“Yes, sir.”
“We’re going to start on the pyramid this morning. We’ll open this end with dynamite, working into it as we go. Organize the explosives and men and have them ready in an hour.” He put his plate on the ground and rose, shouldering his Steyr AUG. He stepped out into the sunlight, looking up at the pyramid, already calculating where to set the charges. Whether he found Max in the pyramid or not, at least it would keep the soldiers busy—and entertained. Everyone liked a big explosion.
Sunlight. It was the first he had seen in two weeks. It would be pleasant to work in the sunlight for a change.
47
Death came for Tom Broadbent, but not cloaked in black carrying a y scythe. It came in the form of a hideous savage face, striped in red and yellow, bristling with green feathers, with green eyes and black hair and pointed white teeth, peering down into his face and poking him with his fingers. But the death that Tom expected did not come. Instead, the terrifying figure forced some hot liquid down his throat, and forced it again. He struggled feebly and then accepted it and fell asleep.
He woke with a dry feeling in his throat and a throbbing headache. He was in a thatched hut in a dry hammock. He was dressed in a fresh T-shirt and shorts. The sun was shining outside the hut, and the jungle burbled with sounds. For a long moment he couldn’t even remember who he was or what he was doing there, and then it came back, piece by piece: the father’s disappearance, the strange will, their journey upriver, Don Alfonso’s jokes and sayings, their little clearing with the view of the Sierra Azul, dying under the rotten log in the rain.
It all seemed to have happened so long ago. He felt renewed, reborn, as weak as a baby.
He gingerly lifted his head up, raising it only as much as his hammering headache would allow. The hammock next to his was empty. He felt his heart lurch. Who had been in that hammock? Sally? Vernon? Who had died?
“Hello?” he asked feebly, trying to sit up. “Anybody here?”
He heard a sound outside and then Sally came in, lifting up the flap. She was like a sudden eruption of gold. “Tom! I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”
“Oh, Sally, I saw that empty hammock and I thought ...”
Sally came over and took his hand. “We’re all still here.”
“Philip?”
“Still sick, but much better. Vernon should be better tomorrow.”
“What happened? Where are we?”
“We’re still in the same place. You can thank Borabay when he comes back. He went out hunting.”
“Borabay?”
“A mountain Indian. He found us and saved us. He nursed us all back to health.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long was I sick?”
“We were all sick about a week. We’ve had a fever he calls bisi. He’s a curandero. Not like me, but a real curandero. He gave us medicine, fed us, saved our lives. He even speaks a funny kind of English.”
Tom tried to sit up.
“Not yet.” She eased him back down. “Drink some of this.”
She handed him a cup filled with a sweet beverage. He drank it down and felt his hunger intensify. “I smell something cooking that is positively delicious.”
“Turtle stew à la Borabay. I’ll bring you some.” She laid her hand on his cheek.
He looked up at her, remembering everything now.
She leaned over and gave him a kiss. “We’ve still got a long way to go before this is over.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s take it one step at a time.”
He nodded. She brought him some turtle soup; Tom ate it and then fell soundly asleep. When he woke, his headache was gone and he was able to get out of his hammock and walk shakily out of the hut. His legs felt like rubber. They were in the same clearing with the same fallen tree, but it had been transformed from a dank thicket into a cheerful, open camp. The ferns had been cut and used to pave the muddy ground, forming a pleasant, springy carpet. There were two neat palm-thatch huts and a fire ring with logs for seats. The sun was streaming down through the hole in the treetops. The Sierra Azul loomed in the gap, deep purple against the blue sky. Sally was sitting next to the fire, and when he came out she leapt to her feet and took his arm, helping him sit down.
“What time is it?”
“Ten o’clock in the morning,” said Sally.
“How’s Philip?”
“He’s resting in his hammock. He’s still weak, but he’ll be fine. Vernon’s sleeping off the last stage of the fever. Eat some more stew.
Borabay has been lecturing us that we have to eat as much food as we can.
“Where is this mysterious Borabay?”
“Hunting.”
Tom ate some more turtle stew; there was a huge pot of it bubbling on the fire, filled not only with chunks of meat but also with a variety of strange roots and vegetables. When he was done he went to the other hut to see Philip. He pulled open the palm-thatch door, bent over, and stepped inside.
Philip lay in his hammock, smoking. He was still shockingly thin, but the sores had turned to scabs and his eyes no longer looked hollow.
“Glad to see you up and about, Tom,” he said.
“How are you feeling?”
“A little weak in the knees but otherwise chipper. Feet are almost healed. I’ll be walking in a day or two.”
“Have you met this fellow, Borabay?”
“Oh yes. Queer chap, all painted up, disks in his ears, tattoos, the works. Sally would have put him up for canonization except I somehow doubt he’s Catholic.”
“You look like a new man, Philip.”
“So do you, Tom.”
There was an awkward silence, interrupted by a shout from outside. “Hallo! Brothers!”
“Ah, Borabay’s back,” said Philip.
Tom ducked out of the hut and saw the most amazing little Indian walking across the meadow. His upper body and face were painted red, with a circle of black around the eyes and ferocious yellow stripes painted diagonally across his chest. Feathers bristled from bands on his upper arms, and he was naked except for a breechclout. Two enormous plugs were inserted into stretched-out earlobes, which waggled with each step. An intricate pattern of scars ran across his belly, and his front teeth had been filed to points. He had black hair, cut off straight, and his eyes were a most unusual hazel color, almost green. The face was strikingly handsome and finely cut, the skin smooth and sculptural.
He stepped to the fire, small and dignified, holding a seven-foot blowgun in one hand and a dead animal—species unknown—in the other.
“Brother, I bring meat,” Borabay said in English and grinned. Then he chucked the animal to the ground and strode over. He embraced Tom twice, with a kiss on each side of the neck, some kind of ritualized Indian greeting. Then he stepped back and placed a hand on his chest. “My name Borabay, brother.”
“I’m Tom.”
“Me, Jane,” said Sally.
Borabay turned. “Jane? You not Sally?”
Sally laughed. “That was a little joke.”
“You, me, him, we brothers.” Borabay concluded by giving Tom another formal set of embraces, again kissing him on the sides of the neck.
“Thank you for saving our lives,” Tom said. It sounded feeble as soon as he had said it, but Borabay seemed pleased.
“Thankee. Thankee. You eat soup?”
“Yes. Delicious.”
“Borabay good cook. You eat more!”
“Where did you learn English?”
“My mother teach me.”
“You speak well.”
“I speak bad. But I learn from you and then I speak gooder.”
“Better,” said Sally.
“Thankee. I go to America someday with you, brother.”
It amazed Tom that way out here, as far removed from civilization as any place on earth, people still wanted to go to America.
Borabay glanced at Bugger, who was in his usual place in To
m’s pocket.
“This monkey cry and cry when you sick. What his name?”
“Hairy Bugger,” said Tom.
“Why you not eat this monkey when you starve?”
“Well, I’ve gotten fond of him.” said Tom. “He wouldn’t have been more than a mouthful anyway.”
“And why you call him Hairy Bugger? What is Hairy Bugger?”
“Er, that’s just a nickname for an animal with hair.”
“Good. I learn new word, Hairy Bugger. I want learn English.”
Sally said, “I want to learn English.”
“Thankee! You tell me when I mistake.” The Indian held out his finger to the monkey. Bugger grasped it in a tiny paw and looked up at him, then squeaked and ducked down into Tom’s pocket.
Borabay laughed. “Hairy Bugger think I want eat him. He know we Tara like monkey. Now I make food.” He went back to where he had dropped his game and collected it along with a pot. He withdrew a ways from the camp, squatted down and began skinning and quartering the animal, chucking everything into the pot including the guts and bones. Tom joined Sally at the fire.
“I’m still a little discombobulated here,” Tom said. “What happened? Where did Borabay come from?”
“I don’t know any more than you. Borabay found us all sick and dying under that log. He cleared the area, built the huts, moved us in, fed us, doctored us. He collected a huge number of herbs and even some weird insects—you can see them all tied up in the rafters of his hut—and he used those to make medicines. I was the first person to get well. That was two days ago, and I helped him cook and care for the rest of you. The fever we all had, this bisi, seems to be short but intense. It’s not malaria, thank God, and Borabay tells me it has no lasting effects and won’t recur. If you don’t die in the first two days it’s over. It seems that bisi is what killed Don Alfonso—he says that old people are more susceptible.”
At this reminder of their traveling companion, Tom felt a stab of pain.
“I know,” Sally said. “I miss him, too.”
“I’ll never forget the old man and his offbeat wisdom. It’s hard to believe he’s gone.”
They watched Borabay chopping and hacking up the animal and tossing the chunks into a pot. He was singing a chantlike tune that rose and fell with the breeze.
“Has he said anything about this Hauser fellow and what’s going on in the Sierra Azul?”
“No. He won’t talk about it.” She looked at him and hesitated. “For a while back there I thought we were all finished.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember what I said?”
“I do.”
She blushed deeply.
Tom asked, “You want to take it back?”
She shook her head, sending her blond hair aswirl, then gazed at him, her cheeks flushed. “Never.”
Tom smiled. “Good.” He took her hand. What they had gone through had deepened her beauty somehow, made her look spiritual, something he couldn’t quite explain. That prickly, defensive edge seemed to have disappeared. Getting that close to death had changed them all.
Borabay came back with some raw tidbits of meat wrapped up in a leaf. “Hairy Bugger!” he called and made a sucking noise with his teeth that sounded uncannily like the monkey. Bugger popped his head out of Tom’s pocket. Borabay extended his hand, and Bugger, after fretting and squeaking a bit, reached out, snatched off a little piece of meat, and crammed it into his mouth. Then he snatched another, and another, stuffing his face with both hands, his squeaks of pleasure muffled by the food.
“Hairy Bugger and I friend now,” said Borabay, smiling.
Vernon’s fever broke that night. He woke up the next morning, lucid but weak. Borabay fussed around him, forcing a variety of herbal tisanes and other concoctions down his throat. They spent the day resting in camp while Borabay went out collecting food. The Indian returned in the afternoon with a palm-leaf sack, from which he unloaded roots, fruits, nuts, and fresh fish. He spent the rest of the day roasting and smoking and salting the food, then bundling it in dry grass and leaves.
“Are we going somewhere?” Tom asked him.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Borabay said, “We talkee later.”
Philip came limping out of the hut, his feet still bandaged, briar pipe in his mouth. “Glorious afternoon,” he said. He came over to the fire and sat down. As he poured himself a cup of tea Borabay had made, he said, “This Indian chap should be put on the cover of National Geographic!”
Vernon joined them, shakily settling down on the log.
“Vernon, eat!” Borabay immediately filled up a bowl with stew and passed it over. Vernon took it with trembling hands, mumbling thanks.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” said Philip.
Vernon wiped his brow and said nothing. He was pale and thin. He placed another spoonful of stew in his mouth.
“Well, here we are,” said Philip. “My three sons.”
There was a sudden edge to Philip’s voice that Tom noted with unease. A piece of wood popped in the fire.
“And what a mess we have gotten ourselves into,” Philip said. “Thanks to Dear Old Dad.” He raised his cup in mock salute. “Here’s a toast to you, Dear Old Dad.” He tossed his tea down.
Tom looked more closely at Philip. He had recovered amazingly well. His eyes were finally alive—alive with anger.
Philip looked around. “What now, brothers of mine?”
Vernon shrugged. He was pale, his face sunken, gray circles under his eyes. He placed another spoonful of stew in his mouth.
“Do we scurry back out, tails between our legs? And let this Hauser fellow help himself to the Lippi, the Braques, the Monet, and all the rest?” He paused. “Or do we head on up into the Sierra Azul and maybe end up with our entrails hanging in the bushes?” He relit his pipe. “Those are our choices.”
No one answered while Philip looked around, staring at each one in turn.
“Well?” Philip said. “I’m asking a serious question: Are we going to let that corpulent Cortez waltz in here and steal our inheritance?”
Vernon looked up. His face was still haggard from his illness, and his voice was weak. “Answer the question yourself. You’re the one who brought Hauser up here.”
Philip turned to Vernon with a cool look. “I should think the time for recriminations had passed.”
“As far as I’m concerned, the time for recriminations has just begun.”
“This isn’t the time or place,” said Tom.
Vernon turned to Tom. “Philip brought that psychopath up here, and he needs to answer for it.”
“I was acting in good faith. I had no idea this man Hauser would turn out to be a monster. And I did answer for it, Vernon. Look at me.”
Vernon shook his head.
Philip went on. “The real culprit here, since no one else seems inclined to admit it, is Father. Isn’t anyone here just a wee bit angry at what Father’s done to us? He nearly killed us.”
Tom said, “He wanted to challenge us.”
“You’re not defending him, I hope.”
“I’m trying to understand him.”
“I understand him only too well. This Tomb Raider bullshit is just one more challenge in a long list of them. Remember the sports tutors, the ski instructors, the art history lessons and horseback lessons and music lessons and chess lessons, the exhortations and speeches and threats? Remember report card day? He thinks we’re fuckups, Tom. He’s always thought that. And maybe it’s true. Look at me: thirty-seven years old and still an assistant professor at Gobshite Junior College—and you, doctoring Indian horses in Hayseed, Utah—and Vernon spending the prime of his life chanting with Swami Woo-Woo. We’re losers.” He erupted in a harsh laugh.
Borabay rose to his feet. The action itself was simple, but it was done with such slow deliberation that it silenced them. “This not good talk.”
“This doesn’t involve you, Borabay,” s
aid Philip.
“No more bad talk.”
Philip ignored him, speaking to Tom. “Father could’ve left us his money like any other normal person. Or he could have given it away. Fine. I could’ve lived with that. It was his money. But no, he had to come up with a plan to torture us with it.”
Borabay glared at him. “Shut up, brother.”
Philip turned on him. “I don’t care if you did save our lives, stay out of our family business.” A vein pulsed in Philip’s forehead; Tom had rarely seen him so furious.
“You listen me, little brother, or I wimp your ass.” Borabay said defiantly, standing up to his full five feet of height, his fists balled.
There was a beat, then Philip began to laugh and shake his head. His body relaxed. “Christ, is this guy for real?”
“We’re all a little stressed,” said Tom. “But Borabay’s right. This is no place to argue.”
“Tonight,” Borabay said, “we talk, very important.”
“About what?” Philip demanded.
Borabay turned to the stewpot and began stirring, his painted face unreadable. “You see.”
48
Lewis Skiba settled back in the leather armchair of his paneled den and shook out the Journal to the editorial page. He tried to read but the distant squeaks and blats of his son’s trumpet practice kept him from concentrating. Almost two weeks had passed since Hauser’s last call. The man was evidently playing with him, keeping him in suspense. Or had something happened? Had he ... done it?
His eyes fastened on the lead editorial in an effort to drown out the rush of self-accusation, but the words just ran through his head without any of the meaning sticking. Central Honduras was a dangerous place. It was quite possible Hauser had slipped up somewhere, made a mistake, misjudged something, caught a fever ... A lot of things could have happened to him. The point was, he had disappeared. Two weeks was a long time. Maybe he had tried to kill the Broadbents and they proved too good for him and killed him instead.
Skiba hoped against all hope that this was what had happened. Had he really told Hauser to kill them? What had he been thinking? An involuntary moan escaped him. If only Hauser was dead. Skiba now knew, too late, that he would rather lose everything than be guilty of murder. He was a murderer. He said it, Kill them. He wondered why Hauser had been so insistent on having him say it. Christ. How was it that he, Lewis Skiba, high school football star, graduate of Stanford and Wharton, Fulbright scholar, CEO of a Fortune 500 company—how was it that he had allowed himself to become trapped and bullied and dominated by a cheap polyester criminal? Skiba had always thought of himself as a man of moral and intellectual weight, a man of ethics, a good man. He was a good father. He didn’t cheat on his wife. He went to church. He sat on boards and gave away a good portion of his earnings to charity. And yet a collar-sniffing gumshoe dick with a combover had somehow gotten the drop on him, pulled off his mask, shown him for what he really was. That’s what Skiba could never forget and never forgive. Neither himself nor Hauser.
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