Ford sprinted down the dock and dropped to his belly, inspecting the boats. He considered taking one of the barges. A barge would offer more protection against the incoming rounds, but it would be like steering a semi and slow, too. It was about four miles across the lake to Tambor, and he didn't want to spend an hour getting there. At the end of the dock was a skiff, and Ford crawled out to have a look. It was a wooden boat with a high sharp bow, about eighteen feet long with a forty-horsepower Johnson on the transom. It wouldn't be fast but at least they could get it up on plane. He slid off the dock and climbed down a wooden ladder into the skiff. There were two plastic six-gallon fuel tanks in the stern. One was nearly full, the other empty. He threw the empty tank into the water before checking the rubber fuel line, making sure the bulb was primed. Then he pulled the starter rope and the boat lunged, almost throwing him into the water. Someone had left the damn thing in gear. He punched the shifting lever into neutral, then tried again. It took him three more pulls before the engine caught, throwing blue smoke in the moonlight while the whole boat trembled.
Ford climbed back onto the dock and began to run toward the rock outcrop. Halfway to shore, something detonated the water beside him and the wash almost swept him away. He fell and skidded along the planking. He lay there for a few moments, then got shakily to his feet. His ears were ringing and his hands tingled. He was wet, but it seemed to be water, not blood. Tomlinson was coming toward him, herding Zacul and the boy to the boat.
Another mortar round hit and the wedge of rock under which they had been hiding disintegrated into a great plume of debris that came raining down into the water, clattering onto the dock. Ford covered his head, yelling "They see us! Get into the boat!" But he didn't say anything more, just crouched there looking—stunned by what he saw.
The dock was aglitter with pale-green light, a light that refracted abrupt facets like the shimmer of broken glass or shattered ice. The source of the light was scattered across the dock like gravel and some of the bright orbs drifted down through the clear water, tumbling with the brief incandescence of meteors.
Emeralds.
Tomlinson went running past him, kicking more of the stones into the water. Ford made no effort to grab the stones but just watched, transfixed. Then he heard a grunting noise, like gagging, and Zacul was standing in front of him. Zacul wasn't looking at the dock, he was staring at something else, and Ford followed his gaze upward. There, in the smoking hillside, were more emeralds. They were embedded in a great jagged wheel of stone that protruded from the earth. Even though one large chunk of the stone had been sheared away, it was still huge, maybe twelve feet in diameter, bigger than seemed possible. Emeralds sparkled on its surface like sequins, making odd designs that Ford knew were constellations.
"The calendar," Zacul whispered. "After all this, I've finally found it." He turned, letting his pistol drop to his side, and Ford immediately yanked the boy away from him, yelling hoarsely: "Run! Get in the boat!" expecting Zacul to whirl around with the pistol. -He didn't. He stood looking at the great calendar, bent slightly at the waist with pain, but oblivious to everything else.
Suddenly he turned to Ford, his eyes wild. "You will help me. Some of the stones are falling into the water. Help me pick them up!"
From down the quay, Tomlinson yelled, "Come on, Doc! We're waiting!"
Ford said, "You're on your own, Zacul. We're leaving."
Zacul pointed the gun at him, "Not now! Not yet!" his face so crazy with pain and greed that Ford knew he was about to shoot.
Ford bent, picked up several emeralds in each hand, and pushed the stones into his pockets obediently, then lunged suddenly, hitting Zacul with his shoulder. Zacul backpedaled, tripped, and landed back first on the planking. He lay on the dock fighting to breathe, but he still had the pistol and Ford kicked him hard in the ribs as he lifted it to fire. The explosion and the sudden vacuum Ford felt near his ear were simultaneous, like an electrical shock. His legs collapsed and he dropped down onto the general. Zacul clubbed him behind the ear with the butt of the pistol and managed to roll away, using his free hand to scratch at Ford's eyes. Ford locked his hand around Zacul's right wrist and used his open hand to punch the man's elbow inward. Zacul screamed with pain, as if he'd touched something hot, and the gun flew out of his hand, skittering across the dock. Ford crawled after it, picked it up, and, crouching low, swung it toward Zacul's face. "Rafe Hollins would want me to shoot you, Zacul."
The guerrilla leader was up on his knees, palms pressed outward. "Don't kill me, you can't kill me. Don't you see? We'll have money now, lots of money! You can't kill me."
Ford said, "I already have," just before Zacul made a desperate lunge at the pistol. Ford could have pulled the trigger; he didn't. Instead, he batted the weak body away, and Zacul's momentum carried him off the dock and into the black, black waters of the lake.
The sharks should have gotten him. Maybe they did. Ford didn't wait around to watch.
He could hear Zacul yelling as he ran for the boat, then an abrupt scream like death itself, but Ford didn't hear anything more because another mortar round hit the dock behind him and suddenly he was flying . . . tumbling through space and into a void which was as black as the eye of God itself.
TWENTY-ONE
If it was a dream, it was like no dream he'd ever had.
Before him was an oblong space swollen with pearly light. The light came through in rays as well defined as laser beams, touching his face and his body with mild warmth. The area of incandescence dominated his view and filled the room—for he seemed to be in some kind of room, though he didn't turn his head to be sure. He could look only at the light, drawn to the refulgence like the jungle moths he sometimes thought about, the creatures that gathered one night of the year to fly toward the full moon.
Maybe I'm dead. . . .
He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all—not that he feared nonexistence, but more because of the implications of being bathed in celestial light. His pragmatic side rebelled at that, like the victim of a cosmic joke.
Something moved beside him, and he still did not turn his head. A shape came into view, gliding toward the source of the light. The shape sprouted arms, reached up, and the light was suddenly dimmed, as if curtains had been drawn. Then the thing with arms turned toward him and he could see that the shape was that of a woman; a woman dressed in white but with long black hair, though he couldn't see her clearly for his eyes refused to open completely. His eyelashes were a veil and he watched her glide toward him in soft focus. She reached out and he felt her fingers touch his face.
"Ford? Won't you please wake up? Ford, you dear ugly man."
Ford felt he should struggle to answer, for now he recognized the voice and the voice fit the face. But he didn't struggle. He tried to speak but, when no words came, he simply lay there feeling oddly complacent and very tired, an observer, not a participant. He was having a dream and this woman was part of the dream, Pilar Balserio.
Now both of Pilar's hands were on his face and she was leaning over him. She kissed his lips softly. "Do you know what the doctor says? The doctor says that sometimes people in a coma can hear everything. He says they have to be reminded that to get better all they have to do is open their eyes. So now I'm telling you: Wake up, Ford. Please. Come back to me now because there are things you should know and I must leave in just a few hours. Ford?" She waited as if expecting a response, then said, "I may never have the chance to speak with you again."