in Spanish.
“Looks sturdier than the last bridge,” Remi said. The construction was remarkably similar-planks, crossbeams, ropes, and two suspension cables. To their left they could see the bow of the ferry coming around the bend, its funnel belching black smoke. Aside from a dozen or so people lining the rails and a few on the forecastle, the ship was empty.“Come on,” Sam said, and took off in a sprint, Remi at his heels.
They stopped in the center of the span. The ferry was a hundred feet away. Sam looked back down the bridge. Through the trees he glimpsed movement, arms flailing. Someone was trying to climb the slope.Remi was leaning over the handrail. “The drop’s too far.”
“To the forecastle, it is,” Sam agreed. “See the upper deck behind the wheelhouse? It’s fifteen feet, maybe less.”
“Why not the wheelhouse roof? It’s only-”
“We’re trying to stow away. Wave, Remi, attract attention!”
“Why?”
“Rivera’s less likely to start shooting if he’s got an audience.”
“Always the optimist.”
They started waving, smiling, hooting. People on the forecastle and along the rails saw them and waved back. The ferry’s bow slid beneath the bridge.
“Ten seconds,” Sam told Remi. “Hug your pack. As soon as you hit the deck, bend your knees and roll into it. Okay, up you go!” Sam helped her over the guardrail. “Ready?”
Remi gripped his hand. “You’re coming, right?”
“Absolutely. When you’re down, find some cover in case they start shooting.”
The wheelhouse roof disappeared beneath their feet, followed a moment later by the funnel. Black smoke billowed around them. Sam glanced left. Through the haze he saw Itzli Rivera skid to a stop at the head of the footbridge. Their eyes met for a moment, then Sam turned away, gave Remi’s hand a squeeze, and said, “Jump!”
Remi fell away into the smoke. Sam felt the bridge shiver beneath his feet with the pounding of footfalls. Rivera and his men were coming. Sam climbed over the railing, looked down. Through the gaps in the smoke he saw Remi on the deck, scrambling clear on her hands and knees.Sam pushed off.
He hit the deck hard, bounced once off his pack, then rolled right. From out of the smoke Remi scrambled forward and latched onto his forearm. “This way.” He followed her, crawling blindly until he bumped into what he assumed was the wheelhouse’s aft bulkhead. They sat together, gulping oxygen until their heart rates returned to normal.
Now that they were past the bridge, the funnel’s exhaust cleared. Fifty yards away, Rivera and three of his men stood at the bridge railing, staring down at them. One of the men reached for something in his belt and pulled out a semiautomatic pistol. Sam reached into his own belt, drew the Webley, held it above his head in profile, and gave it a waggle.Rivera barked something at the man, who holstered his gun.
Sam said, “Wave to the nice men, Remi.”
CHAPTER 36
GOLDFISH POINT,
LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA
“MYSTERIES HAVE BEEN SOLVED AND ENIGMAS FATHOMED,” SELMA announced, walking into the workroom with Pete and Wendy trailing.
Still on Madagascar time, Sam and Remi sat at the worktable, each nursing a double espresso. As before, they’d slept through most of the transatlantic flight home, but still they were exhausted.
After jumping from the bridge onto the paddle-wheel steamer they decided to simply act the part of tourists and, after cleaning themselves up as best they could, strolled the decks and took in the scenery with their fellow passengers. Not only did no one ask to see their tickets, but they were served cocktails and a supper by white- coated stewards in the main salon. After having spent the day crawling through caves, wrangling crocodiles, fighting rebels, dodging falling boulders, and being chased through the Madagascar countryside, Sam and Remi relished the chance to simply sit and be pampered.
Two hours after they jumped aboard, the steamer docked at a pier jutting from a forested peninsula. Sam and Remi disembarked with everyone else and walked through a stone archway onto a well-groomed gravel path. At the end of this they found a four-story mansion whose architectural style landed somewhere between antebellum plantation house and French country. A post-mounted plaque read HOTEL HERMITAGE.
Dumbfounded at finding such a place in the middle of the Madagascan wilds, Sam and Remi lingered as the rest of the ferry’s passengers proceeded through the pergola-covered lobby entrance.Behind them a female voice said in flawless French, “Welcome to the Hotel Hermitage.”
Sam and Remi turned to see a smiling black woman in a blue skirt and a crisp white blouse standing before them.
Remi said, “Parlez-vous anglais?”
“Of course, madam. Can I be of assistance?”
Sam said, “It seems we’ve gotten separated from our tour group. Might you be able to arrange transportation for us back to Tsiafahy?”
The woman smiled. “Bien sur.”
An hour later they arrived in Tsiafahy. One call to Selma took them to a private hostel for the evening, and the next morning they were on a charter flight to Maputo, Mozambique.NOW SELMA TOOK a stool beside them. “You two look tired.”
Sam said, “Perhaps we didn’t properly regale you with the details of our Madagascan adventure.”
Selma nodded and waved her hand. “Crocodiles, rebels, boulders . . . Yes, I remember. Meanwhile, we’ve been hard at work unraveling the unravel-able.”
“That’s not a word. Did we mention the bridge we-”
Remi intervened: “Selma, you have our full, if not fully animated, attention.” “Good. First things first: We sent your samples from the outrigger to the lab in Point Loma. We should have results in a couple of days. Remi, as you requested, I e-mailed your pictures of the outrigger and a scan of the Orizaga Codex to Professor Dydell. He said he’ll have some preliminary thoughts sometime tomorrow.”Remi saw Sam’s questioning expression and said, “Stan Dydell. My anthropology teacher at Boston College. Selma, did you-”
“I didn’t give him any details. I simply said you wanted him to do a cursory examination. Moving on to the mysterious Mr. Blaylock,” Selma continued, “Pete and Wendy and myself-”“Mostly us,” Wendy said.
“-have read through most of Blaylock’s letters to Ophelia’s sister, Constance. Miss Cynthia was wrong: We think there was love between Blaylock and Constance-more on her part than his, though.”“Why do you say that?”
“The first couple of letters Blaylock mailed from Africa were mostly travelogue. Blaylock is affectionate in a restrained way. He mentions that he wishes he could reciprocate Constance’s feelings but that he was”-Selma consulted the legal pad before her-“‘Afraid my grief over my dear Ophelia would turn to heartrending guilt.’ He talks
