“Did you hurt yourself?”
“Probably a touch of whiplash. But God bless whoever invented the air bag and seat belt.”
Sam glanced back up to where the car was wrecked. “I’m glad I took the extra insurance. Think it covers running off a cliff?”
“Probably an exception in the fine print.” She felt the side of her face, which was swelling.
“There are two ways to go—the road or the river. Which would you rather face—a thug with a gun or twenty feet of hungry croc?” Sam asked.
“What’s the middle choice?”
Sam offered a pained smile in response.
Remi eyed the rushing water. “If I were our attackers, I’d have hightailed it out of here once we disappeared. That looks like what they did.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Remi followed Sam’s gaze up the river. “Me too.”
“It’ll probably be shallower after the rapids. We can try crossing there and find the road,” suggested Sam.
“Lead the way. Mind the crocodiles.”
“Thanks. I’d almost forgotten.”
Sam carefully moved along the bank as they worked their way downstream. The roar of the rapids increased, and, as he’d hoped, after a deep pool with eddies swirling along the surface, the river widened and he could see the bottom. Crossing was still tricky. They held hands as they waded up to their waists, Sam feeling along the bottom with his feet as they gingerly made their way to the far shore.
Once on dry land again, they waited for their clothes to dry, and in fifteen minutes were on the dirt track that led back to the seashore road. Two hours later, a farmer heading into town with a half-loaded pickup gave them a ride. The man’s wizened face showed no surprise at finding two Americans hitchhiking on a road to nowhere who looked like they’d gone over the falls in a barrel.
Remi leaned her head against Sam’s arm as the truck bumped along.
“How’s the neck?” he asked over the noise of the wind.
“I could seriously use a massage, but, other than that, I’ll live.”
“Maybe we can find you a spa in town,” Sam said hopefully.
“Sure. I could see that as a viable business here.”
“Maybe settle for an amateur massage after a long shower?”
“You really don’t think of anything else, do you?”
“That was completely innocent, Remi. I swear.”
She shifted her head and stared up at him with a hint of amusement. “It always starts that way.”
As they neared Honiara, Sam grew quiet.
Remi nudged him. “What now?”
“We need to find the police and report this.”
“Okay. Ask the driver to take us to the station, or at least give us directions.”
Sam rapped on the rear window, startling the farmer, who slammed on the brakes, causing both Sam and Remi to bang into the rear of the cab.
Sam leaned toward the driver’s-side window. “Can you take us to the police station?”
The farmer seemed to understand the word “police” and nodded before giving the old truck gas. Sam slid toward the tailgate and came to rest next to Remi.
“I think that went well.”
She gave him a wide grin. “You’re my hero. Crocodile Fargo, the great white hunter.”
“I just hope the police can do something other than commiserate. I think it was a Dodge truck, but it all happened so fast I can’t be sure.”
The duty officer showed them to a waiting area, where a sergeant took down their report, nodding and asking polite questions now and again. By the end of the hour, two things were apparent to the Fargos: the police were concerned and meant well, and the likelihood of anything happening soon, or ever, was low. The officer explained the problem as politically as he could.
“We’ll check on all the trucks registered on the island, but it could be a long process. And if the driver is any good with sandpaper and paint, we may never find the culprits.”
“But they shot at us. It was deliberate. We saw two of them after we crashed. They were looking for us.”
“Yes, I wrote down the descriptions—two men, islanders, medium height, no distinguishing marks, wearing jean shorts and T-shirts, one brown or burgundy, the other pale blue,” the officer said. “The problem, as you can probably appreciate, is that describes about half the population. We’ll do our best, but it’s not much to go on.” He shook his head. “Your rental vehicle will tell the story, I’m sure. There will be evidence you were rammed, and you say that a shot hit it, so there will be a bullet hole.”
“Yes,” Remi agreed, her heart sinking as she listened.
The policeman regarded both of them. “Why are you in the islands?”
“We’re on vacation,” Sam said, which was close enough to the truth.
“Have you gotten into any fights? A disagreement with someone here?” the officer asked, and they shook their heads.
“No. Everyone’s been nice,” Remi said.
“So you can’t think of anyone who would try to kill you.” It wasn’t a question.
“No. It makes no sense,” Sam said.
The man stared hard at him. “Well, it must to someone. We just don’t have this kind of thing happen here, Mr. Fargo. We’re generally a peaceful island. It’s not like we have roving gangs of criminals going after our tourists.”
It was clear from his tone that the policeman wasn’t buying the tourist explanation, and neither Sam nor Remi wanted to push the issue. When they finished with the questioning, they were close enough to their hotel to walk, and once again the front desk staff seemed horrified by their appearance as they strode through the lobby.
“We’re making quite an impression,” Remi said under her breath. “Next time you want to go sightseeing, I’m out.”
He smiled at the clerk, whose face was frozen in a disapproving expression, and leaned into Remi.
“Next time I suggest it, hit me on the head with a brick.”
CHAPTER 14
When Sam called Selma, she sounded excited. “I’m glad you called. You must be psychic. I was just getting ready to touch base. I’ve got some research I want to send you, but I wanted to tell you about it before I did—give you the background.”
“Well, I’m here. Shoot.”
“I dug around, as you requested, and quickly discovered that there’s almost no information online about the Solomon Islands that doesn’t relate to World War Two, mineral rights, or tourism. So there isn’t exactly a wealth of data to sift through.”
“That never stopped you before, Selma.”
“Of course not. Anyway, once I exhausted the Internet, I switched to making calls to people who might know something about Guadalcanal history. Turns out most of those are in Australia and New Zealand, which isn’t surprising since those are the nearest developed countries.”
“Right . . .” Sam said, his tone mildly impatient. If Selma noticed, she gave no indication.
“I contacted some friends in Sydney and it turns out that one of the foremost experts on the islands is actually in Adelaide. An anthropology professor at the university there, Dr. Sylvester Rose. Anyway, I called him and we had a long chat. Very nice man.”
“I’m glad you got along,” Sam said, hoping she would cut to the chase.
“Turns out he spent years summering in the islands, collecting data about the cultures, documenting their habits, recording their lore. I asked him about anything that might be relevant to cursed bays or sunken ruins and he said it rang a bell but that he needed to go back through his logs and review his notes—nothing immediately came to mind. That was yesterday. Today he called me back and said he’d located the section he was looking for and that he’d send it over.”
“That’s great, Selma. So you have it?”
“Yes. I wanted to read it to you.”
He closed his eyes. “There’s never been a better time.”