Rócha slammed on the brakes, decelerating enough for Sagan’s car to race away.
The damn fool had wanted to shoot him.
“Go,” he ordered. “Force him off the highway.”
———
TOM WAS GLAD HE HADN’T BEEN REQUIRED TO PULL THE TRIGGER. He’d never actually fired a gun, and shooting one while driving ninety miles an hour had not seemed the best way to start.
But he’d been prepared to do it.
He’d deal with Zachariah Simon, but on his own terms. What did he have to lose? He doubted Simon would hurt Alle, not until he had what he was after. And Tom could not care less about himself. He should already be dead, so any additional time he spent breathing was simply a bonus. Strange, though, how, in the heat of this chase, he hadn’t thought about dying. All he wanted to know was that Alle would be okay. And the sealed package lying on the passenger’s seat should ensure that would happen.
Something slammed into his bumper, jarring the steering wheel.
He regained control and held the front tires straight. He was about to run out of highway, as this county road would dead-end into another more heavily traveled state route.
Another pop to the bumper.
Simon was slamming into him from behind, staying away from any bullets. He watched in his rearview mirror as Simon’s vehicle dropped back, then sped toward him, this time veering left into the other lane and crashing into his car’s side. He struggled to hold the vehicle on the road, then decided What the hell. Go for it. One turn to the right and the front tires leaped from the pavement, his acceleration sending him across a narrow drainage ditch that paralleled the road and into an orange grove.
The front end pounded the earth, then rebounded, the rear tires driving him ahead. He jammed his right foot onto the brake, slowed, then spun onto a dirt lane between a long row of trees.
And raced ahead.
———
SIMON WAS IMPRESSED.
Quite a maneuver.
Tom Sagan was proving a challenge.
Rócha stopped the car, wheeled around, and backtracked to where Sagan had jumped.
“Do it,” he ordered.
Rócha reversed and bought himself more roadway, then accelerated, skipping the ditch, landing hard on the other side. He worked the wheel left, then right, and they found the same lane between the trees Sagan had used, a dust cloud ahead obscuring their view.
They’d have to move slower.
But they would move.
———
BÉNE WAITED FOR FRANK CLARKE TO EXPLAIN HIMSELF.
The key to the iron gate?
He knew Maroons were zealous about secrets. The entire society had been born in crisis, nurtured through strife, and existed for four centuries almost totally hidden away. They’d been brilliant warriors with a high morale, their entire existence resting on the memory of their greatest deeds, the tales passed from one generation to the next.
An iron gate?
He wasn’t interested in stories.
He wanted retribution.
And the colonel should, too.
“Frank, you have to help me. I’m trying to find that mine. It’s out there, around us, somewhere, in these mountains. You know it is. It’s not a legend. That place, its wealth, belongs to Maroons. It’s ours.”
He was speaking straight, using perfect English, making clear that this was going to be a modern solution to an old problem.
“I’m not so sure about that, Béne.”
“The Spanish stole it from the Tainos. We’re the closest thing left to them. Think what we could do if the legend is true.”
His friend said nothing.
“Why is that symbol there in the ground so important?”
Frank motioned for them to walk inside the museum.
The structure cast the appearance of a shanty, similar to where Felipe lived. It was authentic Maroon except that cut lumber had been substituted for hewn logs. The floor was old-style, a mixture of clay and ash hammered to the consistency of concrete. He’d used the concoction himself on his estate in the barns, work sheds, and coffee-processing facilities. Artifacts lined the outer walls of the barnlike rectangle, all excavated from the nearby mountains. Placards explained their significance. Nothing fancy, just plain and simple. Much like the people being remembered.
They passed wooden tables displaying bowls and utensils. Junges stood upright, the spear’s rusted blades sharp. An abeng occupied a place of prominence, as it should. He’d learned as a boy how to blow the cow’s horn—once the Maroon’s version of the Internet—creating specific notes that translated into messages over long distances. There were also drums, bird traps, cauldrons, even a replica of a healing hut used by each community’s Scientist to treat the sick.
“I haven’t been here in a while,” he said. “You have more on display than before.”
Frank faced him. “You should come more often. Like you say, you are Maroon.”
Which was all a matter of birth. If a parent was Maroon, then so were the children.
“You don’t need me around,” he said.
“Not true, Béne. Nobody here cares that you make money off gambling or whores. We all know, so don’t be ashamed. We’re not. Look where we came from. Who we are.”
They stopped at a wooden stage that occupied a rear corner, upon which sat three drums. He knew music was a big part of the museum’s allure. Some of the local drummers were the best on the island. Shows were a regular occurrence here, drawing both Maroons and tourists. He even owned one of the drums, carved from a stout piece of timber found in the mountains. Frank bent down and slid out a topless wooden crate from beneath the stage. Inside lay a stone, about a third of a meter square, upon which was the same symbol he’d traced outside.
He stared at his friend. “You know of this?”
“Two lines, angled, crossing each other, one with a hook on top. It’s been found in several sacred spots.”
He studied the carving, nearly identical in size and shape to the one from the grave yesterday.
“Would you like to see another?” Frank asked. “In the mountains.”
“Thought you had visitors coming.”
“Someone else will take them. You and I have need to talk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TOM KEPT THE CAR RACING THROUGH THE ORCHARD, THE PATH ahead clear for a good half mile. If Simon decided to follow it would not be as easy since his tires were stirring up a dust cloud in his wake. At least his instincts had proven correct. Simon was not a man to be trusted. And one other thing. When he’d glanced across into the other car he caught the face of the driver—full of flat panes and angular bones, dark hair curly and coiled—one of the men who’d assaulted Alle.
The lawyer’s job had been to retrieve what had been in the coffin. What was the driver here to do? And did that mean Alle was being held nearby? Given the possibilities of the Internet, there was no way to know where she was a prisoner. But one of her captors being here meant that she could be close. Which made sense. Simon would have had to, at some point, produce her. Or had he thought his target was so weak, so beat down, so defeated, that he would have done whatever he was told, few questions asked?
Maybe so.
And that infuriated him.
Right now, he held the cards. His blood flowed. His nerves tingled. He felt like he had years ago, on the scent of a story.
And he liked it.
Ahead, a makeshift bridge of blackened railroad ties spanned an irrigation canal. He knew orange groves were lined with canals to drain rainwater. In the old days they’d supplied the pumps. He’d spent many a summer day cleaning wet ditches of grass and debris.
An idea came to him.
He slowed, crossed the bridge designed for tractors and picking equipment, and stopped on the other side.
He popped open the door and ran back.
The ditch was a good twenty feet across, the ties extralong and supported by a center post. They sat side by side, designed, he knew, to be movable, other center posts spaced along the canal. He’d also spent time moving ties from one location to another.