Directly ahead of them, facing the four mullioned stern windows, was a rocking chair. Jutting above the chair’s headrest was a skull, bare save a few strands of whitish yellow hair and some bits of scabrous flesh.Remi stepped across the threshold. Sam did the same. Headlamp beams focused on the figure in the chair, they paced forward, then circled around either side of the chair.
Winston Blaylock was dressed as they had imagined him for the past three weeks: calf-high boots, khaki pants, and a hunting jacket. Even as a skeleton, his stature was impressive: wide shoulders, long legs, barrel chest.
His hands were lying palms up in his lap. Cradled there, staring up at Sam and Remi, was a football-sized maleo statuette, its facets sparkling green in their flashlight beams.
WITHOUT A WORD between them, Sam gently reached down and lifted the maleo from Blaylock’s lap. They stared at the man for another full minute, then searched the cabin. They found neither a log-book nor documents, save three sheets of parchment. Blaylock’s neat scrawl covered both sides of each sheet. Remi scanned their contents.“Three letters to Constance,” she said.
“Dates?” Sam asked.
“August fourteen, August twentieth, and . . .” Remi hesitated. “The last one’s dated September sixteenth.”
“Three weeks after the Shenandoah
was buried here.”
THEY RETRACED THEIR STEPS forward through the starboard corridor, down through the hatch, back through the engine room, and through the crawl space to the berth deck.
Remi climbed up through their excavated shaft, waited for Sam to secure the maleo to the end of the rope, then hauled it up to the surface. She dropped the line back down, and Sam went up.Together, they collected an armload of twigs and small branches, then built a latticework over the shaft and covered it with loam.
“It doesn’t seem right just leaving them down there,” Remi said.
“We’ll come back,” Sam replied. “We’ll make sure that he’s taken care of-that they’re all taken care of.”
EACH LOST IN HIS or her private thoughts, the climb back up to the plateau passed quickly. Three hours after leaving the Shenandoah they were picking their way down the trail Sam had hacked. Remi was in the lead. Through the trees Sam glimpsed the white sand of the beach.
Their pinisi was gone.“Remi, stop,” Sam rasped.
On instinct, he shrugged off his pack, unzipped the top pocket, grabbed the maleo, and tossed it into the brush. He donned his pack again and kept walking.
“What is it?” Remi replied, turning around. She saw the expression on her husband’s face. She stiffened. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
From somewhere to the right, hidden in the trees, came Itzli Rivera’s voice: “It’s called an ambush, Mrs. Fargo.”
“STEP BACKWARD,” Rivera ordered. “Five more feet, and you’re on the sand. Mr. Fargo, there’s a rifle trained on your wife. One more step, Mrs. Fargo.”
Remi complied.
“Drop your pack.”
Remi did so.
“Now you come forward, Mr. Fargo. Hands up.”
Sam walked down the trail and stepped onto the beach. To the right, Rivera stepped from the trees. To the left, another man, armed with an assault rifle, did the same. Rivera lifted a portable radio to his mouth and said something. Ten seconds later a speedboat glided around the peninsula and into the cove. Six feet from the beach, it stopped. On board were two more men, also armed with assault rifles.“Did you find her?” Rivera asked.
Sam saw no point in lying. “Yes.”
“Was Blaylock aboard?”
“Yes.”
Sam and Remi’s eyes locked. Each one was expecting the same question to come next.
Rivera said, “Did you find anything interesting?”
“Three letters.” In Spanish, Rivera barked, “Search them,” to the man behind Sam and Remi. He came forward, snagged each of their packs, and dragged them ten feet away. He searched each pack and found their iPhones and their satellite phone. He crushed each one under the butt of his rifle, then kicked the pieces into the water. Finally, he frisked Sam and Remi.“Nothing,” the man reported to Rivera. “Just the letters.”
“You can have them,” Rivera said. “In trade, I’m going to take your wife.”
“The hell you are.” Sam took a step toward Rivera.
“Sam, don’t!” Remi shouted.
The man behind Sam rushed forward and slammed the butt of his rifle into Sam’s lower back just above the kidneys. Sam stumbled forward, dropped to his knees, then climbed back to his feet.Sam took a calming breath. “Rivera, you can-”
“Take you instead? No thank you.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and tossed it to Sam. “It’s prepaid and untraceable, with three minutes of talk time left. You’ve got twenty-four hours to determine the location of Chicomoztoc.”“That’s not enough time.”
“That’s your problem to solve. When you’ve got the location, dial star six-nine on that phone. I’ll answer. At twenty-four hours and one minute, I’ll kill your wife.”
Sam turned around to face Remi.
He said, “Everything’s going to be okay, Remi.”
She forced a smile. “I know.”
Rivera ordered, “Take her.”
At gunpoint, Remi was marched into the water to the boat. The two men aboard lifted her over the gunwale and shoved her down into one of the rear seats.
Sam turned back to Rivera, who said, “Do I have to tell you not to involve the police or any of that nonsense?”
“No.”
“Your boat is anchored on the other side of the peninsula.”
“I’ll hunt you down.”
“What’s that?”
“If you hurt her, I’ll spend the rest of my life and every penny to hunt you down.”
Rivera smiled thinly. “I believe you’d try.”
CHAPTER 45
TWENTY-TWO HOURS LATER, SOUTHERN SULAWESI
SAM’S EYES SCANNED THE GAUGES, CHECKING AIRSPEED, ALTITUDE, oil pressure, fuel . . . As was everything else aboard the airplane, the few dashboard labels that hadn’t worn off completely were in Serbian.
The Ikarus Kurir seaplane, painted an ugly shade of gray-blue, was sixty years old, a castoff from the Yugoslavian air force. The windows leaked, the engine knocked, the wheeled pontoons were badly dented, and the controls were so soft there was a two-second delay between the time he pushed the pedals and the plane responded.He’d never been happier with a plane in his life.
A thousand miles east of Jakarta, the Ikarus had been the only seaplane available for rent, purchase, or theft- and, provided he didn’t crash in the next hour, it would take him to Remi. Whether they stayed alive over the next few hours or days would depend largely on the credibility of the Hail Mary pass he and Selma had assembled.
AS SOON AS Rivera’s speedboat had disappeared from view, Sam had retrieved the maleo statuette, grabbed his pack, and sorted through their belongings, taking only the essentials. Blaylock’s letters went into a Ziploc baggie. The swim back to the pinisi took just under seven minutes; the boat ride to the nearest civilization on the eastern coast of Lampung Bay, an excruciating ninety minutes. Once ashore and off the beach, he jogged a mile down a dirt road to a collection of Quonset huts on the outskirts of an industrial farm. He talked his way into the
