“This is meaningless,” Kismet growled. “There aren't any mountains like that in Florida.”
He drew his kukri and began scraping the edge of the long blade across the exposed skin, shaving away the hair to more completely reveal the image. The snake shape was unquestionably the focus of the reference lines, the requisite “x” to mark the spot. That suggested something, a landmark of some kind that would provide the final clue when they arrived there. He looked more closely at the mountains, and decided they were not mountains at all, but rather resembled squat pyramids.
“Pyramids in Florida?” he muttered. Something about that seemed familiar, too.
“That mean something to you?” Joe asked.
Kismet frowned. He wasn't sure he wanted to share this revelation. “I don’t know. I’ll have to do some more research. I need some paper to copy this.”
“I don’t have any,” Joe said. “I think there’s only one way to take this map with you.”
Kismet immediately grasped what Joe was saying, and tried just as quickly to dismiss the idea. There had to be a better way to record this image. Maybe Higgins or Annie had a scrap of paper he could use…He could take a picture of it with his phone…
But if he took a reproduction of the map with him, he’d need to destroy the original in order to prevent Leeds finding it. As revolting as the idea was, given the circumstances and the very short list of alternatives, Joe’s suggestion had merit.
“All right,” he growled, not meeting the young man’s gaze. “Might as well get this over with.”
He laid a hand on Fontaneda’s chest, feeling the dead man’s skin for the first time. It was cool to the touch, but supple like the leather of his bomber jacket. Thinking about it in those terms helped him dissociate from what he was about to do. It was just a piece of hide, no different than the calf-skin used to make vellum parchment or driving gloves.
He placed the tip the kukri above his hand, and cut a straight line across the Spaniard’s torso.
The skin parted and immediately spread open to reveal purple-blue viscera beneath. There was no blood, but the cut did release an invisible cloud of formaldehyde vapor that stung Kismet’s eyes and nostrils. Blinking away the effect, he turned the blade for another cut, this time down Fontaneda’s right side. Two more such cuts outlined the map in a square. With each cut, the skin had spread apart as if under tension, and now the map — he tried to think of it only as such, ignoring the grisly reality of what he was doing — was outlined by a dark square.
He inserted the tip the kukri underneath the epidermis, working at it until he succeeded in peeling a corner away from the underlying dermis. Then, gripping that corner between a thumb and forefinger, he began to pull, as if trying to peel a piece of wallpaper away from a wall without tearing it. The skin was tougher than he expected, and tearing it wasn’t a problem, but separating the layers of tissue was not as easy as he’d hoped. Finally, after several minutes of tugging at the corner of the map, worrying the blade further and further under the skin, he succeeded, and it came away with a hideous sucking sound.
He laid the map back on the cadaver’s chest and meticulously wiped the kukri clean before sheathing it. Only then did he inspect his handiwork.
The map was intact, but separated from its human frame, the canvas of skin had shrunk considerably, condensing the tattooed lines and pictures into a dark but still legible image. The obverse side was covered with a grotesque gray film, thankfully dry to the touch. Suppressing one last shudder of revulsion, Kismet rolled the map up and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Joe had watched the whole process without speaking, and now he simply nodded and lowered the lid of the casket, returning the Spaniard to his final rest. “Now you know what he knew,” he said simply, without a trace of judgment.
Kismet gestured to the door of the crypt. “That’s our way out?”
The young man nodded. “There’s a good chance they’re still out there.”
Kismet was sure of it. Leeds and his white robed goons were probably already digging up the cemetery trying to find the tunnel exit. Getting back to the rented Explorer didn’t seem like a viable option; what did that leave?
“You said this tunnel was used by runaway slaves? Where did they go from here?”
“There was a trail leading to Charleston harbor. It’s several miles, an all night walk. From there, they’d travel north in the holds of merchant ships owned by Northern Abolitionists. But that was a long time ago. Everything has changed. There’s a few acres of woods, but beyond that it’s mostly neighborhoods now.”
Change wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, Kismet thought. They didn’t need to walk all the way to the port; they only needed to find a place where they could hide out and maybe call a taxi.
Of course, Leeds would know that. His new allies would be watching the roads.
“There’s a rail line about a mile to the east,” Joe continued. “You get to that, and you can follow it north into the city.”
The way Joe said “you” set off alarm bells. “You’re coming with us, right?”
A strange smile touched Joe’s lips. “I think Candace and I will just stay put. You’re gonna need to move fast if you want to get away, and Candace…well, her runnin’ days are long gone.”
“Will you be safe? What if Leeds discovers this crypt?”
“We can take care of ourselves,” Joe answered confidently. “An’ no offense, but the sooner you’re gone, the better off we’ll be.”
Kismet wasn’t so sure about that, and he didn’t relish the idea of abandoning the pair to such an uncertain fate, but the young man seemed to have made up his mind. “Then there’s something I need to know.”
Joe cocked his head sideways. “Somethin’ more?”
“You knew about all this. You had the diaries, you knew about the Fountain and even the map. So why are you here?”
“Well…” Joe let the word hang in the air for several seconds. “The truth is, I'm kind of scared of that Fountain. It don't seem natural, somehow.”
“And old age and death are natural?”
“Everybody gets old and everybody dies. Ain't nobody that never died, not even him.” He gestured to the casket. “What did he accomplish with all those extra years?”
Joe frowned, as if he had meant to say something else but couldn’t find the words. “Living like that…how is it any different than getting addicted to a drug? You live for the next fix, you keep it a secret and don’t share because you’re afraid that if you do, it won’t be special no more.”
“So, eternal life just leads to misery?” Kismet didn’t mean for the question to sound rhetorical, and quickly added: “What about Candace? Wouldn’t you like to spend a few more years with her? And not just as an old woman, but young and full of energy? Wouldn’t the world be a better place if the oldest and wisest of us had a few more years?”
“Mr. Kismet, I think that if folks learn about the Fountain, there's going to be plenty of misery for everyone. Powerful people will control it. And poor folks…black folks…they’ll just be in the way in a world where everyone lives forever.”
The argument surprised Kismet, not in the least because of how difficult it was to refute. “Everyone has something to give, Joe, something worth preserving.”
“I don't think so. If you want to go find it, that's you business. Me and Candace are going to stay where we belong.”
Kismet looked at King thoughtfully. “And this is where you really belong? Are you sure of that?”
“More than you might think, Mr. Kismet.” Joe smiled sadly. “If I could talk you out of looking for it I would. I think when you find it, we’ll all be in a world of hurt.”