He savored a lungful of the clean, mountain air. Rings of azure haze, thick as milk, had settled around the far peaks. Three topped 2,000 meters, one nearly 2,500. They ranged east to west, separating Kingston from the north coast. So prominent had been their foggy halo the English had renamed them the Blue Mountains.
His two men stood beside him, rifles resting on their shoulders.
“The other problem of the day,” he said, keeping his gaze outward. “Is he coming?”
“On
All of the land for kilometers in every direction belonged to him. Most Maroons farmed a few square meters of somebody else’s property, paying a yearly stipend for the privilege. Now he owned tens of thousands of acres and allowed them to work it for free.
The dogs continued to bark in the distance.
He checked his watch.
“Big Nanny is gettin’ close. She rarely lets the bait run more than an hour.”
Fierce, long-legged, and blessed with amazing endurance and strength, his hounds were well trained. They were also skilled climbers, capable of scaling tall trees, as today’s target would shortly discover if he foolishly thought high branches would offer him security.
Cuban bloodhounds had been bred long ago for one purpose.
Hunting black fugitives.
His were more progressive and hunted both black and white. But like their ancestors, they killed only if the prey resisted. Otherwise they confronted, barked, and terrified, holding the target for their master’s arrival.
“We’ll move toward them,” he said.
He led the way back into the forest. No trail existed, just dense and healthy vegetation. One of his men produced a
A wind snarled its way through the branches.
How easy it would be to hide amid these ferns and orchids. No one would ever find you. Which was why the British had finally imported the hounds to hunt their runaways.
Scent knew no boundaries.
They plunged on in the direction of the dogs. His man with the
“Bene,” his other man called out.
A thick carpet of leaves provided a springy softness to every step, which also allowed songbirds to be heard. Rocks and stones beneath the mulch worked his soles, but he’d worn heavy boots. He fought his way through the low-hanging limbs and found his men at a patch of cleared ground. A rose-colored ibis sprang from one of the far trees, its wings flapping as they grabbed air. Orchids colored the clearing beneath a canopy of high limbs.
He spotted rubble scattered among the ground ferns.
The dogs had started to howl.
Signaling success.
They’d cornered the prey.
He stepped close and bent down, examining the stones, some larger and embedded in the earth, others mere pieces. Lichens and mold infected the surfaces, but the faint outline of what had once been letters could be seen.
He recognized the script.
Hebrew.
“There are more,” his men said, as they’d fanned out.
He stood, knowing what they’d found.
Tombstones.
A cemetery they’d not known existed.
He chuckled and smiled. “Oh, it is a good day, my friends. A good day. We have stumbled upon a treasure.”
He thought of Zachariah Simon, and knew he would be pleased.
CHAPTER FOUR
ZACHARIAH SIMON STEPPED INSIDE THE HOUSE. TOM SAGAN waited, still holding the pistol. Zachariah recalled the background report he’d commissioned, its notation that this man was left- handed.
“Who are you?” Sagan asked.
He introduced himself and offered a handshake, which was refused. Instead he was asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been watching you for several days.” He motioned toward the gun. “Perhaps it is good I came along.”
