Dream of a Falling Eagle

for the helicopter to maneuver. If we were going to escape, that was where we would have to go. I wheeled my horse around, rode back.

'Change of plans!' I shouted as I grabbed the reins of Garth's horse and brought the animal under control. 'Just hang on to the pommel with both hands! We're going down the other side of the mountain! When we head down, let go of the pommel, grab the edges of the saddle, and lean back as far as you can! The horse will take care of the rest!'

Garth released his grip on the horse's neck and grabbed the saddle pommel. Gripping the reins of my horse with one hand and the reins of Garth's horse with the other, I urged my mount forward, out of the trees and onto the bare ground of the mountain's crest. There were perhaps three hundred and fifty yards of open ground to cover before we reached what I remembered to be a reasonably negotiable slope down the other side, and now I spurred my horse forward at a full gallop. The helicopter followed directly overhead, one searchlight turned downward and bathing us in a moving pool of bright white light. I wouldn't hear the report of a gun over the deafening roar of the helicopter rotors, but I cringed as I expected at any moment to feel a bullet ripping into my back. It didn't come, perhaps because the angle was bad, or the pilot figured he had plenty of time to run us down and give his gunner a better shot. We reached the spot I had been riding for, a rocky but negotiable dry wash that had been carved out by spring water.

I couldn't control my mount and lead Garth's at the same time, and it would have been dangerous for his horse if I tried to do so. I pulled the second horse after me over the crest and into the wash until it had reached a point of no return, then flung away the reins and shouted over my shoulder, 'Here we go, Duke! Lean way back and hang on!'

I relaxed my horse's reins and leaned back, posting in the stirrups and letting my mount pick its way between and over rocks and hard-baked rills. We were over a quarter of the way down the mountainside, still with no shots being fired, when I began to think we actually might make it to the cover of a copse of trees a hundred yards further down, where we would be shielded from view and the decline was less steep. Then I sensed, rather than heard, Garth's horse stumble and go down, and my brother soared, none too elegantly, over my head and landed on his back in a clump of thorn bushes growing out of the right wall of the wash. His horse recovered, shot past me, and disappeared into the trees below.

I reined in my horse, jumped to the ground, and scrambled up the bank of the wash to the clump of thorn bushes where Garth, dazed and struggling feebly, was entangled. I drew my Beretta and fired blindly at the white light and roaring cascade of sound above my head, groping through the cloud of dust thrown up until my fingers wrapped around Garth's shirt. Still firing my gun overhead, I pulled with the other hand, trying to help Garth out of the bushes.

'Mongo, get out!'

'You get out of the fucking bushes! Come on!'

'I'm stuck! It's important that one of us get away from here! Go!'

'It's important to me that both of us get away from here! Come on, goddamn it!'

I emptied my gun and stuck it back into my shoulder holster, then worked my way deeper into the thick vegetation. I grabbed Garth's shirt front with both hands, dug my heels into the rocky soil, and tugged. Finally he broke free, and we both tumbled back down the wall of the wash to the bottom. I was reaching for my horse's reins when suddenly a net dropped down through the cloud of dust and settled over both of us. Cursing mightily, I struggled in the net. I managed to get the Seecamp out of my ankle holster, but it was a wasted effort. I felt a sharp, burning sensation in my right shoulder-not the smashing, tearing impact of a bullet, but something more along the lines of a wasp sting. I turned my head, saw a dart sticking out of my flesh near the collarbone.

'Shit,' Garth said as he was struck by two darts, one in the right thigh and one in the belly.

I ripped the dart from my shoulder, and was still struggling to get out from under the net when the deafening thrashing of the rotors overhead dropped in volume and pitch to a low hum with a deep bass that throbbed in my head, chest, and stomach. The swirling dust around us suddenly became a kaleidoscope of garish greens, reds, and yellows. There was the taste of bitter chocolate in my mouth. Then, for the first time in two days, my splitting headache winked out. There was nothing to worry about. All was well with the world, so I stretched out on the ground and began to dream of emerald eagles with golden eyes and red beaks falling from a purple sky.

Chapter 13

My head soon began to throb again, even in my dreams, and all did not stay well with the world for long. The dreams turned to nightmares, the emerald eagles turning to black and diving for my eyes. It was difficult to fend them off, for my movements were slow and plodding, my quick reflexes gone. I had turned into a gray-faced, stumbling, drooling creature, and I felt only a dull ache in the places where the ebony raptors had torn away chunks of my flesh. Somehow I ended up in a hospital where everything was painted pink, and when Harper came to visit she screamed at the sight of me and vomited, and then ran from the room. Friends and family came to visit, but most could only stand the sight of me for a few minutes before they had to leave. Only my mother and father, ever the stoics, sat at my bedside for long hours, tears rolling down their cheeks. For my part, I just lay around in silence and drooled a lot. I desperately missed Garth, who was nowhere to be found, and never mentioned. Sometimes nurses took me out for walks on a leash. Children laughed at me and called me a zombie.

Behind or beyond the dreams was a sensation of flight, and a sound that reminded me of the steady drone of airplane engines. I would feel myself rising in the air, perhaps waking, and then I would feel a sharp sting in the arm or leg, as if someone was sticking me with a needle. Then it was back to the headache, bad dreams, and drooling.

When I did finally regain consciousness, I did not find my situation all that much improved over my nightmare dream world; some might even argue that it had deteriorated, since I was lying naked on my back on a cold marble slab of a table with my arms and legs splayed, my wrists and ankles tethered by thick leather straps attached to the sides of the table. My head wasn't restrained, so I raised it and looked around. I was not cheered by my surroundings. Garth, still unconscious but breathing regularly, lay on a similar table to my left, and he was similarly naked and strapped down. We were both spattered with blood, but it wasn't ours; apparently it had sprayed out of the bodies of the three dead Haitians, formerly Guy Fournier's little helpers, who lay on slabs to my right. Their chests had been cut open, and their hearts evidently placed in the red clay, bloodstained jars that were placed above their heads. The killings had apparently taken place within the past few minutes, for blood and gore still oozed from the gaping wounds in their chalky flesh, puddling on the brown marble and dripping to the floor.

Guy Fournier's place of power was a very large room, perhaps a loft, that had been converted into what I assumed was a voodoo temple; at least it looked pretty voodoo to me. Lighting came from red stage spots recessed in the ceiling, tinting everything the color of blood. There were dozens of veves painted on the walls and ceiling and the tile floor. I couldn't see behind me, but there were two doors, both closed, cut into the wall to my far left. On a section of wall to my right, beyond the three corpses, there hung a large set of Venetian blinds, now closed.

Our host and master of ceremonies was standing in front of me with his back turned, head slightly bowed, and chanting softly in Creole and in what I hoped was going to be a very long, solo ceremony. Guy Fournier was dressed in a long, flowing, yellow silk robe decorated with black veves. He stood before a massive altar that took up almost three-quarters of the wall space to the front. On dozens of shelves on the altar were red clay jars, carved wooden statues, veves, what appeared to be dry, withered limbs, and a collection of skulls.

I began to make a very serious effort to free myself.

I tested the bonds on my wrists and ankles, and found the straps tight. However, the strap on my right wrist seemed just a bit looser than the others. I made a fist, flexed my muscles, and rotated my wrist back and forth. There was some give to the leather. The straps were lined with sheepskin, but the blood of an unknown number of victims that had lain before me on this stone bed of death had hardened in layers that had cracked, creating a series of sharp edges. That, I thought, could work to my advantage; if I could reopen the cuts on my hands and make myself bleed before Fournier did it for me, I might be able to get a hand loose. I kept twisting my wrists back